Okay, so this one isn't so much a poor clothing choice as it a poor judgment call, but I figure bad decisions are bad decisions, so what the hell. I came across a massive bundle of old photographs the other day and was so excited at all the horrors within---sartorial and otherwise---that I now believe I have enough evidence to keep Bad Decision Tuesday going for.....well, possibly forever.
I have my first appointment to try on wedding dresses later today and, get this, I'm nervous about it. Yes, nervous! Nervous to try on dresses! And this from a girl who has never met a dress or a dressing room she didn't like, a girl who considers shopping to be in her top five hobbies. (Oh, who are we kidding, top three hobbies. It's not like I actually have any real hobbies, anyway, like fencing or knitting or tae kwon do.)
So I was going to make this post a Bad Decision Tuesday, because a) I figured we were due for one of those, and b) I found an awesome stash of pictures featuring my dinner-plate-sized glasses the other day, as well as another one I plan to turn into a photo essay soon entitled That Year I Dressed Like a Dude. But then I realized hey, who needs a Bad Decision Tuesday featuring terrible fashion choices from the past when I could just write a regular old blog post featuring terrible fashion choices from the party I just got home from fifteen minutes ago?
I'm thinking of starting a special division of Best! Thing! Ever! devoted solely to drinks (Best! Drink! Ever!?), because apparently I think drinks are awesome. I have, for example, sung the praises of Gatorade since I started this thing, of Mint Mocha Chip Frappuccinos, and most recently of Sprite Zero. And now I would like you to meet my latest crush, the Izze beverage in Sparkling Pomegranate.
There’s nothing quite so disorienting as arriving in a foreign country after a sleepless international flight. Everything becomes imbued with a Lost In Translation-type tinge: you move through the security line as if in a dream, blithely and half-blindly following the crowds towards Connecting Flights, not even bothering to be bothered when the guard barks at you to show your boarding pass as you walk through the metal detector.
Yesterday marked the first day in my week-long stint of working in my company's Singapore office. Like most first days, it was fraught with nerves, and like most week-long stints, it was fraught with complete and utter exhaustion after just a few hours. Apparently my body had been falsely tricked into vacation mode the minute I got on the plane in San Francisco, and when I forced it into a pencil skirt and heels on Monday morning and plunked it down in front of a computer, it was all WOMAN, YOU HAVE BEEN LYING TO ME.
As far as I can tell, there are two types of people in the world: those who can listen to music while they work and those who can't. I am firmly in the latter camp, unable to think if someone is even contemplating humming under their breath and preferring complete and utter silence wherever possible.
I wasn't actually going to confess this to anyone, but apparently I'm seeking absolution or something, because here it is: I've eaten breakfast at McDonalds twice this week. This may or may not be shocking to you, depending on your opinion of McDonalds, but it's pretty shocking to me, because I generally try to avoid fast food where I can, for a host of cultural, ethical, and (mainly) nutritional reasons that I'm sure I don't need to get into.
We haven't talked about my wedding in a while, have we, so let's do that. Basically, the most progress I've made since the last time I wrote about it is scouring ebay for vintage cake toppers and going back and forth on whether or not to bid on one that features a dark-haired bride and groom who bear a passing resemblance to us, an engraving on the back that professes it to be from the first half of the 20th century, and a few details that are simultaneously awesome and juuuuuuuust this side of tacky.
Happy Christmas, Internet! I hope you all have a wonderful day, filled with much merriment, many mince pies, lots and lots of presents, a whole bunch of hilarious family jokes, as much champagne as you can comfortably drink, and---most important of all---NO LEGWARMERS WHATSOEVER.
Ever since I can remember, my life has been determined by my dad's job. It's the reason my parents moved to Michigan in the 70s, passing down to me in their DNA an insatiable obsession with America and a longing to live there myself. It's the reason we moved all around the world while I was growing up, the reason I went away to boarding school six thousand miles from my family when I was eleven, and the reason we were transferred to Connecticut in the mid-90s, where I just happened to meet that boy I'm going to marry this fall.
I landed twenty minutes early at San Francisco International Airport yesterday morning, sailed through customs, immigration, and the baggage carousel, and was outside on the curb by 9:10am, the time my flight was originally supposed to land. Thanks to some excellent timing, Sean was right there to swoop me up in the car three seconds after I exited the double doors into the chilly morning. What super good luck, right?