Today was one of those days...

... and totally in a good way.

There was bounce in my step. If my hair were long enough, it would have swung rhythmically with my stride. I could faintly hear the theme song to "Stayin' Alive" as the soundtrack to my strut.

I thought at first it was my renewed interest in actually burning some calories post-holiday since I am still carrying around the 8 pieces of poundcake I ate while I was home, but I decided perhaps no.

Or maybe, I thought, it was the shoes.

New shoes! I bought four pairs when I was at home for Thanksgiving. Three of those pairs of shoes were necessary for work-appropriate fashion that didn't involve me still wearing business casual from the ankles up, and slip-on sneakers with skulls on them from the ankles down like my look circa October.

Three purchases were necessary, and I've worn already. One sensible, two mildly sensible (sort of--
flat is sensible. And metallics are the modern neutral, right?).

But then.

There was the impulse buy. A steal, no less, at a crazy sale price that made my knees weaken.

I bought grapey suede wedge heels. With a twee bow on the heel in matching grosgrain ribbon.

So wondrous, these shoes be, not one but TWO very nice ladies stopped me on the street to say so.

It made me wag my foot at all my female friends (and some poor, unprepared males too) and say "See? Don't you see?".

If you could package that, just about any lady would ask for a box of "excuse me, but where did you get THOSE SHOES?!" for Christma-Kwanza-kkuh.

Or for "Wednesday". Whichever.

It was a sad, sad day.

I just found a few things about my Veronica Mars boyfriend, Jason Dohring. He's super-cute and when his character, Logan, says smarmy things, I lap it up like my rightful inner 15 year-old does ice cream on a proverbial Saturday night.

There are four facts about him below. Guess which one is a lie?

a.) He is married.

b.) His dad owns Neopets.

c.) He and Zach Braff and Peter Krause are Jake Gyllenhaal's REAL best friends. None of this Mattew McConaughey and Lance Armstrong nonsense.

d.) He's a scientologist.

Sadly, the lie is c.) but it's d.) that upsets me the most. Even though c.) involves ALL my Hollywood boyfriends. Suck.

I'm a little tea pot

Tomorrow, my family is hosting Thanksgiving. We are 5 in my immediate family.

Around 5pm, TWENTY of our nearest and dearest are descending upon our humble abode, and that's only one side of the family with some family members missing.

My mother is making 5 desserts. Just in case. She feels like a bit of a failure for not making pound cake AND chocolate cake to accompany the medley of pies to be displayed.

So, I've been helping out as best I can, but apparently, not correctly.

As I was dusting tonight, I was using "too much pledge" and had to be reminded to "spray it ON THE rag" but not "near the floor" or slipping is eminent. You pledge with SIDEWAYS motions and with SPARINGLY spritzed amounts, dusting the surface first and THEN progressing to the items that reside there.

I turned around, and told her "you know, last week I told so-and-so that he was a control freak in a meeting. I meant it with love, and I'm telling you now. Also, with love."

Mom turned around and looked fake-shocked. This is a skill we all have perfected. The huffy, fake-shocked pout.

To back-peddle with a bit of humor, I told her the rest of the story: How so-and-so countered with "ring ring! ring ring! Hello Kettle? IT'S POT!"

Mom laughed. She said, "that's good. I'll have to use that one!"

And like that, Shifty saved me from being grown-up grounded.

And then for the rest of the evening, it was a joke. Mom would pick up the tea kettle and wag it at me while fake-chastising me to "watch out for the pledge on the floor!".

This is what happens when anal-retentive people have anal-retentive children. I had to pledge the whole house and arrange things in the medicine cabinets neatly, because my mother heard on Oprah that 60% of people dig through other people's medicine cabinets when they are visiting.

The labels are facing just so.

Like mother, like daughter I suppose.

why was I so angsty as a teenager?

SERIOUSLY. WHY?

Home is glorious. I am at home now. I am sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop while my father reads the paper and has some Hershey miniatures. He's like clockwork. He'll have a lemonade (now that he's given up tea and iced-tea products for health reasons) and a bowl of pretzels in 4 hours and then hit the sac. It's so easy here.

And delicious!

I had a steak sandwich for dinner, and it was perfect. It was so nice to have it right.

Imagine: a world where you don't have to PREFACE that NO, SIR, I would NOT like mayo, lettuce, tomato, or mustard on your steak sandwich. Just steak, onions and goop that may or may not have once been a cheese-like substance.

It's a thing. When I come home, there's a list of people I have to see. Family. Friends. Franzone's Pizza. It's like home to me, that pizza place. I might want to have my funeral party there. Or my wedding, I can't tell.

Keep that in mind for the story I have regarding the chinatown bus and my trip back to the glorious Filth-a-delphia. It rocks.

here's a sneak peak.

More delicious than a butterscotch krimpet

On Saturday night in New York visiting friends, I went to a lil old post-hipster dance party. It was like I died and had gone to heaven. It was better than a butterscotch krimpet, and having been raised in a Tastykake kinda town, I can assure you that translates into serious business.
It was Britpop night with more Justin Timberlake. It was cheesy 80's tunes with more Nirvana. It was $4-PBRs-worth-it to see a beautiful man in a police hat and the teeniest, tiniest kilt and fishnets. The bathroom was bright gold and my feet are still sore from all the bopping around. They played BREED right after Girls & Boys and before some Prince for crying out loud.

But Nirvana! I couldn't tell you the last time I have listened to Nirvana, especially in my "adult life". It was like 1992 had smacked my fushia legging-ed self with an old flannel shirt.

Hearing Nirvana made me haul out all my pre-2000 CD's when I got home. Has it been all these years really since I took down my Kurt Cobain poster? Since I listened to Kula Shaker while driving my 1987 Honda Accord? It feels like yesterday.

When I was dancing it's amazing how the words came back so easily (thanks, PBR!). Jumping up and down SCREAMING "we can plant a house we can build a tree!" was easier to recall than state capitols at Quiz Night. I think at the end of the night my throat hurt worse than my calves.

Which says a lot. Trust me.

So now high school Katastrophe is the soundtrack, and it's hard not to re-live some angst. And Tastykakes are on sale at CVS.

Trouble abound.

I don't know what to think

Someone found my blog by googling:

"I'm wasting my life away".

If you google that, I'm #3.

#3.

For wasting one's life.

Yup.

According to the air-heady-voiced twenty-something on the Metro

she LOVES! some things. The way she said "LOVE!" is unlike anything I've ever heard. It's written in pink, loopy lettering in the word bubble of her after-school cartoon special. It's fuzzy like fleece and soft like a baby's cheek. It smells like unicorns and tastes like strawberries.

She LOVES!

her neighborhood (Shaw)
hotels
chocolate
metro


In my brain, she also LOVES!

kitties!
lollipops!
Days of our Lives!
Satan.

Help me oh internets

So, say you lived in a wonderfully cheap apartment building. You love your apartment, but the neighbor above won't give you much rest (hello, VACUUMING BEFORE 9AM ON A SATURDAY MORNING).

You beg and plead with God to make her stop. You sleep with the air conditioner on even in the fall so that there's some white noise cover.

You shake your fist. Hourly. MUST YOU WEAR YOUR STILETTOS INDOORS?

You told her about herself already ONCE.

You practice conversations with yourself to figure out exactly how to come off like you mean business without sounding like a TOTAL bee-yotch for the NEXT time.

And then God smiles upon you.

A crooked, crooked, smile.

My landlady informed me that someone on the TOP (TIPPY TOP) floor is moving out. She knew I was only half moved in, and figured she'd ask to see if I wanted to move upstairs.

On paper, sounds PHENOMENAL. Same building, but the sunnier side. Same lay out. Same rent. Park view (over a smaller building, but still).

The catch?

That apartment is surrounded by old people who chain smoke in their places and that smoke travels up. INTENSELY. The smell of smoke pours from her kitchen sink, seeps through her closets, and stains her windows black. She spends $30 on candles a month to cover up the odor. She fabreezes herself before she goes to work. She has already had her couch cushions dry cleaned. She changes her sheets every 4 days so they don't reek.

I enjoy a cigarette socially every now and again. Usually after a blurry-fun night. But all the time? At least Stompy goes away sometimes.

I ask you. Which is the greater evil?

Stompy or Smokey?

Lazy bones.

I am sitting at home with a pot of mac 'n' cheese balanced on my knee, enjoying the fruits of my cable bill.

This is one of my simple pleasures. Awful Kraft mac n cheese and watching equally cheesy TV. it's the cheese afternoon, brought to you by Viacom and Kraft.

I had seen some good stuff today. I saw many Mtv True life shows: "I'm a Jersey Shore girl", "I'm getting married", and right now I'm watching "I'm Obese".

I could eat the mac 'n' cheese through the first two.

The third made me put down my fork of processed, powdered cheese sauce covered white pasta and think about doing some yoga.

Yikes.

Actually, that's a lie. the "I'm a Jersey Shore Girl" made me gag a little too. I can say it. I was a Jersey Shore Girl. But I digress.

The woman on this show is breaking my heart. She used to weigh 615 and she can't do anything for herself. She doesn't seem to have any friends, and her legs look like tree stumps of thick oak trees.

I am immediately guilty for not having joined a gym yet, and go make some asparagus. Mmmm, asparagus.

After my asparagus, I realize that I just did exactly what Mtv wanted me to do. I was affected by its programming and changed my behavior.

That's crazy. I'm 24 years old, it's a.) a wee bit embarrassing that I still watch Mtv with the regularity that I do and b.) that it's old tricks still work.

Shoot.