Can you feel the love?

Uh... nope! I don't do Valentine's Day. Call it what you will, maybe I'm bitter (in fact, you can check that version of me out over here. Please forgive the lack of content, it's new.), but I just don't like this day. It makes me uncomfortable. I think there's a lot of unfair pressure put on this day. For one, someone (usually the man) has to find a way to accurately sum up his feelings for his woman by magically finding the correct combination of overpriced, purchased crap (for more of my thoughts on overpriced crap, click here). Talk about pressure! If he doesn't do enough, his lady is going to think he doesn't care. If he does too much, his true love may think he's trying too hard, maybe attempting to make up for some un-confessed past misdeed... On the other hand, females feel some pressure on this day too (or at least I do). We are obligated to react to our counter-part's half-assed attempt at expressing their inner most feelings towards us through heart-shaped boxes and glittery Hallmark cards. Bleck.

I'm not sure when my contempt for this "holiday" began. Maybe it was in the fifth grade when I clearly remember having my heart crushed. My object of affection du jour hadn't even acknowledged me or the very thoughtful valentine (it was extra special because I had covered it in kisses before recess by the lockers) I secretly slipped into his shoebox "mailbox." (I was never the type of girl to make the first move. My mom had ingrained it into my head that good girls don't do that.) I was devastated.

Or maybe it was in high school. One year there was a Valentine's Day in which I was being pursued by two fellers (I'm not bragging. This isn't as fantastic as it sounds, trust me). These two gents took it upon themselves to use this day o' love as an opportunity to outdo each other with ridiculously useless gifts. I was swamped by roses (which I hate) and stuffed teddy bears too big to fit in my locker (gee, thanks, now what the hell do I do with this?), forcing me to haul them around to every class. I hate attention, and I blush very easily. I was mortified.

I insist every year that I don't want anything (which apparently means in girl-talk that I do in fact want something for V-day, at which point I have to once again mention that I am not your typical girl). No, really, I don't want anything. Please, don't even wish me a Happy Valentine's Day, because once you do I'll be obligated to say it back to you, therefore acknowledging the existence of this day that I loathe. If I want to tell you how I feel, I'll tell you how I feel (but most likely I won't). I don't need a special day to do it (or not do it).

To date, my most memorable Valentine's Days (above examples excluded) include the one where we took a trip to the McDonald's drive-thru, hit-up the corner store and rented a few movies (we were in college. This means of celebration may or may not have been influenced by an illicet substance). My other favorite V-day was the one in which I received this simple note, "Wanna be my valentine? Despite my lack of effort and spent money." Well, gee, when you put it that way, how can I resist?

I think I'm in love (again)

                           
that is all

He has returned!

     

Ah, life is good. Yes, everything in the world is right again. Christian Slater has returned to television. My prayers have been answered.

   

Seriously, I love Christian Slater. Alright, maybe not love, but I'm definitely, seriously infatuated with him. Ever since Will Scarlett chanted those magical words, "What a dope! He tripped on a rope! Now look at him shiver!" I was hooked. Maybe it was his sardonic humor or maybe it was those deviously squinty eyes, but regardless of what it was, I just CAN'T. GET. ENOUGH. 

         

I know some would cite Heathers as Christian's first (only) memorable role, but I was a mere eight years old when that movie came out, so I'm pretty sure I didn't see it until at least three or four years later, long after Will Scarlett stole my heart. Ah, Will Scarlett. Who didn't cry with him when he revealed to Robin that they were brothers and pleaded, "And what I want to know brother, is will you stay with us and finish what you started?" The tears well up just thinking about it (damn you, Kevin Costner, you don't deserve a brother). He introduced me to my first fuck, as in, "Fuck me, he cleared it!" (Sigh) And when he's being tortured in the dungeon and "turns" on Robin... (sigh) it was love.

       

I'll admit, Mr. Slater hasn't always had the greatest roles or chosen the best movies to be a part of (ahem, Bed of Roses? Really? Mary Stuart Masterson? Really? I can appreciate your romantic side, Mr. Slater, but who falls in love with Mary Stuart Masterson?). But he won me over again and again as Arkansas Dave and George Kuffs (and, hello! Milla Jovovich!). Gotta love that bad boy attitude!

    
But then I lost track of Christian for awhile (about ten years, to be more specific. Ten years of movies I've never even heard of, He Was a Quiet Man? What's that about?). In 2008 though, he returned in what I considered to be the best show on television*, My Own Worst Enemy, where he played not one, but TWO main characters. Score! But, ooh! Those geniuses at NBC had to go and cancel the show. Way to go NBC!

        

Fast forward to 2010 and switch the channel to ABC, and we have, The Forgotten. I have to admit, I haven't actually had the chance to watch this show yet. Unfortunately it airs after my other favorite show, Lost. (As soon as those credits roll, my sister and I are on the phone comparing notes and talking theories about our favorite island dwellers.) What I have seen of The Forgotten has been a muted Christian Slater. But I'm okay with that. At least he's back, and one of these nights I'm sure I'll catch the entire show. (Seriously, check out that scruff and those eyes, all wrapped up in a blue jean, leather-clad package. Yum!)

*but only after Lost, which is, of course, the best show on television.

I'm infected

          
I feel dirty. I feel violated, and I feel used.

How did this happen? I've always been so careful. When did this happen? If only I could retrace my steps. I can't believe this is happening to me. You hear about this sort of thing happening to other people, but I never thought it would happen to me. I guess most active people will become infected at least once during their lives,* but I never imagined that would include me.

I'm so ashamed and embarrassed. What it I've passed this on to someone else? What's going to happen when other people find out? How will I face them knowing that they know that I have...

A COMPUTER VIRUS {gasp!}

It's true. I found out this morning.** I was working on my computer when all these little alerts began popping up, announcing that my computer has been infected, a virus has been detected, blah, blah, blah. Do you want to run your antivirus software now?

Wait. What?

Now, by nature, I'm a Mac girl. I love my Mac, but it's a desktop, and for convenience sake I switched to a (borrowed) Windows laptop while I'm in grad school. I know very little about Windows, but I do know that my laptop doesn't have antivirus software on it. How do I know this? Well, about 9 or 10 months ago Norton antivirus kindly informed me that my subscription had expired. Would I like to renew now? At this point I turned to the man of the house (who will from here on out be referred to as the MOH) and inquired about this notification. Don't worry about it, he says. IT'S NOT IMPORTANT. I DON'T NEED IT. (Which, I have come to learn actually means I don't feel like dealing with it right now).

Back to my present dilemma. I happen to be smart enough to know that something isn't right here, but I'm not smart enough to know what that something is. So, I call the one person I know who is, the former MOH, who happens to work with computers FOR A LIVING.

The phone rings... and rings... and rings. No answer. Okay, it's 12:30, maybe he's in the shower. I'll try back later. Meanwhile, all these little messages keep popping up and dinging and beeping, and I enter panic mode. "Later" ends up being about two minutes. Still no answer. I hang up and and try again. Still no answer. I try again (in my crazed-female state-of-mind I truly believe he didn't hear the phone ringing before, but THIS TIME he will). I probably call about ten times in the span of 15 minutes, all the time becoming more and more hysterical. (I'm livid at this point. If he's ignoring my calls because he's involved in some stupid Call of Duty match...)

Finally, my phone rings just as I was about to dial for the umpteenth time. Sorry, he says, I was outside shoveling snow. I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR STUPID LITTLE SNOW! I HAVE A CRISIS HERE! So I explain the situation, at which point he informs me he can't help me. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN'T HELP ME!?! Maybe you should take it to Best Buy, he says, and see if they can help you. WHAT!? (at this point I am literally in tears and terrified that the last two years of my life, all my blood, sweat and tears is about to disappear into oblivion) I can't help you over the phone, he tells me. Can I call you back? I'm soaking wet and want to finish snow blowing. The snow is so wet, and heavy, and deep... CLICK

Yeah, I hung up on him. I'd like to note that he has a degree in psychology, and he should know that in the state I was in, it was not the time to brush me off because of a little snow (Okay, it just so happens they're getting hit with the biggest snowstorm ever in recorded history, but this is TWO YEARS OF MY LIFE!!).

I calm down, he calls me back and after some not-so-nice poking and prodding on my end, I finally get some useful information out of him, including the fact that as long as I don't mind the constant pop-ups, it's okay to use the computer, which is all I really needed to know in the first place. After suffering through his lectures about clicking on attachments in emails (which I know better than to do) and surfing for hockey porn (I don't even know what this means. He's a hockey player, maybe this is his idea of a joke), he informs me that he can probably fix it. In fact, he just fixed a few computers at work with the same problem (I'm taking really big, deep breaths at this point because I want to be nice. I NEED him to fix this). He informs me that if I take the hard drive out and mail it to him, he can take a look at it (to me, this sounds like he's just asked me to remove one of my lungs and FedEx it to him). Forget it, I tell him, I'll deal with it for now.

In conclusion, while my computer is under the influence of this virus, my presence will be sporadic.

* I totally made this tidbit up for the sake of this story. Sorry.

**This post was actually (hand)written on 2/6/10. My computer seems to be fine right now {knock on wood} which is why I am able to post this today.

I ♥ Etsy! The ADK Edition

    

For whatever reason, I have been feeling very homesick for the mountains recently. Maybe it's the depressing pseudo-winter I'm experiencing in this part of the world (it's been cold, then warm, sunny, then grey and very, very little snow). Therefore I present to you, the Adirondack version of I ♥ Etsy!. All items can be found on Etsy.com and are either inspired by the Adirondacks or made in the Adirondacks (or both!).

(left-to-right; top-to-bottom)

White-Tailed Deer Mug,  Adirondack Owl Journal, Rustic Maple Bowl, Adorable Adirondack Celadon Baby Cardigan, Adirondack Wonders, Eco Friendly Cedar Adirondack Chair, Wooden Cutting Board, Authentic by Sweetwater, Adirondack Chairs, Neptune by Tula Pink, Sky Blue Tags, Addie's Summer Lounge, Old Barn in Flowery Field, White-Tailed Deer Bowl, Adirondack Laid Back

Trinkets, Treasures and Pretty Things

    

I have fond memories of visiting my grandmother when I was a little girl. My grandmother's house was a treasure trove of little trinkets to discover and nooks to explore. Back home in the Adirondacks, my sisters and I spent most of our time exploring the woods, so it was always a treat to visit Grandma on Long Island. From the embroidered napkins in the dining room, the figurines in the entryway and the hatboxes in the attic, my sisters and I occupied ourselves for hours just exploring all the wonders. We were introduced to a world unknown to us. A world of hat pins, garters and girdles, fine china and silver.

When my Great Aunt, who lived most of her life in Florida, moved near us, her house introduced us to the novelty and tackiness of kitsch. Her furniture was the color of rainbow sherbet, her decor was gold and gaudy, but oh how fun it was to imagine her bright and floral world. Where my grandmother had pearls, my great aunt had plastic.

At home, the place to explore was my mother's jewelry box. Whenever she was away from the house for a bit, I would run into her room and carefully dig through the pretty things. I would try on her rings and wonder when in her past she wore them. I carefully examined every necklace and bracelet for any glimpse into my mother's past. Who was she when she was younger? I liked to imagine I could find the younger version of my mom in that magical wooden jewelry box.

Nowadays I don't have any places to visit and discover the treasures of the past. My grandmother and great aunt have since passed on. Occasionally, when I make it back home, I still take a peek in my mom's jewelry box. Now I have my own treasures to collect, my own connections to the past. I've even acquired some of my grandmother's and great aunt's trinkets. I'd like to think that someday my own daughter will root through my jewelry box and imagine what her mommy was like once upon a time.

 

(left-to-right: Hummel figurines from my great aunt, misc. figurines from my grandmother; a sock monkey made by my grandmother, my dad's childhood teddy bear, my Cabbage Patch Kid who has been with me since I was 3 or 4, Barry the Beaver, my first stuffed animal, who wears my hospital bracelet around his neck; a small collection of perfume bottles from my grandmother)

 

(left-to-right, top-to-bottom: my jewelry box with a picture of me and two of my sisters; cameo and pearl jewelry from my grandmother; a collection of lighters from my great aunt; my small collection of my special jewelry; a small, misc. container; a pretty ceramic container made by my grandmother; a pearlized pill box and fox tie tack from my grandmother; my grandmothers favorit clamshell earrings and a pair of teardrop costume earrings)

I submit to you, Exhibit A... my ass.

True story. I was taking some pictures of myself wearing the new shoes I bought today. Why? Because that's what I do. Not really. I was taking them to show my sis who lives about 6 hours away. She likes shoes and shoe shopping and all sorts of other girly stuff that I am no good at (I like to think that along with my right eye, she also stole my half of the girliness during gestation, but that's neither here nor there). I'm convinced I have some sort of condition that makes it impossible for me to find shoes that fit me. They fit fine in the store, but the moment I take them home they're either too loose and fall right off my feet or so tight my toes scream bloody murder every time I try to put them on. My closet is full of shoes I've worn once, but I digress.

I thought my sister would be proud of my recent purchases because, not only did I buy pointy-toed shoes, I bought pointy-toed boots. (I have to admit, this is only the 2nd time I've photographed my shoes for my sis to see, but after she was flabbergasted by my purchase of T-strap sandals! I felt I needed to show off my boots too.) So, there I was, standing in front of the mirror, snapping away at my feet when I was struck with a moment of brilliance. OMG, I wonder if my butt really looks the way I think it does when I look in the mirror!?

We've all been there at some point in time, right? You're in the fitting room, trying on the perfect pair of jeans, and your butt looks fabulous! and you just HAVE to buy them, right? Only to get them home and realize that your butt looks nothing at all like you thought it did? (I believe dressing rooms are secretly equipped with magic mirrors that make your ass look good in everything. On the flip side, they make your thighs look hideous in every single bathing suit you try one. I think it's all part of some man's conspiracy to keep normal women out of bikinis. There. The secrets out. You're welcome.) My perfect jeans are from H&M and have back pockets with flaps that make my butt look cute and high and round and perfectly grabbable. And the best part, they continued to look that way once I brought them home. Score! (Let me just add that nothing ever looks good in an H&M dressing room, so I felt like I had literally struck gold here.)

So, in typical What Not to Wear secret footage style (you know, that awful video footage they show to the women, who up until this point thought they looked good in what they were wearing until they saw themselves on film? From behind.) I photographed my butt. I submit for your consideration, my ass, or as I now like to refer to it, the-ass-that-never-was.

(sigh) I can just hear Stacey and Clinton now...

Clinton: Where's your tushie? There's no tushie here.

Stacey (as she waves her hand in circles over my butt):  Look at how flat this is. These are not flattering.

(SIGH) and the quest for the perfect pair of jeans continues. I'm sure hitting the stairmaster couldn't hurt either.