Wednesday, December 31, 2008

moving on with

                Since tomorrow begins a new year, I thought I'd take a moment, like every other person on the planet, to reflect back on the year that was 2008. We all already gave thanks in November (excluding Canadian readers, who did so in October) so today I'm going to take a moment to childishly whine about all the things I simply couldn't stand this year:

* Jordin Sparks. When I say Jordin Sparks I also mean Leona Lewis because I can't vocally tell them apart. The only person, in my book, allowed to sing those sort of sappy female ballads is Mariah Carey. That "No Air" song causes a part of me to die inside every time I hear it.
* The fact that the only things with Y chromosomes romantically interested in yours truly are a minimum of 15 years my senior. Just because I have huge, somewhat inappropriate, obsession with Hugh Laurie does not mean that in real life I want to date someone that was born before 1975 and clips his cell phone to his waistband.
* The fact that I keep getting quotes with huge prescription deductibles from health insurance companies because I'm on the pill. Um, hello, do they not realize that the alternative would be nine months of prenatal care (no jokes about my celibacy please)?
* The ever looming realization that I should just suck it up and go to law school.
* The fact that I bought the jeans I'm currently wearing without realizing that the denim has no stretch, which is causing massive discomfort to my mid section at the moment.
* Job searching always sucks but I feel this year gave me extra excuses to whine since the economy is in the toilet and my only marketable skills are: shoe shopping, being snarky, photoshop, and giving unsolicited advice.
* Harper's Bazaar stopped sending free copies to my house after five years of doing so. Not that Glenda Bailey ever did anything for me except make me feel poor but it was good pool side reading material.
* I'm completely torn between: unable to stand living at home any longer not because my parents are overbearing but because I'm just that antisocial and refusing to sublet an apartment in Lexington because that means admitting I live here.
* My small talk skills are not improving. This is made significantly worse when I get around attractive and wealthy boys, immediately feel like chopped liver, turn up the snark, and watch my level of attractiveness circle the drain.
*  The fact that Chanel nail polish costs $18 a bottle but chips immediately.

p.s. photo is an attempt to liven blog up even when posting from blackberry and was taken from the August 2008 issue of GQ. i felt it aptly described my life at the moment.

Tuesday, December 30, 2008


I'm in like the most foul mood of life and thus cannot write anything of substance. Sorry that has been such a trend recently, I'm sure it'll reverse once my health insurance application comes through, I work up the courage to not be such a prude and get laid, I get a new job, and my hair finally gets some much needed volume. So probably in like 2013. So for now I'll leave you with the following bit of fascinating info: I saw "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" tonight and that movie was THREE HOURS LONG. I wanted to die. It was one of those where the first half and second half are so far apart you forget they are the same film. At the end I actually had the thought "I can't remember a time when I wasn't in this theater." Don't go see it. Rent it when you have a remote and can just watch the half hour where he's hot and happy. And with that piece of sage advice, I'm off for the night.  

Monday, December 29, 2008

new year

                    I hate New Year's Eve. I know that's a little dramatic but it's true; I hate it. I always forget that it exists until December 26th when it dawns on me that it's about to be a new year (and I still haven't done anything of value in this one). That's also when people start asking "so what are you doing for New Year's?" as if not doing anything spectacular on that night renders me a failed human being. Unless I have wriggled my way into a poly-blend mini dress with strappy heels, slapped on a pound of make up and said  "oh my god, I have GOT to make out with someone tonight," I am not even worthy of being called a member of society. Honestly, I'd prefer to heat up the electric blanket, have an House marathon and call it a day. Of course by New Year's Eve's Eve I lose my reserve and begin to panic that I haven't made any plans. My initial thoughts of "this holiday is such a waste, it's not like the next year won't start without us, I'm sick of all the build up for what always ends up being a let down," turn into "crap, if I don't do something, anything, to celebrate this faux-holiday I am going to seal my fate as a social outcast." So inevitably I end up at a party where someone accidentally gets punched in the face and everyone is too wasted to drive her to the hospital, I openly mock a guy I know from high school thirty seconds before he gets a call that his grandfather has died, or, to borrow an incident from high school, my insanely awkward boyfriend declares that he's "not okay with public displays of affection" thirty seconds after I deliver a chaste peck at midnight.
                    This is why last year I sat on my friend's couch eating caramel apple lollipops and watching Lifetime while ringing in 2008. However, this year my two best friends from high school and I have decided to be social human beings and wear makeup, go out and (at least in my case) consume as much champagne as possible. Of course, I'm pretty sure that when the clock strikes midnight this December 31st I will be a thousand miles away from "When Harry Met Sally" moments, noisemakers, and high heels. It's much more likely that I'll be curled up in a massive leather loungechair drinking diet pepsi and watching MTV or all dolled up and in a car but totally lost on the way to the party. Either way, midnight will still come and go and everyone will say "wow, I can't believe it's already 2009" and make Y2K references and wish eachother a Happy New Year. So since I'll most likely be asleep or in the bathroom when the ball drops, I'll go ahead and wish you a Happy 2009 three days in advance. May this year be the year you quit smoking, go vegan, start leaving comments on the blogs you stalk, actually look at the stock portfolio you've been ignoring since September, and remodel your kitchen. Happy New Years!

Sunday, December 28, 2008


Papa Strapless Living got me and Little Brother tickets to see UK play Central Michigan tomorrow. Excellent! Now all I have to decide is what to write on my giant sign, "Patrick Makes My Heart Go Pitter Patterson?" "Have A Perry Christmas?" "Jodie Makes Me Meek in the Knees?" More puns to follow I'm sure. Hope you all had a good holiday weekend and that your Monday morning will suck significantly less than mine.

photo from here

Saturday, December 27, 2008

current obsession

The video isn't anything spectacular but A) could John Legend be any sexier? This is a serious question; could he? Because I don't see any room for improvement. B) Andre 3000 is freaking adorable in the song; his giggle kills me. "Let's hop a cab and split in. I'm kidding! We're both going to where you live!" Love.

Thursday, December 25, 2008


At some point I'll write a real blog post about the miracle of Christmas and my annual "Waltz of the Flowers," piano solo but for right now I just need to let you know that when my mom went online to get me my very own copy of "10 Minutes Rapid Results Pilates" so I don't netflix it continuously for life, she got really caught up in the miracle of 10 Minute fitness tapes and ended up ordering six of them. That's right, six of them. Including Blast off Belly Fat, and Fat Blasting Dance Mix. The only one I didn't receive was Pre-Natal Pilates and I'm sure I'll eventually be able to add it to my collection when she decides she needs grandchildren.Happy Holidays!

photo from

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

dress code

I would just like to applaud Prada for recognizing the growing problem of leg disproportionatism. By selling their boots in two pieces, those of us who have one limb 10.5 inches shorter than the other can remove the upper portion of "the shaft." And, by slashing the price of these boots from $1,800 to $719, they have made the treatment more affordable. Now here's a company that's really thinking about mainstreet.

P.S. This post is not meant to offend those suffering from diseases or complications from diseases that do actually result in disproportionate legs. I promise.

Available here.


Today my mom discovered how to send picture messages. She may have also discovered crack because this is the fourth picture message of random things around our house that I have received and it's not yet nine o'clock. In case you were wondering, those are candy cane cookies; my grandmother used to make them and my dad demands them every year. They are made by rolling pink and white almond cookie dough into snakes (a la fourth grade pottery), twisting them together into candy cane shapes, and sprinkling them with crushed candy canes after baking. They take a hundred years to make so my mom makes a big thing of the dough, then cooks four/five cookies each day for a week. It makes this time of year at my house eerily similar to a heroin clinic; each day everyone receives their allotted cookie and then eagerly waits for tomorrow's.

P.S. These cookies are on a cake tupperware, not a salad plate. They are massive.

Monday, December 22, 2008

i need testosterone

I would just like to say that this year's University of Kentucky basketball team is ridiculously delicious. I'm pretty sure that is Billy Gillispie's recruiting strategy; bring in sexy boys from across the country who will in turn bring in hot young co-eds that he gets seconds on. Although this is sort of pervy, I'm okay with it because look at the junk in Jodie Meeks' trunk:
I'm not a big butt observer but it's just so round and adorable!

This Appalachian State player clearly understands my lust. I'm not saying that would be my preferred method of seduction but to each their own. 

photo of Jodie Meek's perfect behind and Patrick Patterson's awkward run in from


I have done everything I can to get a rise out of the people in my office and it's starting to get ridiculous. I sported massive Obama pins during the election, wore the tightest, sluttiest outfit ever to our Christmas lunch, every time someone asks me about my Christmas plans I stare at them blankly and say "I don't celebrate that holiday," and today I sat at my desk and read GQ all day. I didn't even log on to my computer until like 3:30. I'm going to turn into one of those neglected puppies that eats their fur or something. My boss stopped by my desk while I was facebooking on blackberry at my desk and thanked me for doing such a good job training the new intern. Last night I actually lulled myself to sleep by thinking of the day when I'll get to tell them I'm quitting. Maybe I'll try to lure one of the awkward middle aged auditors into sexually harassing me so I can score a lawsuit out of the deal. Is that manipulative and wrong? 

Sunday, December 21, 2008


I normally try to keep my language pretty clean in this blog, which, if you've heard me casually converse in real life is joke because I have an expansive curse word lexicon. Frat boys have told me to stop using so many prison words, that's how bad it is. But I don't want you guys to think I'm a crass redneck so I tone it down. But here's the deal y'all. I've had a migraine since 8:30 am on Friday. It's 10 pm on Sunday. And I can't fucking stand it anymore. I've even dipped into my emergency percocet stash and absolutely nothing is working. My dad even said I could pick out a pair of shoes from Barney's for Christmas and my head hurt too much to look at my computer screen. WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? 

Saturday, December 20, 2008

wish list

So remember how I said I was allowed to buy one item, worth $50 or less if I successfully complete my shopping hiatus? Well, I've started a little "wish list," if you will, of things I have really wanted to buy since going on the shopping hiatus. It's been two weeks and I have two items on it, which, to be honest, makes it about 14 times shorter than I thought it would be by now. Anyways, the following item is currently at the top of the list and I think it might make it all the way in two weeks. I've never bought anything after reading about it in a magazine; I always forget what the name of that lip gloss, moisturizer or whatever-it-was-I- needed immediately after reading. But after seeing this in the December issue of GQ (checked out from the library, no shopping hiatus rules broken) I immediately went to Target after work and got one for my dad for his birthday on Tuesday. 
It's a french press travel mug! Papa Strapless Living is a maj. coffee snob; we have brazil presses, turkish coffee pots and a thousand espresso machines crammed into our kitchen cabinets. But everyday coffee gets made in a french press (occasionally my dad puts a scoop of vanilla ice cream in the pot instead of cream. is the man a genius or what?). Since he travels for work about ten days out of the month I thought this handy device would save him from hotel coffee, without having to worry about breaking the miniature glass french press he usually takes. Plus you can also just use it as a normal travel mug. And it's only $10! Obviously I'll give you an update once it's actually been tried out but I think this one might be a post-shopping-hiatus winner The coffee in my office is undrinkable but the hot water spout on it, normally used for tea making, would allow me to make my own cup (and possibly prevent desk napping, which I have become a pro at). Nice work Bodum, for real. 
P.S. I just noticed that in my original post I actually said I'm allowed to spend $100 on my post shopping hiatus gift-to-myself. Holy crap, if I get a $10 item instead that will be very recession savvy...
Photo from Target.

Friday, December 19, 2008

close call

Thank god they only have these in a 9.5 because I had already made up my mind to break the shopping hiatus and get them before the drop down size menu revealed to me that I couldn't. How often do perfect wear-with-everything Louboutins become $229 because Barney's is economically being forced to tuck its tail between its legs and have a mega sale? I mean, LOOK AT THEM. So perfect in every way. Everyday pumps that aren't basic black but match everything. And the not-round but not-pointy toe...I'm actually getting misty eyed that they can't be mine. This was a test of my shopping hiatus power and I failed. But I'm not going to get too down about it because no purchase was actually rung up. It just means that I need to buckle down and beef up my restraint. This shopping hiatus is almost halfway over!
P.S. But, if you do wear a 9.5 then dear god go buy these immediately and then send me an e-mail every time you wear them so I can live vicariously through you. 
P.P.S. Nerdy Fashionista, I actually checked your blog to see if you were a 9.5 because I know you would treat these pumps with love and respect. 

now and then

                    Things I got excited about last year: corona six packs on sale, scoring a seat next to the only hot boy in the economics department, theme parties, seeing Kanye for $35, buying v-necks at american apparel, getting food delivered at midnight, boys in really nice plaid shirts, getting an A on a paper, going to a halloween party with my best friend but not knowing anyone else there and meeting a boy who's wearing a fur coat and refusing to speak anything other than fake japanese, blowing unecessarily large amounts of money on lulu sweatpants,  baking pies with perfect lattice crusts, getting pedicures, winning flip cup, having a professor actually remember my name, getting compliments from strangers, Tim Horton's bagels with cream cheese and tomatos, coming home to Kentucky for horse races and fratting, and the vending machines in the library where you got 5 chocolate covered almonds for a quarter.
                    Things I get excited about now: e-mails from HR saying you get to wear jeans at work for the next two weeks.


My posts written at work usually lack photos since they're done on blackberry, but today I thought a crappy, grainy photo is better than nothing. This, my friends, is historic downtown Lexington. It's pouring rain out, which provides the perfect backdrop to my day. Today I worked up the nerve to call someone I'd gotten an e-mailing back from about a job I applied for. Of course the contact number on the companies website took me not to a general secretarial line, but rather a person's voice mail who was not the person I'd been e-mailing previously. This resulted in me leaving the most awkward voice mail of life that went along the lines of "Hi, this is Strapless Living and I'm calling because this was the number listed as the contact number for an associate opening at XYZ. I'm sorry if I've reached your voice mail in error, if this is, um, the correct number I, um, would love to speak with someone about the job so I would really appreciate if you could give me a call back at..." So either I left an awkward/desperate message on the voicemail of my future employer or some random woman. Good to know that I'm constantly increasing the number of people in this world who think I'm crazy.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

an open letter

Dear Taylor Swift:
Today I would like to take a moment to share with you some thoughts about your song "Love Story." I know this song has been out for a while so my timing isn't the greatest but I really felt the need to give you my notes on the song before you went back into the studio. The song is very catchy. And for some reason I always think of the "Twilight" movie when I hear it, which has to be doing good things for sales. But lyrically, there are some unfortunate choices and it those choices that this letter will be reviewing today.
The first phrase up for dissection is "You were romeo, I was a scarlet letter." First of all, that's a mixed metaphor. And Taylor, I know you're a young star, who probably hasn't stepped foot in a real high school ever, but you must have someone on your team that could recognize this allusion as one you want to stay away from. In "The Scarlet Letter," (a book I hold a personal vendetta against since bombing the summer reading test on it in the 11th grade even though I read the whole thing and everyone cliffnoted it) the character Hester Prine wears a scarlet A on her chest so the public can recognize her as an adulteress. Let me break it down for you. She was huge a skank. And everyone knew about it. For reals. I mean sure there's a whole plot line about who she really is inside, but the general population regarded her as a whore whose illegitimate child danced on graves. It makes absolutely no sense for your "Daddy" in the song to tell "Romeo" to stay away from someone who is, metaphorically speaking, a badge of skankdom. If you really were a scarlet letter he would be begging Romeo to take you off his hands. 
Moving on. Towards the end of the song you sing "I got tired of waiting, Wondering if you were ever coming around, My faith in you was fading, When I met you on the outskirts of town." First of all, if your faith in someone is fading, you do not meet them on the outskirts of town. This is just a general safety rule, okay? If you must meet him at all, do so in the middle of a crowded area and bring a friend who can at least give him the evil eye if he turns out to be harmless. The lyrics continue "And I said, Romeo save me, I've been feeling so alone, I keep waiting for you but you never come, Is this in my head? I don't know what to think, He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring." Okay, so you just accepted a proposal of marriage from someone who has been missing for a month? Without even asking where he was? Just because he said he loved you? That's how girls end up barefoot and pregnant in a double wide Taylor. A great message for your teen audience.
My final quote sums up the inconsistancy of this tone poem fairly well, "I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress." First of all, I thought your dad hated him? Dad's do not change their mind that easily, trust me. My dad came up with the notion that I was a lesbian sometime in high school and will probably never fully believe that I really do like boys. Second of all, "go pick out a white dress?" You just said you were a scarlet letter? Known adulterers usually can't pull off the bridal white so well, so if you insist carrying out this ill-fated sham of a wedding you should probably elope wearing something in a more rebrobate color palette.
Overall, Taylor, I'm a little disappointed. The story of Romeo and Juliet is pretty easy to adapt; it's not like you were trying to squeeze Love in the Time of Cholera into four verses and a chorus. So in the future, if your budget doesn't allow for a full time literary scholar on your staff, at least sparknotes it, okay?


Wednesday, December 17, 2008

something horrible

Today I had to go to the mall (I broke out in hives. No joke.) to do my dad's christmas shopping. Could he be more pampered? Anyways, while sprinting from Banana Republic to Macy's I passed a Crocs stand and made a startling discovery. Crocs make high heels. "Surely not," you may be saying to yourself "that could never happen. Crocs are comfort shoes not to be worn out of the house unless you're under ten and what's the point of wearing high heels around the house if you're eight years old?" I assure you that they do exist. And I have proof:

The "Lena," described as a comfortable shoe for when you have to wear high heels. Trust me, if when someone says "wear high heels," they do not mean "put on something a hooker would wear while gardening."

There lovelies are described as "sassy!" My grandmother is quite sassy while playing shuffleboard but that doesn't mean I steal her size five orthopedic shoes and parade around town in them.

This shoes is described as a "classy slip on," that is "dressy and comfortable." Comfortable slip ons they may be but classy and dressy they are not. It's like geriatric Eurotrash. Shoes like these are why it took Russia so long to prosper after the fall of communism. 

The above are available here but it'd be cheaper to just stab yourself with a fork if you're that into masochism. 

lab rat

This weekend, in search of extra cash to hoard during my shopping hiatus (ten days and going strong!) I handed myself over the University of Kentucky's psychology department in the name of science. The $12/hour was very much appreciated but honestly I did it because it combined some of my favorite things: drinking, reading national geographic, making people I don't know uncomfortable, eating lasagna and deliverying electric shocks.
The study was supposed to measure "reaction times when drinking," but everyone knows that in psych tests they are never really testing you on what they say they are. In this one I had to drink some everclear and orange juice (so foul. so so foul.) and then do time reaction tests against an "opponent in another room on another computer." If she won the round, she got to shock me. If I won, I got to shock her. The shocks were very mild and you go to choose the level of shock you administered on a scale of 1-10. Since the computer continually increased the shocks it delivered to me, it was obvious they were testing agressive behavior under the influence.

Of course, before any of this could I happen, the researchers had to make sure I was: 21 years of age, not pregnant, not on drugs, and not already drunk. The first criteria was easy, I just handed over my driver's license. The rest however, took forever. This girl? Not so good with peeing in a cup. I chugged three diet cokes on my way to the lab and was still unable to deliver. Is this a WASP thing? The only thing guaranteed to send me to the bathroom is a six pack of Miller Lite, which is really unfortunate when it's the one thing you can't have. Eventually, after awkwardly filling out more forms that the uncofmfortable, Hollister clad UK undergrad gave to me to fill the time, I was able to proudly hand over a sample. I'm sure you all will be really happy to know that I am not, in fact, pregnant! Totally excellent!

Anyways, after totally skewing their results with my "dude, this is so bogus" attitude. I was drunkenly directed to "the detox room." All those Hollywood girls might get to dry out in the Califronia sun but I got a lean cuisine and Monty Python's "The Meaning of Life" to sober up to. What on earth more could a girl want? Every ten minutes or so, the researcher would pop in to track my progress to sobriety by shoving a breathalyzer in my face and saying "blow." (I am trying SO hard not to make a reference to my sophomore year of high school right now. Must. Not. Be. Teenage. Boy.) And I got to engage in what must be the most underrated social interaction of all time: making drunk small talk with someone who is totally sober. Can you think of a better way to spend a Saturday morning?**

**This probably isn't applicable to anyone in AA, a fulfilling relationship, or a comfortable financial situation.

Awkward science project photos from here, here, and here

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

so here's the deal

Someone is going to have to explain to me why Ed Hardy is "all the rage" all of the sudden. Did I miss something? Is this just a Lexington phenomenon because as far as I can tell the clothes are hideous. Not even in a "well, I'm not that into peasant blouses but your boobs look great in that top so I say go for it" sort of way. It's all so heavily logoed (not a word, I know). And to me rhinestone encrusted jeans fall into the same category as those all-over-sequin-mesh-bags that were floating around three or so years ago, which is "ew, gross, vom." But please, if any of the following items make you want to hand over your mastercard, enlighten me. 
The description of these jeans uses both the terms "rugged"and "rhinestone." I'm pretty sure you only want one of those referencing your boyfriend's ass.

Fake tattoo sleeves! Hurray! Also, this shirt is $187 dollars. ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY SEVEN.  I'm pretty sure those tats would only run you like $20 if you actually just went to prison and got them. 

 The good news is, if you like this bedding set, it's on sale! I can't ever imagine why. Pink and purple fire-bolts are timeless. If you know anyone dating an army veteran who is also in the black panthers and a motorcyle gang AND whose name is Ed, you should for sure get them this for Christmas. Or Hannukah. Or a Baptism. Whatever. 

Photos from


I didn't go to work today. And not for a particularly valid reason either. Yes, my driveway was covered in a thick layer of ice that made it physically impossible for me to get there by 8 but by 10 the roads were fine and I could have made it. I feel guilty. But not guilty enough to actually get off my rear, stop watching What Not to Wear and go to the office. I should probably start being more concerned about getting fired. Yes? No? Maybe? Ugh, this is too much thinking for my snow day.

Photo from here.

Monday, December 15, 2008

random things that have just popped into my head because i'm too lazy to write a real post

  1. Today at work I spent 2 hours sleeping and 1 hour ripping pages out of the J. Crew catalog (loudly). No one noticed either of these occurrences or the fact that I kept walking to the copy area to get office supplies even though my job never requires touching physical paper.
  2. We're supposed to have some sort of crazy ice storm here in the Bluegrass state tonight. At first I got really excited about this but then I remember that the last time I lived here was in high school and I won't get a snow day from work. I'll just have to drive downtown with my bald tires and pray I don't die.
  3. We're having a small potluck lunch for some guy that is leaving tomorrow. I've talked to him like twice. I'm bringing very tiny quesadillas. Which I will have to get up at 6 a.m. to make.
  4. My cousin had a baby last week and I am making it (him) a quilt. It includes the above fabric. I almost crashed on the way home because the store put it in a clear bag and I kept looking at it and squealing on the way home. Doesn't it just make your ovaries shudder?(I'm assuming I have no male readers. If this assumption is wrong, dear god, speak up!)
  5. Shit, I can't think of a 5th thing. Well, I'm too lazy to change my post title now so just pretend that I've said something fabulously witty and promise to come back tomorrow because I swear I'll write a real post then.
P.S. Seriously, isn't that Robert Kaufman fabric freaking adorable? He has this great line of 1930s reproduction prints and they are so freaking precious I almost understand why that Duggar woman on TLC has so many babies. ALMOST. 

Saturday, December 13, 2008


The size of Scarlett Johansson's head in this photo terrifies me. 
Scarlett Johansson=Bratz Doll.

photos from here and here

Friday, December 12, 2008

oh really?

Jennifer at The Most Awesomest Stuff Ever did me a big favor and sourced out some plaid shirts pour moi, which reminded me that the Ralph Lauren Rugby line exists. I vaguely remember being very excited about the potential for this store when it was being unveiled in 2006 but when I actually stepped foot in the New York branch I was pretty disappointed. I do very much like the plaid shirt Mlle. TMASE found for me but the above outfit leaves me totally confused. It's all just sort of a mess from head to toe. The real kicker is that those pants are called 'Nantucket Fatigues.' I concede that they are a cute cut but camo drains me emotionally. Also, I'm sorry, is there currently a battle being waged in Nantucket that requires formal military wear?

i feel you

recessions suck.

pick your poison

                    What is that saying, "drunk minds speak sober hearts?" It can't be that sober minds speak drunk hearts can it? I have a friend that never drinks more than half a beer. It's not because she thinks alcohol is the root of all evil, she's just sort of in a weird place between being too nervous about how she'll behave under the influence and wanting to fit in with everyone else who is imbibing. I can't say that I blame her really, drinking is funny thing. I definitely wasn't one of those people that abstained through high school then leaped off the wagon upon entering college and ran screaming to the nearest keg. In fact, I drank a lot in high school, always with boys, for boys, or because of boys. What is it in the female psyche that drives us to the bottle both in order to gain acceptance to the boy's club and to make us feel resoundingly feminine? I have felt both my most girlish and my most boyish when drinking; safe in the arms of my dance partner after several too many champagnes or being banished to the couch in the middle of a frat house backyard with my best guy friend and a bottle of Maker's Mark. Surely, I must have felt these feelings soberly too? Moments when I had the strength to be taken care of or gave into weakness and relaxed all on my own, uninfluenced, accord?
                    If I gave you the impression the above paragraph that I'm a heavy drinker, let me assure you that this is not the case; I'm average by normal standards and a grandma by collegiate ones. But my experience has led me to disagree with the colloquialism I started with. My sense of self stays put whether I can toe the line or not, it's just louder. When an ex-boyfriend told me he thought he might be in love with his new girlfriend while holding my hair back so I could purge that evening's activities as cleanly as possible, I told him I was happy for him. I've told girls in cheap knock offs of knock offs that I loved their shoes and that no one could tell. I've comforted those I knew didn't deserve it and harshly reprimanded those I wanted to grab and cry along with either because it would be better for them in the long run or because it was easier for me at the moment. I've fueled the fire of drama because I was bored and snuffed it out because I was over it. I've lied. And so I propose that drunk hearts don't speak sober minds, they speak saturated minds. If you're funny you'll laugh, if you're emotional you'll cry, and if you're me you'll never make a scene.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

common knowledge

So, I have this weird mental deficit. I'm not saying I can't, like, do algebra or write a science project procedure or anything (although, I never learned how to diagram sentences, to be fair). I'm just missing all sorts of common knowledge, tidbits of information that apparently your parents or school or babysitters or whatever were supposed to teach you. But my parents had no clue they were supposed to teach me anything, they just sent me off to school and washed their hands of the whole process modern science calls "parenting." No one even noticed that I was left handed until I'd been writing for a year. Seriously. My parents aren't exactly hippies, my mom wears cardigans and does Jane Fonda work out tapes, they just subscribed to a theory of child rearing that boils down to "she'll figure it out." So as a result I don't know anything about the following: pork chops (and other foods the average American family eats with ketchup), christianity, any music made before the 1990s (this includes but is not limited to the rolling stones and bob dylan), classic movies, and world geography. Some of this I've gotten better at. Global geography, for example, is slowly coming together for me although I'm seriously embarrassed that I've lived on three continents and under no circumstances could tell you where Yugoslavia is. Or whether that is even still a country. Religion will always be an issue because there is simply too much to catch up on. The only biblical facts I have acquired have come about either through extreme embarrassment in school (how was I supposed to know how to pronounce "Exodus?") or New York Times crossword puzzles. At some point I could get through about eighty percent of the ten commandments but now all I remember that you're not supposed to covet your neighbor's wife,  maybe? 

Having said all of that, the main area in which this delinquency rears its ugly head is in the realm of pop culture, especially rock and roll (my parents never listened to the genre; with them it's all classical, bluegrass and folk). When I got to high school I realized that my pop culture IQ was dangerously low. My friends knew all sorts of stuff about sports icons, the music of our parent's generation and current events. How was I to know that all these years I was supposed to be going through records and watching the news? No one would expect you to recite the periodic table off the top of your head but it's un-American to not know your cultural iconography from birth. Yesterday I failed to recognize "Sub Pop" as a major record label and assumed it was a new genre of music NPR was starting to label bands with. When I said this to a friend I was discussing music with, he was baffled I didn't immediately identify that as Nirvana's record label. Um, hello, I was a toddler when all that flannel wearing was going on. And so was he. Am I missing some sort of curiosity gene that prevents me from being a well rounded person? Is this why I'm so bad at making small talk with my co-workers?

Besides making me a horrible candidate for going on VH1 programming of the "I heart the 80s" variety, should I be really worried about this information gap? Is there a crash course for "having not paid attention for the past twenty years?"

photos from here

Wednesday, December 10, 2008


I want to like Free People clothing. It's very young and hip and with it. But that girl looks homeless. End of story. 


Today I've decided to award the lamest blog entry of the day prize to myself. Because, as much as I don't want to drag myself down into the muck of lame-ass-bloggery, I feel compelled to discuss the following issue: what the hell is wrong with these headphones? I have spent the last hour at work trying to figure them out (I am a very busy and important person). Am I supposed to squeeze those weird plastic ends INTO my ear canal? I thought you were supposed to leave those alone? I can't find my ipod earbuds and borrowed these from my little brother because the spending hiatus prevents me from getting new ones. But they're so painful and weird and made by a company called "skull candy." ALL I WANT IS TO LISTEN TO NPR, I'M NOT HIP ENOUGH FOR THIS SHIT.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

suit up

                Man, today I have absolutely nothing to talk about. Today there was a board meeting at work and we all have to wear suits (even though I've never seen the board and assume they meet on another floor), which I find kind of weird since clearly the board must know that we don't wear suits everyday? But whatever. It gave me an excuse to wear that J. Crew blazer I bought at 80% off (see entry below) but I think the hypocrisy of wearing a suit to do completely menial labor is causing mild brain melting that is preventing me from having anything interesting to say (I couldn't even finish the crossword today, and it was a Tuesday!). Maybe when I got home and detox I'll come up with something? 

Monday, December 8, 2008


    So remember way back in the summer how I said I was going on a shopping hiatus? Well, I'm sure you can imagine how well that turned out since I've bought about a thousand items of clothing, magazines, books, "totally-unnecessary-junk-items-that-appear-in-my-house-magically," and so forth. It has got to stop. A) I don't have enough expendable income to be going home with a J. Crew bag once a week as a pick-me-up. B) I do not need any more clothes. Of course, like most women, I find it pretty easy to say "but I need a new blazer and this one is marked down to $50 from $250!" even though I have several blazers already, none of which I ever actually wear to work because I don't have to. Just because I am bored with my clothes doesn't mean their usefulness as wardrobe fodder suddenly expires. C) I am totally shopping because I am bored and am trying to make myself feel better, not because I need to. Nothing I've bought recently (except the puffy vest) really excites me all that much, so I should have just saved myself all the trouble (and money) and bought nothing but the puffy vest for the past three months.
        SO, what I'm going to do is the following: not buy anything except for food, gas, and "experiential products" (i.e. going to the movies) for the next thirty days. If I see something I absolutely love love love and must have, it will go on a wish list and at the end of the thirty days I may treat myself to ONE wish list item not to exceed $150. Actually, scratch that, we're in a recession. Not to exceed $100. Sounds fair right? This really shouldn't be that hard since, HELLO, it's Christmas and I shouldn't be thinking about things for myself ANYWAYS (seriously, that's so Scrooge-ish).
        Oh, I forgot to mention that the rules also allow charitable purchases. For example, this afternoon I am popping over to the mall to pick up some slacks for Anthony, age 6, my "angel tree" gift recipient. He is a resident at a local shelter for abused and abandoned children, which is participating in a programmed designed to collect gifts for the kids this season. How much does your heart melt to think that a six year boy, when allowed to pick any wish list item, requested khaki pants? My preppy heart leapt upon seeing his tag next to all the "Bratz dolls" and "Tonka trucks" on the tree. But I'm definitely going to toss a toy in there too; the kid deserves something frivolous this Christmas, just like all kids do.
        Anyways, I'm going to need you all's assistance in maintaining my shopping hiatus. DON'T LET ME BUY ANYTHING. And if you guys have any charity you donate time/money/stuff around this time of year definitely let me know because I'm always looking for ways to make my cold, black, heart, do a little good.

Friday, December 5, 2008


                    Tuesday at work I received my Christmas bonus. It should have been called a "holiday bonus" really but my office is a little behind the times in terms of workplace-politically-correct-multiculturalism. There's a Christmas tree on every floor, the annual Christmas party, and lots of Christmas cheer. I can't personally be offended by this since my family of apathetic atheists spreads capitalism and good cheer in celebration of the Christian holiday each year but it's sort of irksome nonetheless. But anyways, getting back to my Christmas bonus. First of all, I can't believe that I have entered a stage of life where an end of the year gift is even on my radar but the day, it seems, is here. You would think that these sort of adult revelations would come at more traditional times; graduation, starting my job, realizing I don't have health insurance, etc., but you would be wrong. These most are more likely to spring up in the form a honey baked ham. An 8lb honey baked ham, to be more specific. Glazed and roasted into a divine concoction that us vegetarians could never understand but which caused my brother to go "dude, a honey baked ham is like a gift from god," and rub his stomach in anticipation.
                    This is what happens, I suppose, when one goes corporate. It's all $60/month for a parking spot in exchange for some job security in a crap economy and a ham. Which is okay in the interim, although I know I need to keep working to find something where I don't get paid the same amount as the girl with clumpy mascara who asked me which date on a form should be used as its label when there were two different ones "June 22nd or 6/22?"
                    "They are the same date," I told her, "but it doesn't really matter, that's not the date you use anyways." I spent all day Tuesday training to her to do our menial assignments; will it ever make a difference? Will my actions have some perverse butterfly effect? I hope that it'll be a positive one, a ripple that causes plants to suddenly shoot up from infertal ground in Somalia or something but that's wishful thinking I'm sure. The butterly that's suppose to flap its wings in this scenerio is trapped in insurance, frozen with fear like the credit market. You can't tell me to keep calm and carry on when I've woken up to a tapped keg that used to hold all my ambitious energy. Or to lie there and think of England when I'm the one screwing myself with apathy. Who cares what color my parachute is if I can't be bothered to get it off the ground?
                    Since my personal scare tactic isn't capable of rousing me to action, I think I'll change to the age old "power of positive thinking." The college degree I worked really hard for. The ability to use a mascara comb. The ham. I mean, really, what are my own career anxieties in the face of an actual gift from god?

Thursday, December 4, 2008


So like a hundred years ago I wrote about my love for Lilly and extreme sadness over lack of being a trust fund baby here. And now, one of the dresses I wrote about way back in August is on sale here. And if no one stops me I am going to blow $136.80 on it even though I know I will look like giant waistless box in it. 

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Question: What do you think of these boots? My mom got them for me at a fabulous discount shoe store in Tennessee (the place where I got a pair of $25 Kors heels over the summer) and I'm on the fence. On the one hand, they are very comfortable, I need black boots, and they're Etienne Aigner but my mom got them for $30, which really appeals to my recession side. My only concern is that the heel (which is maybe...three and a quarter inches?) is sort of chunky and it's causing me to have high school flashbacks and visions of mid-90s footwear. What do you think? Am I being ridiculous or will other people think I've just stepped out of the cast of Friends circa 1998?

P.S. Yes, this photo was covertly taken at work and yes, that is my beautiful cubicle carpet.

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

stocking stuffers

This Christmas I'm not asking for anything serious. I don't need a new digital camera or ipod or any other large scale gift that I've ever asked for (while in fact, never actually needing that item, in the strictest sense of the word). We're in a recessions people! Which is why I canceled my gym membership and netflixed a pilates DVD instead (10 Minutes Rapid Results by the way; five 10 minute segments you can mix and match to customize your workouts, I totally recommend it). Besides, it's always the cheapy presents that make me happiest: headbands, argyle socks, lip gloss, etc. Which is why I would be more than happy to find any of the following underneath the Christmas tree this year:

Too much? Do you think this would drive away the boys? Who cares. (from

I'm really more of a digital music girl but I think it's only appropriate I actually purchase my own boyfriend's music, don't you? (from

In high school I was weirdly obsessed with James Joyce but now I'm all about P.G. Wodehouse. If you have never read one of his books I implore you to immediately go to the library and pick any one of them up; they are all fabulous. Very cheeky and British and adorable and perfect for reading over Christmas vacation. (from

I wear the brightest preppiest socks under my knee high boots to work everyday and it makes me really happy, sort of how wearing sexy lingerie makes you feel hotter even in basic jeans and a t-shirt. (from j. crew)

I have only used the original Rosebud Salve (in the blue tin) but I love it and can't imagine the strawberry version is too shabby either. Even though it's just petroleum jelly with some rose oil, I feel adorable whipping it out instead of my plain-Jane chapstick. Adorability for on $7.99? I'll take it. (from

P.S. apologies for using the word adorable like twelve times in this post. i'm wearing my puffy vest and it sort of causes me to become overly enamored with adorableness.


I just found out that Hugh Laurie was in a 1989 movie called "Strapless." Could it be a coincidence that my number one celebrity crush just so happens to be in a movie with a title eerily similar to that of my own creative undertaking? I THINK NOT.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

that point

You've seen those ads, right? "You know that point where...blah blah something I don't remember...meets...more blah blah. I'm so there," commercials? Well, I'm at the point of "I'm applying for a job so menial I'm embarrassed for my references to find out about it." Is there a State Farm agent for that?

Monday, December 1, 2008

an open letter

Dear Pathetic Stranger,
I hope, for your sake, that you just sent a picture message to the wrong number. And didn't spam blast this across cellphone waves. Or track down my number from somewhere. Because this photo, displayed while "I want your body..." plays is simply not sexy. Not attractive. Not palatable. At all. 

P.S. Lose the 'stache, it's doing nothing for you. 

household appliances

        The dishwasher in my parent's kitchen has been broken for a year or so. So my mom lovingly penned a note to put inside of it that read "Don't put dishes in me, I'm broken!" and started washing dishes in the sink. When I came home from school and said "The dishwasher's broken? Why don't you go get a new one?" my parents cocked their heads to the side and went "Hmm...maybe." Not to sound childish or naive regarding finances but my father's gig as as, you know, a doctor, allows him enough expendable income to put up the cash for a dishwasher. But my mom, who has a masters in geology but is as ditzy as a high school cheerleader, merrily went on washing dishes by hand while the broken dishwasher sat gathering dust like a dead Chevy Malibu on a creepy neighbor's lawn.I didn't live in the house then so I brushed off this episode as an example of my parent's lunacy and hopped on a flight back to Montreal where my own apartment's GE dishwasher was waiting for me. But this summer, the dishwasher issue started to really irk me. It was just sitting there! Broken! Taunting me everytime I touched sponge to dishsoap! Wasting valuable storage space! Enough was enough!
         "Dad," I said the Friday after Thanksgiving, "the time has come. We need to buy a new dishwasher." He sighed, set aside The New Yorker and said "If we must." Knowing he would have nothing to do with this project except financing, I trotted upstairs to read Consumer Reports' and J. D. Powers and Associates' review of every dishwasher on the market. "Dad," I said again later in the afternoon, "do you realize that every appliance in our kitchen is made from a different company? I think they're sort of supposed to...match." This was said as I looked around at our Maytag refrigerator, Kenmore oven, GE stovetop, LG microwave and dead Bosch dishwasher. "Oh, that's okay," he said "you've got to play the brands off one another or they get complacent." With only the greenlight to replace one appliance, I determined it would be a Kenmore (Bosch, although earning top marks in reviews, had already died once in our kitchen and I was weary of a repeat performance). It would match the double oven and was 20% off at Sears. I mentally praised myself on my shopping prowess while at the same time recognizing that no one in my family would ever notice this achievement. If I had bought and installed a dishwasher on my own it would take weeks, I knew, for anyone to notice its presence.
        After presenting my dish cleansing solution to the man financing the operation I stood waiting for his reponse. He didn't even look up from his crossword to say, "Sounds good sport, why don't you take Ryan and go buy one." And so, while my mother, the woman who will use this piece of household machinery most, was out of town, my fourteen year old brother and I set out to the department store where it would take us approximately seven minutse to pick out and buy the dishwasher. What sort of husband allows his teenaged children (I'm considering myself a teenager in terms of household running experience) to make such a large purchase unsupervised? Mine.
        Could this be why Strapless Living is such a know-it-all? Too much faith on behalf of the parental unit in my ability to deliver on things I'm completely unqualified in? I'm picking the dishwasher up this afternoon in my truck, which is showing resistance to the idea in the form of a terrifying death rattle. When it arrives I'll back up my decision with dishwasher tid-bits of information, "It's an Energry Star appliance! It holds fourteen place settings!" while the rest of the family nods in approval and then immediately disperses to their various activities; my brother will work on the guitar he is building, my father will retire to his study to do work, not realizing that we can all see he's playing FreeCell in the reflection of the window behind him, and I will force my mother to take out every dish in our kitchen to be rewashed. Because, as my household's self appointed head of Normalcy, I get paid only in smug awareness of a job well done.