I AM Auntie Mame....

 Big Freaking News: The Boy's sister and her husband are expecting a child. And, since this is my blog,  which means everything is about me, that means that I can now expect to be an aunt! An aunt! Aunts are important! I've loved all of my aunts! I'm so excited I could pee*.

When discussing possible monikers, I wasn't satisfied with the typical Aunt/Auntie Sarah options. There was something lacking. Then I remembered what I've been periodically bellowing at The Boy for the past few weeks:


I. am. Auntie. Mame. 

If you have not witnessed the cinematic brilliance that is Auntie Mame, stop reading this and go watch it now. I'll wait.  It's on Netflix Watch Instantly so it will be easy-peasy-don't-be-sleazy.

It may be subtle as a blow to the head and 45 minutes too long but it is also the singularly most influential film on my life and style since Roman Holiday. It was made in the 50s about the 20s, so there's bright colors, loud patterns and headwear up the wazoo. To prepare for the child-to-be**, I've put together a small list of what it takes to be Auntie Mame.
Note: I have not been sponsored by any of the following companies, nor do I own any of the following items. In other words, if you want to buy them for me, I'll be your best friend forever because I fucking love presents.

Loud Pants

Inspiration

Actualization

Pants via Zara 79.90

Pants via Zara 79.90

Inspiration

Actualization

Pants via Zara 59.90

Pants via Anna Kaci 26.90

Luckily, Mame-appropriate legwear is experiencing a resurgance in the fashion world. Pajama sets, sequin pants, patterned pants, and matchy-matchy suits are all the rage. Example A: this H&M window.  

Go forth and lose all sense of subtlety. 

Fantastic Hats

Inspiration

Actualization

Hat via EBay 28.00

Hat via Modcloth 29.99

   

Inspiration

Actualization

Hat via Modcloth 34.99

Hat via ArtFire 31.90

Every year, I (and several other magazines) declare hats to be the newest It accessory, as though it's breaking news that hats are amazing. So, I'm just going to adapt a pro-hats stance year round.

A Cigarette Holder

 Inspiration
Every other minute of Auntie Mame. Have you watched it yet?

Actualization

Item via EBay

Item via RubyLane 75.00

I don't smoke, but I do hold a fake cigarette to go with my bourbon or coffee whenever I write and now I think it may have to go in a chic as fuck holder. Also excellent for gesticulating. 

All fashion related ramblings aside, though, I am so happy for the expecting parents. They are rock stars, and their kid is so lucky he chose them. They also come with a crazy big tribe of endless support and love, including this pleased as punch aunt. Now someone get me a damn glass of punch. 

*And I've only had to breathe into a paper bag once. Because, you know, aunts are important. And I'm a little afraid of babies. It's the soft spot.
**Who, in honor of another idol of mine, will be known forthwith as Schlomo. 

More on that whole 10K Thing

While training for the 10K, I used this schedule, wore these shoes (I know, I know, but they got rid of my plantar fascitis immediately) and listened to this playlist:





Towards the end of the ten weeks, I started substituting relaxed 4-5 mile runs for the intervals. Unfortunately, the week before the race was finals week at school so I barely trained at all, and then spent most of the days leading up just getting acclimated to the altitude in Boulder. I ended up walking about half of it, and I think if I'd kept up the training plan towards the end running the whole thing wouldn't have been a problem.

Around the 7th kilometer, I realized that this was something that I really could do, and I had a kind of breakthrough (for lack of a better word) about my body. I suddenly believed, truly, that being fit, and strong was more important than how I looked. I had faith in the whole of my body, even the parts that I feel insecure about. Suddenly, it wasn't something that I had to fight with and hide and change for the world but a vessel that was going to take me where I needed to go, that I could push and challenge and it was pretty great.

I'm not really a fitness-y person, but that feeling was really infectious, and I want to feel it again. I don't think I'll ever be one of those scary runner people who stops by the side of the road to take their pulse and says things like, "gait" and "hydration packs" but a lot of that is because I am totally grossed out by my pulse.
Still, since the race, it's been easier than ever to get myself to run, and it's more fun than it was while I was training. Some of that might be the zombie scare. If you're a catastrophist like me, reading the news, putting on "Run Through The Jungle" and going for a run at dusk is a really good way to get yourself in Zombie Apocalypse shape fast.

Travel Recaps: Boulder, CO

Before I tell you about my time in Boulder, CO, I'd like to tell you about its closest airport: Denver. The Denver International Airport is as lovely an airport as any, whatever Douglas Adams may say. And as one departs from it, one is treated to a rare vision of sculpted art. And by rare I mean terrifying and by vision I mean specter.

This is the enormous stallion sculpture that greets visitors. It seems relatively harmless from a distance, until you come around and see the demonic glowing eyes, which are yellow in the day and red in the night. For a more versatile horror experience, obviously.

Good Fucking Christ.

And you hear that it killed its creator. I am not making this up: the scultpure fell on the sculptor and killed him. It is the spawn of Satan.

Aside from the terrifying welcoming committee, Boulder was fantastic. It's a great city, and I left feeling rejuvanated, inspired and ready to take on anything. Except, as it turns out, a 24-hour schlep to Germany with an 8 hour time difference that wiped the floor with me. But more on that later.

Ostensibly, I was there to run the Bolder Boulder 10K. If anyone is looking for a good starter race, this one is great. It feels like a parade where the crowds run by the floats instead of vice versa. It's relaxed, fun, and doesn't involve any terrifying fund raising. And once I was acclimated to the altitude, Boulder is perfect place to run. The natural splendor is a great alternative to a stairmaster, and the city seems to revolve around fitness. Everything is organic, there are more yoga studios than you can shake a stick at, and no one will judge you if you stand around shaking sticks at yoga studios. Maybe it's all that medical marijuana.

In reality, I was there to see my oldest friend in the world. Not oldest age-wise, obviously. In fact, she kicked my ass to keep running for the last .5 kilometers which, she cheerfully pointed out, only went halfway up an enormous hill. She also didn't judge me when I mumble-wheezed something profane in response.

She didn't even make fun of me when I forgot my running shoes, God bless her. Leading up to the race, when we weren't doing yoga, this was pretty much our life:

Not pictured: beer.

It was the perfect end to a long year. Next year, we're going to run in costume. More on that later.

NOTE: for more on the race, and how I trained, click here.

Late Night Letters

WARNING: personal, heartfelt content ahead

I've been feeling overwhelmed by knowledge lately. Part of it is being around students and professors and literature again, and part of it is just being of an age where it's my time to figure out where I stand in this world.

It's a frightening thing to realize that the more you learn the less sure you will be of anything. And to realize on an emotional level that nothing is certain or sure. To challenge everything. Which is to say question long-held thoughts and look at them from every angle like holding a leaf up to the sun to see the veins and flesh.

Exciting, yes. Invigorating too. But frightening.

And last night I was feeling overwhelmed by it all. I just wanted to tune out, watch TV and drown out my inner critic and philosopher. I wanted the comfortable, familiar, easy thoughts.

And of course that's ok. It's all about finding balance. But I knew I was just returning to what was easy because I was afraid of challenging myself. I was afraid that I might find myself inadequate in the grand scheme of things.

And then comes that cycle of behaving badly, berating yourself for it, and then doing it more because you feel bad about yourself. That cycle that traps us with food, TV, drinking or whatever vice you fancy.

Then, I got an email from my dad that told me I was capable of forming great ideas and disastrous mistakes. But that the key was not to fear the mistakes or be crippled by them. He said he didn't know why, but he felt compelled to tell me.

He said there were things I had known as a child that some struggle to learn over a lifetime. I don't know if that's true, but knowing that he believed it enough to write me late one random Monday night was enough to make me believe him when he said that it wasn't pretentious of me to set my eyes on great things.

And the reason I'm writing this is that it didn't seem fair that I should be the only one to hear such kind words. This is all pretty smarmy and out of my comfort zone, but I wanted others to hear and believe the same thing. That there is incredible potential in you, and it will take you to extreme heights and devastating lows, but never so low you can't climb back up.

There are people in this world who will cheer your triumphs and be as forgiving of your failures as you would be of theirs. And those that don't aren't worth your time.

So don't be afraid.

I'm Back, Bitches.

I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. Especially since it is so clearly I who is the bitch. My absence from the blogosphere* was due to three things:
1) a sudden increase in homework. School is hard, y'all.
2) Discovering Boardwalk Empire. How awesome is that show?
3) My ears.

For those of you who don't know, I had surgery on my sinuses in January which had the added benefit of clearing out my ears. I hadn't realized how bad the hearing loss and tinnitus had become because it had happened gradually enough that I was just used to it.

Then suddenly I could hear. And smell. And taste. It was an exciting time.

For example, did you know that NYC smells bad? Like, the entire city.  And the entire East Village smells like pot. And trains are super duper freaky loud.  I've never used more ear plugs in my life but on the whole I found the world of hearing, smelling and tasting a vast improvement.

Then I fell in the fucking fountain. And the tinnitus and hearing loss returned overnight. In the understatement of my life, I'm going to tell you that this was rather stressful. Did you ever see that episode of Grey's Anatomy where some parents bring their daughter to the ER because they think she's a schizophrenic but it turns out there's just something wrong with her ears?

That girl would totally have my back when I tell you that it is unpleasant to hear sounds no one else can hear all day. 

Don't worry, I'm not acting schizophrenic and I still think the Incident in Stuttgart was the funniest damn thing that's ever happened to me. But it does make everything just a little harder.

Luckily, my doctor put me on steroids to clear out my ears, and those make everything a little easier and faster and oh my god running is so fun and why are you all standing still and GIVE ME THAT FOOD.

So, that's what's going on with me. I'm looking forward to the weekend and I hope you guys have a great one!


*Huh. I have just decided that I hate that word. 

FFF- In Which the Author....Oh, Dear God.

Today was the singular most hilarious day of my entire professional life, perhaps my life in entirety. And I have had some pretty hilarious days. I can only pray that my retelling is half as funny as the actual events that I am about to describe.

I'm writing this from a lovely hotel in Stuttgart, Germany after a day on set with a truly fantastic crew. I've worked for this client* before, but never anyone on this particular team. I was actually really nervous about this shoot because the last time I modelled for this company they were unhappy with my work**.  Obviously it couldn't have been too dire since they hired me again but I made sure to be on my very best behavior*** today.

I groomed, plucked, buffed, exfoliated and arrived to set early. The makeup artist did a beautiful job on my face and hair, and then we headed off to location. We drove up a dizzying hill (San Francisco has nothing on Stuttgart) and arrived at a mansion that was straight out of Architecture Digest. That's a real magazine, right?

It was a beautiful place to have a photo shoot. There was expensive looking art on the walls, a fountain in the entryway, and floor-to-ceiling windows displaying one of the most beautiful views I've ever seen.

Now, one of the things that can be a drag about photo shoots is the waiting around. The lights have to be set up, wardrobe needs to get ready, and then makeup and/or hair usually needs retouching. But, given the setting, I really didn't mind. And as the makeup artist did his thing, I was feeling pretty good about myself and the day so far. The crew had been impressed with my professionalism, the makeup looked gorgeous and the hairstylist really loved my hair. "Yes," he said, appraising his work, "this is really working. Now go get dressed and we'll start shooting."

As I headed downstairs to wardrobe I gave myself a little pat on the back and had a sip of my energy drink to ward off jetlag. Then I confidently rounded the corner and fell into the fucking fountain.

Why don't you just read that again? Go ahead. I'll wait. No. Don't even bother. I'll give it to you again.

I FELL IN THE FUCKING FOUNTAIN.

And it is worth noting that this was no normal fountain. This was a waist deep, rocky, indoor, Zen pond. That I fell inside of.

It is also worth noting that this was no normal fall. This was stepping where you assume there's ground and diving headfirst into deep and cold water with enough product in your hair to start a Fran Drescher level ecosystem and hours worth of makeup on your face. Not to mention your clothes and only coat. 

So what is a half drowned and completely mortified model to do?
A) Apologize profusely and beg for forgiveness.
B) Laugh with the stylist until you're both clutching the clothing rack and threatening to ihre hosen pinkeln.
C) Dissolve into giggles when the hairstylist not only forgives you but also joins you at the clothing rack and refers to you as Ariel for the rest of the day.

So. That happened. And if you'll excuse me, I'm off to soak my cold and exhausted body in a tub and order room service so as to avoid any public fountains. 

*Client=clothing company that hires the team. Team= model, photographer, photographer's assistant, photo editor, MUA, stylist, etc.
**actually, they were unhappy with my hair. It's still a little weird to me that my hair is so tied up in my work. I mean, other people get terrible haircuts and, you know, wear hats. They don't have to worry about being fired.
***and to have the best hair possible....