Friday, May 29, 2009

random thoughts

  • New arch-nemesis: Victoria's Secret. Normally, I avoid this store. I have been snidely told by a snotty sales associate TWICE that they're "sorry, but that does bra doesn't come in a smaller sizes..." which is ridiculous because a) a handful is all you need people! and b) they're A cups are freaking massive. I do very much enjoy their poorly named Intimissimi line, but the Lexington stores don't really carry it so online shopping is key. However, today I braved the physical store in preparation for my annual underwear purge.

Armed with a "Free VS Cotton Panty (ed note: ew, I hate the word panty)" coupon, I stocked up disgustingly overpriced lace and spandex things hoping my ass would morph into Gisel Bundchen's. But when I got to the counter I was informed that my coupon was not valid on the particular pair of VS Cotton Panties I had picked out. "But they say VS Cotton Panty," I said. "I know," she said, not particularly nicely, "but that coupon doesn't apply to them. We sold out of the other ones." Now is it just me but if you sell out of one type of item, and another has the exact same name, shouldn't that count? I found this to be a gross violation of the "customer is always right," rule and will take my undergarment business elsewhere from now on.

  • Tonight I sent my ACT students e-mails about their progress. At 1:00am. AWESOME IDEA RIGHT? They are probably nonsensical, which is fine, because my ACT students think I'm an absurd human being anyways. Their waspiness prevents them from fully understanding why it is I went to Canada for college, why I wear glasses, and why I'm moving in with someone from Vermont (seriously, they gagged upon hearing this. imagine 10 extremely preppy sixteen years shuddering at one time. it was sort of awesome).

  • I read somewhere that people who are predisposed to mental illness will develop the illness only if something triggers it. Honestly, this might have been in an ACT Reading Test passage, my only reading material as of late, so it's probably total bullshit. But if it turned out to be true, and I was predisposed to bipolar disorder, it would be triggered by the hair care aisle of Rite-Aid. I have thin, curly hair. Volumizing products make it dry and frizzy. Curly hair products make it sad and flat. Today I stared so long at the shelves that the Garnier Fructis bottles started to look like a magic eye.
photos from here, here, and here

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

household goods

Today I shopped for nub hut. I did not at all want to but unfortunately, it was necessary. Bath mats do not buy themselves people. My future roommate is a boy and probably thinks a bath mat means doing it in the shower. Normally, I don't mind taking care of this stuff, in fact I sort of enjoy picking out things like measuring cups, but today I woke up on the wrong side of the bed (right side, next to the bedside table, per usual) with a bit of a headache and a toddleresque propensity for foot stomping. Basically the worst mood possible to bring with you into the TJMaxx of home goods, where you have to search through mounds of crap for the good stuff. I calmly surfed the sauce pan aisle, coming up for air with a $19 Calphalon steal, then serenely glided over t0 the rug aisle, procuring flooring for living room and bedroom. But by the time I got to bath mats, it was over. I started to resemble Paul Rudd from Wet Hot American Summer when he has to clean up the dining hall. "But I don't waant to spend $14.99 for a furry rubber mat," I moaned. My mother, the adorable tinkerbell sized saint that she is, did not punch me in the face. Rather she led me to checkout counter and bought me a ridiculous thirty dollar bamboo laundry hamper that I was too tired to argue about. 

On any other day I would have thoroughly enjoyed Kmart's Martha Stewart aisle. I need to buy spatulas and spoons and all those other ridiculous kitchen supplies that you think will just magically appear in a jar next to your stove but, apparently, do not. I wanted a big box full of all those things in stainless steel with a Martha logo on them. A big box I could pluck from the shelf and grossly overpay for. But such a box was not to be found. I would have to pick them out individually. Spatulas are one of those things that I use everyday but for some reason hate buying. I'll pay upwards of a million dollars for cute shoes I'll wear once, yet paying seven dollars for something necessary to my culinary well being just seems ridiculous. So I pouted at the Martha spatulas, headed to the "Home Essentials" brand, and started forlornly pulling cheap wooden spoons and paring knives and spaghetti tongs from the racks. Then I realized you can't get the ninety-nine cents one, you just can't. It melts in the dishwasher and generally makes you feel glum about flipping pancakes.  

So I gave up. I put all the crap back on the shelf, paid for my cutting board and measuring cups and measuring spoons (the only things to survive the purge), texted my roommate to tell him I hated him, and went home. Domestication: 1 Hannah: 0.

literary sickness

I have been congested lately. Not just physically, although I am at that point where the garbage bin is right next to the bed so I can listlessly drop kleenexes in it after I blow my nose in the middle of the night. Verbally congested. For every s'more I've made in the microwave over the past few days, I've had a half dozen writing ideas (in case you're lost, this is about 54 writing ideas), none of which I have used to propel pen across paper. There's so much to talk about: I'm going to a dry wedding this weekend! I'm moving to central time next week (I always sleep better in central time)! American Apparel is making assless tights! Tonight I had a guest student in my ACT class who was one of those Eastern Kentucky anomalies: butch female or feminine male? They both wear so much American Eagle that it is SO HARD TO TELL. 

But I simply can't get them out. These storylines and mixed metaphors are taking up every fucking nook and cranny in my brain, making my eyes water and my head droop. It's hard enough for me to be funny in the best of health; do you know how hard it is to make a pun when you feel like you have to word-sneeze twenty four hours a day, seven days a week? 

Am currently loading up on sudafed. Will attempt to verbally decongest tomorrow by way of excessive logorrhea. à tout à l'heure.

photo from here

Monday, May 25, 2009

heavy metal

Today I took my little brother to the record store because a) I'm aiming for best big sister of year and b) I'm a raging douchebag. Apparently, they were celebrating Memorial Day with a barbecue and some in-store concerts, which due to the rain had been moved indoors from the parking lot. All of which would have been useful to know before I opened the door and was orally assaulted by screaming, infantile, heavy metal; visually assaulted by pasty kids who didn't get laid in high school; and olfactorily assaulted by the stench of those pasty kids having just come in from the rain. I mean, listen, I will wholeheartedly defend anyone's right to listen to whatever music they want. I'm never the girl that says "anything but country," and I'll listen to you patronizingly explain "ambient noise muzak" for a solid ten minutes before I excuse myself to get another drink. But the mega-death-metal I simply cannot get on board for. I felt like a grandma walking around that record store looking for a Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin album; "excuse me," I wanted to say while tapping on the shoulder of the lead pasty boy, "do you know that 'singing' in that screamo fashion is a surefire way to get throat polyps?" 

photo from here

Sunday, May 24, 2009

shopping hiatus

There is nothing like packing to make you think "dear god, why do I have so much shit?" I have 27 headbands. Two TI-83 calculators. Unknown packages of post-it notes. Three sets of hair curlers, one never used. Two bras, size 34B, mocking me from the back of my underwear drawer. Three blackberry headsets, two covers, and one spare battery. Several thousand knitting needles inherited from dead grandmothers. 

And for all that, I think I'm not a pack rat. I throw away crap constantly. Boxes of clothes to goodwill, bags of ill fitting things to obnoxiously tiny friends, shopping bags haphazardly filled with garbage. So why do I still have so much junk? WHERE DOES IT COME FROM?  The clothes, I understand. "But this is BCBG! I can't just throw it away, it was expensive!" Eventually those things do get given away or ebayed or whatever. What I can't understand is the "stuff." Things like: combs, bottles of lotion, ballpoint pens, and various other office supplies. I brush my hair approximately never. I'm not running an import/ export business. There is absolutely no reason for me to own multiple three-hole punches. 

I blame Target. And Wal-Mart. And Sephora. And anywhere else where it is easy to toss random things into a basket. From now on I am NEVER getting a basket when shopping. If it can't be carried, it's not coming with me. It'll be full on hunter/gatherer style. Do you think cavewomen ever took a look around the cave and thought "holy crap, did I really forage THIS MANY sticks?" No, they did not. The denim shorts I bought in Montreal and the hair straightening serum I bought yesterday complete my summer wardrobe and toiletry needs respectively, so from now on I'm not buying anything that doesn't fit the following criteria:
  • can be consumed. food, alcohol, LSD, etc. 
  • can be used to clean. the kitchen, the bathroom, my body, etc.
  • vital furniture for the Nub Hut (the name of my new tiny house). Couch, bathroom mat, etc.

THAT'S IT. Normally my shopping hiatuses go into effect for financial purposes but this is out of sheer physical necessity. My new house is tiny. My closet is approximately 1/8 of the size of my current one. There is no hall closet. There is no hall. So we'll see how it goes. I ask you this: if you know me in real life and ever feel the urge to purchase me a gift (for my birthday, bat mitzvah, whatever) DO NOT DO SO. Give me five dollars and a pat on the head. Seriously, it's fine. Secondly, if you see me in Kmart browsing the adorable Martha measuring cups, slap me across the face. Now that I've given you, the entire internet, permission to attack me in price-friendly shopping centers, I've got to get back to packing. I've got three irons to sort out.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

my body

Is a lemon. If you attempted to sell my pre-owned self you'd have to fill the engine with sawdust and rewind the mileage. Yesterday I was struck with some mystery cough/cold/bronchial infection/swine flu/throat STD. Which is why there is a huge pile of sweating-out-my-fever clothes on my floor and why I have drank enough orange juice to ward off scurvy for life. I have a monstrous to-do list to work through before I move but today I'll sit back and enjoy my last few weeks of HBO.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

living quarters

Dear Internet,

It is my pleasure to introduce to you, my new house! Could it be smaller? No, it could not. But I assure you, it is absolutely precious inside and that I am getting rid of the cowboy boot on the front porch. More tales of moving to come.



Tuesday, May 19, 2009


Got home from Montreal yesterday too tired to move. Have to teach ACT tonight even though I have absolutely no voice. Not sure how to tell ACT students that this is because after the above picture was taken I drunkenly sprinted through the city of Montreal at 3:30am to retrieve a pineapple pizza.

Saturday, May 16, 2009

random thoughts: international version

  • Last night I went to my [former] favorite bar in Montreal to get my [still] favorite cocktail, an absinthe martini. It tastes like apple juice, is the color of Queen of Hearts nail polish, and makes me love everyone. Unfortunate the bar was OUT of absinthe. Bars that run out of alcohol=dead to me. Fortunately, the bar around the corner was serving cheap Pink Ladies, which despite the tragic name are delicious, inspiring my friend to look at my earnestly and say "I want to bathe in it."
  • I had a dream last night that my dad left a really long comment on my blog. Dad, if you're reading, stop it, this is not for you.
  • Ugh, I can't write any more random thoughts until I have a Tim Horton's bagel securely in my hands. Be back later.

photo from here

Thursday, May 14, 2009

northward bound

Day one of Montreal vacation officially starts today. Because I tend to write these things on the fly and don't plan ahead like a good blogger should, posting might be skimpy over the next couple of days. It will not be because I am not thinking of you; many drunken ideas will be entered into the notepad of my blackberry for me to come across later ("whhy so mny LEX grls whereing those hideous JAck Rogers snadals?"). But sometimes these AMAZING ideas simply fail to make it onto my computer. I will go ahead and let you know that as I am sitting entering this into my phone in the Detroit airport, after sitting in a tiny plane with a man who I'm convinced has swine flu, I am optimistic. Should be a good trip. I'll let you know.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

greedy girl

I have this deep seeded desire to be much more laid back that I actually am. In my imagination, I have a deep tan and live on a tour bus with a boy that plays the sitar. I wear extremely short cut off denim shorts and have Zooey Deschanel hair. I never spend time ironing, or pouring over my ING accounts. ANYWAYS, the point of this was to say that this imaginary girl would also wear the following:


Okay, maybe not the last one. That's not very folky. What can I say, I'm a work in progress.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009


Um, maybe because you're dressed like a bag of pork rinds? 


Monday, May 11, 2009

random thoughts

  • Today I went in to Macys to buy a salad bowl for my mother. On my way to the housewares floor, I passed through "contemporary collections" where I happened upon a mannequin whose nipples were proudly indicated through a thin jersey dress. Question: why on earth would you put nipples on a mannequin? And why would they be, for lack of a better word, aroused? It is a bit chilly in Macys but the male mannequins are on an entirely different floor. Are they lesbian mannequins? Is that legal in the state of Kentucky? So many questions.

  • During my employment with Boss Lady I learned how to do all sorts of seemingly shady things, including sending money grams to pay bills. The last time I was engaged in such a transaction at Wal-Mart I noticed the cashier wearing a tag displaying all the emergency codes. It was then that I learned that "Code Brown," refers to a "Shooting Situation." What a bizarre way to describe a rogue gunman in the store. Shooting situation could mean all sorts of things: someone taking heroine in automotive, someone with pain coursing up their leg in office supplies, or someone testing out a basketball in the lawn and garden department. Wal-mart, be more precise.

  • Today I decided that one of my least favorite things in the universe are montages on display in the rear windows of sedans. Flowers, mardi gras beads, small woodland creatures, it's just ridiculous. Don't you have enough space in your cubicle, side lawn, or guest bedroom to display that shit?

photos from here, here, and here

Sunday, May 10, 2009

mama strapless living

Mama Strapless Living is a delightful lady. I would never describe our relationship with phrases like "oh my god, my mom is my BEST friend! I tell her everything," because that is simply not true and people who say things like that sort of creep me out. Which is not to say that my mom and I aren't friends. We are, just in that "female roommate at a very conservative Christian college" sort of way. Meaning we stick to topics like current events, shopping, and methods for stain removal. If one accidentally overhears something about the other's sex life or bodily function, we make vomit faces and scrunch up our eyes. I didn't tell her the first time I got my period, had sex, or had my heart broken. But I'll call her from Krogers going "where are the olives?" or spend an afternoon in Lowes buying gardenias and copper piping with her. 

She's very handy at home repairs, efficiently organizing garages and buying original artwork. She likes to read historical fiction, watch British television and buy small kitchen tools like spring whisks and custard cups. She doesn't go to tupperware parties and having lunch with "the girls," sort of stresses her out. She likes to mow the field behind my house with the riding mower and randomly bust out Japanese phrases she remembers from when she was in the Peace Corps and engaged to a Japanese man. She's not particularly sentimental or romantic but she cries during diaper commercials and occasionally makes pouty faces in reference to whether or not there are grandchildren in her future. 

She hates shopping for clothes. She begins our annual shopping trips by picking up a pair of Ralph Lauren jeans in a size 10. An hour later any female relatives with us, a half dozen saleswomen and I may have convinced her that she actually wears a size 4. She will exclaim, "but I'm old! I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard!" and we will have to disclose to her that wearing clothes 6 sizes too big makes her look like a matronly Eminem impersonator, not a woman with a masters degree who has raised two children. She can produce all five basic ballet positions on command and has corrected the work of the Maytag repairman twice. Finally, she signs all of her e-mails: love, MOM. As if I could forget who she was. 

Saturday, May 9, 2009

an open letter

Dear Santa:

I know you're a wintertime kind of guy, snowboarding, ribbed turtlenecks, etc. but is there any chance I could get you to defy the calendar and deliver these to me now? Thanks so much.

Your No. 1 Fan,

Friday, May 8, 2009


Whenever I'm feeling low, I browse Urban Outfitters' online store. Somehow, the fug resuscitates me. It's like, "yeah, I'm having a bad day but at least I'm not getting the world's worst tan lines in these:"

...or risking yeast infection for these:

...or being literal when talking about "my flower" in these:

...or feeling sweat trickle down the back of my knees in these:

...or feigning fungus in these:"

See, things could definitely be significantly worse for me. Here's to counting our blessings and paying $8.50 to see Hugh Jackman without his shirt on tonight. Have a good weekend!


I am not a good decision maker. I have this tendency to spend forever making inane choices, and a hot second making decisions that will actually matter. Where I went to college? Thirty seconds. Which appetizer to order? Six minutes, minimum. I agonize over which shampoo to get and drop $200 on cute "dresses I have nowhere to wear" in a heartbeat. It took me six months to pick a pair of leather riding boots but one minute to decide I would entrust my highlights to a box from Rite-Aid and a friend with a history degree but no cosmetology experience. I'm always the person squirming when the waiter comes because I haven't made up my mind (and I'm a vegetarian! I only have three choices, max) but decided I would blow all my graduation money and go to Europe over coffee. Does this make me totally moronic? Or just off-balanced-ly impulsive? How does one curb this behavior so it ends positively instead of an over educated, half dressed, half flat ironed girl wandering dazed and confused in Mexico, holding up the line because she can't pick an enchilada?

photo from here

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

shopping hiatus: a success story, sort of

The Good News: I haven't bought clothes since MARCH. When I was in Nashville, I rewarded myself for six long months in the insurance industry with blowing my state income tax return at American Apparel. Since then, I have bought absolutely no items of clothing. In fact, the idea of buying any items of clothing has made me a little nauseous. Spending money (of which I have very little at the moment) when one of the Am App dresses I bought still has the tags on it (someday I will get the nerve to go out in public in something that tight, SOMEDAY) just seems like a very bad idea. Even though my finances are keeping me up at night, this is the strongest amount of willpower I've exhibited in...forever.

The Bad News: I have absolutely no summer clothes. Owing to my former life as a college student, and a psychotic relationship with my upper arm fat, I never buy "cute tops." The only items in my closet designed to cover the upper half of my body are: sweaters, oxford shirts, and bras. No cute J. Crew silk tank tops, no trendy Forever 21 halter tops, nothing. Unfortunately it's going to be extremely hot and humid down south in approximately 15 minutes so this situation needs to be remedied. But I don't want to shop. Or spend money. Or cut the sleeves off of my oxford shirts in a fit of heat induced insanity. The New York Times would tell me to "shop my closet." I would tell the New York Times to shove it because the only sleeveless tops in my closet are from Gap Body. Frick. Anyone looking to moonlight as a personal shopper? Or upper arm fat mediator? Assistance needed in aisle 9.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

smoking gun

Who smokes? I don't, never really have. Not for any particularly good reason; I have long hair that usually doesn't smell so great around cigarette smoke, psychotic obsession with my skin, recognition that it would take where more than a Malboro to make me look cool. Plus, I drink fairly often and have never quite been comfortable with the idea of combining fire and alcohol, even in very small quantities. 

The first time I smoked a cigarette I was a sophomore in high school I think, maybe a junior. I was sitting on the curb outside of an art gallery waiting for a show to start. My friend and her boyfriend were there and he smoked. I wasn't really interested but he thought it was funny I never had, and I played along. The thing fell out of my mouth twice while I was trying to light it. I didn't inhale and washed my hands raw after trying to get the taste off my fingertips. 

The second time I was seventeen. My friend Blake picked me up following a harrowing break up and I demanded a lit cigarette to flit around dramatically while I told the story. Taking a puff now and again to keep it lit, the story was long and ended up requiring two Camel Lights. Twenty-one years and three cigarettes; pretty tame. 

 I kissed a boy once who had just stepped out for a smoke. I thought it would be disgusting, but the taste of tobacco was actually sweet on his tongue and I didn't mind. The musicians that I seem prone to waking up in a relationship with all have excuses for smoking, all of which are pretty ways of dressing up "a girl told me a looked sexy once with a cigarette." I've overlooked worse qualities in boys, so I wouldn't be quick to make a guy quit, although my propensity for smoke-induced-migraines might. Still, I love listening to people defend smoking, and others garishly bash it. You're not even getting a buzz! I know the risk, I can do whatever I want! The heat of an argument so petty, the divisive power of a habit so antiquated, "wanna grab a smoke?"

photos from here, here, and here

Monday, May 4, 2009

random thoughts

  • The latest Anthro catalogue came in the mail today; does anyone else find the above picture totally creepy? I recognize it is part of a larger aquatic theme and supposedly "artsy," but I hardly noticed the adorableness of the dress because I was stuck on melty-head-syndrome.
  • No one hates a shameless Etsy plug more than yours truly, so it is with great regret that I point you in this direction. I only do so in case you've spent the past 24 hours going "shit, I need the perfect gift for a soon to-be-born infant girl with impeccable taste." There will be more quilts to follow but I promise to never mention it again.
  • I am no longer working. My contract with Boss Lady was supposed to extend another week but she turned into such a nightmare before Derby that I cut ties a week early. Fortunately, I still walked away with a handsome payoff and some good stories.

  • I'm having a shoe dilemma. Two summers ago I randomly grabbed the above sandals (in silver) on sale and on impulse. No arch support, no frills, no trendy gladiator ankle strap. But they are PERFECT. And now about to fall apart. While on a Chanel Madamoiselle perfume mission in Macys for my boss, I took a moment to browse the shoe selection. Two problems: I don't like the style of thong sandal exhibited below. Too much foot left untethered to the shoe. I feel like half of my foot is going to slide off to the side the minute sweat touches shiny insole. Plus, I think they look kind of silly on me. It's like my foot got caught with only a bikini top on. It should either just be naked, or more covered up.

          I like all the gladiator options for this summer (even though I, like everyone else, think they make legs look stumpy. I have to keep reminding myself that I am a lanky beast and my legs could use some stumpifying) but who really wants to be buckling leather straps up your ankle in the middle of a southern-style humid summer? The following Enzo Angiolinis are very cute but just looking at them makes me feel like I'm walking around in a puddle of feet sweat. 

  • The above is an excellent example of the difference between girls and [most] boys. Honestly, I'm having a hard time believing I'm feminine enough to have just written upwards of 100 words on summer sandal selection.
  • Who am I kidding, it's totally driving me nuts. I can't wear Rainbow flip flops all summer, I just can't.

Saturday, May 2, 2009

first saturday in may

To most of the country, tomorrow is May 2nd. In Kentucky, tomorrow is the entire reason for our state to exist. I will be in Louisville, drinking a Mint Julep (one, for propriety, followed by seven beers for necessity), getting sunburned, and repeatedly saying "oh my god, there are so many people here, it's going to be like a four hour line to pee." I will mock girls teetering on heels not cute enough to be worth it, I will point out all the extremely overpriced hats my boss made, and I will probably strike up conversation with a boy in a fedora while waiting in line to place a bet. See you on Monday. 

photo from here. a flickr commenter asks "is [the Kentucky Derby] in downtown KY?" and I would like to take the opportunity to point out that Kentucky actually qualifies as an entire state, not just a city.