tangled up in blue

Sheer crepe shirt w rosette collar, Venus & Mars Vintage;
high-waisted skirt, American Apparel; greige pumps, Seychelles.
Regular jewelry: Until There's a Cure bracelet, Allumonde ring.

This post title is lazy, because "Tangled Up in Blue" does not at all go with my level of unhappiness right now. I took my laptop to the Genius Bar this morning in a high state of alarm at the noises I heard coming from the hard drive. It wasn't the hard drive, for once, but the optical drive. Oh, and look, the logic board has just decided to fail! Yup, that needs replacing. For a fee, natch. So I'm out several hundred dollars while my baby is shipped off to Tennessee to be remade, which seriously disrupts my plans to spend this week in the library doing research and writing the first draft of my big M.A. faux-thesis. The draft is conveniently due in eight days. I may have my laptop back in seven days. This does not bode well.

(Of course I can suck it up and use the on-campus computer labs for this. And I shall have to. But that's just fucking inconvenient, and also means that I'm at the whim of computer availability in the labs, and also cannot just sit at home at my desk with a full french press of coffee and type away. I know, I know: first-world problems.)


gettin' lucky in kentucky

I have seen the aforementioned Zappos outlet, friends, and it is gooooooood.

I went in thinking of three specific shoes I hoped to find: closed-toe black leather d'orsay pumps with a heel under 3", Hunter wellies, and my Seychelles cone-heel pumps in black leather.

Instead, I found the Corner of Fancy Shoes, and after trying on gorgeous tri-tone satin Marc by Marc pumps, I walked around the store clutching them to my chest and trying to find a way to afford them. The price tag was down to $163 from $325, but there was a black sticker on them, so I went to ask/beg a sales associate about a "black sticker discount" that would bring them down to a reasonable price for a satin-shoe-deprived grad student.
"The black sticker means 20% off", she said, "but since these are part of the sale, that doesn't count. They're 70% off."
"70% off the $325?", I asked. "Maaaaaybe I can do that. They're so pretty, after all..."
"No- they're 70% off the lowest sticker price. That whole Corner of Fancy Shoes is on sale for 70% off the discount price."

I almost fell over on my stampede back to the Corner of Fancy Shoes to grab up every single shoe I could remember trying on that had fit me even a little bit. My god! 85% off all the gorgeousness I could stuff my feet into!

I was forced into self-restraint due to the sizing of most of these- why do all clearance sections have an abundance of size 7 1/2, and a dearth of size 9?- but came away with two gorgeous pairs of satin shoes. Is satin a terribly practical material for footwear? Of course not. But perhaps you didn't realize just how fucking gorgeous these shoes are.

And no, I never found my d'orsays, my cone-heel Seychelles, or my Hunter wellies. Though I plan to drive to the middle of nowhere, Kentucky at least once more before leaving Ohio to plunder that clearance corner.


ocd? heavens, no.

I like lists. (I'm finicky about them, too, which is why I'm having such a bitch of a time finding the perfect notebook to keep such lists in.)

In class tonight, rather than pay attention to corporate strategy theory, I made a pre-packing list of the clothes necessary for my Nashville trip this weekend (to include stops at the Zappos outlet en route, and the Venus and Mars vintage store in Nashville- omg Karen Elson omg) to cheer on some seriously awesome marathoner friends.

List contents:

grey silk dress
grey flats
grey jeans
grey wifebeater
grey t-shirt
greige heels
black-and-grey knee-highs

I think I'll have to throw a navy cardigan in there for variety. Because if that list expands to include "grey sweater for potential cold snap", I might have to recognize my dependence on varying shades of light black.


luck be a lady

I have a knee-jerk affinity for all things loteria, even though I don't even know enough Spanish to know what "el catrin" is. (In my mind, it's Spanish for "Mr. Belvedere".) The designs of loteria cards are so striking, and though "magnets" is not really high up on the list of Things I Have to Buy, I do feel that they'd make an excellent replacement for the magnets from the pizza place that currently affix holiday cards to my fridge.

(Etsy has many lovely loteria pieces, as you'd expect, but these are from DamageNoted, and I adore them.)


back in black

I have a crush on this dress. And not just because it seems to have plenty of room for the cookies and champagne I'm planning for Saturday night. (But that definitely helps.)

Looks like I've finally cured my aversion to ruffles, eh?


while you were sleeping

Smoke detectors save lives, of course. But after a particularly memorable smoke detector in an old apartment decided to shriek every single time I boiled water, I decided that the ability to take down and disable my smoke detector, should I choose to take my life into my own hands, was a freedom I valued.

In my current apartment, the smoke detector is wired into my heating and cooling system, twelve and a half feet up. (This is an unforeseen downside to having ridiculously high ceilings.) I occasionally smack it with the handle of a mop when it mistakes my searing steak for a life-threatening inferno, but otherwise, I leave it alone.

On Monday morning, the smoke detector started beeping at three-minute intervals. Other than annoying me while I searched for the source of the sound, it wasn't a big deal. I smacked at it with the mop, and it stopped making noise.

Monday night, at around 3:30 a.m., the smoke detector decided that it would not be put off so easily. BEEP, it told me. BEEP. GET UP AND LEAVE ASIDE ANY SILLY THOUGHTS OF REST.
Beep, in this case, meant that battering the smoke detector with a mop handle was no longer sufficient. Time for a new battery, it seems. But wait- the smoke detector is almost thirteen feet in the air, and although I am over six foot in heels, I have no way to remove and replace the battery to shut the damn beeping off.

My first thought, after beating the smoke detector like a deranged child after a beeping piƱata, was that I should short it out somehow. This highly logical idea was to involve me throwing water at the smoke detector until it shorted out the electricity in my apartment. But then I'd have no electricity, and my bed, located directly under the smoke detector, would be soaked.

I had to get to the damn thing first. Since I neither own nor store a thirteen-foot ladder in a studio apartment, I had to find an alternate route. Jumping on my bed wasn't working, so I shoved the bed to one side, drug over my coffee table, and placed a folding chair atop the coffee table. (Yes, neighbors, I was moving furniture at 3:45 a.m.- sorry about that.) I clambered onto this jenga-like structure and finally reached the smoke detector. Victory! Remove the battery, and on to bed!

Turns out these fancy new smoke detectors will beep with renewed urgency if you take their battery out. And not just any battery that one might have lying about the house, but a nine-volt battery. It would make too much sense to have a smoke detector run on AA batteries, of course, for people have AA batteries around the house for clocks and remote controls and those creepy vibrating razors and would be able to change out their smoke detector batteries without making a trip to the store.

As I wasn't wearing actual clothes, I decided to throw on a raincoat and boots and head out in search of the elusive nine-volt battery. (Note: it was not raining at this point, but I needed a coat that would cover my nightgown.) I grabbed my car keys on the way out, in case I had to drive around the greater Cincinnati metropolitan area in search of a twenty-four hour hardware store. My first planned stop was a convenience store two blocks from my house. Somewhere in my head, I was convinced that I'd have to drive to find the necessary battery, so I walked the block and a half to where my car was parked, got in, and drove the half-block to the convenience store. Yes, I drove a half-block at four in the morning while essentially wearing only a jacket.

$5 and two truly befuddled convenience store clerks later (I'd forgotten the lovely little spots of white pimple cream dotting my face, and had cat hair stuck to my lip balm from the pillow), I arrived home to once again climb up the rickety arrangement of furniture to stuff the battery in the VERY CONCERNED smoke detector. I thought about smacking it around a bit for good measure to show it who was boss, but feared this might set off another round of beeping.

Whoever designed these "smart" smoke detectors owes me a good 75 minutes of sleep.


"you know the nicest people"

Yesterday, I got to conference-call with Suzanne, one of the lovely founders of Weardrobe and a friend of C's. Ostensibly this conversation was for one of our MBA classes, but really, it was an opportunity for me to gawk over the phone at the cool stuff she's been able to do with what was once a hobby idea of archiving and organizing her closet online.

I figure that anyone who can wear a skort and not look like a total doofus is someone to look up to. Especially when she has goals like becoming "the google of clothing" and is going to make that happen. Oh, and she's a few years younger than I am, which makes me alternately go "whoa" in her general direction, and also sadly shake my head at myself and mutter "whoa".


see my vest! see my vest! made of real gorilla chest!

Wifebeater (so very un-PC, but I scoff at the package label "a-shirts"), black H&M vest,
Hudson jeans, Seychelles heels, Marc Jacobs watch that I've taken to wearing
buckle-side-up on my wrist so I can pretend that I have this watch that I covet.

See this sweater! There's none better! Than authentic Irish Setter!

What? You've got to admit that it's catchy.