THE Dress

I just got ungodly excited because it has finally hit me(after five long months of waiting) that tomorrow night I'm going to see Celtic Thunder live in concert.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


I found this picture on the internet. That face is akin to the face I have been making for the past hour and a half as I rushed around my room trying to figure out what on EARTH I was going to wear.

I like this picture. It makes me laugh.

Anyways.
My fashion dilemma.

So, for the past week, I've known exactly what I wanted to wear to the extravaganza (Yes, that is what I am referring to it as) tomorrow. It was perfect, too.

I have this glorious silk wrap top in a navy blue that I pair with a lovely lace camisole. The wrap part is made of sheer ribbon and it ties in a beautiful bow on the side. The short, cropped sleeves have those delicious teeny-tiny old-fashioned fabric buttons on them for a retro vintage sort of look.

Gorgeous.

I was going to finish it off with my favorite pair of dark denim, hug-your-curves, straight-legged jeans that I like to wear when I need a shallow ego boost and my favorite pair of patent leather, four-inch, peep-toe heels.

Classy, with a little bit of sexy thrown in for kicks, right?
Wrong!

I decided to try the outfit on tonight, just to be sure, even though I was confident it would look great. Confidence is attractive. Over-confidence is deadly.

Did it matter that I hadn't worn this special top in over two years? No.
Did it matter that I bought that pretty camisole when I was shorter, and a fair bit less bustier? Of course not!
And what about those high heels that I've never worn with those particular jeans, and have no idea what the heighth of the heel is going to do to the length of the hem? Pppsh, forget about it! No problems.

Yes, problems.
Lots of problems.

The shirt's too short, the camisole is way too tight, the girls are poppin' out and the length of the jeans looks HORRIBLE with the heels.
NOT TO MENTION the fact that I had a few peices of halloween candy and a few handfuls of doritos this afternoon and even though I ran 3.89 MILES today, I can't get the stinking pants to button.To BUTTON, for goodness sakes!


You have NO idea what that does to an inflated ego.


Phizzle..... Phizzle.... Ph.....izzle......phizzzzzzzzz........

*sound of my inflated ego dying FAST and being replaced with HUGE waves of "I'M SOOO FAAAATTTTTT!" and increased panicking as "freak mode" begins to take over*

Yeah, kind of like that...

So anyways, mild hysteria sets in. My sweet, pretty, relaxed and comfortable room becomes an evil, ugly, embattled warzone of clothes, hangers and shoes. Not pretty... and fairly dangerous, if you have bad ankles and a hellish heeled boot is lurking nearby under an innocent-looking cardigan sweater.


I try EVERYTHING. And I mean EVERYTHING. Other shiny, glittering tops, cardigans, tunics, shoes, etc.

But I am hellbent to wear those pants. All week I've been picturing that outfit in my head, barely containing my excitement to wear it and go out for a night on the town with my best friend! To eat Cuban food in those jeans, to take a jaunt on a city-lit street at night in those jeans, to cross my legs in uncontrollable excitement as those gorgeous voices reach my eager ears in THOSE jeans!
And then, just as everything seems lost and I look around my torn and battered room in ultimate defeat, nightmarish visions of myself wearing something similar to a gunny-sack to the concert, paired with corn husk shoes and streaming makeup haunting my every move as I start to circle the room, less panicked more focused, completely at a loss for what to wear.... it hits me.

The dress.

THE dress.

Not my favorite dress, and not the most stunning dress I own, but it's the best and closest thing to a clothing item soul mate that I will ever have.


I'm telling you, I have had this particular black dress (I own several. Don't give me that look. You know you do too.) for a long time. Like, almost five years, and it has saved my butt on more than one or two occasions.


It's a simple black dress, v-necked, ties in the back with capped sleeves and an elegant, but in an understated -sort- of -way skirt.


It's perfect, is what it is.

Tired, and battleworn, I reach to the very back of my closet and pull it off the hanger. (It's now one of the very few items left still on hangers).
Curiously, and with bated breath I slip it on over my head, grab a pair of simple black leggings from my drawer to dress it down, and take a look in the mirror.
A huge sigh of relief escapes. I lunge for my trusty pair of slouchy, fake-leather, almost-cowboy-style-but-really-more-pirate-ish black boots and slip them on over the leggings.
A smile breaks out and dances for joy on my face. The search is over.

Renewed and excited, I kick off the boots and try my favorite pair of red patent- leather pumps. Steve Madden. Nordstrom's knock-off... Every girl should own a pair.

AH! Even better. Now I have TWO options! TWO completely different looks, and TWO more reasons to thank Heaven above for that absolute, life-saving blessing of a simple black dress.

No gunny sacks, NO corn husk shoes, no feeling too fat squeezing into tight jeans with a half-hearted attempt at throwing together a frumpy lace camisole and a black cardigan on top, and best of all, no second-guessing every second how I look.

Confidence, and reliability, are wonderful things. And when you're confident because you're relying on something that has proven time and again to pass with shining colors and victorious fanfare, etc., nothing can bring you down.

Nothing.

Especially when you're feeling so confidant and relying on something SO wonderful because you're seeing these five delicious Irishmen (and one Scotsman) live in concert and the simple satisfaction that you know you look great is all you need to complete your proverbial "I could die happy" moment.

Especially the blonde one.
Only the blonde one, actually. Forget the rest.

Ahhh.

Yes.

So the adventure of finding the perfect outfit is over, thank God, and now I can sleep easy knowing tomorrow will be one of the funnest nights of my life, in one of the greatest dresses any woman could ever own.

Life is beautiful.

Goodnight.

Varying Degrees of Evil

This is the third day in a row I've felt compelled to update my blog. More importantly, this is the third day in a row I've been inspired to sit down and write. This makes me happy, and in turn, I have the desire to write about that too.
Life is beautiful today!

Side note: Doritos are evil. Especially ones of the nacho cheese persuasion. zzzxx.

(That was my neice's contribution. She's 2 and she loves laptops. I just spent the last 25 minutes in a diehard attempt to keep her away from my keyboard. She's currently sitting on Grandma's lap at the computer desk in the office, playing with a calculator. Go figure. :P )

I digress.

In other news: I ran 3.89 miles today, and my inflated ego is swaggering around under the impression that I deserve some sort of special treatment for my accomplishment. I'm going to let you in on a little secret about myself: I have the horrible tendency to think I'm incredibly awesome. It's a pride thing, and it's no good. But at least I'm never too hard on myself! There's a bright side to everything.
I will always be an eternal optimist. Especially when it comes to recognizing my own faults. ;)

Ack. I digress yet again.
I do that often.

I'm sitting in a lovely armchair by the window downstairs, and I decided to warm up my writing mind by blogging a little before I get some more serious work done on my novel.
I brought a fairly weighty stack of books with me, for inspiration, should it be hard to come by naturally.
First and foremost, I have my belove copy of The Bell Jar front and center, just within grabbing reach.
It's like my inspiration Bible this time around. I think it's because it has a similar sort of theme as my own story, which I have officially decided to call Tulips For Breakfast.
I think it has a pretty sort of ring to it.
Along with Sylvia Plath's magnum opus, I have A Streetcar Named Desire (and four more plays by Tennessee Williams), Nine Stories and Catcher in the Rye, my Emily Dickinson book of poems, and my trusty handbook of Edgar Allan Poe.
And a copy of Roget's Thesaurus, for good luck.
It should be happy writing, tonight!

Except, I'm just now realizing that it's Halloween, and I'm in charge of answering the door for trick or treaters tonight..... Not to mention my sister and I are here with a small child, watching Finding Nemo..........

Well... It was a nice thought, anyway.

I'm actually looking forward somewhat to handing out candy. Some of the little kids are so cute, in their infant-sized dinosaur and ladybug costumes.
It is kind of a weird night though, Halloween.
I'm not sure if it's all the cultural hype and timeless mythical lore surrounding All Hallow's Eve, but something in the air always puts me a little bit on edge.
I think I've seen a few too many horror films.
Although, according to Professor Giles, the resident librarian and ultimate source of knowledge on all things creepy and evil (as pertaining to Buffy the Vampire Slayer) says that Halloween is a relatively dead night (no pun intended) for the undead and icky.

I was just suddenly made so painfully aware of how nerdy I am.

....
The coolest little boys just came to the door.
One was dressed as Indiana Jones (complete with magic marker facial hair) and his friend was a Jedi.
Boys after my own dear heart.

The doorbell is now ringing too much for me to form complete thoughts anymore, time to end this post early.
Until next time....

Xx

E-T-E-R-N-I-T-Y

There's a play by Tennessee Williams entitled Summer and Smoke that is on my mind as I look out my window and see neither summer nor smoke.

In the story, there's a fountain in the middle of town and a beautiful angel rests in the middle of the fountain.
Little Alma, (which, you find out, is Spanish for soul) knows the angel's name.
It's carved on the bottom of the fountain, but you can't see it with your eyes because it's under the water.
you have to feel it with your fingertips.
E-T-E-K- No, not K, R-......

Eternity.
The angel's name is Eternity.

The name gives Little Alma the cold shivers.

______________________________________


Do you ever find yourself shamelessly spying on your neighbors?

I do.

There's a family across the street that is no longer a family.
For some curious reason, the wife moved out a few months ago and now lives in a house a few streets away, but in the same neighborhood.
She had one of those stickers on the back of her SUV with cartoon stick people images, one for each member of the family.
The dad has been unceremoniously scratched off of the car.
He still lives across the street with three of the kids.
They just left the house- him and the young ones. I believe she has the oldest living with her.
I wonder where he's taking them. She comes by every now and then, and they seem to remain somewhat courteous to each other, but she still undeniably lives in a different house and he is still undeniably angry and alone with the remaining children.
Their house is huge and green.
It's not an unattractive color of green, but sometimes I wonder if maybe all it came down to was that they disagreed about the color of their house.
Maybe she hated the Japanese Maple by their front door.
Maybe he cheated. Maybe she cheated.



E-T-E-R-N-I-T-Y.


"We always imagine eternity as something beyond our conception, something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, what if it's one little room, like a bath-house in the country, black and grimy and spiders in every corner?"- Fyodor Dostoyevsky


I guess we don't really know anything about eternity.
But it's comforting to know that somewhere, in the middle of some small town, there's a fountain with an Eternity angel as the centerpiece, who's name cannot be read, but can only be felt by human touch.

Direct collision, unabashed, blaring honesty.
Your eyes can trick you, but when your fingers collide with the cold, hard stone, you have been discovered.
You have been unhorsed, knocked off your high-stepping strutter of illusion, and you are no longer able to conceal yourself.

It's enough to give you the cold shivers, isn't it?

E-T-E-R-N-I-T-Y

"Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius and it's better to be asbolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jTa25ZaRl78

Sometimes I have a thousand things I want to say, but the words are hard to find.

It's like I have all the ingredients aligned and measured on the counter, but I have nothing to put them in.

That was a bad metaphor.

There's rain falling outside of my window, the clock has just struck 11:11 and I haven't made a wish yet.....

I hope it comes true.

I wish (just so you know, this isn't what I wished for a few minutes ago, although, now I think I should have wished this instead) that I could be more like Marilyn Monroe.
I don't mean bombshell, sex-pot, 'diamonds are a girl's best friend' glittering Marilyn (although she is fabulous), I mean strong, ambitious, tragic, "If you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best", winsome Marilyn.
The one who fought tooth and nail to make valuing yourself a desirable trait in women.

It hit me today that she is the unofficial spokesperson for womanhood.
WWMD?
Glamorous, smart, unassuming, aloof Marilyn.

Women are beautiful, and we're also very, very tragic.
It's our curse.
Our red carpet antics stem from our flair for the dramatic, and in the end all we are is tragic.
Tragic hair, tragic eyes, tragic mouths that curve into tragic smiles.
Tragic hearts, tragic laughs, tragic thoughts that carry us for many tragic miles.
But do you know the secret behind tragedy?
It's beautiful.
And because it's beautiful, we are desirable.
In all it's heart-breaking, unprecedented and luminescent truth, tragedy is beautiful.
It shines, drawing near all those who can relate to it's grand, glimmering orb, and who can relate to tragedy?
Everyone.
Therefore, it is inescapable, and because it's inescapable, we are desirable.

Truth.

I feel like Marilyn would agree with me on what I learned today.
I learned that sometimes, the greatest gift you can give to a hurting friend is not a shoulder to cry on, and it's not a present bought with money, and it's not soothing words whispered into sad, receiving ears.
The greatest gift you can give someone who is hurting is a fabulous homemade breakfast, and a chance for them to say what they feel without being judged, without giving opinions, and without offering advice.
A safe haven, a healthy environment for their already malnourished spirits.
A plate of pancakes with a cup of tea and the simple words, "I validate that", to brush away years of being heard, but not really listened to.

That's the key, isn't it?
You can hear a million different words in a day, but if you don't actually listen, they might as well have fallen on def ears.

It's like looking at ten different places on a map. Unless you actually see them, how are you to know which is best?

Life isn't about hearing the most, or looking at the most things....
Life's about listening when there's nothing to hear, and seeing when there's nothing to look at.
Giving thanks when nothing has been received.
Smiling when nothing has been said.
And most of all, laughing when the only thing left to do is cry.


"I believe that everything happens for a reason. People change so you can learn to let go, things go wrong so you can appreciate them when they're right, you believe lies so you eventually learn to trust no one but yourself, and sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together."
-Marilyn Monroe

Unearthly Diamonds

I had an experience last night.

First, I should start off by saying that I went and saw The Social Network with The Family, and it exceeded all my rather low expectations by miles and miles. So many amazing films have been released this year! In my opinion, this one ranks right up there with the likes of Inception and Avatar. It was such a fantastic screenplay, and the script was incredible. I laughed a lot. Coming home after the movie, I decided to try and find Mark Zuckerberg on Facebook... but you can't actually add him as a friend. You can message him, or become a fan... but not a friend. That was sad. ;)

However, I didn't come up and sit at my morning desk to blog about Mark Zuckerberg. I came up to blog about the amazing experience I had after the movie. On the way home, I was with two very close friends. Sitting in the passenger seat, it was my duty to control the music. We listened to Are You Still Mad by Alanis Morissette because, lately, I have been obsessing over her album "Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie". (Seriously. The entire album reduces me to raw inspiration. I. LOVE. IT.)
Anyways, as the words washed over my ears, I rolled down the window and looked out at the stars. Then it hit me.
As soon as I got home, I raced inside and changed into my pajamas, socks, oversized sweatshirt and grabbed an extra blanket or two for warmth. Then I grabbed my laptop, iPod and notebook and entered the frosty world outside. I curled up into a chair on the back patio, with a blanket and my laptop in my lap, earbuds plugged firmly into my ears and that Alanis Morissette album on repeat. It was time to write.
It was so cold outside, the temperature had drawn frosted patterns over the glass-top patio table. I could see my breath in front of me. The stars shone like unearthly diamonds in the navy sky and my fingers were tingling with unbridled excitement. It was like something had awoken deep inside of me, the frigid night air sharpened my senses and focused my mind...... The words started flowing and everything just melted away. Time seemed to stop, the minutes ceased ticking. Everything was beautiful. Nothing in that moment could be touched by pain or sorrow, or frustration. Inspiration in it's purest form came pouring forth from the stars above, and as I paused to look above me at their elusive, glittering patterns, I thought for only a moment how envious I was of the cosmos.
To shine so brightly that you light the darkened world every night, to watch as cities come to life and quiet suburbs go to meet their rest, to be the cause for so much celebration, inspiration, happiness, love and peacefulness, to be of the universe, yet so far removed from the world that its inhabitants can only dream of reaching you........
I've always been amazed at the starry sky. It's vast reaches have always boggled my mind.
A blue sky is always welcomed, and a grey sky is more comforting than any other, but a starry sky is unrivalled in it's simple beauty. And on a late night in mid-October, the world seems to come alive under its never-ending span of perfection.
I wrote and wrote and wrote.
And this time, I didn't feel dangerous- I felt deliriously overcome with contentedness, as if in that moment there was absolutely nowhere else in the entire world I would rather be, than wrapped in the arms of a cold, starry night.
The experience was so altering, I had to share.
:)

Dangerous Today

I don't know if it's the grey sky and windy chill outside, or the fact that I feel hyper-aware of everything in my surroundings, the feeling in my stomach that I get when I'm about to write something particularly discomforting, or the fact that I've been alone all morning, listening to chaotic songs that make me feel I'm slipping on the brink of insanity, but there is something going on in my head today.
It's that same sort of feeling you get when you listen to Like You by Evanescence.

Mostly, I think it just has to do with the fact that I've not been writing recently and all these inspirations have to manifest themselves in some way; they usually tend to manifest themselves in dark manners, dark feelings, dark thoughts... But somehow, it makes me feel more alive.
It's funny how you can have your whole day planned to a 'T'. You know exactly what needs to get done, and exactly how to get it done, and you are determined to finish it all by the end of the day. Then, suddenly, as you're listening to a song you haven't listened to in over a year, this feeling starts to bubble in the center of your stomach, and you realize that you're not going to get anything done today. You're not going to get anything done because you're being summoned by some invisible force, or trigger, that guides your mind completely away from the shadows of today, and plants it deep within your subconscious. Swirling around you, the inner corners of your mind rise like the ocean tides and you feel your fingers reach towards a pen. It's at this moment, you know you're not going to get anything done today because you have to write.
You've been triggered. Your subconscious has been awoken. There's no turning back.
Where's your notebook? Where's your laptop? The bittersweet piano intro is repeating in your ears, it's melody is what triggered you. It always has to do with a piano intro in a minor key, doesn't it? It does for me. That's my trigger.
I can't control the urge to write when I'm being led by a melody played on a piano.
I'm led, as if in some sort of trance, to the nearest platform that will take me into the wildly unstable and irresistable world of creativity at it's finest.
My mind is a furie. My eyes wide, frightened. My jaw clenched. Then I pause, close my eyes for a moment, breathe, and then they come. The words pour out like hot, sticky syrup over steaming pancakes. And for the next however many hours, I'm consumed in a passion.

There's a reason why a lot of writers live in exclusion. We're a rather scary breed, if you're not used to us. A lot of people don't understand the intensity, the anger, the frustration, the depression, the elation, the hyperactive thinking, the raw and unbridled joy,the excitement, the bitterness and the fierce confusion that comes with being a writer. In addition to the late-night eating, the midnight walks in cemeteries, the ecstasy getting caught in the rain brings, the deep appreciation for every written word, and the affection for dangerous thoughts, a lot of people think we're crazy.
We are crazy, but we also see things differently, and that in and of itself is a beautiful and dangerous thing. The thing that is perhaps the most unsettling about writers, however, is that you can go your whole life without knowing that you live in close relationship with one, until you witness a single fit of inspiration. We're different in a brilliant array of ways, but we're also everyday people. It's only when triggered that we turn into these word junkies in heavy need of a fix.
I've often thought it's better to live alone when working on a writing project. Writer's block is quite possibly one of the most depressing and frustrating experiences to live through, and also to witness.
Whether it lasts one hour, or three months, the depression is heavy.
It's a love-hate relationship, though, because sometimes, through the depression, you see something so tragic and so beautifully inescapable that you start writing about it, and through the trial you've earned a new blessing.
The instability is unforgivable, but most times, you don't even mind.
It's a writer's high.

You have to choose your poisons, right? I don't do drugs, I don't smoke and I rarely ever drink. I'm not even addicted to caffeine...
But I write. Fervently. I couldn't stop if I tried, and I never want to. It hurts like hell a lot of times, putting your deepest, sometimes darkest, thoughts on paper for everyone to read- you get your heart broken time after time after time, but it's worth it.
For that one jilted fragment of successful and complete satisfaction, the elation and the sense of completion- it's so worth it.

So that's why today is beautiful, in it's own dark way.
That's why I'm feeling a little bit dangerous today.
It's a good thing I'm alone.
Now, to follow that piano melody in a minor key as it tumbles heavily down the rabbit-hole........