I'm normally fairly adamant about what I like (black licorice, good manners, boys who layer a short-sleeved t-shirt over a long-sleeved one) and what I don't (Ben Affleck, lipliner, "your" when it should be "you're.") But there are some things about which I just don't know how I feel. Old Navy, for example. The prices are cheap, the stuff is cute, but you can hardly ever wear anything after four or five washes. And Shakira!
When I was eleven, as I have mentioned, I left my family and my life in Hong Kong to attend an all-girls boarding school in the leafy village of Bramley, England. To this day, if you want to make my mother cry, you can say "hey, remember in 1991 when you sent Holly to school 6,000 miles away? When she was eleven? Because you wanted her to have a better education?" Sometimes I bring it up when I really want something from her. Then I hand her a suitcase and some carry-on luggage and say "Bon voyage! Have a good guilt trip!"
I've been needing to get the oil changed in my car forever. I've been meaning to do it on a Wednesday because Wednesday is "Ladies Day" at the Jiffy Lube, and even though I find this blatant display of sexism just a tad insulting, if it means I can put a skirt on and save ten bucks, then I'm all over it. Shameless, yes, but neccessary. Plus, it's better than this place, where they leave a rose on your front seat when they give you your car back. How Bachelor is that?
So the day before yesterday, I was feeling very glamorous with my "I quit my job!" and my "I'm moving to San Francisco!" and my "I'm traveling around Asia!" I was even feeling glamorous about the Squatting Toilets, because peeing in a hole in the ground can totally be glamorous, as long as you do it with your Jackie O. sunglasses on.
So! Thank you all so much for not believing for a second that I would ever enter a professional hot dog eating competition. Obviously, if it had been a professional Tiramisu eating competition, it would have been a totally different story, and you all would have thought, of course, that number two was the lie (because CAN YOU BELIEVE that woman said that to me about the acne?
You know how you always get those photocopied letters at Christmas, the sole purpose of which is that Mrs. Neighbor From Two Decades Ago can tell you all about how Totally Creepy Jake just had a cameo in a Robin Williams movie where he met Julia Roberts' younger sister, with whom he is now going steady, and that Antisocial Laura is now not only a renowned neurosurgeon and the new face of L'Oreal BUT IS ALSO STILL IN THE TENTH GRADE?
Before I begin this post, I would like to pose a challenge. What do you think is the most ridiculous injury one can ever inflict upon oneself? I will give you a moment to ponder this. In fact, I will hum the Jeopardy tune in my head while you do it.
Ready? What did you come up with? If you chose Puncture Wound To Palm While Trying To Skewer Heart-Shaped Marshmallow For Roasting Over Open Fire, I would like to congratulate you. Because yes, that is the most ridiculous way to injure oneself, isn't it? Not like I did that last night or anything.
Every year, a very worthy charitable organization holds an event wherein they auction off one-of-a-kind handbags made by local Charlestonians (and, on occasion, British girls masquerading as Charlestonians, as long as they don't try and get away with using "y'all.) Because I get disproportionately excited about a trip up the freeway to A.C.