Uh Oh.

I somehow just managed to get the ADAM dress on. I outsmarted it! It took some contorting and wiggling and jumping up and down (and maybe a few choice swear words and a brief, panicky moment where I was sure I had gotten it permanently stuck over around my big forehead and Petunia only sat silently and watched as I flailed my arms around while going, "MAHH! MAHADFHAWFDHH!" since the dress was completely muffling my mouth and I was wondering what life would be like if I had to live with a dress permanently stuck around my face) but I finally got it on by pulling it over my head, therefore rendering the stupid zipper I couldn't get zipped up useless. Screw you, zipper! I don't need you!

Except for when I needed to get back out of the dress, that is- I simply unzipped it and voila. I was freeeeee.

This certainly changes things. Pics of the dress (and the Nanette Lepore Sunny Day dress) coming soon. Tomorrow even, maybe, but I make no promises.

This Makes Me Go Ha Ha Ha Inside My Head.

So I had something in my head that I wanted to post about. I had thought about it at some point during our journey home from Arizona, but upon arriving back at our home I promptly forgot about it. I remembered only today, a full week later, as I was reaching into my purse for my nail glue that oh yeah! This is what I wanted to post about.

No no no, I don't want to post about my nail glue. Well, actually, I take that back- it does involve nail glue. You know, the super strong glue that you buy to reapply fake nails? Oh yes, I've stuck my fingers together (accidentally, I swear!) with this stuff many a times- this nail glue and all of its great bonding strength.

Husband and I deem ourselves lucky to live in an area near DIA- the Denver International Airport for those of you not in the know. DIA has efficiency down to a science. You know exactly how early you should arrive for your flight (two hours early on a Monday or a Saturday; substantially less any other day of the week not including holidays). You know exactly how to check-in for your flight, when to present your ID's, exactly how the line will security will be (the security guards always a bit cold and unresponsive), and exactly how the boarding of the flight will go. You know that the sandwiches at the Paradise Bakery in terminal B are the best, while the food court in terminal A is a bit lacking. It goes the same every single time. There is absolutely nothing unexpected about DIA.

So we are always a bit taken aback whenever we fly out of an airport that isn't DIA. Efficiency? Organization? Cold security guards that act like they have their panties (or boxer briefs, sorry) in a twist? These things simply don't seem to exist at other airports.

We arrived at the Phoenix Sky Harbor airport two hours before our flight last Monday night. Even its name (Sky Harbor) suggested an air of sunny disposition and lackadaisical easiness. The check-in process at the Frontier counter was nothing short of a clusterfuck, with several of us left to scratch our heads in confusion as we checked-in but had no one to take our bags. Oh! Okay, we had to take our own bags and walk them over to the luggage check ourselves, someone finally explained. Whatever, not a huge deal. No one checked our ID's. Hm. I guess I could be whoever checking whoever's bag, but no matter. As long as my bags ended up where I was heading (back home, motherfuckas!) then who cares.

We trudged up the escalator and decided to hang out for awhile in the main area before heading through security, not quite sure what offerings would be presented to us beyond that point. When we finally decided to go through security I was met by a very friendly security guard checking the boarding passes. I squinted at him, unsure what to do with a security guard who was chatty, animated, and gasp- smiling.

"Heading back home?" he asked.

"Yup." I said, handing over my ID and boarding pass in confusion. Was he talking to me? Really?!

"Oh. I'm sorry." he said, smirking and barely glancing at my ID. Oh right. He gets to stay in warm, sunny Arizona while Husband and I were flying back into the arctic tundra currently known as Colorado. Sorry, I am so sure.

The security line (not lines, but line) was short; I piled my purse and flip flops into the bin and shoved it through. And hold my breath, hold my breath, hold my breath- I passed with flying colors. Ever since being yanked out of line in San Francisco while trying to catch a flight to my own freaking god damn wedding in Hawaii ("Ma'am, you hiding a bomb in that wedding dress? Who is this David Bridal, is he your thug ringleader?") I've always been a bit nervous in security lines. It is hard going through life constantly paranoid for no reason, sure, but I feel that I do it with heart-pounding-sweat-inducing finesse.

So it wasn't until I got down to our gate at the Sky Harbor airport and decided to pop some Dramamine I had stashed in my purse (I am a wimp, what can I say?) that I realized, in a bit of horror, exactly what I had done: I had gone through security with several liquids still inside my purse, including a Tide to Go pen and my nail glue.

Well, huh. I'll be damned. At DIA I would have been yanked aside; meticulously searched and thoroughly questioned. What was I planning to do? Why was I hiding a Tide To Go pen and nail glue? Was I planning on glueing everybody's eyeballs shut and removing stains from their shirt? AND WHAT KIND OF NAME IS CHLOE ANYWAY, WHAT TERRORIST STAIN FIGHTING COUNTRY ARE YOU FROM?!

In Arizona? Not a big deal. Not a big deal at all. I had slipped right through security. Nobody was going to thwart me and my comedic yearnings of having terrorist ambitions (THE INSANE STAIN DESPERADO, they'd call me). Nope, nobody cared as I stood near the drinking fountain, pills in hand and grinning in glee. And why would they? They got to stay in nice, sunny warm Arizona. As the security guard checking our boarding passes said to me: they were sorry that I had to leave.

Really sorry, I am sure.

A Target-errific Find.

I was wandering around Target the other day when I spotted this cute little white and hot pink clutch by Merona hanging neatly on an aisle end-cap. I walked in closer to inspect it and was shocked to see it was only $19.99. $19.99! It took me all of two nanoseconds to figure out what I'd wear it with (because white and hot pink goes with everything, I know this) (except for maybe plaid. And John McCain. It does not go with plaid or John McCain) and I was sold. It is not available online yet, but my Target store had several and Stevie confirmed seeing them at her Target as well. It is a great little bag at a great little price.

You can't see me, but I am doing the Hammer Dance right now. I am! Promise.

And please ignore the mess in the background. I snapped this pic quickly in Guest Bedroom #2, also known as the room where I discard all of my boxes from all the shit I order. The day I set it all out for my garbage guys to haul it all away is going to be the most awesome day ever. It's also going to be a day where I'll try to not be home or within a 75-mile radius of my house. I can't imagine garbage men as being an extremely happy bunch to begin with, but when they pull up and see I have enough boxes to start my own box factory I am pretty sure they're reeeally not going to be happy. And that is, by the way, the only thing I could think of- a box factory. I was going to say that I have enough boxes to possibly pack up an entire Target store, but I'm short by about six or seven and so a box factory it is. Guest Bedroom #2 is also the bedroom where Petunia sneaks in behind me, I don't realize she's in with me, and I then leave and shut the door, thus locking her in. She then starts barking to be let out and I'm all, "God damnit Petunia, stop barking!" as I'm doing everything else except realizing that I've locked my baby into a bedroom and when it finally occurs to me 2 hours later that gosh, her barks sound kind of muffled, I only then realize what I've done and let her back out.

And then I wonder why she barks whenever she wants something, geez, where did she pick up such a bad habit? And I also wonder why people scoff when I tell them I'm going to remain childless because gosh darnit, they say, I'd be such a good parent! They act all sad too, as if the world is truly missing something by me choosing to not procreate. I am making God sad and the baby polar bears in Alaska cry and John cheat on Jen by choosing to not bring a mini-me into the world.

Maybe they have a point. Maybe I am looking at this all wrong. Maybe I would be a freaking amazing parent, because parenting must be pretty darn easy if you can just lock your kids into a dark guest bedroom for hours on end without realizing it and when you finally do realize it, they come bouncing out happy as a clam to see you. Not pissed off and angry and so resentful it'll take decades of therapy to undo it, oh no, but so happy that they're shaking their tail so hard it's going to fall off their butt and licking your face. Silly mom, you forgot me in the bedroom for seven hours AND I LOVE YOU LOVE YOU LOVE YOU!!!

Yup, parenting must be super easy, if I can just give my kids rawhide chews once a week to clean their teeth. And dangle them (upside down) over the railing on the stairs in order to scare them into letting me clip their toenails. And give them a bath only once a month. And just shove them into crates whenever I want to go out for the evening. If it is that easy and I'd be that awesome at it, boy, sign me up!

PARENT OF THE YEAR, OHMYGOSH, YES THAT IS ME.

STOP. HAMMER TIME!

A Lazy Sunday.

I don't have much to post about today. It's been a typical Sunday for us: I rolled out of bed around 11am, met up with some friends at noon at the local sports bar to watch some bball and eat, and now two hours later I'm back home thinking about a nap. Oh boy, oh boy. Except I can't stop burping up BBQ sauce. I don't know why my body has suddenly decided to avenge all-out war against BBQ sauce (because it's BBQ sauce! my god! it's so good!) but it has.

And let me say this- that's the bad part about getting old. Suddenly things don't agree with you. One day you're fine, eating taco flavored Doritos topped with Easy Cheese (true) and sucking on packets of ketchup like a normal American and then suddenly WHAM! You're done. Finished, finito, your stomach hates you and your stupid guts (yes, it hates itself or else it obviously wouldn't be behaving in such a preposterous way) and the happy relationship is over.

Tomatoes? Marinara Sauce?! Barbecue sauce! I love them! I eat them all the time! And they suddenly don't agree with me?! Bitch, get the fuck out.

It's true, it's true. I remember my grandma sitting hunched over in her chair with her arms wrapped around her ribs, waiting to silently belch out whatever offender she had digested. Over and over again at every family function there she would be, arms wrapped tightly around her midsection, hoping to help push the burp out.

And oh no, oh god, that's my genetics right there. Nevermind that my grandma also thinks pepperoni pizza and a beer is a great pre-bedtime snack- I am slowly becoming my grandma, hunched over my chair and waiting to let a big one rip. A burp, you guys. Not a fart. Although it wouldn't surprise me if she was letting a few of those squeak out, too. My gramma, she's sneaky that way.

"I just don't eat that stuff." my mom said, wrinkling her nose. My mom has the same digestional issues, obviously. Which is all well and fine, but a life without tomatoes (or bbq sauce or oranges or alcohol or anything acidic or you know...good tasting) is a life not worth living. So I'll just wreak the havoc now and pay for it later. Perhaps I will even get creative and concoct a Maalox cocktail. I could hawk it to Bethenny and her Skinny Girl Margaritas. It could be a Skinny Girl Maalox Margarita. You know, for the geriatric set. Or for Ramona. Crazy Spazzy Eyes acts like she needs a good antacid sometimes. Mmmhmm, chalky-a-licious.

So the bbq sauce off of my chicken wrap is kicking the shit out of my stomach and I'm pretty sure laying down for a nap (I've been up for a total of three hours now) is exactly what I need. In the meanwhile, Stevie has made her own website for her photography, so checkity check it out. She has ambitiously proclaimed that she is going to update it every day with a new picture:

I don't doubt her. After all, I manage to update this with worthless drivel every single day. It's good to be ambitious and set worthy goals for yourself, as in "I am going to post a new photo every day". I often wake up in the morning, stretch, and think to myself, "I think I am going to write a blog post about my grandma's gastrointestinal issues today" or "I should tell the world about how Husband accidentally used the Bliss Super Minty Soapy BODY Scrub on his FACE Friday morning and I could hear him shrieking like a little girl all the way upstairs in our bedroom."

Oh yeeeeah, that's right! I haven't posted about that one yet. Oh boy, tomorrow is going to be such a good day, I can already feel it.

Naaaaaptime!

The Dress Conundrum.

I will preface this by saying that I know this is the most inane post that I am going to make in awhile here (aside from the fact that I was going to post about how I made this cute baby red panda my desktop background because it is adorable X 100000 and it makes me squeak and it freaks the fuck out of Husband...apparently death, heights, and baby red pandas are at the very tippy top of Husband's list of things that put him into a panic?). I know this post, on a level from 1 to 10 of Important Things Happening In The World, rates a big fat 0. But oh well, I am going to post it anyway. Why? Because I have a problem. I HAVE A VERY BIG PROBLEM.

Aside from, you know, the problem that my Husband has an unexplainable aversion to extreme cuteness. Especially extreme cuteness that looks like it had its picture taken at the local Sears Portrait Studio. Whatever Husband, baby red pandas are the cutest things ever. Squeak!

So back to my problem. My conundrum, if you will. The ADAM dress? The dress?

Yeah. It doesn't fit.

I realized my mistake shortly after submitting my order to Bluefly.com. "Oh yeah!" I suddenly remembered, about six hours after sending off for the dress, "Revolve Clothing has size charts. I should look at the one for ADAM."

Dum da dee da dum, not a big deal. Right? The dress was left on Bluefly in two sizes- a size smaller than I normally wear and a size larger than I normally wear, and so with my actual size being sold out I decided to go with the smaller size and just squeeze my way into it. Who cares if I couldn't breathe in the darn thing? Sometimes we have to suffer to look beautiful. And sometimes, we have to suffer a lot. There's nothing wrong or unhealthy about my thought process here at all.

And designers anymore, man, pffft. They are all about vanity sizing, right? Ordering a dress in a size too small shouldn't be any big deal! They want the feeble consumer to feel good about themselves, because it's as if spending $300+ on a dress that's made with two big pieces of draped silk-chiffon (which goes for oh, about $18 a yard at most craft stores) wouldn't already do the trick for me. These designers man, they just want the entire experience to be so full of fluffy feel-goodness, because it's proven that a fluffy, feel-good customer spends more money than an unfluffy, angry customer.

I'm so happy that they really think about me. About us. In fact, I'm surprised they don't just obliterate the entire number on the tag and just put a big fat smiley face instead. It could be the Smiley Face System of Feel Goodness, where the smiley face just gets a little bit bigger as the sizes increase in numbers. At some point the smiley face would turn into a frown, sure, but I'm not going to jump into those shark infested waters tonight. It is brilliant and it is completely delusional, which is "Shopping For Women's Clothing" in a nutshell.

So anyway, I pulled up the size chart on Revolve, pretty sure I was going to see, "ADAM dresses fit anyone and everyone perfectly and don't worry your pretty little head". Instead I saw:

FUCK. And WHAT?! An entire size small?! Entire size? Small?! Especially around the bust?!

Seriously?!

(I then hastily clicked the "NOT USEFUL" Downturned Thumb about 100 times out of pure anger and respite, but Revolve must have caught on to me and removed my angry clickings. Darnit.)

Anyone that knows Bluefly knows that their customer service is, well, mediocre at best. They can help you up to a certain point, but I had blown right past that point with the fact that I submitted the order on a Saturday afternoon plus selected expedited shipping. I was screwed, the dress was already on its way, with no time to switch it for the bigger size.

So I figured well...hey. Maybe by some odd, freakish chance the dress would fit. I apply to the School of Thought of not ever weighing myself, so I hover in some odd bizarre land of Size I Need To Eat More Ice Cream or Size I Need To Stop Eating So Much Ice Cream You Cow. I have my reasons for not ever weighing myself, which is a weighty reason in itself and not something I feel like discussing at this current moment. Maybe in the future. Maybe.

But perhaps Revolve had it wrong, and perhaps by some small miracle the dress would fit.

Yup. And nope. Revolve was right, too right, and there is no way in hell that dress is getting zipped up all the way. I can zip it about halfway until it stubbornly stops, refusing to zip any further.

Why is this? Well, my darling readers, in this cruel world of worlds I am built backwards from most women and instead of being big-little-big (hips, waist, chest) I am little-big-little. Meaning my butt is flatter than a pancake, I have a huge ribcage that protrudes oddly from my body, and I have no boobs. Not only that, but I'm a full two sizes bigger in my middle-rib-cage-area than the rest of my body. Two sizes. Jesus!

(And while we're discussing my flawed design here I also have bunions, which I've decided I will only talk about while speaking in a Long Island accent. Oye! My bunions! Man, I really got fucked!)

So. I'm obviously not going to get any ribs removed, which means the dream of having small, dainty, and perfect ribs is completely elusive. I will die with a big ribcage. And bunions. It's a burden I will just have to sadly bear.

And so what does this mean for little old backwards me? It means good freaking luck trying to get something to fit around this big ol' ribcage of mine and still fit every else- it isn't going to happen. I've actually had Husband accidentally zip dresses into my ribcage, leaving nicks and cuts and welts that take weeks to heal.

"I can't quite...the zipper isn't going...no honey it's not your ribcage, it's the zipper...." Husband said while tugging upwards as I stood hunkered down in the ADAM dress, silently willing the stupid dress to just zip. Come on, zipppp you bastard. The zipper makes it all the way up to the beaded waistline and then stops, sticks its tongue out, and refuses to go any further. The beaded waistline certainly isn't helping anything (zippers always seem to catch around waistlines thicker in fabric), but yeah. I've tried shimmying and shaking and yanking and tugging and the dress isn't zipping up. The dress fits perfectly in all other places except for around my ribs.

So the dress stayed home from our trip. And the dress is likely going to be sent back. The pretty, gorgeous, yellow silk chiffon dress that makes me feel like a Grecian Goddess (with a big ribcage and bunions) simply does not fit. Oh well, oh well. Do I want to try it in another size? Bluefly has it in a 4, Shopbop in a 2. But how much do I really need this dress? Or rather, how much do I really want this dress? It is a stunning dress, but any other size would likely require additional tailoring in the upper bust area (not to mention needing to be hemmed up) and is it really worth all that fuss for a dress I'll wear a small handful of times, most of which would just likely be me flitting around the house while yelling, "I FEEL PRETTY! OH SO PRETTY!"

Hm. Not sure. And truthfully, I'm not even sure if a size 2 or a size 4 would make it around my ribcage. That's how small this dress is. Or that's how big I am. Or...well, something.

In the meanwhile I decided the Sunny Day Nanette Lepore dress was a dress I totally needed to wear only a small handful of times and flit around in and feel pretty. I had the satisfaction of trying it on at Neiman's while in Arizona:

And my god, it is perfection. Simple, awesome perfection. Add in a current 20% off code at Revolve (People20) and sold! Having pretty much decided (maybe) to give up on the ADAM dress and send it back, I ordered the Sunny Day dress from Revolve this morning. And I know it fits, big ribcage and all. Man, does it fit. Nanette loves me and my wacky ribcage. Cha cha cha, drool.

I am a little worried about the punchy pink color and my red hair, but I think this punchy pink color might be okay. It is more of a subdued punch color, with the Dupioni fabric lending a subtle, dull luster to it and muting its vibrancy. Maybe I could pair it with some simple, dangly, purple earrings? Turquoise earrings? Pearl and gold earrings? Something?

So. I have some thoughts, with some advice needed: Keep the pretty ADAM dress and struggle to fit into it? Visit my non-English speaking tailors and try to explain to them that the zipper on the dress hates me and I'd like it taken out? Send the ADAM dress back? Swap for a bigger size and get it tailored? Adopt a baby red panda for Petunia? Practice my Long Island accent a little more?

Sit here at 2:35 in the morning and fret over the Nanette Lepore dress being a bad color for my haircolor while eating salt and vinegar chips?

Ooh, sold.

Goodnight!

Feel Good Friday.

So this video of Pharrell singing and dancing at a Paris McDonald's has been making its rounds on the internet, but I still crack up every time I see it. How many times have I wanted to break out in song and dance, but don't because I know people will think I'm bat shit crazy? You know- a random white girl suddenly starts doing jazz hands and flying leaps while singing (horribly out of tune) to whatever song pops into her head? Typically it's something really dumb, too, like "That Old Gray Mare". I mean seriously, I have no idea how that song has ended up in my head (on repeat, no less) for the past few weeks...but that old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be.

Ain't what she used to be. Ain't what she used to be! *taps out a rhythm on her computer desk*

*hastily shoves hands into pockets*

So if anyone should be able to break out into random song and dance and people won't find it to be crazy, it should be Pharrell. Right?

Except, um, it isn't:

I love how the workers quickly scamper off at the end. Yes Pharrell, I think they were going to call the cops. Unfortunately, as we've found out in the past, people take their McDonald's food way too seriously, and it's totally sucked the fun out of it for the rest of us. Better luck next time, dude. Better luck next time.

Oh, This Weather.

A Petunia in The Snow

Hahahah, suck it weather! I just got the official call- no work for me this evening, they've closed my workplace.

Every once in awhile, in my grown-up life, something happens that makes me feel like a kid again. Having a snow day from work is one of them. It rarely (if ever) happens. As a kid, school would be canceled on a whim because of snow or blizzardy conditions. As an adult, you're generally expected to trudge to work under these awful conditions, because apparently asking people if they would like a towel today? and chasing the kids off the swedish fit balls is more important than, you know, my freaking childhood education. Who knew?

So! No work tonight. This is a cause for celebration. I'd go jump on the bed but we have one of those stupid Select Comfort Sleep Number beds and Husband explicitly told me not to. I know this because I asked. About two weeks ago.

"I wonder what would happen if I jumped on the bed." I said, eyeballing the vaulted ceilings and figuring I could probably make pretty good air.

"Yeah, please don't. You've already messed up this bed in a gazillion different ways, I'm pretty sure you jumping on it isn't going to help anything." Husband said.

Oh whatever. So apparently the last time I tried to even adjust the bed, randomly punching in the "up" and "down" arrows on the remote, it didn't do a darn thing. The bed made a funny grinding noise and I decided it was a good time for me to head into work.

Husband then came home from work a few hours later to (again I say apparently) find our bed completely collapsed in in the middle, sunk in about a foot into a pillowy crevice, because who knew! Those ridiculously expensive Select Comfort beds are glorified air mattresses, and somehow the hose had come unattached (therefore causing the funny grinding noise). Five hours of him trying to fix it later, we had a bed again.

That husband of mine, he's no fun. And way too overly-cautious. And this pot thinks that that kettle over-exaggerates a bit.

"Really? Are you sure I can't jump on the bed?" I asked again. Batting my eyelashes a bit for emphasis.

"Yes really. Please don't." Husband said firmly, "And do you have something stuck in your eyeball?"

Poof! Just like that, I am back to being a boring, sucky old grown up. Snow day and all.



ETA @ 2:36 PM: Husband just called to inform me that he's coming home from work early. I hit "Publish Post" and within mere seconds my cell phone was ringing with his call. OH MY GOD, HE IS ON TO ME. IT'S LIKE HE HAS A SIXTH SENSE! HE KNOWS ME AND MY SNEAKY, DEVIOUS, CALCULATING BED-JUMPING WAYS! OH MY GOD! HE RUINS ALL MY FUNNNN!***




***Dressing up the chihuahuas in dumb clothes and letting me take pictures up his nose and sitting on cactus not included.

Dear Weather:

Every once in awhile I think my Photoshopping Skillz are coming along quite nicely. I mean, not to toot my own horn, but I'm picking up on cutting, copying, pasting, color adjusting, and even tweaking the levels quite nicely.

Then I do something like this.

Oh yeah. And fuck you.

XOXOXOXO,
Chloe

P.S. The weather that is. Not you you. The title of this blog post is "DEAR WEATHER", so I am telling the weather to fuck off. I'm telling the weather, you see, the same weather that was sunny and warm today (and the 70's over the weekend, reportedly) TO GO FUCK ITSELF.

P.P.S. I can also see why Perez Hilton resorts to drawing male ejaculatory body fluids on celebs. Having to actually write and draw stuff in this program is hard. I also apparently don't know how to properly spell "ejaculatory", but thankfully Firefox underlined my misspelling in red and helped me out with that. Oh man, that would be so embarrassing, had I misspelled "ejaculatory", huh. Ironically, I also tend to misspell "embarrassing". And "misspell". Without Firefox, I'd be a little brainless amoeba lost in an embarrassing sea of ejaculatory misspellings. Or I'd be a little brianless ameeba lost in an em-bare-assing sea of ejaculetory mispellings. Ha ha haaa I'm going to stop now.

P.P.P.S. And I am sincerely sorry for the vulgarities and the cursing. It is not very ladylike, and I apologize. But this weather doesn't deserve a prim and proper "screw" off. It deserves a proper "fuck" off. And if you had to drive to work in it because your boss (not bass) thinks it's perfectly honky dory to leave your workplace open during a life-or-death-cataclysmic-weather-event-of-the-century, YOU'D UNDERSTAND.

P.P.P.P.S. I drew the kitty cat for Uncle Karl. I dunno too much about the guy, but something about him just tells me that he might really like cute, cuddly kitty cats. Meow.

Pikture Time.

Vacation photos are up! Enjoy.

Ugh.

A few things:

1. I received the Well Traveled Top on Friday and it is awesome. I think I have a new favorite label- the smartypants at Prairie NY placed vertical seams (almost like princess seams) into the top, which makes it very slimming and fitted without making me look like a stuffed tube of sausage. I loves it.

2. I also received my Alexander McQueen Studded Denim leather jacket on Friday and I also loves it. Ohmy- it is just too cute for words. And I never thought I'd use the word "cute" to describe Mr. McQueen. CUTE! CUTE! IT'S CUTE@!!@!!

3. I think my ADAM maxi dress will be here before we leave tomorrow. At least that's what the UPS tracking claims. Just my luck, Mr. UPS man will dick around and be late, or the dress won't fit (or be too long because according to Shopbop it's 60" long and I'm 62" long and, well, while sometimes I feel like my head is only 2" high, I know it's not) and god damnit shit all to hell I am pretty sure that having this dress will make my life complete. I know I said that about all of the other 2093473204738 dresses hanging in my closet that I never wear, but I am really feeling it with this one, guys. Really! This is the one!

4. Ha.

5. I don't want to go on vacation. I am just not feeling very vacation-y right now. Anyone want to go for me? You can hang out with the geriatric set and drive around in the nice, warm, sunny weather in their two golf carts. Oh god, the awesomeness is killing me. I can't be in the fucking sun. Me + Sun = having a rash on my face so bad I look like I'm a 13-year old with out of control hormones and bad acne. Husband also shot down my idea to hire a personal umbrella holder for me, so you know, I will stay nicely shaded in the sun and not have this Lupus thing kick me in the ass. And how cool would it be to have a personal umbrella holder? I'd make him dance around me like Farnsworth Bentley! And I would say, "Dance, umbrella boy, DANCE!"

6. Goddd how did I marry someone so unfun.

7. One (cheaper) solution for this dilemma: UMBRELLA HAT!

8. Another solution: Stay indoors the entire freaking time. Joy.

9. Best solution: Sit and bitch about having to go on vacation, while wearing an umbrella hat, while staying indoors the entire time. I will do this.

10. I need to take my bitchy britches off, huh.

11. Stevie got her new puppy today!

12. It is a french bulldog, and its name is "Ingeborg". Oh heck no. She's officially not allowed to have any human children.

Check Yer Bags.

DEAR HUSBAND:

I WOULD LIKE TO KNOW WHO ON THE FACE OF THIS GOD DAMN FREAKING EARTH CAN GO ON A WEEK LONG VACATION AND JUST PACK ONE BAG. ONE BAG! ONE BAG!!! ONE BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAG.

And it's not funny to see me sitting on top of my suitcase, huffing and puffing and trying to get it zip shut after I've crammed everything there. It's not funny. It's not! Stop laughing, you jerk.

You know what, darling husband of mine? It isn't happening. I don't care that they're going to charge us an additional $40 (both ways- $80 total) for me to bring two suitcases. I don't care! Because I suck at packing! I bring everything with me and wear like 2% of it! You knew this going into getting married to me. I'm pretty sure it was written into our vows that you'd lug all my bags through the airport forever and ever until death do us part. What? You weren't paying attention? It was right after the "I will buy Chloe Hot Tamales once a week and give her copious amounts of flowers that are just going to shrivel up and die anyway and laugh when she accidentally dyes the carpet purple and walk the chihuahuas on a pink leash."

Right.

Godddd. I hate packing.

XOXOXOXO,
Chloe

Jeanius.

I've had several people ask me what jeans I am wearing here. They are these:

American Eagle Real Flare Jean- $19.99 (originally $49.95!)

Yup, good old American Eagle. I know that ever since they changed the fit of their jeans, a lot of people had had problems with them...but these fit like a charm. The denim isn't the softest, (it is stiff with little stretch) but given that I paid $20 for them, I don't really care. I love that they come in inseams (I am wearing the short inseam, yes) and they fit so darn well! I kind of sort of want to buy a few more pairs to have for when my pair wears out.

Except um, you know- they're already worn out. Because I bought them that way. Which is kind of sort of really dumb if you think about it, buying jeans with holes already in them. This didn't actually occur to me until...oh, right now. I bought jeans with holes in them. I paid money for something that's already worn out.

Talk about a genius marketing ploy from American Eagle, huh. Or dare I say...a JEANIUS marketing ploy???

Oh for pete's sake, I am such a sucker. Jeansus christ. JESUS CHRIST! My head hurts! I can't think about this anymore! Oh my god! I am going to bed! After I watch Tough Love on VH1! And the Tool Academy Reunion Special! And other quality VH1 programming! And I get done dyeing my eyebrows!

And a new study shows that Justin Timberlake fans might be dumb! But if you listen to Sufjan Stevens you're smart!

And if you listen to both you apparently buy pants with holes already in them!

Yup, that's me.

Goodnight!

Rebecca Minkoff Peacock Nikki

Ignore the mess in the background. It's laundry day.


Up close fo the hardware- it is a very pretty, light goldish silver.


And now for my obligatory "Shove a Chihuahua Into a Handbag for I Swear On My Undead Mother's Grave Not Cuteness Purposes but for Scaling Purposes Only" shot.


This is what the Rebecca Minkoff Nikki looks like with a 4-lb chihuahua stuffed inside. Now you know.


Poooooor Petunia.


And Kitty is just counting her stars that she's the "fat one". She's a chunk, and chunks can't fit into handbags. :(

Maxi Dresses for Us Shorties: A Do or A Don't?

I admittedly rolled my eyes last year with the whole Maxi Dress trend. Every single dress I tried on looked horrible. Awful! Nothing looked right on me. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that I'm 5'2" and every single dress I tried just seemed to maximize my shortness. I mean, there's only so much I can do to make myself look tall (platform shoes, wedge heels, always walking 10 feet ahead of my 6'2" Husband...) and wearing a Maxi Dress isn't anywhere on that list.

"You look like a god damn Olsen twin." Stevie told me. Yup. Pretty much.

But! But. But but but. The maxi dress trend is back again this year, and I cannot get this one from ADAM out of my head:

I've been thinking about it ever since I first spotted it on Shopbop. The yellow! The turquoise! It is so PREEEEEETTY! I am craving some color in my currently dreary life like you would not believe. I love color, I need color, give me some color! And it is also on sale at Bluefly for about $300 (nearly 50% off). I keep telling myself that the empire waist and the beading around it will lengthen my legs, shorten my torso, and make me look awesome. Like a grecian goddess, Chloe, like a grecian goddess.

I think I am telling myself lies.

So! Maxi dresses on short girls- a really good do, or a big fat don't?

PS- I got the RM bag yesterday and it is gorgeously gorgeous and I will have pics up later tonight!

Outfit Of The Day:

I am loving the Little White Dress trend for spring, and I have to showcase a score I made off of Ebay last week- a cute little white tank dress for $15.

$15! Hooray!

Okay okay okay- it originally retails for only $38, but saving $20 in these tough economic times is no laughing matter, right? The dress is cute and thick and stretchy and covers everything that needs to be covered (including my out-of-control nipples, as I feel like sharing way too much information today, alright?). Its shape also vaguely reminds me of my FAVORITE DRESS EVER, my Diane Von Furstenberg Sophia dress. Only this cheap VS sucker is a combo of cotton and spandex, not linen and silk; so it therefore doesn't wrinkle like a motherfucker. Brilliant!

I wish I could say the same for my Sophia dress. I am sorry, Ms. Von Furstenberg. I love you. And I love all of your dresses. And I love all of your dresses on me. But the linen thing on my Sophia dress really bums me out. I walked away from my good friend's wedding last year looking more rumpled and disheveled than usual (which is quite a feat in itself, considering I typically spill so much on myself that I must carry a Tide To Go pen in all of my bags) and wishing I had somehow figured out how to also stash a bottle of Wrinkle Remover in my clutch. Or, you know, a god damn iron. Damn those stupid irons for being so bulky and cumbersome. Damn them!

So my Sophia dress will be reserved only for those occasions where I can walk around stiff-legged and not sit down, which means I can basically wear it around my house sans shoes. And forget trying to put shoes on, because bending over to do so leaves a nice, big, ultra classy horizontal crease in front of my crotch. Yay.

Anyway, I digress. On to my Outfit of the Day. Here we go:

Dress: Victoria's Secret Ruched Squareneck Dress
Blazer: Express Ruched Front Shirt Jacket
Shoes: Go Jane
Belt: J Crew Wide Patent belt in Dusty Rose
Purse: Hayden Harnett for Target Double Flap Bag in Brown

The Well Traveled Halter Top. Also, Petunia Gets Over It.

As I mentioned a few days ago, I ordered this Prairie NY top from Couture Candy:

Cute, right? I've always desperately lusted after Prairie NY's pieces, but having never seen them in real life (and knowing little about the brand) I have been a bit hesitant to take the plunge. I finally pulled the trigger on Tuesday, and ordered it with expedited shipping to boot. It'll be a good vacation top, right? Going on vacation calls for a new top! And um, a new purse. And some new shoes. And apparently, a whole new wardrobe. Uhhh.

I hope I'm not the only one that drops $$ on clothes for vacation- tell me I'm not the only one who does this? Maybe I am. But that's okay. It gives me something to look forward to in this bleak, mundane little life of mine.

So here is where my halter top has been in the past 24-ish hours:

COMMERCE CITY, CO, US	03/12/2009	10:14 P.M.	DEPARTURE SCAN
	03/12/2009	8:44 P.M.	ARRIVAL SCAN
BILLINGS, MT, US	03/12/2009	7:35 P.M.	DEPARTURE SCAN
	03/12/2009	5:19 P.M.	ARRIVAL SCAN
LOUISVILLE, KY, US	03/12/2009	4:09 P.M.	DEPARTURE SCAN
	03/12/2009	10:54 A.M.	ARRIVAL SCAN
JAMAICA, NY, US	03/12/2009	8:32 A.M.	DEPARTURE SCAN
	03/12/2009	6:44 A.M.	ARRIVAL SCAN
SECAUCUS, NJ, US	03/12/2009	5:25 A.M.	DEPARTURE SCAN
	03/12/2009	12:29 A.M.	ARRIVAL SCAN
NEW YORK, NY, US	03/12/2009	12:20 A.M.	DEPARTURE SCAN
NEW YORK, NY, US	03/11/2009	11:32 P.M.	DEPARTURE SCAN
	03/11/2009	6:42 P.M.	ORIGIN SCAN
	03/11/2009	4:22 P.M.	PICKUP SCAN

Yeah. It's been everywhere but here. It makes me kind of jealous, really- my halter top is better traveled than I am. New York! New Jersey! New York again! Kentucky! Montana! I notice that it has now departed from Commerce City and I fear where it's going to end up next. It better end up in my hot little hands and not Honolulu, posing with Amelie Poulain's garden gnome. Ahem:

Anyway! Thanks for all of the wonderful advice given about Peets and her collar, but as of tonight she has apparently now made peace with it. I came home from work tonight to find her on the stairs, wagging her tail so hard her butt was literally hitting her in the face. And I try really hard to be as quiet as possible when I get home because of my sleeping Husband, but it's a bit difficult when you have the world's dorkiest chihuahua wiggling around and literally whacking herself with her hind-end, she's that happy to see you. Whack, whack, whack. Wiggle wiggle wiggle. Whack whack whack. Wiggle wiggle wiggle.

Me laughing at her only makes her do it even harder. Which in turn makes me laugh even more. It's a problem.

So Petunia has offiically resumed all activities (eating, playing, growling, batting Kitty in the face, pooping all over the place, flinging her toys around, chewing on pens, chasing her tail in circles) with her usual enthusiastic gusto. It is like the past three weeks of her throwing The Biggest Hissy Fit Melt Down in the History of All Hissy Fit Melt Downs never even happened. The old Petunia is officially back, man, as of tonight. And she has three weeks worth of untapped, pent-up energy that she's looking to burn up RIGHT NOW, RIGHT THIS INSTANT, RIGHT NOOOOOW. She's going straight up apeshit, much like in this video I took back in August of last year:

It's going to be a long night.

J. Crew Review Part Two.

Okay, picture time! I recently bought the Hand Cut Applique Tissue Tee, the Cotton Cricket Cardigan, and the Satin Rosette Metallic capri sandals in Warm Blush (thanks to the reader that gave me the head's up that the yellow ones are now on sale- is it sad that I actually want to buy those ones, too?) from J. Crew's spring collection.

First up we have the Cotton Cricket Cardi:

Which I have decided that I like. Yesterday I was totally on the fence about it- it seems to fit strangely. I think a lot of it had to do the way it was packaged up and wrinkled- a simple run through the washer and dryer fixed it. The cardigan is made out of a heavier cotton, though, so it isn't going to hang as fitted as J. Crew's other (thinner) cardigans. But the olive-colored piping is adorbs and looks quite lovely with my auburn hair, if I do say so myself.

(Man, I'm loving this red hair thing. I'M NEVER GOING TO BE BLONDE EVER AGAIN! NEVER! EVER!! AGAIN!!!)

I have the cardigan pictured with the Rosette Capri Sandals. And incidentally, picture #2 is why I sometimes find it handy to take pictures of different outfits. Who knew that rolling my jeans up would make me look like a circus midget with a torso longer than her legs? It's impressive, isn't it.

It kind-of-sort-works with heels and a higher cuff. At least I will tell myself that, since I actually pranced around out in public in this ensemble today before looking at these pics. Oh man.

Now on to the Hand-Cut Applique Tissue Tee:

I like it. It's a tissue tee, which means it's a lighter tee (and should definitely be layered). The XS fits me well- it's so stretchy and thin, I think it's almost slightly too big. I like my t-shirts to be a bit more fitted/structured (and to suck in what I need sucked in, not just conform lazily around it AHEM) but I will make do. The flowers lend a touch of prettiness to this tee, and I know I will be wearing it a lot this summer.

I have also officially decided that I really like saying "lends" a lot. It's my new word, lends. Lending. It makes me sound like I know what I am talking about, right? The flowers lend a touch of prettiness to the tee; Chloe lends a bit of class and sophistication (and chihuahuas ninja choppery!) to the blog world; Darling lends his wallet and credit card. Let's keep going.

Last we have the Satin Rosette Capri Sandals:

Which I loooooove. The color (warm blush) is more of a fleshy-peach color than a true pink- to give you an idea, they match my Botkier Cleo bag perfectly. They're a harder flip flop with no cushioning on the footbed, so I definitely wouldn't walk for miles in them...but they are comfy enough for what they are. The rose on top is darling! I'm a sucker for almost any form of floral embellishment on shoes, and I like how the rose draws attention without being too over-the-top. They will work nicely to dress up some of my more casual outfits, I think- a great way to dress up a basic tee and jeans.

I wouldn't pair them with anything more, for fear of channeling my inner Florida Grandma. It does like to surface every now and then, typically when I drag out my Rebecca Minkoff No Strings Satchel. Ooh bright and shiny and metallic and I just can't help my little self! It's the 75-year old bingo-playing-old-lady within that's just waiting to pop out. With a bunch of sequins. And maybe some Tulip puffy paints and some hard candy.

There you have it! I thought my RM Nikki was coming today, but it's arrival has been delayed until Friday. Booooooooo. It's like waiting for the god damn Easter bunny. It's driving me bonkers.

I'll post pics as soon as I have it in my hot little hands. Haaa cha cha cha. Imagine me standing next to my computer, wiggling my butt back and forth making that sound while doing jazz hands.

That's what I will be doing when I get my Nikki.

Wednesday Wants:

One thing for today:

For Stevie to post pictures of her new pup! Dude! ASAP!

No puppy monster for Stevie today. It's too cold in that neck of the woods to fly the puppy in from Kansas.

Sorry for the teaser. And that's all I got. :(

Edited at 1:50 PM: Wait! WAIT! I got something! The lovely Tara at Jimmy Choos & Tennis Shoes posted a select few pieces from the upcoming Tracy Feith line for Target. The line isn't due until May 17th but oh shit, son- I want it noooooow. You can take a better peak at the line over at Fabsugar.

PMS.

A Preliminary Melodramatic Summary.

You thought I was going to talk about the actual PMS, huh? You know, pre-menstrual syndrome blah blah blah. Actually, since you brought it up, I think I will talk about it.

What the fuck, seriously. That's all I have to say to my body: what, the, fuck. It's like all rational thoughts fly out of my little brain as soon as it hits. One day I'm my perfectly fine, content, happy-go-lucky self; the next day I'm lying in bed in an angry panic because I've convinced myself that Husband no longer loves me.

Why is this, you ask? Oh, quite simple. Every morning Husband has a very set routine he follows as he gets ready for work. It goes like this:

5:00 am: Alarm goes off, Husband awakes with a jolt and slams our alarm clock with such a force I think he's trying to kill it.

5:01 am: He stumbles around in the dark closet putting on his "Take The Doggies Outside" outfit, which is an old pair of black cords about 5 sizes too big and this hideously huge Eagles sweatshirt circa 1992. I'm just thankful it's still dark out and the neighbors can't see him.

5:03 am: Come back inside, feed the pups.

5:05 am: Take the pups back outside.

5:07 am: Eat breakfast.

5:15 am: Hop into shower.

5:25 am: Hop out of shower.

5:30 am: Get dressed for the day, again in the dark.

Then he comes in and with a "sliiiiiiiide" I hear his sock drawer open. I always know what's coming next after this- it is as dependable as the sun rising and setting. As soon as Husband gets his socks, he leans over to me, kisses me on the cheek (or forehead, since my huge-ass forehead is usually easier to find in the dark) and says something along the lines of, "I love you, hot stuff" or "Good bye, beautiful" or something equally as disgustingly sweet and mushy. I always joke with him that he only tells me these things when he thinks I'm sleeping. Okay, he tells me these things when I'm awake too, but every morning it's the same old routine. Most days I'm dead asleep and don't hear it.

Except for this morning. For whatever reason I awoke in the middle of him sliding his sock drawer open. He leaned over with a kiss and said, "Bye."

That's it.

Bye.

What the fuck! Bye?!

I was still in a mild state of sedation and mumbled out a, "Mmm? MAHERAraH^*MMM?!!" as he shut the bedroom door behind him. Dude! Bye? Why bye? Why not anything else?! Ohmygod! Husband doesn't like me anymore! He just told my (assumptively) sleeping self BYE. That's it. Nothing more. No "I love you" or "Gorgeous" (because who isn't with bedhead and yesterday's mascara caked on their cheeks?) or anything. Bye.

And the panic set in.

Okay, so. Normal, rational Chloe knows that like, whatever- he was likely in a hurry to shut the bedroom door before Petunia escaped, he likely had other things on his mind. He knows I'm usually passed-out and unresponsive. So one morning, out of the 3497394732 mornings we've shared, he said, "Bye". Big whoop.

But PMS Chloe thinks like this: "Ohmygod, he just said bye, bye bye bye, nothing else, he hates my guts! He doesn't like me anymore! He never gets me flowers or writes me mushy poems or GETS ME HOT TAMALES WHY DOESN'T HE DO THAT HE IS SUCH AN INSENSITIVE JERK AND I JUST WANT FLOWERS IS IT TOO MUCH TO ASK FOR SOME FREAKING FLOWERS?!"

After Husband left I was wide awake with all sorts of stupid thoughts flying through my head , thoughts about about Hot Tamales and N'Sync and Oprah never marrying Stedman and what kind of fucking name is Stedman, anyway? So I came flying down the stairs, tears welling in my eyes, and sent off a quick order to Couture Candy for a cute Prairie NY top I've been eye-balling forever. And immediately felt better. Whew.

Because like 99% of all women I shop, eat, or uncontrollably cry my feelings when I'm PMSing. And since I am so happy to lump myself into the status quo on this one, I'm also going to announce that I have no control over it whatsoever. I don't. I am giving full responsibility to my ovaries. My hormones are completely running this dumb carnival ride. I am a brainless little twit, a PMS Monster Zombie; and if Husband isn't going to kiss my ass and give me a box of chocolates then god damnit, I'm going to kiss my own ass and buy myself a new top.

Because my name is Chloe, and I Shop My Feelings. Dum dee dum.

(Which let me also add- man, I feel sorry for Husband, who responded very nicely to the "WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ME AND BUY ME HOT TAMALES ANYMOOOORE" email I fired off this morning with a simple, "Huh?")

(Also, in case anyone of the male persuasion happens to read my blog- I'm sorry. We're sorry. We know we lose our god damn minds, which I think just adds to the whole frustration- I'm crying and I'm crying harder because I don't know why I'm crying in the first place. Makes perfect sense, right? Wrong, you jerk. Stop being so agreeable. Ohmygod, are you even listening?)

Anyway. I got over it. Husband still loves me. I still love him for loving me. And I love him because he is hot stuff. And I think Oprah loves Stedman, even if has a dumb name and she won't marry him or let him be on the front of her magazine. Tough breaks, man.

Back to my Preliminary Melodramatic Summary. Really, "melodramatic" was the only word I could find that began with the letter "m" and worked. Preliminary Merry Summary just didn't sound right. Neither did Preliminary Murderous Summary, Preliminary Madonna-esque Summary, or Preliminary Mundane Summary. Okay, mundane might work. You can decide after I'm done here.

Ahem. Here is my J. Crew order review:

1. Tissue Tee with Hand Cut Applique: Yay!

2. Satin Rosette Metallic Capri Sandals: Yay!

3. Cotton Cricket Cardigan: Hm, yeah, I dunno. I'm currently trying to shrink it in the wash right now.

I don't understand J. Crew's sizing sometimes. The Cricket Cardigan is a bit big on me. I'm not quite sure why an XS would be so boxy on me- I'm not really an XS. Honestly. I remember being a good 20 lbs lighter than I am now (a very frightening 20 lbs lighter, but still- 20 lbs!) and barely squeezing into an XS years ago. Now the XS hangs on me. Vanity sizing freaks me out, man, especially since I'm a very healthy (even a bit robust, since I've been forgoing my workouts for the past few months) weight for my height. I'm not sure what's left for me- Crew Cuts? Seriously?

And does anyone actually believe vanity sizing? I mean really. I know what size I am, and it's not an XS/0/2. I'm actually happy with the size I am, the not XS/0/2, and it makes me sad that these companies try to dupe me into believing something so idiotic. I may be gullible (as my dad convinced me when I was little that the big Catholic church in Sioux Falls was Disneyland) but I'm not dumb.

I'm not that dumb, anyway. But I was really confused when it took us two days to drive from Sioux Falls to Disneyland. Disneyland was right across town! I could see Disneyland out of my bedroom window! Mickey Mouse loved living in South Dakota! Why oh why was he suddenly in California?

I will update my review on the cardigan after I'm done tumbling it in my very hot (very old) dryer.

Which you know, I've finally decided is okay, the fact that I have a vintage washer and dryer. I decided this yesterday. After spending a good year lusting after a new washer and dryer set, something sleek and modern, I've owned up to the fact that we will likely have the same old washer and dryer circa 197? for the rest of our lives.

Our machines are likely older than me. They are likely older than Husband. But back then they built machines to last. Our washer and dryer are never going to crap out; they are never going to die. And while some might say they're "old" or "ancient" or even "god awful", I will proudly say they are vintage. Some might own vintage Chanel or Dior; I own vintage General Electric.

Seethe with jealousy, biatches.

Pictures and a better review (hopefully) tomorrow.

Dear Me:

Yes, me. It's time to write a letter to myself. I write letters, very important letters to everybody else (Nanette Lepore, the ladies of the RHOC, Barack Obama...) and now it's time to address one to me. I am sure I will (not) listen.

Dear Me. You know how you came home from work earlier this evening (at 10:19pm) and decided to forgo eating dinner and opening your numerous packages from J. Crew to instead workout?

Remember how you thought to yourself that jeez, you haven't worked out regularly in months and, "I'm going to do something good for ME, gosh darnit, I'm going to workout while watching the Real Housewives of NYC (because there's nothing like uncontrollable anger and rage at those goobery bimbos to get my heart rate up) and then I am going to have a nice big dinner and rip into my packages from J. Crew"?

Right. Well, the fucking power went out and now here you sit at 11:23 PM huddled next to the stupid dim glow of the god damn laptop with a stupid fucking half-finished workout, a half-finished episode of RHONYC, several unopened packages from J. Crew, and a fucking god damn bag of salt and vinegar chips for dinner because it's the only thing you can find while groping around in oh-so-very-spooky-fucking dark.

Lesson learned, for real. I'm never working out again. Never! Again! I will eat copious amounts of food and open up packages from J Crew and the power will stay on and I'll be happy! HAPPY!!!!!



XOXOXO,
Chloe

P.S.- The fucking god damn neighbors next door have their power. They're GONE for the FREAKING WINTER in ARIZONA and THEY HAVE THEIR POWER because THEIR STUPID LIGHTS that are on AUTO TIMER are GLARING through my WINDOWS AND MOCKING MEEEEEE.

Nobody to the north of us has power, though. Seriously, are we like at the edge of this power grid? We must be. Fuck you, power grid. Fuck you.

P.P.S.- Also, I lost Petunia. Somewhere. Except I can hear her sniffing around. I'm sure I'll find her, you know, when I trip over her. Sorry Peets. I apologize in advance. My laptop is about to die and I'll have to stumble my way back through the darkness at some point. Why is the darkness so spooky? Am I the only 27 year old alive that's still terri-freaking-fied of the dark?!

P.P.P.S.- Oh wait, wait- I dropped a salt and vinegar chip and I can hear Petunia munching on it. Ha! Got you, suckerrrr!

P.P.P.P.S.- God I hate the dark. Hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate. Cry.

P.P.P.P.P.S. - I know better than to consume caffeine after 3pm. Sorry.

Hello, Pretty Dress.

Nanette Lepore Sunny Day Dress in Punch - $375 @ Shopbop

I neeeeeeeeed you.

And The Sulking Continues.

Petunia (the saddest chihuahua ever) spent her (very sad) birthday yesterday sulking on top of her favorite (sad) blanket.

This collar thing, man. It is totally bumming her out.

Petunia Pouty Pants.

So I have a quick story to tell before I get to Petunia. I always have a "quick" story to tell, don't I. It's part of my charm, my incessant rambling before I actually get to my point.

You all love it, I know you do.

I've worked at my job for six years now. Six years. Some days it feels like I've been there forever; others it feels like I've just begun. Which is a good thing, I think. It keeps me on my toes.

When I first started my job, our facility went under a gigantic multi-million dollar renovation. It was pretty spectacular, a huge pain in the butt, and where most of my fun stories still stem from. Never mind that it's been four years now since the renovation was completed; I still look back at those rag-tag days (as we worked without carpet or tile on the ground, without electricity, without lights, without water, or without whatever that of which the construction crews wanted to deprive us on any particular day) with fondness.

You don't know what fun is until you have to help customers while wearing oxygen masks and sans air conditioning on a 95 degree day. Yippee!

At one point during the construction our front desk check-in was moved right next to the vending machines. Let me tell you- there is no more awful of an invention than a vending machine. I think any parent reading this already knows that, but for those that don't- it's like every god damn kid in this town was born with a magnet in their head that sucks them right towards the machines; arms stretched out ready to press buttons and poke into the candy drop as they barrel towards it. There is no more awful of a location for a front desk than right next to vending machines; and it was right there, in front of the vending machines, that I witnessed the most gross display of enabling.

A little girl, dressed in all pink with a tu-tu (who looked about the age of four) toddled past the vending machine and stopped. No doubt she had just finished her dance lesson, and was on her way out the door with her mom until the hummmm (siren call?) of the vending machine caught her attention.

And she stopped.

"I want!" she said, thrusting her finger out towards the candy.

"No honey, not now," the mom said impatiently. "We need to go home to have dinner."

End of discussion, right? Oh no. Once again, anyone who has kids knows that when it comes to a vending machine, this is never the end of the discussion.

The little girl stomped, red rosy patches forming on her cheeks. "I WANT!" she said again, thrusting her little finger out with more intensity.

"No sweetie, we have to go home for dinner." By now, the mom had stopped and backtracked towards the child, causing a mini traffic jam.

"NO! I WANT! I WANT I WANT I WANT I WANT I WAAAAANT!" the child shrieked. Being of the "childless variety" and not quite knowing what to expect, I waited for the child's head to start spinning around backwards and smoke to come billowing out of its ears.

So that didn't quite happen (darn! remind me again why people have kids?) but what happened next was just as bizarre.

"Sweetie," the mother said, her tone dropping into a whine similar to her child's, "Don't do this. Don't look so sad. Your mommy doesn't want you looking so sad!"

The child thrust her lip out, face still red, feet still stomping.

"Come on," the mother whined again, not making any motion to move. "Stop looking so sad, sweetie. Darling, don't look so sad. Don't be sad. It makes mommy sad. Don't be sad, it makes mommy so sad to see you sad."

Five minutes of this. I am not joking- five minutes of this went on until the mother finally dug into her purse, produced a dollar, and bought the child a candybar.

Oh my god! I remember thinking to myself. What is wrong with that woman? How could she be so easy? That four year old has her totally wrapped around her finger! Seriously! Telling the child to "stop making her so sad"? Come on, give me a break lady! Disgusting.

So! Now on to Petunia. Yoooou all probably know where I am going with this. But in case you don't, read on.

Petunia is officially one year old today. We got Petunia on May 9th of 2008, a little furry butterball bundle of joy that immediately tickled us (me?) with glee. She was so cute! So furry! So soft! And so smart!

Petunia immediately picked up on whatever her old sister (Kitty) was up to. Eating, sleeping, pooping, peeing- no problemo. Petunia did it all with her little puppy pep.

But there was just one thing we couldn't get Petunia to do. We could not get her to wear a collar.

I put her collar on after about a week of having her and she immediately hunkered down, scratching furiously at it and crying. "Maybe she just needs to get used to it!" I said to Husband, him nodding agreeably.

But oh no. A whole day, then two days went by- and Petunia was still freaking out over her collar. It was like it was choking her. So I took it back off.

I was worried.

"Is there anything wrong with her, doctor?" I asked Petunia's vet at her vet appointment. "I can't seem to get her to wear a collar."

The vet felt around for a collapsed trachea, and then felt around a bit more for any lumps or bumps. "No, uh, I can't feel anything," the doctor said. "You just need to, you know, put the collar on her."

Oh okay, duh. I am the bigger one in all of this, after all. In a battle of the wills, I should totally win against a 4-lb chihuahua, right? I just needed to stick the collar on her. Easy peasy.

So back home we went and I strapped the collar around Petunia again. More freaking out ensued. Suddenly, our little perfect child turned into the perfect monster. She wouldn't do anything- no eating, no playing, no peeing, no pooping. Oh wait, I take that back- she'd pee and poop, alright, but in all the wrong spots.

I gave up again after a few days. "I just can't get her to wear it," I said to Husband. "It's like she turns into this sad, angry little thing as soon as we put it on her; she's not herself. She will just have to be collarless."

Which, you know, works in a perfect world. But we don't live in a perfect world. We live in a world where you hand a collarless puppy to the Pet Sitter and she says, while nervously glancing around her fence-less yard in the middle of a forest, "Oh really? No collar for Petunia? Um...."

Riiiight.

So here we are again. 10 months later and getting ready to leave on a trip to Arizona soon. I had to get Petunia to wear a collar again, I had to. There was no way we could leave her with Pet Sitter and expect Pet Sitter to not lose her.

So two weeks ago I slapped the collar back on.

And two weeks later, here we are: more scratching, more crying, more freaking out. More sulking, more pouting, more patheticness.

It's a true battle of the wills; but the collar has yet to come back off.

I will not be that woman, god damnit. I will not be that woman with her child at the vending machines! Even though Petunia's pouting makes me feel sad and Petunia's pouting makes me feel like a horrible human being, I will not be that woman. Right guys? Right? I will not be that woman!

Unless, you know, um...unless Petunia doesn't stop sulking by Monday. If she doesn't knock this off by Monday, then I'm going to totally be that woman. Because Petunia is making me feel sad and I just want her to stop being sad so I can stop being sad and I want my old P-Diddly Petunia back. GAHHH! I CAN'T TAKE THE SADNESS ANYMORE!

(OHMYGOD! OHMYGOD! OHMYGOD I TOTALLY AM THAT WOMAN!)

Wish us luck for when we have to graduate to adding tags and a leash. Wish us lots and lots...and lots...of luck.

We're gonna need it.