Tales from La La Land

Anyone who knows me, knows I have a giant problem.

My go-to fashion staple is an Oregon t-shirt. Nowadays, I might mix it up with a UCLA t-shirt.

The truth is, I hate shopping for a variety of reasons. I don’t like crowds, I don’t like spending hours looking for a parking space, I never know what to buy, I buy the same shit over and over.

Thus, I have 12 white t-shirts, 10 black shirts and several pairs of jeans. My non-work wardrobe is a mess.

Recently, I joined Skype so that I could connect with the Aiming Low girls. But there were several other people using Skype, including Ashely, a friend from Oregon who owns my most favorite store in Eugene.

Anyway, Ashley tells me about her new business venture called Trunk Club Women.

I am in love with this business.

Laef is not so much, but he’s coming around.

This is how it went down.

I met with a stylist/shopper via Skype. I explained to her my lack of style. I told her what I wanted to do with my wardrobe, where it was lacking and that I wanted to branch out to some different things. She took my down my measurements, shoe size and told me to look for a package in ten days.

There was no charge for shipping or for her to pick out clothes for me.

Yesterday, I came home to a FedEx box full of clothes. I tried everything on and picked out what I wanted to keep. I met with my shopper again over Skype and we talked about the shipment.

I have to say that every single thing fit perfectly. I loved everything (which is why Laef is not a fan of this business). Some of it didn’t really work on me, but I liked the fact that there were items I would have never picked out for myself.

It opened my eyes to dresses, colors and shirts that didn’t start with a T.

Inside the box, there was also a pre-paid FedEx shipping label so that I could send back the things I didn’t want.

And I never had to see the mall.

It was kick ass.

Solving my problem one FedEx shipment at a time.

TGIF!

I don’t know what is wrong with me, but I am not good at shopping for clothes. Part of it has to do with the fact that I never have extra money to shop with. And, at some point in the last five years, I have learned that putting shit on your credit card does not equate to having money for shopping.

I got a pretty good tax return this year and The Bossman said that I could keep half of it to do whatever I want with. Part of me was thinking of blowing the whole thing on a shopping spree to revamp my tired-ass closet. But, I haven’t taken the plunge just yet. I would also like to use some of the money to take a few trips to see people I can never afford to see.

There are a few events coming up in the near future – Bridal Shower and Bachelorette Party – that I was thinking of getting some new outfits to rock. So the other day, I ventured out for a little shopping spree.

It was depressing. I can’t believe how expensive everything is. T-shirts for $86. Jeans for $225. Shoes for $110. I have a pretty simple style so I wasn’t picking out anything exciting. I was obviously looking in the wrong place. I am terrible at sale shopping because I don’t have the patience to sift through the sale racks. They are usually a giant cluster.

At one point, I picked up a light blue button up sweater and carried it around for a while. Eventually, a tiny little sales girl came to talk to me. She was wearing a plaid mini skirt, black stockings and some rocking shirt. Per usual, I was wearing yoga pants, a sports bra and an icky t-shirt. I looked at her, looked at the sweater I was holding, and thought, “What the fuck am I doing? Why do I insist on buying clothes that are a)nowhere near hot and sexy and b)made for a 74-year old?”

She took the sweater from me and I said, “It looks grandma-ish, huh?” You would think that she’d want to close the sale and say, no, but even she couldn’t refrain…”Yes, it’s definitely made for someone older.”

What the hell is my problem? I have always chosen comfort over hotness. When need be, I can totally wear a dress and heels, but in my day-to-day life, I have definitely let myself go. So, I promptly went up the escalator to the Brass Plum section, which is made especially for PYTs.

I bought a pair of white skinny jeans, some skin-tight black leggings with zippers on the bottom and blue nail polish. And, I feel all, fuck yeah! today. There are no grandmas wearing skinny jeans. A mini-ode to Fashion Friday:

This morning I woke up horrified with myself.

Me: “Hey, um. I had a dream that Brittany kept showing you her boobies.”
Laef: “What did they look like?”
Me: “I don’t know. I was mad, left in the car, but realized I was in Ohio and didn’t know how to get anywhere.”
Laef: “I had a dream about Bill Clinton. He knew my name. I was so stoked.”
Me: “Hmmm. Something is not right here.”
Laef: “I would have preferred your dream. We should sleep touching heads tonight and see if we can trade dreams.”

Yeah, because clearly everything is ass backwards around here. I should be dreaming about hot ex-Presidents. NOT Brittany’s boobies.

That’s what the blog world will do to you though. It plays with your mind. These people are in your head all day long, sharing deep personal stories about everything from peeing their pants to boiling diapers to crazy nights with their future husbands.

Anywasted, thank god I dreamt about Brittany and not Lamb. Because Lamb probably would have been sitting ON Laef while showing him her new pregnant boobies.

The good news about my unamazing OBGYN appointment yesterday is that I got to leave work early. The bad news is, well, the whole stirrups thing, and the fact that my appointment was at 4 p.m. and I finally saddled up at 4:45 p.m.

But there was more to this appointment. I have become engaged since my last appointment and I’m also approaching my 35th birthday, which seemed to lead the doctor to press me on my future plans. She gave me the whole, “Sooooooooo, how long have you been on the pill? Are you thinking of having babies? Soon?”

Our plan was to enjoy one year of marriage together before trying. Which is basically code for, just one more year of being totally selfish and doing whatever we want whenever we want. One more year of beach living and mimosas at noon on Saturday. But, other than that, there is no rhyme or reason to our plan.

So anyway, she suggested that I stop taking the pill in November because it might take a while. And if we are so lucky to get pregnant right away, then, “Yay, us!” is basically what she alluded to.

Which made me kind of excited. And totally freaked out. Like, stop taking the pill? THIS year?

The timing actually seems perfect because I realized last Friday that it is time to retire from certain behavior. It was raining that day so I put zero effort into my outfit. I wore my running shoes, jeans and a ski jacket to work. I was wayyyyy behind on laundry, so my only sock option was my brand new Christmas socks with a little pocket for…actually, I don’t know what the pocket is supposed to hold.

Annett came up from San Diego that night and we decided to go out to dinner. By the time I got home, we were starving so I didn’t bother to change. Well, after dinner, we figured we should grab a drink over at Beaches.

OK, I had not realized that Beaches was voted “Best Dance Club”. The music was certainly blasting and the florescent lights did me no favors. It was obvious I forgot my dancing outfit. My shoes were glowing from here to Oregon. I guess it kept me safe from getting hit by a random dancer.

As time went on and we drank more, we kind of started to get into the music. Suddenly, I had forgotten that my outfit consisted of these socks:

I certainly did not fit in because as I glanced around, I saw all sorts of skinny jeans, knee-high boots, low-cut shirts and sparkly lipstick. Then it just sort of hit me: I do like getting dressed up once in a while. I love girls night out. But, if I had to pull it together EVERY SINGLE weekend, I would be exhausted.

Soooooo….maybe I am ready to ditch the pill and be exhausted for reasons that don’t involve raging hangovers.

So, yesterday, I bumped into a girl that works in the Engineering department. I have met her in person only once. We email daily. She’s feisty, so I like her a lot.

Anyway, I’m walking quickly yesterday and someone grabs me by the arm.

Girl: Hey!
Me: …blank stare…”You must think I look like someone you know.”
Girl: “You’re Allison, right?”
Me: oh fuck. “Yes.”
Girl: “It’s Jasan!”
Me: “OMG! You got a makeover.”
Jasan: … blank stare.

A word of advice. You NEVER ask a girl who HASN’T gotten a makeover if she’s had a makeover. Because she will pull you aside and say the following:

“So what you’re saying is, ‘Wow! You look so much less fugly than the last time I saw you!”

Which is not what I was saying, but she was like dressed up for a Christmas party and not sitting behind some desk staring at a computer, which I know makes me look more frumpy than when I’m wearing red lipstick for a Christmas party.

I’m just going to stop talking now.

I’m starting to think I have a problem.

Besides the Oregon t-shirt problem.

Writing has always been one of my main hobbies. I remember writing short stories on the paper with the lines to help you practice your cursive in fifth grade.

Nowadays, I’m becoming obsessed with writing on my blog. At first I was fearful that people would think I was a narcissist. Because frankly, my blog is about me. Or my life. Which is me. And that might seem narcissistic to some people who hate me and more importantly, hate reading about me. P.S. If you do, why are you still reading? Oh. Because I’m funny? And awesome? I figured as much.

On a more serious note, it’s becoming this weird thing where we’ll be fighting about something and I’m thinking in the back of my head, “Is this too personal to blog?”

Or, I’ll be rolling over in my sleep and I will think, “Woah. That was a cool roll. I should blog that.”

Truth is, I love writing. I majored in journalism, sucked at being a reporter and was only in the SID thing for the social activities. OK, there was more to it than that, but creative writing was difficult when writing about the Oregon softball team’s win over Longwood.

That’s why I like blogging. I can write about any ol’ thing that comes across my eye and it doesn’t have to fit into any sort of style (i.e. newspaper, magazine, TV).

So if I start blogging about the lint in Laef’s bellybutton or my chipped nail polish, you’ll know that rehab is rapidly approaching.

Ang convinced me to watch Project Runway. So, I watched the season-opening episode last night. It truly is quite amazing what they can accomplish. And, even though many of them were lamented for using tablecloths in their first challenge, I was still highly impressed with what they did with them.

Anyway, Ang thinks that Project Runway is like Top Chef for fashion. I think she is right. The level of skill involved is very high and that makes it fun to watch. Except that I quickly realized that while I’m decent at cooking and enjoy it. Fashion is a different story.

I have a serious problem.

Seeing as I am not at an Oregon sporting event in a single one of these photos, I’m thinking of going cold turkey. I’m thinking of seeing if I could get rid of all them without getting the shakes.

I’ll keep you posted.