Lessons I Learned from my Dad

I realize not everyone has the privilege of growing up with the world's greatest dad as I did, so in honor of this past Father's Day, I'd like to share with you some of the things I've learned from my father.  Below is a copy of the letter I wrote him as Hallmark could never relay my true sentiments.  If you are blessed with a wonderful father, thank God for him everyday.  If not, hopefully you'll learn a thing or two from my personal experiences.  (Also, if you have the great pleasure of knowing my dad personally, this list shouldn't surprise you even one tiny little bit!)   ; )

Dad,
In celebration of your 34 years as my father, I’ve created a list of things I’ve either:
learned, experienced, or cherished from or because of YOU, one of my favorite and most important men in my life.  So here goes…
34.  If duct tape cannot fix it, throw it away—it is beyond repair.
33.  the unbeatable sound of a real Martin guitar—thanks for the “G” chord.
32.  the art of quoting movies in daily conversation as a result of watching them too many times to count, right, Captain Ron?
31.  that a child should grow up learning such culture as how to hit a 10-yard putt with precision from her own backyard putting green—that’s more important than learning how to swim.   ; )
30.  that whiskey cures pretty much any ailment—from a headache to a toothache to a rattlesnake bite.
29.  that it’s important to always be aware of your surroundings, thus, not an easy target for an attacker, to face the door in a public establishment and to know the exact number of airline seats to the nearest exit.
28.  that one should never “quit on a garment” simply because it’s what some would consider threadbare, worn out or ragged.  The sign of wear just adds character.  If it has a hole in the crotch area, (see item #34 on this list)—duct tape.
27.  the extensive uses of PVC pipe…everything from a golf ball catapult to the structure of a perfectly mobile and light-up UFO.  Also, science fair projects come with the territory of being a parent and thus, cannot be avoided.
26.  that a front porch is the best place for meditation, philosophizing, reflection and making good music.
25.  that you should always keep a watchful eye while cooking beans on the stove when Mom’s out of town and the smoke detector batteries are good (impromptu backyard campout, anyone?)
24.  that we don’t believe in doing things half-assed. We do big, bold, lots of color.  Honey, we don’t do natural.
23.  that everyone is a sinner in need of a loving Savior.
22.  that lying, cheating and stealing are signs of poor character and simply will not be tolerated; however, Xeroxing $100 bills for pretend “business” is completely acceptable and encouraged.
21.  that a red velvet armadillo cake is a must have for a girl’s sweet 16 birthday party.
20.  that most high school math is unnecessary in real life and that no one really cares or needs to know when the proverbial “trains A and B leave the station.”
19.  that physical affection (ie. hugs, kisses and Eskimo kisses) speaks louder than words.
18.  that one should never stay inside her comfort zone.  Talk to people on elevators, make someone smile every day and most importantly, make people LAUGH.
17.  to stand out from the crowd and always be true to yourself  (ie. simply don’t  give a rat’s ass what other people think of you).
16.  that anything (and I mean ANYthing) can be transformed with a coat of spray paint—shoes included!
15.  that growing old is inevitable, but growing up is a choice…and when it comes to picking out a Christmas tree, think like a kid—the bigger the better!
14.  that every aspiring singer needs her own spotlight-equipped stage in the backyard.
13.  that saying you’re going to do something means you’re going to do it—and if you’re going to do it, you may as well do it right the first time.
12.  that family is the most important thing in this life.
11.  to learn how to sing by spending my childhood on a backyard tree swing made out of rope and a 2x4.
10.  that a frozen TV dinner does not constitute a meal, so everyone should learn how to cook….and also, chicken can and WILL be cooked any and every way, 365 days a year during the first year while learning.
9.  that you “can’t take it with you” so you may as well enjoy your hard-earned money while you can—this means good food & wine regardless of the price tag….and if Mom never sees the receipt, it didn’t happen! (also, every girl needs to know the importance of volatizing the esters).
8.  that a fiddle contest is a perfectly good way to spend a Saturday afternoon.
7.  what REAL award-winning chili should taste like.
6.  that you can NEVER have too much toilet paper.
5.  an example of the kind of man I should marry.
4.  the importance of music and chasing my dreams, no matter how ambitious or impossible to achieve they may seem—and that I can do or be anything I want if I put my mind to it.
3.  that every man should have a perm and/or a ponytail at some point in his life.
2.  that a little girl’s dollhouse should not be anything short of a masterpiece that takes several years to complete.
And the number #1 thing I’ve learned….
1.  that no matter how old I get, I’ll always be your baby girl.

Happy 34^th Father’s Day to the best daddy a girl could ever dream of having—truly.
I love you more than my Louboutins!
Love,
Cassie
June 2015

Unless you’ve been living in a cave for the past several decades or were recently thawed out and unearthed from the Ice Age, chances are, you have heard of the Kardashians.  ”Why are they famous?” you may ask.  My simple and honest response: “I have no idea.”  You should know that I am somewhat in tune with pop culture, Hollywood celebrities, and the fashion world—I blame it on the day job.  It’s quite possible I could take it as a sign that I read too many fashion magazines because I’m certainly not watching  Access Hollywood on a nightly basis.  I just happen to have a gift for retaining useless knowledge, trivia and famous names.  Even though I possess a wealth of said unimportant knowledge, I still found myself googling “Why are the Kardashians famous?”

The short answer is this: their father, Robert Kardashian, was the famous attorney who represented OJ Simpson during the most publicized murder trial of the 90s.  That’s it.  Period.  I guess this just goes to show that, in life, it really is all about who you know.  Sure, the Kardashian sisters may get publicity for their long, dark flowing locks (which I can assure you are as fake as the breasts of all the Beverly Hills Housewives).  Their striking dark features enable them to stand out among the typical blonde bombshell type that resides in Malibu beach houses.  Other than that, they’ve simply gained their place in the public eye as a result of the family they were born into.  And if we’re being totally honest—it’s quite a train wreck of a family.

In a world where true talent abounds but often goes unnoticed and/or undiscovered, it’s rather disconcerting that talentless individuals grace the spotlight, basking in undeserved fame and fortune.  Call me a snob, but I don’t think one’s pedigree should influence his/her celebrity status.  Namely, one Paris Hilton.  She may be famous (or rather, infamous) for her wealthy ancestral line, but she hasn’t done one credible thing to earn her celebrity status.  Party going and posing in newspaper tabloids does not a celebrity make.  Or does it?Apparently, all you need to do these days in order to gain widespread attention is film and accidentally leak a scandalous sex tape.

Instantly, you’re catapulted into the spotlight, securing your spot on celebrity A lists, at which point, you’re free to marry other fame-seeking idiots and have a child who you will forever punish by giving him the most God-awful name known to exist (but that’s another topic for another time).  Now I’m fully prepared to receive hate mail from those of you who think Kanye West’s musical talent and Kim’s physical beauty entitle them to the fame and fortune they so enjoy, and I’m totally okay with that.  Let’s just agree to disagree on that right up front.  But regardless of Kanye’s talent as a musician, he has got to be one of the rudest, most self-absorbed individuals that ever graced the cover of a magazine, and Kim’s beauty is no more impressive than that of Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor, or other  Hollywood starlets who didn’t need a seedy sex tape to gain public attention.  In short, someone for youngsters of today to call role models? I hardly think so.

At the end of the day, who really cares about “keeping up with the Kardashians?”  We are living in a world where the very same people who could tell you the name of Kim’s and Kanye’s baby (poor child) couldn’t in the same breath tell you who our current vice president is or list the three branches that make up the United States government.  Now please don’t misunderstand my rant—I’m not opposed to famous people receiving deserved recognition for utilizing their God-given talents and putting forth effort and hard work in chasing their dreams.  I’m simply sick and tired of celebrities gaining notoriety for nothing more than the prestige of their surnames.  Call me blunt, but I just have to say it.  Kim, your fifteen minutes of fame is wearing a little long and, quite frankly, I’m ready for your time to be up.

Facebook is a Drug, & Mark Zuckerberg is My Dealer

They say the first step is admitting you have a problem, so here goes..."My name is Cassie, and I'm addicted to social media."  Whew, that takes a load off my shoulders.  I didn't realize I even HAD a problem until recently when my husband asked, "Hypothetically, what would you do if you didn't have Facebook?"  Then and only then--when my heart stopped for an ever so brief second--did I realize that perhaps I should give credence to his accusations that Facebook is taking over my life.

It all started as a way to keep in touch with classmates from my past and family who lives over 1,000 miles away--a "like" here, a comment there.  Over the years, however, it's morphed into an obsession (okay maybe "obsession" is too strong a word---or is it?) where I find myself constantly taking part in quizzes to discover my spirit animal, what type of candy I am, my strongest personality trait or  which famous actress should play me in a movie version of my life.  Can you say, time waster?

What was originally intended to keep me informed about the comings and goings of friends and family now has me feeling as though I've constantly got to let the world know what I'm eating for dinner or what I'm doing (or not doing) on a rainy Saturday night.  I've also heard it said that "Comparison is the thief of joy."  Well, how hard is it to look at picture after picture of gorgeous families in their perfect homes, enjoying the company of their just-as-perfect friends?  I'll answer that one for you--it's very hard.  But I'm not so naive as to think it's all a bowl of cherries, 24/7.  After all, no one ever posts the bad stuff on Facebook.  No one posts pictures of hangovers or their new Christmas pajamas after their sick child has projectile vomited on them.  No one posts about the gut-wrenching heartache they're going through as a result of yet another negative pregnancy test or a pending divorce.  No siree--it's all rainbows, unicorns and giant multicolored lollipops here in Facebookland.

I don't typically make New Years resolutions as there's no quicker way to set yourself up for failure and the disappointment that follows shortly thereafter; however, I am going to try to limit my exposure time to Facebook.  With that being said, if you don't see me documenting my day in 2-hour increments in the coming months, just know that I haven't died.  I'm simply working on kicking my so-called addiction.  I plan to live real life and not fall victim to the pressures and unrealistic expectations Facebook projects upon me to live a picture-perfect existence because, let's face it, life is messy.  Now if only there was a like button for that resolve in a social-media-free life.

Pixie Regret

I've never been one to associate my identity with my hair, but a recent decision to chop off my locks into a "chic" pixie cut has left me feeling less than confident.  Any girl who has ever left the salon in tears knows all too well there's something traumatic about a bad haircut.  Don't get me wrong--I thought about it for weeks and decided I was finally ready for something different.  My short, angled bob, which I've been sporting for the better part of a decade, needed a little sprucing up.  So after scouring Pinterest for "short, sassy cuts," I booked my usual stylist and counted the days 'til my appointment and my new style.

The stylist assured me she could recreate the hairstyle in the photo I showed her, so I took a deep breath and told her to just go for it--knowing all too well that my new husband would hate it.  Just like the typical guy, he prefers long, luscious locks. However, I have learned in 33 years that you have got to work with what ya got.  I can thank my grandmother and mom for my limp, poker-straight, baby-fine hair, and I've finally come to embrace it.  After cutting my long hair post high school, I've never looked back.  I know I am better suited for short hair.  Plus, I have a short-hair personality. BUT--and this is a huge but--I am not a celebrity.  As such, those adorable, choppy pixie cuts that have been making waves in Hollywood of late are not meant for the common gal. Damn you, Jennifer Lawrence, Kaley Cuoco, Sienna Miller and Michelle Williams!  Why do you make it look so good and so easy?  You are false advertisers and I want my money back.

So needless to say, I left the salon with less hair and less dignity than when I arrived.  The trendy, sassy, chic look I was going for turned out more like a cross between an 8-year-old boy and a 40-something soccer mom, minus the kids and minivan.  While we are hoping to start a family soon, I have zero intention of ever opting for an unsexy minivan.  On my way home, I stopped for a quick bite at Whataburger, and the high school kid at the window referred to me as "ma'am," so I took that as a good sign.  He still identified me as female--score one for me (I guess).

 I recently read that a bad haircut is like a prison sentence, and you have nothing but time to think about what you've done during the growing-out process.  I couldn't agree more.  So while I've stocked up on biotin, prenatal vitamins and anything I think could possibly aid in hair growth, I still have to look at this stranger every single day in the mirror, and I have no hope for the warden to release me from this short-hair hell even in light of good behavior.  All I have is time.  Time to learn how to style this damn pixie cut while I wait for it to grow, and God knows I have purchased every spray wax, sticky goo and molding paste to make the task more manageable.

In the meantime, let me give you some advice for what not to say to me when your "Wow, you cut your hair!" comments are met with shrugged shoulders, a bowed head and a disapproving look.  Yes, I know it's only hair and it will grow back.  However, that does not ease the pain, and your pointing out the obvious only makes me want to take a pair of scissors to your gorgeous Rapunzel-like locks so that you, too, can share in my misery.  Telling me that I'm simply not used to it also doesn't make me feel any better about my little boy haircut.  Well guess what, I have at least a year to "get used to it," so perhaps there is the silver lining?  Advising me that perhaps I haven't learned how to style it also doesn't ease the tension.  What, are you offering to teach me?  Because if not, thanks for validating my fears that I do, in fact, bear a strong resemblance to Justin Bieber's little brother!
And one more thing, comments such as "Well, you said you wanted a pixie cut" and "I told you not to cut your hair" only make me want to flat-out punch you in the face.  At what point in your life did someone tell you that "I told ya so's" were EVER met with a positive outcome?

So yes, maybe I am a little bitter about my decision and perhaps I will be a tad bit bitchier over the next 11 or 12 months because I can't walk around with a paper sack over my head.  So sue me!  I'm doing time in bad-hair prison with no chance of parole.  The only hope I have of bringing even an ounce of femininity back to my look is through cute clothes and tons of fabulous shoes.  Thank God I don't have to walk around this prison in an orange jumpsuit because orange isn't my color.  Let's face it--I don't even think orange looks good on celebrities.

Deja Blue

Several weekends ago, I hit up a local secondhand clothing boutique in Rockwall called Second Evolution, which was not surprisingly voted Dallas's best vintage resaler on the Dallas A List.  They are jam packed with all kinds of high-dollar designer jeans listed for a fraction of the cost of brand new ones.  As I scoured the overloaded racks in search of my beloved Miss Me's and Rock Revivals in my size, I was hit by a sudden feeling of "deja BLUE."  It seemed like I had done this before.  Um, that's because I had...and quite often I might add!

Apparently every single I time I go shopping for new summer tops (which I REALLY need) and strappy sundresses (which I don't), I unknowingly wind up in the denim department, trying on yet another pair of blue jeans--which I really, really don't need!  I guess I've just become one of those people who can't refuse designer jeans if I happen to be able to score them at a major discount; thus, my closet is embarrassingly well stocked.

I have lost count when it comes to the number of pairs of jeans I currently own, unlike shoes, which I pride myself on the actual (obscene) number.  We all have our vices, right?  But when it comes to jeans, I justify my borderline obsession by the fact that jeans are (and thankfully, always will be) a fashion STAPLE.  They go with absolutely anything and everything.  Plus, I get to wear them to work every day if I want to.  That simple equation adds up to the fact that I can never have too many pairs, right?  A rhetorical question--please don't answer.  Well, I guess it also depends on who you ask.  I'm fairly certain my mother would have a mild heart attack if she knew just how much money I had invested in my jeans collection even though they were (mostly) purchased at less than full price.  There are just so many styles, cuts and washes--and the pocket embellishments?  Don't even get me started.

When it comes to shopping for jeans, I always recommend that you purchase your jeans just a tad bit snug.  They will loosen and stretch with every wear, eventually conforming to your body like a second skin.  Notice I said snug--not so skintight that getting dressed in the morning requires throwing yourself back on the bed while squirming and making groaning sounds like a cat in heat just to get those jeans over your hips and butt.  * Please note, however, that the universal "jeans stretch" is 100% okay.  I know you know exactly what I'm referring to--those crazy, lunge-like motions and contorted yoga poses that help expedite the stretching of your just-removed-from-the-dryer, temporarily tight jeans.  Every morning, I fear Jeremy will walk into the closet and witness this ridiculous-looking act, but it's a necessary evil for all denim-sporting individuals.  I digress.

If you are like me and can't seem to shake the urge to splurge on denim, at least take my advice and satisfy your cravings at discount retailers.  Forgo Dillards, the Buckle and pricey western stores, and instead, shop at discount retailers, "resalers" and the like.  I also recommend Poshmark, a free downloadable clothing app on your phone that allows fellow fashionistas to buy and sell gently used (and sometimes new) clothing and accessories at unbelievable low prices.  I got one of my fave pairs of Rock Revivals there for only $60--and if you think that's a lot, you better sit down when I tell you they typically retail for at least $150 and above.  It's crazy, I know.  I could never drop that kind of cash on a single pair of jeans.  Same goes for True Religion.  I picked up a pair of those trendy jeans on Poshmark for about only $70.

Also, if you happen to find yourself in Rockwall or McKinney with time to kill, hit up Second Evolution--you won't be disappointed!  Other places to check out are Platos Closet and other secondhand retailers in the more upscale (read: rich) cities.  You're more likely to find better-quality clothing in the ritzy parts of town.

The moral?  Repeat after me, "Paying full price for designer jeans is ridiculous."  Plus, savings wads of cash on jeans comes with certain merited bragging rights.  You know there's nothing better than responding to a friend's sincere compliments with a smug, "Thanks, I got them at (insert retailer here) for half price!"

So yes, I may have an addiction to jeans shopping, but at least I hunt for bargains.  And jeans really do hold up for quite a long time if you take good care of them.  God forbid I should gain an ounce and not be able to fit into my designer collection--even after I have tried and failed in my attempts to loosen the stubborn fabric with jean-stretching exercises.  (I joke, but I also tremble inside at the thought--oh, the horror!)  I guess the worst case scenario is that I sell/trade them in for a multitude of "new" used jeans in my current size.  And so the cycle repeats itself--allowing for, yet again, deja blue.

Small Town USA

Just the other day, a friend of mine posted a question on Facebook for her fellow mom friends to weigh in on with their opinions and household practices relating to summertime television allowances.  She wanted to know how many hours of TV their kids were allowed to watch each day in the summer.  Now I don't have kids of the two-legged kind per se, so perhaps she wasn't seeking my advice; however, that's never stopped me from dishing out my two cents' worth.  I responded, "Make those kids play outside!  That's what we did as kids in the summertime.  We built forts, rode our bikes, got dirty and didn't come home 'til the sun went down!"  Her response? "Thanks Cassie, but when the kids are outside, I'm outside, and that's not always possible.  It's not as easy as it was when we were kids."  Well that got me to thinking--I guess times have changed and not every kid nowadays gets the privilege of experiencing small-town life out in the country as Bartonville was very much a personal "Mayberry" of sorts--only some 20+ years later.  And as I scrolled through Facebook post after Facebook post, wishing family and friends a happy Independence Day, it got me to thinking about this even more--leading me straight down memory lane.

Sure, it wasn't a totally safe and innocent world we were living in in the mid 1980s and early 90s, but for the most part, our parents didn't fear that "bad guys" would come passing through our small neighborhood in shady-looking vans to lure us away with promises of candy and ice cream.  We stuck together as a pack of kids.  Where one kid went, we all went, and I guess the idea of a mass abduction seemed pretty ridiculous--especially for a group co-led by the token bully-ish "mean kid" with a personal track record for troublemaking.

I'm pretty certain the reason I was so tan as a child is because I LIVED outside in the summertime.  When you're a kid, the sweltering Texas heat is only a minor inconvenience--it doesn't serve as a deterrent, driving you back indoors to the cool comfort of air conditioning...and us Green Oaks Estates kids played together on a daily basis.  With a kind-hearted man for a next door neighbor, we had no limits to the land we were permitted to traverse.  And the large pond atop the hill in my parents' backyard (which belonged to said neighbor) was the setting for much of our childhood play.

We fashioned old, leaning oak trees into "pirate ships," built girls-only/boys-only forts, fished for bass and went exploring, in search of adventure.  Other days, we rode bikes through the neighborhood, playing cops & robbers without ever (gasp) donning a bicycle helmet.  And I'm convinced to this day, I narrowly escaped death too many times to count on our neighbor's large backyard trampoline, which was not equipped with a safety net or protective coil coverings you'd find on equipment today.  My parents' thought was: they won't hurt themselves if we don't own a trampoline--only that didn't keep us off the neighbor kid's, which, to my way of thinking made it a moot point.  Nonetheless, nary a broken arm or leg, we jumped and tumbled without a care in the world until the evening "time-to-come-home" bell rang.  This antique bell with an old, frayed jumprope attached as a handle served as our evening summons.  Our dog just so happened to be more responsive to the bell than we were, as she often high-tailed it home while we rebelliously waited 'til the last minute possible before returning home to eat dinner together as a family around the kitchen table.  We could hear that old bell anywhere in the neighborhood, and it disappointingly served as a nightly end to playtime--at least until the following day.

Other times when we weren't traversing the banks of the pond or two-wheeling our way through the neighborhood, you could find us setting up our "businesses" on my parents' wraparound porch and peddling goods and services with sheets of hundred dollar bills my dad Xeroxed on his home office copying machine.  (If any governmental official is reading this, please take note, this was innocent "forgery" with no intent for use in real American enterprise.)  I've hidden in every imaginable nook and cranny of that old yard during endless games of hide and go seek and kick the can, and I swear I can still hear the ringing shouts of "Ollie, Ollie, oxenfree" in my memory as a fellow neighborhood kid reached the gardenhose-encircled "base," stomping on that old tin can and freeing himself from the potential danger of being tagged out.

Occasionally, we would break from our games and make the half-mile trek over the giant hill on Jeter Road to hit up the Bartonville Food Store and gas station for a couple dollars' worth of candy and Dr Peppers.  I was so sad to see that historical landmark finally close its doors for the last time several years ago when construction of a growing city forced a curvature in the road and passersby were thusly routed away from the mom and pop shop-style gas station, owned and operated by James Price and James Price Jr. since the early 70s.

I feel that symbolic event served as a reminder of what I already knew, yet wasn't readily willing to admit.  It was the end of an era, physical proof that time had passed, we had grown up and the "age of innocence" had come to conclusion.  Though my future children may not know an adventure-filled, carefree childhood in a world that is now driven by technology--what with all the lack of personal interaction and use of imagination that goes hand-in-hand with the ownership of an iphone, I will stand by the fact that such a childhood shaped their mother into the woman I am today.  Those good times and easy-going living are all I can ever wish for my children to experience someday.  So when school lets out, summer vacation commences and their whining cries of boredom begin, I'll tell them to turn off their phones, video games and TV shows--and for the love of God, go play outside!  Because it's outside in nature, on a backyard tree swing, and down by the lake amongst wooded tree forts where they'll encounter the kinds of magical experiences that will teach them about life and shape them into adults who can only wish the same experiences and memories for their children someday.

If You're Gonna Play in TEXAS...

Randy Owens of the legendary country group, Alabama, said it best..."If you're gonna play in Texas, you gotta have a fiddle in the band."  Even though these lyrics were introduced in the mid-1980s, I don't think Mr. Owens had any inkling as to the ultimate direction country music was headed and where it would inevitably end up some thirty years later.

Country music has unquestionably morphed and changed over the years from its down-home, backwoods roots--featuring "raw," heartfelt vocals and fiddle-heavy background music--to the polished, over-produced, pop-like radio "ear candy," as my dad likes to call it.  The likes of Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, and various other legends are now only a faded memory for those of us who were raised on traditional country music.  Even the superstars of yesteryear were heavily influenced by these old-time greats.  George Strait,  Randy Travis and Alan Jackson were  influenced by the likes of Lefty Frizzell, Merle Haggard and George Jones, who were themselves influenced by those older ghosts of country music past.  But with each generation comes new influence.  The stars of today, who were raised on George Strait and other singers of the 1980s, have begun to crank out albums that hardly reflect a true country music sound.  With each passing decade, country music sadly deviates further and further from its roots.

Now I'm not saying that all country music of today is bad--I'm simply stating that it has changed.  The long-lost haunting fiddle solo and soul-soothing twang of a steel guitar has been replaced by modern, computer-generated sounds.  You can catch me driving down the highway with my radio set to 99.5 or 96.3, and I'm most likely tapping my hands on the steering wheel, singing along with Luke Bryan and Blake Shelton, but that's not to say that I don't miss the "old" country music of my past.  What KLUV's "oldies" are to rock 'n roll, I fear true country music will eventually become to today's "young country"...and that makes me a little sad.  While I find today's radio music to be lacking, I'm glad to know I can always pop in an old CD and sing along with my childhood heroes, tapping my foot along to the beat of a hearty fiddle solo with a smile on my face.  It just brings back good memories.

So say what you will, but I wholeheartedly agree with the lyrics of Alabama's 1984 mega hit.   It's hard to argue with a band declared "artist of the decade," (in the 1980s) who also happens to have over 30 number one hits to their name.  And each time I hear that old song come on the radio, I'm gonna crank up the volume and declare my rights as a true southern girl...that if you're gonna play in Texas, by God, you gotta have a fiddle in the band.

Skis that (Don't) Please

With the click of the "ok" button, I was giddy at the thought of owning a brand new pair of snow skis and could hardly contain my excitement at the anticipation of their arrival within the next seven to ten business days.  You see, these weren't just any ordinary skis I had just purchased online.  They were fashion K2 Super Sweet snow skis in pink, purple and white (of course).  Now I would look like the bad-ass skier I had become over the course of the past twenty years--even though I'd only actually skied less than a dozen times in my life.

It didn't matter.  For someone as unathletically inclined as I, I skied like an Olympics gold medalist.  Okay, so maybe that's a bit of a stretch--but not much.  I reveled in my intermediate-level skiing and was anxious to prove to Jeremy, yet again, that I am not as uncoordinated as he thinks.  I impressed the hell out of him last year at Lake Tahoe, so I know he'd be equally awed as I carved those fluffly Colorado slopes like a Thanksgiving turkey with my very own equipment this time.

Mom and Dad tried to warn me not to be overzealous and order the first pair of shiny skis I saw.  "You'll hate hauling heavy skis through the airport.  Just rent for awhile until you decide what you really want."  Pish posh!  I am gonna love these skis.  How could I not enjoy skis that bear my signature color?  I don't even mind lugging them through the airport.  It will be good exercise before I hit the slopes!.......famous last words.

So the week of our ski trip arrived and it was time to check out the rental place so Jeremy could get all set up with his boots and skis for the week--the amateur.  When the rental guy looked at me and asked if I needed skis as well, I turned up my nose just a tiny bit and replied, "No thanks, I've got my own."  I think I saw a hint of surprise in his (probably stoned) baby browns.  Surely he was impressed that I was an owner...or maybe it was my imagination.  But there comes a certain satisfaction in assuring a twenty-something stoner who lived for the sport that I don't need his crappy rental Salomons for the week.

The following morning (day 1 of skiing), Jeremy and I boarded the gondola that swiftly rushed us up the mountain, and I clicked into those K2s with ease and anticipation.  I was ready to start on the nearest blue run I could find.  Why waste my time on a menial green?  Those were for "beginners."  Off I went!  I was a little surprised to find moguls on the first blue I encountered, but by God, I got this.

Then...uh oh, why aren't these skis turning with the ease and smoothness I remember?  I proceeded to make my way down the mountain with arms and legs flailing, much like that of a cat being submerged in a bathtub of tepid water against its will.  I'm not sure what took more of a beating--my out-of-shape, 32-year old body or my overinflated ego.  Either way, I realized with resentment that (sigh) Mom and Dad were right.  I rushed into this decision with reckless abandon.  Now I have to unload $700 worth of ski equipment on some other unsuspecting sap with delusions about her own skiing ability.  Well (insert colorful expletive here).

I rarely admit that my parents were right--and certainly not in a public forum such as this blog.  It's amazing what a $700 "live and learn" experience can do to break one's will.  If there hadn't been such a sizable chunk of money invested in those damn skis, I would have offered them to a random baggage handler at the airport for a measly hundred bucks just so I wouldn't have to cart those bulky SOBs home only to have them mock me while resting in the storage closet upstairs.

I honestly hope to make at least some of my money back on those wretched skis, which I can then turn into a pair or two of shiny new shoes.  I'll surely get more use out of those anyway.  Besides, I'm willing to endure physical pain for an accessory that makes me at least look good--unlike those clunky Robocop ski boots that pinch my toes in places I wasn't even aware I had nerve endings!

In the meantime, if anyone is interested in buying a pair of hardly-used, high-fashion skis, I will make you a GREAT price.  I guarantee you're gonna love 'em!

Child-Proofed Society

When I was a kid, the day following Halloween consisted of dumping the contents of my plastic orange pumpkin on the living room floor and eating mini Butterfinger after mini Snickers until every last piece was gone…or until I felt sick (whichever came first).  Of course, I would be sure to first pick out the Almond Joys and any other gross candy I could pawn off on Dad–including those orange and brown wrapped peanut butter candies that NO KID EVER ATE.  Why do they still sell those??  Anyway, I look back on my past Halloween memories with fondness and nostalgia–and also with a bit of a sweet tooth!
I was disturbed to discover recently that my mom’s friends carefully monitor the candy intake of their kids and after a few pieces, toss the remaining treats in the trash.  Oh, the horror!  All that perfectly good sugar gone to waste–not to mention the $30 or $40 each household shelled out to stock up on said treats.  Now I’m all for preventing your kids from running amok and eating everything in the house (are you aware of the ridiculousness that is childhood obesity in this country??).  However, can’t we reserve a single day of the year to let kids indulge their desires until they puke?  I started thinking about how much has changed since I was a kid in the early 80s.  (Pause for a moment as I climb up here on my soapbox.)  Hello, down there.  So as I was saying, it’s amazing how times have changed in the past 20+ years.  When I played  tee ball as a kid, we kept score.  What a concept.  There was a winning team and a losing team, and no one gave a crap about how losing the game might affect our future self esteem.  So we all got to play regardless of our skills (we were three years old, after all–so we all pretty much sucked).  My point is, though, that no one tiptoed around our feelings by preventing us from failing.  There were three strikes and then you were out.  Period.  None of this “you get as many strikes as it takes” business.  My goodness, we would still be sitting in the bleachers at that ball field, waiting on some kid to finally make contact with the ball, perched atop the rubber tee.  How do I know this?  BECAUSE I STRUCK OUT.  Looking back on it now, I laugh at how I managed to strike out in tee ball.  What does that say about my eye-to-hand coordination that I couldn’t hit a stationary ball off a tee?  Even still, striking out at age three hasn’t hindered my adulthood success in any way.  If nothing else, it taught me that I am not going to achieve pro status at everything I try in life, but the point is to simply try.



Whenever I visit my child-rearing friends’ houses, I can barely open the fridge or a cabinet for all the child-proofing devices.  God forbid I need to plug in my iphone to charge because I’d first have  to remove the protective cover to the electrical outlet.  Please don’t mistake me–I believe in protecting kids from danger.  I wouldn’t allow my unborn children to play with matches or juggle knives, but I do  think we’ve taken protective practices a tad bit too far.  You may find it interesting to know that I once stuck a metal key in an electrical outlet when I was about two or three years old.  It shocked the $#&* out of me, but you know what?  I never did it again.  Live and learn.



You’ll be happy to know that I’m a strong proponent of seat belts.  In fact, I never ride in a car without mine buckled, but I find it interesting that many cars didn’t even come equipped with seat belts back in the day.  We would climb over our siblings in the backseat, all the while yelling and fighting on long road trips.  God bless my parents!  If I was feeling particularly bratty (oh, how I reveled in aggravating my big brother), I dared cross the unseen but very real “dividing line” in the backseat that was put in place to keep us from killing each other (and of course, to keep my parents remotely sane).
I also spent the better part of my childhood riding my bicycle up and down potholed-riddled streets, and not once did I don a goofy-looking bicycle helmet.  However, I’m yet to drive through my current neighborhood and cross paths with a child riding his/her bike helmetless.  I just feel like parents are overly protective of their children these days.  A child may fall off his/her bike, but chances are, they won’t sustain life-threatening injuries as a result of scrapes and scratches.  Such experiences and minor injuries help build character.
Perhaps someday, when I have my own children, I’ll be forced to eat these very words.  It’s possible I could become an overbearing, overprotective mama hen to my kids–the exact type that currently annoys me to no end.  But for now, my biggest personal concern is not raising a future generation of whiny, sissy kids that feel a sense of entitlement and demand an easy life with everything handed to them on a silver platter.  To the contrary, it’s keeping my dog, Charlie, from falling into the swimming pool.  But please know that, in order to prevent a potential drowning, I once threw him in the pool and forced him to become familiar with the tanning ledge step, should he fall in someday when we aren’t home.  He needs to know how to swim to the edge of the pool if an accident occurs.  You can’t teach a baby bird how to fly without pushing him out of the nest and forcing him to spread his wings.  It may be harsh, but it’s true.

Shoes, My Solemate

Much like the proverbial tree falling in the woods with no one around to hear it, I find myself wondering...if my fave department store holds a shoe sale and I'm unable to partake, did I really just lose out on hundreds in savings???  I pity the thought!

In case you know absolutely nothing about me at all, I will sum up my biggest downfall in a word: shoes. I know what you're thinking--all women love shoes, right?  Well, that's a fairly accurate blanket statement; however, I don't know many women who adore shoes to the extreme level that I, myself, do.  Some might say (more specifically, my mother) that my love affair with shoes borders on obsession.  To which I respond, "Po-TAY-to, po-TAH-to."  Call it what you will, but no label will deter me from my goal of accumulating pair after pair of  fabulous footwear to fill the shelves of my "pink room's" closet.  (That's right--my shoes have their very own home in my private, pink-walled, girly room upstairs).  Did you really think Jeremy would allow my strappy Calvin Klein sandals, Betsey Johnson platform wedges and  Guess studded stilettos to displace his raggedy T-shirts and worn-in Levi's, rendering them homeless?  Gasp.

But it's really okay.  I honestly don't mind the final step of getting dressed in the morning, which includes my ascension to the top of the stairs to select the "shoes of the day."  If it means I can have a whole closet dedicated solely to my footwear (pun intended), I'd likely trek across the state of Texas in 102-degree heat.  In all actuality, you should know that more often than not, my shoes determine my outfit.  Most of my wardrobe was acquired to match a pair of fabulous shoes I had already purchased (most likely on impulse).  Call it the "chicken vs. the egg" quandary if you will.  I, however, happen to know that the chicken came first---and so did my shoes.

I'm a firm believer that shoes can totally make the outfit.  I will subject myself to what others deem sheer torture as I stuff my feet into a pair of constrictive sandals that look like a device to force information from of a prisoner of war.  Some even call it sheer "shoe-pidity."  I, however, am willing to suffer the pain for the overall look of the ensemble because I simply don't believe in "sensible shoes."  Honey, we all know that if they don't hurt, they ain't worth wearing!  Repeat after me, "If the shoe hurts, it must be fabulous!"

The other day, my mom went out of her way to clip a newspaper article specifically for me.  The article was written by a podiatrist advising readers against wearing sky-high heels, lest they suffer future foot and back pain and require invasive surgery.  Evidently, the human body was not made to hold its weight on a 4-inch peg nor be forced to walk at an awkward angle.  Um, duh!  I already know this.  Did the article succeed in scaring me into flat shoes--or worse, shoes with a shorter, more sensible heel?  Of course not.  Much like the smoker knows the dangers of the cigarette or the sun worshiper knows the consequences of exposure to ultraviolet rays, the fashionista is acutely aware of the dangers associated with wearing high heels.  The truth is, we're all gonna die of something.  And frankly, I'd rather go looking stylish (instead of with blackened lungs and sunspots all over my face).  So the moral of this story is: there are worse vices to have.

Rather than avoid ridiculously tall and incredibly uncomfortable shoes, I embrace them.  In fact, I like to think of my shoes as my dear friends.  I love them, and in turn, they lift me up and offer me support.  Plus, they make me feel great about myself.  After all, isn't that what friends are for?  Do they hurt me at times?  Sure--but then again, what lifelong friend hasn't done his/her share of hurting us?  We never stop loving them despite their flaws.

So to any gentlemen reading this, please take note......the next time your girlfriend/wife emerges from the bathroom in a pair of absurdly tall high heels, don't you DARE say a word to her about practicality--even though you know at the end of the evening, she'll curse them for the pain they've caused and sweetly ask you for a foot rub.  Grin and bear it--and know she's making an effort to look sexy especially for you.

Also, the next time you shake your head as a woman dangerously teeters on 5-inch stilettos while slowly and carefully crossing an uneven parking lot, please slow down and allow her ample time to pass safely by.  That fall is a long way down.  You can think to yourself, "those high heels are ridiculous" if you want.  But I assure you in the same breath you'll also utter, "Damn, she looks good in those!"

Under the Gunn

Each Saturday morning, you can find me curled up on the couch with my dog, Charlie, catching up on the previous Thursday-aired episode of Project Runway. Regrettably, I'm unable to watch it live as Jeremy is vehemently against my favorite show.  He can't stand all the drama, yet he watches Cops on a semi-regular basis. Hello, hypocrite!

Anywho, I'm thrilled that the current season has welcomed back Mr. Tim Gunn as the contestants' mentor (the All Stars version of the show excludes him, and is, in turn, quite lacking in appeal).  I would love to meet him someday.  In fact, Tim Gunn is one of my top choices for famous guests at a hypothetical dinner party.  Oh, the pressure to dress impeccably!

I admire his kindness, authenticity, immaculate style, and candor delivered in a tenderhearted tone.  He seems like a genuinely nice guy who is committed to helping each and every contestant deliver his or her best work. His trademark "make it work" mantra encourages contestants to rise above any challenges, whatever they may be, and press on to deliver a winning garment--or at least one that is indicative of their talent and personal aesthetic.

Tim doesn't hold back during his one-on-one critiques in the work room, yet he delivers constructive criticism in an honest manner that is not harsh or snarky (unlike some of the judges). While I don't always agree with the judges' opinions and criticisms, I often find myself nodding along as Tim imparts his wisdom and shares his thoughts and critiques with contestants. 

I can just tell that Tim is a total sweetheart with nothing but good intentions.  He's well spoken, stylish and polished, yet down to earth.  I'm fairly certain that if we were to meet in real life, he could easily become my BFF--and oh, what a shopping buddy he'd make!

Grammar School

This blog post is a public service announcement brought to you by the grammar police.

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Specifically, it's geared toward those of you who happened to be home sick the day in second grade when the teacher explained the difference between your and you're and other various homophones. You obviously don't know who you are, or else I wouldn't be forced to go on public record with this information. 

Please take note....as Ross from Friends once stated to Rachel, "Y-O-U-R means your. Y-O-U apostrophe R-E means you are!"  I can't tell you how many times I've come across the incorrect versions of these words while reading various articles, social media posts and the like.  It literally makes me cringe.

Now I realize not everyone is as acutely aware of grammar rules as I am, and many others are not blessed with the gift of spelling (6th grade spelling bee champ here--holla!)  So please don't take offense at my schooling you on the subject.  I am a writer, after all.  Now before you attack me for my blunt approach, let me first say that others of us are mathematically challenged and have difficulty adding and subtracting without utilizing our fingers. (Guilty). 

**On a side note, I may struggle with addition and subtraction, but by golly, I can multiply like nobody's business...and I guarantee you the only reason for that is because Dad drilled me with those damn flash cards 'til I was blue in the face and tears were shed.  But it sure pays off when I'm shopping and need to calculate the 40% off sale in my head--thanks, Dad!

My point is...there are calculators for us math idiots; however, if you live in America and speak English, you SHOULD KNOW the basic spelling of everyday words and their appropriate uses.  Please pay attention and feel free to take notes if you must:

In addition to the your vs. you're conundrum, there is also the concept of distinguishing between to, too and two.  This is a BIG one. 


Example:

I am going to the store.

I am too tired to keep my eyes open!

I have two mosquito bites on my arm.


Get it right, people.  There's nothing that makes you look more ignorant than the misuse of these basic words.

Another example:

Does she live there?

Bob's Steak & Chop House is their favorite restaurant.

They're going to the mall this weekend.

I also have a problem with people who cannot seem to distinguish the difference between its and it's.  I realize that an apostrophe is typically used to show possession; however, with its, the standard happens to be opposite.  It's is a contraction of it is.

Final example:

The dog has a bone in its mouth.

I really hope it's not going to rain this weekend.


I realize that most people in this country read and write at a 5th-grade level.  That is just plain pathetic.  If you're a teacher, PLEASE for the love of God, enforce these grammar rules to the next generation, or else we're grammatically doomed.  Hooked on Phonics worked for me, but I'm afraid it didn't for most others...and now they don't even teach phonics in school anymore!  Ultimately, I'm just tired of reading Facebook posts that are incorrectly written. So as summer draws to an end and kiddos head back to school, please keep these grammar and spelling rules in mind.  If your kids can learn them, so can you!

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This concludes the public service announcement--please don't shoot the messenger.
 

Packing on the Pounds...Pound the Pavement!

A couple weeks ago, I stepped onto the scale (completely naked, of course, so as not to add the bulky weight of my t-shirt and boxer shorts) and the unexpected readout provoked me to shout, "You lying sonofaB*%#!" at which point, Jeremy looked at me like I was crazy.  I admit, I've always been a little obsessive about my weight--especially lately since I seem to have unknowingly gained a few pounds out of absolutely nowhere. 

I'm actually more perplexed than anything.  I thought back over the past month and decided I haven't really changed any part of my lifestyle.  I continue to eat (remotely) healthy and I'm just as inactive as I've always been, my medicine/vitamin regimen has hardly changed.  So how is it possible that these three or four pounds have come out of literally nowhere?  Have I reached the dreaded point in my life that my metabolism is starting to slow down?  Gasp.  But I've always had the metabolism of a high school boy!  Uh-oh.  I may be in trouble if, at age 32, my metabolic rate has, in fact, begun to slow.

You see, I absolutely hate exercise with every fiber of my being.  Sure, I take the stairs almost everyday at work and go on the occasional jog, but that doesn't seem to be cutting it anymore.  If you've not heard of the Smartphone app "My Fitness Pal," I warn you not to download it.  It is the devil!  It helps you track your daily caloric intake and counter it against your exercise routine.  All I have to say is "Ignorance is bliss!"  I used to make a meal out of Mexi-Dip and chips from Taco Bueno.  I always thought, "How unhealthy can that be?"  Well, thanks to this handy little app, I now know that such a "meal" is worth my DAILY ALLOWANCE of fat/calories.  My Fitness Pal is most definitely not my "pal."  Thanks to said app, I have become one of those people I hate...the ones that count calories and all but weigh their food and then keep a diary of everything consumed for the day. Although, I'm too lazy to continue such compulsive tracking, so I'll probably just keep that knowledge in the back of my mind.

Perhaps this recent fluctuation in weight should be more of an eye opener for me than an obsession.  I am just going to have to choose healthier options and make a concerted effort to turn of Dexter, get my lazy butt off the couch and get some physical activity.  If I only end up a few pounds heavier, big deal.  At least I'm still hovering around my high school graduation weight.  In all actuality, the scale's readout shouldn't define my overall health.  As long as I still fit into my clothes, I'm okay.  My biggest fear is not being able to fit into the TONS of clothes that fill my closet.  But at least I'll never outgrow all my shoes, so there's the silver lining.  Going forward, I just have to embrace a healthier lifestyle...and perhaps move our scale out from in front of the office window if I continue to weigh myself in the nude.

Nailed It!

Lately, I've been more than a little obsessed with nail art.  Anyone who knows me is aware of my natural artistic instincts, and I can honestly say I am truly at my happiest when I'm creating something--anything bordering on "art."  Well, what better place to express my creativity than the 10 tiny canvases permanently staged on the tips of my fingers?

Nail art is not really a new thing--it's been around for years.  In fact, my mom recently informed me that the painting of the odd nail out (or "accent nail" as the beauty industry now likes to call it) was something she once practiced on her own digits back in the 70s. Who woulda' thought?

Just the other day, my adorable, girly-girl niece, Tori, was studying my all-red manicure, and she asked, "Aunt Sassy, where's your accent nail?"  I must admit, it was one of the prouder moments of my aunt-hood.  You see, I had previously explained to her that the mismatched nail color on my ring finger served as my "accent nail," and I guess Tori was really paying attention that day because now every time my nails are all uniform, she questions the absence of the accent nail.

I love to paint my nails, and I typically do it on a biweekly basis.  Jeremy argues it's because I enjoy picking off the paint even more--I secretly do!  I am always trying new tricks and techniques because, lets' face it, plain nails in all the same color is just b-o-r-i-n-g.

There are all kinds of tools nowadays to help you achieve these various cool looks, too.  I've done everything from nail marbling, (which entails dropping various colors of nail polish into a cup of water, creating a swirl pattern and dipping your nails into it.)  See the YouTube video below, which is the one I first learned this technique from...





I have copied newsprint onto my nails, simply by swiping rubbing alcohol over my fingernail prior to pressing clippings of newspaper on the nail to transfer the image.  I have used various nail stickers and have even entered into the territory of freehand painting with a teeny-tiny nail brush.  Believe me, that takes time and practice!  Somehow, my right hand always comes out looking better than my left hand since I am a lefty after all.  Get tons of ideas simply by googling "nail art" on the Internet and via a search on Pinterest.  Next time you bust out the Sally Hansen and OPI polishes, try something daring and fun.  You never know--you just might discover your inner Picasso!


The images below are a couple of my personal faves done over the years.  Let me know your favorite tips, tricks and techniques. 

You can't go wrong with a wild, leopard-print look.

I've always had a serious love affair with zebra print!

Homemade Huaraches

Have you ever heard of such a thing as homemade huaraches?  As in--huarache sandals.  Well, neither had I until about a week ago.  Apparently, my dad has reached a new level of boredom in his retirement (or as he likes to call it, self-unemployment).

My father is truly one of the most creative and artistic people I have ever known; however, his exotic taste sometimes leads to handcrafted creations that border on ridiculousness.  He has never been one to follow the crowd, and he could care less what people think about him.  He most definitely marches to the beat of his own quirky drummer and has a unique sense of style.  I'll give you an example....

Enter an old pair of penny loafers and an Exacto knife.  Yes, my dad decided that his comfy, worn-in loafers were destined to be re-purposed into a pair of huarache sandals for summer.  Instead of shopping for a pair of men's sandals like a normal person, Dad busted out the Exacto knife and whittled away at the leather until his shoes resembled a loafer skeleton.  I call them "skele-toafers"...and trust me, they are hideous.

While it's one thing to lounge around the house in this monstrosity of a shoe, it's another to wear them out in public.  I was horrified when he showed up at a family barbecue to meet my boyfriend's parents sporting his penny skele-toafers.

As a shoe lover, I sometimes wonder how it's possible I could be a product of a man who makes his own sandals with an Exacto knife. Regardless of my objections, Dad wears those awful, homemade sandals with pride.  He says, "They're the only pair in Bartonville!"  Yes, Dad...and let's hope to God it stays that way.

Did you think I was joking??

Here they are in all their "glory"

  

Change in Perspective

What's my favorite restaurant in the whole wide world, you ask?  Why, it's Bob's Steak & Chop House, of course.  Had you asked me this very question about 29 or 30 years ago, however, I would have no doubt responded, "Chuck E. Cheese!"  It's amazing how time changes your perspective.  What I once valued as the ultimate dining experience now holds the appeal of eating cheese-covered cardboard, surrounded by bratty children screaming to be heard over the digital beeping and bells of video games and ski ball scoreboards.  No thank you--I'll pass!  But back in the day, there was no place on earth more exciting than Chuck E. Cheese.

I loved jumping around in the brightly colored balls that always reeked of stinky feet, yet that didn't seem to bother me at the time. I can also remember with fondness, the costumed characters onstage moving in time to the music of The King while I sat there in the audience and sang along.  In fact, one Sunday after church, my family and I were eating lunch in a restaurant when Elvis came on the jukebox.  I remember hearing that familiar voice, my eyes lighting up and leaning over and telling my mom, "That man sounds just like The King from Chuck E Cheese!"  Little did I know at such an early age that the voice of Elvis didn't originally hail from the moving mouth of an oversized robotic mouse.

Yes, time most definitely changes your perspective. What were some of my favorite sitcoms growing up now seem beyond cheesy and are characterized by horrific acting and awful story lines.  But back then, man, Zack Morris and Kelly Kapowski rocked my TV world! 

A few days ago, as I watched my niece bounce off the walls while coming down from her ice cream sugar high, I looked upon her burst of energy with feelings of nostalgia. Surely at some point, I too, had that same level of energy, right?  I can barely recall.  It's ironic that, as a child, all you want to do is forgo mid-afternoon naps and then stay up late, yet, as an adult, I would kill for a nap and I'm in bed no later than 9:30 every night.  So apparently, this girl has aged 80 years in a mere span of 32.  Maybe that's why Jeremy calls me "Grandmother" on a somewhat-daily basis.

Well, I may not be as quite spry as I once was, and I may not enjoy frequenting the same hangouts of even my college days...but I have matured in more ways than one.  So summer vacation no longer exists, and staying up late means catching the opening segment of Jay Leno's monologue.  Who cares?  At least I get my eight hours worth of sleep every night. 

I may now prefer eating in restaurants boasting white, linen tablecloths using utensils that I don't have to remove from plastic wrap to enjoy a juicy, rare steak, washed down by a bold, oak-y wine.  So my perspective and tastes have changed--such is life.  But I'll always recognize the soulful sound of The King when he comes on the radio because, quite honestly, some things never change.

When Push Comes to "Pool"

The clock is ticking way too slowly today as I'm eagerly awaiting my early escape from work so that I can enjoy some time poolside with a pina colada in hand.  Oh, how I love flex Fridays!  I also love the fact that I finally have my very own pool in the backyard, which is beautifully designed and landscaped by my talented, water-obsessed boyfriend. 

                                                 

If anyone knows me, you'd understand the feat that is pool ownership at age 32.  I spent the better part of my childhood begging Mom and Dad to put a swimming pool in our backyard.
Unfortunately, the likelihood of that happening was right up there with being gifted the much-anticipated pony I was promised but am still yet to receive.  I'm embarrassed to admit that I didn't even learn how to swim until I was nearly 12 years old.  That's right, I was that kid.  You know--the one who frequented any pool I could,  outfitted with neon orange floaties on my arms and, in later years, the despised, obtrusive lifejacket, preventing me from submerging beneath the water.

                                               


I was also the kid rendered partially deaf, thanks to the earplugs I was required to wear at all times while in the water due to the numerous ear problems I suffered as a child.  The ironic thing is, though I never got a backyard pool, I'm pretty sure my family paid for my ear/nose/throat doctor's swimming pool as a result of my frequent visits to his office.  It was at those particular doctor visits where I underwent surgery for tubes, took hearing tests and received professional medical assessments, revealing a perforated eardrum, all of which put a damper on my childhood aquatic activities.

So the fact that I have, still to this day, never dove off a diving board and the reason I am also somewhat phobic about getting water in my ears (even in the shower) can't be entirely blamed on my parents and their refusal to put in a swimming pool.  These early traumatic experiences regarding my ears certainly played a major role.  Though I don't hold any truth to astrological theories, I find it a tad ironic that I was born under the sign of Pisces, the fish.  The only thing I have in common with the fish is that I sometimes eat it, slathered in tartar sauce with a side of hush puppies and fries.

Anyway, back to my story about childhood yearnings for a swimming pool... 

I mistakenly thought I'd come close to having my wishes fulfilled the day I came home from school and encountered a giant dirt pile in the backyard.  I thought, "This is it!  I've finally convinced Mom and Dad to put in a pool!"  I soon discovered, much to my chagrin, that the dirt pile was the beginning stage of a backyard putting green installation.  Talk about a major letdown to an eight-year-old girl!  In Dad's defense, it was a beautifully manicured and landscaped, three-holed putting green, but it was still just....a putting green.
                                                 
So if you ever see me at the pool or out cruising around Lake Ray Hubbard on our boat and you're wondering why I continually keep my head above water (literally speaking), it's because I'm still averse to getting water in my ears.  Also, I've never achieved world class swimmer status.  On the other hand, you can bet your bottom dollar I'm a badass on the putting green!

Oh, and by the way, I still hold out (perhaps false) hope for that damn pony.

Taking a Toll

 

                                    

Just yesterday, I opened my credit card statement with bated breath and my blood pressure skyrocketed when I saw the amount of toll charges I'd racked up in a single billing cycle.  There were five--yes, I said FIVE--$40 charges on my statement.  For those of you who are mathematically challenged (like myself), that equates to $200...in a single month!  Those fees from the NTTA are really starting to take a toll (pun intended) on my budget...and they're about to go up in July.

Is it just me, or does anyone else find the concept of toll charges ridiculous and unnecessary?  I'm sorry, but I thought that's what my taxes paid for.  Why then must I dig deep into my pockets to finance additional fees just to allow me access to a city highway?  Keep in mind this doesn't include the cost of gas to make my one-hour commute each way to work everyday.

Lately, I've been experimenting with different routes in order to save a little bit of money where I can.  Unfortunately, what I save in tolls, I more than make up for in time and gas.  So most days, I just suck it up and take the expensive route to work.  I find myself cringing each time I breeze past a toll booth. 

I'm reminded of the children's story Billy Goats Gruff.  All I want to do is make my way down the George Bush Turnpike, unaccosted by the evil, toll-charging troll who lives under the bridge.  Though he hides in an unmanned toll booth, he makes an unwelcome appearance on my monthly Discover card bill.

I don't remember the moral of the story, but I do recall the billy goat outsmarting the evil troll.  Unfortunately, until I can find a circuitous route that doesn't add a half hour to my commute, I'm just going to have to pay the evil troll's toll charges.  Perhaps that means I'll have to eat more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and Ramen noodles than I care to, but I'll be damned if I let that nasty troll cut into my monthly shoe budget!  I'm all for saving money, but come on--a girl's gotta have her standards.                          

Better off Red

                                              




There's nothing more iconic in the beauty world than a set of shiny, blood red lips.  In fact, I believe a woman can go from merely pretty to absolutely drop dead gorgeous with a single coat of red lipstick.  It adds instant sex appeal and transitions the girl next door into a blockbuster bombshell.  Just think classic Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor--timeless beauty!

I enjoy eclectic fashion and cosmetic looks, and I often change my aesthetic with my changing mood.  This morning, I was feeling the 1950s retro vibe, so I donned my favorite fit-n-flare cherry dress with matching red heels and a sweater.  I decided to step out side my cosmetic comfort zone and trade my everyday bronze-tone lipstick for a come-hither red to complete my old school look.

Why is it that every time I attempt to emulate a perfect crimson pout right out of the pages of Glamour Magazine, I end up looking like a tanner version of the Joker?  Perhaps driving while applying doesn't help!  (Yes, I'm one of those women--although I only do my lipstick in the car.  Nothing else, thank-you-very-much!)

 

My point is this: countless other women can pull of magnetic red lips, so why can't I?  Is it because I'm not used to seeing such eye-popping color on my kisser, or does it simply not suit me?  I sincerely believe the former is the answer.  In an ideal world, anyone should be able to pull of fire engine red lips--and honestly, anyone can.  It's just that I'm not used to the dramatic color on my lips.

In order to create the perfect red lip, it takes skill and lots of practice.  First, you should line your lips to prevent feathering.  I personally use a flesh tone reverse lip liner from Cargo, which is used to trace an "invisible" line just outside your natural lip line.  It helps keep your lipstick from traveling and subtly highlights the edges of your mouth. 

Cargo reverse lip liner

                                                       Find it at www.ulta.com


Second, I advise using a lipstick brush to paint on color--either from a chubby crayon or tube of lipstick.  It allows for precision.  A lipstick tube is just too bulky to trace the exact perimeter of your lip line.  Blot any excess from the inner rim of your mouth to prevent getting lipstick on your teeth and be sure to wipe your hands thoroughly, lest you end up with the stained hands of a serial killer.  Finally, add a dab of clear gloss at the center of your bottom lip for a hint of shine, and voila!  You now have the lips of a 1960s pinup girl.         
            

Should you decide this bold look is just not your thing or that you too, end up looking like Batman's nemesis, simply wipe it off with a dab of makeup remover.  It's makeup, people--it's not permanent!  Have a little fun--take a risk or two.  Who knows?  You may permanently adopt scarlet lips as your new signature look.  Besides, a lady in red never goes unnoticed! (wink, wink)