A Close Second...

For the past two months, I've been obsessed with finding the perfect leopard print pencil skirt. Totally. Obsessed. It's been an almost daily distraction trying to find this miraculous piece of fashion perfection. And believe me, it hasn't been easy. Try Googling "leopard print pencil skirt" and see the dazzling spectrum of whorishness that comes up with THAT search. Nothing that fits this girls definition of "perfect leopard print pencil skirt". Trust.

This isn't the first (or last) time that I've been burdened with an obsessive sartorial situation. Ten years ago, it was a pair of black leather pants. That's right. Leather pants. I had an image in my head of what they would look like. I could imagine how soft and buttery they would feel. How I would look totally rock n roll. How amazing my ass would look in them. (they were going to be the perfect pants, after all!).

So I started my trek innocently enough. I researched options for three weeks before diving in. Finding them online wasn't an option-I needed to be able to feel them and try them on to commit to such an outrageous purchase. So after exhaustive research and much discussion with a team of experts (aka-my gays) I took a deep breath, had a strong cocktail, and popped into the mall. Makes sense and seems easy enough, right?

Wretched. Little did I know that at that time, every f-ing store from Saks to the Gap carried black leather pants. No joke. And I tried on every pair. Seriously-no joke. After trolling around that mall, I actually went to the other mall across the street. (I happened to live a block away from two fan-freaking-tastic malls. And a bar. Often a troublesome combo for me and my roommate). So after scouring the second mall, I found them. The perfect black leather leather pants. Soft, supple, rock n roll-but not too trampy. Me in pants form! Plus the queen who sold them to me told me my ass looked like a "gift from baby Jesus" and I believed him, so I was sold! They were more than double my "budget" (ha!) but they had to be mine. Clearly he was a connoisseur of ass and who was I to disagree? Plus I was 22 and it was the glory days for my ass. They DESERVED those pants.

But I digress. I bought the perfect leather pants and wore the hell out of them. Twice. And then never again until last Halloween when I dressed like the biker from The Village People. (With a group of OTHER Village People, obvi!) Because after a trek like that, how could I ever get rid of those glorious pants? I'm going to wear them once every 4 years like leap year. These are going to be passed down to my daughter like a family heirloom. Something I am sure she'll be WAY grateful for, right?

So back to the leopard skirt. The short end to this long story is that although I thought I found it, my size has disappeared from the earth completely. And yes, Ms. Know It All, I did consider buying the bigger size and having it altered, but that's a LOT of work.

So what's the point of this story? Within the past week I DID find the perfect pair of leopard print pumps. On sale. That are awesome and hot and perfect. Not only that, I also found the most delicious pair of black patent leather (that's another obsession for another day!) Tory Burch wedges. So on sale that it was almost like stealing but not. And that to me makes up for my perfect leopard print skirt that is lost to the universe. Two amazing, perfect pairs of shoes = one perfect leopard print skirt. That is math I can accept and understand. I'll never stop looking, but the little shoe miracles that came my way this week make the pain of living without this mythical perfect skirt a little easier to bear.

So while I may never find that holy Grail of a leopard skirt, I can take comfort in knowing that one day, I'll be that old lady, scooting around the Senior Center in my hot-ass leather pants and rockin leopard heels.

June Cleaver Can Suck It

My mini sparkle darling is home sick today. Which means I am also home, playing happy housewife. Although it isn't 'new' news to me, I am not meant to be a housewife. I don't even think I could muster being one of those pampered reality tv housewives from New York or Beverly Hills who do nothing but shop, drink, and fall down all day because honestly, those bitches are CRA-ZAY. And I don't need any more cray-cray in my life, thank you very much.

Anyway. Back to how being a housewife is my nightmare. I decided I would clean my house within an inch of its life because with a 2 1/2 year old and two stanky old puff dogs, it needed it. So with the whole day in front of me and my little SD feeling a wee bit better, I thought it would be easy peasy and the Mr. would give me lots of snaps for being so domestic. I had even planned to make some chicken thing for dinner. (I DO have a Rachel Ray cookbook)

Well friends, let me tell you.... My house looks and smells like new(ish). Just don't open any of the closed doors because
1-thats just rude and didn't your mama teach you better!?
And 2-I lost steam about 3/4 of the way through. Cleaning is stupid and NOT something that makes me feel sparkly AT. ALL.

In the middle of scrubbing shower tiles with a toothbrush (Yes, I really did that) while little SD naps, I suddenly realized that it's no wonder you see so many vintage ads and cartoons from the 1950's, with pretty little wifeys, martini in hand and vacant smiles on their faces.
THEY WERE DRUNK ALL THE TIME.

Either that or hopped up on those wackadoo diet pills that turned out to be straight up meth in a bottle. How the hell else could they smile like that after scrubbing shower tiles and cooking casseroles and such all day? Seriously, our mothers/grandmothers must have some funked up skeletons in their closets because there is NO WAY they made it through the day without some sort of mothers little helper. Truth. I have nothing but respect for these women, no matter how they did it, because this shiz is hard and the opposite of fun!

So friends, in a nutshell, I am totally psyched to be a sometimes stressed out, working mama. It's something that I excel at, really. I can work all day and come home to my dirty house feeling okay about it, because I WORKED ALL DAY. I can pour a glass of wine at a normal hour (5:15. 3:30 during summer hours, but whatevs) and feel like I have earned it. Pouring a glass of wine at 11:30 A.M. because you just finished the floors isn't gratifying. It's just a pit stop on the road to "Intervention City" and no one wants to visit that town.
(PS-I didn't ACTUALLY pour a glass of wine at 11:30. But I WANTED to. WAY different so shift your judgey side-eyes somewhere else, sista)

I love my child, but if I have to hear the theme song from "Fresh Beats" or find "Sumpin Else" for her to eat one more time today, I am going to sell her to a band of gypsies. (Cause there's LOTS of those in this hood!) In reality, I'll just count down the hours until I can pour a glass of wine (responsibly, of course) at a respectable hour. In my case, today that magic hour is 4:59 P.M.

And don't even ask me about what's for dinner because the answer is take-out. I've had enough June Cleaver-ing for one day.

PS-In the interest of full disclosure, I didn't actually finish the shower tiles. I decided that Sex and the City reruns and some Easy Mac (the micorwave kind, obvi) would be WAY more fun and sparkle-inducing. So if you happen to be in the neighborhood, looking to bathe in a rando shower, just keep your eyes off the far wall and we can all be friends.

Welcome to my sparkly new blog. It's my birthday!!

Okay. So it's not actually my birthday today. However, I had originally planned to launch my sparkly new blog on my birthday (which is in mid-September for future reference) but life as a full-time working wifey, mother, friend, and overall sparkly girl made me late to my own party. Which happens quite a lot, actually. So let's just pretend for a moment, shall we?

So... Hey girl, heeyyy. It's my birthday and here's my sparkly blog! (thank god only my dear friends are reading this shiz and will know and get my humor on my wee little blog.)

Notice how humble and nonchalant I am about it? For reals- I spent way more time trying to figure out the name and how to make it pretty than I would admit without a healthy number of cocktails in my system but I'm excited to start writing on a regular basis about absolutely nothing serious or world-altering.

Anyway, here's my first post about absolutely nothing. I sense a trend, but stay tuned. I might just shock your stilettos right off with something profound someday.

(Spoiler Alert.... Probably Not!!!)