Faerie, Faerie Interesting

Maria, from The Sound of Music, sang "Somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good."

I must have done something stellar, because in yesterday's mail, I received The Pyramid Collection catalog. Never heard of it? Neither had I. But the frighteningly hilarious faerie/witch/pirate wench clothing they sell (yes, people are forking over their credit card numbers for these bewitching wardrobes) made me laugh all day. The only thing better was finding out they have a Web site, so I could share a few dark and stormy selections with you.

Looking for something special to wear while sweeping the cobblestone? I've got just the thing:



Have an Eyes Wide Shut party to attend, or just heading into the forest to Grandma's? Your ensemble will be incomplete without this:



It's not quite Jerry Seinfeld's puffy shirt, but swashbuckling couples everywhere will heat up the bedroom wearing this:




If you've ever uttered the words to your beloved, "He's not a blacksmith. He's a pirate.", order this today:



That's all I can handle. My sides are about to bust.

Stop That Now! Or, When Ordinary Is Appealing

It's time for another round of Stop That Now! - my findings of fashion don'ts that must, in the name of all things good, be stopped immediately.

Today:
Being unique and being crazy are two different things.

This isn't my best drive-by photo, but hopefully you can make out that, in addition to the blinding yellow oversized shirt, the too-tight, too-short shorts, the black socks and shoes, and more pastiness than any pale girl should be allowed, this femme fatale has topped off her well thought-out ensemble with a Statue of Liberty hat.

Oh my.

Yes, I'm all for having a signature look. Yes, I enjoy standing out in a crowd. But I don't want my sanity questioned while doing it. Let's turn it down a notch there, honey.

Stop Remaking My Past!

I'm feeding the baby and watching E! News Weekend when a commercial comes on with a sad, sophomoric remake of Simple Minds' "Don't You Forget About Me" as the soundtrack. I'm feeling immediately agitated that someone would hire a bunch of 16-year-old boys to bring disgrace to an '80s no.1 hit instead of paying to use the original music, when I look up and realize the entire commercial is a remake of the best scenes from The Breakfast Club. I sat there, mouth hanging open, watching kids dressed in - wait for it - JCPenney clothes run, dance and badly act their way through the most memorable movie moments of my youth. I'm so boycotting that store for making a mockery of everything I hold dear.

Watch and weep:

This Is Why I'm a Mac Girl

I went to the Apple store last night to buy my new laptop (that black little number to the left is it!). It was time. I couldn't take getting a notice on a daily basis that I was almost out of hard drive space and needed to make more room. I made all the room I could. I was screwed. So, I relented. I did the 90 days same as cash promotion, which I had to fill out on that laptop, and when it processed, the girl in the photo hit the "thank you" button before realizing the printer it was connected to wasn't working. She informed me I won't be able to get my laptop until the card comes in the mail.

Yeah, right.

I don't hem and haw for three months then finally decide I'm going to buy something and not buy it. So she got the manager. And the manager got the tech guy. And together, they opened up a printer, hooked it up to the laptop, installed the printer drivers and printed out my form with the bar code that let me get my laptop with the financing deal. Yes!

The only real bad news is I was wearing 4-inch heels through the entire process. It was my 4th wedding anniversary, and Frank and I had just come from a lovely dinner at J Alexander's where my baked potato was so pretty, I had to take a picture of it:



My crappy camera phone really doesn't do it justice. I felt bad digging into it. Until I tasted it. Then it went buh-bye. Fast.

I should also take a minute to reveal my new 'do. Once again, it's a pretty crappy shot because of ol' Crappy the Phone. Once I pay off the laptop, I'm all over the new iPhone.



I'm pretty darn blonde, which I didn't think I could pull off, but my stylist saw differently and now I do, too. I'm smiling here because I didn't yet know how bad my feet were going to be hurting two hours later.

And if you're impressed with the rack, after reading sad posts from me about droopage, I'd like to thank Victoria's Secret - Secret Embrace strapless bra. A miracle worker!

Hey There, Tootsie

Random thought:

Do toenails grow so much slower than fingernails because God knew pedicures would be more expensive?

Baby Please! Put On Some Pants!

While at a BABY SHOWER yesterday, this was one of the conversations at my table:

Husband (not mine): I keep trying to explain to my wife about leakage.

Me: Leakage?

Husband: Yes. When you relieve yourself, as a guy, even though you shake it, there might still be a little bit left in there.

Me: Can't you shake it harder? (Couldn't help it.)

Husband: It doesn't matter. It could be a minute later, and all of a sudden, one more drop comes out.

Wife: I'm going to have to bleach the sheets!

Me: Have you thought about wearing underwear to bed?

Husband: Sometimes I do.

Me: I can't sleep naked, especially in summer. You know how sometimes, you wake up and you realize you got a little spider bite in the middle of the night? I don't want some creepy crawly to climb up there and start a colony.

Husband: My boxers are baggy anyway, so if they want to get in there, they're going to.

Frank: (Slightly chokes on the ice from his lemonade, then leaves the table to check the standings in the British Open.)

Waitress: Who ordered the Shrimp Primavera?

This is why men don't belong at baby showers. Although, based on my two cents to the conversation, I'm pretty sure I don't belong there either.

Ooh, How You Make Me Tick

Say hello to my new bit of bliss:

This is my part-anniversary, part-birthday, part-birthday gift. Meaning a couple of gift cards and my husband's debit card had to come together and work as a team to make this purchase come to fruition.

It's not often that I see something - some bit of fashion - and think "I have to have this. NOW." But it happened with this Marc Jacobs watch. Such clean lines. So elegant, yet edgy. Mmmm.

Last night, I was a little sad knowing it was sleeping in its pretty round case across the room instead of cuddling up with me and my wrist in bed. I missed you, baby.

That's What I Use To Think

Ah, youth. A fleeting spot of time when skin is tight, the tummy is toned, and thinking for yourself is such a bad idea.

While out for cocktails with a girlfriend last night, she told me a story about her brother, who is going to walk down the aisle next week even though he isn't sure his bride-to-be is "the one".

They're 25 years old. At that age, you don't know if the shirt you picked out for the day is "the one". How are you supposed to know that about a person?

Yet, they're going through with the wedding. She, knowing he has serious doubts, and he, knowing she wants to get married first and figure everything else out later. That's a sound plan.

Know why 20-somethings think they know it all? Because at 18, they're told they have the ability to decide the career path they are going to pursue for the rest of their lives. Then they take out overwhelming student loans to pay for that career. Once you've invested $60k into a job title, it's not easy to rationalize starting over once they realize they should have been a photographer or a writer or a teacher instead of a hedge fund manager. (Which happens somewhere in their 30s, when wisdom FINALLY starts to seep into the brain.) So they keep the status quo. Even though the status quo sucks.

So it is with marriage. Jump into it too early, and one day it hits you this is not the person you want for life. And the options are either divorce, or keeping the status quo. Neither one is a party waiting to happen.

Take a tip from Aunt Karen: If you're in your 20s, remind yourself on a daily basis that you don't know shit, and you won't make any crucial decisions that you can't take back. Now, go forth, get loaded and wait for wisdom.

That Was Necessary

I'm back after a few days away with the family. We went "Up North", which for any of you not familiar with life in the mitten, is anywhere above the knuckles (look at the back of your left hand and it will start to make sense - if not, have a glass of wine and try again).

It was fun and relaxing and full of ridiculous memories. One of my favorites was the Russian fudge girl, who looked as if she'd been issued a death sentence, clad in a quaint old-world costume "packing fudge". (I can say that 100 times, and it never stops being funny.) Our conversation went something like this:

Fudge Packer: "You vant fudge?"

Fudge Buyer: "Uh, yeah, we'll take three chocolates and one peanut butter and chocolate."

Fudge Packer: "You vant vun more. Get vun free when buy four."

Fudge Buyer: "Excellent. Make that four chocolates."

Fudge Packer: "You vant separate box?"

I don't know if this conversation strikes anyone else funny, but it was all I could do not to beg her to say "moose and squirrel" just once, like Natasha on Bullwinkle.

As Frank and I love to do voices together - probably the secret ingredient of our successful marriage - we've been "talking Natasha" to each other ever since:

Frank: "I stuck here on God-forsaken rock for summer." (We were on Mackinac Island.)

Karen: "I strangle Boris for leaving me on rock in reediculous costume."

Being a quarter Russian, I feel it's only fair to disclose I have a natural advantage for my moose and squirrel accent. It's woven into my DNA.

Never Invite My Husband To Your Support Group

I have 9 lbs to go before I'm back at pre-pregnancy weight. I'm working hard. I'm at the gym four times a week. I've reduced my calories. I'm drinking lots of water. I am a machine.

Meanwhile, my husband comes home from work yesterday with a six-pack of chocolate chip muffins under his arm.

I eye the muffins. I eye him. I eye the muffins again. I sense a bit of drool in the corner of my mouth. I'm wondering what would possess this man to bring such tempting wonders into our house, knowing that if I can see it, I'm going to eat (read: devour) it.

Then, after the gym last night - after I spent an entire hour weight training, and feeling fantastic for it - Frank announces, "I want ice cream." I say OK, but only if we go to the little soft-serve place by our house so I can get frozen yogurt. "I want Oberweis," he says. Fifteen minutes later, I'm sucking down a fat- and calorie-loaded chocolate-chocolate chip shake.

If Frank isn't suddenly into women with big ol' badonkadonks, I'm going to have to get to the bottom of why he's constantly tempting me with sugary treats. Psychologists? Want to weigh in?

Twice Bitten, Thrice an Idiot

I like to think I learn my life lessons.

However.

I convinced myself my body could stand one more $70 bottle of Alli to help me lose my last 10 pounds of baby weight.

Guess what?

WRONG!

This time, I only made it through a week and a half before my stomach was ripping apart and I was afraid to go out in public. And let me tell you, I was CAREFUL. Because I know the side effects of this ungodly stuff.

So, what I'm trying to say is, if anyone is into self-mutilation, shoot me an email. I've got just the thing to make your day.

You Can't Dress Up a Bad Idea

Um, ladies?

I am fully prepared to bitch-slap any woman who wears these.

Let me say it for the record: Crocs are not cute. They are clunky, they don't go with anything, and they make you look like your man has no chance of ever having sex with you again. Putting a heel on a Croc is not going up their style factor. Or yours.

If you find yourself inexplicably drawn to these "shoes," email me fast for your own private intervention. I will happily surf over to zappos.com with you and find you a pair of hip kicks you can be proud to wear in public. It's the least I can do.

Flying With Meryl

While at the gym, trying to multitask the eliptical machine, my iPod and the closed captioning on the flat-panel TV, I found myself engrossed in Access Hollywood's interviews with the actors from Mama Mia. There is a scene where Meryl Streep is jumping on the bed and does a double dutch - that's where both legs shoot out to the sides and you lean forward to touch your toes midair. (If my description sucks, just refer to the photo.) I didn't think it was a good idea for a 59-year-old to even jump on the bed, for fear of breaking a hip. Doing a double-dutch? That's just lunacy.

During the interview, Meryl (we're on a first-name basis) explained that she was once a cheerleader, which was why she was able to pull off the jump - she said the skills never go away. Not only was I not able to do a double-dutch that well when I was 16, based on how stiff my body is when I have to get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom (I'm usually upright before sliding back into bed), I'm not expecting to be all that limber when I'm pushing 60. Guess I'll be taking a yoga class next week.