WTF, Anthropologie?

I decided to take a moment to step away from George Clooney. And this is what I found:

photo credit: Polyvore

 

I was browsing the Anthropologie website because my friend Erika had commented on these “vintage” Levi’s overalls on Facebook, and I had to see them for myself. First of all, unless you are a farmer, don’t wear overalls. But if you must, please don’t spend $350 on them.

After I had my eye roll, I kept looking. What else would I find that bordered on the ridiculous?

It only took a few more clicks to find the Abigail Shoulder Cape, which appears to be nothing but a bunch of yarn braided together. It would be unkind to say it resembles something a grandmother would make. There are way prettier scarves (I refuse to call it a cape) at a lower price point, not to mention that according to one reviewer, it sheds. Everywhere.  No one wants to carry a lint-roller in her purse.

But really, the dress that stopped me in my tracks is the Asra Tulle Midi Dress for $800. Now, I know the description indicates it’s one of a kind. I say thank god to that. I’m sure you can find a much better dress for your $800. Without flowers my kids could make in art class pasted all over it.

There you go. That was my pre-debate fun for the evening. Now I will wait for the candidates to emerge and the answer to the question that has plagued me all day to be answered: will either Obama or Romney dare to opt for a tie that isn’t blue or red?

countdown to Clooney

GC photo credit here: http://www.contactmusic.com/news/george-clooney-hires-swine-psychic_1107048
If Walter Mitty had internet access, he’d be as crazy as I am.

I’ve been promising it for months now. It turns out that publishing my short story is almost as emotional as giving birth, but scarier since the latter was done in private but this story will be available for the whole world to read. Not that the whole world wants to read it, though that would be nice. (After all, it’s better written than the 50 Shades series.)

As I mentally prepare to take this step, what am I doing to prepare for the big day? Like every good Type A person, I have a list:

10. Waiting for my George Clooney cardboard cutout to be delivered. (So much better than a poster.)

9. Editing and re-editing. (I know I need to stop.)

8. Watching my favorite George Clooney movies. (Out of Sight and One Fine Day provide perfect eye candy and background noise.)

7. Imagining what will happen if this story goes viral. (Otherwise known as the fantasy where I meet George Clooney on the Daily Show.)

6. Imagining what I will do if this story doesn’t go viral. (Would it mark the end of my short-lived writing career?)

5. Planning what I’d wear if I knew I was going to meet George Clooney. (Sort of pointless since I’m sure I’d go shopping.)

4. Working on the sequel. (I’m half way done already, so you won’t have to wait long to see where the story goes next.)

3. Working on a full length novel. (Because what better way to procrastinate the task at hand than to start a new project?)

2. Dreaming of becoming a screenwriter. (Could this be my true calling?)

And the number one thing I’m doing in anticipation of release day is planning the party where I’m going to invite you all to come celebrate with me, guilt you into paying the 99 cents I’m going to charge for it on Amazon, and since there isn’t a way to sign an e-book, let you pose for a picture with my cutout Clooney.

I promise, no paparazzi will be there.

day three: manic Monday

I made it. It’s day three of the juice cleanse. I could quit now and have fulfilled my goal.

But I want to go on and complete a five-day regiment.

I’m addicted to my juices. I think about them second only to how much I think about shoes. Well, maybe third to how much I think about shoes and George Clooney.

I expected today to be a challenge because I had to venture outside the comfort zone of my house, where I knew I wouldn’t encounter temptation because the Executive Chef (i.e. me) wasn’t making anything noteworthy. However, while the smell of coffee at the office was divine, it didn’t send me over the edge. I toted three juices to work with me (green, spicy lemonade and a delicious cucumber-grapes-pears-ginger combo). I was strategically out during the lunch hour so I don’t know what my colleagues ate. What I miss most about solid food is definitely the social aspect. It would have been nice to have lunch today with my friend Beth (though she was very understanding and we rescheduled to “snack” next week). I’m without the kids this week and it would be fun to go out to dinner and have a glass (or two) of wine. By Thursday, I can. And I plan to do just that.

I’m a competitive spirit but only recently has this bug afflicted me in a goal-setting sort of way. When I was contemplating whether to hang up my juicer tonight, I thought, “why register for the 10K when there’s a half marathon?” So after work I went to spin, back to the grocery store for more produce and came  home to make two more days worth of juices.

Now, at the end of my day, I’m enjoying my hard-earned cashew milk.

I hardly know who I am!

on george clooney

If it were socially acceptable for me to have a poster of George Clooney in my bedroom, I totally would.

It’s fair to say I think about him often. Maybe even everyday. I mean, not in a scary stalker sort of way. I don’t want to marry him. After all, I know he isn’t the marrying type. But if he met me, wouldn’t he be so charmed by my wit that he would want to whisk me off to Lake Como for a weekend? That’s all I’m looking for from him. No pressure.

And here’s how a modern (and female) Walter Mitty contemplates potentially meeting him. When I fly, I dream this is the time he’ll be stuck in coach, sitting next to me, of course. We strike up conversation while stuck on the tarmac for 5 hours, thus later when we are in the air and hit massive turbulence, he already knows I have a mild fear of flying and holds my hand to comfort me. Or when I’m eating out, I imagine he’s there rubbing shoulders with some of DC’s political elite. After dinner, he comes to the bar where I’m drinking a glass of sparkling and engages me in a conversation about climate change. Sparks fly. In some fantasies he’s testifying on the Hill and manages to escape a throng of admirers and reporters by jumping into an elevator that I happen to be in. We get stuck, of course. By the time the maintenance crew frees us, he’s asked for my phone number.

Sadly, the one time I literally crossed his path, I didn’t know until after the fact. In March when he was arrested outside the Sudanese Embassy, I happened to drive by the scene. I saw the protesters, who held up traffic such that I feared being late for my appointment. But I never for one minute imagined George Clooney would be among the crowd. If I had given it any thought, I would have parked my car, scribbled a sign out of some of the kids’ art materials that litter the back of my car and joined the cause. (Except for the going to jail part.)

Anyway, it’s these Clooney-dominated thoughts that inspired me to write my short story.

Yes, the short story. The one I’ve alluded to a number of times now. The one that diverts my creative energy away from the blog. If you haven’t guessed by now, my story features the dreamy Mr. Clooney. I’m about to take a leap and place my story in the hands of an editor. On the top of my to do list is to read the fine print in the Terms of Service for Amazon’s Kindle Direct Publishing program. Oh, and I have more than half of the sequel already in the works.

If my story is a wild success, I just might follow in my dad’s footsteps and score an invite to be on the Daily Show. Of course, Jon Stewart will secretly arrange for George Clooney to make a guest appearance while I’m there. After taping, George (“may I call you George?”) asks me to take a walk through Central Park, and enjoys my company so much, we make plans for dinner. In Paris.

Maybe it would be healthier to indulge in that poster after all.