Category Archives for "Stuff I love"
I was going to write a post about how much I love the month of November because hello? November means no more heat and humidity which means no more boob sweat which means CHRISTMAS DECOR IS IMMINENT. But then the other day happened and I use the term “other day” loosely as a euphemism for the absolute shitfest that was this past week and I’ve decided I’m no longer going to write about how much I love November because so far, November has been strikingly similar to October in that it, too, has sucked ginormous, staph-infected buffalo balls.
So instead, I’m going to write about three different mediums because they make me happy and have nothing whatsoever do to with over sized male genitalia engorged with pus.
~ DIGITAL ~
How much do I love Heather T? Lots. First of all, I think she’s been reading my blog since before it slid down my brain’s fallopian tube. So she is either very loyal, very bored, very strange or very mentally impaired. I opt for an eclectic combo of the whole bunch because it makes me feel smart to have eclectic readers.
Second of all, she’s über creative. Like, super über. I stopped commenting on her blog because I ran out of adjectives to describe her work and now I just echo what everyone else says by typing “ditto” in the comment field.
But only because I’m efficient!
Not because I’m lazy.
And look! She also sells her secrets there too. Only she calls them tutorials.
I, on the other hand, will NEVER sell my secrets!
Not now, not ever!
Not even if I actually had any.
See what I mean about being super über creative?
~ PAPER ~
Katrina is another reader of mine. Don’t you like the way I say “of mine?” Like the Internet is one enormous sandbox and she’s my sparkly purple pail with matching shovel that I brought from home.
MINE, MINE, MINE, MINE, MINE. I’M NOT SHARING.
Katrina owns KatePaper where she sells pretty things that she’s made with … what else? Bok choy.
She makes pretty things with paper.
Just seeing if you were paying attention!
ALERT: OPINION AHEAD
Bok choy is gross.
How cute is this book? Katrina is relatively new to my blog and she told me she actually went into my archives to read all of my older posts.
I don’t even do that! I mean, not unless someone forces me.
Or pays me!
I take PayPal, in case anyone is interested.
Aren’t these pretty cards?
SQEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! <—— me, spying a bit of Christmas.
~ VIDEO ~
Remember the show West Wing? It was, and still is, one of my favorite television series in the history of ever. Best acting, best writing and best sixty minutes of enjoyment that doesn’t involve getting naked. Although I suppose you could watch West Wing naked, if that’s your thing. Just keep your thing under wraps, okay? It’s creepy.
Joy likes West Wing as well. In fact, you might say she’s an aficionado of the series.
I want to be an aficionado. Of something. Anything. Except bladder infections and cold sores.
Joy writes a blog called Simply Me in which she posts a West Wing video every Wednesday. She calls it West Wing Friday.
Just making sure you haven’t lapsed into a stupor over there.
Joy calls this West Wing Wednesday and this means that every Wednesday, I run over to her blog and get my Josh/CJ/Donna/Sam/Toby/Leo/Everyone fix and then I get all dressed up, meaning I put on pants, and pretend to have intelligent and witty conversations with imaginary friends while walking briskly throughout my house and I don’t even feel stupid.
But I can only do this on Wednesdays because I don’t own the West Wing series on DVD and for reasons unknown but which I’m choosing to file under the WHO PUT THE BUG UP YOUR ASS category, Bravo recently decided to no longer air the series at 8:00 a.m., on weekdays, giving me one less reason to stay awake after I fling my youngest on the school bus.
Or to put on pants.
There are going to be a few changes coming to my blog and I figured I’d give you a heads up because personally, I think it’s only polite that when you invite friends into your home to shoot the shit, you warn them beforehand that while the shit might look different, it still smells the same. This way, your friends don’t wind up standing in the middle of your blog, freaking out and yelling WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO OUR SHIT?
A few things to look out for:
That’s about it! Nothing too drastic, although dealing with any kind of change, for me anyway, is akin to puking up my soul. So I guess I did regurgitate something in this post after all.
Happy Sunday, everyone!
Remember when I was going to go all blogstar on you and show some initiative by writing an ongoing series called Stuff I Love? Where I was going to periodically post about things I adore, things that I neither gave birth to nor married? And I was going to compile the posts into one ginormous collection that could be searched and cross referenced at will? And it was going to be the very definition of AWESOME?
I wrote one post about aliens and another about epiphanies and then suddenly the laundry piled up, Oliver pooped everywhere, the kids fought incessantly, I had to find Helena a pioneer costume and teach Zoe how to drive, I had to find something other than cornstarch to serve for dinner, my aunt fell and then yelled at me because I tattled on her to my parents and then finally, Lost chewed up my cerebral cortex and hocked a loogie with it onto my ambition and before I knew it, three months went by and the whole concept of Stuff I Love fell by the wayside, lonely and neglected. It would occasionally wake me up at 2:00 a.m., and try to get frisky with my brain but my brain was all OH MY GOD, SERIOUSLY? RIGHT NOW? YOU WANT TO DO IT RIGHT NOW? I’M EXHAUSTED. FINE. KEEP IT SIMPLE, NOTHING FANCY. AND HURRY UP.
So moving forward, I’m going to try to pay a little more attention to Stuff I Love in hopes that it will stop waking me up in the middle of the night for some nookie and let me get a decent night’s sleep.
This is my new watch:
It’s a bangle watch by Brighton and before I say anything more, let me just clarify that I am not a spokesperson for Brighton, no one compensated me for this post because no one pays me to say anything nice about anything and this is probably why I don’t say many nice things. SEE, NATE? IT’S NOT MY FAULT.
This watch is heavy and chunky with a seamless magnetic clasp, giving it the illusion of a traditional bangle. I adore this watch. Sometimes I appreciate it even more than I do Nate because it will tell me the time whenever I ask it to without prefacing its response with a distracted “Wha? Hang on a sec … OK, now … wait … hold on … d’you need something?” and some frantic scrolling on a crackberry.
This watch was my Christmas gift from Nate although, to be honest, it didn’t look like this when I opened it Christmas morning. On Christmas morning, it looked more like a delicate gold-tone bracelet watch with a traditional jewelry clap and mother-of-pearl face peppered with little diamonds, and it came in a box emblazoned with the name “Citizens.” That particular watch was a very glamorous, lovely watch for a very glamorous, lovely woman somewhere but it didn’t exactly suit the lifestyle of the more practical woman to whom it was gifted, the woman who spent her days banging out useless blog dribble on a computer and waging wars against hard water stains and underarm razor stubble and morons who were genetically incapable of parking between the yellow lines. And, more importantly, it wasn’t a bangle watch.
So I returned Nate’s beautiful watch and went in search of what turned out to be this one, all with Nate’s blessing which was cloaked in an exasperated NO ONE MAKES REAL BANGLE WATCHES ANYMORE! IF YOU WANT ONE, YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO DRIVE TO THE END OF THE STREET AND TAKE A LEFT AT THE NINETIES. BRING ME BACK SOME PARACHUTE PANTS.
Admittedly, it’s substantial size and weight dwarfs my freakishly scrawny and bony wrist but it’s a small price to pay for a stylish, sturdy watch that has no annoying chain that will snag on my sweaters and bungee jump to the pavement. And chances are also unlikely that it will stow away on a sleeve and enjoy a ride through the permanent press cycle anytime soon. And I honestly think I could bonk a would-be attacker on the head with it and stun him long enough to kick his balls into neighboring Pennsylvania.
And bonus! When I push it up my arm, it can completely obscure the weird lumpy bump that has copped a squat on my forearm for almost twenty years. I just keep repeating IT’S NOT A TUMOR over and over to myself and it makes me feel better, but only if I do it a là Arnold Schwarzenegger in Kindergarten Cop so it comes out sounding more like IT’S NOT A TOOMAH! Otherwise, it doesn’t work and I wind up freaking out about the whole lumpy bump thing, envisioning all sorts of scenarios including, but not limited to, aliens inserting a monitoring device under my skin to observe how the female member of the species manages to get any rest while sleeping next to her mate who is single- handedly responsible for keeping the alien pods up at night with his snoring.
You can find Brighton accessories here. I love most of their stuff and when it comes to decorating my body, they’re my go-to place for lumpy bump cover-ups. If they ever come out with an industrial strength bra, I’ll be golden.
I’d like to thank all of you who left such nice comments about my weight loss on my last post. I have every intention of posting before/after shots at some point but currently, I am three pounds away from goal weight and short of amputating half my head, I’m at a loss as to how to shed those last three suckers so it might be awhile. But on behalf of my thighs, ass, stomach, boobs, face and various other parts of my anatomy, thank you for noticing that I am half the woman I used to be. In your honor, I shall go yet another day without inhaling a donut.
And now, back to our regularly scheduled program …
I love epiphanies.
Not the one that happens on January 6 each year although I do love that one but only because it’s the day my mother-in-law will at least start thinking about finally taking down her Christmas tree, thereby allowing my anal-retentive left eye to stop twitching.
Not the one that happens when you’re trying in vain to extract dirty underwear and socks from your daughter’s skinny jeans and you’re about to pass out from the utter and complete grossness of it all when it suddenly dawns on you, BELL BOTTOM JEANS DO HAVE A PURPOSE ON EARTH AFTER ALL.
No, I’m talking about the epiphanies that come in different flavors like Ginger, Lola and Belle, like so:
They’re the Epiphanie camera bags and they were designed specifically for women by Maile Wilson, a woman herself as well as a professional photographer. These bags are feminine, stylish and, in essence, a big, fat, wake-up call to manufacturers who for years have fabricated camera bags that are big, bulky and so masculine they practically scream I AM A MAN AND I HAVE A PENIS. AND A BIG ASS CAMERA TOO.
I want the ginger bag, even though I happen to be currently DSLR-less at the moment, having sold my Canon DSLR or, as I affectionately called it, my Dirty Stupid Little Ratshit That Cost A Lot of Money, because it suffered from crippling astigmatism or sudden onset Parkinson’s disease, depending on whether I held it horizontally or vertically or diagonally. Either way, 99.9% of my shots were soft or blurry, even when I used a tripod and ran out of muscle relaxants one week prior.
Come to think of it, my tripod bit the dust soon thereafter.
It is entirely possible I emit some sort of radioactive waste that wreaks havoc with electronics and their accessories, which would explain why my washer shakes in fear after I leave the laundry room and my computer freezes up every single time I use it. And here I was thinking they were just scared shitless of me. Now all I’m left with is the very real hangover that inevitably comes from getting drunk on delusional power.
I’ve had my eye on the Nikon D90 DSLR since last year and on the ginger Epiphanie bag since last Monday, a whole three days which, when calculated in premenopausal HOW MANY FREAKING TIMES CAN I GET MY PERIOD IN ONE MONTH years, actually equates to sometime in 2002, long before this bag was even invented! How’s that for forward thinking? Anyway, I’m saving my pennies and waiting for the day I either win the lottery or figure out what a wireless router looks like, whereupon Nate will drop dead of shock and I’ll collect on the life insurance and then, watch out, baby! I’ll be carrying around my brand new camera in my brand new bag and walking around, pretending like I know what I’m doing!
Which is exactly how I walk around now, except with a complete and utter lack of fashion sense or style.
I’ve decided on something and that alone is worthy of celebration because do you know how long it typically takes me to decide on anything without falling into analyze/paralyze mode? Approximately 7.3 weeks. This explains why it took me over a month to decide on the color of our foyer and why I have 32 frames with no pictures in them. And why Nate and I haven’t had sex in almost two months.
Kidding! About the sex thing. The foyer and frame things are totally true but not nearly as interesting, I think.
So, I’ve decided that every so often, when I get that certain urge, I am going to write about stuff I love. Don’t worry … I won’t plaster Anderson Cooper all over my blog. I save him for other urges.
It is my hope that doing this kind of post occasionally will serve two purposes: (1) inform my readers of things which could vastly improve their lives, thereby validating my claim of being a productive member of society despite all evidence to the contrary; and (2) help me keep track of this kind of stuff because do you know how quickly I can forget about something over which I was obsessed last week?
Get it? That was a trick question, in case you didn’t catch it. Don’t worry, I didn’t catch it either until I typed it and then I was all GOOD ON YOU, ANDY and gave myself a standing ovation.
As you know if you’re familiar with my blog, I love to browse Etsy. I find the coolest things there, once I weed through all the crocheted vaginas. I stumbled across this one artist a few months ago when I was searching for stuffed animals and I just fell flat on my face in love with her store.
She’s Lindsey Banker and she runs an adoption center for aliens at Etsy called Adopt an Alien. And not just any aliens. The cutest aliens I’ve ever seen. This one is named Canary.
They appeal to the quirky side of me. The side that isn’t always up on the latest fashion trends and doesn’t always fit in. The side of me that battles 832 cowlicks and tries in vain to compensate for a lopsided lower lip. The side of me that yells I AM NOT AN ANIMAL. I AM A HUMAN BEING. I AM A MAN.
Except that I substitute “woman” for “man” just so there’s no confusion.
This one is Oreo.
I’m not a child anymore but if I were, I’d be all over these and I wouldn’t share and I’d probably be typing this from my chair in my time-out corner.
I think what I like most about these aliens is that they’re sweet, cute and adorable but not in a traditional way.
Just like me!
They’re different, not mainstream. You aren’t going to find these at your local Target and I love that! Take that, corporate America! Score one for the little guy! Woman! Indie artist!
You get my point.
I mean, just look at this one! What’s not to love?
See what I mean?
I wish I could say that I’m affiliated with Adopt an Alien in some way, shape or form because that would mean someone is associating with me out of choice and not out of some misguided sense of moral obligation simply because she shot me out of her womb or I shot them out of mine or he took a vow before God without checking my warranty first.
But I’m not. Lindsey Banker has probably never visited my blog, has no idea who I am and is probably wondering who the hell is copping a squat all over her site in two hour increments.
So before I get arrested for cyber stalking, go check out all the aliens up for adoption. One might turn out to be your child’s best friend. Even better, it’s already potty trained and requires no neutering!
The alien, not your child.
Just in case there was any confusion.