Six Items or Less, Part 1: The Experiment

Today marks the start of Six Items Or Less. Basically, it's one month of wearing only six articles of clothing. Yep. Six.

Now, this doesn't count underwear (thank goodness), socks, workout clothes, shoes, outerwear, or accessories. Or bathing suits. It's still a shade less than frigid out, so I wasn't particularly concerned about that one.

I've decided to participate. As today is the first day, everything I am wearing is now part of my six. I've got me some dark wash trouser jeans, a green patterned tank top, and a black cardigan. Three down, three to go.

I'm really interested to see how this works out. I'm not usually good at accessorizing: sure, I've bought the stuff with every intention of fancing myself up, but rarely do I ever execute. It's hard enough every morning to just pick the durned clothes themselves, nevermind adding a belt, necklace, other jewel type sparklies, and whathaveyou. I'm really pretty lazy.

So this will be an interesting challenge. It will (hopefully) make my morning wardrobe choices that much easier, and thus free up my minimally available morning brain cells for the task of "accessorizing."

I've read some bits of the experience others had on this journey, and they said people didn't even notice they wore such a limited wardrobe. And they actually recieved more compliments on what they did wear than usual. They felt they looked more put together overall.

Now, I'm not doing this to fish for compliments. I am doing it as an accessorizing test - to see just how creative I can get with limited options, and also to see if I prefer having a limited choice pool. Than maybe I will actually donate some of the clothing, which is long overdue.

I, admittedly, have too many clothes. I keep endeavoring to cut back the crap, but then I look at something, remember the one time I did wear it and think, "That was a cute outfit! I mean, I might wear this again..." and back it goes into the Narnia that is my wardrobe. Actually, it feels more like the Island of Misfit Toys:

"We're on the Island of Misfit Clothes
And here we don't want to stay
We want to travel, and be worn by Sarah
On her curvy bodacious frame!
 
A closet of clothes
Means we'll never be worn
For millions of hours
And for millions of days
We sit and wait and pray
To be worn at least one day of the year!

A jacket and socks waits for Sarah to shout
"Wake up! Don't you know that it's time to come out!"
When she'll wears us all again
The most wonderful day of the year

Clothing galore, locked behind closet door
There's no room for more
And it's all because it's Sarah's fault

A pair of small pants
For if she lost weight
Though we'll ne'er say, "that'll be the day!"
We'd rather she just gave us away,
Then other nice people could buy us to wear on
The most wonderful day of the year.

If we're on the Island of Unwanted Clothes
Just bring us to charity for someone to love
When Purging Day is here
The most wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful day of the year!"
 
I could barely remember the tune, so chances are this doesn't even remotely resemble the original. But I'm pretty sure this is what my clothing would sing, should they spontaneously grow mouths and vocal chords.
 
I'm excited. Apparently I should actually be blogging about my experience on their website. However, here at work, my browser is more like Brontosaurous Explorer, so on most websites I can't see very much of anything. Which I'm pretty sure is Big Brother trying to curb my procrastination.
 
Anyway! I'll post updates on how it's going here. Whether I succeed, go completely insane from these self-inflicted limitaions and take up wearing everything I own at once, like some miniature, cotton Michelin Man (or Joey Tribbiani), or if my other clothes get sick of being ignored and declare mutiny. 
 
It'd bring a whole new meaning to the term "clotheslined."
 

I Want...

1. To visit every state capital and spend at least 3 full days there.
2. See the northern lights. But not from a lodge. Actually be out there with them. Just you and the sky, baby.
3. Eat less sugar.
4. Eat more veggies.
5. Read at least one book a month.
6. Try meditating. (and not feel bad if I fail)
7. Disconnect with technology and plug back in to friends and family.
8. Be a part of La Tomatina tomato throwing festival in Spain!:

I can't imagine anything looking more fun

9. And being in India for Holi would be pretty sick, too:

Preeeettyyyy

10. Okay, okay, and also the Boryeong mud festival in South Korea:

D'ya get the feeling I like festivals that involve minimal amounts of clothing and getting completely covered in muck?

11. Try bubble tea.

12. Squish grapes. With my feet. In a biiig wooden bucket.

13. De-clutter my life.

14. Really learn how to wield a kitchen knife. Garlic, beware!

15. See the Cherry Blossoms in D.C.

16. See Fiona Apple in concert

17. Have fantastically artful henna done on my hands.

18. See Flamenco in Spain

19. Get a massage. A real one. A professional one.

20. Voice a Muppet character!

21. Learn to speak Italian.

22. Learn how to cook with filo dough.

23. Go to Australia.

24. Try sushi!

A short (and random) list of things that I'd like to do that've been running through my head. And of course, they're likely to be more...

Self Discoveries: It All Adds Up

Math. It is the bane of my existence. Well, that and buttonholes. Have you ever tried to make a buttonhole? I mean seriously, who thought buttons were a good idea in the first place? We should just replace all buttons with velcro, zippers, and safety pins. Punk is in, right? Or is out, but is so out it's kind of in? Maybe? Whatever, if we all do it then we'll start a fashion movement and everyone everywhere will thank us because they'll never have to go through the hell that is making a buttonhole.

Or maybe it's just me. But I'll thank you. I really will.

Anyway, math. I hate it, and it has led me to believe it hates me back.

In school, I generally coasted through all my subjects. I wasn't particularly concerned about my grades getting me into college. I realized I could get a B grade in English without even reading the book, and then I still managed to get my butt into advanced placement English. I didn't have to study intensely for science or history because process of elimination was my bestie. It felt like half of it was common sense. I wasn't that great at Spanish, but my teacher always commented on how good my accent was, and that language romanced me with it's cognates. The only subject I ever flailed around pathetically in was math.

I was always in the lowest placement math courses. I hated math, so I didn't really mind - it was like they were rewarding me by putting me in the easiest and least challenging courses! It was math cake! That is, until I, you know, had to advance to the next hardest level against my will. I was like a fat child gorging themselves on their math cake. Right as my fork, piled high with another sweet and simple bite, was poised in front the dark, damp opening of my cavernous mouth, awaiting the swift decent into oblivion and stomach acid, they yanked it out of my hands, not even leaving so much as a crumb behind. And in it's wake? Geometry. In it's long black robes, scythe in one hand and a protractor in the other.

I was doomed.

I only barely passed that class. I had never studied that hard and haven't ever since. I had to fight for my grade, like it was a vile, venomous-snake haired gorgon, with a gaze of stone. I chopped that nasties head clean off! I Perseused her beetch ass, then rode...er, flew off into the sunset on my trusty steed, Pegasus! Victory was mine. And by that I mean, I didn't fail the class. Sweet, sweet victory!

Then it was about time for the SATs. In case anyone stumbles upon this blog and doesn't know what they are:

The SAT Reasoning Test (formerly Scholastic Aptitude Test and Scholastic Assessment Test, pronounced as three separate letters) is a standardized test for college admissions in the United States.

So, basically, to get into college, I had to take this 3-4 hour exam and not eff it up royally. At the time, it was scored out of 1600, and there were two sections: Verbal and Mathematics. You could take the test multiple times and choose you best score for each section to send off to colleges.

I took this abomination of a standardized test twice. I was happy with my English score the first time around, but my math score was abysmal. I studied my booty off and retook the exam. Several weeks went by and I got round two of my scores.

My English was lower than it had been the first time, but, as I was pleased with my previous score, I hadn't put in much effort, instead saving all my brain juices for the math portion.

My math score was exactly the same. It hadn't changed even one point. All that studying, paying almost $100 for both tests, wasting nearly 5 hours of my life taking both exams, only to learn I have hit my brain capacity for math.

I was disappointed, to say the least. I still don't think it's right that we have to pay for thins stinkin' test when it's pretty much a requirement to apply for college, but that's really beside the point. I cannot learn any more math than I already know. I have accepted it. It's not like I enjoyed math anyway, and now that cellphones have calculators and even tip calculators on them I never need waste nary a brain cell on the tedious and unfortunate task again.

But guess what? My cousin's girlfriend told me that she has a math learning disability. It's a real thing!

So I did some research. Math learning disabilities are actually just as prevalent as reading disabilities, but aren't actually given much heed.

Here are some symptoms of "Dyscalculia" courtesy of Wikipedia (italics mine):

• Difficulty with everyday tasks like checking change and reading analog clocks (I will give you the wrong time, always.)
• Particularly problems with differentiating between left and right. (Totally me. When driving, I have to be given directions such as "Driver's side turn," and "Passenger's side turn!" No I am not kidding.)
• Might do exceptionally well in a writing related field- many authors and journalists have this disorder (Uhm, well...I blog?)
• Having particular difficulty mentally estimating the measurement of an object or distance (e.g., whether something is 10 or 20 feet (3 or 6 metres) away). (I suck at this!!)
• Often unable to grasp and remember mathematical concepts, rules, formulae, and sequences.
• Difficulty with games such as poker with more flexible rules for scoring.
• Difficulty in activities requiring sequential processing, from the physical (such as dance steps or sports) to the abstract (signaling things in the right order). (I don't do sports. The ball, disk, puck, instrument of torture always seems to find it's way full speed into my face.)

Guys! I think I have a mental disability! This is great news!

And really, explains so, so much.

Practically Perfect

Friday I had the day off and headed into Boston with my mom, two aunties, and my cousin's girlfriend. We did the usual: shopping, eating copious amounts of food, and seeing a show. Yes, I am one of those people. I see shows.

We went to see Mary Poppins at the Opera House. I gotta say, despite not being particularly excited about it, it was really fabulous. They did a great job. I didn't even fall into the dreaded 'second act lull,' which usually threatens to drag me into the depths of unconsciousness like the many-legged lake-beast from The Lord of the Rings. Mary Poppins took that magical umbrella of hers and sliced through the grippy, tentacley creature-arm, saving me from it's gnashy, painy teeth of embarrassment and slumber. That is one bad ass nanny! Jo Frost wouldn't stand a chance. Supernanny my buttocks.

It was also really nice to get to chat with my cousin's girlfriend. I hadn't had much of a chance at the last two family gatherings. There's quite a lot of us and we're always reaching new and previously undiscovered levels of loud, so it can be hard to have a nice chit chat with the newbies.

As it turns out, she's really nice. I had been a bit apprehensive, as at the aforementioned family functions she always impeccably dressed her petite frame, had perfect hair and make-up, and seemed to have a heaping side of sunny disposition. Practically perfect in every way. I was fairly certain I would not like her. Convinced of it, really.

But I ended up really liking her. Damn her and her Poppinsishness! It must have been that spoonful of "sugar" she snuck into my coffee. Anyone else wonder what really was on that spoon Mary Poppins was pouring down everyones throats? I can tell you right now it certainly wasn't sugar. No wonder she could fly, saw penguins in the park, and had floating furniture. And you thought it was an innocent children's movie! Ha!

Are you really going to try and tell me she wasn't on drugs?

Butt Kicking Women Should Always Cover Their Butt. Literally.

I went to the movies during my trip to NY to see The Adjustment Bureau. It was pretty much my perfect love story. Now, don't get me wrong, I love me some Love Actually, but mush like The Notebook isn't really my thing. This had action, undeniable chemistry, and the kind of love you hope for. The love that scales tall buildings and defies all odds and forces set against it. Oh, and also Matt Damon (That's my kinda love! Matt, call me!). But I digress. That's not the movie I want to discuss here, though I did absolutely love it.

I'm really here to talk about a preview I saw for the upcoming movie, Sucker Punch.

I apologize if the video doesn't work. I've never actually done this before. If not, you could follow this link (I think) to see the trailer in all it's dismal being.

My first impression?

Words cannot express 

I almost can't believe this is a movie. Almost. But then I think about how, for many of the male comic-con attending set and their older brethren, this is probably their wet-dream. A bunch of scantily clad teenage girls battling and kicking anything's ass that gets in their way. And if the creature doesn't happen to have an ass? Well they're going to chop off it's head and shove it right back down it's neck, that's what they're gonna do.

Really?

I love movies where women get to kick ass. Especially when it's physically. Maybe it's only because I have a hard time ripping open plastic soy sauce packets and thusly get to live vicariously through their amped-up, adrenaline-blasting adventures on screen. I mean, imagine how many things - jars, bottles, pull-top cans! - I could open if I was that strong! I know they aren't realistic, or something to aspire to. I will never in a million years take out the Russian organization that trained me from youth to be a sleeper spy/assassin in the United States. Mostly because that never happened. But also for the same reason I like these films - because I struggle opening flimsy "30% Less Plastic!" water bottles.

That's part of the reason I loved the movie Salt so much. One, because I have a giant gushing girl cruch on Angelina Jolie (Angie, call me!), and two, because she kept her clothes on (at least, as far as I can remember. I had to close my eyes for all the scary spider parts).

I think that's why I always had a hard time with comics and all that superhero schtick. Have you seen the female superhero's costumes? Have you?

To quote a short lived TV show I adored, "Sure, I wanted to be a superhero when I was a kid. But only the guy superheroes got cool costumes. Massive capes, scary masks and stuff. All Wonder Woman got were hooker boots and a bathing suit. What the f*ck was that about?" (George Lass from Dead Like Me). A serious question I think deserves an answer.

And here is my best guess. Wonder Woman looks like a a cross between Rainbow Brite and a dominatrix because the people creating these characters had penises. That's it. I suppose it's kind of obvious, but it's still pretty annoying. Where are our B.A. superheroines?

I couldn't tell you. Off the top of my head I think of Wonder Woman...and then all I can think of are supervillains. Catwoman, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn, Mystique. All you comic-book nerds don't get your superman panties in a twist. I was never into comic books so, granted, my scope is limited. I readily admit that. But dang! There are how many male superheroes and villains that come to mind? Even with my lack of comic knowledge! That certainly says something. 

I will say my favorite superheroine was definitely Rogue from the X-Men (whom I really only know about because of the kids cartoon show from the 90s. We weren't allowed to watch Saved By the Bell. I know! Cruel!)

I also had a crush on her love interest, Gambit (yes, I had a crush on a cartoon character. Hush!):

What can I say? I love me some electrified 500 Rummy!

And while the fact that Rogue wore a skin tight body suit didn't dissuade me from being her for Halloween one year, she is still at least wearing clothing. Unlike the Sucker Punch girls who look like they were on their way to a Catholic School girl convention when their bus was ambushed by ninjas and the apocolypse hit, forcing them to put down their lollipops and take up arms. Well, except for the girl on the right:

She's good at multitasking.

Anyway. I won't be seeing this movie.

Maybe I'll just don my own costume and be the superheroine I always wanted to see.

We make spandex look good

Journeys To and From New York, Or If Connecticut Seceded I Wouldn't Be Sad

Friday night after work I began my three and a half hour trek from Massachusetts to New York. It was pretty uneventful, I must say. It did remind me, however, as it always does, why Connecticut is my least favorite state.

I suppose that isn't totally fair since I haven't actually been to every other state for comparison, but I'm fairly confident in my assessment. I've heard New Jersey referred to as "The Armpit of America" before, but I really must disagree. It's clearly Connecticut. Anyone who thinks differently hasn't traveled between Massachusetts and New York before. It's endless. It is perhaps the longest drive of one's life. For such a small state it certainly feels like you're driving in the Bermuda Triangle.

The worst part is that there is absolutely nothing there. What does Connecticut have? I mean, besides trees? And highway? And some rich people? I beg you to find something worthwhile about Connecticut. I would be thrilled to change my opinion. Then the drive between MA and NY might not be so painful (emphasis on "might"). I even take the "scenic" route on the Merritt Parkway, but I still always feel like I'm caught in a never ending time loop. I mean, at least Jersey has beaches, gave us Bruce Springsteen, and...well, I'm sure they've given us other things too, but even if not that's two over Connecticut.

Still, despite their terrible drivers, I powered through. I made it to NY and in one piece! I had had my doubts since the previous day's events had me worried. I succeeded the night before in completely decimating my lap top.

I want to say upfront that I am generally a smart girl. I just somehow manage to do incredibly stupid things that never cease to amaze me, or those around me. In a fit of NCIS addicted haze, I tried to scour the interwebs for an episode no longer up on CBS.com, and managed to download a video playing program which was, apparently, a nasty virus. Nothing on my computer would open. It crashed. I turned it on, tried to open something, anything! and BAM. Crashed again. Now I turn my computer on and am immediately met with a blue screen of death.

Only slightly less painful than driving through Connecticut.

I then managed to mangle my eyebrows by accidentally trimming the thickest part, so now there was very little hair there. Almost a bald patch.

I was winning at life.

The theme continued on Sunday whilst driving home. I was exhausted. I am not built to stay out past midnight, and certainly can't handle doing so more than one night in a row like I did both Friday and Saturday night. You can tell because on my way home, before I made it to the highway, I realized I needed gas. On my first sweep I accidentally passed the gas station. As I was turning around, I actually thought "This is good, no one was at the station so I will have no trouble pulling my car right up with the tank on the correct side of the pump! No maneuvering necessary!" Yet I still somehow managed to pull up to the self-serve pump with my gas tank on the opposite side of my car, get out, and proceed to swipe my card and enter my info, all with out noticing my error.

Finally the realization of my mistake dawned on me, and I got back in my car and began the the task of turning it around. The gas station I was at had two pump islands (is that what they're called?). One was self-serve and the other was full serve. I don't know why, but full-serve stations make me panic. Too many questions I need to know the answers to immediately. So whenever given the option, I opt for self-serve. But the thing is, at this point in my journey my brain wasn't functioning enough to make a game plan of how I would need to back my car up to remain at the self-serve pump island. It was physically incapable of forming a simple plan my then beleaguered body could execute.

The Only Solution My Brain Could Conceive:

What The Really Looked Like In My Head:

Why yes, those are Christmas Lights!

All I Really Had To Do:



What I Did Do:

My end solution was still pretty simple, but it failed in that I was now at the full-serve pump. The attendant came over and asked something, but as my already tired brain had just been fried by this "thinking" thing I just had to do, I just shouted over him, "Fill 'er up please!!" while shoving my card out my passenger side window. Fill her up he did. With super. I had forgotten that I actually needed to specify what grade of gas I wanted along with how much. Turns out this guy doesn't read minds and, you know, likes money. So I got super, and not regular, which was what I actually desired. I didn't even realize this until I looked at my receipt upon my arrival home, 3 and a half hours away.

Then, before I'd even left New York, I nearly lost my life on the Tappan Zee. Apparently this one car to the right of me felt it was perfectly acceptable to go 85mph over a structure suspended 138 feet above a body of moving water, and is actually considered structurally unsound.

The Tappan Zee has, I believe 7 lanes of traffic. At the time, 4 were open on my side. I was in the lane third from the right (i.e. the outer edge), when this person comes flying down the lane right next to me. Only problem? There's an 18-wheeler in his way. So as he's sailing past me, he changes into the outermost lane (i.e. the outer edge. AKA the long fall to a watery grave) AT THE SAME TIME as the 18-wheeler. This little car almost doesn't stop in time. He almost careens into this enormous conglomeration of steel, wheels and painy death. My eyes darted around - I would have nowhere to go. Nowhere. I would've been road mush. Nay, bridge mush.

I, however, survived. I did not become bridge mush. Which was really exciting...for a moment. Then I remembered that the only thing awaiting me on the other side of the bridge was Connecticut. Miles and miles of Connecticut.

Noob Hat of Shame

I'd like to introduce you to an "award" my friends and I have created and passed down among us.

The noob hat:

This is not me. Those are, however, my strangle hands.

Noob, the definition (courtesy of Wikipedia): Newbie or Noob is a slang term for a novice or newcomer, or somebody inexperienced in any profession or activity.

In our circle we use it to describe when someone does something particularly foolish, weird, or completely lacking in common sense.

While that isn't me in the picture, I too have had my turn in the noob hat. And while I'd rather tell you about my friends and their embarrassing noob nominations, I feel it's only fair to divulge my noob shame story.

It's a bit of a doosey.

At least, I think it is. Which may directly relate to the fact that it happened to me. Or rather, that I did this to myself.

Okay. Here goes...

My friend, who happens to be one of my three!! (three!!) readers*, had to go home from college our senior year for a bit in order to have her wisdom teeth forcibly removed from her jaw. I'm not entirely sure what was going on at the time, but we decided we missed her enough to skype her.

I was in my room when the skype session began in a room across the hall from mine. I remember running in and three or four of us huddled around the computer screen/web cam in order to see and be seen.

I've never been much of a listener, and I have always had a filthy foul mouth, which, as you can imagine, is not a particularly desirable combination. I see that my friend on the computer screen, skyping from her home (this should've been my first clue to keep it canned), is saying something. I can't really make it out and don't try. One of my friends in the huddle asks, "How many did they take out?"

Me, being the smart, nay, fool-ass that I am, shout, "All of 'em!!! So now she can give a better blow job by gumming it!! HAHAHA"

Laughter erupts.

"Uhm, Sarah? Her family's right there with her...in the room...and can hear us."

PANIC. FEAR. FIGHT OR FLIGHT!

I choose flight. Naturally. Fight wouldn't be particularly effective in this situation, and probably would've made things that much worse had I just started beating on one of my friends for no reason.

 I RUN out of there, slamming the door in my wake, like perhaps this sudden movement and sharp sound will erase all memory of this incident and undo the damamging image I have left burned of myself in her family's minds.

It doesn't.

Sigh.

So, for announcing to her entire family over the interwebs that she had all her teeth removed in order to give better blow jobs, I was knighted Noob of the Week. Rightfully, if not somewhat painfully, so.

Later, said friend told me her family thought it was funny. I find this hard to believe, though I have since visited this friend's home (with her family, like, in it), and no one cracked up laughing or recoiled in disgust. I truly hope they have absolutely no idea it was me, but am secretly terrified they silently judge me anytime we're in close proximity. Or, like, my name comes up in conversation. Which it is often bound to as I am otherwise very awesome and discussable.

Okay, so basically I just confessed all of that because I'm thinking I might have a "Noob of the Week" segment on here. It will be done mostly lovingly, as we only ever called each other a noob as a term of endearment. And also because I don't like being mean. But still. Sometimes you act like a noob and ya gotta be called on it. Noobing keeps you humble.

And hopefully teaches you to stfu on occasion.

This is me.

*She did not answer me as to whether she'd prefer I used a nickname or if her real name is fine. As such, I have given you a hint, but left out her name. Can you tell which of my numerous readers she is?? tee-hee!

Release the Crack-en!!

I mentioned to you before the only cute guy here at work, ya? Well, I had thought perhaps he had gone on vacation, left the company, or been trampled by elephants. Mostly because after those two bubbler not-so-encounters, I didn't see him again for at least a week. Probably more. Obviously he had been maimed, seriously injured, or was enjoying the sun in a tropical locale.

Well, having eventually seen him 'round the office again and realizing neither the maimed nor injured version were true, he had clearly been on vacation. Or was, you know, busy at work and wasn't taking his lunches. Clearly the least likely scenario.

Today, however, he was at lunch.

Let me 'splain something. He is a good looking guy. He dresses himself very well. If only all men cared enough not to look like they climbed out of an animal food trough in the morning.

But then...then he ruined it. He sat down and there...there was crack.

Gentleman (and ladies), lowrise pants may seem like they're cool, but when you sit down and create a fleshy pencil holder all of your allure and attractiveness melt away*. Either get a higher rise jean, or please, for the love of vanity (and also my eyesight), wear a belt.

Thank you.

This message brought to you by the Coalition to Raise Ass-posure Awareness in the Public.
Or CRAAP for short.


*(okay, he's still pretty cute, though)

My Cat Has A Death Wish

I don't know what to do, guys. I think my cat is suicidal. She totally just tried to kill herself by chewing on my iPod charger cord.

How do you convince your cat to choose life?

I wish I knew what number life she was on...

The Post in Which I Basically Just Post Photos To Make Us All Jealous

I know. I failed. I had been doing so well, posting everyday for...a week and a half? I have failed you, Lone Reader.

I'll work on that.

I never post on weekends, but since I am trying to keep Lone Reader (get it?? like Lone Ranger! Badass, yes?), I must make it up to them somehow. Also, I felt like playing with my colors and adding some gadgets.

So, as you may have noticed, I only changed my background to white and the text to black, and then darkened everything else a tad. REBEL! But really, I usually like lighter looking blogs (does this make me bloggist?), so I thought I'd keep it light. Which works well with this blogs content, as I hardly ever get serious on here.

And the gadget's aren't super happy fun time one's, but I felt I needed to jazz it up a bit 'round these parts. Someday I plan on having an awesome customized header, but until I figure out how to work those shenanigans, this is what you get.

So, Lone Reader, what do you think?

And though it's unrelated to the entire rest of this post (except for the title), I just have to gush. I am missing Italy SO SUPER HARD right now.

The fact that you could not take a bad picture
 

I'm pretty sure even the sunrises were prettier

 In the middle of the city! Oranges!

The secret bakeries!

The protests - right down our street (and the roommate who had a walk of shame during it)

Teeth diamonds...yes, this does exist

The beautiful Italian men that cooked delicious food for us and BROUGHT THEIR OWN APRON!!

The graffiti

The beautiful city lights

Disregarding everything our mothers taught us and jumping over bridges to drink wine (we make good decisions)

The truly interesting food options. Just what I've always wanted! An orange flavored, duck-shaped cake!

The Duomo (like, duh)

Did I mention the city lights?

 The, uh...fashion?

The mutual feeling, or lack-thereof, for babies (don't worry, the stroller's empty. Actually, maybe that isn't so reassuring?)

The delicious food. This so-called "peasant's soup." Who are they kidding? They ate like kings!

The scenery wasn't bad either, if you're into that sort of thing

See? Babies. Who cares!

There was never a lack of things to surprise you. A Pride flag, boar's head, antlers, fox tails?, and grapes. Only in Italy.

Art was, quite literally, everywhere

The people we met... 

 

 The friendships formed. Some lasted, some didn't. But I'll never forget the experience.

Aaaand, scene! Mush over! But seriously. I want to go back. I know I may not have made that clear.

And, like, now would be nice.

Va bene!

"Our anger will either lead us to tap into our baser instincts or into the better angels of our nature."

Yesterday I found out a woman I work with's son was jumped in a nearby city. Luckily he is alive, but his eye socket was broken, as was his cheek bone in two separate places. He has to have surgery and metal screws put in to repair them.

I feel so terribly for them both. He had just been walking down a street, alone, around midnight (which, as a girl, I know is never a good idea), when someone approached him. And unfortunately, that someone wasn't alone.

What really gets me, though the entire event is awful and senseless, is that they didn't even steal anything. I guess that isn't true, they did take his hat, but everything else on him was left behind. It was violence just for the "fun" of it.

Of course, things could have ended much worse.

That same night a Pizza delivery man was shot while making a delivery and a patron was stabbed at a local club (both are still alive, thankfully). The following Sunday a woman walking home was beaten, and apparently nothing was stolen from her either.

What is going on? I know it's a city and lends itself to all sorts of shady people and behaviour, but it's still seems so...out of control? Am I alone in thinking this? Do these things happen every weekend and I just don't hear about it??

Maybe. Probably. But I ran across an article by Arianna Huffington, on Sarah Wilson's blog, discussing our "collective toxic immune system" and the Arizona shootings.

I think it quite applies:

And there is no doubt that our collective immune system is worn down, making us more susceptible to the kind of infection that turned that Arizona parking lot into a killing field. While there has never been a golden age in our democracy's history, there have been many times in which our national immune system was much stronger.


And this calamity should serve as a wake-up call that we need to bring more urgency to strengthening it. It’s very easy, as we’ve seen over the last few years, to ignore the toxicity — partly because we’re swimming in it. But it’s time to recognize the obvious: our society is in danger of coming apart at the seams — from our overheated political rhetoric and crumbling infrastructure to our rising poverty and shrinking middle class.

The whole article is excellent (as is Sarah Wilson's blog!), and if it didn't violate some sort of copyright law I'd post it in full. As it is, you'll have to go check it out yourselves.

We must also have a real conversation about what kind of country we want to live in, and take practical, concrete action to create it.

It seems like anger, hate and violence are tearing us asunder. I know this is a rather serious post, quite the deviation from my normal fare, but this is something I feel very strongly about. And it's time to start talking about it.

Et tu, Birth Control?: Hormonic Betrayal

Holy muffin top! I did a search today about going off the pill and gaining weight...GUESS WHAT?? They're related!

I found a lot of women saying they'd gone off Yasmin (what I had been on), and about two-three months after (exactly how long I've been off) they all gained close to 10 pounds! Ding-ding-ding! The bells in my head went off like...this?:

Doesn't ring any bells...

Okay, not really. But when I Googled "bells in my head," this is what came up. Huh.

Anyway, the downside to this discovery, besides the realization that I'm mentally incapable of putting two and two together, is that these ladies are also having a shite time loosing the weight.

Balls.

This also explains my face looking like something you'd see on a "Strange Rock Formations" show on the Discovery Channel.

My face, basically

Well, if rocks we're pimples. The painy kind that actually look about that color red, and just make you want to rip off your skin and dig them suckers out with your bloody fingernails, screaming in victory despite not having a face anymore, but who cares cause SUCK IT PIMPLES!! I WON!! But you can't, because doing so would leave you faceless, or least with a bunch of glaring, unfortunate pimple scars. I already have some, and since I'm not much of a collector type, I'm all set with adding more. Thanks, but no thanks.

So instead of picking (which takes all your will power) you try every trick you can think of. That stupid toothpaste one that really only ever makes you a minty, sticky mess. The honey one, which really only does the same as the toothpaste one, but this time with honey, and you always inadvertently get some in your mouth despite not liking the taste of it even one little tiny minuscule bit. The tea tree oil one, where you go against all the advice on the internet and apply it directly to your skin, knowing full well it could burn your skin, but saying, the hell with it! they're only zits and damn it they started it! Lemon juice, lavender oil, garlic (okay, I haven't tried that yet), a botched tomato/gelatin facial, even ODing on your prescription acne products. But they don't budge. Well, they get bigger, but they don't show any signs of leaving.

There are a few more tricks I could try, and you can bet I'm going to. I am hoping above all else that the more my hormones normalize, the more things will get back to business as usual. Like my weight. And my skin. Though I know the skin may be here to stay, as it was the reason I went on the pill in the first place.

Who knew that two months after ceasing birth control pills, my body would revolt like this!? Sneaky, sneaky sneaky! I never new the pill was such a passive aggressive backstabber.

Still. If nothing else I do feel a little better at having a possible reason for my somewhat mysterious weight gain. I had been exercising. Okay, yes, maybe I ate too many sweets over the holidays, but still. It all makes sense. And I really love being able to point the finger of doom at something other than cupcakes.

Soulmates