The true definition of vindication:

Meeting the children of someone you don't like...


....and finding out they are HIDEOUS

And now, something every fashionista has been waiting for (according to our friends at Neiman Marcus)





The Manolo Blahnik candle!


I may not be able to afford his shoes, but for a mere $75 I can own his designer candle and proudly display it in my home.


I hear it smells like ankle pain and credit card debt.

Someone knows what's up:






When I am appearing at the sentencing portion of my trial, I always look to the cast of Poltergeist 2 for fashion advice.

There are certain personality types I cannot stand:

*The Misguided Lothario: especially those who interrupt a conversation between two women at a bar and act like they have been part of the coversation the whole time. If you want to buy me a drink, do so from the other end of the bar, the grown-ups are talking here. *

*The "I Spent a G" guy/girl of which you are all aware by now.


*And last but not least, Debbie Downer

You know the type, always full of doom and gloom, walks around pouting so unsuspecting folks will ask "What's wrong!" only to be exposed to a litany of complaints ranging from the fact that their coffee is too strong to the notion that there is no purpose in life, and we are all just waiting around for the sweet release of death.

What I am noticing, however, is how funny it is to observe a Debbie Downer in action when you are not the one having direct contact with her. It's actually QUITE amusing.

Yesterday I was in a little gift shop that I frequent (because you know one can never have too many pink post its and sequinned faux flowers to hang in one's cubicle) and I happen to have met the Debbie Downer who works there on her first day a few months ago when I engaged briefly in a conversation with her about how because her husband is screwing her in their divorce, she is being forced to work although she loathes it, and have since avoided all interaction with her.

But, you know her coworkers don't have the blissful escape that I do, as a customer. They are stuck with her all day. And I swear they are more haggard and worn down for it.

Consider this exchange I was privy to yesterday, when I was in there perusing the new picture frames

Debbie Downer(appropos of nothing as usual): So, my mother is probably gonna have to be put in a home.

Coworker(immediately starts looking for something to do): Oh, I'm sorry about that.

Debbie Downer: Yeah she is not doing well anymore. I almost hope she passes before it comes to that. She never wanted to be in a home.

Coworker: That's too bad

Debbie Downer: And my sister refuses to pay for any of it so the burden has fallen on me entirely and since the divorce you know I am not even doing that well

Coworker(frantically, at me) Ma'am can I help you?

Me (gleefully): No I am all set. Thank you!

Debbie Downer: Did I mention I might have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome?

So maybe my relaying my glee at other people's exposure to Debbie Downer has made you add "Girl Who Delights in the Discomfort of Others" to your own list of Personality Types you hate.

But I can't help it. As someone who has been cornered by many a Debbie Downer in my day (how about the cashier at the liquor store last night who confided to me that her son in law is the most aggravating person on the face of the earth and is slowly ruining her and her daughter's life?), I take these small victories where I can find them.

*I am not saying a lady can't accept a drink from a gentleman from time to time, but it is impolite to interrupt someone else's conversation, and it is unwise to assume that every lady at a bar is in search of gentleman company. but that is a julia sugarbaker rant for another time.

My mother's favorite story to tell about me, as a means to embarrass me, is the story of my Kyklopes eye (which many of you may already know). When I was in college, I mysteriously developed a blocked gland on my left eyelid which caused said eyelid to swell until the point that I could not open that eye and thus was rendered a Kyklopes for three days.



And for those three days I did not go to school, even though I felt fine and had no affliction other than a bedeviled eye. But that was affliction enough for me, believe me. And when I did go to school on the fourth day, since my eyelid had at least depuffed enough for me to be able to open it, I wore my PJs and sunglasses to school in an effort to both proclaim and hide my hideous state. Sort of like, if my face ain't right..NONE of me can be right today".

To my mother, this display was hilarious and I was forever deemed "Vain" in her eyes. And I don't mean to say she thinks ill of me because of it. Rather it is more of a "where did you COME from?" type incredulity since she neither wears any makeup, nor dyes her hair, nor wears heels, nor ever does her nails (But do not get me wrong, the woman is FLY, she has the au natural Mediterranean woman who wears chunky necklaces and owns 1000 silk scarves thang going on).


What my mother cannot appreciate, however, is the duality of vanity.

Really, what we are talking about here is SELFLESS vanity:


I went out for the first time in over a week on Saturday night, and although it was just to a local comedy show/fund raiser, I set about getting ready well over an hour before the event. The most important task for me was de-rouging my nose/upper lip area.


Now, I am not proud insomuch as I will admit that after blowing my nose all day on Friday on the cardboard that my office calls "facial tissue" i had a the kind of nose that could have been used as a beacon in the fog, complete with sore-like patches on my upper lip. (and now, i will NOT be providing photos of this bit of lovliness)

Ok, if you insist.


Jealous?

And even though I still wasn't feeling 100% like myself, I took it upon myself to spend 10 minutes on nasal makeup application, ans I was proud to report that there is nary a lesion in site. Not even a hint of red. And you know, I would be proud. But when one realizes that one is applying foundation with a q-tip to one's nostril, one gives up any reason to be truly proud, no matter how good the application.


So you know my vanity is not selfish...I TRULY do this for others. Why should other people, enjoying a night out, sipping a cocktail, have to look at my puffy red nose all night? Why put them through the agony of having to wonder how sick I have been. Because of course they would, and feel so bad for me that they would then feel compelled to buy me drinks all night and I mean that would just be WRONG.


Right?


So, I consider vanity to be one of the more selfless traits that one can posess.

The one benefit of being sick and on oodles of meds is the way it enables 1 or 2 glasses of pinot grigio to make you feel sooooo nice, when, in healthier times, it would take maybe 4 glasses to feel so nice.

Very nice indeed.

And i leave you with this. And I am being serious here. Heed my words.

If you are not listening to Roy Orbison, you are a fool.

Let's clear something up.

Let's say I am in line at a store (in this case, Marty's (as usual)). Let's say that the line is very long because only one cashier is open. So I wait patiently until about 8 minutes later, I am third in line and no longer 10th.

At this point, let's say another cashier opens her register and yells "I can take the next customer".

That "next customer" she refers to is either the person in front of me (the second person in this line) or me, the third customer, if the second customer gives me the go ahead. It may even be the fourth person if I allow it..but it is in NO WAY YOU, the 8th person!! You and your shitty $14 mustard and $8 cashews better stand the frig down because I have been in line for 10 minutes now, and you just joined this nightmare so you, dear sir, must WAIT.

I swear if I was more myself today I would have done what I usually do and gone over there and pulled an Oh Hell No. But alas I am still not feeling up to snuff and let this one slide.

Next time though....

I'm baaa-aaack!

Yes, it is true. I have left the sick-couch behind and last night I actually slept in a BED for the first time since Monday night. And I actually got more than 2 hours of sleep. And I actually feel like a normal, breathing, human being today. So those of you who extolled the virtues of the Z-Pack were right on the money. It is heaven in the form of 6 pills. Amen.

And now I have a confession to make.

Since mid February, I have been on kind of a healthy food kick. Monitering calories (casually), trying not to eat sweets, eating a lot more veggies and fruit. But I must say that this week, I fell off the proverbial diet wagon.

And onto a Ben & Jerry's factory.

I am sorry but salads and popcorn and rice cakes and carrots and baked skinless chicken breast are all well and good but they are NOT comfort foods (to me, at least). When my throat iskilling me and my entire body hurts, only Cherry Garcia can make me feel better. Well, Cherry Garcia and Karamel Sutra. And codiene.

But, when you think about it. An entire carton of B&J is only what, 1100 calories? And if that is all you eat all day, it's not THAT bad calorically speaking. Not especially healthy, but you know, dairy is good, right? Calcium and whatnot?

Riiiiiight.

ANOTHER UPDATE:

it turns out i have bronchitis and a sinus infection....which basically translates to my entire upper body and head are filled with pus.

hot, right?

they gave me zithromax, and cough medicine with codeine.

me likey the codeine.

************************************************************
And now, an update from the sick bed (or couch, as it were)

I am STILL motherfucking SICK. And I am loathe to use the phrase motherfucker but if being sick (and i mean a constant running, raw nose, aching lungs, hacking cough, fiery throat pain and a fever that jumps from 99.4 to 101 at the drop of a hat) for 4 days straight isn't a motherfucker then I don't know what is.

Seriously? This is how my work week has been:

Monday: Wake up with throat pain (which is never a good sign with me, sore throat = illness to come) but I stood strong and went to work. Hours later I am delirious with pain and body aches and leave work in a fevered stupor at 1PM. I arrive home at 2PM, change into PJs and settle on the couch with a box of tissues, a comforter and a water bottle.

I stay on that couch until around 6AM on WEDNESDAY when I attempt to return to work with no voice and lungs that are chock full of phlegm. After hacking and coughing and wheezing my way through a good chunk of work, I am pretty much forced out of my office at noon.

When I got home, I actually felt OKAY for the fist time since Sunday. Not healthy, or particularly good, but OKAY. And my temperature read a respectable 98.4. I am finally on the road to recovery!

But flash forward 2 hours. I am bundled in my comforter on the couch, unable to speak beacuse of the fire in the back of my throat/in my lungs and my temperature has rocketed to 100.7.

WTF!?

So here I am in fever city again and going to the doctor at 11AM so he can prescribe me something stronger than what i have been taken, or shoot me in the face. Both sound pretty good at this point!

How to add insult to injury, Sarah-style.

1)Catch a very nasty cold/strep throat/flu thing that has you bedridden for days

2)Do that sexy thing where you keep a bit of tissue stuffed up that one nostril that WILL NOT STOP DRIPPING FOR THE LOVE OF SWEET JESUS.

3)Attempt to drink a glass of water, and it is very important that you FAIL to realize that the tissue stuffed in your nostril is now soaked with water. If you have been blowing your nose every 2 minutes for the past 2 days, then this will probably numb any wet sensation you may have been able to percieve, had you been in good health.

4) Immediately after sipping the water, sniff violently so that the now soaked piece of tissue becomes logged in your nasal cavity and all of the water that was in it gets squeezed backwards through your nose and down your throat.

5)Commence wailing.


I am better now, I am happy to say having gotten my temp down to a respectable 99.7 but it has been a rough few days (as noted above). I hope to be my usual, blogging self in the very near future.


Oh, and as much as it rules living with the person you love, it does NOT rule sharing that person's germs especially when they were really sick last week and you said a silent prayer that you would not catch it that OBVIOUSLY went unanswered. Adam, if I ever get off the couch, be afraid.

Since it is Friday, I figured I would get a little interactive on you.

I want to blog about something, but in order to do so I need some info from you (you meaning anyone reading this)

What do you think about the word "bitch"?

Do you hate it? Love it? Use it often? Think it depends on the context?

I'm interested in hearing any and all opinions on the word.

Thank you!

Last night Adam and I visited the MFA so Adam could get a jump start on a paper he has due for his art history class. (And if you didn't know, the Museum is free on Wednesday nights).

We spent the majority of our time in the Roman & Greek galleries, looking at this sculpture specifically (the subject of Adam's paper)



Now, I consider myself an art lover, but looking for one hour at the same thing is not exactly my idea of a great museum experience, so I left Adam to wander through some of the other Greek galleries. Ever since my dad became an artist himself, I find myself particularly drawn to sculpture. The fact that these particular ones are mostly sculptures of muscular, naked men has nothing to do with it, I assure you.

So there I am, enjoying a little quiet art appreciation. When a loud mouthed girl enters the gallery. How did I know she was loud? Becasue she was on her cell phone screaming about "the other night". And I mean I can appreciate, as a volume-control challenged person myself, that a museum gallery has a way of amplifying even a whisper. But she was not only not whispering, she was yelling. And a yell in a gallery is like a yell into a loud speaker. And let me tell you, Miss Thang wasn't exactly talking about the most discreet of subjects, unless you count hooking up with "that fat ugly guy from the bah!" proper topics for those studying in a museum to hear.

I shot a few of my nastiest, deadliest looks in her direction but she was somehow unmoved..or at least not moved enough to get off the phone but she WAS moved enough to tell her friend that "some bitch was giving her a dirty look".

Defeated, I left the gallery in search of Adam and that giant torso (not his).

I paused to look at some Ancient Roman jewelery hanging in a case by the wall, when I heard a distinct caucophony of shrill elevator music that can only be attributed to a cell phone! Who doesn't shut their cell phone off in a museum! OR at least put it on silent! The nerve. Luckily it wasn't me because I mean I have "Copacabana" as my ring and this was somethine else.

Oh wait...I changed my ring last night.

Damn it.

And of course as I am fumbling in my purse for my phone, Miss Loud Thing walks by and I SWEAR became haughty when she saw it was me with the offending ringtone.

So I guess I'm the asshole.

But still, if you are going to talk on your phone in a museum, do so quietly and quickly. Because next time it won't just be dirty looks, it will be really loud sighs!

And now for today's edition of "Who I am SO GLAD I Am Not, Today"



Drumroll please......



Carla Martin!


For those who have not been following the sentencing trial of Zacarias Moussaoui (he already plead guilty), she is the TSA attorney who COMPLETELY screwed the government's case. After being told by the judge that the witnesses were not to be contacted, Ms. Martin not only contacted them, but sent them mass emails and had conference calls with them.

She also "told one witness sought by defense lawyers that he could not speak to them and ... told the defense that two other witnesses were not willing to speak to them."

Anyone who has watched even a few episodes of Law & Order knows this is a big no-no.

It is rough times when your boss refers to you as a "lone miscreant" and the judge at the trial you are working on says "I don't think in the annals of criminal law there has ever been a case with this many significant problems".

Oh shnap, right?

So now, there is no testimony about aviation security allowed at the setencing trial, and I think since Mr. Moussaoui is the so called "20th hijacker" in the 9/11 attacks , not being able to mention anything about aviation security is a little damaging.

So Carla, while I applaud your brave venture into discontinued hair color, I do not want to be you. Sorry!

How I Roll: Volume Two

What I meant to say to my coworker who left his bottle of water on my desk
"Please take this cootie water away from here"


What I DID say to my coworker who left his bottle of water on my desk
"Please take this cooter water away from here"

DUI (Driving while Under the Influence)
OUI (Operating while Under the Influence)
DD (Designated Driver)

And now we must add yet another term to the lexicon of Operating a Vehicle.

DDH (Driving with Diva Hands)

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with Diva Hands: allow me to MSpaint you a picture



And in case you haven't ever seen me in karaoke action, you should know I am a vertiable flailing mass of Divaness when I get behind the mic.



But the Diva Hands don't just come out when I am at The Milky Way on a Tuesday or at The Cottage on a Thursday or at Pat Flanagan's on a Wednesday. They come out in the shower, when I sing along with Annie Lennox. They come out at parties when we all simutaneously burst into Mariah Carey songs (this happens more than you think). And lastly, the Diva Hands come out when I am in my car, singing along with whatever is on the radio.

I used to believe that nothing bad can come of using Diva Hands, they are merely form of musical expression. I Sing, therefore I have Diva Hands. BUt when you are DDH, people can mistake your diva hands for other, less fabulous hand motions.

For instance, on my way to work, I have to get off Rt 128 at the treacherous Exit 23-24-25 which is (if you can't add) three exits rolled into one. The people coming from 128 merge with the people coming from the Mass Pike (known from here on out as Assholes) in what I am sure the Mass Highway Department thought would be a happy single lane.



Only the Assholes, who are required to Yield, as stated on SEVERAL signs, chose to Do What They Want and fly past the Yield signs so that those of us who have the right of way are faced with near death experiences pretty much every morning.

I am of the opinion that if you are supposed to yield to me, you are going to MFing YIELD to me. I don't wait for them, I just go and if they hit me it's their fault Life is too short to be waiting for Assholes to let you go. I just GO.

And usually this works.

Only in this case, this morning I was listening to a little remixed J Lo in the car and had the Diva Hand out in full force and as I waved my left hand around to "I feel like there's no limit to what i can dooooooo", The Asshole on my left saw that ( I assume ) as a wave to "go ahread) so he sped up, nearly clipping my car in the process.

So while I do love DDH. I think that I may have to tone it down in the future. If only for the safety of others on the road.

Adam and I are in the early stages of planning a trip to Paris next year. I vacationed there several years ago but did not TRULY appreciate it because 1) I had food poisoning for three days (and, in fact, vomited at Versailles) and 2) had just gotten through a nasty break up and let me tell you, being in romantic Paris after a bad break up is like rubbing salt in a wound. Anyway Adam has never been, and so we must go.

This is great for obvious reasons, but bad for one unavoidable reason.

I HATE to fly.

Now, I consider myself to be a good traveler, I enjoy going to new places, I like trying new foods and meeting new people, I pick up languages pretty quickly. But if you hop a transatlantic flight with me you better liquor me up or else be prepared to land on the other side of the ocean with bruises on your arm from me clutching it so tightly.

And I don't know how this happened. I mean I flew to Kenya when I was 15 and didn't bat an eye. But last year the 40 minute flight to Philadelphia nearly killed my nerves, I swear. And it has nothing to do with terrorism. I am not afraid of armed men taking over the plane (Well, obviously everyone is afraid of that but it is not what weighs most heavily on my mind). I just fear mechanical failure/plummeting into an ocean/mountain.

Or, you know, this


And it's not just fear...it's fear coupled with hate. I hate the cramped seating in coach, I hate airplane food, I hate being stuck in a small space with crying babies (crying babies are my lot in life as far as flying goes, there are always at least 3 on the plane with me who take turns lest I go 10 minutes without shrieking wails in my ear).

And I have to say, nearly everyone I know who is NOT afraid of flying has the same philosophy "If it's my time to go, it's my time to go". Um, no. When it is my time to go I better be asleep in bed and not 40,000 feet up in the air in a metal tube.

But in spite of this fear/hate...I still travel. I don't let it keep me on the ground (to the dismay of anyone seated next to me who has to hear my freaking out during turbulance/when the fasten seatbelt sign goes on)

But I hold onto the hope that someday in the future, they will put people to sleep for the duration of flights. Maybe a little laughing gas? Some general anesthesia? That's what I'm talking about.

My mother suffers from CRS.

If you're wondering what CRS is, please allow me to elucidate. It is a condition that thousands of people suffer from, but it is not the people who HAVE the condition that do the actual suffering.

It is the people around them.

You see, CRS stands for Chronic Re-Gifting Syndrome.

In all fairness I should mention that my mother is a nurse, and deals with primarily older patients. Most of these patients are very grateful to my mother, and bestow upon her tokens of appreciation thats' thoughtfulness usually far outweighs its' usefulness. I am talking crocheted tissue box holders, small ceramic animals, fruitcakes, etc.

My mother is herself quite an accomplished gift giver. She has a great sense of style and an uncanny knack for giving people something that is precisely what they have always wanted but never realized. Usually I am blown away by her gift choices. So when I visit, and she says "Oh I forgot, I have a gift for you!" and hands me a porcelein frog...I know what's really going on. And I allow her to regift unto me because that's what daughters are there for, to relieve their mothers of gifts they cannot use (and sometimes ones they do use, if they are away on vacation and it is, say, a fabulous gold multi strand necklace).

Anyway, my mother recently went to Europe with some of her girlfriends and when she came back, she presented me my birthday gifts of a beautiful aquamarine ring, and a lovely pearl bracelet with a flower shaped clasp. I was grateful for the lovely gifts and have been wearing them both pretty much ever since.

This afternoon, my mother and her brother (my uncle Jack) went out for coffee and my mom regaled us with stories from her trip, gossip on family and friends overseas and so on. She told us a particularly interesting story about how she spent Valentine's day dining in a friends' restaurant in Brouge and it was SO nice and the food was SO delicious and the company was SO entertaning and the owners of said restaurant were SO cute and they gave every woman in the restaurant a little cheapy pearl bracelet with a tacky flower clasp as a Valentine's Day gesture.

Say what!? I looked down at my wrist and up at my mom. "You mean this cheapy, tacky pearl bracelet?".

She looked at it and instantly a look came across her face. An "Oh Shit!" look.

"Oh yeah...well you like that kind of stuff!"

Thanks mom! I like how she allowed me to carry on about how beautiful it was and how much I loved it when it was the equivalent of an after dinner mint!!

So I said "So was this ring something you got with your breakfast sandwich?"

In any case, I do still love my tacky, cheapy "pearl bracelet" and I can't really hold it against my mom. I mean she has CRS.

So it's not her fault. But she should not be surprised if for her birthday she gets a travel mug with my company's logo on it.

You think you know

But you have NO

IDEA

What is worse than being hungover at work?

Being hungover at work and having to sit through a 3 hour Excel training!

Be prepared for an onslaught of wine-drinking, bar-hopping, karaoke-singing pics from last night.

I was in such a state when I arrived home, that this morning I could not locate my keys for 15 minutes.

They were OF COURSE in a potted plant.

I feel certain that I now know what it would feel like to be caught in a feeding frenzy with sharks.


Where did I gain this knowledge?

At the Filene's Clearance Sale last night.

As many of you probably know, most of the Filene's Department Stores in the Boston area are closing to make way for Macy's or Bloomingdales or entirely other department stores. This is true of the Filene's at our local mall and I decided last night I would pick over whatever was left, and maybe find some fun costume jewlery or maybe a pair of shoes. I figured around 8PM on a Wednesday Night wouldn't be THAT busy, right?

Wrong.

Adam and I entered the store on the 2nd level and made our way to the home goods section which was SADLY demolished. I mean there was nothing left but a scant Christmas ornament selection, some dented Calphalon pans, and one wayward Kitchenaid Mixer.

As we made our way to the down escalator, I heard a faint buzzing which grew louder as we descended. And as the 1st floor came into view I understood why.

It was milling, nay, CRAWLING with crazed shoppers. The makeup counters had all been cleared out to make room for the china and women were huddled around the Kate Spade and Vera Wang patterns, checking every price sticker, carressing platinum banded dinner plates, examining rose patterned tea cups for damage, searcing for the matching gravy boat. I of course threw myself upon this mass, equally as frenzied, as Adam's faint voice reached me "I will be in the men's department".

I did happen upon some pieces in MY china pattern, but one dinner plate and a saucer does not a tablescape make. Still at 40% off, I had problems restraining myself from the vision of eating all my meals on one fabulous plate and forcing Adam and whatever dinner guests we may have to make do with the Pier One set we already have.

Anyway I did find some gorgeous pieces, including a divine Kate Spade tea set which unfortunately even at 50% off was still over $200. And therein lies the problem. No Deal of a Lifetimes in the china department.

So of course I moved on to costume jewlery.

This department was CRAWLING with shopping vultures. You know the kind. They stalk around a store, watching you gravitate towards something and the minute you put it down the pounce on it. In my case I had two vultures following me, one in a blue headscarf and one in a pink nurse's uniform. I found a really pretty Tiffanyesque silver beaded bracelet/necklace set for only $12.50. I examined it, even tried it on, and then put it down on the counter to try on another bracelet. Blue headed vulture then literally reached under my arm, snatched the box, and scurried away.

I even snapped a photo of her making her getaway


(i assure you, the necklace looked MUCH better on me)


I wasn't even sure I wanted it, but like a dog with a ball the minute someone else took it I Had To Have It. I was about to go after her when Pink Nurse Vulture descended on the bracelet rack I was perusing and snatched up a few bracelets including the one I was trying to try on. I felt double teamed and defeated.

So I moved on to shoes.

Not much to say in this department, just this: with shoes usually if they are on clearance, it is for a good reason. I don't need 5 inch heeled gold and feathered stilettos, nor do I need anything that combines paisley print and wedge heels. yick.

So that leaves only one place left to find shopping salvation: Handbags.

And you know, I had already committed the cardinal rule of shopping and decided I definitely wanted to buy something. Because as we all know once you decide you want to buy something, you are guaranteed to find NOTHING.

So I wandred dejectedly among the 40% off Etienne Aigniers and the 50% of J. Lo's, sick of metallics and tired of totes. And suddenly a beam from heaven shone down, and it illuminated one lone bag on a shelf littered with bronze leopard print clutches.



I immediately fell in sweet Ralph Lauren love and this bag had to come home with me. I glanced at the price tag. And decided that 40% off of the lowest price was not such a bad deal for such a classic, fabulous bag




Only the thing was, this bag was on a shelf marked 70% off. Could it be? I doubted it since every other bag on the shelf looked like a refugee from the 1980s. But either way, it had to be mine. So I brought it up to a cashier and asked her to check the price. She asked me where I found this bag and i walked her over to the 70% off shelves. She looked dubiously at the glittering clutches on the shelf, and then back at my beautiful bag and said "I don't think so". So I snagged a lady who actually works in the bag department, and had seen me milling around, and she confirmed that it was, in fact, 70% off.

You know when the sales lady doubts it could be on clearance then it MUST be a good deal.

So this fabulous bag, which has inspired me to find a way to go yachting this summer, and which is originally priced $168 and which is currently being sold on Ebay for $100, I got for the breath taking price of $25.20.

So take that vultures and Kate Spade and dented calphalon pans! Sometimes perseverance DOES have its rewards. And nothing says reward like a fabulous handbag.

I believe that the achievement of life's milestones are worth celebrating.

Events like weddings, retirement parties, engagement parties, the-first-time-you- get-designer-shoes-on-clearance celebrations, etc.

And I believe there is one way to celebrate such milestones: with champagne

Yesterday I recieved my first ever bonus at my job, something I was not expecting and very excited about. So, to celebrate, I stopped at our local liquor store on the way home to pick up some bubbly to celebrate with Adam.

I have to confess that I am a bit of a champagne neophyte. Besides knowing that real champagne only comes from France, and knowing that I love Veuve Cliquot, I know really nothing else. Normally at restaurants they only offer 1 or 2 sparklings by the glass (that cost under $20) so I never really have a tough choice to make.

And I have another confession to make: I am a bottle whore. Note that I did not say "label whore" because I could not care a whit about what vineyard or region it is from. But a pretty bottle? This is something that turns my head. An interesting cork decoration? Have To Have It!

So last night, I come across this spumante (Italian sparkling wine):



Note the pretty gold top? The nice shape? Counter in the facts that I was already laden down with a bottle of Jameson and two bottles of pinot gris, and that it was reasonably priced and you know now why it had to come home with me.

So after dining on a celebratory dinner of artichoke and goat cheese stuffed chicken breasts, we cracked open the bubbly.

Now, I am bit of a wus when it comes to popping champagne bottles. Simply put? It freaks me out. I like both of my eyes and would like them to stay intact. So I moved over to the sink, put a dish towel over the cap and twisted, with my eyes tightly clenched.

Pop

I made the font small because that's what the sound was. Tiny. And little wonder since it was a SCREW CAP!

Now, I am no slouch. I don't mind screw cap wine. In fact I sometimes prefer it. It travels better than regular corked wine (I never have a corkscrew around when I need one). The Ca' Del Solo line of wines is screw cap and I adore them. And although the idea of a screw top sparkling was slightlty off putting, whatevs. Let me at those bubbles.

So Adam and I clinked glasses, toasted to each other (he also got a bonus and a promotion earlier in the month) and sipped. It was sweet, it was slightly fizzy.

It was Bartles & Jaymes wine cooler*: The sparkling version



Not literally..but basically.

So I went to the label (which I ought to have done first) and examined the text under the word "Spumante"

"Italian malt beverage"

Say what??

I guess this is what happens when you look more at the bottle than at the label. But you know, it was not half bad.

So I guess what I learned is: why drink champagne when you can drink champagne coolers?

*They recently reissued the Original B&J which I never got to sample the first time around, being underaged and whatnot, but I find it now to be 1) actually quite tasty and 2) silly and conversation provoking. Not a bad combo

I believe that one cannot help what one is drawn to. The inate desires we feel are so hard to rebel against, in many cases it is simply futile to try and do so.

For some this means turning to drugs.

For others, promiscuity.

For me, it is much, much worse.

I have a deep, uncontrollable passion for old lady perfume.

You know the kind. It's probably on your grandmother's dresser. It has been around forEVER. The ladies sitting in front of you at church smell like it. If someone in your general vicinity is weaaring a faux bun they probably are wearing it.




In my particular case, I am the most fond of Estee Lauder's Youth Dew, and 4711 (not sure who makes it). And the reason I know that it can be classified as an Old Lady Perfume is not that my mother and grandmother wore it, but because when I wear this scent I get about 5 compliments from men throughout the day.

And not one of them is ever under 60.

Combine this with the fact that my favorite radio station is Oldies 103.3, and most of my favorite movies were made before 1968 and I think we have a trend on our hands

It's cool though. I don't think of myself as old fashioned...just ahead of my time.

About 40 years ahead.

I decided to finally break my bumper sticker virginity*

That way, when I see someone with one of those blasted "W" stickers on their bumper, and I speed up to cut them off..they will know that it's not that I am a bitch..but that I am a bitchy DEMOCRAT.

(*unless you count the bumper sticker I (for god knows what reason) bought in 11th grade that said "I'd rather be tied up and whipped" which my mother make me remove PROMPTLY. Still, it was on my car for a good 45 minutes. But I don't believe it counts. And anyway my Honda has never had a sticker on it)

You know how you may ridicule people for doing something, but then you go ahead and do the same thing and it still doesn't make you feel bad for ridiculing someone else for doing it, because you figure you at least have an excuse?

Yeah.

What I mean to say is, I hate when people leave items at the self checkout counter. How lazy can you be? And food shopping is not like shoe shopping..you dont' get to the cashier and think "I really don't need another avocado". At least I don't. And don't even get me started on people who leave huge bundles up there like diapers or 24 pack toilet paper. And I should mention there is a bin about 5 feet from the self checkout counter for people to put unwanted items..so to leave them on/around the checkout area is ridiculous. It's not like you have to walk your Organic Caesar Dressing buying ass to the salad aisle again..you just take 5 steps and chuck it in a bin. Easy as pie.

Anyway, this is how I always felt about it.

And then today I was picking up a few items for tonight and I was running SUPER late and I was late from lunch a few times last week so I am trying to pull it together and get everything done in a timely fashion. I brought my basil and coffeemate and eggs and one sweet red pepper to the counter and was scanning everything through when I realized my pepper was horribly bruised. So i put it down on the counter and went to pay for my other stuff, meaning to grab it on my way out and chuck it into the bin as I walked by.

But of course I forgot.

And I might have forgotten about it completely but as I was leaving, some nice (and by nice i mean psychotic and challenged) young man hadn't stepped in front of me and said "Ma'am..your pepper!" really loudly.

"Oh yeah" I mumbled (super guilty), "I actually don't want it, it's all bruised".

Crazy Man starts grumbling about "don't take it if you don't want to buy it" and then picks it up, looks at it for a second and tells/yells at me "it's not even that bruised".

Are you kidding me?

"Yeah well its your problem now" I said, and walked my pepper-leaving self out of the store and away from the angry man holding what I PROMISE was a severly bruised pepper.

Oh yeah, and I have definitely mentioned this Crazy Man before. I am at least glad that despite his anger at the self-checkout using world, he is still able to hold onto a job.

And maybe next time I see someone leave a piece of fruit or a bottle of dressing at the counter, I won't shoot them a nasty look and roll my eyes. But will instead smile and secretly hope that Crazy Man is around, and that he notices.

I am still bleary eyed and reeling from the gorgeous glamour explosion from last night. it ended early enough (11:30ish) but I was then so wound up from the suspense and all the vintage dresses that I couldn't sleep until after 1!

Let's see.....(via Oscars.com)



hate john galliano...but love charlize too much to really hate this dress.



perfect. simply perfect. and this is the kind of Dior i can get behind



i say ethereal. andy says "cracked out". tomato, tomato (wait...that doesn't really work unless you say it out loud....)



love the brooch. and love the black tie..i much prefer a black suit with a regular length black tie as opposed to a tux & bow tie although i think a bow tie has it's time and place



and that place is on Clooney.


so to recap: so glad Reese won, Brokeback was robbed, Ang Lee is the cutest, poor Lauren Bacall, and I really wish Jennifer Garner fell.

Last night Jenny and I headed over to the Sons of Italy Hall in Braintree to congratulate our friend Brian on his graduation from Police Academy. We drank, we caught up with other Braintrees (including a very fabulous Caity who then came with us to Fuji where all good girls go to close out their night).

All in all? A great night!

(please note my mom-hands on Brian! "son, we are so proud of you")

(please also note the recent deluge of picture posting on this blog. and i just upgraded to FLickr Pro so it is ALL DOWNHILL FROM HERE. all pictures, all the time. be afraid)

If you are like me, meaning are you fascinated with super-filthy-crazy-rich people, then you should check out the Forbes Richest People of 2005 List.


They are not exactly the hottest lights on the tree ( I am serious, Bill Gates is the best looking one. And look at this dude's teeth )


But still, billions and billions of dollars can make a gal forget about things like clean teeth and eyes that both face forward.


I feel like Holly GoLightly pickin' out my next husband!

Seriously, what's more annoying than a man on a diet?

Nothing.

I should mention that I am of the opinon that if you (man OR woman) are on a diet, you should keep it to yourself unless explicitly asked about it. No one wants to be regaled with stories of calorie counting and tryglicerides and high protein shakes. The fact that you are eating an oat bran pita is probably enough to garner some kind of attention alone (have you tried that shit? NASTY) so you don't need to bring up the fact that the reason you are eating it is because you are on an 800 calorie a day diet and are watching your fat intake and blahzay blah.

Casually mentioning you are trying to eat healthier? Fabulous
Constantly talking about fat content and counting other people's calories for them? SO Unfabulous

Anyway, nothing is more annoying (to me, anyway) than a man talking about how he maintains his pant size. I don't know if it is because I already have it in my head that it is easier for men to lose weight than women so to brag about how you fit into pants that I haven't been able to fit into since middle school is just a teeny insulting.

I bring this up because yesterday I was pouring myself a cup of coffee when my boss came in and told me she had a present for me. She opened the fridge and there was a full bottle of Coffeemate, hazlenut flavor. My favorite!! We hardly ever have such goodies around here, and I merrily began drinking my newly flavored and delicious coffee back at my desk. A moment later a male coworker walked by and paused, sniffed the air and said "Did you put chocolate in your coffee?". "No, it's hazlenut coffeemate" I told him.

"Oh it smells like it has a ton of fat in it".

What kind of crap is that? Has the human nose evolved so much on some people that it can sniff out fat content (incorrectly I might add since 2 tablespoons have 1.5 grams)?

"Um, I guess. I love it though" I told him, not wanting to get in a dietary arguement with Mr. Oat Bran Pita.

"I love it too, but I put that in my coffee every day I wouldn't be able to fit in my pants".

Ew! Right? Even if it's true, why would I care about it? You probably put oat bran in your coffee anyway.

As usual. What cannot be expressed eloquently in words, can be succinctly expressed in MS Paint

So, in normal behind-the-cinematic-times fashion, I finally saw Mystic River. I have to say I was highly dissapointed because 1) There were a lot of loose ends not tied up at the end, 2) I did not cry* although i fully expected to, and I mean I am a crier. I can't leave the house after watching "Legends of the Fall" because my face is so puffy. But regardless. 3) After discussing it with Andy we determined that the people who made the movie kind of assumed that whoever watched it read the book, so if you did not, you may have been like "Wait wtf?" like myself. Or maybe not. Maybe Sean Penn's enourmous boxy head was enough for you. That's fine too.

Anyway my main beef with this movie is not that it didn't make me cry, or that it is a poor man's "Sleepers" or that I still don't understand why Sean Penn didn't get arrested...

It's the Boston accents.

Now it's really time for some "wtf?".

Maybe it's because I had a Boston accent for so long (which I struggled to get rid of but it still comes out when I have been drinking or am super mad), but I don't understand why it is so hard to affect one. Seriously it seemed like a concerted effort for these actors NOT to say "r". And when it is done wrong, it is SO WRONG.


And don't get me wrong, I don't even like Boston accents especially (and forgive me if this is sexist) on women. But even I was feeling "Oh no you didn't!" about the accents in this film. Laura Linney did a disservice to any woman who speaks/has ever spoken with the Boston Accent. It was basically a cross between Frances McDormand in Fargo, and Kathy Bates in any Stephen King movie, with some kind of New York twang thrown in.

It was just WRONG.

I propose from now on, if you are not FROM Boston, do not star in a movie where you have to speak with a Boston accent.

Really, it makes me a little uncomfortable.






(*although I am willing to admit I might not have cried because Adam was staring at me, and when someone stares at me during a movie I cannot cry. The summer before 10th grade (i think?) I was away all summer, and when I came back , The Lion King had just come out and all my friends had seen it but we went again to see it anyway since I had not, and my friend Pat was all "omg, when Mufasa dies you will SOB!" so when it got to that movie i did start to tear up, but i looked out of the corner of my eye and saw Pat turned in his seat, full on facing me waiting for the waterworks, and suddenly I could not. I have been like that ever since.)

So, I tend to be a little disorganized.

Shocking, right?

There are patterns in the chaos but overall the natural state of being of my "stuff" is to be strewn about where only I can find it. I'm working on this, but with a small apartment it is even harder to attempt to stay organized. And after one and a half years in my current apartment I am ready to ask for help.

Now, I won't burden you with my shoe/handbag solution because the 6 ft tall shoe rack/under the bed rubbermaid bins are solving those catastrophes for now. And my clothes were always an issue even when I lived at home and had tons of room. I manage to always find room for more dishes/wineglasses/kitchen appliances so that is not the real issue.

The real issue are my HBAs (health and beauty aides)


I know in that picture they look pretty in innocuous but 1) i had JUST spent 20 minutes organizing and 2)after that picture was taken, Adam's sister in law gave me two huge bags of Matrix hair products and OPI nail polish and various lotions.

I am limited to the space shown for ALL of these products. There is literally no other room to put anything. I keep my rollers/curles/hair applainces above the cabinet so at least those are not taking up too much precious space. But i need organizational help and I need it now. I have too much makeup to keep it all in a bag like my mother suggests, and I switch up which body lotion and/or hair product I use on a regular basis depending on my mood so everything needs to be readily accesible.

Does California Closets do cabinets?

So I just want some advice on how you stay organized in this department. Especially from people who live in apartments and have space issues anyway.