It's All About the Accessories

So I got the following comment in response to my latest post with pictures of my dogs:

Oh dear...a cry for help. :'( I'm sorry to break it to you, but posting pictures of your pets on your blog or web site (no matter what species) officially makes you a "cat lady" (no matter what gender you are). No one's judging you...a common affliction of those dwelling in wintry climes. And you're not alone...I once did it. I even used a photo of my cat's face for a forum avatar. (Yes, I'm ashamed...but publicly admitting to almost being a member of the plastic curler-fuzzy slipper-flannel house coat set is part of the recovery.) Sorry to be this harsh...but it's necessary.

So, dear commenter, I have a response.

I think that the most important part of this whole thing is "the look". If I'm truly a "crazy cat lady (who actually has an innate fear of cats but I guess that's beyond the point)", then I need to update my look. But (BUT), I refuse to go with your regular run-of-the-mill plastic hair curlers and fuzzy slippers and house coat ensemble. No, I need something a little more...

AWESOME.

(Of course.)

The first step is the hair curlers. Now, I totally think it's possible to rock regular hair curlers (ahem, Jenny), but I want something that screams that I'm not your average chick who has an unhealthy obsession with my animals.

My first thought was to get some hair curlers like Lady Gaga in her most recent music video. See, she's modeling empty beer cans.

Photo found here.

They just scream AWESOME (and RECYCLING), so I thought I'd try that. Problem is that the only beer we have in the house is Pabst Blue Ribbon in glass bottles (because we're classy), and I just don't think I'll get the right curl with glass bottles. I mean, there's a reason Gaga went for aluminum, right?

(Plus, wearing glass bottles in my hair doesn't seem like the safest thing in the world.)

So I thought maybe I'd take a page from the awesome Nancy W. Kappes, (paralegal) and use empty prescription bottles as hair curlers. I got all excited and went to empty a bunch of pills when I realized that I get my medication from fucking Target, and Target decided to reinvent the prescription bottle so they're totally useless now.

This photo is from this article where the author praises all of the awesome things about it.
(Notice that using it as a hair curler is *not* on the list.)

Well, if I wanted zig-zag curls I would have kept my (kick-ass) hair crimper circa 1989.

(Shut up, it looked cool.)

Needless to say, that ain't gonna work either. Alas, I'm just giving up because I don't have beer cans and I don't have appropriate shaped prescription bottles and all of this disappointment has made me tired and I don't even want to think about the rest of my cat lady attire.

I'll just accept that I'm crazy and keep my hair and clothes the way they are, thank you very much.

(I could totally be persuaded to wear fuzzy slippers, though.)

PS: I understand that "wearing the curlers" and "actually curling one's hair" can be different. I don't know if crazy cat ladies even take out the curlers, or are worried if their hair holds the perfect curl, but (again), I'm not your average cat lady. I just figure if I'm going to all the trouble to get the damn beer cans to stay in my hair, I might as well have the end result look nice.

PPS: Comments make me happy.

What I do when it's Snowing

First of all, I'm not dead, I just haven't had the "blogging bug".

(I'm sure it'll pass.)

But for now you get pictures of the dogs with sarcastic writing on them!

You're welcome.



I don't know which they like better: the snow, or the fact that several times a day they get dried off with a towel.




I tried to get Hannah to sit while holding the towel in her mouth, but she flat-out refused. I would accept that she wasn't in the mood, but after I took all of the pictures she walked around carrying a tennis ball for about 13 minutes straight.

Just a Couch (?)

Our assignment from the Inspiration Workshop at BlissDom:

"In her amazing book, What It Is! writer/artist Lynda Barry shares (among other flashes of genius!) a simple exercise she learned from her college professor and mentor Marilyn Frasca. It's one I use all the time to get my mind in gear.

Here's how it goes: With pen and paper, make a list of ten couches you've known in your lifetime. (This also works with other words, but couches are my favorite because they are central to many moments in your memory.)

When you've made your list, take a deep relaxing breath and find the couch that has the most powerful emotional charge for you. Then begin writing about it...

Keep writing for three minutes until you've reached the end of the vignette. Keep the pen moving. Three minutes will seem like a long time. But don't stop. If you run out of words, doodle a little till they come again.

Don't edit! Keep the memory and emotion there in all its raw glory!"

****

There's really only one couch to write about.

One couch that matters.

That represents an entire chapter of my life.

It was covered in duct tape and chewed on by puppies.

It was sticky and gross and falling apart.

It was over my head and everywhere.

It was dirty.

It was a conversation piece.

It was important because it was ours. And it was sad when it was (finally) gone.

It was our

badge of honor.

It proclaimed to all the world that we were poor, sad college students getting useless degrees and we had this shitty couch to prove it, god damn it.

****

I wrote that down in three minutes.

(I don't write very fast, so it's not very long. Also? Three minutes isn't that much time.)

When I came to post it I edited certain things (even though the rules say not to) because I could make them sound better here (and because I'm a hard core bad ass who doesn't listen to rules)

.... then I went back and took the edits out, and wrote what I wrote on paper with pen.

Word for word.

(It was really hard to do.)


****

When they first told us about this assignment I laughed to myself.

The first post I ever wrote was about that same stupid couch.

Come play this game yourself here, or on your own, and let me know if you do...

So Not Pretty... *At All*

When I brush my teeth, I get toothpaste everywhere.

I don't know why. I don't know how.

Somehow, toothpaste gets on the mirror, on my shirt, around the sink...

e-v-e-r-y-where.

And now it's even worse because my dentist insisted that I get an electric toothbrush, (you know, because apparently I am incapable of thoroughly cleaning my teeth the old fashioned way?) which means that the toothpaste is churned to the point of full on toothpaste froth.

When I brush my teeth, it looks like I'm a rabid dog.

It's not cute.

Mike isn't allowed to watch me as I brush my teeth because he just laughs and points.

Laughs and points.

Which makes me laugh, which means even more toothpaste ends up covering the bathroom walls and floor and ceiling.

He's also not allowed to watch me wash my face.

Because when I wash my face, water also gets

e-v-e-r-y-where.

The counter, my shirt (again), the floor...

And Mike says things like, "Ally, I know you're a smart person, but you do not look like it right now."

But this all works just fine because I just wash my face AFTER I brush my teeth, then the water just washes all of the toothpaste froth off of everything.

(Who's not smart, now, Michael?)

Except the mirror.

I have no idea how I get toothpaste on the mirror...

(PS: I'm trying out a new commenting system that's dynamic and shit (that's the technical term). All you need is a name and email, or you can sign up for a Disqus profile (so I can see your pretty little face next to your note) here, so please say "hi" to Bonnie and Hannah, because they don't think anyone cares about them.)

(PPS: That's a lie. Bonnie and Hannah don't even read this blog.)

(PPPS: Bitches.)

Blurg: It's how I feel.

I am sick.

Have been since I got back from Blissdom.

That's almost TWO WEEKS.

(And I'm not the only one. Which means that there was obviously some sort of terrible germ bomb released during the conference.)

(Alert the officials.)

I lie in bed every morning, taking stock of how I feel, and think to myself "Today. Today I will feel better. Today I will walk the dogs. I will go to the gym. I will clean the house. I will be productive."

And then I realize that I can't breath through my nose.

So I take another shot of nasal spray.

(I should buy stock in the stuff.)

And then I sit up and cough up a lung.

And then I brush my teeth.

And then I have to lie down for a few minutes because standing up is hard.

And then I heat some water up for another cup of tea, pour another serving of orange juice, swallow another multivitamin, and watch a ridiculous amount of Law and Order: SVU.

(MARISKA HARGITAY.)

And although I am now qualified to solve some pretty fucked up crimes, I don't really think it's that productive.

(Depends on how you define "productive", I guess.)

(But really, if you need someone to solve some crazy-ass crime involving drag queens or strippers or guys with foot fetishes, I am ON IT.)

Yesterday I decided to not be sick anymore, so I took the dogs for a walk. This was partly to assert my control over this wretched illness, and mostly because Bonnie had that look in her eye that said "I know you're sick, mama, but if you don't get me out of here today, I will cut you."

And I went to class where I started to see dots because there is NO OXYGEN getting to my brain because my nose is trying to murder me through suffocation.

And I realized that I can't push it. I need to make peace with that fact that my body will heal in time.

But that's bullshit, so instead I'm sitting here, wallowing in self-pity, because that's how I role.

PS: I thought it would make me feel better to buy things, but I can't really leave the house. And I have no money. So I downloaded a million free books for my Kindle.

PPS: Most of the books that are $0.00 on Amazon for the Kindle are either classic novels or Christian romance novels.

PPPS: I don't know why either.

PPPPS: So I have a ridiculous amount of classic novels on my Kindle now. I may never read them, but I feel way smarter.

PPPPPS: Feeling "way smarter" does not make up for the fact that my right nostril has been stuffed up for 12 days, but today... my left is more stuffed up. The hell nose?

Romance-y

I've never been fond of Valentine's Day.

The pressure (the pressure!) to be romantic, in love, nice, just sets couples up for disaster.

(Meaning, I usually overreact about something which ruins everything.)

(I take full responsibility.)

It never turns out like it's supposed to.

(The same goes for anniversaries and birthdays or any other "special occasion".)

Inevitably, someone will say something that causes their other half to role his or her eyes, to grit his or her teeth in frustration, to scream something regrettable.

The dishes will sit dirty. The trash won't be taken out. Something will go wrong.

Something starts the fight.

(And no, it's not because of PMS.)

(At least not completely.)

This year we made plans to go to dinner and then dancing Saturday night, and then for a massage on Sunday.

Lofty plans for someone who doesn't like Valentine's Day.

But, alas, I got sick, so Saturday was spent watching a crappy movie and ordering Chinese food, the nasal spray never far away.

(By the way, can you overdose on nasal spray?)

(I refuse to Google it because I know it's going to say "yes, you can overdose on nasal spray AND you're going to die".)

And the massage was postponed because nothing is less relaxing than dripping snot everywhere while lying naked and face-down on a massage table.

But with all of the canceled plans went all of the pressure. We just had a weekend together.

We saw the perfect romantic movie for Valentine's Day: Sherlock Holmes.

(The sexual tension between Jude Law and Robert Downey, Jr. was palpable.)

(There better be a make out session in the sequel.)

To be "valentines-y" we brought a heart-shaped box of chocolates into the movie theater.

(Eating a box of chocolates in a dark theater forces you to eat what you get rather than scouring that little chocolate treasure map under the lid that tells you exactly where the caramels are and how to avoid that weird coconut creme crap. This can either be exciting or stressful, depending on your various neuroses... and food allergies.)

(Also? If you bring a box of chocolates into a dark and quiet theater, maybe open it in the car beforehand because the amount of wrapping and ripping and noise involved in getting to said caramels and weird coconut creme crap is just astounding.)

(Especially since you're trying to be all covert and shit about smuggling Valentine's Day themed candy into the theater.)

Finally, we went to a crowded coffee shop where we drank tea and did the most romantic thing ever:

Mike taught me math.

(It was hot.)

And nobody fought over the dishes or the trash.

And it was good...

(AND I know how to do logarithms.)

(SCORE.)

What did you do? What didn't you do?
Do you know what log10 of 10 is?
Because I totally do.

Thank You Notes: Blissful Edition

(This post is sappy, personal, and ridiculously lovey. Not your thing? Read my first Blissdom post instead.)

********************

Dear Esther,

Thank you for being my friend, not just online, but in person.

Thank you for making me think, for sharing your stories, for sharing your insight,

for being you.

Thank you for checking on me when I got locked out of my hotel room, and thank you for *not* making me feel like a total idiot when I pocket dialed you (twice) and left you messages of me discussing the best cookie choice with the sales girl in the hotel lobby.

(It was white chocolate cherry, in case that wasn't clear from my message.)

(Sorry 'bout that.)

********************

Dear Casey,

Thank you for hugging me when I shared one of my biggest fears with you,

for getting it,

for getting me.

Thank you for telling me to "do it" when I said I might cry. (Not in a mean way (DO IT), but in an encouraging way... I thought I should clear that up.)

Thank you for stopping me when I was leaving the party the first night, for talking to me instead of allowing me to wander around by myself.

Thank you for telling me I'm awesome, for being awesome yourself, for being my new found lobster.

********************

Dear Mary Anne,

I hereby dub you my Fairy Blog Mother.

Thank you for hugging me, telling me you were proud of me,

being my safety net.

Thank you for telling me which side of the stage to stand on to get my picture taken with Harry Connick, Jr. You're basically the best Fairy Blog Mother ever.

********************

Dear Steph,

Oh Steph. Thank you thank you thank you for hanging out with me.

For letting me essentially stalk you.

You are stuck with me now, my dear,

because I adore you so.

Thank you for saying hello, for dancing with me, for letting me hold that beautiful tiny dancer of yours.

Thank you for inspiring me.

(Seriously, Ivy is so freaking cute she makes my uterus hurt).

******************

Dear Alli,

You throw one hell of a party.

I am forever in awe of you.

Thank you for letting me be a part of it,

for including me,

for stopping to hug me whenever you saw me,

for being amazing.

Thank you for saying "Ally B Speakin'" with the best southern accent ever... it makes me smile every time.

******************

I met more women than I can thank here. They all deserve it, though, and I thank them too.

Seriously, ladies, if we talked, hung out, danced, hugged, or even rode an elevator together,

thank you.