I don't know about you, but my first day of spring has been about as hopeful, enjoyable and fashionable as the day my unmanicured hands opened and my un-kohled eyes read that thin Harvard letter after softball practice on April 2, 1998.
So anyway, it's cold today. Like, really cold. So cold, in fact, I'm considering taking a cab the four and half blocks that presently stand between my noodlepuff and me.
Instead of the fresh mix of citrus and oriental vanilla I assumed would greet me outside my front door this morning, the city somehow smelled like China, which contrary to what those of you who haven't been there might think, doesn't waft of spices and intrigue but rather a mix among another person's toe-jam, a construction site porta-potty and the stink of half-assed Communism.
I didn't see a stitch of seersucker or Lily P., either, and though I listened as hard as I could, I didn't hear a single note of "Jolly Holiday" or "A Spoonful of Sugar" the entire day.
To top it off, I just looked down and realized I'm wearing flowers on my skirt. Black and white and geometric, not Laura Ashley, but still, flowers.
Further taking away from the optimism I prematurely assigned myself this morning was the fact that for the first time in recent memory, I didn't see one original fashion 'eff-up during the entire six minutes I vacated the office to fetch the Diet Red Bull I needed to help reinstate my zen after a tiresome phone call in which all the familiar cut-from-therapy phrases were once again pasted into my pearl-studded ear.
Further taking away from the optimism I prematurely assigned myself this morning was the fact that for the first time in recent memory, I didn't see one original fashion 'eff-up during the entire six minutes I vacated the office to fetch the Diet Red Bull I needed to help reinstate my zen after a tiresome phone call in which all the familiar cut-from-therapy phrases were once again pasted into my pearl-studded ear.
To stay true to my concept, I suppose I could tell you I saw a woman carrying a wicker tote, wearing lavender faux-UGGs, saggy-bottom tapered jeans, and a white blouse so sheer I could clearly read "38A" on the tag of her dark beige wide-strapped Maidenform bra, but when I started this blog back in December, I promised both myself and others I would never profile anyone in my office building.
Hopefully the chemical reaction between the $2.69 caffeine-release and my third favorite Rachael Yamagata song on repeat will somehow make for a more fruitful scouting session on my walk home.
As it is with everything, all of this would be so much easier if I had his - the proverbial his - flush bank account to shop away the pain stay-at-Mom style.
8 comments:
awwww... this sounds like a terrible day :( At least you have your pooch at home to cheer you up!
I love that you drink the caffeiene equivalent of 4 cups of coffee to "reinstate" your zen.
Don't let Monte see the pain. Kids pick up on everything, remember?
Tomorrow is a new day! AND it's supposed to be 70, finally. Give that bubby a kiss for me.
Alcohol cures everything. Buy a bottle of Moet and watch "Pretty Woman" with a girlfriend. Or a guy friend who isn't in love with you.
Basically, a gay guy friend ;-)
Better yet... pack your summer clothes and come to Bs.As. where it is a cool 85 without a cloud and the clothes are all on sale.
Your pup is small, can't he fly in first class with you?
That song is *so* depressing. The lyrics make me want to crawl up in bed and be 10 years old again. I'm not even heartbroken, yet after watching her sing it twice, I feel like I've just gone through a breakup.
STOP!
on an unrelated note, do you like her because she is also half-Asian? Wouldn't put it past you.
I know this is terrible, but I watched tonight and sorta hoped he'd fall through the ice. Not die or anything, but maybe lose an appendage or two to frostbite.
What can I say, I love my girl.
Is he who shall not be named on a reality show? I know you probably aren't talking about it, but if you were what show would he be on?
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