We’ve all seen them. They’re everywhere. He says exactly what we want to hear. It’s every straight woman’s and gay man’s fantasy. “Hey girl….(fill in the blank).” Music to our ears and candy for eyes. And it doesn’t matter our relationship status- married, single, “it’s complicated”- we swoon. Ryan Gosling has made quite the online presence (through no effort on his part I’m sure).
We all fell in love with The Notebook. The movie Drive gave us a peek into his dark side. And who can forget the shirtless scene in Crazy, Stupid, Love? No one, that’s who. I suppose it wasn’t really until that particular movie that I jumped on the Gosling bandwagon with the rest of the swooners. The hot, sexy, player type turned nice guy? Um, yea- the daydream secretary is busy overbooking that fantastical utopia.
As a happily married woman, I am grateful that I no longer need to participate in the wild, animalistic world of dating. However, I feel the need to reach out to the single men of the jungle and offer you this bit of advice. You are not Ryan Gosling. Please do not ever use cheesy pickup lines such as, “Hey girl, are your legs tired? Cause you’ve been running through my mind all day.” or “Hey girl, I’m so glad I brought my library card…because I’m checking you out.” and the one that takes the cake, “Hey girl, guns can be dangerous to society, so I am gonna register my arms before I cuddle with you tonight.” Sure these classic words of romance might sweep the naive damsel off her feet in the movies, but hopefully no respectable girl would succumb to such nonsense. Just sayin’.
Now returning back to our regularly scheduled fantasy…
To all the ladies posting these glorious pictures of this beautiful face/body we shall now refer to as “O Resplendent One”, please do not stop. And please continue to etch into these splendiferous images, words of empowerment, praise and magnificence- for they sing to us a song of “siiiiiiighhhhh…..” with a smile on our faces.
The never ending bedtime tug-of-war. It always starts out okay. Me on my side of the bed and my husband on his. We have a queen size bed. It’s not enormous but provides plenty of space for the both of us. Though when falling asleep we typically like to snuggle up to one another. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe this idea of togetherness while sleeping gets embedded into our subconscious and continues to play out during the night. Or maybe I am just so irresistible to my husband that he just physically can’t be away from me. And that’s usually how it happens. I seem to be perfectly comfortable dreaming away on my side of the bed. He is the one who always squirms his way over.
Most couples seem to have issues with blanket hogging. My issue is with the pillows. And we don’t even just have one per person. There are two, pleasantly plush pillows for the taking, for each of us. And yet, in the wee hours of early morning I find myself without. Not that he has taken my pillow to his side of the bed (at least that way my head would still have a place to rest). No. It’s that his subconscious has maniacally conspired and worked its conniving, deeply sleeping brain container over to MY side of the bed and onto MY pillow. I am forced awake, finding that my head has been displaced from the cushy center of my pillow to the teeny tiny corners of the great beyond. Not cool.
I suppose I could push and shove my lovely husband across the bed-lands, back to his place of origin. Perhaps I need a bit more gusto. But I feel bad. There. I’ve said it. I’ve always been the type of wife to take his needs into consideration in the dream state. “I wouldn’t want to disturb his peaceful slumber, would I?” “He works hard all day, I just need to leave him to relax.” Well, enough is enough! I declare war! I will no longer be victim to his pillow hoarding ways! From here on out, I will pronounce what is rightfully mine and will never again subject myself to the horrors of pillow corners.
Thank you for listening.
*disclaimer* If you or someone you love has fallen victim to pillow stealing, there is help. Please get in touch with your nearest ‘I’mnottakingthisshitanymore’ representative (aka your newly improved badass self) and put an end to this heinous action. We shall take back our night!
I don’t know if I have mentioned this before, but I love glitter. Like, a lot. I am confused by those who do not like glitter. That’s like saying you don’t like sunshine. Who doesn’t love sunshine? Glitter literally brings sparkle into your life. It’s a quick fix for lots of life’s problems. Feeling sad and gloomy today? Put some glitter on. It will brighten your mood. Stuck on the side of the road with nothing but your glitter? Throw some at the next oncoming car. They will be sure to stop and help.
Today I decided that I need more glitter in my life than currently exists. I explained this to my husband. He didn’t agree but what does he know? I think he got nervous when he saw my eyes darting around the house looking for things to glitter-fy (I propose this word be officially initiated into Websters Dictionary). There had to be something I could sparkle! I mean, when the mood strikes, ya kinda have to go for it. My gaze settled upon two lucky vases that were a bit too ordinary looking for my liking. The glitter color selection in my arsenal is sadly not what it should be, but I decided pink was the declared winner. I got out the glitter glue (yes, my glue has glitter too) and a paintbrush and went to sparkle-town. I have to say, I am quite pleased with my masterpiece.
Next on the glitter agenda was to adorn my body in some fashion. My nails were the ultimate victims. That beautiful teal, glitter polish in my bathroom cabinet has been calling my name for days so it was basically inevitable. 3 layers of polish later and my nails are looking quite spiffy. Now I will admit to having a love/hate relationship with glitter nail polish. Men, you have no real way of understanding the extent of this dilemma (unless of course you wear polish- no judgement). Trying to remove said polish is perhaps one of the most difficult situations we women find ourselves in from time to time. Shredded cotton balls, sweat pouring from our foreheads, an occasional profanity…and that is just after one nail. Eventually, after enough will and determination, we have freed ourselves from the bond of glitter nail polish, only to repeat one day in the near future. While the bane of our existence, it is quite necessary and so worth it.
Baseball. The American pastime that still is. I haven’t been to a game since I was 10 or so but the husband and myself needed something new to do- and tickets were pretty cheap. I guess I thought the game itself would be more exciting than it actually was. Prior to the game, the downtown Phoenix area was abuzz with anticipation- who was gonna win? Now, I don’t know squat about sports never mind having any idea of what team is better. Since I have no real loyalty to the sport, I just decided to root for the home team- the Arizona Diamondbacks.
I had at least hoped that watching the game in person would be more entertaining than watching on television. I suppose it was a bit, but would have been much more so had the game itself contained more drama. “Our” team just couldn’t seem to hit the ball to save their lives against this other team. The highlights of the game for me included the ump getting pelted with a ball (sorry ump) and the very last batter shattering his bat with his last hit (which resulted in an out anyway). The cheap beer and greasy food however, did live up to expectations. Oh and there were fireworks after the game. There were a number of silly moments with larger than life sized bobblehead looking “players” running around the field in a hurdle race. That was something. There was also the kiss cam- the vain side of me wanted to be featured on the mega screen smooching my man- but there was the other part of me that was sweating just thinking about it. “Does my hair look okay? Is this my best angle? I hope I don’t have food in my mouth!” Fortunately (but also unfortunately because my hair looked awesome), this 3 seconds of fame never came to be.
I think I also felt slight dismay towards the crowd and their obvious lack of energy. I’m not sure if they were less than enthusiastic due to the nature of the game or if they were just kinda lame. There was the occasional “boooo” or “go D-backs!”, but overall not the deep caveman-like grunting and stomping I have become accustomed to anticipating, thanks to Hollywood sports cinema. Nor did I see ONE foam finger. Such a disappointment.
My last couple of complaints are as followed- 1. I am confused by the D-backs mascot. Diamondbacks are a type of snake. Their mascot was some type of weird, furry mountain lion or bobcat or something. If someone could get back to me on why this is, I would appreciate it. 2. Have the players pants gotten baggier or is it just me? I feel the uniform used to be tighter with their pant legs tucked into their socks. This seems to no longer be the case. The current fashions seem less baseball-y to me. Plus it no longer emphasizes their cute round butts.
I fully recognize that this is not the most promotional post for attending a game. With that said, I am sure I will attend another in the future. I feel I owe it to myself to give it another shot and see if I can rustle up some fervor for “America’s greatest pasttime”. Maybe I will wear something red to support “my” team. Yes. That would do it.
Oh the choices! The filters! Each one unique and so very pretty. I applaud you Instagram. You take an ordinary looking photo and turn it into a perfectly square work of art. Now, I don’t pride myself on being the most talented photographer on the planet, but you make it possible to somewhat falsely advertise my “talents” where they otherwise might not exist.
However, you do have some competition. I just discovered picfx and while it’s not a free app, it does have some extra pretty things that you do not. Like shimmery light filters for example. I mean who doesn’t want to give their photos some extra glitz?! Throw a few of those in and you’ve got it made.
As is with blogging, you once again continue to serve my ego with followers. How many new people love my uber amazing photos today? Do they like them enough to “follow” me? I find myself constantly looking around wondering what I can take a picture of. And then how I can make it better. We all seem to have this insatiable need to share our individuality and forms of self expression with the world. We crave leaving our mark and somehow coming across as completely extraordinary in an existence full of clones.
So I will push on. I will find pretty things and I will photograph them. I will crop and filter them. I will # everything so humans will continue discovering my beauties. In fact, here is a very photo of this blog. Enjoy.
Blogging that is. And god only knows how many of us are actually out there. Sure, some of us have really meaningful, life enhancing things to say. Others have information on certain topics that they desire to be shared. But I suspect the majority of us blog to have some part of our egos satisfied. I feel I fall somewhere between the 3. I mean, don’t ya just love it when you get a notification that you have a new follower? “Ooo! Someone else likes me!” I will readily admit that when 2 out of my 7 followers are related to me, 1 is someone I know, and 1 (somehow) is me, it does not do much for my ego. But I am still new at this and hopefully more will join.
I have also been thinking about the difference between “real” writers and bloggers. Is someone that is keeping tabs on and journaling in cyber space about daily observations, happenings and the inner workings of their minds, really so different than someone who writes a book? Isn’t is similar to someone who might have a daily column in a newspaper? I’m not arguing the merits of any of it. Just curious. I personally, do not think myself to be a “writer” in the least bit. My mum says that I write exactly like how I speak. So basically, this is my brain, and this is my brain on blogging….any questions?
And then there is the elusive “how does one get paid to blog”? Why doesn’t anyone throw money at me to ramble on about things I have to say? I’m witty and clever at times! Turns out ya kind of need a “theme” to blog about. Desired information (fashion, celebrities, finances etc) are what seem to bring in the big bucks. But why would I, with all that is glorious and mystifying in the world, limit myself to such confines? I want to write about everything that passes through that noodle-y thing in my skull. Why are my thoughts any less appealing than the latest celeb gossip about their dog’s spa weekend getaway? However, I have learned that the other way is to sell ad space. But that only seems to be worth it to advertisers if you have a bazillion followers. Traffic, traffic, traffic…
So, I appeal to you now readers…follow me, love me and spread the word. I wanna get paid for this shit. It’s the American Dream and I just want what’s coming to me.
It’s an imaginary virtual world for my wannabe imaginary life. But I’m hooked. Seriously. It’s like crack. But cheaper.
This site should come with a warning label. If you have never been to it but are planning to stop by between Facebook and YouTube, don’t forget your monopoly money. You are gonna need it for all the things you want to buy but probably can’t. Of course there are plenty of DIY ideas for the craft addicts (or those who aspire to be) but who really has that much time?! Ok, I do but let’s be real- it’s not the time I lack, it’s the ambition.
Of course I have a fantasy of living in a cute little cottage in Southern France surrounded by gardens, where everything in my home is essentially made from string and a paperclip but somehow manages to turn into a masterful work of art. Who doesn’t? I own a cute apron. I could make the most delectable meals only fit for a queen to eat. I don’t really know how to cook but Pinterest makes me think that well, maybe I want to. Someone, somewhere must have made this stuff and if they can do it, why can’t I? Why I ask you?!
Anyway, all I’m saying is that Pinterest inspires me. Or at the least, it inspires my desire to have ambition. Will I ever follow through on any of these super creative endeavors? Perhaps. Or perhaps I will just continue to live vicariously through all of you other “doers”.
Either way, the pictures are pretty.
And I like pretty things.
How many times do you see the word “vintage” attached to pretty much everything these days? And when you do see it, doesn’t there usually seem to be a hefty price tag on it? When our parents or grandparents were the proud owners of what they thought was probably just some day to day object that may or may not have worked too well, we see it as vintage. There is a certain ring to the word. It’s the new modern. And it’s not like most of these objects are fine, quality antiques that have been around for generations. The affordable ones are brand new circa ’00’s, but they are given a vintage feel to make them cool. But we can’t help it. I can’t help it. This shit is awesome! Retro rocks! I also love hearing an ancient (the new term I use for old people) say, “They don’t make things like they used to!” And it’s true. Some things work better. But they don’t look as fun.
Now, it is my personal belief that anything between the late 1960’s-early 1990’s shouldn’t qualify as vintage. It should just be called old and ugly. I was an 80’s baby which fortunately means that I have no real memories of how awful everything was…just photos but I can burn those if necessary. I understand that this might offend some of you but what do you know? You liked the 80’s. And the 80’s had shoulderpads. And under no circumstance is that ok. Of course, every decade had styles that would offend even the most advanced minds of that time. Perhaps I am not adventurous enough in my style but I can someday die peacefully knowing that I never did anything too incredibly hideous to myself or my home. Basically, I did a service to all of mankind. You’re welcome.
I will end this carefully thought out written word piece to say that the one item I am so completely happy about, making its return to the modern age, is the hula hoop. Wham-O is vintage at its best.