Mais je n’aime pas venir à la maison des vacances parce que la vie doit retourner à la normale.
Zut alors.
Whee ninth-grade French.
Home again. But I’ll always have Paris. And, after a week in Las Vegas, I’ll probably have the bloodshot, dark-circled eyes for a long time to come. And I earned/loved every second of it. 😉
Subtitle: Does Christmas cheer exist outside of the bottom of a glass?
I am sitting here, toying around with Expedia.com, only to look at potential layovers for flights I need to book and realize I have, throughout my life, changed planes in dozens of (possibly exciting) cities that I’ve never had the opportunity to actually visit.
Always on my way to somewhere else, I guess. Seems a sad metaphor for the rest of my life, too. The worst part is that there’s rarely a moment for fun when I actually do reach my destination city.
SOMEWHERE … UNDER THE RADAR
I swear, if I had money, I’d be a professional traveler. There’s nothing quite like that rush I get when a plane begins its ascent, unless you count the moment that plane lands and you know you’re stepping into a whole new world (to you). That, and I’d so totally hire a maid. Preferably, as Ted suggested, a Chippendales masseuse with a cleaning fetish!
This boring life cycle in which we all get caught — work hard, get paid, pay bills, run errands, wear clothes, wash clothes, work some more, clean house, buy more (so not-fun) crap you need, lather/rinse/repeat — it’s hard to schedule joy in your life when you’re constantly waving goodbye to your time and to your earnings.
IN WHICH TRADITION HAS ALWAYS BEEN TO, WELL, BUCK TRADITION
Like Christmas. I fucking hate this season. I stopped at Tyson’s Corner yesterday to get tomato soap at Bath and Body Works (which they no longer carry, and that was the only B&BW in the region that DID carry it. Gah). And as I walked into Hecht’s, some lady stopped me and said sweetly, “Honey, you sure you want to go into that madhouse?” If that weren’t an omen for my day, I don’t know what was.
Turns out the only highlight to yesterday was talking (live and in person! on the telephone! what a concept!) to my buddy on the death-defying drive to (and the adventures in parking without getting killed at) the mall, as everything went downhill from there. I’d hoped to run into Liv, but the universe can only spare so much Christmas cheer per capita, I guess. 😉
I don’t do holiday shopping. Haven’t in ages, really. I’ve gotten numb to the twinge when I see families stocking up their trunks with loads of crap, when I’m happy to be walking out of Wal-Mart with the month’s supply of necessities and still have enough money left over to grab a taco. Instead, I people-watch — that’s the greatest gift of all.
‘BOTOX BEFORE BARNEY’
Yesterday must’ve been “dad’s day out,” because in addition to 40 dozen instances of Steelers garb (and not a single instance of the DeadRedskins), there were lots of dazed-and-confused men crawling the mall. Whee. 😉
You can tell when it’s dad’s day. I saw this poor little girl with her long hair caught up in two clips and four different ponytail holders. I saw others with half-assed braids or ones that were so tight that the kids looked like they’d had Botox before “Barney” that morning.
I overheard the funniest conversation at Wallyworld yesterday:
Mom: “Do you know what I want for Christmas? (said to dad who was literally lying on the floor in the decorations aisle and to the kid who sat next to him)
Little Girl: “Flowers?” (she couldn’t have been more than 7)
Mom: “No, I don’t want flowers.”
Little Girl: “Well, that’s probably what daddy will get you again for Christmas.”
*bwahahaha*
Priceless!
I tried to do some window-shopping last night — I need some festive gear for holiday soirees, and of course I need shoes that do not amount to sandals and such that I still wear to run the halls at work (I don’t wear uncomfortable crap to drive — yay Reeboks).
In any event, no matter which store I went into, I was itchy. Gah. ‘Tis the season for wool clothing to be on every freaking rack. And I curse any asshole who decides to randomly shove a wool sweater on a rack with acrylic sweaters — because then I touch it and get to walk around like I’ve got something stuck up my butt because I can’t outright scratch myself in public. Wool, angora, whatever — makes me burst into hives. Hooray.
No wonder it’s the cyber-shopping season — people like me apparently can’t leave the house till all the winter clearance is gone from the shelves. *softly weeping*
It’s been quite a creative couple of days here at Chez Dawn.
First, I gots me a French pedicure:
Then Tiff got bitten by the crafty bug, and we ended up going to Clay Cafe Studios in honor of her birthday to get all crafty and stuff.
I made a tabletop:
It’s the big square in the center of all my other mosaic crap, BTW. It’s got a mirror in the center.
Clay Cafe gave me mauve-colored grout. Gah. Mauve! I went to Michaels and bought some bluish-silver grout, which I need to apply one of these days. I have a wrought-iron table to which I am going to superglue that mofo. I can’t wait. 🙂
More of me and my cobalt/black/mirrored glass fetish:
But wait, there’s more.
While I was at Michaels, I started collecting crap for a holiday swag. I grabbed greenery and started shoving all kinds of glittery blue and silver flowers in it, and people actually began stopping me, telling me how pretty it was and asking where I’d got it. Hah. With the creativity that runs in my family, they’d be appalled if I actually bought and didn’t make something.
Here’s the swag, in regular lighting:
I threw it together in five minutes, tops.
I tried to get a pic of it all lit up with the blue lights. Twenty-seven pix later, this is the best I could do (clearly, photography is not one of my creative pursuits). Well, it could be the 2 mpx camera, but oh well. 🙂
And it wouldn’t be a holiday without a bad cat eating my creation:
And, last but not least in the creative pursuits:
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37,500 / 50,000
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Subtitle: Spray, delay, walk run the hell away
In my earlier post about perfume shopping, “A rose by any other name,” I had mentioned that there was a fragrance I really, REALLY wanted.
Enough time has passed, and my coveting of this perfume has not ceased. So in my journeys today, I decided I had to have it.
Now, I know how to buy — and apply — perfume. But people do not exactly know how to SELL it.
I am the world’s best customer (when I want to be, of course). I do my research and know exactly what I want when I walk in. I do not fuck around — give me what I want and then I will leave.
I started by asking for a sample vial of this fragrance. Notice I said a VIAL, not a “please nuke me with this shit.” Alas, though, I live in an area where people do not speak great English; either that or common courtesy is simply severely lacking.
In any case, I was told there were no take-home samples. Fine, then. I said I wanted to buy the small bottle (for just shy of a Benjamin Franklin, egads — I have expensive taste).
Now, you’ve gotten the clue that I have made up my mind that I wish to purchase this item, no? I have decided that I deserve to treat myself to something that is going to make me feel good and is going to last for quite some time. My mind has been made up to live with it and to love it. I was going to take it home WITHOUT SNIFFING IT because I knew what it smelled like.
Until. …
Crazy Perfume Bitch decided to take the tester bottle from the counter, and she aimed it at me. Taken aback, the only thing I could croak out was, “Coat!” because my mom just sent me a brand-new leather coat on Wednesday (my younger cat annhilated my last one by jumping ON my coat rack at home and shredding it — I was heartbroken and am so thrilled to have a replacement).
So the bitch yanked the coat back and sprayed the shit SEVEN times. SEVEN. Onto my chest. Luckily, my little glittery brown tank top is low-cut enough that it didn’t get damaged in the nuking, but it sure stinks of this fragrance.
Here’s the deal — the perfume? Gorgeous. Has vanilla, patchouli and sandalwood undertones. I mean, if you come to my apartment, I am likely burning all of the above in the form of incense and/or candles.
After I paid for my once-coveted perfume, I shot to a restroom and furiously scrubbed my skin. I mean, who the FUCK sprays their chest, No. 1, and No. 2, SEVEN TIMES??!?!
Seriously, there are many ways to apply a fragrance. When you’re doing body splashes and lotions and oil mists and such, spritzing the chest is appropriate.
But with intense fragrances, you only want to hit your pulse points (wrists, an inch below your earlobes, perhaps the backs of your knees if you are going out for the evening). Sometimes you can hit the cleavage, but from a twee bit lower.
What you DON’T do is waste the equivalent of two months’ worth of perfume till you have a veritable RIVER running down to your navel.
My throat actually hurts right now from that supreme display of bullshit. And that bitch got COMMISSION?!?! I have half a mind to return it to another store — why reward assholitry with cash?
Even after I scrubbed myself raw, I had three Mexican dudes trailing me around the damn mall. I mean, I couldn’t get rid of them. Incidentally, I’d grabbed lunch at Taco Bell just before this debacle — perhaps they could smell that past the cloud o’perfume? 😉
THE FIRST HAPPY HOUR TODAY: MEETING NOAH
I just want to brag that I got to meet the beloved babalah himself, Noah. (Scroll down for photos that simply can neither contain nor fully convey the Absolute Cuteness.)
For as ridiculously, utterly adorable this kid is in photos? About 70 times more so in person. Congratulations Amalah, and thanks for letting me meet him!
If I could guarantee mine would turn out that absolutely perfect, I *might* even want to have one someday. 😉
THE SECOND HAPPY HOUR, BOTH TODAY AS WELL AS IN A SERIES INVOLVING ADULT BEVERAGES
My workplace has started organizing happy hours; we had our second one tonight.
I was there for about an hour by myself, drinking bloody marys and socializing with the regulars (serious props to the guy who was drinking beer-and-tomato-juice — not for that drink (ugh) but for getting the manager to bring me horseradish for my drink. Yum!).
In between conversations, I was scribbling errant thoughts to myself on the back of gas station receipts that I have cluttering my wallet. (I have more receipts than I do dollar bills. Sad.)
A couple of guys and gals from the office did end up showing up — five out of 200. I suppose we are going to be the “happy hour” crowd from now on. 🙂 Same place, next month — right guys?
While I had fun, of course, I found myself missing the old happy hour crowd from when I worked at Easter Seals — we didn’t make much money, but we somehow managed to drink a lot. Beer was cheaper back then, I guess. 😉
GHOST OF HAPPY HOURS PRESENT
John’s posted some photos of our recent Old Town blogmeet.
Seriously, next time I am so totally requesting that someone cover me with a llama head — I hate myself in photos. Especially when I’m sitting down. Ugh. But everyone else looks splendid, so I’ll shut up now. Thanks for posting those, John!
GHOST OF HAPPY HOURS PAST
Talk about clinging to the past — I have few photos hanging on my walls at home that were taken after that time when I worked at Easter Seals — I had the most fun of my life back then, and nearly every photo I have is of the group of friends drinking at this bar or that bar.
I was one of the major instigators (and perhaps the grand goddess of them all) when it came to getting the masses together to get drunk.
God, those were the days — Howard, the other Dawn, Rob, Lynda, Melissa, the other Melissa, Mike, the other Mike, Crystal, Chris (ah, Chris. …), the other Chris (lord, we had a lot of duplicate names!) and so many others used to join me in barhopping like the world was ending. Not like we were sober enough to notice. 😉
We used to have parties at our homes, too — Howard had the best setup, what with a full BAR in his basement, but I did OK. I always had fun cooking and cleaning for DAYS beforehand. Like, I used to take days off of work so the apartment and food would be perfect for my friends.
FUTURE HAPPY HOURS — SEND RECIPES!!!
Speaking of party foods and such, I’ve volunteered to host a “Carnival of the Recipes” for New Year’s. (See Ted’s for an example.) I’m trying to work up a theme involving party foods and holiday decadence — send me your recipes and I will feature you and hopefully send some traffic your way for the holidays!
Packed weekend — full of friends, fun and food. What more could a girl ask for? Or, as I like to call it, living life instead of blogging about not having one. 😉
See, not all bloggers are dorks with no lives — we dorks DO have lives, thankyouverymuch. 😉
SATURDAY NIGHT’S ALL RIGHT
Really enjoyed a blogmeet at the Union Street in Old Town — I mean, how many times in your life do you get to stroll into a restaurant and announce that you are with the Llama party? 😀
The thing is, I’ve done various blogmeets, and it’s a toss-up whether you will walk away with a bigger blogroll (which I did) or whether you can’t read a blog again because its owner spends way too much time writing and not enough time polishing basic social skills.
Before JournalCon last year, I’d had images in my mind of some people as I read them — I’d thought their prose was dazzling and stuff. But I found that some, you’d want to have a drink with. The rest? You’d want to pour a drink on.
But alas, Saturday night’s company was way too good, and looking at my blogroll (separated into “Friends” — people I’ve met — and “Imaginary Friends” — people I can’t believe I haven’t met yet), that was the night that nearly tipped the scales in favor of me actually knowing more cool kids behind their cool blogs than not. Now to move more names up into the “people I know” column!
IF YOU AREN’T READING THESE PEOPLE, CLICK THROUGH — I’LL SAY ‘YOU’RE WELCOME’ WHEN YOU COME BACK
I didn’t talk much because I was so ridiculously fascinated with this magnanimous crew — talk about the walls bursting with enough IQ points to solar power D.C. for the next decade — wow!
I mean, we all know I think Ted is brilliant, but you know you’re in for an evening of pure entertainment when you put him in a room with other such grand personalities as resident Llama Rob and honorary Llamas John (who assembled this outing from Texas), Maximum Leader, Princess Cat, Lysander, my buddy Buckethead and Matt (I’ll be expecting a blog debut from him by our next meetup!).
I hear Nic would like to get the masses together for a Caps game — count me in!
BECAUSE A DAY WITHOUT ME BITCHING? A SYMBOL OF THE END OF THE WORLD. ALLOW ME TO VENT, SIMPLY TO SAVE THE PLANET
The only lowlight to the evening was the fact that there was a table with a frillion little children next to us. (I swear, I said a prayer when I saw big bowls of ice cream being served to them — I curse you, sugar fiends!) I actually became so frazzled by their shrieking that I actually had to go downstairs — to the bar to get a little piece and quiet. Yes, you read that right. 😉
Just before I fled (temporarily, of course), I was happily splitting my attention between two ridiculously riveting conversations when I started fantastizing about assaulting one of the moms. All the kids were at one end of the table and the adults comprised the other half, and the adults were doing a spectacular job of not noticing their brood. (As were the classy folks at my table — I guess when you have kids, you become much more patient. Single people like me with only four-pawed critters? More apt to let them play with a case of Mace.)
But this one mom — sheesh. She apologized to the other party in the room we shared (not to us), saying, “Sorry if they are getting on your nerves. They get on ours, too.”
The hell?!?! Control them, then! Fool.
It was hard, but I really resisted pelting her with a salmon cake. 😉
SPEAKING OF INANIMATE OBJECTS
No, I’m not talking about FEMA — I’m talking about rocks (and not the ones in Mike Brown’s head).
I got a hot-stone massage this weekend. It was brief, as I am not made of money and cannot afford to pay to be molested by strangers for long periods of time (*damn*). I am so totally going to have to budget for it (less cat food-buying, of course — my girls shit way too much as it is).
ONE LAST THING
Ate at the brand-new Dogfish Head restaurant. The prime rib was fabulous, as was the Punkin Ale. Back in the days, I used to go out in the fields to go pumpkin-picking. Fuck that shit — I’d rather order it up from the comfort of a nice, warm barstool.
There are a few Delaware locations, but if you’re up for hiking up to Gaithersburg, Md., Dogfish provided us with great service, fantastic food and even better specialty beers.
Mom has now called me twice to ask me to refresh her with the name of the place. “Honey, was that Dogbreath? Or was it Fishhead?” 🙂
(I’ll kick your ass if you tell me I shoulda filed this section under “inanimate objects.” She’s animated enough — just blonde.) You understand, don’t you?
I’ve been on this quest for some new perfume. Not like I don’t own enough, mind you, but I’m a believer in “spicing up” my life, so to speak.
I guess I should start this off by admitting that I was in the perfume department of a major retailer recently, stalking my ever-elusive Yohji Yamamoto for women (not the Yohji Essential, just his plain old signature scent), when I decided that maybe I need to give up the ghost and try something new.
There are some things that should never be done “on the cheap” — my grandmother was insistent that a woman must own gorgeous designer fragrances and that there are different types of scents to have on hand for different types of occasions (day events, night events, stay-at-home events, etc.). And, alas, nothing feels more delicious than pampering oneself with some wildly expensive and oh-so-sensual scents.
NO BONES BEANS ABOUT IT
First of all, ladies, when shopping for cologne, I’m going to give you a tip — carry a small bag of coffee beans with you. A lot of these places sell Godiva chocolates, too, which means they also sell the coffee line — I insist that you snag a bag for the journey.
Why? Because after awhile, everything starts to smell alike. The coffee beans/grounds will clear your mind. Hell, I even told the salesgirls to just park the damned Godiva display next to the perfume tester areas — customers would thank them. Although perhaps they’d lose sales, as I think the coffee smells WAY better than some of the cheap-hooker perfumes that these huge designers are cranking out by the gallon.
I SMELL DEAD DUMB PEOPLE
Case in point: “Curious” by Britney Spears and Paris Hilton’s “Trailer Trash-O-Rama.” Well, that isn’t its real name, but bear with me here.
I was sniffing Sarah Jessica Parker’s “Lovely,” which is actually very nice and on my consideration list. It hints at my all-time favorite and even signature scent — “Romance” by Ralph Lauren — so I’m definitely into it.
But the salesgirl thought I was looking at the Paris fragrance and asked if I liked it. I laughed in her face and told her it reeked of a brothel.
She wasn’t impressed with me at all. 🙂
I refrained from further bashing celebrity scents, although Amalah’s prediction that a perfume by Tara Reid would reek of chlamydia and condoms did pop into my head right at that very moment. 😉
Unrelated, I’ve seen “Curious” repackaged in tinier vials and merchandised in Claire’s and other low-end jewelry stores. I suppose everyone finally got the message that women my age and older are NOT going to be buying it (count me OUT if it means I will be attracted to/by a Kevin Federline-type), so let the kiddies smell like their favorite pop princess. Ugh, but oh well.
TICKLING THE OLFACTORY NERVES
Fragrances invoke memories, that’s a given. But lately, I threw out a bunch of perfumes, lotions and the like because their scents were transporting me back in time to an era that doesn’t exactly bring me joy to recall. For instance, much as I loved the “Moonlight Path” line from Bath and Body Works, I can never smell it again — reminds me of sad and desperate times.
After the salesgirl realized my tastes are far superior to the Paris scent, she took me to the best of the best, whereupon I Fell. In. Love. with a scent. I can’t actually name it because I know a male blogreader who wears it (while I love men’s cologne and occasionally buy it for myself, this was in fact the feminine version) and we ain’t tryin’ to get into trouble here. 🙂
In any event, I actually let her test it *on* me , and I walked through the mall, sniffing myself for hours and loving it more and more as it got to breathe, so I know I love this cologne.
BUT. …
The problem being, of course, when you associate fragrances with memories. This includes and is not limited to what you think of the persons it reminds you of.
Drat.
The problem is that the scent reminds me of someone who is, well, an assclown. And who wants to smell like a horse’s ass?
*sigh*
Wouldn’t it be my absolute luck to fall in love with a fragrance that would serve as a daily reminder of someone whom I’d love to forget?
Giving me faith in great things happening to even greater people, I am so happy to report that Tiff and Tom just got engaged!
I was putting on my makeup this morning when she told me. And now I have to go put it on again ’cause I’ve cried it off. Happy tears are the best, I say. 🙂
Congratulations, friends!
So what if it’s Saturday?
Inner peace, outer beauty and everlasting happiness. The day I give up is the day I might as well drive myself to the crematory.
When I was 16, I was convinced I was a transcendentalist. I was also a big dork and read a lot of Whitman and Thoreau. I also didn’t have any friends and believed everything I read in books. 😉
Overall, my “simple” answer is that I believe in limited or guided free will, in that we are certainly *able* to make our own decisions, but that our intuition is too strong to be ignored.
I also believe in divine intervention and karma impacting our course — free will wasn’t given to us without consequence.
I believe some things will never be resolved yet we need to close the door anyway, and if it has already been closed, then we waste precious spiritual energy trying to prop it open.
Duh, conspiracy. The government always wins. Always. And it doesn’t miss a trick. Big Brother is keeping thousands upon thousands out of the unemployment line with the sole purpose of monitoring the rest of us.
*removes tin foil hat now*
Seasonally, it was Cadbury eggs. Those and whatever Reese’s product was out for the holidays — peanut butter pumpkins, peanut butter Christmas trees, peanut butter Easter eggs.
Hell, I just bought two peanut butter pumpkins at Tar-zhay last night. Happiness in a purple wrapper. …
Caramel Appletini — introduced to me during my last visit to Pittsburgh at the Quaker Steak in Robinson.
Ingredients — funny you should ask, ’cause I totally copied the menu description onto my receipt while I was there:
Three Olives apple vodka
Butterscotch schnapps
Splash of cranberry
Iced martini glass, drizzled with caramel
I had the female equivalent of a hard-on after having that. *rolls tongue back into mouth*
