Saturday, January 28, 2012

Listen up, Mother Nature

I am not a fan of this weather. Oh, I think the first whiff of spring after a particularly Antarctica-like January is divine, but then? Let’s get back to the business of winter. I don't like to sweat in December. Or January or February or the first three weeks of March. I like wearing tall boots and tights and leggings-not-as-pants (although I broke that rule 1 or 27 times recently) and sweaters. I enjoy my straight, frizz-free hair and the lack of humidity. Heck, I'll even take the dry skin. I have plenty of lotion in the cabinet. I'm not looking for snow and ice and everything not nice or anything, but 68°? 75°? No, thanks. I don't know how to dress for that, and that's my big gripe here.

Look good, feel good, ya know?

I should be ducking, I'm sure, from the eggs my silly little warm-weather-loving friends are throwing, but here's my secret: I stay up half the night most days, and while you're all tucked in and sweet dreaming, I'm doing the 20° dance around my apartment, hoping to counteract all of your weird I-love-mild-temperatures-in-winter vibes. Sometimes I throw a bikini into my bonfire and hula around it as a little sacrifice to the climate gods—and it is too dang hot for a bonfire right now. Brace yourselves for a mid-March cold snap. It's coming.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Stolen Funny Stuff

I'm probably the last person in the universe to discover this YouTube video, but cutting-edge comedy isn't why you keep coming back to me, now is it? I stole this from give full credit to Amy for posting originally. Even if you watched it over on the hilariously funny Vodka Cranberry Clooney, I encourage you to watch it again here. Laughing twice never hurt anyone, and besides, we really need to discuss how anyone spends nearly $14 at a Taco Bell. When you're all done, click over to Amy's blog, because I said so and she's funny and I said so. I'm feeling terribly bossy today.

Seriously. Go jump on the Amy bandwagon now, because jumping on after her book is published and she's a super famous author who spends her days with me and Erin at the Ross Bridge pool drinking overpriced daiquiris is so obvious and tacky. Happy weekend, everybody!

This is the author photo Amy's book editor has selected for the inside jacket. What? No. My being her book's editor has nothing to do with the photo selection. How silly of you to suggest something like that. We're going to do something about that flash of white from my bra. Don't worry.


Don't ask me what happened to the fall. Or the holidays. Or the month of January. I've no idea. In my head, I've written a thousand blog posts, but my memory doesn't preserve them long enough to set fingertips to keyboard so there's my excuse explanation for the absence. Yes, I recognize it's become a problem of perpetual sorts. I briefly considered a voice recorder, but I quickly squelched that idea because I loathe few things more than the sound of my own voice. Wait, that's not quite right—I loathe few things more than the sound of my own voice on a recording. Ha! Here all week, folks. (But only because the week is nearly done, and that's probably as long as this blogging roll will last.)

I swear I try.

I have no clever transition so let's just move forward. Tonight I was slumped over in bed—eating a bowl of Trader Joe's fake Rice Krispies for dinner, half-watching silent TV, half-surfing the Internet—when I suddenly became aware of the Frank Sinatra song playing on iTunes shuffle. "Strangers in the Night." And then it hit me: Bubble bath music. It's January—no, actually, January is nearly over. One more Month of Me done. Except I haven't really gotten a proper month full of slothing and no commitments and—hello—bubble baths. While listening to Frank Sinatra. Ooh, and drinking lots of Conundrum White Blend.

These people, the ones older and wiser than me, the ones who said the older you get the quicker the time starts to fly? Turns out they were right. And aging along with my seemingly current obsession of becoming the most over-committed person in the state of Alabama is a toxic blend for my already overly caffeinated system, my friends. That's why the theme of this year is Chill Out. I was only half-joking to one of my friends when I told him my New Year's resolution was "don't make any new friends." It's nice to have lots of friends. I'm not ungrateful. Nor am I patting myself on the back for having acquired those friends—it's not really about me, it's the natural progression of doing new things and meeting new people. But when I'm unable to keep up with those good friends I care about, unable to be a true friend to them, I begin to wonder what the point is. The numbers game, it's not so fun to win it.

Luckily Amanda has stepped in to fill the role of social secretary. Not in the sense that all requests go through her. That would be awfully presumptuous of me. No, instead she'll basically step into my sister's position of being the boss of me. Stop me from taking on too much. Help me learn to say no. Or hella no, as the case may necessitate. Or maybe just say no for me. So please direct all the tough questions to her. I'm going to take a bubble bath.