Category Archives: I’m a spaz

Chartreuse Chanteuse

Okay, so the title of this post is not strictly accurate. Yes, I’m wearing chartreuse, but I’m no chanteuse. I mean, I am female, and I like to sing, but the last time I frequented a nightclub was…never. Still, how often do you get a chance to throw such a fun and funky word around? Yes, I agree. I had to. 

So, let’s talk about this skirt.

It’s originally from LOFT, but I, of course, scored it at Goodwill for $4 as part of this round of the 30 Minute GW Challenge.


When I showed it to my husband, his brow crinkled, and he said, “Wait. Don’t you have that skirt already?”

To which I replied (with a generous eye roll), “No, baby, that other skirt is a maxi. This one’s totally different.” (Although, if we’re being honest, I immediately knew which skirt he meant–see it here–so maybe that “totally” before the “different” wasn’t completely necessary).    IMG_4309

I almost missed my chance to wear this skirt during this pregnancy, but managed to squeeeeze everything (AKA my growing girth) in there without feeling too constricted.


Oh, and now let’s talk about this shirt. Remember how I styled it 3 ways way back when? Well, I don’t know that I’ve worn it since. Apparently, I had such great ideas of all the ways that I could wear it that, in my brain, I had worn it all those ways, numerous times, and was done! But seriously, the main reason I do not wear it often is because a) my husband does not care for it at. all. and b) it is a bit on the loud side.

But, I don’t know–that limey-green skirt just seemed like it was begging for something that matched its level of cheerful obnoxiousness.

And, finally, since we’re on this whole talking about my clothes bit (okay, okay, I am), we can’t forget the shoes.


I was standing in Target with my girls one afternoon staring at–no lie–at least 50 pairs of size 7 1/2 Mossimo gold shimmer flats (I took a picture for Instagram because…how could I not??) when I saw a girl wobbling around in these fabulous red wedges, trying to convince herself that her ankles weren’t swimming in the gaping openings.

I eavesdropped discreetly on her conversation with her friends and discovered that the shoes were size 9 1/2 and were only $9. And she wanted them to work sooooo badly, but they seemed a “little loose.” (Yes, and Mt. Everest is “kind of tall”).

At which point, I chimed in with just the right amount of sympathy and wise agreement, “Man, they are reeeeeally cute on you, but they definitely look too big around the ankle. That seems like it would get old.”

At which point, she pulled a disappointed face, took them off, put them back, and then walked away.

At WHICH point, I–resisting the urge to muahahaha and rub my hands together like a super-villain–snatched them up and plunked them in my cart.

Here’s the deal, I knew that my ankles would be long lost in those cavernous openings too. But my almost-32-year-old DIY obsessed mind knew something that her young, undeveloped must-buy-everything-perfect 18-year-old consciousness had never dared to think: you can hot glue shoes!!!

I got those suckers home, and they languished in my garage for a week and 1/2, but then in a frenzy of “must wear loud shoes with the loud skirt and the LOUD shirt to church,” I snipped the straps on those beautiful, wobbly red shoes, reapplied them more tightly with generous globs of glue, and–VOILA!–they fit like a dream. (Except that I have a small blister on the back of my right heel from a dried bit of hot glue I didn’t get off).

So…moral of the story? Never be afraid to feign concern while manipulating someone out of buying a perfectly repairable pair of fabulous shoes. Because this is the kind of life lesson that applies in so many scenarios.

So, what about you guys? Have you ever talked someone out of buying something only to swoop in and take it home for yourself? I miiiiiiight be a repeat offender on this one.

‘Fess up: did you know what a “chanteuse” was before you read this post? I had to look it up to make sure I was right (I was) and wasn’t going to accidentally end up calling myself a “lady of the night.”

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Apparently, I’m clairvoyant…

Remember when I wrote this?

“I’ll be the one swatting at imaginary gnats with one hand while holding a cupcake in the other.

At the time, I chalked it up to the ravings of a sleep-deprived, hopped-up-on-sugar Mama giddy at the prospect of 3 completely childfree days of fun at Allume.

What I didn’t realize is that those words were actually somewhat prophetic.

I thoroughly enjoyed each of the breakout sessions that I attended at the conference. But I only had the privilege of bringing one to a screeching halt. (Yes, you read that right).

Here’s how I achieved my .045 seconds of infamy:

On Friday afternoon, I had a meeting with a literary agent, so I spent a few minutes in my room writing down some thoughts for my pitch and praying about it, then I headed to a breakout session entitled “Competition vs. Community” (or something close to that) with a panel of wonderfully fantastic bloggers like Jen from Beauty and Bedlam, Lisa Jo Baker, and (if you’re a blogger, then this name will mean something to you) Tsh from Simple Mom. Yes, her.

I didn’t make it to the session until it was already in full swing, so I joined a little huddle of gals at the back of the room and proceeded to strain my ears to hear snatches of the wisdom these seasoned blogging pros were so graciously doling out.


Thing was, this particular conference room was pretty big, with thick carpeting, sound-dampening wallpaper, and lots of bodies, and being at the back put us a good 30 feet away from the speakers. Sure, they wore a mike, but it didn’t seem to be helping much, especially since they were all handling it like it was a snake (as a fitness instructor who is used to wearing a hands-free mike when I teach, it was everything I could do not to holler, “EAT THAT THING!!!” as I watched them shy away from the receiver; probably best that I didn’t, huh?).

Other thing was, our little bunch was hovering right outside a door on the other side of which was, apparently, the world’s largest ice machine. It was close to lunch time, and we could hear the hotel staff through the door chattering and calling to each other as they prepared glasses for iced tea. So, yeah. Lots of ice crunching going on.


So, from my perspective, the session went something like this: (muffled voice) “When bloggers are in community rather than competition, we have the potential to…” (CRUUUUUUUNCH) “especially as we come together and really emphasize” (crunch, Crunch, CRUUUUUUUUNCH) “which is great because the best thing we can all do for each other is” (CrunchCrunchCrunch).


At a certain point, it was getting funny, and the girls around me and I were starting to giggle a little as inevitably the best part of a sentence we could barely hear would get obliterated by the crash of an ice bucket or the cacophonous roar of a million cubes being poured from one large container to another.

And then the fly showed up.

I don’t remember the exact moment of our meeting, but I vaguely recall flicking something annoying away from my face a few times as I squinted and leaned in, determined to get something out of this darn session.

The other ladies were doing the same, batting the pesky little critter away from their faces every few minutes or so.

But then, Mr. Mosca developed a full-on stalker crush on me and proceeded to go for my eyes with the same kind of fervor that Miley Cyrus seems to have for not wearing pants.

And I started swatting in earnest. He meant business. And so did I. Somewhere, I read the disgusting fact that flies will attempt to drink from the liquid in your eyes if they can somehow pull of such a ridiculously revolting-sounding trick. And I made up my mind that this fly was going to die of thirst before he got a drink out of me.

Somewhere during this epic throw down, I noticed that things were quiet(er). Much too quiet. I took one last swing at my foe and looked up to discover every last blogger from the panel gazing at me expectantly.

I froze.

Looked around at my fellow hall-hoverers in confusion.

And then Tsh said: “Can we help you?”

Every head in the room swiveled my direction, and the girls around me shrank away from me(so much for community).

Oh maaaaaaan.

“Th-there was a fly,” I stammered. Lame, lame, lame.


The blogger panel exchanged glances that spoke volumes.

“You didn’t need something? We thought maybe you couldn’t hear in the back?”


I found my voice finally and said, “Um, well, actually we can’t. Thanks.”

And then I waved at all the curious faces and resisted the urge to flee. I stood my ground with flaming cheeks while the panel went back to talking. And for five whole minutes, thanks to a break in iced tea preparation and the fact that the speakers were trying to be louder, we could hear. And it was glorious. I was a (really weird and embarrassed) hero to my fellow hall-dwellers!

But then the mike got passed to somebody with the quietest voice ever, and the hotel staff started competing to see who could crunch the most ice per second, and I couldn’t hear anything again.

So, I left a little early to go find the publishing agent, certain that my dreams that night would consist of me, standing on a stage wearing nothing but fly-printed underwear, in a room full of bloggers.



P.S. Can you tell we had so much fun at the Smile Booth? Seriously. Best idea ever.

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