Nucking Futs

Well, originally I was going to tell you about how my iPod's name is Eleanor and that she's a feisty little wench whose sole purpose in her trivial electronic life is to drive me absolutely insane. She refuses to play songs that I actually want to listen to half the time, she is completely smitten with Billy Corgan, and she has this thing with playing particular songs at certain intervals during my commute; like Death Cab for Cutie's Soul Meets Body as I cross over Route 303, or Tori Amos' rendition of Losing My Religion at the intersection of Prospect and Royalton Road--it's happened THREE times this week and I'm beyond believing in coincidences. They're fabulous songs, but still. I think it's just her way of reminding me who wears the pants in our relationship.

So, when I got over the need to vent to you about Eleanor I decided I'd tell you a story about Macy, the other alpha female in my life, and how she keeps taking her toys outside. Jon and I grab them by arm fulls and bring them in to be washed and dried, and she is continually sneaking them back out, one by one, and moving them around, dropping one then picking up another to move it to a different place in the yard. This whole time I've been chalking it up to her being abandoned and carrying more baggage than either of us can understand, but then I realized what she was doing today as she strategically placed a few more stuffed animals--she's cultivating them! She believes that if she finds the perfect place for each of her toys they will multiply, growing into something so tall and massive they will rival the old tulip trees and drop dozens of stuffed Snoopy dolls and plush teddy bears like leaves. I haven't had the heart to tell her this won't happen, that her beloved toys will become dirty and grow mold and disappear into a 32 gallon trash bag before the tiniest of buds can break through the soil and she'll be left with nothing.

But before I could write a post about either of those things I did something silly and reckless and I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about it so I can't quite find the words to describe it. I've decided to give you a photo instead, and maybe you can help me stop banging my head against the wall.



On the bright side, it's going to take all of 5 minutes to blow dry each morning. On the not so bright side, my first thought when the stylist spun my chair around and I caught a glimpse of my bangs doing a half curl across my forward was: Oh shit! I look like an extra chunky Ben Gibbard.

In any case, I'm sure I'll love it in a month.

Please, No Corporate Checks

I came home to some very interesting mail today. It was an invitation to Summit County Fiscal Officer John A. Donofrio's 60th birthday celebration. At first I was all...how in the world did I merit such an invitation? I am no where near posh enough to share cocktails and hors d'oeuvres this man. I mean, we've never actually met, but I feel as though the two of us are old chums because of the amount of time I spend at his website browsing the value of real estate. And just when I let myself begin to feel a little special for being so cool, I noticed in the fine print that it was going to cost me $500 to get in. 500 bucks to watch some guy eat cake and ice cream!

Not only am I not as posh as they believe, I'm also not nearly as rich. I guess they had me confused with someone else.

This Chick Only Lived in February

I forgot the spiral bound notebook I've been writing in for the past week at home this morning. I guess trying to remember the notebook, my cell phone, iPod, the blue, thermal lunch sack I packed last night, and my copy of The Time Traveler's Wife was too much to handle, so the fancy new notebook was the sole item left behind. I feel naked without it.

It occurred to me recently that every paper journal I've owned in the last 12 years, pages full or nearly empty, has been started in February. Apparently there is something about the second month of the year that depresses me so much I'm not willing to talk to anyone else about it, so I write to myself instead. This February proved to be no different when I found myself standing in the aisle full of school supplies at CVS on my lunch break last Wednesday. As much as I like all of the pretty pastel colors and books with front covers branded with "Journal" or "Diary" I decided I had to be practical and comfortable if this particular journal was supposed to make it beyond the average use of 3 weeks, so I veered from my ordinary choice and went with an 8 x 7 spiral bound notebook with white floral silhouettes on the cover and a brown elastic band to hold it closed. It works like a charm and I've written in it every day.

I'm trying to teach myself to stop writing for an audience and to just write how I feel. It's been years since I've done it so I'm pretty rusty on the whole write-your-heart-out thing. I just have to remember that it's my notebook, I can write whatever I want, and I don't have to worry about anyone thinking it's boring or sappy or that I'm a total nut job, because I'm the only one who will read it unless I decide to share something. But I think I'm getting there, gradually, and it takes so much less time to write in a notebook than it does to write a post because I'm not freaking out about wording something properly or coming up with enough original adjectives. It's stupid, but it usually takes me 1-3 hours to write a Livejournal post because I second guess everything and proof read it a million times, and then I battle whether or not I should even bother posting it because, well, it's boring and I'm all too aware of it.

Ah well, baby steps it is. Besides, I am a total nut job, but I'm a cool nut job.

Bohemian Chic

Today I watched Find Your Style with Karen McAloon which is a show on HGTV in which Karen will walk through someone's house and based on the decor they already have she defines and names their style. She then gives them guidelines and tips to follow to design the space on their own while she stands back only to guide them along the way.

Today she defined a couple as being Bohemian Chic, a very eclectic mix of clean modern lines and vintage antique. To achieve this style the goal is to avoid anything "matchy-matchy" and pick out any random items that catch your interest. And of course, with a description like that I decided that I wanted to be Bohemian Chic! But then I decided I kind of already was...

You see, while my house is very much full of hand me downs, thrift store finds, and items from department store clearance shelves my personality and tastes are so eclectic that I have to be Boho Chic.

I'm a girl who likes to wear preppy cardigans with vintage t-shirts, worn jeans, and my cheap knock-off Converse One Stars.

I like lip gloss and mascara and my hair pulled back in sloppy ponytails, and avoid foundation because it covers my freckles.

I listen to Tori Amos and Kanye West and The Decemberists.

I eat Doritos and bananas and goat cheese marinara.

I watch reruns of The Dick Van Dyke Show and Fresh Prince religiously, and I keep up with Grey's Anatomy and LOST.

I like to play poker, sing karaoke and read American Literature.

I'm friends with a gamer, a business owner, an exotic dancer, and a stay at home mom.

I love the excitement and energy of the city and the peace and serenity of the woods.

I am an eclectic mix of everything that catches my eye and I should be proud of that, and not ashamed of who I am.

If I listen to nothing else I ever say I should at least listen to myself on this. An entire devastating week of self doubt could have been avoided had Karen done Bohemian Chic last Saturday.