little diddies

Home Healthcare Story #2: It's Prader Willi meets Free Willy.

2011-04-05T12:38:00.003-05:00

Don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before but I’ve moved around a lot. And like any good gypsy, I’ve had my fair share of J.O.B.S. In fact, there’s one in particular in the health care field that has stuck with me and provided me with stories beyond my imagination.

After the first stint of working home health care with Kristi and Candy, I was transferred to a new house to work at. This house was to be filled with patients suffering from Prader Willi Syndrome – rare congenital disease. One of the chromosomes is fucked up. I’ll explain in my lame layman terms first as it was described to me.

When people with Prader Willi are born they have what’s called “floppy baby” syndrome. These babies lack muscle development so much so that when someone goes to reach for the baby under their arms, the baby goes all floppy in them. Think wet noodle. As these kids develop their muscle don’t. Boys will often look like women from behind (don’t act like you haven’t made that mistake before), many have small hands, feet and many of them suffer from a mild form of retardation. Overall, the most difficult thing about Prader Willi is these patients don’t have the ability to feel full. They aren’t starving all the time it’s just that they have an insatiable appetite that cannot be suppressed (sounds like another Friday night at my house). It’s so bad that this insatiable appetite becomes the number one driving force in their life. All they can think about is food. Many are prone to stashing or hiding food they’ve stolen or taken from someone. They will eat toothpaste, mouthwash, and powdered creamer, basically anything that’s edible.

Read more here.

The kids I took care of ranged in age and development. One thing that was certain above all was the kitchen was locked. There were doors added to the kitchen so we could lock them. The cabinets had locks and the refrigerator had a bike lock on it as well. A nutritionist developed a menu specifically for the kids in the house. The two boys got to eat 800 calories a day while the two girls were limited to 500 calories a day. That’s right, 500 calories a day or what I refer to as breakfast for me. The deal with the meals was to present a lot of low calorie food to them so they’d feel like they were getting a lot to eat. And these kids loved to eat. They loved to talk about their food while they were eating it. Partially, I think, to talk themselves into liking the nasty combinations of fruit and vegetables. These kids loved to eat anything that we had to limit the amount of pepper and salt at the table because one of the kids was known to use an entire canister of pepper on one meal. If it’s edible they love it.

How did this household get started? Well, Rhonda, the old lady of the group at 43, came from a wealthy family. She had lived with her parents her entire life and now, at 43, her widowed mom was ready to cut the aprons strings, so she bought Rhonda a house. Working with Volunteers of America, they got three other kids to be her “roommates.”

Now, I should tell you Rhonda was a pistol. She loved to talk up a storm and run around the block but what she loved most of all was sneaking out and stealing food.

I’d take her to movies and buy her some candy and we’d have a big gay old time watching the latest Disney flick whilst eating some sort of gummi worm, bear or fish. But you had to watch Rhonda. She was a sneaky little bitch. She would find any excuse to tell you she was going to run outside to check on something only sneak over to a neighbor’s house, get into their garage and pilfer through whatever edible products might be stashed away. She was good that Rhoda. And her hiding places were even more impressive. I found a jar of peanut butter in her toilet tank. How you might ask? Well, seems Rhonda got a bit excited to get at that peanut butter and dropped the tank lid causing it to break, which then sliced open Rhonda’s finger down to the bone. That was fun.

Rhonda calmly calls me into her room with a big, “Uh oh, you I really did it this time.” To which I run in, see the cracked lid and then notice Rhonda picking at her finger. Did I forget to mention that they’re pickers? Yeah, some people with Prader Willi like to pick at their skin until it bleeds (like Rhonda) and others like to pick at their anus. Yep, poop pickers. One of the kids in the house loved picking turds out of his butt and spreading them on the wall. Lucky for me, I only had to worry about the ladies of the house.

Back to Rhonda – I calm her down and take her to the emergency room to get seven stitches but not before Rhonda has cased the hospital for treats. You got to admire that tenacity. Even when she’s down, Rhoda’s still focused on her modus operandi But Rhonda’s exploits were nothing compared to Katherine and Brad’s. I should note that the poop picker Alan was over-all the easiest, sweetest one of the bunch. He was a pretty cool kid. I mean, at 17 years of age, he lived on his own (in this house) and went to high school. In any other circumstance this would have made him a stud. But his other roommates, Katherine and Brandon were far from angles.

Katherine was a 15 year old girl whose mom was a prison warden and who’s father was the gayest straight man I’ve ever met. Katherine stood at 4’11” and topped the scales at 375. She was livin large. Katherine was probably the smartest one of the bunch which made her the most conniving and manipulative. She was a master instigator. She always wanted to be the center of attention and was the ringleader of the house. One day she decided that she wanted Brandon to be her boyfriend.

We were on one of our nature walks when Katherine decided to make the first move start holding her roommate Brandon’s hand. Now, I’m all for love (and maybe, just maybe I was jealous at her confident moves) but I wasn’t sure roomies should start dating. You’ve seen the movies. Boy likes girl. Girl likes boy. Boy dumps girl. It’s all very tragic. Well, this didn’t seem to matter to Katherine and Brandon. They hadn’t seen the dozen or so movies from the 90s that depicted this relationship as a huge mistake.

Nature walk aside, these two love birds decided they were just that much to the dismay and surprise of Rhonda and Alan. They were not fans of having their roommates hook-up.

Now what do I mean by hook-up you ask? Well, let’s just say that the hand-holding progressed into a more intense relationship, one I was lucky enough to walk in on. Yep, that’s right. I had just finished preparing dinner and went to round up the troops when I came across Brandon’s bedroom door slightly ajar. Yes, there was a crack big enough for me to see Katherine splayed out on his bed as Brandon was doing something with his hands. Seriously, I have no idea what was really going on. All I saw was a river of flesh and that was enough. Like any good parent, I looked away and called for them to clean up before dinner. I figured this conversation was best, dressed.

At the dinner table the conversation got a little heated as Alan shared his contempt for the relationship. He didn’t like rooming next door to Hot and Bothered. But Hot and Bothered had a bit of a temper and really didn’t like discussing what he could and could not do in the privacy of his bedroom.

Now, things are starting to get messy. What we have is young love developing in the household. The parents were fine with it as long as the kids followed some simple rules about leaving doors cracked and not sleeping in each other’s rooms. And while they were not adults (both Katherine and Brandon were both under the age of 18), I had to go with the flow. That is until they locked themselves in his room after dinner.

Did I mention Brandon had a temper? So, there I am trying to roust the two of them out of his bedroom to join the rest of us for a movie. Me, talking through the door just like my mom used to do to me (although I was never as scandalous but rather always alone listening to music, writing away my woes), it was a weird turn of events but nevertheless, I had to get them out from behind locked doors. Rules are rules my friends. With my last plea, I was met with yelling. Brandon was pissed.

I knew I had to high tail it back into the safety of the locked kitchen. See, what I haven’t told you is this – Brandon has no control over his temper. Once he looses it, there’s no turning back. His parents and doctor told us the best way to deal with it is to let Brandon walk it off. That meant, no touching him or restraining but rather you following Brandon as he walks and walks and walks (we were told one time he walked to the next town 10 miles away).

There I am – locked away in the kitchen, hiding from Brandon’s wrath when all of a sudden…BAM!! BAM!!! BAM!!! That little bastard was kicking down the door to get to me. Well, you don’t have to kick the door more than once for this little momma to get the hint. I was outta there.

I should preface, I’m actually really good under pressure. When Rhonda sliced open her finger I was calm and in the zone, when a kid at the mall fell and started having a seizure I instructed the crowd what to do, and when a friend of mine injured his leg so severely (if was facing the other direction) I was the only one who kept their head on and got him to the hospital. BUT, BUT when someone dude starts coming for me, well I get the fuck out.

You know in all those Friday the 13 movies I never understood how all those asshole could fall over and over again and never get away from a guy who walked, walked slowly toward them. When Brandon came gunning for me I ran like the wind.

After fleeing the scene and taking refuge in a neighbor’s house, I called back to the Prader Willi house to see if it was safe to come back. The other worker was waiting for me to come back so he could take off after Brandon. Coast clear, I got myself back to help diffuse the situation.

Brandon walked and walked until he calmed down – about four miles of cooling down. Once he got back to the house, I apologized and he did as well but we knew this situation was far from over. Things were never the same after that night. The kitchen door was never the same. The next night Katherine took a pair of scissors and tried to cut at the veins in her wrist. She left for a month before returning, more pleased than ever with the drama she had caused. While I felt sorry for her, I also knew everything she did was for attention and she never really wanted to hurt herself. Brandon went home for a few months and after careful deliberation, his parents decided this home wasn’t the most conducive place for their son. Alan continued going to school and picking at his butt and Rhonda continued to sneak out of the house to steal food from the neighbors.

And while the experience is something beyond my wildest dreams, I’m happy it’s mine. I’m happy I met these kids and got to learn from them. I learned patience from Brandon. Katherine showed me how far confidence can take but how humility keeps you grounded. Alan made me a better listener and Rhonda taught me to not take myself so seriously.

Yer killin me Chicago

2011-04-02T10:30:00.002-05:00

The weather here has sucked. Like sucked sucked. Like suck a fuck suck. Like, I understand why people go nut bags suck. Suffice to say as I write this I heard the weather man say we're gonna top out at 50. Wee. Pardon my lack of enthusiasm but cabin fever has gotten the best of me and my gut. If I don't get to stay outside for longer than my walk to and from work I get a little grumpy. As you'll notice this lack of enthusiasm is a theme in the outfits chosen over the last few weeks. And my hobbies have taken a turn for the worse. I am now into contemplating my naval, hunting dust bunnies and picking my toes. Yea, yea, yea I know it's gross but that should give you an idea as to the level of my boredom. Shitty weather does not inspire me to create or communicate. I find myself wanting to move on to the next while working on the present. What do all of these excuses mean? It's simple – I've got a killer story but lack the harrumph to write it. So for now, you'll get a bunch of meh photos. All I can say is when the sun comes back out you better hang on to your potatoes because we're in for a bumpy ride.

Okay, this is going to be a little difficult because I'm working with some archival pieces.
Blue crochet sweater tank: No idea 3 years ago
Feather necklace: repurposed by me
Red cuff bracelet: Francesca's 6 years ago
Jeans: Levis
Green boots: Belmont Army, a little over 3 years ago

Black cardigan: Nordstrom's 2 years ago

Striped bird skirt worn as top: Buffalo Exchange, 6 years ago

Black skirt: Urban, 2 years ago

Tights: Francesca's this year

Black boots: Steven Madden, last year

Black velvet jacket: Urban, last year

Bird dress: Akira, this year

Black tooth necklace: Urban, this year

Deer head ring: H&M, this year

Black leather cuff: Hollywood, this year

Green tights: I've had for years

Black boots: Steve Madden, last year

Purple top: Forever, this year ($9)

Purple flower: Claire's, this year ($3)

Torq Cuff: Forever, this year ($3)

Jeans: BlankNYC: this year (cheap)

Lace up boots: endless or modcloth, this year

Army green jacket: Ann Taylor, last year

Safari dress: Modcloth, $25

Cheetah faux fur belt: 12 years ago

Gold bangles/cuff: some from Mom some from others

Brown slouch boots: endless, last year

Black floral sweater: Swirl, this year

Black Pleather pants: Urban, three years ago

Black watch: I always forget this but it's a drag/costume shop down the street, last year

Black ring: H&M, this year

Black knee-high boots: Steven Madden, last year

Orange zebra cardigan: Buffalo Exchange, two years ago

Cookie loves Milk tee: Threadless, two years ago

Turkish bone ring: shop off Henderson in Dallas, 4 years ago

Jeans: Levi

Button boots: DSW, last year

Glasses cardigan: Forever, this year ($18)

Charm necklace: repurposed from a Forever necklace ($4)

Fox and owl rings: H&M, this year ($5)

Bluechecked dress: Francesca's, this year ($25)

Black stretch belt: repurposed from a jumpsuit

Black open cuff/buckle boots: endless, this year

Blue velour short jumpsuit: Modcloth, this year ($20)

Charm necklace: repurposed from a Forever necklace

Green ring: Nordstrom, three years ago

Yellow cardigan: Forever, two years ago ($15)

Wool t-strap shoes: Endless, this year

Yellow stipe tank: Forever, this year ($8)

Heart cardigan: Forever, this year ($15)

C charm necklace: Urban, this year

Spinner necklace: Urban, this year

Blue ring: Francesca's, two years ago

Boyfriend jeans: Anthro, two years ago ($18)

Pointy blue suede shoes: Urban, three years ago ($11)

Red stripe jacket: Francesca's, last year ($25)

Fun with Plastic muscle shirt: Petra Zilla, this year ($25)

C charm necklace: Urban, this year

Spinner necklace: Urban, this year

Gold coin ring: Dad

Jeans: BlanketNYC, this year

Wool shoes: Endless, this year

Cropped blazer: Urban, this year ($9)

Blue striped top: Forever, this year ($8)

C charm necklace: Urban, this year

Spinner necklace: Urban, this year

Gold coin ring: Dad

Jeans: BlanketNYC, this year

Bronze patent heels: DSW, this year

Striped sweater: Forever, this year ($12)

C charm necklace: Urban, this year

Spinner necklace: Urban, this year

Gold coin ring: Dad

Jeans: BlanketNYC, this year

Gray cuff boots: Akira, this year

My new staple hair do: the side pony (anything that has to do with horses makes it's way into my life)

Cherry hair tie: last year for a cosutme (see Tris3ct booze cruise)

Space cat dress: Modcloth, this year ($30)

C charm necklace: Urban, this year

Spinner necklace: Urban, this year

Gold coin ring: Dad

Pleather leggings: Urban, three years ago

Black boots: Steven Madden, three years ago

Detail from Space Cat complete with rocket, planets and comets

Black sheen puffy sleeve jacket: Urban, last year

Black cut out tank: Urban, this year ($9)

Black tooth necklace: Urban, this year

Black ring: H&M, this year

Denim cut offs: Jeans from years ago

Black boots: Steve Madden, two years ago

Mulit-color wing top: Forever, this year ($20)

C charm necklace: Urban, this year

Spinner necklace: Urban, this year

Gold coin ring: Dad

Black jeans: Limited, this year ($25)

Black patent button ankle boots: Nordstrom, four years ago

Side pony with pony

Grrrr

2011-02-22T21:07:00.000-06:00

Lately, I just can't seem to muster the energy to dress myself, much less write about dressing myself. I've longed for the days on staying under the covers, dreamt of a life as an old lady with long, gray, frizzy hair and I've given up on dresses until the scabs and bruises on my tainted legs go away. So, for now, in all my useless, unenergetic hunched back gloriousness I give to you my striped, animal inspired wardrobe.

Top: Francesca's
Jeans: Levi's @ Urban
Pink Cuff: Shop off Delmar, St Louis, years ago
Lace-up boots: Endless

Cardigan: Forever, last year
Muscle tee: Petro Zillia
Jeans: Express
Shoes: DSW
Tooth necklace: Urban
Black ring: H&M

Sweater: Gap
Ruffle top: Francesca's
Jeans: Express
Shoes: Endless
Peacock ring: Urban

Polka dot cropped flowy top: Belmont Army, 3 years ago
Sweater vest: H&M
Jeans: Levi's @ Urban
Green boots: Belmont Army, 3 years ago
Red lip broach: ASOS, 2 years ago
Tooth necklace: Urban
Black ring: H&M

Petal jumpsuit: Forever, $7
Navy blazer: Urban
Navy tights: Hue
Button boots: DSW, 2 years ago
Feather necklace: Forever
Bracelet: mom
Owl pinkie ring: Forever

Wolf shirt: Urban
Pinstriped vest: Forever men's dept, 2 years ago
Jeans: Levi's @ Urban
Black boots: Steve Madden, 3 years ago
Tooth necklace: Urban
Wrap around black cuff: dude on the street in Hollywood

Horse tee: Urban
Pinstriped vest: Forever men's dept, 2 years ago
Denim skirt: made it from men's jeans
Navy tights: Hue
Tan suede buckle boots: Endless, 2 years ago
Stud cuff: Francesca's, 2 years ago
Feather necklace: Forever

Striped top: shop near the West Village that closed
Tiger deep V top: same shop
Jeans: Levi's @ Urban
Button boots: DSW, 2 years ago

Yellow striped blouse: Loft
Blue/yellow cardigan: Anthro, year ago
Jeans: Express
Lace-up boots: Endless

Blue blouse/black trim: Urban
Spectacle cardigan w/bow: Forever
Jeans: Express
Black peek-a-boo shoes: Endless
Turq cuff: Forever
Horseshoe ring: Mom

Sad attempt at a wrap around braid

Green top w/flower: Swirl sale

Tap shorts: Modcloth

Tights: Francesca's

Patent bow shoes: DSW

Zebra cuff: ASOS, 2 years ago

Gemstone ring: thrift store in St Louis, 7 years ago

Attempt at a fake side bob sweep around

Home Health Care Job: Story #1

2011-02-11T15:11:00.003-06:00

Let's be straight here, I’ve had a lot of different jobs during my stint as Me. Not all of them as glamourous as the last but each of them with their stories. I’ve been a dog walker, a lifeguard, a stylist, art producer and now a writer. One job that not a lot of people know about is my gig as a home health care provider.

Once upon a time I worked for JC Penney as a buyer. While I appreciate the gig it wasn’t my dream job at the time. With careful deliberation I left it to go pursue further education in the Psych department.

While continuing my education, I worked full-time as a home health care provider for Volunteers of America. Which is weird because it was very much a paying gig. The first house I was placed with had two adult ladies who required assisted living.

Kristie and Candy were in their mid to late 40s and each had suffered abuse and neglect at the state facility they had been placed. And thanks to a lawsuit against the state they, and quite a few others, were now proud owners of a home.

Both of the ladies weren’t in great mental shape but physically they were able to walk and move around with little assistance. Candy was blind and came in and out of reality. Many times Candy would call out for her baby while swing her head back and forth. Many of us thought Candy had been raped at her old facility and might have very well have gotten pregnant only to have the baby taken from her (either medically or physically). Candy was pretty vocal and loved to laugh at the smallest things, and something at things I wasn’t even sure of.

Kristie didn’t talk much. She suffered from poor decisions/understanding from her family. You see she had a small three-inch scar that ran vertically on her forehead thanks to a frontal lobotomy. I guess back in the 50s if you had a young child (especially a girl) who acted up or you had no idea how to deal with, the doctor you trusted to provide sound, safe care for your child, could order something as archaic as a frontal lobotomy.

This pretty much stumped Kristie’s growth. She would was perpetually 12. In fact, her bedroom at the house was decorated with My Pretty Ponies and Rainbow Brights. Kristie even wore plastic barrette bows in her hair.

Part of my job was not only to cook for the girls, help them bathe and dress, but also to acclimate them to the real world. Which I loved. Except on these two occasions (and honestly, I love the experience these two stories have given me).

See, usually we’d go to the zoo or a park to get some fresh air and walk around. Something that only required you to move at your own pace. We’d done that a few times and while I felt comfortable going just about anywhere with Candy and Kristie, I can say there were two places we didn’t rush back.

One day I decided to take Candy to Best Buy to help me find something. So, we’re at Best Buy doing just fine. Candy’s got a hold of my arm, swaying her head back and forth, when a sale guy comes up to ask if we need any help. Well, I guess Candy didn’t like that too much because she started making this gargling grrr sound while speeding up the velocity with which she swayed her head left and right (think Stevie Wonder really rocking out). I tried my usual tactic of rubbing her arm, telling her everything was okay to no avail. Candy continued making the gargling grrr sound but now projected her voice for all of Best Buy to hear. Needless to say, I got Candy out of there. Hey, if the lady doesn’t want to waste time shopping for electronics I’m not gonna argue with her. And I bet she’s not the first lady to raise a stink about having to waste a Saturday at Best Buy.

The other incident happened a few weeks later when I took Kristie out for a little thrift shoppin. This was an activity I quite enjoyed back in the day and one I thought Kristie might enjoy as well. Boy, was I wrong.

We hadn’t gotten three rows deep at the Salvation Army when Kristie begins to squat down to the ground, hitting her forehead with an open fist saying, “Bite my pussy. Bite my pussy.” Topped off with a double clicking sound she made with her tongue. (You know that sound people use to get horses to move.) And I swear on my Brenda Breyer Horse collection that this really happened. I mean, who would make up a situation where their shopping excursion is cut short by the verbal interruption of “Bite my pussy. Bite my pussy. Click. Click.”

I just need a little more time

2011-01-29T10:02:00.000-06:00

There was this Far Side comic that fast became my favorite, clipping out the one that had a little wiener dog at an espresso machine that said, "Wiener dogs around the world prepare for their day." It just said, "The squirrels of Central Park." It was simple. It was simply genius. All it had was two squirrels and the one on the left was saying, "I get the nuts. I get the nuts. I just need a little more time Squeezil." Good god thats funny.

Here are some long over-due diddiefied outfits. Not my best work but I'm trying to turn my black faze into a blue one. How apropo of me.

New Year's outfit to the Black Keys

Jacket: Crossroads thrift store 3 years ago

Black shirt: Urban, years ago, cheap

Gold sequin shorts: H&M last year. Believe it or not they've gotten a lot of wear

Black tooth necklace: Urban

Black Patent shoes: Zappos

Don't Buck with Me ring: H&M $5. Had a lady in Hollywood/Beverly Hills ask me who the designer was. Greatness.

Blue top: Forever last year

Pencil skirt: Anthro

Black tooth necklace: Urban

Grey belt: Ann Taylor years ago

Grey cloth shoes: Urban 4 years ago

Plaid jacket with peacock feather: Anthro, a steal

Blue striped shirt: Anthro years ago

Levis jeans: Urban, a steal

Brown button boots: DSW last year

Pin striped jacket with red trim: I've had it for so long I can't remember where I got it.

Horse shirt: Urban, $5

Levi jeans: Urban

Black tooth necklace: Urban

Brown button boots: DSW

Black silk jacket: Urban, $7

Gay dudes shirt: Fuck Hate

Black tooth necklace: Urban

Levis: Urban

Black boots: Steve Madden two years ago

Get this shirt and show your support: Get over it

Black shirt with vines: Urban 4 years ago

Black tooth necklace: Urban

Woven leather belt: Urban

Levis: Urban

Black Boots: Steve Madden

Black ring: H&M

This picture sponsored by Urban. And now I'll go hang my head in shame.

Black velvet jacket: Urban, Fletcher brand. Kinda had to get it.

Peacock clip: Hair clip from Claire's

Periwinkle ruffle dress: Francesca's

Brown studded belt: Forever 3 years ago

Black ring: H&M

Black pleather leggings: Urban 3 years ago

Black boots: Steve Madden

My birthday went buy buy

2010-12-22T22:37:00.000-06:00

Ah, the holidays. A time to think of good friends and family. A time to give to those less fortunate. A time for shopping. This year I did something different. Every time I bought something I had to do something nice in return. It worked out pretty well. So well in fact, that I got a bit choked up hugging my favorite Street Wise lady. What can I say, I've become a softy in my old age. Ain't life a bitch.

Nay, I can't complain. I found this gem for $5 clams at Urban. It pays tribute to one of my favorite childhood crushes: horses.

Horse sweatshirt: Urban
Jeans: Anthro last year
Boots: DWS last year
Horseshoe necklace: now broke. I'm bummed.
Bracelet: mom

Nubby vest: Akira this year
Black skirt: Urban last year
Black shirt: Target years ago
Green gem necklace: Forever 3 years ago
Black boots: Steve Madden last year
Black watch: Beatnix this year

Black jacket with silver thread: Urban
Blue dress: Urban, $9 I shit you not
Elephant belt: Modcloth, $9
Lace up boots: Modcloth this year
Acorn necklace w/blue feather: combo made/had

Bike dress: Anthro
White cardigan: Nordstrom 2 years ago
Bird pin: Anthro
Belt: Abercrombie 15 years ago or something
Yellow tights: Belmont Army
Lace up boots: Modcloth

Sailor suit: Modcloth this year
Black patent bow shoes: Zappos this year
Horseshoe ring: dad
Black watch: Beatnix

New specs: See
Pink flower: Claire's. I'm perpetually going through puberty

My birthday dress: estate sale in Dallas 6 or 7 years ago
Turquoise stone necklace: Forever
Bangles: mix of places
Blue ring: Forever
Giant hoop earrings: Target
Lace up boots: Modcloth

Got it cut and straightened the day before (see Sailor pic) and had to take advantage of the straightness as long as I could. That's a little faux-hawk pumped up pony.

When your holiday Ship comes in

2010-12-15T11:48:00.000-06:00

As the holiday quickly approaches, I’m reminded of a time, a time long, long ago, when I lived in Dallas. This particular time was a part of my early years as a writer at TracyLocke. It was there that I would meet my future life partner, Hooker (also known as Hook). We met at work and solidified our friendship at our favorite dive bar, Ships.

During our first holiday together we volunteered at a retirement community off NW Highway. We’d go in on Saturday morning for our “Crafts with Old People” gig before heading over to the assisted living section where we really got things going with markers and puzzles.

The ladies who were part of our crafts group would eagerly await our arrival. We had a great time creating door hangers, posters and ornaments during our subsequent visits. The ladies were a delight and loved giving me a hard time. So much so, I started to question if Hook was coming in the day before to give the ladies ammo for my harassment. Regardless, they were delightful.

My Grandmother and Nana had past away years ago and while I miss them dearly, I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for old people. There’s something that happens when I’m around them that makes me want to adopt them and bring them home. Sure I don’t want to change their diapers or watch them eat, but I do want to listen to their stories and always welcome their sarcasm.

After craft time, we would head over to the assisted living building and spend time with anyone who wanted to join us. There was a corniopia of old people sitting around, staring off into the distance, a vacancy in their eyes that broke my heart and unsettled me.

We’d usually get a group of 3 or 5 interested folks for puzzle and drawing time. Most of the time the puzzles never got completed and the drawings always looked like kindergarten doodles.

There was one guy in particular who got my attention. A veteran of WWII, he’d take my hand and drag me to his room, shuffling his feet along the cold concrete laminate tiles slowly moving his wheel chair so he could show me his medals and badges. Never knowing my Grandfathers, I took to him immediately and always found it heartbreaking to say good-bye. For some reason I’d start asking myself, “What would he do the rest of the day? Would he talk to anyone or better yet, would anyone talk to him? Would anyone ask him how he was or listen to his stories? It got to be more and more difficult as the Saturdays passed.

After we’d finish our time with the group, Hook and I got in the habit of going to a movie before heading over to Ships for a proper cocktail. Well, the Saturday before Christmas, it was the 23th or maybe even the 24th, regardless, we went to the ATM to get some cash before the movie only to discover we had $2.57 between us. Yep, that’s right $2.57. There was only one thing to do – go pick up a bottle of Crystal Palace vodka and ditch the movies and head to Ships.

You see, at Ships you can bring your own booze and only pay for the “set up,” which included a dog bowl of ice and some cranberry juice in Howard Johnson highball glasses. So we grabbed our bottle of Crystal Palace and headed to Ships.

Once there we nestled up to the bar and ordered our “set-up” while pulling our plastic bottle of vodka out of it’s brown bag. The toothless waitress, who looked like an extra from a David Lynch film, got us all set up. As we began to make our first drink and raise a glass to our poverty, the Michael Bolton cover of “When a Man Loves a Woman” began to penetrate the air. Hook and I looked at each other and with a clink of our glasses knew this was going to be the best Christmas ever.

Happy holidays everyone. Be naughty. Be nice. Be sure to enjoy the little things.

Garanimals

2010-11-13T22:38:00.002-06:00

When I was a kid, Garanimals were huge. The basic idea was to let kids learn how to dress themselves by matching "like" animals. For instance, my purple top was a zebra so all I had to do was find the shorts that were also '"zebra." Pretty smart idea. One I still try to instill today when staring blankly into the vortex also known as my closet. Welcome to my black hole below.
Okay, so this outfit happend the Wednesday before Halloween. My partner in crime and at work started a tradition to dress as Wednesday the Wednesday before Halloween. There are three of us that work closely together so we decided to go as different Wednesdays.
I was German Wednesday: Mittwoch.

Striped tank dress: 2years ago from Lulus

Black cardigan: 2 years ago

Black patent belt: Forever 2 years ago

Black square watch: Beatnix

C necklace: no idea
Sidenote: I didn't get a boob job. That's them fancy stripes playin some trickery on your peepers.

And now here's Mittwoch's hair courtesy of a necklace I bought at Forever 2 years ago.

Bike sweater: Modcloth this year
Pleather tights: Urban 2 years ago
Boots: Steve Madden last year
Pink Wacth: Nixon year and a half ago

Bunny cardigan: Modcloth this year
Striped bubble skirt w/bow front: Modcloth this year
Watch chain necklace: Urban last year
Black square watch: Beatnix this summer
Black buckle booties: Endless this year

Twead dress: Francesca's 5 years ago
Brown belt: Abrocrombie 15 years ago. Yes, 15 years.
Necklace: Anthro last year
Brown ankle button boots: Steve Madden last year

A Presidential Error of Sorts

2010-10-31T20:34:00.001-05:00

I'm not sure how many schools still do this but (I'm about to sound old. Like, real old) when I was in school we tested every year for the Presidential Fitness Challenge. In fact, at Hunter's Woods Elementary, I had a gym teacher who created a special team of elite athletes who got an extra hour of gym time if they not only passed the test, but were also hand picked to be a part of this elite team. Now, I use the word "elite" loosely.

Looking back it seemed like we were more a band of misfits gypsies allowed to run around the gym for an hour and throw red rubber balls at each other. In fact, now I'm beginning to question whether this was an "elite" team at all. Perhaps we were more like the ADD team that needed an extra hour to run around like crazed banshees for the sake of our teachers.

The reason I wanted to pass the fitness challenge was for the awesome patch. I pictured it being sewn onto a sweet satin jacket I would wear with pride causing other students to be envious of my athleticism and sheer awesomeness. Instead, it's in the same small wooden box I placed it in years ago along with an old piece of chocolate.

By the time I reached freshman year in high school the testing became a bit of a breeze except for two events that had always been my nemeses: sit-ups and flexed arm hang.

Flexed arm hang caused me to convulse like an epileptic for 15 of my 20 seconds hanging there. And the worse part of it all? Our teacher would make you face the class as you hung there, shaking, trying with all your might to not let your chin touch the metal bar. I've never hated a metal bar more. (Unless you count that one I hit with both my shin bones. That one I could murder.) Regardless, I made it through the arm hang torture and moved on to sit-ups.

Now the sit-ups themselves were fine. I could do them at home with my feet tucked neatly under the bottom of the couch or bed. But in class we had to have a "partner" hold our ankles because if we didn't all our humping up and down would have caused us to move like inch worms down to the other side of the gym. At the time we had to do something like 38 or 45 sit-ups in a minute.
My friend Erika (super athlete) volunteered to hold my ankles and count. Little did she know she was about to get more than she bargained for.

As I moved into position, Erika grabbed my ankles and when the teacher yelled, "Begin!" I started sitting up and down and up and down as fast and furiously as I could. Erika started calling out numbers and I could tell I was well on my way to a new personal best. This was exciting. I decided to push myself more. Unfortunately for Erika, I pushed a little too hard and a fart escaped. Yes, a fart. As my head came up and then down, I tried my best to apologize while still working toward that personal best. "I'm (up)....sorry (down)...really (up)...sorry (sorry)." She was a trooper. Instead of letting go of my ankles and informing the class, "Cassidy just farted in my face!" She told me not to worry about as she continued to count my sit-ups. Now I can honestly say, there aren't many people, who in the face of a fart, would stay and help you reach your personal best and for that Erika, I salute you.

Falling forward

2010-10-03T19:54:00.002-05:00

It's been awhile since I've posted any pics. Seems I've been having some off days, weeks and months with my "fashion regime." Not that these are anything to write home about but they're the best of the lot. It's time for fall to inspire with tights and boots.

An oldie but a goodie.
Charlie Brown Sweater: Urban about five years ago
Jeans: Ann Taylor
Chucks: years ago
Watch: Batteries Not Included

Blouse: Urban 4 years ago
Vest: Urban 4 years ago
Jeans: 7 For All Mankind years and years ago
Boots: DSW
Belt: store off Armitage
Cuff: many, many moons ago
Wood ring: Claire's
Saw and log necklace: The Curiosity Shoppe 4 years ago
Pocket watch: fudged it with a gold chain and owl broach

Dress: Akira
Ruffle Jacket: Akira
Belt: Forever 2 years ago
Tights: years ago
Shoes: Endless
Watch: Batteries Not Included
Bruise on my chin: three days ago
Matching your bedroom: priceless

Know when to leave a party

2010-09-25T14:02:00.004-05:00

I’ve done some pretty stupid things in my life and while some of the smaller ones have already been shared, I thought I’d share one that I’d say is about medium weight on my Stupid Things I’ve Done list.

The summer before my freshman year in college I met a boy. His name was Scott from Florissant. We dated briefly and really didn’t get to see each other that often because no one had a car and well, no one really wanted to cart us around. One Saturday afternoon Scott and a his friend, I’ll call Larry for no reason what-so-ever except he was a big, red-neck type of guy, anyway Scott and Larry came out to Chesterfield to pick me up and take me to this watering hole (not bar, a real watering hole) near my house. It had a rope swing off a cliff and was open to the public so we headed that way.

When we got there there were a few other kids our age jumping off the side of the cliff into the water. We were set. After a few false starts on my part, I finally jumped off the cliff with the rope swing and into the water. We each took our turns and had fun for about an hour at which point we were ready to go home. It must have been near 5:00 pm in the afternoon when we headed back to Larry’s car.

Upon arrival, we noticed a group of gentlemen, and I use that word very loosely, standing near our car drinking some PBRs (there were no such thing as hipsters then and the only people who drank PBR back then had probably lived a full life by the age of 19). There were three of them. One had a shaved head that was bumpy and knobby, kind if like Sloth’s from Goonies, he introduced himself as Rooster. I shit you not, Rooster. Amy and David Sedaris aren't the only ones who know a Rooster. The second guy had a redneck Mohawk and was as round as he was tall. His name, and I promise you this is true, was Cooter. The third guy well, I only remember one thing about him and that was he was scary as fuck, so I’ll refer to him as ScaryAsFuck. Well, these guys decide to strike up a conversation with us as we’re headed to the car.

Cooter, the vocal one, decides to give Larry and Scott shit. Scott was, and I hate even writing this down, “punk.” This seemed to intrigue our new friends. Lucky for us, Larry was cut from damn near the same cloth as Cooter, so I felt like we were in semi-safe hands. The teasing continued for a while until Cooter realized that Larry was all right and Scott wasn’t worth messing with.

They offered the guys a beer, which they took because in the redneck world not taking a beer that is offered to you is like spitting in their face. As Rooster, Cooter, Larry and Scott chatted it up I stood quietly by Scott’s side wrapped in a towel wanting to go home. I tried not to make eye contact with any of them for fear of being eye raped. Unfortunately, that didn’t work out too well because the first time I glanced up I noticed ScaryAsFuck eye raping me. I was freaked to say the least. Scott could sense how uncomfortable I was and nudged himself closer to me.

What was probably only ten minutes felt like an eternity that is, until Rooster started to share his prison stories. He shared stories of being shot at, showed us where a bullet was lodged under his scalp and a scar from a knife wound, all of which he said where, “no big deal.” Cooter continued to crack jokes and show his prison tats until ScaryAsFuck finally spoke.

“What the hell are you rich kids doing out here with such a cute little thing? Does your momma know where you’re at,” he said still eye raping me.

Larry and Scott told him we were there just to take a dip and use the rope swing and I finally spoke up in my whitest-suburban-scarridy-cat-I-was-trying-to-act-tough-but-I’m-scared-as-shit voice, “Yes, my parents know exactly where I am and if I’m not home soon they’ll come looking for me.” Which was true, I think. I mean, they knew I was going swimming but probably not swimming with Prison Break.

ScaryAsFuck laughed and then told us, “it would probably be a good idea if you guys left now.” Which we did. And that was my first and last time there.

Phew, that was fast

2010-09-12T19:28:00.009-05:00

Well, here I am. A year later after starting the diddie and I have to ask, what have I learned?

I've learned that going back over your writing and pictures a year later is a bit harder on the ego than I thought. In fact, I just spent the last hour rewriting, editing and deleting some posts. Man, I kind of suck. Embarrassing.

I've learned that I'm not the same person I was when I began the diddies. Which I'm very happy about. A year ago I wasn't where I wanted to be in my career and life. Today I am. What a difference a year makes. And now I'm embarrassed again. What the hell? I'm not trying to toot any horns but let's just say, things are super neat, not that they weren't a year ago but now they're just superer and neater.

I've learned that wanting to write and actually writing are two very different things. I spend a lot of time in my head writing stories, diddies and jokes before ever attempting to post. Part of the problem is my self-edit button won't allow me to share it all. Okay, it's not that. I like self-deprecating humor it's just that I don't want to embarrass my parents more than I already have (sorry about that poop story), at least not until I get a pseudonym.

I've learned that it helps me to keep my past fresh and my present in check.

And I've learned that I'm not as funny as I thought.

The Scary Monastery

2010-09-08T12:50:00.001-05:00

Over the last month or so I've reconnected with some high school chums via the FB. It was during one of my friend request accepted moments that I remembered quite possibly one of the scariest moments of my high school life.

There was a crew I ran around with senior year: Lisa, Julie, Mark, Mike, Eric, Mike and some others. A few weekends earlier some of the guys had found an abandoned convent and wanted to take us to it. So, one fateful Friday night we all decided to hop in the car and head out for a little exploring of said convent.

I should preface that the guys decided to rename it the Scary Monastery. I don't know why except that it rhymed. Because the convent er, I mean Scary Monastery was on private property we couldn't get close access with our car. We had to park a few streets away and walk along a tree lined street that, looking back, we should not have been walking down in the dark. As we cut through the woods to the property No Trespassing signs began to appear, which of course, we ignored. Once we made it to the gravel drive the Monastery appeared back in the dark of night like an ominous creature we should not be disturbing.

You know how in great classic horror movies like Amityville Horror and Burnt Offerings the homes seem to have a life of their own? Well, this convent, er I mean monastery seemed to be breathing death. As we approached closer and closer things began to not feel right, well at least to my chicken ass.

I should note that that same year I watched Nightmare on Elm Street for the first time and had to sleep in my parents bed for two nights. Yes, I was 17 sleeping in my parents room. I know that's not normal but really, neither am I.

The gravel drive began to curve around to the right when I noticed a statue of St Francis. There was a lone street light above that shone down on the filthy, bug covered statue and it scared the crap out of me. That was the first sign that I should not be walking any further. But we continued forward with a false sense of security. At this point I think Lisa and I only felt safe because we had guys with us but any fan of horror knows that really doesn't matter. In fact, it could make matters worse.

Continuing on, we made our way around back where, if I'm not mistaken, there was an old yellow school bus and another building that was burnt black from a fire. Again, not a good sign. The guys led us around to the back where we entered the building. Once inside I tried to act tough and cool, unlike the scared-peeing in my pants-my sphincter is tightening with every step-scared little girl I was on the inside.

Up a few stairs and to the right was the entrance to the chapel. We tip-toed in and to my disappointment there was the scariest thing ever: a giant crucifix with Jesus hanging crocked right above the alter. Which became known as the alter of sacrifice because of the giant mound of sand piled on it. I was convinced some sort of satanic ritual had been performed here. Promptly, I turned around and started down the hallway. Of course, the first door to my left was a bedroom with a metal bed frame, like the ones you'd seen in a dorm room, a few scattered newspapers and the feeling that someone left in a rush. I did not like this feeling. But Lisa and I moved forward toward the end of the hallway when, I think, one of the boys asked us to follow him into another room. The boiler room.
Remember when I mentioned Nightmare on Elm Street and how I had to sleep in my parents bedroom after seeing it? Well, this boiler room reminded me exactly of the one in the movie. I was not happy.
But Lisa and I didn't want to come across as scaredy cats so we moved forward. I know she was just as scared as me because of the look she gave me: this can't be good.

After going down a few stairs we heard a loud screech that sounded like something sharp on metal. Again, not good. We stopped in our tracks before the same sound occurred only this time it was louder and closer. Not good. Next thing I know Freddy Kruger is standing before us with a hand full of blades to match his striped sweater. No way is this good. Lisa and I screamed and ran for our lives. Not having our wits about us we ran up instead of out and ended up on the roof.

Minutes later the rest of the crew arrived with Freddy. Turns out our dear friend Mike fashioned his own homemade Freddy Kruger glove with real metal blades. The adrenaline coursing through our veins was enough to resuscitate a dead man.

Now you might think that after that sort of experience I would never step foot near the Scary Monastery again but not me. I went back a handful of times either to scare others or to make-out with a boyfriend. And if you've ever watched a horror movie before you know both are classic ways to end up dead.

Moving on

2010-07-27T22:21:00.002-05:00

There comes a time in your life when it's time to move on. For me it's been 14 times (including a few during my college years). On my own (cue the Anita Baker) I've moved 10 out of those 14 times. And not every move has been as picture perfect as a postcard. A few have been downright traumatic. Let's talk about those shall we?

The first move I remember was when we moved from Jacksonville, FL to Hotlanta. I bet people who live there hate it when you call it that. It's really not that hot and well, aren't they known for peaches and bulldogs? Even though I was born in New Orleans, I don't remember a thing about it. Makes me wonder if mom dipped my bottle's nip in some boozey booze to keep "baby" quiet. It would explain why my "forgettin days" started earlier than most. Regardless, after 7 of the best years of my young life, we were hitting the road to a place I don't remember knowing much about.

What I did know a lot about was going to Jacksonville Beach damn near everyday. I mean, hell, my mom was so tan from frying herself on those silver sheets, greasing herself with Bain De Soleil that most people thought she was Middle Eastern. I also remember riding my bike all around my neighborhood, stopping at friends' houses, high tailing it to the Lil Champ for some Fun Dip and then over to the pool high on sugar. I remember swimming everyday and never wanting to stop. I also remember seeing my dad cry for the first time. Florida was idealistic. And it was hard for all of us to say good-bye (okay, now you can cue the Boys to Men).

Next was our move from Hotlanta to Reston, VA (actually Herndon but no one knows where the hell that place is). It wasn't that tough considering we were barely there over a year. The main thing I remember about Atlanta was crawling through the pipes that went underground all over our neighborhood and being mortified after sneezing a giant gob of snot on my desk at school in front of the entire class. After that, I was ready to make another move.

Virginia would prove to be exciting from the start. So much so, that the night before our first day at school I was shaken awake by sister yelling, "We're all going to die!!! We're all going to die!!!" To which I promptly responded to by running down 9 flights of stairs with my sister only to get to the bottom and realize we left our parents back in the room. You'll be glad to know that even though I might leave you after being told I'm going to die, I'll always come back to save you once I've gained a bit of consciousness. But it didn't matter, because when we got back to the room our parents couldn't care less. They were preoccupied with taking inventory of all of our stuff. See, my mom didn't like to pack her "good stuff" on the moving van, so all her jewels and such were with us in the room and there was no way in hell she was leaving them behind. Eventually, when we made it back down we and after an hour, we were told that it was a false alarm and to go back up to our rooms. Which was great and all but I can say I was the jumpiest 4th grader with dark circles under their eyes that their first day at a new school. Hey, what can I say. Even back then I knew how to make quite an impression. But our next move from Virginia to St. Louis, MO or rather, Chesterfield, MO would prove to be the most exciting yet.

My mom and I made the move without my sister or dad because my sister was in Spain that summer "going to school" i.e., drinking and sunning in Portugal, while my dad was finishing work in Virginia or traveling for work (I really can't remember, he traveled a lot). We lived in a hotel for two weeks waiting on the moving vans. While I was at school my mom got a call and it wasn't good news. One of our moving vans had been in an accident and ripped in two along the highway near an underpass. Ripped like a soda can in two. Luckily, the car and big furniture pieces were in another van that was safely making its way to us. The ripped one carried all our clothes, toys, the dollhouse my dad, I mean Santa built and other things like bikes and stuff. Really not what you want to hear when your parents just made you move the summer before your Senior year in high school. But there was an upside. All the clothes arrived dry cleaned. Not a bad deal in the end. Well, at least not to my mom.

Other moves I;ve made along the way were less traumatic/uneventful when compared to these early gems but I've still got time.

Guest Diddie: Memphis Tooth Knockout

2010-07-02T09:27:00.000-05:00

This Diddie comes straight from the coworker I mentioned in my last Diddie. When he shared it with me I couldn't believe a grown man could have such an accident but then again, I've pooped myself more than I'd like to mention. Without further adue, I would like to introduce Steve "Savvy" Savich and his amazing Memphis Tooth Knockout Diddie.

The events that lead up to chipping my front left tooth, for the third time, started way before I was drunk in a hotel room in Memphis. They started when I was drunk at a Clutch concert in February of 2008. I was at the concert with my then roommate Adam and Clutch had been playing a lot of songs off their album From Beale Street to Oblivion. We were both about 6 MGD’s in and I asked Adam,

“Have you ever been to Beale Street (in Memphis)?”

Adam replied, “No.”

“Do you want to go?” I asked.

Adam’s eyebrows raised, eyes lit up and he exclaimed, “FUCK YES!”

Throughout the rest of the set list we kept talking about when we’d go, how we’d get there, etc…you know, all the logistics of an impromptu road trip.

The morning after the concert I woke up with a moderate hangover. I stumbled down stairs and thought the rest of the burrito, that I barley remember eating the night before, would nurse me back to health. Adam was sitting on the couch watching tv and asked,

“Do you still want to go to Memphis?”

“Not this exact moment, but yes.”, I replied.

That Monday at work, I received an email at about 2 PM. The subject line read “Beale Street” and the body simply read “Joel, Evan, and Anthony are in. 2 weekends.”. Having no girlfriend and only a couple of friends in Chicago, I really didn’t think 48 hours ahead, let alone 2 weeks. The only thing in my foreseeable future was my brother’s wedding, in 3 weeks. I put in my word and agreed, hence booking my ticket in Adam’s ‘98 Chevy Malibu.

The weekend of the trip, Anthony and Joel arrived on Thursday night. Evan lived in South Carolina and would be meeting us in Tennessee. After work on Friday, I picked up Anthony and Joel, then sped to pick up Adam from work on the South Side. About a quarter after 4 we were on I-57 bound for Booze and Blues. The drive itself sucked. It was long, the scene remained the same…fields and railroad tracks. We were also very giddy to get to Memphis and start drinking.

Friday night. We cruised into town at around 11:30PM. Evan met us at the hotel. We walked three blocks to Beale Street and had our first whiskey sours in hand at midnight. My first impression of the place was just as I thought…heavy pours, good live music, and rickety bars. We had several more drinks and headed back to the hotel knowing we had a party marathon the next day.

Saturday. There was a consolidated wake up around 9AM and we started to plan out what we were going to do all day. It netted out to a simple plan. Walk to Beale Street and drink. Being excited and still a little drunk I started to jump on the bed, bouncing off my stomach then my back. On one back bounce I landed high on the top of my back and my knee quickly found it’s way to my mouth. I sat down and felt that all to familiar feeling…my tongue sliding from one perfect tooth over to a chipped, jagged, hillbilly chicklet. Having knocked teeth out before I knew the first all-important step, find the tooth.

After searching through the covers for 5 minutes I managed to find the needle in the haystack. I was elated! But then quickly snapped back to reality. Where the fuck was I going to 1. Find a dentist 2. Find a dentist that would take a walk in. 3. Find a dentist that would take a walk in on a Saturday at 9:30 AM. To make it even harder, all of the local businesses, except bars, were closed because the University of Memphis men’s basketball team was playing in the Final Four. After walking around a 4-block radius, tooth in hand, for a dentist office, I changed my strategy. I knew there would be no way to find a dentist and get work done. I remembered a temporary dental solution used by soccer and hockey player friends of mine. Find super glue and glue that thing back in. Now I was looking for a hardware store, which seemed harder than finding a dentist office. After a 45-minute search, I found nothing. Feeling defeated I walked back to the hotel. In a last ditch effort I stopped into the gift shop.

“Can I help you sir?” asked the clerk.

“You got any super glue?” I asked.

To my excitement, she replied, “Sure do. What kind ya need? Red package or green?”

In astonishment, I hesitated to reply.

“Errr. Ummm.” I looked at the packages. One had a picture of a construction worker holding on to and hanging from his hat that was super glued to the product package lettering. “If that shit is strong enough to hold a 200-pound man, it can certainly hold this tooth in”, I remembered joking to myself.

“Green.” I said to the clerk.

That day and night we had a blast. I was checking my tooth all day and to my surprise it felt really stable. In fact it ended up staying in all weekend. When I got back home to Chicago I tried to make a dentist appointment but could not get in anywhere until the following week. I was really nervous because that weekend was my bro’s wedding and I didn’t want to be the “smiling all weird to hide a chipped tooth guy” in his pictures. The day before the wedding I did a quick re-glue job. The day after the wedding, I woke up missing the tooth. I must have lost it while eating pizza at the after party the night before. Three months later I saw the wedding pics…they turned out great!

Here is Steve with his chipped toof.

And here's Steve after he super-glued his toof.

A little bit of this, a little bit of that

2010-06-30T21:24:00.004-05:00

A coworker asked me today, "Any new Diddies?" Embarrassingly enough, I hadn't been able to think of anything besides poo to write about as of late. After he shared an amazing story I suggested he become a guest writer and share his Diddie (mainly because I couldn't believe what he was telling me). As he walked away, I thought, "Damn. I need a Diddie." Which brought me to a few quick flashes of "Diddie Moments."

I went to elementary school at this weird hippie place in Florida, Arlington Country Day School. A few key points to know:
All of our classrooms led outside.
Our principle owned the school (and he always wore green jeans, which I assumed meant he was a fan of Mr. Rogers or rather Mr. Green Jeans).
We had ducks and a horse named Strawberry.
There was a giant field back behind the school, which is really kind of creepy now that I think of it.

And with that, here are a few Diddies I remember about going to school there.

My kindergarten teacher's daughter would ask us questions and the first one to get the answer got candy (this happened when her mom wasn't in the room). Which meant, she got her mom's class hopped up on sugar before school everyday.

There was a kid named Shaun who always had boogers in his nose. Like the crusty, crunchy kind that build up a ridge around the nostril area. All I ever wanted to do was get him to pick them or give him a toothpick to pull them out like little booger hors d'oeurvres

When we graduated first grade our reward was a sleepover at the school. Which basically meant, we got to sleep on the floor of our classroom. Yay. For breakfast the next day my dad madeblue and green pancakes for breakfast which got me (and my family) deemed "weird." It's only food coloring people! And guess what? It's super cool. Geez, you non-dimensional thinkers.

My sister (who was in 6th grade at the time) fell off the monkey bars and an ambulance came to take her away. I was in class when this happened and one of my awesome classmates told me, "Your sister is dead. They're taking her away forever." Thanks cool classmate. Luckily, she lived. All she did was bruise her back. Shoot, one time I was doing an amazing jungle gym feat on the monkey bars, a two armed swing jump, that resulted in hobbling me after my shin bones connected with the hard, steel bars. Now that was real pain.

Sidenote about my sister: She fully recovered in time work the lights at the 6th grade talent show while her friends lip-syned Working at the Car Wash. Man, she looked nervous flipping the light switch from "On" to "Off" then "On" to "Off" again.

I got locked in the bathroom for over two hours by a teacher after accidentally poking my friend in her eye with my foot. I was in kindergarten and it was naptime. Part of naptime protocol was removing our shoes and socks. Thing is I wore these super-tight, knee-high socks that were near impossible to take off. I mean, it was a struggle to get them to move at all. It's like my mom epoxied them to my legs. In my fight to remove them, which was always by pulling the sock from the toe outward. I pulled with such force that my leg flung from my grip and flew into my friend's eye. A complete accident. Uncontrolled to say the least but not intentional. But my friend's stupid tears got me locked up anyway. Needless to say, when my sister came to pick me up after school, only to discover I was locked away in the bathroom, she was pissed. Imagine how I felt sitting on the shitter for two hours with nothing to do but stare at the black walls. Now I know how POWs feel. Shoot.

One morning I wanted to wear this beautiful square dance skirt that was my sister's (from her dance class). It was ruffled and had polka dots and trim in lilac. I felt like a fancy pants in it. I loved to twirl and twirl and twirl it in. Well, I guess in my excitement to get to school and show it off, I forgot to do one last twirl before getting in the car because when I was walking to class a teacher passed by and said, "Your skirt is tucked in your underwear." There I was proud as a peacock, strutting my first grade ass to class with my skirt tucked in my drawers the entire time. Who said fashion doesn't come at a price?

Memories, the faded corners of my mind

2010-06-21T15:48:00.003-05:00

It's strange what we choose to remember. Like, I can't remember what I had to eat yesterday but I can remember, distinctly what my Grandmother's pink bathroom smelled like. I can remember the smell of salty air hitting me in the face on the drive to Jacksonville Beach in the backseat of my mom's light blue VW bug but I can't remember to pick up my prescription that's been at CVS for the last four days. So if the mind is a terrible thing to waste, I can say with some confidence that mine has been wasted on vast amounts of useless knowledge. But important dates or people's names? Well, that'd be a negatory. Through the past few weeks or months, really who knows, one thing is for certain, embarrassing moments of my life have been pulled to the forefront of my braincase. The pooping myself story was embarrassing but not the first time as my memory would recall.
Growing up in Jacksonville, Florida was a kid's dream. Well, at least this kid's. I rode my banana boat bike everywhere, went swimming every day during the summer, hit the beach almost as frequently and was in walking distance of the Lil Champ convenience store. Life was good.
In the neighborhood where we lived there were a ton of kids. I had friends a-plenty (strange how that changes). One friend of mine lived a few houses down and another a few streets over. I could easily roam the streets and find a friend on a whim. Those were the days when you left your house at 10 am (after morning swimteam practice) and stayed out playing until the sun went down and you could hear moms and dads calling their kids in for dinner.
One day I decided to go hang at my friend's who lived two houses down. Now, I can't remember her name but I can remember a few details about her, one of which is this: she was sneaky. One time when I was over she had a card table set up in the living room (doubt she was having late night poker games but rather it was left out from her mom's bridge or canasta game). She asked me to lay flat on the ground with the upper part of my torso sticking out from under the table. She convinced me that she'd "pretend" to jump on me but would actually jump to my left or right side. I questioned her, but she very convincingly told me that I could go next. Why I believed her I don't know. I think I was just a good kid who assumed people were good and wouldn't do shitty things. (Still a problem today.) Now when I end up under card table it's not to avoid being jumped on.
With my upper body sticking out from under the table, my friend counted to three and jumped. Guess where she landed? Directly on my stomach. Yep, she took what looked like a 5 foot jump (from my view) and landed with all her stumpy might right on top of my stomach. Saying it killed is an understatement. I could barely get up and run to tell on her. When I told her mother what her daughter did she promptly quipped that it wasn't very smart on my part to lay there and let someone jump on me. I gave her my patented hairy eyeball and left. I didn't play with her again for a long time.
A few months later, I decided to give "Jumper" another shot. We had been in her room playing for quite some time when I suddenly felt the urge to go potty hit me like a wave. When I started to leave she asked me where I was going and when I told her she said I couldn't use her bathroom. At that point I had to go so bad I didn't argue. I jetted out the door, running with clenched butt toward my house.
Imagine my surprise when I arrived home only to find the front door locked. After ringing the doorbell in what could only be called a distressed SOS code, I started doing the poopy dance. I was at code red for my current frontstoop state of emergency. I started to eye the front shrub as my next option when my dad pulled up. Upon seeing him I was so overcome with a sense of security that I stopped clenching and pooped my pants. Uh oh.
When my dad asked me what I was doing at home I told him that I had to go to the bathroom but now we were dealing with a far more serious situation on our hands. This did not please my dad (please refer to past stories to reference how my dad deals with these kind of "situations"). He could not fathom how someone could poop themselves when they knew they had to poop. And he most certainly was not in the mood to help clean me up. He did however fill the bathtub with warm water and told me to sit in there until my mom got home so she could handle "this."
As I sat in the luke warm water with my poopy drawers still on, I reflected back on how I got there and why in the world "Jumper" wouldn't let me use her bathroom. I was convinced that she had it out for me from the start. At that point my friendship with her could now be summed up in one word, shit.
And to think I had every intention to write about a family vacation in Mexico where I caught a barracuda when we went deep sea fishing.

What's grosser than gross?

2010-06-06T18:18:00.000-05:00

This story that's what fools. Okay, after a visit with the folks, I was enlightened to learn that not everyone in my family appreciates a good poo sharing story. Sure, sure who wouldn't but in the end, everyone poos so who gives a crap really? This time the object of my betrayal will be the once family pet, Scooter.
Scooter was a red/brown dachshund and he was awesome. Small but mighty, he defended my honor many a time Mr. X (family friend who's name was changed to protect his identity) got handsy with his tickling. Scooter would lose his shit with every jab that came at me. In fact, Scooter was so incensed with Mr. X that one time he hopped on the couch and dropped a steaming pile right in his lap, ploop ploop. And that my friends, was the sound of sweet, sweet victory. While my dad apologized profusely, I snuck Scooter treats and praised him for doing such an awesome feat. It's not every dog that can poo on command while running across a couch.
As you might be able to tell, Scooter wasn't well trained but he was fun and I loved him. Sure, he'd leave a steaming pile of poo outside my bedroom door but guess what, I deserved to for not walking him. Scooter had other talents besides pooping on things, but I thought I'd share his stealth poo dropping story before getting to the really gross stuff. And it makes a nice segway from last week's story to this week's.
Scooter had this problem. Well, I mean, not really a problem as much as it was a condition, which seems weird seeing how a lot of people do something like it everyday. You see, how do I say this? Um, Scooter was a masturbator. Every night after his dinner he'd go back to his bedroom (I never said my dog didn't have manners) to relax, digest and lick himself. Eeek!! I know! But a lot of dogs do that. It's called cleaning, except my dog took his "cleaning" a little too far one time. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that only one of his doggie testicles dropped. Yep, my dog was a one-baller.
After he'd had his "cleaning time" I'd take him for a walk, I guess it's the dog equivalent of smoking a cigarette. Well, this one evening I went back to get Scooter and I couldn't believe what I saw. It was like his lipstick was totally out of it's packaging. Yep, it was like that. Seeing how I was only 12, I had no idea what I was looking at and I can't say that I'd even know today. It was strange. Strange enough for me to run and get my mom.
Once I got her back in the room, she took one look ushered me quickly out of there and yelled for my dad. Next thing I knew, they were wrapping him up in his blanket and driving off to the emergency vet's. The state of panic left me feeling uneasy and unsure if I'd ever see Scooter again.
Two hours later they arrived with Scooter. He was fine. Turns out he had a little too much fun with himself and "somehow" got his lipstick to fall out of it's packaging. All the vet had to do was stick a needle in his buttocks, suck out a little juice and the lipstick went back no problemo. At least that's what my parents told me and honestly, that was enough.
Scooter stuck around for five more years before we made the move from Virginia to Missouri. He was a great, loyal dog who found a happy new home with a family that already had one dachshund. I like to think he moved in there and showed that other dog some new tricks.

I pooped the bed

2010-04-28T10:35:00.000-05:00

A couple of things before you start reading this post:
1) it might make you queezy
2) don't judge (you know it's happened to you before)
3) I want you to laugh so hard you (finally) poop yourself

A couple of weeks ago I was sick, like really sick. You know that kind of sick where you can't remember what it's like to feel normal. That was me. And during my ten days of misery I reflected back to all those other times I was sick. Like the great loves of your life, I waxed poetic about the great sicks of my life.

There was the all too recent bout I had last year during Christmas break. I had celebrated the season a little too merrily and came down with strep throat and the flu. Yeah, I was that lucky. Two for one, or for you Payless fans out there, BOGO. It was horrible, so horrible in fact, that the nurse smelled the sick on me and diagnosed before ever administering a test. That's sick folks. Luckily, I was home and my folks (mom) took great care of me. Plus, they have cable and my dog Madeline.

In college I got so sick I almost pulled the punching bag thingy that you always see jiggling in cartoons when someone is screaming, out from the back of my throat. Yep, that's right. I almost ripped it out it hurt so bad. I woke up after a night of Tom Collin's (I had a thing for nasty sweet drinks in college. Looking back, I realize it made me look like a member of the cast of Cocoon.) barely able to swallow (do not go there) and coughing up blood. Not my typical hangover. After a quick visit to the student nurse, I was diagnosed with strep and immediately quarantined myself. There's nothing worse than being sick while in school, living in a shoebox dorm room with no mom to take care of you. And I can't stress to you enough how close I was to pulling that bloody punching bag out from my throat because of the pain. As bad as all that sounds, the reality is, I've been sicker.

During my sophomore year in high school I came down with the flu. It was during the fall and as luck would have it, my mom was also sick with the flu. With no one to care for us, my dad quarantined us to their bedroom. His thought was, if you're going to be sick, be sick together and stay the heck away from the rest of the house. So, together we stayed. Now, I don't remember doing much besides sleeping and occasionally checking to see if my mom was still there. I was wearing those red long johns with the button drap door around back and my mom was in one of her moomoos. My dad wasn't the best at taking care of us, but he did keep us stocked up on liquids and saltines. Time had no meaning as we slept and slept and slept.

As I was coming in and out of consciousness, I remember my mom saying something like, "Uh oh" and then immediately running to the bathroom. I could hear my dad coming upstairs to check on us, just as I heard the shower turn on. I turned back over to hear my dad checking on my mom and then a "Oh, gross! You're sick!" When my mom came back into the bedroom I asked what was going on and she said, "I thought I had to fart and I shit instead." Wha? What the? I started laughing when all of a sudden *pffffft*. Oh no. Oh no. That did not just happen. There's no way that happened right now.

When I got up and started running to the bathroom my mom asked if I was going to get sick, to which I responded, "No, it just happened to me."
"What just happened?"
"I thought I had to fart and..."
In utter disgust my dad quickly interrupted, "You mean, you just shit yourself too? You guys are disgusting. You need to be in a barn."
As I made my way to the bathroom, I started laughing hysterically. Now, it could have been the sickness or the meds but it's not everyday that you can say you and your mom both thought you had to fart and shit yourselves instead.

PS: sorry mom

The last dance

2010-03-15T21:41:00.001-05:00

I had to write a brief bio for the new gig. As I was writing, a strange memory came back to me.

Back in elementary school we had to learn how to square dance as part of our gym curriculum. Back then I was perpetually shy and still what I considered to be the new kid at school. Why elementary schools made you pick square dancing partners in front of your peers is perplexing to me. Subjecting young, insecure kids to that kind of raffle is crazy. But they did. The gym teachers parted us like the sea and we faced the opposite sex in some sort of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers dance off.

Girls stood across from the boys and waited to be selected. As girl after girl got picked, I cringed waiting for someone to pick me and well, it never happened. Eternity seemed to have a hold of the second hand on the clock refusing to let it move. And while there were certain boys I didn't want to pick me, I certainly didn't want to be last. And yet, I was. Dead last.

The only boy left to pick a partner was Eddie. Now, I don't remember his last name, but I do remember he was quite normal looking. Therefore, I had no idea why he was left being stuck with me. He was shy with light brown hair and blue eyes. He introduced himself and as we were forced to touch hands I noticed something strange. He had a slight yellow tint to his palms. They looked dry, like when you'd
put Elmer's glue on your hands and allow it to dry. Man there was nothing better than peeling off dried glue.

Eddie explained he had a hereditary condition and gave me some name I can't remember. Poor guy. Bad enough you get stuck having me as your square dance partner, then I subject you to personal questions about your diseased hands.

As the music started and we dosey doed around the gym, I started to think, this guy's not half bad. And I'm not really holding hands with him because of his disease therefore, I didn't have to be embarrassed. Sure I was the last one who got picked but for some insecure reason, I was still worried about being teased. As if being last wasn't enough, being picked by Eddie was somehow considered worse by the other girls. I could never tell them it really wasn't that bad.

Square dancing ended as did my pseudo relationship with Eddie.

Years later, my parents after moving me my senior year, decided it would be nice to give me a trip to go back and see all my old Virginia high school friends graduate. Which is weird because it was more like a form of torture to go back and see all the things I missed out on with them senior year.

The first night I was in town, my friend Missy took me to a graduation party at her friend Baboo's. As we hung out in the backyard catching up, I heard the sound of a motorcross engine. There was a guy riding trails out back. He was going over jumps and catching some major air. We walked over to where the guy stopped his motorbike and for some reason I got gutsy and asked for a ride. The guy on the bike said sure and I hopped on. (I'll leave out the part about not wearing a helmut for my Mom's sake.)

As I sat on the back with my arms around his waist I felt free. He didn't go slower because a girl was on the back and for that I was grateful. As he sped down the path he asked me if I wanted to go over a jump and when I said, yes, he told me to hang on tighter.

We approached what looked like a never ending black hole of a pit, I latched my arms tightly around him. The bike went faster and my grin got bigger. There's something about the wind in my face that made me feel free, alone and happy. When we approached the hole, he sped up, lifted the front of the bike and we flew. I mean, flew. The only thing left of me on the bike were my hands under his arms. When the bike finally rested back on the dirt, the rest of my body joined him on the bike.

He dropped me off over near Missy and Baboo. When I asked what his name was, to thank him for the ride, he said, "Eddie. We were square dancing partners back in elementary school." And then I shook that familiar hand of his and thanked him for one hell of a ride.

Oh hesh up, I know I'm late

2010-03-04T23:43:00.001-06:00

Okay, before you start giving me a hard time about being lazy and not posting, just think about this: you've probably been sitting there planting schrubs on some farm or poking someone. I on the other hand, was starting a new job, and subsequently figuring out which hobo knapsack looks best while running over railroad tracks. It's know, lucky right?

So in lieu of a story, I'm posting a kajillion pics. Eat it up cause it sure looks like I have.

Dress: SkunkFunk

Belt: ASOS

Saw and Log necklace: Curiosity Shoppe

Leggings: American Apparel

Boots: Endless

Peacock sweater shawl: Anthropologie

Stud cuff: Francesca's

Black and white check top with neck bow: Benetton

Polka dot cardigan: Benetton

Bracelet: Mom

Dark denim jeans: Joe Jeans

Red button shoes: Miz Mooz

White poofy sleeve shirt: Bennetton

Astrological signs vest: Clothing Optional

Pink watch: Nixon

Pink Panther ring: ASOS

Dark denim jeans: 7 of All Mankind

Black patent flats: Steve Madden

And now for the close up: you can almost feel the polyblend.

A lot can happen in a year

2010-02-07T22:27:00.001-06:00

It's been quite some time since I've posted headless pics. If you're like me you need some pics to break up the monotony of words, especially my words. So, before I diddie another story, I thought a sampling of my latest wears were needed.

The first outfit you've seen before, kind of. The deer in the headlights sweater jumper meets Patty Hirsch knit cap, boots and scarf look made for a comfy weekend. Witness.

Deer jumper: Topshop

Scarf: Marshalls
Gold hoops: Forever
Knit cap: Urban

Knit cable tights: Urban

Boots: Steve Madden

The second outfit was perfect for sushi night. The roomy short jumper with elastic waist was even better for the cupcakes after.

Green cheetah sweater: Forever

Ruffle short jumper: Urban

Babble necklace: Anthropologie

Lucky horseshoe ring: Dad

Black tights: Target

Patent ballet flats: Steve Madden

Spinning an Arkansas yarn

2010-02-03T11:35:00.000-06:00

Salem, Arkansas. The place where my dad was born and the place where summer visits turned into summer adventures. Now, I don’t remember every detail but what I do remember is a fondness for small town life.

My dad was born and raised in Salem, Arkansas. Most of his family stayed in Salem or in another part of Arkansas. My grandmother lived in Salem next door to her sister, Aunt Wanda and her sister’s husband Uncle Dick for as long as I remember. Going to grandmother’s was like taking a step back in time where things moved at a slower pace, everyone knew each other and helping a stranger wasn’t cause for alarm. I loved visiting because 1) grandmother made the best deserts and spoiled me rotten 2) I got to play with my cousins until I would pass out.

One year Uncle Dick had gotten the kids a mini van go-cart. Oh my lord! It was the most exciting thing to happen in a long time. Just the thought of driving that van down a dirt road, wind in my face, bugs in my teeth was making my palms sweat. I was ready to grab that wheel and feel freedom in my face. Only problem, my dad loved it more. I should note: the mini van was built for a large child/small adult. Now, my dad’s not a big man but he ain’t small either. Somehow he crammed his 5’10” frame into the van. How he did this, I have no idea.

The van was a nice 70s white/tan with brown and orange stripes along the sides. Full size, that van would have been a weed machine or a rape van. Serious 70s drug vibe going on here folks. But pint sized, it was badass. Watching my dad drive, with his head sticking out of the “sun roof” (which was the only way in and out of the van), going down the main road in front of Grandmother and Aunt Wanda’s, was a fantastical sight. His shit-eating grin beaming from ear to ear, made me jealous. Cars passed him, rubber necking to get another look before driving past. No one could believe what they were seeing; what looked like a Shriner’s mini van driving along side their full-sized auto. Let the good times roll! And roll they did.

The next day or so, my dad wanted to take us, all the cousins, to visit his friend’s place. His friend lived atop the “mountain” where the radio towers were monitored (I think). We crammed in the back of the pick-up truck as my dad drove us up the hillside. Not using my head, I decided to sit in a lawn chair. Um, bad choice. As we started our ascent, my dad, after noticing what I chose to sit in, decided to gun it up the hill. WAM! The lawn chair folded with me in it. It was like being stuck in the claw of a crab. I wiggled and squirmed to release myself from the lawn chair’s ferocious grip to no avail. Assistance was needed. Once I was freed I thought, what better thing to do then try sitting in the lawn chair again. And without fail, WAM! my dad gunned it again, and I went crashing down, attached to the lawn chair. My cousins were laughing their butts off, but attention at any cost was good.

As we approached the top, my cousins and I noticed a man with a dozen dogs running along side him, moving swiftly toward the truck waving, what one could only call a knob, frantically. Yes, my dad’s friend was missing most of one arm. I imagined he lost it when he had to climb to the top of one of the towers and got his arm electrocuted off, or perhaps he lost it in a fight with a bear. Unfortunately, my imagination was wrong and he lost it during the war (or at least that’s what I remember). He was ecstatic to see my dad and catch up on old times. But needless to say, he wasn’t the only interesting person my dad knew.

Now I never met my dad’s cousin Booger Red, but I heard stories that were mythical. Booger Red was my dad’s “wild” cousin who grew up on a cattle farm near Salem. I never believed my dad’s cousin’s real name was Booger Red, which it wasn’t but like most good nicknames, it stayed and people forgot what Booger’s real name was. I don’t know where the Booger came from but the Red was because cousin Booger had bright red hair. He was a good old boy for sure. My dad, wanting to further prove just how redneck my family was, took me to Booger Red’s gravesite. See, Booger Red died in an 18-wheeler accident years before I was born. As we approached Booger’s resting site, I could see the faint shape of what could only be an 18-wheeler. Yes, Booger Red had an 18-wheeler on his tombstone. And as clear as day, his nickname Booger Red and Booger Red only, was on there as well. Color me impressed. I wish I could’ve had the opportunity to met Booger Red and hear him tell stories of his adventures on the open road. He was a wild guy, who lived life the way he wanted and I respected that, even at 8 years old.

I’ve got more stories about my dad and his tales of growing up in Salem. They’re better when he tells them because like any good story telling, he takes the time to paint you a picture, keeping you on the edge of your seat. He’s told me about the summer he worked at Yellowstone National Park as a fishing guide. Living in a cabin with about 8 other guys I can only imagine the pranks and practical jokes they played on each other and the visitors. And there’s the time he snuck out of his house to go ride in the rodeo, even after promising him mom that he wouldn’t. Needless to say, he ended up getting bucked off the horse, dislocating his shoulder and as a result, getting in a heap of trouble. Or the time he lived in a house with some buddies during college and cooked an amazing fish dinner, which just happened to be with fish out of the government-fishing quarry, that lead to two agents knocking on their door. Or the time he worked at a government missile base one summer after college, paying visits to Nana in an effort my mom calls, “sucking up to win her over.” Then there’s the time my dad went to Missouri with a buddy of his (who was going to visit his girlfriend) and ended up meeting my mom, who he said, “had big boobs and could drink me under the table.” To which my mom said, “He tried to keep up but couldn’t. I felt sorry for him.” It’s stories like that that make me happy to know my dad and even happier when I get to hear one of his stories for the first, second and third time.

Freda means "the devil" in jive.

2010-01-28T17:44:00.013-06:00

I just read a journal entry from Mike Birbiglia's My Secret Public Journal and it got me thinking about a job I once had. Not too long ago I lived in Dallas and worked at a photo studio as a stylist. Now, don't get all excited and think hair and make-up styling, although I was tasked to do so on kids. Come to think of it I'm not really sure you can call applying lip gloss and wetting down hair "styling" when it feels more like kiddy porn. Regardless, I was a stylist. A domestication's stylist. And the answer is no, I didn't train animals or turn into June Cleaver. It was more like bedding and window treatments. It was a physically demanding job but it was the stress I encountered on a daily basis that made me understand why people "go postal."

The main ingredient in my stress level was a coworker. Not that everyone there was great but at least my other coworkers were tolerable. Not that I'm an elitist, but I'm pretty sure half had served time and the other half never finished high school. How you ask did I end up working there? 9-11. I'll save that story for another time. The point is, job's were hard to come by and I needed to work somewhere until I could find a "real" job. But I digress, it's time to get back to the coworker.

Being a stylist, I had to prep most of the merchandise before taking it on set. There was a small room near the kitchen where we worked. There were four of us working back there but I only had a problem with one named *shiver* Freda.

She was unlike anything I had ever encountered. Rude, politically incorrect, mean spirited, judgmental, racist, foul-mouthed, and ignorant. Okay, I could go on and on but the point is, she was one of the if not the most vile people I have ever met. Lucky for me I got to work with her five days a week, 10 hours a day. Awesome!

The first day I walked in she looked me up and down forming an opinion about me before ever hearing me speak. When she opened her's a mouth full of ravenous, crooked, gnarly, yellow teeth jetted out toward me. She was one of those people who had too many teeth in their mouth, kind of like Julia Roberts. But calling Julia horsey is playing nice. I mean, is it possible to see all of one's teeth when you smile? Julia says, yes. But Freda's gaper was a tangled mess. Picture a Werewolf from a bad B movie and you'll have Freda. As she opened her mouth to talk, I noticed her clicking at the end of each sentence. It wasn't a tick but more like someone constantly trying to swallow saliva. She was one of those people who ate with their mouth open. I really don't think she had a choice in the matter. After, she'd use her fingernails to pick things out of the back of it then flick in the air. *Shiver* again.

Freda's fingernails were actually more like talons. Long, pointy and slightly curling. How she ever managed to button a shirt much less style an entire room set is beyond me. They were nasty. You know those dudes in India who grow their nails super long and they become a discolored dirty yellow-brown? Yep, that's what her's looked like. Uh, ewe.

My loathing for Freda doesn't have to do with her physical features but it sure does paint a nice little picture. Every time she opened her mouth she would put someone or something down. A conspiracy theorist amateur, Freda did not believe the news and it didn't matter if it was in the paper, on the t.v. or from a credible witness. Freda was not as she would say, "havin' it." She would blame "whitey" for bringing her down, the government for her back luck and "the brothers" for her single status. She was quite a charmer I tell you. For me to even picture her getting it on with someone hurt my brain case, but I knew she had kids so someone did indeed "sleep with danger."

One time I tried talking to her about politics but if I had paid closer attention to the looks on my coworker faces when I spoke, I would've kept my mouth shut. It was one of those classic movie moments when the needle on the record scratched and everything went quiet. This was not going to be pretty.

Now, it use to take a lot to make me cry but this old buzzard laid into me like a fat kid eats cake. Her head started sass-shaying and then her hand started moving in the classic "oh no you didn't" manner. My frustration level hit an all time high. I couldn't believe what my life had become. Thankfully before my frustration crying grew out of control (you know where you start to hyperventilate), Monty from Mississippi tucked his head in to tell us one of his rib ticklers to save my ass. Thank you Monty.

Every morning while prepping merchandise, we'd turn on the radio. Although I never got a say in what station we picked, I did start to enjoy Barry White and Anita Baker. Without fail, while the radio played some bad R&B Freda would start a little dance. This is the one thing I liked most, well the only thing I liked, about her. She would sway left and right while pulling her shoulders up and down with arms bent and hands out. I call it the Juke and Jive.

One day, feeling especially rambunctious, I started doing the Juke and Jive. The heavenly sounds of Earth, Wind and Fire (I saw these guys two years ago and it was phenomenal) filtered the air as I started to move. That is, until Freda blurted out, "Yo, check out white girl. Thinks she can dance. Whooo hooo." And then a hyena like cackle burst from her mouth as I left the room. I had had enough. White people can Juke and Jive, shoot just ask my Mom.

As the days moved on I learned to ignore Freda and her snide remarks. Outside of fighting there was really no other solution. And believe you me, I did not want to get cut by one of those nails and get HepC. So, I plugged along until a new job opportunity saved me. But no matter how many years get between me and Freda, I'll never forget her and what she taught me about people. Sometimes, you just can't teach an old dog new tricks.

Magnificent beards have a lot of appeal

2010-01-22T10:35:00.005-06:00

I have a problem. It's something I've been battling the last six plus years. Shoot some might say I've been battling this my entire life. While some of you are aware of this problem, I figured what better place to come clean than my diddie page. So what you may ask is said issue? Two words: facial follicles. Mustaches and Beards specifically. In fact, I'll even go ga-ga for a nice set of side burns.

I've loved the Stache since I was yay-high. And over the years that love has grown and evolved into a full blown facially follicle love affair. I love 'em. Beards. Big, beautiful, hairy beards. And I don't mean that 5 o'clock shadow thing George Michael calls a beard. I'm talking the Browny-Marlboro-mountain-man beard. (Side note: have you ever noticed that when an actor wants to play an emotionally sensitive or intelligent man he'll grow a beard for the movie. Case in point: Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting. John Krasinski in Away We Go. George Clooney in Syrianna. I mean, the list goes on and on.) So, I thought while I'm coming out of the facial follicle closet, I'd post a pic of my favorite beard of all, the Magnificent Beard. (Be sure to check out their show in Dallas March 19).

My friend Con-hair, a regal beard grower himself, along with his pal Matt create fantastical posters, shirts, buttons and bags, amongst other oddities. Check out the badass shirt Con-hair gave me for my birthday below. I'm b-a-n-a-n-a-s about it. (I've also included a Halloween pic of Mr Peanut's distant second cousin, the Rotten Banana)

Banana Peal shirt: Magnificent Beard
Hoody: American Apperal
Jeans: Urban
Shoes: Creative Recreation
Pink Panther ring: ASOS
Gold chain: Forever 21

Close-up of the tee: color's off because of flash. Picture baby chick yellow.

And now, Rotten Banana

Horse'n around

2010-01-14T11:19:00.000-06:00

The temperature might break 40 degrees today and that makes me want to dance the jig like an limp-legged Irish lad. The spring is slowly returning to my step. And Mother Nature, if you're being a tease and taking the sunlight back in a day we're rumbling. Meet me in the Tom Thumb parking lot after school. I'm taking you down.

The following outfit, while doing it's best Cash impersonation, does not accurately reflect my current mood, which is close to chipper. You could say I'm almost smiling. Almost.

Black velvet jacket: Newport News
Horse and buggy shirt dress: Urban
Clock necklace: Urban
Horseshoe ring: Dad
Black tights: Target
Boots: Steve Madden

It's abominable in here!

2010-01-12T12:55:00.004-06:00

There's a slight chill in the Chicago air, and I'm talking about the office. For some reason the office I work at is always flippin cold. Methinks there's a conspiracy behind it. I think it has something to do with keeping the ladies bitter titter cold. Let your mind wander. Ahh, yes. There you are. Uh huh, that's the reason they keep it cold.

Faux fur vest: Crossroads Thrift
Tiger LS shirt: no idea, but I got it at that cool t-shirt place (that's no longer there) near the West Village in Dallas.
White V-neck tee: Hanes
Sagittarius necklace: Urban
Jeans: Wesc
Knee-high green suede boots: Steve Madden

Scarier than black magic and the KKK

2010-01-11T11:40:00.001-06:00

I promise you this much, this will be scarier than the bonfire story about black magic and the KKK. How you ask? Just a little ol thing called Your Life Flashing By Before Your Eyes. This is, by far the scariest thing that has happened to me.

When I lived in Dallas, the third time, I moved downtown and lived on Worth, near Fitzhugh. It was a strange neighborhood mixed with young mobiles, richie riches and lower income families. The historic home tour took place in my neighborhood while two blocks away someone would be getting arrested for selling drugs, or their "services." In fact, I distinctly remember my first day in the new "hood."

My friend Esther came down from 972 (the burbs) to help me unpack. After a few hours, we decided more beer and food was needed. We stopped in to a little convenience store on Gaston. I should've known I was in for a bumpy ride when everyone in the place turned to look at two white girls shopping for beer and snacks. One of these things was not like the other. And while the neighborhood was mixed, I think we were the first two white girls to patronize the place who had a full set of teeth. When we left, we saw a "lady" servicing a man behind the dumpster out back. Very romantical.

There was always a mix of people at the gas station and laundry mat, and most of them weren't there to get gas or do laundry. On Friday nights, I'd sit on my front porch and watch drunks get pulled over for DUIs or stumble home, only to fall, face first, into the pavement (there was a drive-thru liquor store nearby). Some nights, I'd be lucky enough to hear gunfire nearby or capture the local tranny emerge from behind the shrub of some multi-million dollar home. I'm telling you it was quite the mix.

One Sunday night, I was in bed talking on the phone when I heard a knock on my door. It must've been around 11:00 at night and I wasn't expecting anyone, especially at my backdoor. The place I rented had a front common entry door the four neighbors shared, and a back door off my bedroom. Weird, I know. To my utter surprise this knock was at my bedroom door. And no one I knew, ever knocked on that door. I asked my friend to hang on as I moved to the living room to check out who it could be. I moved stealthly, trying not to let them know anyone was home. I peered from the blinds and saw a medium sized man at my backdoor, a man I had never seen before in my life. As I peered out, he's eyes moved and caught mine, or so it felt. My heart raced. I whispered to my friend that it was someone I didn't know and they told me to check the front.

I moved to the family room and saw a shadowy figure racing back and forth across my porch. This figure appeared to be much larger than the one at my backdoor. I could see them bending over and then back up, trying to get a look inside my place. Now, I was scared.

I moved back to the hallway when my friend said to get off the phone and call 911. He advised me to tell them there was a break-in in progress or the Dallas police would never show. As I dialed 911 the operator kept me on the line. As I started to describe the men, I moved back toward my apartment door. The large looming shadowy figure was no longer on the front porch. As I moved along the wall to my door, I peered through the peephole and saw him! Oh fuck. Oh fuck! He broke through the common door and was right there looking back at me.

As I laid my body flat against the door, I could see him, feel him only two inches away from me. I was frozen. It took everything in me to move myself down the wall and into my bathroom. I stayed on the phone with 911, as she tried to calm me down and my life flashed before my eyes. I had no way out. With one man at the backdoor pulling and jimmying the handle, the other was at my front door banging loudly. I was stuck. There was no escape. I figured my best bet would be rape, the worst rape and a brutal beating. I started to hyperventilate.

The 911 operator said the cops were on their way and for me to calm down. I told her I didn't know where to go, so I was in my bathroom closet waiting until the cops arrived or these men came in and got me. At this point, I didn't hear any sirens, so I assumed the men trying to break in would be the first ones to find me there. I thought about jumping out my kitchen window but didn't see any clear escape with one of the men in close proximity. I opted to stay in the bathroom. THIS WAS IT. I'm dead. Finite. Finished. Done. I felt fear coursing it's way through my blood stream, paralyzing me. There was no way out except death.

Finally, sirens. Everything went quiet. I could feel my heartbeat in my ears. Until there was a sudden knock at the door. The 911 operator told me it was the cops and to go answer it. I was safe.

I answered the door with a shaky hand and knees about to buckle. I was surprised to find the cops were very matter-of-fact and down right rude. They didn't enter my home but instead, opted to tell me that it didn't look like a break-in. They went on to tell me that the common door was already opened when they got there, which I explained was broken by one of the men. The cops argued that an old door like that was easy to break so I might want to tell my landlord. As I started to explain how the events just went down, I saw out of the corner of my eye one of the men. I whispered to the cops, that's him. The guy that's getting into that car. That's him.

Another officer went to question the men in the car while I hid in the shadows, not wanting my identity shown. The cops came back and told me that the men in the car were looking for another apartment 415 Worth instead of 315. Then the cops proceeded to act pissy toward me for wasting their time. I'm sorry, I might not be some CSI investigator or an America's Most Wanted Vigilante but I know B.S. when I hear it.

I asked the officers what two men at 11 o'clock on a Sunday night were doing at the front and back door of someone's apartment and why would they run when the cops arrived, I mean seeing how they're innocent why run? The cops had nothing more to say. And neither did I.

I packed my bags that night and never returned to Worth. Opting instead, to live out the last days of my lease at my parents compound in 972. And coming to the conclusion that living in an old "up and coming" neighborhood might not be for me.

Suck it up

2010-01-07T21:55:00.003-06:00

It's a newish year with no resolutions. I don't believe in them. If you think you need to do something, do it. Shoot, why waits until after the holidays were you're already full on regret from spending too much, eating too much and possibly drinking too much. No thanks. I'll leave my regret at the bedroom door. Regardless, I needed to start the year with some stretchy pants and a nice flowy top. Point in case below.

Top: Urban
Camisole: Urban
Necklace: Urban
Skinny belt: Forever 29
Bracelet: Mom
Stretchy pants: Urban
Boots: Steve Madden

This post: sponsored by Urban.

An ending thought. This might sound weird but I'll share it anyway. During the holidays around sophomore or junior year (HS) my Nana sent my my very own coffee can full of peanut-butter balls. And at the time I was so worried about gaining weight that after every peanut-butter ball I ate, I'd go downstairs and jump rope for 15 minutes. That's the kind of shit I remember.

One Night Only!

2010-01-04T17:29:00.004-06:00

There's been a song running in my head today and it took me back, way back. It's the reason this post is here. Thumbing through the stories in my head I couldn't decided which to pen next until a few bars of "Too Many Fish in the Sea" paid me a visit.

Growing up, my Mom never got rid of her clothes. She would always state that "It'll come back in style" or "You might want that when you get older." Therefore, our basements were filled with a treasure trove of vintage items screaming for dress-up. She kept all her 60s and 70s clothes and even some 50s items from high school/college. Every time I'd descend the stairs to the vintage pit, I'd come back up with some new discovery. Wigs, dresses, pantsuits, boots, jewels, everything a kid could imagine would be found. Stockyards full. In fact, when we moved from Virginia to Missouri our half acre front yard was filled with clothing items (we even sold a car in that garage sale).

During this time the movie The Big Chill came out. While I don't remember watching the movie, I do remember my Mom going nuts for the soundtrack, beebopping around in her beebop manner. (If you know her you've seen this in action: Pull your arms up near your waist and pretend you're tapping on something with your hands while you move your hips left and right, shuffling your feet. Actually just picture an old blues man on the corner of Bourbon Street). Anyway, my sister and I became very knowledgeable about this soundtrack, so much so that we decided to put together a little routine.

Now mind you, we put together routines in the basement, just for us. We never wanted anyone to see us. I mean, that would be humiliating. And like any good story involving me, I get humiliated. Needless to say, my Mom caught us dancing in the basement and inquired about our moves. Being the rational one, I yelled at her to get out and ran behind the wet bar, red faced. So, when my Mom's mom arrived to visit, my Mom found it necessary to tell her about our extra-curricular basement activity. Nana told us if we ever wanted to practice in front of her she wouldn't mind. Subtle eh?

We continued our lip-sync practice downstairs with no hope of showing Nana. That is, until my sister remembered that our parents were going out that night and why the hell not show Nana. I mean, she was our guest judge for all our Pairs Carpet Dancing routines. (During the Olympics my sister and I would choreograph routines based on the Pairs Ice Dancing routines we had seen and perform them on carpet. The camel still proves to be a tricky move to this day.) With a semi-confident nod of my head we regained our focus.

Once we perfected our moves and lip-syncing, we dove into the plethora of micro minis and go-go boots. We decided on an all white look, hot that winter. White plastic go-go boots, a mini shift dress, and long wig. Our song choice, Too Many Fish in the Sea by the Marvelettes.

Once our parents were out the door, we waited another ten minutes (to make sure they were really gone) before setting the stage for Nana. She sat in a chair near the couch as we made our way in front of the fireplace. Cue music.

It was incredible. All of our practice was paying off. The moves, the lip-syncing, it was all going so perfectly. Nana beamed with pride as she watched her granddaughters shimmy and shake to the sounds of Motown. That is, until headlights peered through the windows. NO! Could it be? Oh crap. Without missing a beat I ran down into the basement and instantly started changing clothes. My sister stayed upstairs and faced the music, so to speak.

Seems my Mom forgot something. How convenient. When she saw my sister in one of her micro minis she asked what was going on. My Nana told her we were performing a special routine for her (Nana was good at not giving away too much. Plus, she knew my fear of performing in front of anyone not named Nana). My Mom pressed to get us to perform. But as an artist, I felt compromised. I would not, could not, come back and perform. The moment was lost. Too Many Fish in the Sea was shut down.

With our one night only performance cut short, I've always wondered what would have happened if we had completed our song. Would we have gone on to other hits such as Tell Him by the Exciters? Perhaps Proud Mary by Ike and Tina? Looks like we'll never know.

I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.

2009-12-15T17:29:00.003-06:00

Every since I was little I've loved swimming. Growing up in Jacksonville, FL didn't hurt either. My days were filled with aquatic adventures. Whether it was going to the pool to play with friends, going to the beach to watch my mom bake her skin to a crisp tropical brown or getting up early to endure Coach Mark's swim practices, I loved being in the water. So much so, my hair was a nice shade of green from being in the chlorine so often (That and I hated rinsing it. No idea why. I was just a tomboy who hated fixing my hair).

My mom got me swim lessons when I was three or something absurd like that. I remember being like a guppy holding my breath underwater for what seemed like hours. I would dolphin kick my way back up to the surface just long enough for a quick gasp of air before diving down below again.

By the age of five I was on the swim team and by six I was becoming a stealthy competitor. I was in the beginning stages of tikedom. I was small, tough and ready to kick some butt. I loved competing.

When I was eight, Couch Mark made me the youngest member of his Select team at Colonial Park. The Select team had extra practices in addition to our team practices. It was long. It was hard. But it was worth it. As he worked on my stroke, he couldn't break me of one bad habit; not breathing. The eight and under group never swam more than a lap at a time so 25 yards wasn't that long to go without a breath. Plus, I hadn't tackled turning my head without drastically slowing me down. Couch decided I was faster not breathing.

Race day was my favorite part of the whole swim team experience. I got to eat powered Jello (with sugar) and get McDonald's after the race (see The Tube Top story). Another favorite on race day were the relay races. They were at the end of the meet and the most exciting part. The entire team would pay attention, cheering on the different relay groups. You couldn't help but get caught up in it all.

Being in the eight and under group my relay would go first. Coach Mark gave us a pep talk prior because Colonial Park was behind in points but a few relay wins would garner us a win. I was the anchor of the girls 100 free relay team. Four little girls ready to win one for the team.

Racers take your mark. Get set. POW! The gun went off and our team was already behind. As my teammate made her way down the lane I told the girl going next to kick like crazy. But we were loosing ground and getting further behind. By then my Couch came over to me. He told me not to pay attention to the girl in the next lane, just keep my head down and swim like he knew I could. He patted me on the back and nodded.

As the third girl on my relay team was half way down her lane, the anchor for the other team was already in the water. By the time she touched the wall, my team was a half a length behind and there was only one lap. I was so excited to get in the water I could barely wait to dive in. When she touched the wall I flew. My mom said my legs were kicking before they hit the water. I was like a silver bullet. Head down, legs furiously kicking I passed the other team and won the race. Of course, I thought the first one out of the water was the winner. So, as soon as I touched the wall I pulled myself out, eager to find that unfinished box of powered Jello, unaware that the entire Colonial Park team was going crazy cheering as others tried to congratulate me on my come from behind win.

That one of the best summers I can remember. My sister and I went on to win our age groups in the Regional meet. And while we never topped that year, I'll never forget it and my love of swimming.

Grace Jones ain't got nuthin on me

2009-12-09T07:51:00.002-06:00

For reasons only my 80s mind can digest, I ordered a jumpsuit. Who orders a jumpsuit? The only people who can carry this look off are little kids and grannies who like to punch and kick. When my playful number arrived, I realized it was more like a mix between curtains and coolots than edgy and sexy. Thankfully, after I added a turtleneck and high boots it quickly turned into a mix of 70s French cool and Nubian Princessness, at least to me.

Black jumpsuit: ASOS
Turtleneck: Target
Boots: Etienne Atinger
Gold bracelets: Mom, Francesca's

Are you there God? It's me Cassidy.

2009-12-02T14:01:00.001-06:00

Puberty was a completely frightening, unwanted, black cloud over my adolescent life. I knew about the birds and the bees long before it became an ever-present concern during my prepube years. My Mom was kind enough to give me Where did I Come From and What's Happening to Me. Curiously, I read through them, paying more attention to the classic 70s illustrations and not the content. My Mom was always ready and willing to talk about ANYTHING. Being a super, super shy kid, she also made sure I had books to peruse, just in case.

I had every Judy Blume book and reread most of them a few times. I found myself feeling more like Shelia the Great than Margret any day of the week. With puberty looming in the hallway, I would pray in my bed every night for my period to never come. My biggest fear was that once I got my period, I would never be able to act like a kid again. I would have to pretend to like frilly, frou-frou things. So, my ritual began. I would lay in the dark and mumble that I would do anything to never have "hair down there" or get my period. I did not want to grow up. Ever.

Seeing how my sister and her friends acted made me sick. I was a tomboy through and through. This period stuff would just get in the way of my running wild in the woods behind our house, my choice of turtleneck and corduroy combos and playing sports.

On February 24th, while playing barbies upstairs in my room while my Dad threw my Mom a *ehm* 40th *ehm* surprise birthday party, I got my period. I was devastated. Not only were my NEW and fantastically blue Gloria Vanderbilt jeans ruined, I was ruined as well. That's it. It's all over. Good-bye sports. Good-bye woods. Good-bye fun.

I sat on the floor of my room weighing my options: keep playing with my barbies or go down in a room full of intoxicated 40 somethings and risk public humiliation. I chose barbies. I snuck into the bathroom I shared with my sister and found what happened to be the largest maxi-pads ever made. I was bewildered. Those things look like mini rafts. I pictured Skipper floating down a river, finding peril on an unforeseen waterfall. Those suckers where HUGE!

Now, at this point I had read Are You There God it's Me Margret and I blame that book for turning me off to the whole puberty thing. So, as I was scavenging under the sink, I looked for some sort of belt contraption to keep the Maxi-Raft in place. Nothing. Nearing a state of panic, I did what any good Scout would do. I improvised.

Sneaking a pair of scissors into the bathroom, I "amended" the pad into a short vessel for my "periodic journey." It seemed to work and it definitely kept humiliation at bay. I knew if my Mom found out she would make some big production about how wonderful it was, and how it's a natural and beautiful thing for a young girl to experience. And then a million hugs would follow. BARF. I was better off keeping this breaking news under wraps, so to speak.

This went on for months. No one knew. So, I kept playing out in the woods, riding bikes and sporting cords. Life was good. But that was all about to change.

My dad traveled a bunch for his job. He'd pack Sunday night, fly out early Monday and we'd see him sometime near the end of the week. As he was rummaging around one Sunday night, preparing to pack his suited life up for another round of sales, I heard him yell, "KAY!!! COME IN HERE!!!!'"

"What's going on?"

"Um, what the hell is this?" as he flings open the suitcase and a few dozen maxi-pad ends go flying in the air.

As I was peering through the crack of my door, I felt a rush of heat flash across my face.

He looked over at me, "Why in the hell would you do this?"

My Mom, sensing my increasing embarrassment, told my Dad to stop and that it wasn't a big deal. I sunk back into my room, knowing that my secret was no longer safe and it had officially been made public by my Dad. I was humiliated.

My Dad didn't intend to make an already embarrassing situation more embarrassing. He was an old school guy who gave us a roof over our heads. He's job was taking care of his family not to offering up menstruation advice to his adolescent daughter(s).

Mom came in and told me I had nothing to be embarrassed about and she'd go get me pads that would better suited for me. So, there it was. The one thing I never wanted anyone in my family to know about was out in the open and all over the floor.

Time for my stretchy pants

2009-11-30T22:04:00.002-06:00

Somehow my mood stayed dark (note the over use of black), even after a tremendous holiday where my outfits somehow skipped the double blend polyester my double stuffed belly was begging for. Thankfully, I have about two pounds of leftover mashed potatoes to keep me full until we do this again at Christmas. Then I promise I'll break out the Sansabelts just in time to ring in the New Year.

Introducing the Sunday Funday holiday shopping outfit

Black velvet military jacket: Newport News catalog years ago
Black boatneck distressed tee: Urban
London charm necklace: Urban
Jeans made into cutoffs: People's Liberation
Black tights: DKNY
Black patent belt: Untitled
Black boots: Steve Madden

This next outfit proved to be handy in hiding my Thanksgiving belly (thanks Mom)

Black boyfriend jacket: Crossroads thrift
Purple Pegasus cutoff sweatshirt: Urban
Silver chain necklace: Forever 21
Silver bangle: Mom
Sequin black mini: Forever 21
Black tights: DKNY
Black boots: Steve Madden
With arms like that you can understand why the jacket is necessary but I wanted to show the sweatshirt in all it's glory. Sorry for any emotional distress caused by cafeteria arms.

The Bird is the Word

2009-11-24T21:32:00.000-06:00

Yea, so I've got a bad attitude. Big deal. I've also got a mouth full of insults ready to sling at you like mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving Dinner. I mean, didn't we steal this land from the Indians?

Purple jacket: Delia's

T-Shirt: Untitled

Dark wash jeans: Ann Taylor

Black patent flats: Steve Madden

Pink watch: Nixon

Pink panther ring: ASOS

Choke on this

2009-11-23T21:15:00.000-06:00

For whatever reason, I've taken to the bondage look the last few days. Maybe it's the holidays, maybe it's that thing called a J.O.B or maybe, just maybe I'm a masochist at heart. Either way, I like to think it makes my sarcasm just a wee bit more biting.

Sleeveless black ruffle v-neck: Hawks, Urban
Red and black polka dot cardigan: Forever 21
Black wrap belt: ASOS
Cigarette jeans: By Corpus, Urban
Black knee-high boots: Etienne Atinger
Oval black ring: Akira

Black tee dress: Urban

Green cheetah cardigan: Forever 21

Skinny black patent belt: Untitled

Brass zebra bracelet: ASOS

Brown ring: Francesca's

Black pleather leggings: Urban

Boots: Steve Madden

Shiny kind of happy people

2009-11-18T13:23:00.003-06:00

The outfit below is one of those online purchases that looked a heck of a lot fancier online. I thought it could transition from a nice summer to bitter ass cold dress but now I'm just not sure how well "foil" holds heat. Plus, it's not that flattering. As you can tell from my stance, I'm not too happy about it. Wah-wah.
Foil dress with ribbon tie: ASOS online
Cardigan: Nordstrom
Tee: AmericaApparel
Boots: Steve Madden
Black cuff: Nixon
Purple vintage ring: some thrift store in St. Louis years ago

This next outfit looks more like a homage to Stevie Nicks than the Goth Goddess look I was going for. And you know what? I'm okay with it, if it's from her Buckingham/Nicks days. Shoot, who am I kidding, anything flowy like Stevie is alright by me.
Black Velvet top/jacket: Forever 21
Layered black tee: Anthropologie
Jeans: from the Godfrey site, the brand is Fidelity I think
Short buckle cuff boots: DSW last season, not sure about the brand
Black chain necklace: mmm, not sure
Gold chain green tooth necklace: Francesca's about three years ago
Black cuff: Nixon

Make believe just got BUSTED!

2009-11-17T12:50:00.000-06:00

Back in Virginia, I lived out in the boonies near horse farms. It was nothing for me and my neighbor Jenny Harrison to go frolicking in the woods back behind our houses and create another world between the dirt paths and tangled branches. We'd pretend to gallop on our "horses" (think Monty Python, minus the coconut shells) as we lost track of time meandering off the beaten path. We'd climb trees, create forts and hop fences into paddocks where we didn't belong.

There were those times when we didn't want to be outside and retreated to her family's basement. It was there where we created towns, schools, museums and other places we only dreamt of visiting.

Her dad created a play area for us that took up half of their basement. The other half was his for his model train set which in actuality was an entire world he created. It was awesome. There were mountains, villages, a place for you to crawl under and pop out in the middle. And while it was awesome, it was also a little weird that her dad painstakingly created this "other world." Looking back, I can't blame him, seeing how he had three daughters and a wife who had dollhouses (fabulous ones, mind you, that her mom created in antique hutches) all over the house.

Jenny and I took over our half of the basement one day and create a school. We spent hours figuring out lessons plans, designing the classroom, naming our students (dolls, stuffed animals) and creating decorations. We each had our a classroom of our own to lead. During one of our "breaks" we decided what we really need to do was have a fire drill.

We'd never executed this type of drill before and thought it best to have a plan of action just in case this ever "really" happened. We went back to our classrooms and began our lesson plan when all of a sudden, an alarm went off! Actually, it was Jenny ringing a bell she had, but as far as we were concerned, it was real!

Off we went, organizing our "students" into single file and leading them out to Jenny's backyard. We dropped off our first set of kids before heading back in to save the others. Again, we grabbed another bunch of "kids" and placed them in a straight line with the others. As we started conducting a head count we realized all of a sudden that we had left a couple of the "kids" inside. Jenny started to panic as she called their names again. I grabbed hold of her shoulders and told her everything's going to be okay. I told her I'd go back in for them. As I headed toward the garage, I took a look back to give the kids a reassuring word when I noticed our teenage neighbor boys standing in the drive-way next door. Humiliation rose in my face as everything around me went into slow-mo.

They had been standing there the entire time watching us scramble like virgins at a prison rodeo. We never noticed them in our panic. Instead, keeping our focus on saving the "children." This fire drill, a first during our friendship, was soon to be the last. I couldn't believe what had just happened. And to add fuel to this "fire" I was only two grades behind them. (From what I recall, I was in 6th grade to their 8th and 9th grades). I was mortified.

It was only months earlier that I had the truly mortifying experience of getting my period while playing with my barbies. I had sworn myself to secrecy with myself because I thought once you got your period you had to give up playing barbies and grown-up. (I'll write about this catastrophe later because it deserves it's own embarrassing story.)

Soon after the fire drill debacle I stopped trotting in the woods and hanging out with Jenny quite as often. And while I might have cut back on my time with Jenny, I never really stopped playing. Instead, I went solo. Retreating to my parent's basement where I would entertain myself for hours on end. I'd play dress-up in my mom's old clothes, creating a place that was entirely mine that no one could ever, ever take away.

Void of Everything

2009-11-10T21:22:00.010-06:00

For some reason I can't seem to dress myself lately. The wind has left the sails. The tank is empty. My palette is clean. My fashion brain is on hold. It took everything in me to come up with the two outfits below. Yesterday's outfit (not pictured) was such a wreck I felt like an over-sized kid in hand-me-down clothes. Somehow I had the energy to put together this jewel last Thursday (the start of parent weekend).

Green sweater: Neiman's

Striped tank dress: Cutiemus

Red lip broach: ASOS

Pink watch: Nixon

Boots: Steve Madden

And then this outfit was today's attempt. I call it Darth Leia.

Periwinkle jacket: Bebe

Black sweater wrap: Francesca's

Jeans: Ann Taylor

Zebra bracelet: ASOS

Black weave belt: Urban

Boots: Steve Madden

Don't sweat her

2009-11-02T20:37:00.003-06:00

Sweaters, oh how I love thee. Let me count the ways. Oversized and frumpy to keep me warm. Wrapped in a cardigan to shuffle to and fro. With patterns or fur I love you both the same. It's you sweater who I miss when winter goes away.

I was cold in the office one day. So what did I decide to do? Order sweaters. Just the thought of their arrival kept me warm. You've seen the other one, the Swallows sweater from Topshop. This is my deer in the headlights jumper from ASOS. Although it's acrylic, I love it. There's something about winter white that makes me feel fancy. Perhaps it reminds me of my first fur muff or all those fancy Disney gals with their white cloaks and gloves. All I know is I'm ready to greet Lady Winter with a cocked hip and steady gaze.

Sweater jumper: ASOS
Pleather pants: Urban
Boots: Steve Madden
Pink watch: Nixon, Untitled
Pink Panther ring: ASOS

The Scary Story

2009-10-27T15:24:00.003-05:00

I don’t know quite how to begin this story except headfirst.

Back when I was a junior at SEMO, I was at a party with my then partner in crime Amy. While there, this dude approached me; I think his name was Kevin (my memory’s a bit fuzzy). Since he was a friend of a friend, he invite me to a party he was throwing next weekend; a bonfire out in the woods near his parent’s home. He had instructions already written on a tattered piece of paper I withdrew from his hands without hesitation, knowing the chances were slim to none that I’d venture out that far for the lackluster glow of a fire pit. After some small talk I continued on to another conversation and forgot about the invitation.

It was close to Christmas as I recall because a group of us girls in the dorms drew names for Secret Santa duties. Two things I should clarify here:

First, I lived in the dorms but had my own room. A conclusion won over by the fact that my parents would pay for a single dorm room but not an apartment. The second thing is that I hate Secret Santa stuff. Anything requiring you to participate in an activity that inevitably ends with girlish squeals and tears (because you didn’t “know” her well enough) is not for me. I’d much rather avoid any and all attempts at being “girlie.” And anyway, Secret Santa stuff is lame. I don’t know you, I’m not going to pretend I know you and I don’t like spending my allotted beer money on some plush penguin because you happen to like a bird that doesn’t fly and is always dressed to the nines.

I don’t remember how I was coerced but I was. My Secret Santa must have thought I was Goth because everything I got was black and well, weird. I got a black nightshirt with lace and this weird round brass necklace that had a hole in the middle surrounded by some sort of Asian script (remember this).

Next weekend, bored to death with nothing to do, we starting calling our guy friends. They were either out of town or not around. So, we went down to another floor in the dorms to see what else was going on. Our friend Bernard and his girlfriend (visiting from St. Louis) tagged along. No one could think of anything to do, that is, until I remembered the bonfire party. I told them to hold on as I ran upstairs to find that ragged piece of paper.

Once found, I exclaimed my news and become something of a folklore hero. Actually, I told all the girls to gather their bottles of Boones, load up their car and follow me, seeing how I was the only one with directions. Luckily, Bernard and his girlfriend decided to sit this one out (you’ll understand soon enough as they were (are) an interracial couple). So, I loaded Amy and Nicole in my car while the rest of the crew went with Jenny.

The drive out was pretty basic. We listened to Soundgarden and talked about boys. As we approached the country the sky around us got darker. We ended up on a two-lane road without a clue in the world where we were heading. Things got silent.

We must have seen the bonfire at the same time. Our silence turned to cheers and everyone was happy to have finally arrived. Man, we were ready to party about three hours earlier, so the delayed gratification was soon uncorked or should I say, unscrewed.

As we drove up the narrow dirty road toward the bonfire, we started chatting nervously. None of us really knew Kevin but we were all excited about the prospect of meeting new cute boys. The glow from the fire beckoned us, as we pulled closer and parked. Jenny and crew parked snuggly behind.

We exited our cars with bottles in hand. Being the first to approach the group at the bonfire, I scanned the crowd quickly looking for a familiar face. Nothing. No Kevin. In fact, there wasn’t a single girl there and the guys encircling the fire didn’t look particularly nice. Our running crew was your basic pack of grunge loving hippie freaks welcoming anyone to hang. This bonfire group made up for in flannel what they lacked in hair.

Once I stepped closer to the group one of the guys in back grunted, “Who are you looking for?”

I approached with paper in hand and stated plainly, “Kevin. We were invited to his bonfire.”

A Cheshire grin began to appear on the guy’s face, “This ain’t Kevin’s party. This is a meeting of the Southern Chapter of the KKK.”

As he said this he turned the guy standing next to him around and pointed to the back of his shirt, where it clearly showed three Ks lined up across the back. Panic set in.

Jenny being an amateur yelled in her stupor, “Fuck you!”

“Shut the fuck up Jenny and get in your car,” I shouted back at her as I franticly flagged my friends to get in the car.

Amy, Nicole and I quickly buckled up, as I got the car in reverse, ready to peel the F out of there. Stuck between the KKK guys and Jenny’s car, I nervously said under my breath countless times, “Thank god Bernard didn’t come. Thank god Bernard didn’t come.” Nicole’s eyes started welling up with tears at the thought. When I turned back around I found my gaze locked in the line of fire with the barrel of a shotgun.

“You better get the fuck outta here if you know what’s good fer ya,” shouted the pathetic, racist youth leader of hate.

Amy and Nicole were sent into hysterics as I did my best stunt car reverse in gravel. Fuck that guy and fuck this place.

I don’t remember the drive back to town. I remember darkness, silence, and chain smoking. I drove us to our friend’s house looking for anyone to listen to what happened. I mean, did this really happen? I had never been confronted with something of this magnitude and I couldn’t quite believe it just happened. That fifteen minutes earlier I was staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

Shaun let us in and listened to our story. He said we must have messed up the directions because all the other guys had left to go to the bonfire party we had tried to find.

With hesitation we loaded up the car again. Why? Who knows? I guess we needed proof that the other bonfire existed. I can’t recall. Needless to say, Jenny’s carload of drunks stayed.

Amy, Nicole and I studied the directions and came to the conclusion that we went right when we should’ve gone left. We started our journey again.

And again, we were on a dark two-lace road. And we passed the same houses. And we saw the same giant tree in the middle of an empty field (remember this). The difference was, this time there was a bonfire under that tree, and the bonfire at the top of the hill was still there, except now, at the bottom of the road was a person checking cars. It looked like he was checking IDs, as he had a flashlight in hand. We figured this was a bad, bad sign and headed back to campus.

What the hell was going on? Amy wanted us to go to her boyfriend Jesse’s house because she really started wigging out.

As Jesse let us in, you could tell he knew something was up. He poured us wine and asked us what the hell got Amy so upset.

Being the ringleader, and only one not in hysterics (don’t know why), I began the story. Jesse listened patiently and when I finished he asked me to hold on as he exited the room.

When he returned he started asking me some questions.

Was the second bonfire out in the middle of an empty field near a big tree?

Yes.

Were you the only one given the directions to the party? Did anyone else receive them?

Yes, I was the only one with the directions to the party.

Did he say you could invite anyone else?

I don’t think so. I just did.

Have you received any gifts lately?

Well yea, I’m doing that stupid Secret Santa shit.

What did you get?

I got a necklace and a black dress thingy.

Was the dress nice, or fancy in anyway?

I guess. It had lace on it.

Hang on.

Jesse left the room with all of us stunned. What the heck was going on and how the heck did he know all that stuff.

He came back and sat on the floor with us. At this point it felt like we were in some sort of séance. He dropped a brass circle necklace from his hands and asked, “Does that necklace you got look like this?”

Amy looked at me and I hesitated before pulling the exact necklace out from under my shirt. They matched.

What the hell was going on here?

Jesse started by stating that he was into White Magic. Now I don’t know anything about magic, black or white but what I did know was that shit was beginning to freak me out. He said that tonight was the New Moon Harvest and in Black Magic it was the night of sacrifice. He said the KKK is a front for the satanic cults. He also said I was the only one who was supposed to show up to the bonfire, seeing how I was the only one invited (with that hand written note). The dress and necklace were to be worn by me during the ceremony. The Cult found my energy to be a threat. Their plan was to have me go out to the bonfire solo so they could sacrifice me and relinquish my white/good energy.

Well, this was all Amy needed to hear before she started hyperventilating. For some reason, I was in such a state of shock I couldn’t believe what he was saying. I just sat there asking Jesse more questions.

Why me? I’m not that good.

You’re energy and influence is powerful and they see you as a threat.

But the girl who have me these gifts, she’s always wearing a cross on her necklace.

That doesn’t mean anything. Many times, Satanist will wear them to fit in, to build trust.

We continued our Q&A into the night as became more and more enthralled with Jesse’s knowledge. We headed back to my room to retrieve a copper cross I had gotten long ago from my Mom, and some over night things. We camped out at Jesse’s that night and in the morning he woke us and said we needed to go down to the river to perform a ceremony. At this point, we believed anything and would do just about anything to get rid of this bad mojo.

Down at the Mississippi Jesse took the brass circle necklace, said a few things in a language I didn’t understand and tossed it in the river. Then he carved some symbols on the back of my copper cross and told me to wear it next to my skin for the next ten days. And you better believe I did. Because when you find out you were about to be sacrificed to the Devil, you’ll do just about anything to keep your blood in your body.

I'm so excited and I just can't hide it

2009-10-23T09:31:00.000-05:00

Every Friday needs a dose of The Pointer Sisters.Therefore, I'm bypassing the crappy weather and heading straight to the good times. My best gal is in the air on her way from the D. Today's outfit has to go from a day of shopping to a night of laughs. If you're in Chicago please come out to celebrate the 2nd anniversary of p&L (click to check out Leena's blog which breaks down the details of the night's events). I think they're bombtastic.

Here's how today's outfit breaks down:
Swallow seater- TopShop
Ruby lip broach-ASOS
Striped tee-H&M
Denim skirt-rehabbed vintage Levis
Ring-Forever 21
Boots-Steve Madden

Keyboard Cat Friday

2009-10-16T16:32:00.004-05:00

Although I wanted to wear something a bit more girlie and fallish, a preplanned lunch walking excursion dictated today's outfit. That and I really wanted to see if I could fit into the blue pants. In celebration of the squeeze-in, only one shirt would do, 3 Moon Keyboard Cat. Let the party begin my friends.

So let's start at the top. Peacock feather earrings that are creeping on my neck from Claire's (and yes, I know I'm about 20 years over the age limit). 3 Moon Keyboard Cat shirt from Threadless (to be matched with Nikki's when she visits so we can look like we're out on leave from the "home"). Sheer black top with black glitter fireworks and ruffled sleeves I got for a steal from Built By Wendy's online shop a few years ago. I got the pants (for Mitch) on sale last year at Untitled. You can't see it but they have ankle zippers which I love but my boot love affair trumped their viewing.

Detail shot.

Cry Baby

2009-10-14T13:24:00.006-05:00

Okay, I'm a bad blogger. I admit it. I let work and sleep get in the way of my story tellin' BUT alas, no more! Here's the dealio, I've got a major, now say it again but more like Victoria Beckham, MAJOR story to tell in the spirit of Halloween. It's crazy-weird-scary and it's all true and happened to yours truly. But before I compose that trilogy I'm going to sprinkle a little Halloween cheer on you first.

Back in my college days at SEMO (Southeast Missouri State University, in Cape Girardeau) I spent most of my time walking down to the river, watching the barges float by as boys strummed some flannel inducing riff. My friend Amy and I were bored and decided to recruit her boyfriend to hang out with us. He was our punching bag, so to say. Our banter flowed like wine and poor Patrick suffered the occasional verbal hangover. It was close to Halloween and we felt like stirring up trouble. Patrick heard about this haunted house run by some Mason club out in Jackson, MO. We got directions and loaded up in my Oldsmobile (looked like that but with less snow).
Upon arrival we notice a line of people waiting to enter the haunted Mill. At first glance the Mill didn't seem that scary or haunted, that is until I heard the sound of a chainsaw. This runnnnn-runnnn-runnnn motorized sound came screaming out of the second floor. When I looked up I saw a masked man who looked like a cross between Jason Voorhees and Leatherface, on a good day. Panic set in.
I don't know why but I have an ungodly fear of chainsaws, especially around Halloween, and especially when I'm about to enter some dark "mill" with no escape plan. As I wavered on my decision to go into the Haunted Mill my friends and some drunk dudes behind us, pushed words of encouragement my way. I sucked it up, told myself countless times, "It's only pretend, it's only pretend, nothing can happen to you" and entered.
Pitch black, my vision was shot as fear set in. When all of a sudden a quick flash of light appeared to my right. In unison Amy and I screamed as we watched this weird monster that looked like the creature from Jacob's Ladder appear in a plexi-box, beating the sides with his arms and screaming. I was in the beginning stages of flipping out. As we scurried down the hall toward the exit, that same monster dude started following us. YES! Following us out. I was about to pee my pants. Once we got outside I started to feel better because we were greeted by a drunk Mason dude and some other drunk "dead" people. Phew, my heartbeat was coming back to a steady beat. We were told to wait before we could re-enter the house (something about another group holding up the line).
This was bad. Sure my heartrate came back down to a jackrabbit's level as we stood silently waiting our turns to go on, but the silence would soon be broken. Runnnn-runnnn-runnn. That sound. That SOUND. Chainsaw. With hesitation I lifted my eyes to the second floor window. There it was, the chainsaw blade jetting from the window. In and out, back and forth. My fear was starting to reach a new level.
I pleaded with the drunk men running the haunted house to let me go. To please let me leave this hell on earth but I was told with a gleam in their blood shot eyes, that the only way out was to go through the rest of the haunted house.
My friends convinced me that they'd have my "back" and would not let go of my hands. I was already the third wheel but I had the car, which gave me bargaining power. I would be between Patrick and Amy for the rest of the "tour."
One giant gulp in my tight, dry throat and we re-entered the house. Back inside we noticed there was only one way to go, up. We started to ascended the staircase when out of nowhere a Freddy Krueger dude came up and started touching me, and then some weird scary nurse monster grabbed my legs and they all started whispering, "cry baby, cry baby, cry baby." I was screwed.
Running up the stairs pushing Amy and dragging Patrick, I told them my game plan was to run through the rest of the haunted house because I was about to have a heart attack.
At the top of the stairs we had to go left, left into the Chainsaw room. My heart was now rhythmically beating lub dub lub dub lub dub filling my ears.
The room was empty, cast in a blue hue, with only one direction out. We hugged the walls and moved slowly around the perimeter of the room. I started hyperventilating. I'd rather jump out the open window then wait for what I knew was going to happen. Then it came.
Not one, but two chainsaw monstermen from my worst nightmare running straight at us. I froze. Stuck against the back wall I was paralyzed with fear. Unbeknownst to me, my friends ran off and left me. Now all that stood between me and these nightmare wielding chainsaw men was their chainsaws. My nose filled with the smell of gas as they outlined my body with their saws. I should've peed my pants at this point but somehow I got the courage to move again, and I think the chainsaw guys were getting bored and wanted another drink.
I darted out of the room and found my friends waiting for me. Eventually, I got my breath back and informed Patrick and Amy that I was done. I was running through the rest of the haunted house and if they liked, they could join me as I was going to hightail it out of there to the nearest bottle of booze. Drinks got their attention, so we ran. As we made it back to my car and got buckled in, I noticed a little gobblin had followed us. They weren't letting Cry Baby go without a fight. As he plastered himself on the hood of my car and started squirming his way to the windshield, my courage returned. I quickly sprayed him with window washer fluid and peeled the f out of there.
And never again, and I mean never, would I ever enter a haunted house.

Zebra vs Cheetah

2009-10-08T23:20:00.002-05:00

I had wonderful plans to go to an event at my local fav Anthropologie shop. They're launching a new documentary about the guy who buys the clothes and his adventures around the world at the premier viewing tonight. Check a preview here at lucky SOB.

So, this morning I twittered about before knowing exactly what to wear. I pulled my new favorite dress from TopShop and paired it with my new cheetah cardi from Forever 21. The dress is wonderful. Velvet black stripes with a cotton slip and toule. Love. The cardi was a great find at Forever for under $20. Again, you know the boots. They're here to stay.

Unfortunately, after all that, I didn't make it to the event. I got stuck at work. So I settled for gummi bears and revisions. Nevertheless, I felt like a fancy pants all day.

Oh, and that red thing back there is my mom's portable record player from college. Rock on.

Grease the pole

2009-10-05T20:45:00.023-05:00

Seeing how the last post about my dad garnered some FB comments I thought I'd keep his popularity on the upward path.

When I was born in New Orleans years ago my family lived in a second floor apartment. I was a big bundle of joy or rather a big fat baby. Almost ten LBs at birth with nara hair on my head, my mom and dad weren't quite sure what to do with their little sumo wrestler baby. (And I promise pics are coming soon once I purchase a scanner.) I was too big to leave out on a blanket rolling around like a miniature stay puffed marshmallow man and too much of a baby to sit up by my lonesome. Although once I was big enough (not in size but in skeletal and muscular development) I got to sit in my very own fancy red bucket at the beach. But I digress. This story is about being a baby in New Orleans.

Okay, so there I was, this baby wanting to be a baby, goo goo ga ga. My parents were young and already had their hands full with a five year old and a cramped apartment. And my dad being the ever resourceful man that he is, decided to put the play pen out on the balcony. Out on the deck I could get fresh air, or rather stale air from the rat infested backyard where no kid was allowed to play. There I was, this big blue eyed cherubic baby doing my thing when some kid from downstairs decided to climb up and harass me. Lucky for me, my dad checked in on me periodically and caught this rugrat giving his baby a hard time. Note: you should know that my dad's tolerance level is about the same as a grizzly bear's tolerance to bees in their honey. My dad was not about to sit back and let some weasley little kid climb up HIS deck and get their paws near HIS baby.

Even though I don't always agree with his tactics, I do have to admit that it's nice to know he's always on my side. In fact, he's scared more high school boys than I can recollect (not any for me, my sister was the queen of boys). One time, this boy my sister broke up with was out on the back deck throwing rocks at her window vying for her attention. When my sis ran to tell my dad, he went out there with his pellet gun and scared that kid so bad that he ran off and left his shoes behind in the process. My dad kept those shoes as a trophy like hunters keep pelts. But back to me, baby me that is.

My dad was not about to let this dirty little kid get near me. In his crafty little noggin he came up with a solution that would not only protect me, it would entertain the shit out of him as well. My dad greased up the iron rods that encircled the deck. Every. Single. One. I will even go so far as to say that he double coated those bars. Because when my dad does something he does it to a level of perfection mere mortals only dream of achieving. After an early morning of greasing up the deck, my dad set up my play pen and when the time was right he put me out there as bait. I can see him now, learching behind the window curtains waiting for his prey.

Even though I don't remember any of this I can picture my dad doing his best Clint Eastwood, whispering "Go ahead punk, make my day," as he watched the nosey neighbor boy grab one of those greased bars, falling like one of the Stooges (woo wo wo wo wo) causing my dad to beam like the cat who ate the canary.

Sealing the deal

2009-10-03T19:48:00.001-05:00

Kind of a hard day today. Went to CarMax to sell my car and while I am ecstatic to be car-free, I did wax nostalgia at a late lunch after the sale. Why oh why do we get attached to inanimate objects? That car was a mess but kept me safe for ten plus years and well, it was mine. It got me home after my layoff that occurred right after 9/11. It got me to Chicago from Dallas so I could start a new life. Ol' Girl was there for me longer than anyone except my family. Kind of sad really. Anyhoo, I thought I'd dress snazzy for the deal only to discover they don't haggle. Man, what a waste of a short skirt.
I found the boyfriend jacket at Crossroads thrift for $15. The blouse is from Urban about 4 or 5 seasons ago. I made the skirt from a pair of old Levis that had seen better days. The belt was $4 from Forever 21 (or Forever 29 in my case). The necklace was marked down at Untitled because it was "broken." I fixed it. And the boots, well you know those.

Not my best work but good enough for a rainy day selling cars.

Threads and kicks

2009-10-02T10:44:00.002-05:00

After many attempts, and I mean many, many attempts, I am posting some pics of threads and kicks. First of all, you should know that I abhor getting my picture taken so taking one of myself is a type of torture for me. Thank god for digital because after about 20 rounds of pics I've finally got two I'm willing to share, and both include no full facial nudity. That's right, no face. Can't even begin to tell you how embarrassing it is to look at yourself in the mirror as you shutterbug your way into a self-loathing frenzy that only diet caffeine-free Coke can cure. I regressed back to that ninth grader standing in the doorway of my bathroom cursing my spastic-curly-haired self for getting in the way of ever being cool. Anyway, back to the threads.

The first pic is an outfit I've only worn once before. I got the sweater about five years ago when I worked a part-time, bank account sucking gig at Anthropologie. Love it to death but it's a bit form fitting and I have a hard time letting my girls "stick" out. The skirt, also an Anthropologie buy, was bought two years ago for next to nothing on their sale rack. I love the petticoat and pockets that the pic doesn't reveal. The belt is from Urban, last season and the boots are my new "I'll kick your ass" boots from Steve Madden this year. Overall I liked the outfit but felt a bit like I was wearing adult Garanimals.

The second pic is of my new kicks. I got them from a Daily Candy deal at Cr8tive Recreation for 70% off. That's right, new hip kicks for 30 bones baby! I think they're super tight and I love the bright colors. Anyway, check them out here at super tight kicks.

Don't drop the baby!

2009-09-28T10:25:00.008-05:00

Over the weekend a close friend lost someone dear to them. It got me thinking about a bunch of different things but mainly it got me thinking about people close to me. Last week I shared a story about my Nana, so I thought it fitting to share a story this week about my Grandmother (my Dad’s Mom).

First of all, she was probably one of the nicest people I’ve ever encountered. I only had eight years with her before she passed but from what I can remember she was quiet, a bit demur and very polite. Her and my Grandfather (whom I never got to meet) owned and managed the Ben Franklin general store in town (Salem, AR). I remember taking trips to the store and getting to pick out one item I would get to keep. Talk about a kid in a candy store! There was a glass case filled with candies, and there was a toy section filled with dime store trinkets but all I wanted was the Snoopy mini pencil set and denim pencil holder. Still have it today. Pretty much the cutest things ever. The pencils had descriptions like Blue is a clear sky or Red is a balloon festival. I heart them so.

When we got home we shared our treasures with her while she finished baking some delicious homemade pie or dessert. My dad being an only child was used to made from scratch goodies, I on the other hand was used to something that came in a cellophane wrapper (no offense Mom). Other than the smell of homemade goodness, my Grandmother’s house always smelled like, well a Grandmother. It was a cross between roses and lilies that wafted in the air permanently. When I got my first perfume, White Shoulders, it reminded me of her. Grandmother’s bathroom was covered in pink tiles with an amazing Barbie that had a pink crocheted gown that covered the toilet paper. I loved it so. Her bathroom was so girlie that it seemed so odd to me. Almost like my Grandmother had made it that way just for us girls, probably hoping that my tomboy ways would wear off under the hue of pink.

Grandmother was like the Grandmother’s you see in old movies. She always wore a dress, her hair was always done, I never heard her say a bad or mean word and she was always baking. Because of this “old-fashioned” manner we all seemed to sit up a little straighter, talk a little quieter and use our “yes mames" and "no mames” a bit more frequently. It’s too bad we didn’t get to visit her more frequently because my posture and manners could have used the training.

After I was born, my Grandmother came down to New Orleans to pay a visit to her second Granddaughter (Me!). My Dad, being the practical joker (and where I get it from) decided to play a trick on this sweet unassuming lady. Now you should know, this story is one-sided from my Dad’s perspective seeing how I was a few weeks old at the time. He said when Grandmother arrived at the house he told her to stay downstairs while he went up to get me. So my sweet, dear Grandmother stayed waiting at the bottom of the stairs, eagerly anticipating meeting her new born Granddaughter for the first time (can’t say I blame her). As my Dad started to descend from the top of the stairs he lost his footing and I got shot up into the air like a rocket as my Grandmother gasped and nearly fainted. Of course, unbeknownst to her, my Dad had grabbed one of my sister’s dolls, wrapped it in my blanket and purposely stumbled sending the doll flying.

Now I don’t know exactly what came out of my Grandmother’s mouth when she gasped but I’m betting a few “oh lords” might have found their way into the atmosphere. I think when my Dad made it to the bottom of the stairs Grandmother had already threatened to leave or at the very least but him in timeout.

While my Dad's prank scared the bejesus out of my Grandmother, I have to give him credit for his impeccable timing and forward thinking for this most creative stunt. Now, before you start thinking about how cruel it was to do, you should know that my Dad had been pulling pranks on his Mom since he was a kid. And I like to think he reverted back to that little Arkansas boy who hid in the bushes after tying fishing wire to the front screen door so he could make it open and close to my Grandmother’s bewilderment.

Summer Lovin

2009-09-21T11:40:00.004-05:00

When I was little I was lucky enough to travel by myself to my Nana's (my Mom's mom) in Sedalia, MO. This was established after my sister got to go by herself a few times. Although she was lucky enough to have a big tree crash into Nana's house on her last visit, I feel like I got the best deal going on my visits. I got to fly by myself on an airplane to Kansas, I think, where my Uncle Fred would pick me up and drive me to Nana's house. Once there, I was treated like a queen. Anything I wanted to do, I got to do. Nana's first order of business was a trip to the grocery store to buy any and all ice cream of my choosing. I also got to pick out any sugar type cereal, a fav was Peanut Butter Cap'n Crunch. Oh man, was it good. The one time of year I got to eat something that didn't taste like carpet.

My visits to Nana's were always around the time of year the Missouri State Fair was in town. Nana and I loved going to the Fair, taking in a horse show, drinking fresh squeezed lemonade, and basking in the cool air at the indoor flower show. (Side note: the indoor flower shows, while in the coolest building at the Fair, were trippy. Individual flower arrangements were tied together and floated around on Styrofoam bases on water). While the horse show topped our list of Must See Attractions, the booths set up inside and around the fair grounds were a must for my cheap ass. Back then, I was a penny pinching fool. I loved getting all the free paraphernalia. I felt like I had won the lottery when we got home after I emptied my bag out on the floor. There were so many items, like a free measuring tape from State Farm, a free fan from some A/C installation company, balloons, dental floss, plastic rings, key chains and key fobs. Jackpot!

Looking back, I can't believe I made my poor Nana walk as much as I had her walking. She must've been 70 something and I had her hoofing around like some teenage babysitter. Thank god for her Hushpuppies.

When we were back home from our adventures at the fair, we would take to the card table set up next to her dining room table. There we would play dime ante Yahtzee. My love of the game still persists today. During our afternoon games, Nana would make me one of her famous grilled cheese sandwiches. Made from Velveeta cheese, these were and still are the best grilled cheese sandwiches of my childhood and life thus far. There was something about the toasted wheat bread to butter to cheese ratio that I've never been able to match since. And as if that weren't enough, Nana had an ice crusher that made the best crushed ice, EVER. I loved grabbing a Tupperware tumbler, filling it with crushed ice, and then watching the Hawaiian punch merge into one of my favorite summer treats.

Another of my favorite things to do at Nana's was dressing up. She saved all of my Mom's dresses from the 50s-60s and allowed me to wear them while playing dress up in the front room. There I retreated into another world. With her Breakfast at Tiffany's and King and I soundtracks, Nana knew I would be entertained for hours on end. I would dance, sing and act out the songs until the sun went down. Nana would practically beg me to come out to join her for some Hogan's Heroes. But don't get me wrong, Nana spent her time daydreaming as well.

She would be blazing through a series of romance novels while I was twirling around in a dress. In fact, after she passed I helped my Mom clean out the attic, where there must have been over 1,000 romance novels. Between Nana and her sister Lucille (who would move in with Nana on my second visit) they must have read over 5,000 romance novels during their stay together.

At the end of each day, I'd soak in the tub and get ready for bed. I couldn't wait to spoon with Nana. It was there that my love for window air conditioner units began (I also enjoyed standing in front of the unit, sniffing the freon). I loved the sound they made in conjunction with the trains that ran nearby. The combination made for a restful night's sleep. Nana would let me sit in her lap while she told me stories until I fell asleep. Cradled next to her, I can't remember feeling safer or more loved. And when my trip ended, and to no one's surprise, I never wanted to leave. In fact, I would beg her to let me move in with her. Just the thought of the two of us together, eating grilled cheeses and playing Yahtzee was enough. And to this day, those are among my favorite things to do.

Lost connection

2009-09-21T11:13:00.001-05:00

Last week was a good week. I got a free pair of denim jeans and a necklace at Ann Taylor, a free bottle of Fekkai shampoo,a free bottle of C-Mop conditioner and a gift certificate from work. All great, all free. What a week right? Well, one free thing not worth bragging about – the free internet at my new maxi-pad was out. All weekend. And with that comes a pensive "what the hell, I need to write" state of mind. I had to wait until I arrived back at work today before delivering the news, that is now three days late. Any ghey, I'm planning on writing up a diddie today, during my lunch hour of course.

I'll be back after I bask in the afterglow of my free-lights.

Also, I missed three photo ops for outfits. I've got to figure out a way to get a shot that doesn't look like some sad and jaded tweens MySpace profile pic.

I ain't no fashionista

2009-09-13T17:40:00.000-05:00

I was feeling a bit cantankerous before my trip to Target therefore, this shirt was a "must wear". It's also great for those days you find yourself going to work.
(I'll always be indebted to Joanne for this find) Tops with Tude.

Pretty sneaky sis

2009-09-13T13:38:00.000-05:00

I have an older sister, five years older to be exact. That age difference didn't seem to matter when I was little and it hasn't mattered much since hitting my 20s, BUT (and this story needs a big but) there was a period of time between my prepubescence and her pubescence where we didn't get along. In fact, I couldn't stand her (sorry Kris). I love her to death NOW but back then she was the enemy.

Let me explain: she never got in trouble, she was the light in my parents eyes and she was a cheerleader. On the other hand, I seemed to stay in trouble, was a pain in my parents respective asses and was a tomboy through and through. Therefore, I couldn't stand her. I soon discovered that I could and would do just about anything to drive her nuts, get on her nerves and basically make her lose her cool. I was known to moon her at the drop of a hat (and my pants) whenever she was in her room trying to study or basically, just hang out. I would spy on her, and eavesdrop at her door whenever she was on the phone, trying desperately to "catch" her saying something, anything incriminating, just to get her into trouble. I know I sound like an asshole kid, but really I was just trying to find something to out this "perfect" sister to my parents. And hey, it was exhausting to always be in trouble. I was just trying to catch myself a break. Anyway, I'll leave the self-analysis for the therapist (not that I have one, but I do support those who do). On to the story at hand.

My sister being a cheerleader drove me nuts. I couldn't stand the way the girls flipped their hair and jumped around and giggled when boys were around. It drove me nuts! Not only was my sister a cheerleader but she was a co-captain, which made it twice as horrible to me. Every summer her group of hair flipping jumpers would go away to cheer camp, a time I counted down like most kids count down Christmas, and I couldn't wait to have an entire week all to myself and my parents.

The night before, my sister was busy packing her cheer bloomers and I was skipping around in my room dancing before my Stray Cat poster dreaming of seven days of sheer cheerleader-free freedom! Joy was in the room! Of course, being me, I couldn't just let my sister leave without doing something memorable. I mean, who did she think she was prancing around, all full of herself and her prospects of holding a spirit stick (not meant to be dirty). Even though I was filled with joy, I couldn't let her just leave. Therefore, I had to come up with something good, no great, that would leave a mark and a memory for a long, long time.

Unbeknownst to my sister, I snuck into her packed suitcase right before she left. When Kris and her squad arrived at camp ready to unpack, my sister, no thanks to me, would have a suitcase full of naked (nekkid) barbies lined up on top of her clothes. This to me would be the ultimate in humiliation and embarrassment for her in front of all her peers.

Now, I don't know what happened when she opened the suitcase. My best guess is she opened it, cursed me a few hundred times and then called mom and dad to make sure my cheer free week would be filled with punishment.

It goes down as one of my favorite pranks I've ever pulled on her. Try as I might, I'm not sure I'll be able to top my 11 year old antics. And yes, I am a little proud that my 11 year old self was smart and sneaky enough to pull off something so great. Sorry Kris.

Visual stimulation

2009-09-09T15:46:00.000-05:00

I've been looking at this blog wondering what it's missing. Besides the obvious spell check and proof-reading, there's no eye candy to go with my diddies. Now aside from showing my mom's rack, I'll start posting pics to go with my little diddies.
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The Tube Top Dropeth

2009-09-08T19:18:00.000-05:00

Although I was born in New Orleans, I spent my younger, formative years growing up in Jacksonville, FL. It was there that I learned how to swim and eventually became a competitive swimmer. Growing up near the beach, I found it easy to love the water. Hell, even my parents kept me in water, albeit it was a bucket. But I digress and will share the bucket story another time.

In Jacksonville, my sister and I swam on the Colonial Park Swim team. I started on the team at the wee age of 5 because I wanted to be, or rather had to be in the water. I loved practice. As I grew older I learned to hate practice but at this age, practice = praise and I loved getting it. My coach let me workout with the older kids and pushed me just as hard. Not to brag but I was good, real good. I think my edge was the fact that I thought you had to hold your breath the entire length of the pool and the first one out was the winner. You should've seen me wiggle down the lane without a breath only to squirm my little fish body out of the water lickity-split.

Now with swim team practice comes meets and with meets comes the celebrations at McDs. Oh, yes. Mickey Ds. Back then parents didn't worry about having apple slices in their kid's Happy Meals. Shoot, I ate powdered sugar Jello straight from the box for my pre-race boost. You should've seen all the kids on the blocks with red lips and fingers. We looked like an epidemic.

One Saturday afternoon, post-race, the Colonial Park Swim team gathered at McDs for our regulation celebration. I was living in the moment. I had a great race and felt unstoppable. Which leads me to the next part of the story.

On a high from the meet, and two boxes of sugar Jello, I decided that the fun shouldn't stop at McDs. In fact, I felt strongly that the good times should continue at my friend Marcy's house and she agreed. I proceeded to step up to my Mom and tell her I was not going home with her, that rather, I would be leaving with Marcy as I had already made arrangements and would let her off the hook of having to drive me home.

I should note at this point that the year was 1977 and all my Mom wore that summer was tube tops. Yes, those tiny slingshots of fabric that cover just enough. If you know my Mom then you are also aware that she didn't have one tube top, oh no. See, once she finds something she likes to wear she proceeds to buy it in every color. So, for me, tube top day was just another day. On this particular day my Mom was wearing her red tube top with short shorts. She also sported short feathered hair and was tanner than the Ban de Solei lady.

After I told her I was getting a ride home with Marcy she abruptly told me, "No." Well, I'm not sure what came over me at this point, but all I do know is that to this day, I like getting my way and I don't like being told "no." So, with that, I grabbed her tube top and pulled the entire thing down quicker than quick. Yes, the entire tube top is down at this point. Did I mention that this happened at McDs right smack in the center, you know near the doors and the lines? Yes, I exposed my Mom and all her glory not only in front of all of McDs, but in front of all my teammates and their parents.

Once that top came down I was like a deer in the headlights. Time froze and all my little brain could think was, "Dad's gonna kill me." And with that thought, my Mom, said with grit teeth while aggressively pulling up her tube top, "Wait till you get home and your Dad hears about this." And like *that* I ran quicker than a jack rabbit on fire into the women's restroom and locked myself into a stall for protection. There was no way I was leaving. Not even if Ronald Freaking McDonald came in and said to get out. No way. No how.

Next thing I knew, my coach was knocking on the stall talking me down from the ledge and into leaving. With my head hung low, I headed toward my Mom. Now some experts say we repress tragic things that happen to us in our childhood, so I can't tell you what the punishment was, but I can tell you that I never, ever, never again came near my Mom when she wore a tube top.

Story is a brewin'

2009-09-04T08:57:00.000-05:00

Well, I did it. I moved.
My body has aches and pains where one should not have aches and pains.
That said, I'm off to roam the streets of Suburbia today in hopes of finding a couch and other such mainstays.

I've had so many stories running through my head that I can't decided which bomb to drop first.
Should I tell you about my Nana and I being spoonin' buddies? Or is it the one about my Dad greasing the bars on our deck in New Orleans? Perhaps the classic tale of The Tube Top Dropeth?

Drop me a line if you've got a pick, otherwise this Hunchback will decide for you.

Happy Friday!

Ehm, is this thing on?

2009-09-01T14:45:00.000-05:00

And so it begins.
Once the laptop arrives I'll start diving in full time.

My goal(s) are simple:

1) Remember stories from my childhood and onward, and write them down. Why? Because a mind is a terrible thing to waste and mine has been wasted.

2) Take pictures of outfits. Terribly boring right. Eh, step aside then. It's to help me recycle and use what I've got. I have a tendency to be a pack hound and am wishful that the Garanimal ways of my past will help me reduce spending in the future.