Saturday, January 31, 2009

super awkward girlie post

FYI: this post is going to be poorly written. That's because the content was designed to be shared over coffee with your best friends while intermittently going "EEK" and giggling like an asshole. Because the date I went on last night? Lasted until this morning. And was 30% adorable, 10% awkward moments in conversation, and 60% the most ridiculous level of sexual compatibility I've ever experienced. I've chosen to ignore the awkward 10% and focus on the "dude, how did he know all my favorite moves?" part. Oh, also, this morning a friend and I hit up a massive sale (post-coital-retail-therapy. so clutch.) and I scored the following Diane Von Furstenburg wrap dress for $130:
Perhaps my most productive weekend yet?

photos from here

Friday, January 30, 2009

daily dose

Random Thoughts at 9:42

* Who listens to NPR? Scott Jagow is not going to do the morning marketplace report anymore! WHY? Seriously, laying (lying? I never remember this rule) in bed in the morning sometimes I bribe myself to go to work with listening to the titillating stock report. I love Steve Inskeep as much as the next independent radio listener but this is just cruel.
* Prepare to be inundated with obnoxious lyrics posts this weekend; I actually have a list of songs to target. If you don't like them, sorry, just remind me that I sort of like that new Pussycat Dolls song until I flee the blogosphere in shame.

* Also, sorry if I freaked anybody out with the waxing post, I realize that is a little personal. BUT, after I posted it last night I got asked out by a sort of sultry boy (can boys be sultry? maybe that was a poor word choice) to get drinks tonight. So maybe it's like a Field of Dreams "if you build it they will come" sort of situation.

Thursday, January 29, 2009


I am in too much pain to write a real blog entry. On my way home from work I thought to myself "I'm out of Propel water bottles...and shaving think I'll stop at Walgreens." BAD IDEA.  I'm supposed to be on shopping hiatus and I have the ability to spend hundreds of dollars at drugstores on hair products, nail polish, magazines, and deodorant. I have no idea how. Plus Walgreens has a whole aisle of "As Seen On TV" products and I have this weird obsession with those bra strap hooks that promise to make your boobs look bigger and keep having to talk myself out of buying them. What I'm trying to say is I should never be allowed in a drugstore alone without a time limit. Which is how I ended up with the following product today:
Now let's think about this for a second. The last time I wore a bathing suit? July. The last time I had sex? September. The last time my hot waxer tut-tutted me for even mentioning self waxing? October. So WHY did I spend ten dollars for this product and then FEEL COMPELLED TO USE IT? Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to lay down with a bag of peas.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

an open letter

Dear Macy's Shoe Buyer:
I know things must be pretty hectic at work nowadays. The retail sector is in a major slump, you're probably worried your job is going to disappear, etc. etc. So I understand if recently whenever an intern has come to you like "Um, sorry I can't remember if I was supposed to order ten thousand units of this shoe or this shoe..." you've just sort of waved your hand and gone "whatever, figure it out." But I just wanted to let you know that as a result the following shoes have popped up on your website:

Victorian Stripper?

Sherlock Holmes Stripper?

Raggedy Ann Stripper?

Logger Stripper?

Hippie Stripper? 

Gym Class Stripper?

Okay, so like I said, I understand that you've been busy, but you might want to look into that intern's night job.


Tuesday, January 27, 2009

open letter

Dear Boys that Have Just Broken Up with their Girlfriends:

Stop calling me. And stop facebook messaging me, which is even worse. I know that we sort of awkwardly pawed at each other in the back of my late model BMW in high school but that car has long since died and I am no longer titillated by skipping french class. I recognize that you've been shacked up with granny sweater, neon tights, hipster-haircuts-verging-on-mullet wearing girls for the past two years but that is not my fault and humanity did not assign me the task of blowing all the decent guys who date weird girls for way too long. Plus, you're totally going to get back together in like a day. And then I'll look retarded and when I inadvertently see all of your girlfriend's goodwill-heels-and-red-lipstick-posse at a bar they're going to give me the stink eye and dude! I refuse to accept responsibility for this shit!

So listen, I know you're curious as to whether my crass attitude and hefty collection of knee socks are going to combine to create some kinky shit in the bedroom but put down your laptop, go tell your vegan girlfriend that Ra-Ra-Riot is, in fact, the shit and tuck me back into the recesses of your mind for another three years when you get engaged and decided to play this game all over again. Okay? Okay.




I understand why Sephora sells these ridiculous eye shadow things, I always see a bunch of Hollister clad teen girls toting Donney & Bourke purses when I'm in there, but they've gotten 4/5 star ratings on HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE? Even if by some miracle these eye shadow appliques do work, why would you want them to? Is there really that large of a market for zebra and camo eye shadow stylings? Were all these reviews written by Pink's back up dancers? The cast and crew of All My Children? Ali Lohan?

available at sephora, $25/box of five

fire and ice

Guys. I am going to get fired. I NEVER GO TO WORK. To be fair, today my mother actually forbade me to go to work since we are in the middle of an ice storm, live in the country, and the tires on my truck are approximately one hundred years old. Still, skipping work two days in a row for no reason? Very bad. 

photo of a country road identical to mine from here

Monday, January 26, 2009


Hi, today I am:
  • still sick
  • skipping work (my office is so confused. i'm sure they want to fire me terribly but i'm the only person that actually does our worthless job well)
  • seeing Joshua Bell in concert
  • staring at a couple blank work applications
  • sick of hearing about Michelle Obama's fashion choices. I think a nod and  "that's cute," will suffice.
  • really confused about Facebook etiquette. Recently members of my extended family have all jumped on the Facebook bandwagon. Uncles, aunts, even my GREAT AUNT have all Facebook friended me and their requests are sitting in fbook limbo until I figure out whether I want them to see the fact that my religion is listed as "Tanqueray." Is it agist of me to not want to be internet acquaintances with senior members of my family tree? It's not like I'm going to drunkenly write on their walls like "WHAT UP UNCLE BRIAN!?!?" nor am I likely to be tagging them in pictures with post-tequila-shot-lemon-wedges in their mouths so what is the point? You know you need a real job when you have the extra time to ponder shit like this.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

number theory

Number of:
  • Colds this weekend: 1
  • Menstrual cycle timers going off this weekend without debloating aid of birth control due to lack of health insurance: 1
  • Boxes of Kleenex gone through: 3
  • Times you accidentally blew your nose on your top sheet in the middle of the night because you drearily mistook it for a giant kleenex: 1
  • Episodes of TLC's "Countdown to the Crown" watched: 6
  • Bowls of Edy's Caramel Swirl ice cream consumed: 3
  • Quantities of any food besides ice cream consumed: 0
  • Times you mentally referenced that Sex and the City episode where Samantha gets the flu and freaks out that she doesn't have a man to take care of her: 43
  • Times you pondered whether to call in sick tomorrow while watching "The Illusionist" on cable, the worst thing to happen to Edward Norton ever: 17
  • Interesting blog entries written this weekend: 0

Friday, January 23, 2009


The thermometer on my Shaper Image Travel Soother®/Radio says that my office is currently 75.2˚F. This is bold faced lie. I would also like to point out that I don't utilize the Soother portion of this clock radio while in the office. In fact, the one time I set it to Country Woods it did sort of remind me of Kentucky but also cause me to question the sanity of a 20 year old college student with a Sharper Image Travel Soother. Anyways, my point is that it is absolutely freezing in here. I'm also coming down with a cold so the frigid temperature feels even worse. I am currently slumped down in my office chair wearing pants (thank god it's "Pants Friday." Oh, have I never mentioned that as a reward to myself I wear my only pair of non-denim, well fitting pants every Friday? Friday also happens to be the only day of the week I see my boss, since she signs my time sheets on Friday, so I'm pretty sure she thinks I only have one set of clothes. Awesome.), wool socks, wallabees (the casual suede shoe by Clarks, not the Australian creature made popular by Nickolodeon's hit show "Rocko's Modern Life"), an american apparel t-shirt, a cardigan, a weird sweatshirt/sweater combination from Old Navy that barely fits in our office's "no sweatshirts or fleeces" policy and has its own personal shelf in my cubicle since I have no use for actual supplies, a wool coat (which I wore everyday during winters in CANADA), and a scarf wrapped around my head. That's right, a white, purple, and gold plaid scarf from J. Crew is currently adorning my head as if I were half  Russian babushka and half middled aged Punjabi man. My mountain-climbing father reminded me every day as a child that you lose the majority of your body heat through your head and I have taken that advice to heart since I can now tell via the exposed portions of my nails where my nail polish has chipped that my fingers are turning purple. Since no one notices that I work here anyway, I'm thinking of shutting down my computer, stapling a Kleenex blanket together and taking a nap. ADIEU.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

why are you being so mean to me?

This past Christmas, one of my aunts gave me an Amazon giftcard. Since it's free money, I thought I'd fritter some of it away and buy a $1.99 episode of "The Real Housewives of Orange County." Who knew that Amazon's video on demand is a one click service? And that my dad's credit card was still saved on my account from when he bought my brother "The Jimi Hendrix Experience?" And that these two coincidences would combine to result in him inadvertently supporting Vicki, Lynn, Tamra, and the gang? Forcing me to talk to six Amazon phone operators in order to get the $2.11 purchase taken off his Mastercard so I could avoid the shame of having the man who paid for my college education know that I was willing to give up two hard earned dollars to see Gretchen get wasted. 

cinderella's castle

Normally there aren't a lot of people in the break room when I eat lunch. Obviously, otherwise I would eat lunch somewhere else. But today there were two guys, each bettern 37-42 years of age I'd guess, talking about Disney World. For half an hour. Well, maybe it was Disney Land, whichever one is in Florida. But they definitely discussed it for a full thirty minutes. Which rides their kids like, which rides they liked, which restaurant was their favorite, which movie was their kids' favorite, and so forth. I actually felt a scream burbling up in my throat when one started talking about how great it was that you could try all the international foods there. As if we don't have Indian, Thai, Russian, Latin American, Moroccan, South Korean, Caribbean, Mongolian, Greek, Venezualen or any other genre of food right here in Lexington (surprisingly, we really do, I don't know why the restaurant scene here is so good).

In the January issue of Esquire, Clint Eastwood talks about the "pussy-ification of America," saying he wasn't sure when it started. I think it started when middle aged men began saying things like "oh man, the Lion King show down there is my favorite." Before you go all "The Secret Life of Boys" on me and say that this is why we're in social crisis: men feeling pressured to be more macho, let me clarify that I do think every person should have the right worship, consume, love, and behave as they please. I'm not a huge believer in "firm gender roles" dictating that little boys have to play with trucks or else they risk developing a taste for giving blow jobs in alleys. So if those 42 year old men want to watch Toy Story 2 until their noses bleed, then they have my blessing. But do they have to drone on about it? When I'm trying to read Esquire and work on the Times crossword? Sorry that girls don't have to wear girdles anymore but if your manliness feels threatened maybe it's time to reel back the amount of time you spend in the Magic Kingdom.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

well sure it's crispy but

Okay, so we all know that I'm not super good with the men folk, right? But at least I've never attempted to coerce a man into marriage using poultry. 

from cosmo, always at the forefront of good advice

eye roll

I hate to be one of those bloggers that's all 'wah wah I have nothing to talk about' because, I mean, if I don't have anything to talk about I probably shouldn't publish myself on the interweb, right? I do have things to say, they are just stuck in my head in bullet points. I mean,I  tried to start writing this post in paragraph form and then I realized I was waxing nostalgically about Egg McMuffins. It was so bad. Anyways, here are my random thoughts for the day:
  1. Okay, so I was sort of kidding about the McMuffin thing but also totally not. Because I discovered that White Lily flour makes frozen biscuits and they are effing delicious. Probably the most unhealthy thing in the world but if you think that my southern baptist grandmother didn't try to put bacon grease in my bottle to fatten infant me up, then you clearly haven't been reading this blog very long. ANYWAYS, buy these biscuits, scramble an egg, slice some colby jack, then put it all together and be prepared to not eat ANYTHING ELSE for four days. Except for the occasional Pop 'Em donut people leave in the break room. Oh my god I'm disgusting. 
  2. I opened a savings account today! Oh, you did that when you were twelve years old because you realized that earning .1% interest  in your checking account was retarded? My bad.
  3. I'm starting to consider applying for sales jobs. VOMIT-DEATH-DESPAIR. I know that I should be open minded but I can't help but see people in sales as anything other than polyester suit, squared toed Kenneth Cole loafer, hair gel wearing guys that want to hit on me but are overwhelmed by the height. I have been told that I would be good at sales but haven't yet decided that that is a good enough reason to go for it.
  4. I actually flirted via telephone with the guy at ING that I talked to about opening my account. I FLIRTED WITH SOMEONE WHO LIVES IN MINNESOTA AND ANSWERS PHONES FOR ING FOR A LIVING. Okay that was capital letter overload; I'm so sorry. But seriously, who is going to buy the clever ice cream truck if I'm handing out the witticisms for free?


Here's to no. 44. I hope you all have spent the morning listening to NPR at your desk and getting awkwardly misty eyed approximately every five minutes.

Monday, January 19, 2009

everything is cuter with babies

Okay, so I achieved something borderline worthwhile today, even though my earlier post suggests otherwise, in that I finished my baby quilt that I started before Christmas. Remember the adorable duck fabric? Anyways, at the beginning of December my cousin popped out her fourth baby. FOURTH BABY. Since she went through nine months of not drinking in order to continue to deliver the cutest children alive (and you know I don't like babies. like, at all. so they have to be really super adorable, blonde, curly haired, blue eyed freaks of nature of me to like them. also, this summer one of them befriended me and had me push her on the swings and it was the first time a child has ever voluntarily chosen to be around me, my lankiness, my glasses, and my awkardness so that helped their cause.) I thought I would make her a blanket to swath her latest piece of adorability in. I'll try to put up better pictures later in the week but here it is:

If anyone tells you that quilting is easy they are either lying or using a sewing machine. I did everything by hand (except for the very outside edge, since I figured that needed to be extra heavy duty) and it required a lot of sitting in front of the tv watching House marathons on USA and Tivoed Gossip Girl to complete. I did test it for "snuggleability" throughout the entire process though and am happy to report that any child should be able to burrow into it and pass out with ease. 

P.S. I have tons of extra fabric so if anyone you know is popping out an infant with a Y chromosome and you'd like to bestow a baby quilt on them, just let me know and I'll whip up another. 

i have a dream, an open letter

Dear MLK:
I am so sorry that I failed to acknowledge the great things you did for our country today. I didn't help ease the burdens of others, try to bring peace or understanding to my community, or bitchslap a racist asshole. Instead I did the following:
Seriously dude, it was pathetic. I didn't even leave the house. The closest I came to carrying on your legacy was supporting a film in which East Compton dethrones those bitches from San Diego in cheerleading. Shame. But I have a whole year to revamp my plans for next year's holiday in celebration of you and I promise to try to do better.

Sincerely yours,


Friday, January 16, 2009

gossip girl

For Being so obsessed with "House," I can't believe I never realized that his stalker in Season 3 is Leighton Meester from Gossip Girl. Although I'm jealous that she got to sit on his motorcycle in one episode, I think we can all agree that brunette social queen looks better on her than blonde medical groupie. 

photos from here and here

brain freeze

                            Sorry I failed to post anything last night--I was totally brain dead. I have been staying late at work to make up the time I missed on Monday (to see my delightful chiropractor. what an excellent use of time) and the extra hour is really killing me. It just sort of creeps by while the rest of the office files out. It's also -2 degrees outside. I know to some of you reading from The Great White North  that's nothing, but this is Kentucky. It's not supposed to be this cold. We only had enough snow to go sledding maybe a half dozen times when I was growing. up and in high school my "winter" shoes were Birkenstock clogs. There's no snow on the ground today but public schools here close when it's below zero; a rule I'm sure no one thought would ever actually go into effect. Anyways, I promise to post a slew of new material this weekend so you'll have plenty to read when you trudge to work on Tuesday (or Monday if you're forced to work on MLK day, in which I sugeest you spend the whole day making paper snowflakes like the one shown above). See you then!
                            P.S. Only four days until total Obamination! The Lexington Herald Leader ran a story on how to cook Hawaiian foods that Obama loves if you're hosting an inauguration party. That's how we encourage bi-partisan cooperation in the South; comfort food.

P.P.S. If I didn't totally scare you away by using the faux-word "Obamination" then you'll be happy to know that you can now comment anonymously. So if don't you have a google account, or if want to say something nasty, now you can!

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

window shopping

Normally I'm not much for Mary Janes; they just seem too kiddish on my five foot ten frame. But for some reason I'm dying to have these Leopoldo Giordanos in my closet. They'd make everything in my closet ten times cuter and are on sale for $109! Unfortunately that's $109 more than my shopping hiatus budget of $0 allows me but aren't they adorable? On sale at Barneys here

embarrassing fact #7

I love puns. Seriously, love them. This love went public last weekend when my friend's sorority hosted a fundraiser called "Dance of the Decades," the theme of which was "B.C." (my friend is the President and decreed that would be the concept in lieu of the traditional '70s or '80s. You see why I can't judge her for being in a sorority? The girl is a genius). There were plenty of togas and cavepeople and my adorable friend made a pterodactyl costume complete with headpiece and wings. But of course I couldn't just wrap myself in a sheet and call it a day. In fact I actually invited myself to the event (where, of course, I knew no one) just so I could wear the offensively pun-containing costume I thought up. What do you get when you cross a book called "365 Days of Sex" purchased from Barnes and Noble, a theme predating Christ, and a small liberal arts college in Kentucky? 

The Big Bang.

p.s. sorry for heinous photo of yours truly, I spent the whole night "exploding." also, I only ended up using about 40 of the 365 positions so if your love life needs sprucing up just let me know and the other 325 are yours!

Tuesday, January 13, 2009


Here's a question, am I the only person that listens to popular song lyrics? For real, every time I turn on the radio (pop radio is the currently the only thing loud enough to keep me awake at work, eventually I'll have to crank it up to Finnish heavy metal) I'm baffled by the random shit that constitutes our modern listening experience. Today's offender: Lady Gaga. For some reason I feel like if I don't enjoy her music it's because I'm just not trying to be hip enough. I am sort of obsessed with the line "Go! Use your muscle, carve it out, work it, hustle!" because who doesn't love a reference to the Hustle? But the rest of the song is a hot mess. For example:

Can't find my drink or man.
Where are my keys, I lost my phone.
What's going on on the floor?
I love this record baby, but I can't see straight anymore.

To be honest, I find it a little sad when modern technologies become integrated into lyrics. I just don't find text messages, Facebook or DVDs to be super romantic. But moral of the story is: when you're wasted, it's for the best you don't know where your keys are. I understand the embarrassment of dumping your entire purse on the concrete steps in front of your all girls dorm, begging the door man for the spare, passing out facedown on your twin extra long bed, and having to stumble in a hungover stupor to your freshman orientation leader's house the next morning to find them but if there are car keys attached to that key ring then be glad you can't find them when you're inebriated. ANYWAYS, the song continues with gems like:

Wish I could shut my playboy mouth.
How'd I turn my shirt inside out?

Did a frat boy write this song? Lady Gaga, don't think that your intense name and crazy wardrobe are distracting enough for me not to realize that the lyrics to this song are basically a transcript from a bachelorette party. "Oops! I'm wasted! I love you guys! Let's get tequila shots!" It's the musical version of girls making out at the prom afterparty.

Monday, January 12, 2009


Today I went to see a Chiropractor for my whiplash. I was looking forward to all sorts of bone popping and muscle palpating that would make sitting in my office chair a little more bearable. So I was pretty disappointed when immediately upon meeting my Chiropractor I thought "I don't want to be in a room alone with this man." When I left the office, and when I detailed the story to a friend, I was half laughing and half crying. Laughing because it was so ridiculous, and crying because I have never felt so uncomfortable in my life. When I started this blog entry I had a mental shortlist of all the creepy behavior he engaged in that I was going to type up. I wanted to say "look how absurd!" but more than that I think I wanted to justify the feeling that I had been violated to myself. Thought that if I didn't have good backup for feeling pressed upon then a reader would think I was arrogant for assuming a stranger would direct that sort of behavior towards me. I'm a twenty-one year old woman with a college education and I feel like I have to validate my own instincts? "He was just being friendly, you're reading too much into that, that's what chiropractors do!" "He mistook your nervous smile for encouragement, you made it worse!" "It's the south! Middle aged men call young women sweetie!" A lingering hand and a sensual whispering intonation is nothing, but what if some day I'm too polite to fight back against something bigger? 

photo from getty images

Saturday, January 10, 2009

time suck

This list, although not exhaustive, details the activities I engage in in order to avoid being productive while in the office. Once I was given a daily work goal and realized I could complete that goal before lunch on a good day, it became necessary for me to invent alternative means to entertain myself. Why, you may be asking yourself, don't I just barrel through with work and deliver results above and beyond what I am expected? Unfortunately, not only am I not fiscally rewarded for exceeding my goal, but revealing to management that I'm in an insurance demigod causes them to assign me extra tasks that often force me to interact with my co-workers. I discovered this when, after a month of turning in twice the required work each day, I was dealt the unfortunate task of training two interns who may be the least intelligent co-eds I've ever met (one had to be re-trained, that's how bad we're talking). Anyways, back to my main subject, things I do to limit my work output in lieu of a frontal lobotomy:
  1. Covertly read magazines and newspapers.
  2. Write inane e-mails to everyone I know (this occasionally stoops to the level of filling out those obnoxious survey forwards).
  3. Read and all information on the company's intranet site (the only site my internet explore will allow me to visit). This includes the HR handbook, 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, and the backgrounds blurbs of all 250 employees.
  4. Draw still life sketches of whatever is on my desk. My "chapstick and water bottle" is particularly poignant. 
  5. Read the New York Times, Slate, People, New York Magazine (and whatever else I can think of) on my Blackberry while pretending that no one walking by my desk notices. Hope that they will think I could be potentially doing something valid. 
  6. Make paper snowflakes. 
  7. Perfect the art of sleeping while sitting up.
  8. Do standing yoga poses in the handicapped stall of the women's restroom.
  9. Write random blog entries. 
  10. Unnecessarily photocopy random pieces of paper so I always have snowflake making supplies on hand.

absolutely not

Dear Future Boyfriends/Love Interests: If you want to break up with me but are not sure how or don't want to hurt my feelings, just buy me these and I'll gladly do it for you.

photo of what might be the ugliest shoes in the world from here

Thursday, January 8, 2009


I know that those of you who read this blog semi-regularly are probably getting really confused as to whether I am an irresponsible recent graduate or an matronly old lady. Probably because my subject matter alternates between reckless alcohol use and quilting and I apologize for my seemingly split personality.  I assure you that I am in fact an irresponsible 21 year old, I'm just totally unable to relate to anyone born more than a day before me. This also applies to anyone who likes the song "Addicted" by the band Saving Abel. It's all over the radio and I cannot figure out for the life of me why "the kids" like it. In addition to being sung in one of those faux-rocker voices (think Creed) the following are samples of the lyrics:

I'm so addicted to
All the things you do
When you roll around with me
In between the sheets
Or the sound you make
With every breath you take
It's unlike anything
When you're loving me

Oh girl lets take it slow
So as for you, 
Well you know where to go
I want to take my love
And hate you til the end what you're saying is "dude, you are an awesome lay, but eventually we're going to have a nasty break up and I'm going to hate you forever." How refreshing, a man who lets you know upfront that he's going to talk shit about your sexual behavior to everyone after you break up. Moving on:

I know when it's getting rough
All the times we spend
Trying to make this love 
Something better than
Just making love again
So the guy's a sex addict but now he's complaining that all you do is get naked? Also, how would you feel to be the girl this guy was hooking up with right before he wrote this song? "He said he's writing a song about me. He says it's sort of like 'Your Body is a Wonderland' but with a twist."

photo of the least attractive band in recent memory from here


                    When I was in high school I had a better than average relationship with my parents. We didn't have screaming matches or temper tantrums and I was capable of hanging out with them sans gratuitous eye rolls. They bought me a car; I never got in trouble and warranted a visit to the principal's office. They turned a blind eye to the fact that I was clearly not sleeping over at whichever girlfriend's house I claimed was hosting a slumber party; I brought home good grades. I never had a curfew, never got told "not to hang around with insert-name-of-bad-influence-friend-here," never got yelled at when I stumbled home bleary eyed at 8 am or skipped school for a week. They always showed up at concerts, plays, award ceremonies and the dinner table. We never went to church/temple/cult meetings so there was no "holier power" I had to measure up to, and as long as I kept delivering good results they pretty much left me to my own business. My dad occasionally referred to my growth with the same terminology he used to reference his stock portfolio, but I felt (and still feel) comfortable coming to them if I wanted to talk about something or needed some parental support. Don't worry, this isn't supposed to be a glowing letter of recommendation for the people that raised me, just an introduction to the life I had growing up. Because central to this loving relationship was lying.
                    I told lies constantly to my parents back then, and still sometimes catch myself slipping them into everyday conversation. I don't mean huge whopping deceptions like telling them I was engaged to the quarterback when really I was a closet lesbian. I mean small, usually insignificant fibs to smooth things over and make everyday life easier. Even when I knew my parents would be okay with something, but would ask questions, I lied to save myself the trouble. "I'm spending the night at Holly's," could mean "I'm going to go get wasted with a bunch of guys at their house on State St. and pass out on the couch with a boy I just met" and in the morning "Holly's sister dropped me off before tennis," meant "Tom's cousin's friend dropped me off in his rusted out Buick while I tried not to vomit in the backseat." Most of my fabrications weren't that dramatic; saying I was with a friend they knew rather than explaining a new acquaintance was a frequent tale. "Yeah his parents are home," "No, she drove," "School was fine today;" they were all totally pointless bluffs, like I was practicing for "the big one." An elaborate ruse that I knew would require skill and precision to execute. I couldn't blow it with an ill-contained smile or inability to hold eye contact. But that lie never came.
                    Somehow this worked for us. Knowing that I had the ability to pull the wool over their eyes on something or, more likely, the nonchalance to make them not care, made doing illicit things lose their luster. Because I lived in a constant state of being "unsupervised," I never felt the pressure to do things "now! while I can!" I slept in the same bed as boys as often as your uncle falls asleep watching Monday Night Football but I still graduated high school a virgin. I never drove drunk because I never had to make it back before midnight. My friend taught me to make a gravity bong my sophomore year but the first time I actually smoked was after I graduated college. 
I wasn't a parent's ideal good girl but I wasn't an opportunist when it came to vices. "Cigarettes make me nauseous. Ugh, I can't stand vodka. No way I'm giving it up to him; he wore a bow tie and cummerbund to the prom when I specifically requested just a tie." My dad wouldn't have cared if I was hooked up a morphine drip or constantly walked around with a beer helmet on as long as I made top chair in symphony orchestra and got into a college he could be proud of. And honestly, there wasn't that much pressure there either; he knew my inner drive and inner critic were far harsher than he had the heart to be. Besides, they lied too. Said they were happy, said they had a clue what was going on in my life, said they liked my friends. Too afraid that serious parenting would knock me off my type A orbit, they left me to my own devices. We are close now because when I was a moody teenager, prone to crying fits and wearing my heart on my sleeve, we lived like cautious roommates--courteous but uninvolved. And what's the harm in an occasional lie between strangers?

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

end of an era

Well kind of. Today marked the end of my 30 day shopping hiatus! I actually hadn't come up with anything that I desperately wanted to mark the end of this triumph until this weekend when I spotted the perfect sneakers. I know that sounds really lame/middle schoolish but I've been needing some forever. I have a billion pairs of "casual shoes:" topsiders, wallabees, ballet flats, mocassins, etc. But nothing that you could wear while, for example, helping a friend move. UNTIL NOW.  I love them. Love love love. And at only $60, they fell well below my $100 spending limit. Of course, this is slightly negated by the fact that I had to buy a couple new bras this week too but a)I got them at Target so they were only $35 for two and b)the rules left room for "necessities," and those of you who don't consider bras a necessity have clearly never had an underwire poke through one of yours and stab you in the armpit all day. Anyways, now that the 30 days is over and done with and I learned that I can survive without new nailpolish, high heels, and J. Crew sweaters I think I'm ready for round two. So here goes another 30 days of no spending on anything except: food and drink, gas, and regular bills (hello dental insurance). Since my underwear situation is taken care of for the time being hopefully I'll be able to make it. And my reward this time? An eyebrow wax with my hair cut that I'll need in a month. It'll only cost me $21 including tip and no one knows my eyebrows like Marcella. I cut them out of my budget when I cut my gym membership and have slowly been morphing into Bert from Sesame Street ever since. Honestly, my eyebrows have born the brunt of this recession. Wish me luck!


Real conversation that I had this afternoon with the Claims Agent at the Insurance Agency of the girl that read-ended me on Saturday:
Agt: Is this Mama Strapless Living?
Me: No, this is Hannah.
Agt: (explains who she is), may I speak to MSL?
Me: Well, she's not here right now, but I'm the one who filed the claim so you need to speak to me.
Agt: (long silence) I have her listed as the policy holder. So I need to get a statement from her about what happened.
Me: Okay well she wasn't there when it happened, because I am the regular driver of the car. You can call her to confirm that I'm the one who you should talk to if needed.
Agt: Okay, I'll call her to set up an appointment to have the damage appraised.
Me: No, see, I drive the car; I'll need to set up the time for the appraisal.
Agt: Oh okay, do you know where Nicholasville is?
Me: The town or the road? (Side note: There is a small town outside of Lexington called Nicholasville, and a main road in Lexington called Nicholasville Road, this wasn't an entirely stupid question.)
Agt: I mean where Don Jacobs car dealership is.
Me: Oh, yes I do.
Agt: Can you be there before three today?
Me: I have a job.
Agt: Oh, how about tomorrow?
Me: (takes a deep breath) Sure, why not. I can go during my lunch.
Agt: Okay, I'll put you down for twelve thirty tomorrow. And then I'll need MSL to call to confirm that the appraisal was completed.
Me: So I'll have her call you after I've taken it in?
Agt: No, I'm going to call her right now.
When I have conversations like this I can't help but think "This person makes more money than I do," and am then filled with a hefty amount of rage. Why hasn't Darwinism taken this girl out already?

P.S. Photo was taken at the aquarium. I know it's grainy/random but it's the only thing on my blackberry that remotely has anything to do with a) what happened on Saturday and b) survival of the fittest.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009


You know what sucks serious balls (side note: my mother has told me that a small part of her dies every time I accidentally say this expression in front of her)? Whiplash. For real dudes. I would absolutely love with all my heart to write a good blog entry for today but I just can't do it. At work, where I normally spend ten minute intervals staring into space and thinking about what I want to share with you, I spent all day with my head spinning because I couldn't find a position in my office chair that didn't send bolts of pain up through my neck and into the base of my brain. This has got to be the lamest injury of all time. Who knew a '94 Camry could do so much damage to my spinal system? Am making an appointment with chiropractor tomorrow, I don't care if my insurance company is ready or not. If they don't want to pay for it they can come to my cubicle and hold a heating pad to my neck all day. Seriously. 
Anyways, until the pain subsides and I can have creative thoughts again, starting tomorrow  it'll be storytime here at StraplessLiving, with all sorts of anecdotes from my past. Tales of baby fat, acne, and awkwardly making out with produce to come. 

photo from here

Monday, January 5, 2009

oh please

New York Magazine's online feature "Best Bets Daily" says the following about the above dress "It's short. It's jersey made sexy." It's also a hundred and fifteen dollars on Shopbop. Am I missing something here? I mean, it's cute, sure, and I would pay up to dollars for it, but a hundred and fifteen? It's pretty basic, the 99.9% perfect model has a tiny tummy bump in it (which is not an insult to her, that's meant to mean "so my mortal abdomen would like look i just delivered twins"), and even the article says "[jersey dresses] unravel if you wash them too many times." You all know my disdain for American Apparel but in this instance I have to say, save yourself the $77 and get this $38 dress instead:

photos from and

oh honey no

There are some girls that, in some outfits, can go braless. For example, if I'm harnessed into something strapless that's really tight on the top, my A cups will stay put. But Lindsay, you are not one of those girls, and that is not one of those outfits. In fact, I'm not sure what to say in regards to a "dress" that requires extreme droopage in order to be decent in public. No one needs to know your nipples naturally hang to your elbows, Lindsay, fire your stylist. 

photo from

Saturday, January 3, 2009

one step forward, two steps back

Sometimes I really under-appreciate my youth. Only in your early twenties is it remotely appropriate to get stoned in the middle of the afternoon with a friend from high school and go to an aquarium. Which is exactly what I did today. Not that I would judge anyone who did it later in life, it's just that it's easier to squeeze into your schedule when you don't have a serious job, a husband, children, etc. Unfortunately for me, karma was intent on promoting a drug free lifestyle because on the way home (after dinner and movie, don't worry I wasn't behind the wheel with an altered state of mind) I got rear ended by a teenager in a '94 Camry while I was merging off the highway with my body turning the steering wheel to the right and my neck checking for traffic on the left. Basically I was twisted like a corkscrew when the late model sedan careened into me. Fortunately, I was driving my gas guzzling SUV at the time, which shows no sign of impact except for a quite attractively curved license plate. Unfortunately, the entire right side of my back and neck feel like one of the electric eels at the aquarium slithered in beside my spine and is having a temper tantrum. Since I have a couple of Percocets left over from my wisdom teeth extraction I'll just continue today's trend of self medication. Catch you on the flip side. 

Friday, January 2, 2009

oh sure

Facebook messages from boys you hooked up with in high school sent at 12:21 are always good indicators for the year to come. For a pretty short message it manages to assume that I don't know the following: he has a girlfriend, we've never had a real conversation, and the fact that the only time we "saw" each other was while making out in someone's parents guest bedroom four years ago. Gosh, I am such a lucky girl.