If you need immediate assistance, you're out of luck...

I've been on vacation all week and am now getting ready to leave for Asheville for my friend Aleigh's lovely wedding. There will be a carriage house, a rehearsal dinner, some Asheville sightseeing, and a wedding on a farm in the mountains. I won't be back until Tuesday of next week, so in lieu of a vacation post, I'll leave you with the following list (even though I'm not technically being a house guest this week, I have often been a house guest and hope to be one again in the future):

Why I am a poor houseguest...
I do not make the bed when I leave. (a) I assume my host will want to wash the sheets after I leave so they will be clean for the next guest, therefore making the bed is a waste of time and (b) I am spoiled and rarely make my own bed.

I leave odd things behind, like glitter, cat hair, and ominous quotes scribbled on Post-Its ("Sometimes you just have to pee in the sink." ~Charles Bukowski).

I smoke on the front porch in my pajamas and I don't care what your neighbors think.

I hog the television remote and insist on watching cartoons from around 11pm to 1am.

I feed your dog french fries until it farts, then complain about the smell.

There. I feel better. Now that I've put it all out there, let me also add that I try to balance out my faults by being entertaining, buying dinner (even if it's only a sack of tiny burgers from Krystal), and leaving good things like caramel crunch trail mix and Xanax behind. That said, I'm open to any invitations for the summer that might involve your guest room in your apartment in Paris, your country home, or being a third wheel for the weekend at your cabin in the mountains.

On being a fashion victim...

And by "victim," I mean victim - not aficionado, not fanatic, not devotee, and not really even enthusiast. Enthusiastic would not be one of the words I use to describe my relationship with fashion. My own personal style, in the past few years, has been mostly black - black skirts, black shirts with jeans, black tunics with jeans, black tanks with jeans. The lower rack in my closet looks like Denim Day at The Gap. The upper rack, like it belongs to a mortician's daughter. I had a brief flirtation with color when my hair was platinum blonde. But I think the bleach soaked through to my brain and made me do silly things, like wear all pink, so I could flip through photos later and wonder why that blonde girl is dressed like a box of Valentine's day candy hearts.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not all function and no form. I like a well-cut pair of jeans (so much, in fact, when I find a pair I like, I stock up). I will spend a lot of money on a shirt that fits well, looks good, and is comfortable. Other than that, I don't care who makes it when, where, and why. I do look for designer labels, but only because some of them are really well-made, not so I can answer "who are you wearing?" with "Prada" or "Marc Jacobs."

The victim part is my fault. I get set in my ways and want to be able to replace the black summer weight Liz Claiborne cardigan I bought two years ago that now has a hole in the sleeve with an identical cardigan, except Liz decided that she was going to focus on old lady golf clothing in pastels this year. I need a new pair of jeans, maybe two or three pair, because every pair of the EIGHT IDENTICAL Gap specials I own has some damage - paint, rip, wear, tear, bleach. I found out this morning that Gap no longer carries My Favorite Jean in My Size. I. Am. So. Vexed.

What to do? If you knew what it takes to find a good pair of wearable, comfortable, dependable jeans, you'd bring me a happy pill right now. As I mentioned in a previous post, I even gave a pair of boys' jeans a shot last week. They were OK, but just OK. The last time I set forth on this journey, it took me a year and eight months to find the right pair, wearing the XLs that I was four-to-six sizes too small for the whole while. Picture me: shuffling through malls and TJ Maxxes, through outlets and department stores, holding up the waistband of my baggy fatgirl pants with one hand and flipping through racks and racks of denim with the other. Not a pretty sight.

Thinking it might be time to change things (and by "things," I mean my wardrobe) up, I started reading some fashion blogs to see what might work for my new look. Will it be this? Or this? It won't be this because messy Boho has never been my thang. But maybe it could be my New Thang?

What I do like: The vintage-inspired pieces in Alvin Valley's Spring '07 collection. Especially this. And this.
I've always loved Diane Von Furstenberg , but I'm not sure I could pull this off. I would, however, try the bright tights-plus-tunic.
Then there's Graham & Spencer, Michael Kors, Betsey Johnson, and Nanette Lepore. If only they made dresses out of the same fabric as the t-shirts I sleep in. Stretchy. With drawstrings. And pockets.

Ideas are welcome, as long as they don't involved the words "fitted," "eighties-retro," "fluorescent," or "tube sock."

Five for Friday...

Listening to: "Only You & I" by Tim from Misspelled Marquee. I found it through IndieFeed's podcast last year and it's been part of my iTunes top 25 most played ever since. Also, The Whigs "Technology," James Figurine "Apologies," and The Black Angels "Black Grease."

Eating: A hard boiled egg (but I wish it was an egg & cheese bagel with ketchup) and a microwave organic veggie lasagna my art director gave me because I forgot my real lunch today.

Reading: A really awful book my sister gave me called How to Sleep With a Movie Star. It's mind-numbing brain candy, but Katie thought I'd like it for some reason. I'm worried that she thinks my job is like the one the main character in the book has at a Cosmo-esque women's magazine. It is not. And I do not care about movie stars or sleeping with them.

Wearing: Boys jeans (don't ask), my newly repurposed belt with the skull/bottle opener buckle, and a black Banana Republic tee.

Thinking about: My next book proposal. Apparently I don't have enough to do, so I'm ready to start another manuscript!

Dreaming is free...

Those of you who know me know that I hate it when people tell me about their dreams (unless I'm in them) so I usually don't share mine with others, but since I've been having a string of strange nocturnal visions this week I thought I'd share one in hopes of clearing the clutter.

I got a giant tattoo on my forearm (!), but it was done with special glitter ink that only showed up under a black light. It was a bunch of swirls and stars in light blue. I was just about to get another one on my neck when one of my exes showed up to tell me how stupid I was. And then he wanted to get back together. I told him he wasn't the boss of me and asked the tattoo artist to use black ink on the neck tattoo instead of the invisible ink.

Even in my dreams, I'm a bad girlfriend. Bad ex-girlfriend. Whatever.

Or do I just have PMS?

Do I really want to pull a Britney and cut all my hair off? Or is it just the first hot day of the year and my hair makes me feel sweaty? I keep running across really cute short haircut photos that make me want to take the leap.

Do I really want to get a dog? Or is it just that my cat doesn't love me enough? Will anyone ever love me enough?

Do I really need these? (The answer is: "no, you're supposed to be saving for a house.")

I hate to blame any behavior on hormones because I can be as crazy as crazy gets any day or time, but just to be on the safe side...no shopping, social activities involving other people, or major decision making for the next 24 hours. I have four Netflix movies, a six-pack of diet Dr. Pepper, Green & Black dark chocolate, and enough quinoa salad (why didn't the recipe say it blows up like couscous when you cook it?) to last me for a week. I think I'll make it.

Happy Friday, y'all.

Time to grow up...

Ever since my landlady called me last week to tell me she's putting the house I rent on the market for just over a half a million dollars (she did offer me first dibs on buying the place), I've been stressing about buying a place of my own.

I have rented for most of my adult life, first because I wasn't sure if I'd stay in Charleston, then because my credit sucked too hard to buy, then because I didn't have any money, and now just because I don't want to deal with the stress of owning my own place. Everything about owning seems so haaaarrrd, from inspection to taxes to regime fees to insurance to how much it costs to fix a leaky roof. I have a huge place right now with a working fireplace; my rent is much less than a mortgage (at least the mortgages of the people I know), I don't have to pay taxes on the place, worry about my house payment skyrocketing because the loan people randomly decide to raise the interest rate, and I can pick up the phone and call someone else to pay for whatever's broken.

I am the first one to admit that I am mulishly resistant when it comes to issues of finance and investment. I don't open my 401K or bank statements. I don't balance my checkbook (I have overdraft protection and a vague method of keeping up with how much money I have by accessing my account online). I have a few minor dings on my credit report that I hope will just go away eventually (magically). I don't like to talk or think about money, period. And I'm defensive as hell whenever someone launches into the "why you have to buy a house RIGHT NOW" speech.

What I don't like to admit: Being single is hard. I like to think of myself as single by choice (as opposed to single and desperate). Most of the time, I'm really happy that I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, without having to consider someone else. This weekend, for the first time in I-don't-know-how-many years, I actually wished I was half of a couple so I could have someone else help me deal with the Business of Me. Perhaps what I really need is a financial advisor, but what I was thinking is more along the lines of another person to worry about this stuff with me (not for me); and then there's the factor of having a second income.

The whole thing makes me feel weak. It also brings my self-esteem down a few notches in the Feminism category (because a truly independent woman would have all of this under control). I should be able to deal with all of this on my own, right? Shouldn't I be able to act like a grown up by now?

Note to self...

“The true self is a disturbing character, healthy and occasionally anarchistic, who knows how to play, how to say no to others and 'yes' to itself."
~ Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way

I just needed a little reminder.

Today's inspiration: Author Meghan Daum, the E! True Hollywood Story on Rachael Ray, the Washington Post's special section on feminism & art, finishing The Glass Castle, being in the middle of Then We Came to the End, very short stories, and TAL's new web site.

I expound at length regarding my lack of trunk junk...

I love my job. Where else would I have the opportunity to offer up 1,000 words on the shortcomings of my ass and get paid for it?

Read it here, or I can sum it up in a sentence: "My ass is defiant and its flatness more powerful than a $36 pair of silicone inserts."