28 September 2007

Brit's is family-friendly.

After work yesterday, I met the Targetron at The Local for happy hour. Let me first apologize to Ms. Targetron for such a lame blog nickname. I know there's something better (The Future Mrs. Dirk Nowitzki?), but I'm a wee bit hung over and it's the best I can do on such short notice.

We managed to persuade her other half (I'm leaning toward Comic Book Guy for him, but I'm not committed to it yet) and The Slat to meet us for more drinks. However, we decided to go somewhere else to continue our night-long happy hour because sweet, merciful Jesus was The Local loud. Targetron and I were practically sitting in each other's laps and we were still losing our voices from shouting at each other.

When The Slat arrived, we headed outside to determine our next stop. We considered Mackenzie because we'd never been there, but kind of assumed it might be a bit more low-key and quiet. However, Ryan Adams was playing at the State Theater, just down the street and we figured there might be concertgoers pre-partying there.

Brit's is just down the street from The Local, and with tons more space, we figured that might be our best bet. It was quieter on the roof, save for the screaming baby. Gee, why would the baby be screaming? Certainly not because it was windy and cool up there. Cover that poor thing's head! Of course there could be any number of other reasons for a baby to by crying (it's what they do), but even I (not the most maternal of sorts) would have probably gone inside as a first option to see if that stopped the wailing. These people, however, were having none of that. I can't remember if they were still out on the roof by the time we decided we were too cold to stay out here. I hope not.

I'm really not sure when Brit's turned into Uncle Moe's Family Feedbag, but man, there were at least three other school-age kids in the bar besides the baby. Seriously? Kids at the bar on a school night? Shit. I don't go out that often on a school night and I'm an adult. It's not a common sight to see kids in bars at all, especially at night, especially in Downtown Minneapolis.

It's not like I'm being all puritanical about kids being around drinking or anything. Christ, that was a very regular thing when I was growing up. But I don't recall being in bars all that often. Maybe the kids don't need much sleep. Perhaps they didn't have school today. Could have been a bunch of special occasions.

Is it weird that it seemed odd to me? Am I missing out on some new trend in parenting? I'm not judging. I just found it odd and somewhat blog-worthy, I guess.

27 September 2007

Surprises.

Sometimes I'm moved to do nice things for my friends or family members. And sometimes, I want these things to be surprises to the person on the receiving end. More often than not, it's much more difficult than I thought.

Take, for example, the Christmas my siblings and I bought tickets for our parents to see Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. They'd talked about wanting to see it and dammit, it was their Christmas gift and we wanted it to be a surprise. So, I bought the tickets for a weekend we knew my dad didn't have to do chores that was far enough in advance that the 'rents would have time to mark it off their calendars.

What was the response to this gift? My mom bitched and bitched and bitched because she'd have to take the day off from her part-time job she didn't need to work. She probably complained about some other stuff, too. It actually still hurts me now to think about it. I felt like such an asshole for trying to do something nice. The stupidest part about it all is that my dad ended up being sick and I went with her to the show. And she loved it.

Then there was the time I baked cookies and possibly banana bread for a friend out of state and either overnighted or priority mailed the package -- after asking if someone would be around should a package be delivered and being assured that someone would be able to get it -- only to have it sit at the post office for three weeks or longer because someone wasn't home and then they just never got around to going to the post office to get it. I even went so far as to tell her she would need to pick the packaged up as soon as possible, but to no avail. In retrospect, I should have just said, "I AM SENDING YOU BAKED GOODS. MAKE SURE YOU DON'T LEAVE THE PACKAGE AT THE POST OFFICE FOR WEEKS."

I probably have more failed surprise gestures in my past than successful ones. And yet, I still attempt them. What's the fun in random acts of kindness if you tell people that they're coming? "Hey, I'm going to send you flowers tomorrow. Make sure you're at work to get them" Yeah, it's still nice. However it just seems less awesome than if the flower-receiver had no idea the flowers were on the way and was totally surprised.

Maybe someday I'll learn my lesson and try to stop doing such stupid things. But in the meantime, I'll hope my most recent attempt turns out okay.

26 September 2007

Adventures in poor clothing choices.

I thought the girl at the gym last night was bad, what with wearing clogs (with a two-inch heel! and sparkly embroidery!) to work out.

Then I saw a woman on the bus this morning wearing stirrup pants. But wait! She wasn't just rocking the stirrup pants, she was wearing the stirrups over her shoes. It doesn't get much more awesome than that, ladies and gentlemen.

25 September 2007

It's a thin line between love and hate.

I love The Pill. Love it. For the most part. I hate it on Tuesdays, though. Specifically, the first Tuesday of a new pack of pills. Something about the way the hormones work their way back into my system makes that third day of a new month nearly unbearable.

I feel crazy. Like, bitchcakes crazy. And anxious? Oh my God. I'm so on edge all day, I often feel like I'm going to puke all over everyone and everything. Then there's the crushing sadness. Man, do I just want to lay down and cry for like, an hour.

Not even an out-of-the-blue IM from a young marketing professional who apparently thinks I'm alarmingly attractive (I was assured this is a good thing) and get this -- funny -- could bring me out of the funk.

Of course, it always seems like there are other extenuating circumstances that make the first Tuesday even worse. Or the first Tuesday makes the extenuating circumstances seem worse than they are. An overcast sky ... plenty of, well, other things going on today make things seem worse than the actually are. I spent most of the afternoon pining for the gym. Pining, I tells ya.

I felt better after running in to my New Yoga Friend, Molly, in the parking ramp. She got engaged over the weekend. We talked for about 15 minutes (I'm not a gym rat if I've only made one friend in yoga class, right?) and I was pretty stoked for her. She's just the cutest thing. Still, my emotions were so crazy that I nearly started crying. Christ, I barely know the girl.

The workout made me feel momentarily better. I mean, I'm no longer on the verge of tears and maybe I'm only mildly bitchcakes crazy at this point. It's all more of a dull ache now.

At least I know I'll be back to normal in a day or two. Sleep is my refuge now. Besides, I think a day or two of momentary insanity is worth it to keep my uterus zygote-free.

I am such an idiot.

Our interwebs were down off and on all day yesterday at work and I took some of that time to clean the various receipts and other paper out of the pockets of my planner. I came across a letter I wrote to Whatshisfuckingface a day or two after he left for South Africa.

Sweet, merciful crap. I was such a fuckwit about him. Why I held on to that letter for over a year is beyond me. Maybe I meant to stick it in my journal or something and forgot about it. Too late for that anyway, the journal that contained anything about him was purged and now holds my loose recipes.

Boys make me crazy. Sometimes in good ways, other times in bad ways. There's plenty I want to say on the subject, but I'm really conflicted because The Boy I Currently Like may or may not read this. While that doesn't put me at a loss for words, it makes my fingers not want to type them out.

*sigh* I wish we could go back to these days:


Photo from swissmiss.

24 September 2007

You always want what you don't have.

The grass is always greener on the other side and all that. Women with straight hair want curly hair. Women with curly hair want straight hair. Women with flat butts want junk in the trunk.

I just got back from the bathroom where I had a conversation with a woman who works down the hall. She's a curly, too. But her hair has tighter and more uniform curls than mine. I always wish my hair was as curly as hers whenever I see her. So, of course she says to me today that she loves my hair and wishes hers was more like mine. I told her that I wanted my hair to be more like hers.

At least we were coveting each other's curly hair and not wishing to have straight hair. Like my boobs, my hair can be a pain in the ass. But at the end of the day, I never straighten it and I wouldn't cut it off for anything in the world. My stylist would never allow it, anyway. Since she does my hair for free, if she says it stays long, it stays long. Besides, when I'm having a good hair day, my hair really does look pretty sweet.

It's weird how women are sometimes so eager to talk to random strangers about their hair or body. Like the woman who accosted me in the Aveda store at Southdale a few years ago. I had these bright red streaks in my hair at the time, and they did draw a lot of attention. So, I really wasn't surprised when she asked me about them. Then, of course, she moved on to my boobs. She said they looked great and asked what size they were. And if they were real. When I told her, she said, "That's what I wanted! But the doctor only gave me a C cup."

How do you respond to that? I hightailed it out of there before she asked to feel me up.

21 September 2007

Memories.

For the last few weeks I've been taking a bit of a different route to work. This alternate route has included getting off the bus in my old neighborhood in Dinkytown. Every day I have to walk past this shiny, new, sprawling apartment building that replaced what had been relatively shitty houses.

It makes me sad to see it, because I had a lot of fun in one of those now-gone houses. It was a party house called The Zoo. And it was just a block from my apartment. It's where I did my very first tequila shot with my friend Bob. It seems kind of weird that for all the underage drinking I did, it wasn't until I was nearly 21 (or possibly already 21) that I did my first tequila shot. The Zoo was one of a handful of party houses I frequented in college. I can no longer remember the house on Ontario ... or was it Huron? None of these houses could hold a candle to the house at 5th and U, though. I had a long history with that house before the aforementioned Bob moved in and it became the Rugby House.

When I get off the bus and walk to the office, I can still kind of see my very first apartment. For whatever reason today (maybe it's the hangover?) I thought about the very first night College Roommate and I spent there. We had a boombox, a frying pan that served as a candle holder, dorm-issued blankets and pillows (we didn't have sleeping bags) and of course, booze. That night, I ended up christening her bedroom. I didn't want to! It just happened. And I would have christened my own bedroom, but she and one of our friends had passed out in there. So, really, she had no standing to be very mad.

Earlier that day, I was at breakfast with my friend Lal. In the dining hall at the same time was this football player who had been eyeing me all year. He would stare at me so intently every time I saw him. It was kind of unnerving. I would look back at him with what I thought was an equally intense gaze. However, Lal saw this go down that morning and asked, "Why are you glaring at him?" Okay, so my intense gaze turned out to be a glare. I had no idea! I decided that when I went past him the next time, I'd smile at him. And I did. Apparently, that's why I ended up having sex with him later that night in my roommate's bedroom. Where there was no bed, nor furniture of any kind. Or even curtains or blinds on the window. AWESOME.

I didn't confess the fact to First Roomie for a couple of months. She'd been convinced it happened anyway and wasn't mad.

My walk also takes me through the park that was kind of kitty-corner from our apartment. First roomie and I used to sunbathe there from time to time. Usually on this hill in the corner. One day when we were there, either sleeping or listening to music via headphones and kind of in our own little world, I see a park police car cruise by. Then, all of a sudden, the park police have pulled up to where we are laying. Awkward small talk ensued. Park po-po leave. First Roomie and I have "What the fuck?" conversation for the rest of the time we're there.

Kind of across the street from the park, and around the corner from my old apartment is The Social Worker's old apartment. That's right! The Social Worker and I were neighbors in college. I used to follow her to campus and then ended up following her into the same classroom. Turned out we were both journalism students. My answer of "I was the Waseca County Pork Ambassador," to the ice breaker question of "Tell us something different about yourself," was what sealed the deal in her and another friend's decision that they needed to meet me. I'm really glad I chose that answer.

Sorry for the completely indulgent entry. But really, they're all completely indulgent, so there you go.

19 September 2007

Obsessions.

The Bloody Mary. I went from detesting Bloody Marys to craving them in a pretty short period of time. I think I had my first real Bloody Mary this spring. Couldn't drink a whole one to save my life until recently. This weekend? I had five between happy hour at The Herkimer before heading over to the BLB BLock Party and brunch at the Uptown on Sunday. I'm in love. I think I'm going to try to create my own this weekend. It's got to be spicy. I cannot stand the taste of plain tomato juice.

"Knee High," by French Kicks. This song is not new. It's on the album Two Thousand, which came out more than a year ago. I didn't pick it up until a few months ago, but every time I heard "Knee High" on The Current I'd have to check to see just who the hell it was. I was pretty hesitant to get the album because I was unimpressed by One Time Bells. The whole album is great, but "Knee High" just knocks my fucking socks off. When it comes up on my iPod, I am compelled to repeat it five or six times before moving on to the next song. I have no idea why, but I can't get enough of it.

Football. I finally get to watch the Gophers this week (fuck you, Comcast and Big Ten Network!). I can only imagine what the final score might be. It seems that whenever the Gophers play Purdue it's non-stop offense. I'm guessing the Gophers will give up 50-plus points. Ski-U-Mah! And the NFL season is in full swing -- I've already been to Macho Man's place to watch a game in HD on his fancy-ass TV. And I will be having The Social Worker and The Prison Librarian over at some point to watch the Queens when they are out of town (The Social Worker and Blondie are season ticket holders). I do love being lazy and watching football by myself on Sundays, but sometimes it's just a million times better to watch with others. The food and drinks are often better in those cases, too.

Meanwhile, in fantasy football, The Bob Saget Fan Club is 2-0. Suck it, bitches! Pick me to finish third, will you? The way Matt Schaub and Andre Johnson have been racking up the points for me, I'm well on my way to becoming a Texans fan. Hahahahahahahaha. Just kidding.

And in little kids' football, my nephew's team won their first game on Monday and I was there to see it. After having a serious crisis of confidence in the afternoon, my nephew bounced back to make a 40-yard run and score two extra points. I'm so proud!

"Tiny Spark," by Brendan Benson. I've been obsessed with this song since the first time I saw that video on 120 Minutes. As much as I play "Alternative to Love" on repeat, I think I do it more often with "Tiny Spark." First love and all that, I guess.

Trader Joe's Balela. Sweet, merciful crap is this stuff delicious. It's a Middle Eastern salad with chickpeas and black beans -- kind of like tabouli with the parsley and lemony-ness. I tried it one day when Trader Joe's was out of tabouli, which at the time I thought was the bee's knees. Oh, how wrong I was. There's just something about the texture the chickpeas and black beans add that the bulgar in tabouli just can't match. However, it seems as if the other patrons of Trader Joe's have discovered the sheer delightfulness that is balela and I've not been able to find it in stock for a couple of weeks now. It's all I can do to not stop by daily. I managed to snag the last container of tabouli last night, but it's not the same. I'll probably be unable to resist the lure after yoga tonight and I'll have to stop in to see if they've restocked. I'm crossing my fingers.

After all this talk of obsession ... I end up listening to "Sound of Sounds" my entire bus ride home tonight. This meant I didn't spend my bus ride being annoyed at the smell of dirty hair in my vicinity or trying desperately to avoid being touched by an enormous, hairy belly poking out out an ill-fitting shirt (DO NOT WANT). Instead, I spent the ride listening to "Sound of Sounds" over and over, with a dreamy, half-smile on my face.

18 September 2007

Does Best Buy know about this?

To: Rosalyn J. Valle (Rosalyn@BestBuy.com)
Re: My boyfriend's pecker keeps slipping out

Cuties always hee-hawed at me and even fellows did in the urban john!
Well, now I sriek at them, because I took M_E GA D IK
for 4 months and now my prick is very much weightier than world.
attain http://latori.com/
--------------------------
Council, as well as in the energy sector. All of this
The Movement for the Emancipation of the Niger Delta
Burgas-Alexandroupolis pipeline agreement signed in
enough successful possessions to keep the game close.
the final minutes for the victory.


First of all, Rosalyn, I'm terribly sorry to hear about your boyfriend's pecker. Wait. Did you say "pecker?" Seriously? Who says that?

Do you really think you should be sending such potentially lascivious e-mails from your work address? I'm guessing Best Buy monitors the hell out of your shit. And pecker is probably a red flag word. I can't say I appreciate you sending such e-mails to my work address, either. Christ, I could get in trouble. Thanks a lot, you dumb whore.

I really don't know why you're telling me this or what you want me to do about it. It's not like I'm Dr. Ruth or Dr. Drew or Sue Johanson. Sure, I'm the resident sexpert of this blog. Granted, I'm the only one here. Still ... I think you need more help than I can give you, sister. Especially after reading the actual content of your e-mail. Why are you taking the M_E GA D IK? What are you not telling me? Rosalyn honey, you have a problem. Put down the crack pipe and get some help. Until then, please stop e-mailing me.

Kisses,
Jess

16 September 2007

I am "The Hipster."

This weekend, I found out that my friend Macho Man has given me a nickname. When talking about me to his other friends, he calls me "The Hipster." I suppose it's only right that someone give me a nickname, since I give everyone nicknames in this blog.

But, this is a blog. I'm trying to protect the anonymity of my friends who many not want their names splashed all over the interwebs. Besides, outside of a handful of readers, it's probably more helpful to know someone as Blondie or The Social Worker instead of Becky or Loretta (I even make up real-sounding fake names!).

Before Macho Man met my friends, I am pretty sure I called him by his given name. I mean, I got the nickname Macho Man from another friend after she met him. So, it was a bit hysterical when I met a bunch of Macho Man's friends this weekend that they already knew me as The Hipster. Because I've got some unconventional ideas and tastes, I guess. It's not completely untrue, either. It's kind of cool that my reputation precedes me. Guess I have to live up to it now.

14 September 2007

Observed on the bus.

A hooker and her john -- a white guy who sounded like Tone Lōc. A fact that was just the tiniest bit more disconcerting than the groping, drunkenness and exchange of $100.

I think I hate the Fine Line.

I came to this realization on Wednesday night, when I was at the Fine Line Music Cafe with the World's Worst Wing Woman to see Editors. Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I really didn't want to be at this show. However, despite my telling the World's Worst Wing Woman that 1) I really didn't like Editors' new album, and 2) I doubted I wanted to go to the show, but I would think about it, and 4) make a decision in the few days before the show ... she bought me a ticket two weeks ago.

However, this is not the first time I've had a less-than-stellar experience at the Fine Line. I can rarely ever find a good spot on the floor to see anything. For whatever reason, it seems like there are way more tall guys at Fine Line shows than at any other venue I frequent. Even if I'm not standing around a bunch of guys who are 6'3" and taller (where are these guys when I'm out at other places?), I can't seem to find a decent place to stand.

And then there are the suburbanites who wouldn't be caught dead setting foot in a club like First Ave. These are the people who aren't so much going to a show as just getting a night out on the town -- and acting like it's the first damn time they've been out in months. They're the people who talk all through a show and pay absolutely no attention to the band at all. I realize they paid their admission and have as much right to be there as I do. However, that doesn't give them the right to ruin my experience, does it?

I know what you're thinking here: "Jess, you are such an urban elitist; such a music snob." You know what? It's abso-fucking-lutely true. I'm not knocking older people who go to shows. Lord knows I'll be one of them in the not-too-distant future. I see them at other venues, but they don't act like they've never been outside the house when they're at First Ave or the Varsity.

Then there's the whole, it takes for-goddamm-ever to get a drink. An expensive drink. Of course, that's a problem at most venues. It just seems much worse at the Fine Line. The World's Worst Wing Woman's assholery at the show on Wednesday night don't really factor into my hatred of the Fine Line, but it's good to know that some things in life remain constant. I guess.

I've seen some of my favorite bands at the Fine Line -- South, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, Doves and Elbow. However, I've seen them all play better shows at other venues. Well, not Doves. They've canceled every show they've been set to play here since that Fine Line show with Elbow from probably four or five years ago.

Thankfully, there are plenty of other awesome venues in Minneapolis. And I never have gone to many shows at the Fine Line, anyway. This just means my decision about whether or not to see The National on Thursday has gone from agonizing to easy. There probably aren't tickets left for that show anyway. And the choice between seeing Clap Your Hands Say Yeah at the Fine Line or the craphole that is the 400 Bar has been made for me, too. I should probably check on tickets for that.

12 September 2007

Last block party of the summer.

Oh, it's so sad, isn't it? Saturday is the Bryant Lake Bowl block party, the last of the summer. One last chance to drink beer, listen to local bands, eat an absolutely delightful brat and watch the hipsters go by. So what if I'll need a sweater?

The last block party of the summer seems a bit odd coming after a day where I saw my breath as I walked to catch the bus (which I did finally, but only because I was there 10 minutes early). Even more disconcerting? The heat is on in my office building. THE HEAT! God, I hate this time of year at work. I cannot dress for the weather and be comfortable in my office. It may be 40 degrees outside, but I'm sweating bullets at my desk. Fun! And don't tell me to layer. You can only layer so much. Stripping down to your undies is not acceptable, as it turns out.

I shouldn't lament about the last block party of summer too loudly. Outdoor drinking opportunities are far from over. The Autumn Brew Review is just around the corner. Hooray for beer festivals! I just have to see if I can cajole some friends into going with me.

11 September 2007

I can't outsmart the bus.

Today is finally the day that I log in and rant about Metro Transit and how fucked up my buses have been this summer and now into the fall. Yes, the bridge collapse has had an effect; especially now that the U is back in session. But I started getting home 15-30 minutes late every. single. day. months before the bridge collapsed.

I would say that was mostly due to the construction on Lake and Lyndale. However, the bus was always well past late before we even hit the detour. The ripple effect comes into play, I guess. Except on the days my bus actually picked me up on time. I've resigned myself to getting off the bus late on my way home. And really, it wasn't much worse after the bridge collapsed.

Things were fine until Move-In Day at the U. That added 20 minutes to my commute in the morning and at night. So, I decided to skip my first bus and just walk to where I could pick up the 4. This was only terrible the first day when I was wearing three-inch heels and walked eight blocks from the bus stop instead of just leaving from the office. And the days that it felt like we were living in Satan's Asshole. Though, I'd already gotten sweaty on the still, airless bus in the morning on those days.

This week though, my morning commute has been about a half hour longer even with the avoiding of University Avenue. After weeks of arriving one to four minutes late, my bus has showed up somewhere in the neighborhood of five to six minutes early. This of course means that I missed the bus and had to wait 20 minutes to catch the bus I needed, which ended up running 10 minutes late by the time I hit my stop. Awesome.

I really, really, REALLY have tried to avoid the whole "leave earlier" thing. I am not good in the morning. But it seems like that is my only option, if the bus is going to show up so early. I try to be at the stop five minutes early -- there's only seven minutes between my bus and the bus before it anyway. But fat lot of good those five minutes do me when my bus goes by as I am block away.

Tomorrow, I'll have to get up early so I can catch 4. Perhaps then I'll be at the stop early enough to catch the 4B. Of course, you realize this means the 4B will be late tomorrow. I guess I finally have to accept the fact that my bus commute now sucks as much as my commute did when I drove to work. Oh well.

10 September 2007

Women and the Courtesy Flush.

I've pondered writing about this particular subject for quite some time now. The idea pretty much strikes me every time I walk into the bathroom here at work and I'm overwhelmed by the lingering stench of some other woman's poo.

Why on Earth don't more women practice The Art of The Courtesy Flush? Yes, I know, everyone poops. It's natural and all that. But some of these unholy smells cannot be natural. What the hell are these women eating?

Anyway, I'm not offended by the act of pooping. Wait, yes I am. A woman who worked in the office next to me at an old job could often be found in the loo, grunting and groaning while she dropped the kids off at the pool. Sometimes it was moaning and damn near wailing in pain. As you can probably imagine, it smelled like Satan's asshole. That was terribly offensive and damn near scarred me for life.

Okay, so where was I? Oh, I'm not offended by the act of pooping. Really, I'm not! But I am certainly offended by that foul odor wafting from under your stall. Would it kill you to reach around and flush as soon as you're done? It's not difficult at all if you can reach back there. Yes, there are cons to the courtesy flush. It's probably not all that environmentally responsible and you might get a little splash back. I can see avoiding the courtesy flush if you know the toilet is a mini-Old Faithful.

Don't just think of the others who use the bathroom, either. Think of yourself. Do you really want to sit around marinating in the stink from last night's booze and chicken wing-soaked happy hour? Of course you don't. So I implore you, women of Minnesota: give the courtesy flush a try.

07 September 2007

Harvest.



It's the time of year when my mom dumps her garden on her children. She brought all the stuff in the picture up to my nephew's football game last night. That was just my haul. The four steaks she brought me were in the freezer and I didn't feel like pulling them out just for the picture. "Ooooh! White butcher paper. What a great photo." Man, that woman loves a sale -- be it on clothes or meat.

Now, it's not quite the same bonanza she brought me last year. My apple pie is still at home, as is a chicken and God knows what pork products. I won't fret. I can get a couple of those things when I head down there tonight. My freezer is much more full this year than it was last year, so I need to make some room.

It's not like I won't be seeing the crap out of my parents over the next few months. Between the football games and my cousin coming to town twice to run cross country at the U, it's going to be family month x100. It always seems odd how I can go so long without seeing them and basically from here on out to the end of the year I'll probably see them every other week, if not more than that.

Now, who wants apple crisp?

(Happy Birthday to The Social Worker!)

06 September 2007

Happy Football Day!

Ah, the NFL season finally kicks off tonight. I'm considerably less excited about the one-off Thursday night kickoff game than about the actual full day of games on Sunday.

The NFL throws so much extra crap at you with this Thursday game and I just don't need it. I'm sure there are a bunch of lame-ass musical acts performing. And God knows what else.

Fortunately, I'll miss all that pregame pomp and circumstance. Why? Tonight is my nephew's first football game. He's playing on a team of third- and fourth-graders. I cannot wait to see this. Those tiny bodies bobbing about the field with their giant helmets on ... oh, it is going to be awesome.

I mean, it should be for at least the first 10 minutes or so.

04 September 2007

Ugly.

Do you ever have an ugly day? Lord knows I do. Currently, I'm at about three weeks worth of consecutive ugly days. August was pretty much an ugly month. And here we are, already a few days into September and the ugly just. won't. STOP.

My hair has been weird. I mean, it's seemed a bit weird the few times I've actually been able to wear it down. It felt like I had no other option but to put it up when it was so hot and then when it rained for what, two weeks straight (I may be exaggerating a bit), it would just never get dry and I couldn't stand to have it touching me. Then again, I'm past due for a visit to the stylist, so maybe after Friday all will be well with my hair.

Also, I feel like I've been cultivating some sort of zit farm on my face. I'd blame the weather, but my skin didn't seem this bad when it was hot as balls earlier in the summer. I'm 33 years old for the love of Christ. So much for my skin clearing up when I get older. What the fuck good is doing all the right things -- eating well, exercising, drinking plenty of water, sleeping -- if they don't make a damn bit of difference for me?

The only time my skin has looked good was when I was seeing a dermatologist. I kind of stopped all that when I started taking The Pill because I was on antibiotics continually and well, I'd rather be not preggers than have super-clear skin. Plus, there's the whole taking antibiotics EVERY DAY and my system getting used to them and what happens if I contract some drug-resistant strain of something and my constant taking of the antibiotics has left my body defenseless thing? Honestly, though, keeping my womb zygote-free is my main priority at the end of the day.

I think the time has come where I need to go back to the dermatologist. I just can't fucking deal with this any more. Nothing that is touted as a miracle cure by everyone else in the world has worked for me. Proactiv? Hahahahahahahaha. I use Bare Minerals foundation and that always gets the "my skin totally cleared up after just a few week's use." Not me. It does cover well, though. Thank God.

Maybe I've psyched out my skin ... usually when I'm at my wit's end and ready to take the belt sander to my face my skin looks about 100 times better the next morning. Seriously, though; enough with the ugly days.

01 September 2007

Man, do I love a bargain.

After yoga today, I went out to the Southtown Herberger's to see if I could find myself some good deals. My mom had called yesterday to make sure I knew they were having a big sale (after my sister had called to tell me mom had called her about that and something else). Then reading about the deals Sarah scored clinched it for me.

I'm glad I put in a little effort. I didn't see a damn thing with my cursory glance at either clothes or shoes. With a little effort, I managed to find two shirts, a Tommy Hilfiger skirt (ewww, I know, but you wouldn't know it by looking at it ... plus, it was two sizes smaller than the jeans I had to give up a couple of weeks ago because they were too big) and these shoes. I'm so in love with these shoes. I'm tempted to wear them out tonight, but I don't really think it's a great idea to break them in when I have to walk to the bus. They're super comfy, though. It almost seems kind of doable.

But you're wanting to know how much money I saved, aren't you? You're not? Oh, well, whatever. I'm going to tell you anyway.

Original price of the skirt: $79, the shirts: $48 each and the shoes: $59.

My final price? The skirt: $11, the shirts: $6 and the shoes: $8.80.

SCORE! I don't mind shopping when I can get in and out quickly and I can get super-great deals like I did today.