Sprung

Spring is so easy.

On Friday, we finally had clear, sunny skies--after getting pounded with snow on Monday. It's amazing how effortless it is to slide into the warm air and rolled-down windows.

Winter takes several weeks to adjust to the layers of layers of leggings and scarves. Even fall needs some time to remember the feeling of cardigans and boots.

But not spring.

Spring is easy.

Fashion

Over the course of the last few weeks, I have had more than one person tell me I should start including fashion as part of this blog (fine, okay, it was two--two people told me to do that). Both of these lovely ladies have their own (successful) fashion blogs, where they do crazy things like put ads on their blog. And get free clothes from sponsors. And make money.

One of these girls I work with. She sees my clothes every day and knows just how unique (weird) I dress. She has told me repeatedly, I need to start photographing my outfits (mess of layers) and put them on my blog. She thinks my eclectic, artsy (weird, crazy) style could serve as inspiration (comedic relief) for other fashion bloggers. She thinks it fascinating (horrifying) that I have the courage (psychosis) to wear my creations (mistakes) to work every day.

The other girl is a friend from college. She is rail thin and dresses in decidedly 1920s-1940s vintage dresses. She is graceful, charming, and people give her tons of clothes to photograph herself in and post on her blog. Because she makes clothes looks stunning. 

I read fashion blogs. I enjoy them (ReFashionista is by far my favorite. If I could sew, I would be her. If I knew her, we would be best friends.) I love clothes, and fashion, and using fashion as art. I'm interested in other people's fashion as inspiration. I like to see how other people use common pieces to make really great outfits. And I like to live vicariously through people who are really fashion-forward.

So here's why I don't photograph my outfits and post them on this blog. 
1. Most fashion bloggers have a style--or at least an aesthetic. They are vintage, or ultra-modern, or urban, or country, or hipster. My fashion is what I would describe as "lazy graphic design college student." I grab five or six articles of clothing from my closet and layer them until something matches. Or until I'm warm. Or until I run out of time before I need to leave for work (see: what I am wearing today. It is RIDICULOUS. But I was late).

2. I don't go to "events" or "functions" or "out." Fashion bloggers describe these galas and dinner dates and shows they pick out outfits for. I dress for work. Yes, I work for a nonprofit in communications and graphic design. That does give me some artistic freedom in my wardrobe choices. But other than that, I spend most of my life in pajamas. 

3. I'm also lazy. Running a fashion blog requires photographs, and I just don't have the time (motivation/willingness to get up early or get off the couch when I get home) to photograph my outfit every day. And, let's face it, 90% of my outfits are just plain ridiculous. And minimizing the number of people who see how I dress every day is probably best.

4. I don't own enough clothes. Okay, that's a lie. I own a ton of clothes. But I wear the same pieces all the time. Every few months, I go through my clothes and get rid of things I don't wear much. Which is almost everything. I seriously wear three pairs of pants, seven or eight shirts, and a few dresses. Everything else is just filler.

In conclusion, you may see some fashion popping up on this blog. 

But probably not.

You Always Have Words

You always have words.

Someone told me this once, though I can't remember who. My grandmother maybe, it sounds like something she may have penned in a letter once. Or a college professor when I was slumped in her office, going through a particularly trying day. Or a friend who feels just as deeply as I do, but whose strength doesn't lie in writing the words. 

It was in the context of a tough situation. The phrase was: You're lucky. No matter what you're going through, no matter how difficult to process, you always have words. 

But then weeks like last week happen. People do things that can't be explained. Other people--heroes--rise up and bring hope. There is so much to say. So many things to feel. Feelings that lack proper names and descriptions. 

Emotions without epithet. Sentiment without sobriquet. 

Sometimes there are no words.

The Boss

Co-worker: "I pinned an article on Pinterest that has cake decorating tips from The Boss!"

Me: "Bruce Springsteen decorates cakes?"

She laughed because she thought it was a joke. I laughed because I learned something new about Springsteen.

I realized an hour or so later that she meant The Cake Boss. Not Bruce Springsteen. Sometimes I'm really dumb.

Things That Are Neat

Co-worker says, "I won tickets to the Celtic Women concert this weekend!"

I say, "Oh, that's pretty neat."

It is the third time I've said that today. Darn that crazy Lenny Pepperbottom and his hilarious "Neature Walk." 

I sound like a fool.

Bathtubs and Bossypants

There are few material things I really long for in life. Not just desire on a passing whim when I see it in an ad--but really, truly want to complete my life. One is a dishwasher.

The second is this bathtub:

I've stopped writing funny things. I don't know when exactly that happened, or why. I think it's because I try to write like someone I'm not. Someone who oozes poetry from their fingertips. I'm not that girl. Never have been.

In college, I had a professor who noted I only wrote humorous short stories and personal essays. So the next thing I turned in was a dramatic mess about my senior year of high school. In red, she scripted across the top, "I was wrong. Stick to funny."

When I was younger, in my heart of hearts, my deepest desire (maybe even more so than owning that bathtub), was to write for SNL. I didn't want to be poet laureate, I wanted to be Tina Fey.

But at some point in the last few months (years maybe?) I've sort of resigned my writing life to press releases and fact sheets. I've been content that I have a "writing job." It's not the dream writing job, but it's close. And it's got incredible perks.

It's still not well accepted for women to be funny. Despite the valiant efforts of Tiny Fey, Amy Poehler, Rachel Dratch, Maya Rudolph, and Kristen Wiig. My own husband believes that women are never funny. I've felt very much like my writing has no place in this world. I hate writing anything over a few pages. I'm not meant to write a book. But maybe, just maybe I could string together a few disjointed short stories.

All of this to say, I loved Tina Fey's book. She is who I want to write like--she's already who I write like. Her book was random stories, some specific, some general. Some funny, some messy. The final chapter about her decision to have a second child was like an unedited, raw journal entry--a bit all over the place, yet feeling just right. The prayer for her daughter: gold. She gives me hope for the weird girl with no place for her writing.

I only wish I could have read it while sitting in the aforementioned bathtub.

Home Invasion

I think I became a grown up last night. 

I woke up around 1 a.m., parched and needing a drink. I keep a water bottle on my nightstand for this very purpose. It's one of those 32-ounce bottles with a large, open top and screw-on lid, so I have to sit up to drink it (or else I pour the whole thing down my front). 

I took a few drinks, and then something horrible happened. I am so, so very thankful that my mouth was closed, and I was breathing through my nose, because at that moment, something brushed my lips. Something solid. Something that did not belong in a bottle full of water. Something, that even though I didn't thoroughly inspect the situation, I know was an insect. A boxelder bug, to be exact, because they have infested our house. 

Jerking the water bottle away from my mouth, I set it back down on my nightstand. I closed my eyes and tried to stifle my rapid breathing. I was about to hyperventilate. I rocked back and forth on the edge of my bed like a crazy person. Brett was snoring peacefully, and though I wanted to scream and tear my lips off my face, I did neither. Slowing my rapid heart rate back to a manageable count, I resisted the urge to shake him violently awake, so he could fix the situation. The situation being THAT A BUG JUST TOUCHED MY LIPS. I didn't wake him. He blissfully slept through the bug kissing, and full-blown panic attack, and near heart explosion his wife had just experienced.

I lay back down in bed, pulling the covers up over my chin, and tried to think cleansing thoughts. Eventually, by some miracle, I stopped imagining bugs invading my mouth and fell back asleep. 

My water bottle--housing that horrible insect--is still on my nightstand. I will be throwing away the entire thing tonight. And then perhaps lighting the garbage can on fire.