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.