You'd Think I'd Be Better At Climbing

Those of you who have had the pleasure of taking a kickboxing class with me, hahem, mylifeissonotironic, are well aware of the excessive length of my limbs, and my impressive lack of control over their motions in general.

I know. I'm almost 6 feet tall. Of course my limbs are long. I mean, my pediatrician marked my height in the 98th percentile every year. (I think this is where my unhealthy need to overachieve began. How can you fight nature?)

Regardless of height, my arms and legs sprouted well past proportionally correct. I knew this occurred in my early years, due to an elementary school memory of a class trip to the Lincoln Children's Zoo. In front of the cage housing the Bald Eagle, there was a life-size replica of the national emblem, showcasing his impressive wing span. Let's just say mine was awkwardly comparable. At the age of seven.

Again. Overachieving. Naturally.

Recently, I discovered a photo that made it very clear that these albatross arms have been with me from the very beginning:


This is my first birthday. First. As in one tiny year old. My mother is attempting to take one of those adorable pictures, where you place your delicate baby girl next to her first cake and it's all precious and adorable and pulls at heartstrings and will make all your friends comment on just how nuggetty and squeezable your infant is...

Sorry, mom.

Did I Stumble into Some Bad Lighting?

Dude I kind of dig is coming over to my apartment after work! Must make sure I prepare accordingly before heading to the office, so as to avoid being caught unawares, sporting unkempt hair and an unflattering outfit. Cue Clueless moment of Cher prepping for Christian's arrival. ... Probably should have selected a different movie moment for inspiration. Preferably one that didn't end in him being gay and her saying, "I don't get it."

Winning ensemble:
Hair carefully spiral-curled, black and white sheer polka dot blouse (with a cami underneath for reasons of work appropriateness), black frilly skirt, and, as a final touch, 60's cat-eye liner and red lips. (Pencil, not lipstick, for reasons of the hopefully-there-will-be-a-stellar-makeout-sesh variety.)

After work, I have 30 minutes for any touch-ups. One of these touch-ups involves removing the conservative cami to reveal a sassier lace layer beneath the sheer blouse. And by layer, I mean not really a layer at all. My mother would call it lingerie. But then she also called my game-day outfit lingerie, soooo...

Regardless.

Dude comes over. I proceed to behave in an uncharacteristically shy and awkward manner. Because I'm five. We have a lovely floor picnic, as I still have not managed to purchase a kitchen table. #beverlyhillbilly

Mid-picnic, dude asks, "Is that what you wore to work today?"

Fair question. There are two possible answers.

Conundrum.

Answer A:
"Yep! Well, minus a tank top - I'm not going to walk around the office like a ho."

Translation: "I knew you were coming over, so I started removing my clothing."

Awkward.

Answer B:
Yep!

Translation: I am the office whore.

Obviously, I went with Answer B. You know, to avoid any awkwardness.

...
...
...

I'll be back after I go feed my cats.

(Chosen outfit for my failed attempt at the art of seduction is pictured above. On me. While I'm holding a creepy doll at the Rose Bowl Flea Market. Somehow it all seemed very appropriate for this post.)

I Should Have Learned Something a Long Time Ago

I was reading through I Learned Something Today, checking to make sure it actually made sense - late night posts are not generally advised. Those who care about what's left of my dignity have done the advising. As I was reading the post, I was struck with the sudden realization that this was not the first time this type of experience occurred in my 22 years of life. (Like that?)

Freshman year of college, I decided to be Tinkerbell for Halloween. I am desperately opposed to pre-made costumes, so I decided to handcraft my best rendition of Tink. Two minor details slightly inhibited this process. 1. I did not have a sewing machine in my dorm room. Baby turtle, yes... sewing machine, no. 2. I had less than one day to put the whole thing together, due to my class schedule. And previous engagements at the 9-hole.

Nothing a quick trip to the garment district couldn't solve. I grabbed the greenest tulle and organza they had to offer, snipped off some elastic and ran back to the Radisson to sew myself to Neverland. The skirt was simple, and a corset proved an easy solution for a top. I covered most of the white corset in green fabric, leaving the back open for my friend to cinch up and then put the final touches on its fine fabric coating. Foreshadowing: She ties really gnarly knots and sews super miniature stitches.

The evening was a rollicking good time. Eventually, I bid my friends adieu and took the elevator to my room, ready to throw on some PJ's and crash. Right. So. Some articles of clothing can be twisted around on your body, enabling you to unfasten the back of them. A corset that has been tied to the point of inhibiting your normal breathing patterns can not be twisted in any direction. Urgle. I gave it my best effort, exhausting myself and accomplishing nothing. Finally, I took a deep breath, walked to the end of the hall and knocked on a guy friend's door, praying he would be awake/home/not with some chick. He was/was/wasn't. He helped to extricate me from my corset captor. It was awkward. And embarrassing. I resolved to be smarter in the future.
(Sidenote: It was a super-cute costume. Worth it.)

Speaking of being smarter in the future... I purchased this black cocktail dress from BCBG one December, thinking it was the perfect staple to get me through a few holiday parties. The zipper was a bit troublesome at the store, but when aren't they? I wore it to one festive shindig, after which the zipper apparently decided o get super janky and refuse to work ever again. Shocking. I didn't find this out until a couple hours before its next planned appearance. Too late to grab a zipper from Michael's or to take it to a seamstress. Hm. Wear something else? Nope. Nothing else will work. I hate everything in my closet, this is the only thing I could possibly even consider wearing tonight, anything else would make me want to die and not even go to the party at all because what's the point if I'm going to look like sh*t? Right. Frantic search through sewing box/craft closet. Ta da! Hook and eye closures. Done and done. I'll just sew these suckers on, hook myself up, and be ready to frolic.

Step 1: Check. Easy-peas-y. Step 2: F. This is awkward. Step 3 may be delayed.

Have you ever tried fastening hook and eye closures up your back? Let me also add in that this dress has a corset built into the top of it and is designed to fit perfectly (ie: No wiggle room. None. Which can be difficult for my ADD. Also difficult for the task that was on hand. (And yes, I have a thing for corseted tops. In an "I secretly think I can be Scarlett O'Hara" kind of way, not an "I like to shop on Hollywood Blvd., and check out these lucite platforms" kind of way.)

The first few aren't bad. They just take a little manipulation. The next 15 or so prove to be impossible. The feeling of trying to fasten these hook & eyes blindly was similar to the feeling of attempting to cut off the end of a hair ribbon in a mirror. Try it. You will feel neither smart nor coordinated.

At this time, I was living alone, in a guest house. The family in the main house was finishing up dinner. Parents. Two small children. And me, sheepishly knocking at the door, half-dressed. Classy.

Luckily, unhooking myself proved to a simpler feat. Silver lining? Loud sigh.

Smarter. Future. Yeah.

I Learned Something Today

If you need the assistance of a salesperson to zip up a dress while trying it on in a store, you will not be magically able to zip it up yourself once you get home.

I tried. For probably a solid 7 minutes. I managed to mangle two fingernails in the process, and still went out the door half undone. I bbmed a coworker on my way to the office, asking her to meet me at the elevator to top off my zip job.

I really shouldn't live alone.

I Am An Indian Giver. Truth.

icouldprobablyturnironyintoacupcake baked some of the most delicious cookies ever, and was kind (ahem, mean) enough to send me home with a few of them.

I ate one of the few on my long ride down on the elevator. Four floors. It’s exhausting. The other two sat in my StyleMint tote on my drive to West Hollywood. (Check that product plug. I’m going to go ahead and count them as a sponsor since they almost pay me enough to put food on my table. I still don’t have that table though, sooo maybe when that bonus comes in? That bonus. You know the one, Bossman. Proper noun.)

When I finally got to ithinkironyisSOfunny’s place, I was starving. Probably because my day’s worth of meals consisted of 20 almonds, 1 fage yogurt and 3 cookies. Maybe 4. I pulled out the bag of cookies. I was excited to share them with ithinkironyisSOfunny, because she is as big a fan of icouldprobablyturnironyintoacupcake’s baking as I am. I also figured the polite thing to do was offer them to her first.

…

I realized my mistake immediately. When I pulled them from my tote, I said “Oh, I brought icouldprobablyturnironyintoacupcake goodness!” Obviously, this inferred that I had already had more than my fair share of said goodness (truth) and these remaining two cookies were what I had set aside to share (should have been the truth, but every tooth I have is on the sweeter side, soooooo… yeah.)

ithinkironyisSOfunny was appropriately excited and appreciative. “These are amazing, aren’t they? Thank you so much!”

Urgle. Should have taken my bite on the way up the stairs. So stupid. What was I thinking?

I sat cross-legged on the floor, watching as she casually enjoyed the sweet, sweet morsels, completely oblivious to my inner struggle. She picked up the bag, ate a bite, set it back on her lap, continued conversation. I followed each step with pained attention. I did my best to respond to her friendly conversation, all the while wondering when she would tire of the perfect combination of sugar and salt, and how awkward it would be to ask if I could steal a bite of my gift of a gift.

Very. It would be very awkward. And a little bit weird. Stop judging me; you haven’t tried these cookies.

I’m going to go be fat now. Meow.