Today I:

 

Feel completely and totally behind the ball.

Knowing that I’m not
(we have our site, our photographer, our rentals, our officiants, and I’m starting to work on my dress with the Amazing Amanda)
doesn’t really help,
because I feel like I should have EVERYTHING DONE.

I kinda figured this might be my particular problem.

*le sigh*

Back to it, mates!

May be Breaking that Pesky 10th Commandment:

Co-ho-ho-veting:

*grabbyhands*

I actually love the ombre dye on this boot...and Fryes are wonder and glory, amen.

Versatile. Can be worn over-the-knee, or folded, as in the following photo.

See? I love chameleon clothing.

I’ve wanted a pair of over-the-knee boots since well before
they became Rachel Zoe’s pick of the week at Piperlime.
They just look so…bad-ass.

I think one of the tricks to wearing these is to go with a flat finish,
and a low heel,
since they can veer into “Pretty Woman” territory in a hurry.
My other sticky wicket with these boots?
I have the shortest legs in God’s green creation.

So, hey, my petite fashionistas,
how in the heck do you wear over-the-knee boots without stumpification?

Also,
have any of my curvy fashionistas found skinny jeans to wear with boots
that *don’t* make your thighs look five miles wide?

I lost a few pounds recently,
so I thought I would give the much-lauded AG Stevie cords at Anthropologie a go.

It was…sad.

So tell me, loves–
I long to wear boots with jeans,
but I currently reside in Wrinkly McBabar legs territory,
since all of my jeans are bootcut.

(such irony, that name.)

Tell me, o Interwebs!
What is the soluuuution?!?

It’s the Little Things:

As of late,
life has been a bit full of fuckery.

January is always creaky around the edges with resolutions and bad weather and tax statements from the IRS.

But this last week?

Kinda made me catch my breath with how…bad…it was,
just with a multitude of petty things.

I dropped my car off for an expensive routine maintenance that *had* to be done,
along with trying to get an electrical problem fixed
in order to get my fix-it ticket dismissed
(oh, L.A.!).

When I came to pick up the car,
I tried paying for it with a credit card that I got and activated through my bank,
just for this purpose.

Guess whose card was denied?

It took me almost three hours, four different people, and five “CARD DECLINED” tries before that problem was resolved,
and I drove out $500 poorer.

I went to the police station to get my ticket signed off,
since it was due Monday.

I was informed that the City of Sierra Madre needed twelve dollars,
in cash, exact change,
in order for an officer to leave his desk,
walk twenty feet to my car,
and see me flick my headlights on.

I ran to the bank,
ran back,
and was then told that I didn’t have the correct paperwork,
and needed the actual ticket.

Ran home.
Spent almost an hour searching frantically for said ticket.
Found it.
Went back.
Signed off.
Ticket in the mail, along with an additional $25
to the DMV to indicate that I had not, in fact, done anything wrong.

(For those keeping track at home,
I am now $547 poorer on Friday than I was Wednesday)

In an attempt to alleviate some of that poorness,
I had a yard sale on Saturday morning,
and managed to both be pleasant to other humans before 8 o’clock AM
and pull in about $50,
which is pretty darn good for a bunch of neglected crap pulled off of our balcony.

Saturday night was…
bad.

Just.

Bad.

I decided to hide from the world under my covers for most of Sunday
(this has been happening often around here),
but got some good out of the day watching “True Grit” with friends
(beautiful cinematography, great dialogue, and a fantastic cast).

I was woken up this morning by a Sierra Madre PolicePerson banging on my door.

That woman had the audacity to demand eleven dollars for a “yard sale permit”,
and to tell me that if I “had questions about it” I should have called City Hall to see if a permit was needed.

It’s not just the fact that I was charged for something
that I had no way of possibly knowing,
post-fact, and by an incredibly rude human being.

It’s that eleven dollars?
For me?

That’s a loaf of bread, 1/2 gallon of milk, and five apples.
It’s enough to feed me for a little over a week.
That’s three gallons of gas.
That’s a dance class.
It’s a bag of food for my dog.
It’s not nothing, in other words, not to me.

Additionally,
I still haven’t heard back from either of the two interviews I went on this month,
in spite of following up.

(I also feel like a whinging brat because almost all of my troubles
boil down to finances. And that just seems so…pathetic.
I mean, I could sell a kidney or something.)

 

It’s the little things.

I honestly feel like if I just lock my bedroom door and refuse to come out,
maybe nothing will go wrong.

I keep hoping for an end to the bad,
and in spite of what I said on my birthday
about not letting a year trample all over me,
it’s still happening.

And I’m wondering if,
this time,
I just shouldn’t bother getting up again.

Is That a Complete Sentence?

I’m sitting in BeanTown,
since I desperately needed to get out of the house today,
and I have a lovely trio ensconsced behind me:

Worried, tech-inept Mother.

Cadaverously boring, condescending Educator.

Annoyed, bored, cannot-believe-the-level-of-the-shit-she-does-not-give Teen.

Mom and EDUCATOR are making Charlie Brown noises
about tests and grades and why Teen should care about grades and tests.

Annoyed Teen is annoyed.

Because really?

Learning is interesting.
Learning is wild and crazy and adventurous.

And these two are making it all about percentiles.

UGH.

For heaven’s sake,
get your kid outside,
and let her roam around.

Encourage her to write about beautiful things.
Read her poetry.
Let her loose in the library to explore books.
Math? Connect it with wonder–the golden ratio,
how it’s found in art throughout the centuries.
Get her in museums.
Connect chemistry to baking, perhaps.
Let her make a mess in order to learn; work with her hands.
Learn with your kid, Worried Mom.
Explore the world with her.

She won’t give a shit unless *you* do.

And I don’t blame her,
especially when you say things like,
“Well, the next time you see ________, she’ll be smarter.”

Um.

Yeah.

You just told your daughter that she’s stupid.
In public.
Do you realize that she might not ever get over that?

*headdesk*

Poor kid.

Poor Worried Mom.

I hope wonder finds you,
in spite of today.

Seriously.

Cap Sleeves and the Women Who Hate Them:

A rant, if you will.

I love dresses.

I love shopping for them,
trying on pretty colors,
lovely fabrics,
experimenting with shapes and styles.

What I don’t love,
however,
is the continual, constant, rage-inducing CAP SLEEVE.

First,
what’s the point?
The cap sleeve generally covers about .00001% of your entire arm,
so if modesty is your concern,
surely elbow sleeves are less risky.

Second,
cap sleeves look good on .00001% of the female population.

Because?

That stupid piece of fabric emphasizes the biggest part of one’s arms.
It’s like trying to camouflage an elephant behind a blade of grass.

FAIL.

I know there are women out there
whose arms are largest at the elbow.
I don’t understand where they come from,
or how they rolled the genetic dice for such–
but I am not among them.

I have BIG ARMS.
I have “my ancestors were farmers” arms.
They are strong,
but in spite of everything,
show no muscular definition.

Which is rad.

And it means that sleeves on dresses like this?

so cute! so IMPOSSIBLE.

And this?

WANT. CAN'T.

And this?

@#$%ing CAP SLEEVES!

CAN’T.
WEAR.

Can’t even get ’em past my (hulking) forearms,
most of the time.

And even if I can,
that stupid little slice of material smooshes my upper arms
into amazingly grotesque shapes.

EW.

Designers!!!!

Few women have eensy weensy toothpickering arms!

My shoulders do not need their own minuscule awnings,
and I’m tired of having to remove these insulting little buggers,
or having to put a cute dress back on the rack because of a 2″ piece of fabric.

Please to kill the cap sleeve.
It wearies me.

Protected: I May Regret This, But:

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In Brief:

You know those times when life not only kicks you in the ass,
but laughs maniacally while doing so?

I honestly believe I could handle the ick better
if only my hair would cooperate,
and my skin didn’t look like it got cozy with a team of lepers.

Maybe wine will help.