What not to wear, how not to feel

SHUT THE FRONT DOOR! I've been obsessed with "What Not to Wear" for months. I watch it faithfully as I walk on the treadmill. Sometimes two or three episodes a day. So I am indebted to Stacy and Clinton for not only making my thighs smaller, but for taking my fashion knowledge from so-so to "hello!" S & C taught me that accessories should not match but "go" with your outfit. I learned all about proportion. That jackets help tie your outfit together and always make you look better. That your purse shouldn't match your shoes. And that said shoes should always be pointed toes.

Tonight I went to the first night of class for a new group and, bored while the teacher was talking, checked my Twitter feed to discover that Stacy London's coming to NWA tomorrow. During break I asked the Sam's peeps what time she'd be at the store. Turns out one of our students works for the company she's coming to represent. And she's going to ask if I can stop by their office tomorrow for a private meet and greet. OMG! I am giddy. Can you imagine? What in the world do I wear to meet such a fashionista (shut up, Amanda, the gray streak makes her look distinguished!)?

Other than excitement, my other emotions of the day included exasperation, impatience, and puzzlement. Plus, a first-rate case of jealousy. I hate feeling jealous. See, I love my life and most days I wouldn't trade places with anyone (save Giselle and Stacy London, who gets to tell people they dress like crap). But something happened today that brought out a serious case of the green monster.

So driving home tonight, I called Jen to make me feel less guilty about my petty feelings (and she did, 'cause she's awesome that way). But I'm still obsessing about it. And thinking that the boy ought to feel special that I care enough about him to be jealous. Because that's what jealousy is about, right? Being so into someone that you don't want them spending time with anyone else, or putting something before you?

Halfway home my iPod shuffled to a new song by the David Crowder Band, "How He Loves." And the opening line is "He is jealous for me. Loves like a hurricane. I am a tree, bending beneath the weight of His wind and mercy."

I'm ashamed. Not just because I'm so petty, but because I don't consider often enough how very lucky I am that the incomparable God is jealous for me.

"I don't have time to maintain these regrets when I think about... How He loves us..."

Why can't we be friends?

Those of you who've been following the Drivel more than a couple of years may remember the infamous "friend of friend," the boy I talked myself into being attracted to who, in turn, told me he wasn't attracted to me. Yeah, it's been two years, but I'm still mad about it.

Why are there so many men who find me unattractive? Seriously, what's up with that?

Before LB wasn't into me, FOF wasn't into me.

This weekend I'm in Mountain Home for a wedding shower for my friend. As in the latter "friend" in "friend of friend." And guess who was here... FOF.

I'm happy to report that I was the bigger person (although he was literally the bigger person) and said hello. He gave me a blank stare. He obviously didn't recognize me because he had no idea I would be at the party.

Later, however, he found it necessary to corner me to chit chat about what I was up to, how I liked my job, how I was... Thankfully some other guy rescued me and I was able to avoid a long conversation.

Because yeah, I'm still not into him, but I'm still mad he's not into me. I'm petty like that.

Citations by the fashion police

I blame Madonna. From the first moment she wore that white lace corset to sing "Like a Virgin," women everywhere have found it acceptable to show their undergarments in public. Listen up... they call them "undergarments" for a reason. They go UNDER garments. Not beside, not outside, not near, but UNDER. It's not rocket science.

So stop showing me your bra straps, ladies. They make t-back and strapless bras for a reason. Even if your bra is super cute, I do not want to see it. Yes, I wear my sexy pink and zebra bra to work all the time, but I don't show it off to others. I know it's there. No one else needs to.

And another thing, if you're wearing super low rise jeans, do not bend over. Crack kills.

Attention lady in front of me in yoga class tonight, low waisted yoga pants and granny panties don't mix. Wear higher pants or lower underwear. I saw your pink and green striped cotton panties so many times I nearly pulled a hamstring trying to look away. Namaste.

I don't know if I've been watching way too much "What Not to Wear" or I'm just reverting back to my fashionista ways, but I don't think most of America owns a mirror. Granted, I've been known to go to Walmart without makeup. I wore my yoga clothes to Target tonight. I don't always look runway worthy.

But stop with the "it's comfortable" excuses and dress like you care. Some of us have to look at you in the grocery store.

No more sweatpants. EVER. It's not okay. I subscribe to the Jerry Seinfeld philosophy: people who wear sweatpants have just given up on life.

There should be an audition process for the following: short shorts, spaghetti straps, thongs (not to be confused with flip flops, which you wear on your feet), bikinis, and tight shirts. If I can count your fat rolls from five feet, change your clothes. It's too tight.

Women of the world, raise your right hands and repeat after me: I vow to look in the mirror before I leave my house. I will not wear socks with sandals, hose with open-toed shoes (or hose at all, really), and any footwear that make my feet look like mushrooms. Pointed-toe shoes are uncomfortable, but they make my legs look long and fabulous. I will not wear things that are too tight, too short, or reveal any undergarment. My shoes do not have to match my handbag. My accessories should pop, not match. I will iron wrinkles. I will not use a safety pin to keep my blouse closed. I will not use my purse as a grocery sack, but will consider it part of my outfit. And, in the name of all that is good and holy, I will never, ever wear white shoes.

Another manic Monday

While I'm absolutely loving this weather, it's wreaking havoc on my allergies for some reason. This morning I helped out with 'Day of Caring' on campus, and I've had a headache since. Perhaps it was all of those tree limbs I hauled to the curb. Whatever the reason, I wish my headache would go away so that I could return to my former levels of productiveness.

We had a great weekend in Tulsa. Didn't spend much time in the pool, but we did do quite a bit of shopping and a little bit of napping. Not to mention a whole lot of eating. Joe made some awesome amaretto brownies. I walked two extra miles on the treadmill today, but I think it's going to take awhile to get over my weekend gluttony.

All for now. I'll write more later when I'm more coherent.

Lookin' good

I'm happy to report that Hope survived her first day of Kindergarten and, more importantly, so did Mrs. Howard. I didn't learn much about her academic endeavors, but she happily described recess, her new friends, and what she wore. She is so much like her sister (and a little bit like her aunt).

It's been a great week of work. Tonight I joined Kelly for yoga at the gym (my goal is to look like her, but I don't think it's happening), and now we're hanging out at her place. I can't wait to move to Rogers and be her neighbor. I can see my office from my bedroom window here.

Tomorrow after work I'm headed to Tulsa to hang out with Joe and the Tullgrens all weekend. We've got major plans of lounging by the pool and taking naps.

It's a beautiful night... the weather is crisp, and football's on TV. All is well in my world. (And yeah, I met LB one year ago today, but who's counting? Enough!)

Back to school

I don't know which is harder to believe: the fact that Taylor is now a SENIOR in high school, or that Hope starts Kindergarten tomorrow. They both make me feel very, very old.

Flattery will get you everywhere

Thanks for all of the sweet comments on here and on Facebook yesterday and today. You guys are too nice, and you totally motivated me to get off my lazy butt and drag out the yoga mat tonight. Granted, I ate chips right afterward, but still...

I think I'm still recovering from my wild weekend, because I was totally dragging this morning. I was up late baking cookies last night and I showed the house to someone at 9:30 p.m. (they loved it but are not ready to buy). I had a ton of excess energy that seemed to dissipate by this morning, when I was awakened by the 4 a.m. storm and not able to go back to sleep until nearly 6.

I worked from home most of today which is great in theory, but always means I spend more than 8 hours at my laptop. I finally stopped writing around 7, when I unrolled the yoga mat and took out my frustrations on downward facing dog. Thankfully tomorrow's a (relatively) short day, and with a late meeting on campus, I'll be at home early enough to work out and catch up on my DVR a bit. This commute is going to kill me when fall TV starts.

Obviously my creative juices are dry after writing web content all day, so you'll have to excuse my lame attempt at blogging. However, if you'd like me to espouse the merits of college enrollment, I can write about that all day.

All for now. I'm crashing for the night.

Dancing with myself

It always astounds me that there are people in this world willing to go out dancing alone. Sure, as a professional who travels, I've forced myself to get a table for one at restaurants. I'll sit in a coffee shop alone and drink a latte. I'll even see a movie by myself. I don't normally feel the need to have others to keep me company in my activities.

But who are these people who boogie by themselves?

Oh sure, society encourages us to dance like no one is watching, but seldom do any of us actually do that. We dance like everyone's watching, and we only dance with the safety of our friends in tandem. Perhaps we need the camaraderie of awkward hip shakes. Or maybe we take comfort in knowing someone else knows the lyrics about apple bottom jeans and boots with the fur.

I guess alcohol is the ultimate weapon for letting down the guard, but I saw so many people this weekend who needed to have theirs lifted back up.

Like the chick at the piano bar in Austin, who valiantly tried to get others to dance with her for several hours. No one did. Not even her embarrassed husband. Or the other husband she tried to dance with, before his wife drug him away. Seriously, when the whole place is making fun of you, don't you give up?

Or the poor guy playing shuffleboard on Saturday, whose wife just left him after 15 years. How do I know that? He told Lonnie, me, Jen, Jen's classmates, the server, some chick walking by, and the one-man band (can't remember his name, but he has a page on MySpace, so I just called him "MySpace" for the rest of the night) who played the obscure country songs. Lonnie has his card. Perhaps they can hang out again soon.

Or the guy wearing the fancy white Hanes t-shirt late Saturday night, who danced to a beat no one else heard, all the while holding a cigarette in one hand and a beer bottle in the other. Song after song after song. After Jen and I openly mocked him.

I suppose you have to give props to someone with that much self-esteem. Or maybe just lack of self-awareness.

Nonetheless, here's to you, solitary dancer. Rock on.

God bless Texas

I'll write more details tomorrow, but suffice it to say that I had a really, really fun weekend. The best in a long time. We stayed out 'til 3 a.m. on Friday and 2:30 a.m. last night, so I'm tired and need to rest up for work. Here are some pics to hold you over until I can write all about our awesome weekend in Texas.

Jen and me on 6th Street in Austin



Lonnie and Jen at Pete's, a dueling piano bar



Jen and I had a great time.. Lonnie even had fun

I'm all out of love

I'm not quite sure why, but I've had Air Supply tunes running through my head all day which means that I'm either (a) a gay ice dancer; or (b) exhausted to the point of delusion.

This little three-day work week has turned out to be quite the roller coaster. What kind of admissions director decides to take two days of vacation the week before four groups start? (A stupid one.) Does she not own a calendar? (Yes, she does. But she also owns a BlackBerry AND a brand-new MacBook Pro that will go through airport security and make her oh-so-accessible on vacation.)

I've discovered that the bad thing about three-day weeks is that you don't have a mere 24 hours worth of work. You still have 40 hours worth of work or more, you just have to cram it in the three days you're technically "working." And even then some of it spills over into your vacation time.

Yesterday my alarm sounded at 5:15 so that I could pack and put on a suit and meet my boss by 7 a.m. to drive to Harrison where I made small talk with strangers. I then drove through McDonalds for a regular cheeseburger with no pickles on my way to the office to frantically work on some files and freak out everyone in my general vicinity before driving to Fort Smith for the evening. Today I awoke at 5 a.m. to attempt creative writing, left the hotel at 7:15 a.m. for a downtown breakfast (more small talk with strangers), had a meeting, drove back to the office, pushed some more files around, ate Doritos and a 3 Muskateers for lunch at my desk, sped to campus for an admissions meeting, frantically searched for a network connection in a random office before I was kicked out at 6 p.m. while working on a "thing for the President if you have time," then finally finished and submitted my writing project that had to be done today at 8:22 p.m. I'm exhausted and still need to unpack and repack.

Lest you feel too sorry for me, I do feel the need to point out that in the past 24 hours I've eaten one of the best steaks of my life with Larry and Ashley, hung out with the very precious twins E and P Diddy, languished in a 30-minute whirlpool bath in a hotel room, talked to my awesome brother on the phone, and opened an unexpected check from my mortgage company. Tomorrow I have to stop by campus for a bit, then it's a day of massages and hair appointments (while my housekeeper cleans), driving to Tulsa, and boarding a jet plane bound for DFW. Can't wait to hang out with Lonnie and Jen this weekend. Woo-hoo! Just hope I can fit in sushi and Pappadeaux.

There is that pesky little conference call on Friday morning, but them's the breaks.

Oh, and in the words of Kat Ellis in "The Wedding Date" (seen 32 times per week on TBS) about Air Supply, "Everyone knows their greatest hits, but some of their ballads are surprisingly poignant."

Like sands through the hourglass

Growing up, I wished my life away. I couldn't wait for the school year to end. To start high school. Begin college. Get a real job. I've spent most of my life, it seems, in hurry-up mode.

Because I couldn't wait to get older. At 16 I'd get to drive. At 18, vote and go to college. At 21... well, you know the rest. It seemed my life couldn't pass by quickly enough.

Until recently. Now it's all a blur. It's totally true what my mom said; time passes by more quickly as you age. It doesn't just fly... it flies at Concorde speed.

All of a sudden, instead of waiting to do things, it seems that I've waited too long for things. My 20s are a distant memory. I'm covering up my gray. Taking vitamins. Watching my chest point toward my knees.

When did this happen? When did I become the spinster who is no longer asked when she'll have children? Why do people no longer wonder when I'll settle down, but rather assume I'm not worth settling?

Old age ain't for sissies. But I'm refusing to go down without a fight. As long as they make good hair color, treadmills, and bras, I will defer the aging process.

I still feel 25. Who cares what my driver's license says?

Now I must go to bed before the 10 o'clock news.

It's finally Friday

Man, it's been a very long day. And a stressful one. But thankfully I drowned my sorrows in some Chinese food and the 20% off sale at Express. I might have purchased yet another pair of jeans. It's a sickness, really. But it's been years since I've found jeans that actually fit and don't create a muffin top. I now enjoy looking in the three-way mirror a little bit too much.

My self-esteem was too high when I was fat. I'm really full of myself these days.

Sure, I have to go through the entire stack of jeans at Express to get to larger sizes (who's a 0 long, anyway? Giselle doesn't live in Fayetteville), but at least I can finally shop there.

Jennifer is evidently dragging me to some new intern extravaganza at the hospital next weekend, so I'll do my best to land a cute doctor (not one who excessively text messages). She has assured me that I need to wear really tight jeans. I'm not sure if that's sage advice or merely sabotage. I am sure that it will be 900 degrees in central Texas next weekend, so at least my hair will frizz and be higher than usual. 'Cause in Texas, the higher the hair, the closer to God, right?

Speaking of closer to God, my plane lands at DFW, so I'm kind of pumped about seeing the new Cowboys stadium. I think it's out of my way, but I am very curious to see what $900 million buys these days.

Tomorrow I have big plans of sleeping in, yoga, napping, church, then dinner and a movie with my friend Lori (I'm not speaking in third person; I actually have a friend named Lori who is tall, sarcastic, single, and supremely cool.. sound familiar?). This is my last free weekend for awhile, so I'm trying to bank some sleep time. Of course, I do plan to nap all day at Lonnie and Jen's on Friday while they go to work like chumps. I'll need to recover from my 47-minute flight.

Hope everyone had a fabulous week!

I hate myself for loving you

It's official. I'm sick of mooning over LB.

Since the big dinner making, he hasn't called. He hasn't texted. He hasn't e-mailed. And yeah, I'm sure he feels weird and doesn't know what to say. And I'm guessing he's still dating my friend. And really, isn't it better that he's leaving me alone and giving me time to get over this weird obsession?

Seriously, he's not that special. What the heck is wrong with me?

Why did I give in? I was making progress. But seeing him again and him still being such a great guy was not good for me.

I'm tired of thinking about him. I'm sick of being nice to his family not just because they're very nice to me, but because I want one of them to say to him, "Are you crazy? She's so great." I hate that my motivation to get up at 5 a.m. every morning and get on the treadmill or yoga mat is not so that I'll look good in my skinny jeans, but because I want to run into him randomly and him to think I look fabulous. To consider he made a big mistake. Ugh. I hate that I'm that girl. I make fun of those girls.

I am smart. I am confident. I am comfortable in social situations. I can discuss the economy, the upcoming NFL season, and argue the merits of domestic versus imported beer. I am a great cook. Men should be lining up for my pot roast and sports stats. I am a catch.

But I'm also realistic. Guys in my past I haven't been attracted to have gotten better jobs, lost weight, learned how to dress, and gained more confidence, but it doesn't make me more attracted. I don't regret not dating them. Ever. So why would I think this situation would be any different?

Because, at the end of the day, I can't get younger or shorter. I can't stop being who I am. And if who I am isn't good enough, that's his loss, right?

So in the spirit of moving on, I was talking to a friend of mine tonight at a work thing. We're casual friends and don't see each other often nor share deep secrets, but I was telling her that I would really like to meet someone. She suddenly has a thought. "Oh my gosh, I totally know someone. I mean, he's younger than you, but knowing both of you, I can totally see you together. He's such a nice guy. Laid-back. Down to earth. Smart. Funny."

I know what you're thinking... sounds perfect right? Just what I need to get over loser LB.

I ask how she knows him. He's her lawyer. Yep, you guessed it... the perfect guy for me, according to her, is LB. (I don't just mean a guy like him, I literally mean him. She knows HIM and wants to set us up.)

Ugh. Seriously. Attention universe... stop screwing with me!

Just one of those days

Do any of you ever come home from work, exhausted, and yet wonder what you did all day? That was my day today. Nothing crossed off the ol' to-do list. Stuff added to the list, but nothing accomplished rather than meetings, meetings, meetings. And today was my extra special work-from-home day. How did that happen?

Granted, part of my tasks today included getting a pedicure and tanning, but still.. I did work stuff, too. I suppose I was getting too used to accomplishing things, so I needed to meet with some people to add to my list.

As part of my new look fabulous everyday campaign lest I run into anyone I need to impress, I have now started keeping my outfits in an Excel spreadsheet so that I don't repeat anything too often. Yeah, I'm so out of control, but when I changed offices, the chances of my running into someone and needing to look good increased exponentially. This morning I had to make friends with the tailor at my dry cleaners' (another personal errand... oops!) because none of my work clothes fit. Oh, I know... boo hoo. But this weight loss is getting expensive. And my belly fat remains, no matter how many crunches I do.

On a happier note, happy 37th anniversary to Memaw and Peep! Hope you enjoyed your anniversary cereal. Here's to 37th more years of wedded bliss!

Monday, Monday

Just so you know, I'm only updating this thing because it's been several days. I really have nothing to say. I know... what else is new?

Work is still going swimmingly well. All of my afternoon meetings were canceled, so I crossed 10 things off my to-do list. Then I had to add some more so that I could cross them off, too.

Weekend in Tulsa was great. We had brunch on Saturday morning at Queenie's, went shopping at Utica Square, then I took a three-hour nap. Dinner was Cheesecake Factory, followed by a dip in the pool. I came back early yesterday, just in time to take another three-hour nap.

I was productive last night, however. I unpacked, did laundry, and cleaned up the house so that I could take pics for the website. FSBO sign went in the ground this morning.

Happy birthday, Tom Brady! I don't care what Jen says, you're hotter than Peyton Manning.