New Rules

It’s my birthday this week. Yes, week.

I am making new rules for birthdays. Once you pass twenty-five, birthdays should be birthweeks. I’m celebrating my birthweek this week. Once you pass 50 Birthdays should last a month. Sounds like a good rule to me.

To celebrate the week of my birth, I am buying these:

The dress would look better with me in it. I have too much black. Need more grey. Too sunny here in summers to have black. Ugh.

Happy birthweek to me. Right, bitches?

Everybody Is Ugly is my new favourite eye candy. I love the aquamarine satin fabric discard she uses as a wrist cuff and headband. She is too cute for words.

Edit:
I forgot to mention. I’m completing my twenty-sixth.

Blue Box Smells — The Vagina Post

For those of you who read on a reg, you know that I like to refer to my office bathroom as a sanctuary in a blue metal box. You also probably know that whenever I go there to escape, I usually sit there for a bit, even if I’m not going, just to get a moment’s peace. I call it my Blue Box Sanctuary, or something. I have a few times, anyway.

Yet more prefacing: Not to recently, but recently, one of my favourite bloggers, Equivocality, posted something called “The Peeing Sound” - His pee post. Kind of like a poop post, but about peeing.

Here is my equivalent. The Vagina Diatribe.

Well, today, I felt like getting a moment’s respite from the barrage of Thursday morning reporting. I go into the blue box and sit there, waiting for silence and tranquility to hit me. (In a building of two hundred people, the bathroom is the only place you can escape, TRUST ME.) Anyway, it’s about a interval or two before I realise someone’s in the stall next to me. There is no sound of urine trickling into the bowl. There are no dumps or splashes of #2’s going. It’s silent. No rustling of pants ’round ankles.

How do I know? I can smell her.

Gross. (And it wasn’t a poo smell.)

Dear woman in the stall next to me from this morning,

While it is not recommended to wash your hair everyday, the etiquette of public forums and personal interaction require that you wash your vagina regularly. This is not only for etiquette and circumventing offending others’ noses, but it is a sanitary issue. Please, for your health and the health of others, wash your vagina.

I do not wish to smell you again.

Sincerely,
Your Disgusted Stall Partner, MK

And that was the (what’s the opposite of a highlight?) of my morning!

Opting

This weekend was one of much opting, choosing one path over one, discarding a choice in favour of another.

Friday, plagued by terrible pangs of regret and sadness of my dog’s painful death last year, I immediately went home to sulk on the davenport. stripping to my panties, I launched myself into a full-on sulk-fest by popping in an Audrey Hepurn flick (Roman Holiday) and burying my cheek into the soft fabric of my lime green bamboo pillow case. As the film progressed , I became more and more flustered with blighted images of my dead dog, PJ, who’d passed last summer. Thinking back to that afternoon, when I’d spent the better part of an afternoon searching PetFinder.com finding dogs that looked like PJ, only served to magnify my distress.

N found me on the couch, face stuffed into my pillow, hardly minding the film in front of me.

Earlier that day, he and I had arranged through our daily hundred emails that we’d go for a short training run of two or three miles to round out a good weekend of running. Deep in my emotional quagmire, I changed my mind about running the trails. I made as many excuses as i could. It was too windy. It was too cold. It would hurt my knees and hips, and it would put me out of going dancing the next night with the girls. As my anxiety increased, my voice began to escalate and break. Tears forced their way out of ducts and soon I was crying.

The song is totally cliché, but the question it poses is poignant and valid: “Have you ever loved someone so much it makes you cry?” Well, apparently I have. A dog can be a someone, too.

Only after much wheedling and logical arguments made in a stern and somewhat gentle-but-reprimanding tone did I peel myself from the davenport, slump into the closet to put on gear, and cry heavily while I slipped my tired feet into running socks. Once on the trail I slowly started to let the anxiety and guilt fall off as the heat and energy of running the trails burned through my legs, my lungs, through my throat. My chest didn’t have room for both the grief and the effort required to push past the physical discomfort and pain of running three miles of hills and wooded trail. My lungs couldn’t support both heaving sobs and rhythmic gasping and panting. My mind couldn’t focus on both inordinate sadness and navigating the trails. Something had to go.

I opted for running. I finished the three miles, and by the end, tortured sighs and regret over losing PJ no longer pulsed through me.

Saturday: yet again choices.

Do i indulge the aching desire to buy cute and simple wardrobe enhancements from Sarah Jessica Parker’s clothing line at the mall just up the street from my salon, or do I save myself the moolah and concentrate on paying off debt? I turned left instead of right, heading home instead of Steve and Barry’s. I guess I can be fashionable later, even if the clothes are all under $10.

Saturday eve: to dance or not to dance? That is the eternal and deeply important question.

Saturday I was to spend all evening with a bevy of delicious babes at a fabulous night club called posh, where our worries and cares of the world would be carried away on the phat bass lines of the resident DJ’s vinyl collection. i would spin acrobatic, and boys would once again try to Dance-Off me in a momentary cypher. Some errant waify, balding nerd would try to rodeo Allie, and El would be entertaining a vodka tonic and undulating her hips all hypnotic to the smooth melodies.

But with such good times, hard decisions weigh. What do you wear? What would make the greatest style impact without sacrificing comfort? What would scream “dope” without constraining my movements and impeding my ability to break out unexpected and sweet stunts? Do you wear heels with that or go with sneaks? How many people are going to be smoking in the joint? Will I be able to bust a groove or will my lungs feel as ashy as an ashtray with four patrons flicking into it? Will I be able to get home at a decent hour?

N let me know Saturday afternoon that he would need me to drive him to his trail half marathon at 630 Sunday morning. I opted to stay home (after a three miler) with my boyfriend and watch Ugly Betty and eat a homecooked meal with him and the dog. I woke up Sunday without feeling too groggy.

Lots of opting this weekend. But in the end, I ran, forgot to be sad, saved myself lots of moolah, saved my lungs and feet lots of strife, exercised, ate in, and spent quality time with my lover who gets badly neglected whenever I get super social.

It’s all about the choices you make, that in the end make you. Opting.

Irrepressible

It’s easy to take things you love for granted. Same goes with people, except, when you take them for granted, the emotional and mental repercussions are much greater.

I always took him for granted. I’d known him since I was eleven or twelve. Even then, when we first met, he wanted to shower me with affection. He’d nuzzle into my neck, snuggle warm against me on the couch. We were just children, but we knew how to show each other affection. We were always together.

As we got older, we spent less time together. He got tired and listless and bored, and sat for hours and hours in front of a window, staring out at the endless skies and delicate, lacy clouds sailing by. I’d go to school and work and forget he’d be there when I came home. We’d greet each other for a few excited minutes, and after those passed, we fell back into a routine of sitting on the couch, watching TV, saying nothing. Maybe occasionally shooting the other a casual sidelong glance, to make sure neither was asleep. I’d nuzzle my nose into the fuzz his neck, and he’d bump his head against my face.

I long for days like that now. I can never have them back again.

That’s why it’s important to spend time with the dog we get to dog-sit from time to time now. He won’t be around forever, and like my old dog, PJ, the pain of regret, the pain of guilt, loneliness and longing, for having taken him for granted…the pain is irrepressible.

Been feeling it all week. I’ve been fighting urges to buy cheap but incredibly stylish shoes on F21.com. I’ve been fighting urges to buy clearance dresses on urban outfitters.com. Been fighting the urge to splurge at Sephora on a credit card I have yet to pay the balance off (probably will next pay period). Yet today, when I finally sat down to watch Roman Holiday (Audrey Hepburn’s first movie… don’t know why I don’t own this yet), I started to think about it. N came home and tried to yank me from my emotional vortex, but I was swirling into it, unassailed by mental control. I fell into it completely. After a full twenty-five minutes of begging and nagging, N dragged me onto my feet, by which time, I was crying uncontrollably for my dead dog. A new dog I’d found in a maltese/terrier rescue in Ohio had awakened grief I’d buried last year. The tears were irrepressible. The desire for a dog like him to nuzzle his small head in my arms… I can’t stop thinking about how much I want him back.

Some day. Now I just run. I run from the veritable blackhole the lies that way. I run from the bubbling itch to buy things to cover the grief. I run to clear my head and breathe in fresh Spring/Summer air. I run because if I can become stronger by doing something I don’t want to do, I can become strong enough to overcome the things I do want to do–giving in to grief and shop like mad.

How I Do

I could march to my own drum
But I’m twiddling my thumbs.
And we like it, because we do.

At school, I learned to pray,
and to keep my thoughts at bay.
Follow leaders, follow orders,
follow other people’s dreams.

This is where it all began.
Here I sit when I should stand.
And we like it, because we do.
And we like it, because we do.

The greatest prize to behold
it is life–It can’t be sold.
But my eyes are set on gold.
They mock us when they sing,
so we trade them for a ring.

And we like it, because we do.

–Ditty Bops, “Because We Do”

Amen.

Dittybops.com

Administrative Slave Day

Wow!

One of my sales reps actually remembered today is Administrative Professionals Day (Aka Secretary’s Day) and sent me a bouquet of pink tulips and irises! I LOVE tulips!

What a way to make my day.

Edit–
Another one of my reps remembered and bought me a $25 gift card to Applebees… I don’t really eat there, but it’s definitely the gesture, AND what he wrote in the card, that totally mattered.

The boss totally forgot it was APD but stopped by Target, grabbed a card and a gift card. It was thoughtful and nice. Didn’t beat the bouquet, but I’m not about to be staring a gift horse in the mouth. It was a nice gesture.

Now I’m hoping my annual review (3 months too late!) and some good karma energy will yield me a raise (which I so desperately need!).

Bikini ready

NOT!

I seriously need to get my body read for bikini weather… we’re going to Hawaii in August. I gotta step up the game with the running and cross training so that I look super-fab in a bathing suit. Funnily enough, I’m actually aiming to buy a sexy one-piece, rather than the ubiquitous and over-done bikini. I mean, how many different ways can you really design the traditional triangle two-piece?

Feeling like i need to do some serious shopping. Must be the weather and the week bearing down on me. I’m going to go for another 5-er this weekend. I think I can handle it.

Spring in the Step

t’s lovely. This morning, I could go outside without having to wear a heavy jacket and touque. Dew rested on the blades of grass, and sunlight glinted off it; the grass sparkled like scattered diamonds. Skies are clear, without oppressive humidity.

Spring is here. No, summer. We don’t have Spring in Michigan.

Tuesday, 041508: Froth, coffee and creme

Inspired lately by my two new favourite fashion bloggers, Camille, and Rumi N, I’ve decided to post intermittent favourite fashion looks–whenever I’m actually “on.” ‘Cause, why the hell not? I am occasionally proud of the things I wear, particularly because almost nothing I own ever cost me more than $100. The only thing I ever “splurge” on are either purses or shoes, and that’s terribly rare, as I’m not exactly a labelwhore (for ethical and ecological reasons, and for monetary reasons, namely, lacking the sufficient funds to purchase said label items), and I believe non-designer items have more character than ones branded by an easily recognisable name/logo/design. Call me cheap, call me an eco-nazi (I kind of am), call me indie. I’ll concur.

Anyway, Tuesday, I decided to experiment a little with a look I’ve been lusting after for awhile. I wondered if I could put the outfit together with each piece under $25-50 (also because most items in my closet are incredibly cheap) and achieve it without looking like a schmoe. I think I pulled it off. Though I much would’ve rather worn non-textured tights, I think it was alright.

Silk blouse and skirt, F21; tank, H & M; jersey bandage skirt (not visible), A. Apparel; belt, Old Navy; tights, Target; boots, Bakers; bracelet, somewhere in Hawaii.

Inspiration:

Daily Green: Facts about Fish, Tips for saving $$$, How to Be Eco-Chic Pretty!, Bonus Tip: Green for Your Hands

from email: Daily Green.com. LOTS OF ECO TIPS!~

Can You Hear Me Now? Ocean Fish Are Collapsing: Millions of People at Risk of Losing Major Food Source - This Generation

Here are the facts, still startling even if increasingly familiar, that came out of the Global Conference on Oceans, Coasts, and Islands in Hanoi this week, as reported by Agence France-Press.

“Warming seas are bleaching corals, feeding algal blooms and changing ocean currents that impact the weather, and rising sea levels could in future threaten coastal areas from Bangladesh to New York,” experts said, according to AFP.

Overfishing and water pollution also remain serious and ongoing problems: “North Atlantic cod fisheries collapsed in the 1990s, anchovies previously disappeared off Chile, herring off Iceland and sardine off California,” AFP reports.

By the numbers:

20%

- Amount of humankind’s protein intake that comes from fish

75%

- Fish stocks already fully exploited or depleted

Millions

- Number of people whose nutrition is at risk

64%

- Ocean areas outside national jurisdiction
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