You know life's gotten too busy...

...when a few months go by and you realize that you have completely forgotten that you have a blog - one that you started with full intentions of updating on a regular basis. Somewhere around mid to late March, days began to fly by and weeks seemed to mesh together. A few visits from out-of-town guests, a few visits to out-of-town friends and family, and a new job later, I realized that I've completely missed out on the first half of summer. As August rapidly approaches, I sit here with my usual pale white skin (mission to get a gorgeous bronze tan = epic fail!), under-eye circles, and a headache, and wonder at what point do we stop living life to it's fullest and resign to becoming a slave to the expected normalcy of adulthood?

Perhaps it's the long-distance move that has suddenly made me so fond of my pre-adulthood memories, but lately, all I want to do is scream "I DON'T WANNA GROW UP, DON'T WANNA GROW UP!" I find myself longing for those lazy days of summer, where the most stressful thing on your mind was whether or not you'd finish the summer reading list before the first day of school. It's funny how the simplest things are the ones that stand out when you look back. Realizing that your fingers are stained purple from picking blackberries all morning, feeling sticky from head to toe after climbing to the top of the fig tree to reach the ripest fruit, smelling the freshly cut grass as you roll down the levee - laughing the whole way down, lying on the backyard swing while listening to the birds happily singing, stealing a taste of the fresh plums that grew on the tree in the backyard - these are the memories that stand out the most. I'm not sure what it is about growing older that makes us somehow forget to enjoy the simple things in life - the things that effortlessly bring a smile to your face, but as I get older and the summers seem to come and go faster - and seem far less exciting while they're here - it's those simple things that I long for the most, that I would gladly trade a week's pay in return for a week's worth of simple, care-free indulgence.

Perhaps I'm rebelling against the fact that the big 3-0 is now less than two months away and yet I sometimes already feel older than that, but I think that Peter Pan was seriously on to something. Sure, I may have to get older, but there's nothing wrong with being a child at heart. So what if I get the urge to run through the sprinklers every time they spring to life in the backyard? So what if my greatest joy on a hot day is a double-scoop of cookies & cream ice cream in a waffle cone? So what if I occasionally still have the urge to push-start the grocery basket and ride it through the parking lot? And, so what if, at almost 30, I haven't gotten it all figured out yet. Life is a journey to be enjoyed and, while care-free months off for the majority of summertime are not exactly a privilege to be enjoyed by most adults, that doesn't mean that we can't still partake in the simple goodness that summertime offers. I think William W. Purkey said it best when he said "You've gotta dance like there's nobody watching, Love like you'll never be hurt, Sing like there's nobody listening,
And live like it's heaven on earth." It may take some letting go to do so, but I certainly intend to try!

I've experienced the "generation gap" as the old one...

...and I don't think I like it. Maybe I should rewind and explain. Like most women and gay men on earth, I really enjoy shopping, it resides at the top of my list of things that I love, right along with food, fine wine, and the smell of fresh clean sheets. My husband, on the other hand, would rather sit on hot coals while watching a Twilight marathon than have to peruse the mall and, God forbid, actually try on clothes. So, last week when he told me that we needed to go to the mall because he really needed new jeans, my inner fashion diva did a cartwheel and a quick little cheer – I had a reason to go shopping and it wasn't even my idea! Here's the thing, in order to keep the hubby from giving up on shopping like an addict gives up on sobriety, I had to stay focused - constantly remind him that lack of success in one store doesn't mean that he won't find a good pair of jeans, it just meant that we had to press on with our search. Shopping isn't a sprint, it's a marathon.

Shopping with a man means going into stores that you usually wouldn't browse on your own, which also means noticing trends that you normally ignore, but after spending a considerable amount of time in stores where the majority of the sales associates are males between the ages of, oh, say 16-24, I began to realize that either I'm way off on what is stylish, or I'm just getting old, and I'm pretty sure that the second explanation is the more plausible one.

This revelation first came to me when stepping into the dreaded Abercrombie & Fitch - a store that I usually avoid like the plague because it annoys me just to walk past it, so I've always assumed that actually entering the place would be as enjoyable as jumping off of a bridge, but after repeated attempts to find a decent pair of jeans with no success, we were getting desperate - and desperate times call for desperate measures. After immediately realizing that the combination of extremely loud, awful music and potent musky cologne would indeed make this place the least enjoyable store in which I've ever shopped, we headed for men's jeans, where we were met by an 18ish year old guy wearing a shirt that he must have swiped from his 10 year-old brother's closet and pants that he could only have borrowed from his girlfriend. His hair was clearly inspired by DJ Pauly D (that's the Jersey Shore guy, right?) After warding him off,  saying we were just browsing, the hubby grabbed a few pairs of jeans and headed to the fitting room, where we were met by another employee who clearly thought of Justin Bieber as his style idol. After a few minutes in the fitting room, the hubby came out rolling his eyes, muttering something about "damn TAPS" (to those of you who don't share the hubby's lingo, that would be "tight ass pants") and we moved on. A quick peak in Hollister told us that it was  clearly just Abercrombie & Fitch's evil plan to dominate the mall by creating identical stores under another name, so we skipped that fiasco.


I think this is what they were aspiring to...my hopes for the future generation were just flushed down the toilet.

The next few stops on the mission highlighted a whole other gag-inducing style which I can only assume is referred to as "emo." You know the look - dark greasy hair brushed into the eyes, guy liner, trying their best to look depressed even though they have everything they could ever want, they just think it makes them look cool. I prefer to call this "pop gothic." And I blame the whole situation on Pete Wentz.



Sorry, you get no street cred for trying too hard...just sayin'!

 Eventually, we did find jeans for the hubby, at Express Men – why we didn't go here first, I'll never know, but I all I could think as the day went on is how do young girls find these looks attractive? I don't think that I'm so old that I'm out of touch with reality, but if I were 15 again and this was the pool that I had to choose from, I think I'd either remain boyfriend-less or consider switching to the other team. I'm kind of glad that I don't have children yet, especially ones that are tweens or teens, because I'd like to believe that I'd be an open-minded parent who lets my children make their own decisions, but if I had a son that dressed like that, I'd have to tell him to man up, shave his head and force him to wear khakis and polos for a month just to prove a point. I swear, I think I actually prefer the "baggy jeans with the underwear hanging out" look to the "Justin Bieber meets Marilyn Manson" look.

So, to conclude, either the younger generation needs to get another style icon and quick, or I just need to accept the fact that I'm officially in the "older generation" and realize that I may never again find the trends of those younger than me to be cute or fashionable. But, the day that I start complaining about those "damn youngsters," someone please slap me. Thank you!

What's as much fun as packing for a trip?

Maybe getting your dress stuck in the door of a moving car and having to run in heels to keep up with it to prevent impending doom? Or being forced to gorge yourself with a food that you absolutely despise for an extended period of time? Or maybe having your face pounded in by a mixed martial arts fighter? If you haven't yet caught on, it's pretty safe to assume that packing is one of my least favorite activities in the world to do.

This all started when we decided to go home for a week to celebrate the hubby's 30th birthday with family and friends. Is there really a better way to welcome the forth decade of your life than to spend a completely relaxed week filled with good friends, good food, and good music? Probably not. The thing is, when you are unsure of exactly what activities will fill the days and nights of your trip, and you're going back to a place where the only thing more unpredictable than the weather is the amount of weight that you'll put on by the time you return home (thanks to the amazing food that you can't find anywhere else,) it becomes very difficult to choose an appropriate wardrobe to bring. Add to that the fact that your one carry-on item must be replaced by your 13 pound spoiled rotten Maltese, which means you are allowed a total of  two bags under 50 pounds, and the dilemma is further exaccerbated.

So, this little situation is what led to me sitting on the floor of my bedroom, surrounded by a mass of chaos that can only be described as looking as if my closet threw up. After remaining stuck in the cycle of packing, unpacking, reconfiguring what I can bring, repacking, weighing the suitcases, realizing I'm still over on weight limit <sanity pizza break>  figuring what outfits can be reworked and what jeans can be worn twice, sadly narrowing shoe selection to only two pairs of black boots (one which will be worn on the flight, how's that for space saving!), two pairs of heels, one pair of tennis shoes, and two pairs of sandals, and repacking - again, I have finally managed to get my two suitcases to right below their maximum weight limit, which, to me, feels like completing a freaking marathon - in record time (and by that, I mean taking longer than it's ever taken anyone else to complete.)

Ok, so I have to admit that I have the slightest touch of OCD (hold the laughter,) which is probably a huge contributing factor to my packing-induced mania. The hubby initially thought that my stress over packing was funny, and that it seemed far more complicated than it should be, but that was over 24 hours ago. Now, I'm pretty sure he just thinks it's ridiculous. He's completely given up on our night out at the movies in lieu of watching a Cops marathon, which I'm sure he's not terribly torn up about. But I have to admit that even I am a bit aggravated with myself at this point. Because, truth be told, it really should not be this difficult. It seems so much easier for a guy to pack: a few pairs of jeans, a few t-shirts, a sweater or two, a jacket, underwear, socks, shoes: done. If something gets worn twice or even three times, so be it. At least that's my hubby's attitude. So, why isn't it that easy for me? Two words: Anal Retentive! As I just mentioned, I am definitely OCD, or, as a friend's mother once put it, I have "CDO - I have to put the letters in the right order." I have to agree, I guess I'm a little obsessed with perfection, and I have no problem with admitting it because clearly it's true, and looking back on the last 24 hours (or the last 24 years) I have to have a good laugh at myself.

So, to end this little poke at my obsessive, anal retentive, can't make a decision self, all I have to say is that the weather better be relatively mild back home, and we can only go out someplace really nice once. Other than that, let's keep it relatively casual - because if I have to shop for new clothes while I'm home, my only option will be to either ship them back to Vegas or leave them behind :(

It's 2011? Did I sleep through 2010?

I've always heard that, as you get older, the years go by faster. Given that I blinked and damn near missed 2010, I'm guessing it's true. 2010 was a completely insane, unsettled year, and is mostly a blur. So with the beginning of 2011 here, the last year of my 20's <pouting>, I have decided that I will push myself to actually achieve the goals that I have successfully put off nearly every year since I began making resolutions, and to achieve them before I hit 30. Those goals would be:

-Get in better shape (no eye-rolling, I'm really going to do it this year!)
-Learn to play the piano. I can play a mean Mary Had a Little Lamb, but since I'm not six years old, no one's impressed.
-Volunteer more – or, to be honest, just plain volunteer, period.
-Get a hobby. Painting? Sewing? Photography? I'm not really sure yet, but I'll let you know when I figure it out.
-Learn a foreign language – probably Spanish...or Italian if that will convince the hubby to take me to Italy.)
-Finally print the six or so years-worth of digital photos that I have saved on the computer and organize them into albums.

I initially was extremely motivated to acheive my little list of 2011 to-dos. How hard can it be? Right? Well, the minute my plane left New Orleans the day after Christmas, I already felt that motivation draining away. Maybe it's because my motivation was already being replaced by homesickness, or because I managed to pick up what I can only describe as the NOLA sludge (because I seem to come down with it everytime I've visited a quarter bar since I left) while I was home – sinus infection, cough, clogged ears, sore throat – you get the pic. Maybe it's because the energy of being surrounded by family and friends while I was home was quickly replaced with quiet day-to-day life when I got home, or because I spent New Year's Eve sick on the couch watching everyone else having a blast (I know it's supposed to be fun, it at the time, it really felt like rubbing-it-in)? Regardless of the reason, the fact is that I suddenly didn't feel so motivated anymore.

Just when I was wallowing in my self-inflicted homesick, stuffy-headed, motivation lacking misery, something happened that completely changed my mood: It started snowing!


If it can snow in the desert, surely I can learn to play piano!

Given that I lived through Snowmageddon, snow should not be something that excites me. But this is snow in the desert - one of the hottest places in the US, and here we are, covered in a blanket of white, fluffy smile-inducing, giggle-inciting snow.  I felt like a kid on Christmas morning. After the bizarre excitement subsided, I had that AH HA! moment, where I felt like a new-age freak waiting for a sign. I should always expect the unexpected. The last thing I expected was to actually get blanketed by snow in the desert. I thought that I surely left that behind when I left DC. So, after having a moment of feeling like a kid again, I sit here suddenly feeling excited to go after my list again...as soon as I can completely shake the sludge. And come September, when I bid farewell to my 20's and set forth on the journey into the fourth decade of my life, I will do so with six-pack abs and wearing my original self-designed and sewn clothes. And when my adoring husband compliments me on my amazing achievement as a pianist, I will simply reply "Grazie, amore mio" and he will be so impressed, he'll book our Italy trip on the spot. And, when I wake up from that amazing dream, I'll hit the gym and head to Children's Hospital to fulfill my volunteering resolution. I may be motivated, but I'm not unrealistic :) Happy New Year my friends!