hey world. here i am., i am serious and don't call me shirley!, not about my hair, twitter

In which… I can’t figure out a way to say ‘I’m now engaged to a nine-year-old’ that isn’t creepy.

Heathens! The lovely Ms. Peachy over at Being Peachy (and my personal favorite, her not-so-cheerful-and-always-awesome The Pits of Being Peachy) rescued my ass last month, when, around midnight, I finally had to admit to myself that I couldn’t do the photo editing I wanted to in time to get my shit done. Y’all, she hitched up her Photoshop panties and came through for me with a post that was WAAAAYYYYY better than I had envisioned.

I know y’all remember the motherfucking boots. Oh, yeah. Those boots. Mmhmmm.

these. boots.

And so, because I like to show my appreciation in the simplest and most selfish way possible, I baked cookies to relieve some stress and shipped them her way.

‘Cause, you know, she totally saved this bitch.

But then! She completely one-upped again. Ms. Peachy has not only written me a beeeeeautiful post – she’s also offered me her son’s hand in marriage.

And we could not be happier, people. Just as soon as he’s allowed to date.

Tear.

Check it! Fantastic Flipping Friday – Meredith

good life choices, make a little bird house in your soul, not about my hair

In which I build the world around me, this time, again.

I have bricks of furniture and walls.
Mortar mixed of paint and fabric.

I have foundations of nostalgia and desire.
Plumbing made of photographs and journals.

I’ve got wiring strung of taut muscles and dripping sweat.
Windows paned in age and eyelashes.

I have fancy hats and rolling pins.
Acres of books and whiskey.

There are more baskets than picnics we’ll ever take.
But at least one hanger per memory.

I have pens and pencils and markers to spare.
With lightness and being to float.

I’ve got spare rooms and bedrooms and enough room for you.
But Ms. Scarlett did it in the Conservatory.

With the rope.

I have baggage and sadness and sweetness to boot.
And boots and sandals and tears.

I have light down from fixtures of crystals and love.
Skeletons in closets of papier mâche.

The blades of my fans flex in the shrug of my shoulders.
With wind made of kisses and sugar and fear.

And then there’s my bed.

good life choices, i am serious and don't call me shirley!, not about my hair, twitter

In which I offer snippets of my week, like tapas, made for sharing.

The life of an internet celebrity isn’t all that different from your own. No, really. Shitty things happen, there are fun perks in the mundane and then I give myself a tiara.

I pretended to be a corporate event planner at a hotel showcase (read: open bar) with my mother tonight. Her

my mother is overly adorable.

coworker was unable to attend and she didn’t want to go alone. The signature cocktail involved pear vodka, apple juice and lime – and was outright horrendous. Conveniently, it was also very strong.

Perk: Getting hit on by Hyatt sales managers is a very good time.

Speaking of that mama of mine, I introduced her to you with my fancy press-release skills on Sunday in what, quite frankly, might be the funniest moment of my life. Seriously, let the ego jokes rip, y’all; I was hyyyyyysterical. I promise, however, she is in fact NOTHING like Dina Lohan. Despite being the cutest baby ever (you know I was), she never once allowed me to model or do any commercials. Say what you will, we could totally all be living in Barbie’s dream house now if she did, mmmk?

Perk: Y’all, for real, my mama is incredible and I am SO glad to share this space with her. I can’t wait to hear what she says. About me. (God, I love the ego jokes. LOVE, I say.)

betsy gave me the squint-eye right until the last moment, as i was leaving. of course.

Spending the week up in Athens with Sally and Kit was ridiculously fun. Those crazy kids really are some of my all-time favorite people, and I’m totally showing back up in a month when I manage to overschedule myself into a tizzy. Like it’s not going to happen, immediately. Right.

Perk: The pups are SO happy I’m home they’re being all lovemuffin snuggly. I haven’t gotten an errant paw to the face during dog assault playtime in weeks.

I have apparently developed an interesting reaction to Benadryl. I am, and always have been, allergic to cats, despite owning them myself, and Betsy the Bitchface is no different. Pathetic with sniffles and teary eyes, sitting on the floor next to my cell phone charger, talking to my geek, Sally handed over the magical pink pills. Next thing we knew, I was producing ridiculous posts and unable to finish sentences for the shiny distractions on the television.

Perk: I’m sure it will surprise no one to learn that I gesture a great deal when I talk. Apparently my gestures ALSO get slow when my brain does, and I found myself with my hands in mid-air, a good few minutes after my mouth stopped speaking, over and over again.

As you all now know, since I’ve beaten you over the head with the information, I bought some pretty kick-ass boots this week. They are, of course, made for much more than walking, and, really, might just be for making these gams look hotter than they ever have. Unfortunately, it will probably cost more than twice what I paid for them to get them professionally cleaned. Which I so have to do, as they are really narsty on the inside.

these boots were also made for camouflage, when i need to hide in sally & kit's carpet.

Perk: They are more magnificent than any of the wonderful shoes my sister owns – which is a trend in my life right now I am so all about maintaining – and thus provide excellent currency for getting some of the fancy clothing and jewelry in HER collection to defect and join my team.

This past weekend I worked a wedding for a friend, doing everything from fancy-folding napkins to guest-wrangling to boutonniere-pinning to identifying which twin babygirl was which by the initial on her hairbow. I was offered pot, sex and to have ‘a good word’ put in for me by guests – for no real discernible reason. It was hot, understaffed, fun, awful and paid – which is good, remember, because I have a particular affinity for the cash monies. And then I managed to cut myself on the champagne foil, stick my fingers into burny hot tea candle wax and wake up the next day eleven shades of HOLY FUCK I’M SORE.

Perk: I then crowned myself (once again, this is a recurring theme in my life) queen of the stupid minor injuries, adding that night’s pains to the massive bruise on my thigh, tiny not-healing cut on my temple and the random chunk of foot that decided to remove itself from my sole. My tiara is beautiful.

My fabulous geek just got all the more fabulous: Using my site as an example of her fabulosity landed her a new freelance gig. Which is all grand, really, since she’ll get paid cash monies by these folks and I just send her baked goods. Except. Now I’m all competing with the job I GOT HER for her time. This does not strike me as equitable. And so I’m pouty.

Perk: She does, indeed, work for baked goods. (FOR ME, not for you. Tough shit.) Which is the sweetest deal I’ve ever negotiated.

Say, wanna buy some beachfront property?

good life choices, hey world. here i am., not about my hair, weighty world issues

In which the fabled boots have the floor to themselves.

I bought killer boots yesterday. I know, this isn’t news, as you all devote hours of your time to my tweets and check back religiously at night to see if I’ve posted yet. I apologize for the repetition.

the. boots.

But the boots, they’re hottt. Despite my impressive vocabulary, there’s really not a better word for them. I mean, “fun,” “attractive,” “sweeeeet,” “gorgeous,” “funky,” “spectacular” and “sick find, dude!” are pretty good, but they don’t really capture the badassery of the boots the way “hottt” does.

I mean, c’mon. The extra Ts totally evoke that Harley-riding-yet-sexy-perfume-smelling, short-skirt-wearing, perfect-tousled-hair-coiffed, lightly-tanned-skin-with-bright-white-teeth-having badass chick. Obviously.

Of course, the fact that they’re vintage and that I got them for an embarrassingly low number of cash monies make them all the better. We’re just ignoring the fact that the stretchy-calf parts having dying elastic and that they’re horrendously filthy on the inside. Those are minor details.

Moving right along.

My latest footwear acquisition, however, boasts even more than hotttness, cheapness and retro cred:

“These boots were made for crushing your enemies, seeing them driven before you and hearing the lamentations of their bad grammar. And not for walking.” – Dr. Sally (and Conan the Barbarian), September 21, 2010

It should surprise no one that Dr. Sally is, again, right.

Indeed, these boots were made for peering out over the sun-beaten savanna and hunting African game.

do not neglect proper safari headgear.

These here boots were made for going 2.7 seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu.

she was a beaut'.

These triumphant boots were made to scale the majestic peaks of the Himalayas, to stand tall and proud at the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro.

dude, pick up the pace. c'mon.

Said boots were made for altered states of consciousness with early ‘90s rockstars before and until their untimely deaths by overdose.

it really was all about the music, man.

The boots in question were made for the wrangling of unexpected reptiles or defending one’s self against the canine undead.

athens is one scary place, y'all.

In truth, these boots were made for the utmost glamour, painting the town red, as they did with veritable Hollywood royalty.

this is so meta.

These boots were made for heroic acts, standing up, marching, in the face of adversity.

"i believe the children ARE our future."

But in truth, in sum, in full: These boots were made for blogging.

and now i'll tell the whole internet...

all the props & kudos i can muster go to Peachy for her amazing late-night save with the photo editing. love you! go visit her, y’all!