Judging from the glazed over looks of my overstuffed family members staring blankly at the Cowboys-Seahawks game, I'd say Thanksgiving '08 is wrapping up quite nicely. There was way too much food. For eleven people you really don't need a turkey, a ham, dressing, giblet gravy, broccoli casserole, spinach salad, creamed corn, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, curried fruit, green beans, watergate salad, rolls, chocolate pie and pumpkin cheesecake. I'd say we out-did the pilgrims by a few side dishes, but who's comparing?
I'm not exactly in the mood to write this evening. The dishes are piled high. I'm suffering from that what's it called "sleepy turkey condition" and I have to get packed to head to Tybee. But something's pulling me toward the computer to take time out and chronicle all the things in life for which I'm thankful. Okay, here goes before I crash, banging my head on the keyboard and engraving the "H" key into my nose.
1) Good health. It sounds trite and cliche, but the older I get, the more genuinely grateful I am for the fact that I'm not incontinent, suffering from some flesh-eating disease or have Tourettes (although it would be amusing from time to time).
2) My new chair-and-a-half recliner that's made from genuine "Dream Hide." I think dream hide is a notch below nauga-hide. It's from Big Lots because James and I are insufferably cheap and haven't paid full price for anything.....ever. My mom said today "You don't get that from me and myyyyy side of the family. We'd never be caught dead in a discount store." I'm kind of afraid to sit on, walk near or breathe in the same room as the chair because it might bruise the Dream hide, which doesn't tolerate typical cleaning solutions, or liquids of any kind, or extreme heat, or cold, or temperature changes of any kind, or weight above 15 pounds or below 14 pounds. There's a bunch more items on the warning label, which is as long as a Kroger receipt complete with the 76 coupons they give you. I like the way the chair looks in my living room, but my eye contact may damage the "Dream Hide" so I try not to cast my gaze in its direction.
3) All the art work my kids bring home from school. When Andrew first started pre-school, I was just as proud as he was of the scribbly Noah's Ark colorings and construction paper concoctions he made. I'd carefully pin them to the wall in a prominent location. I'd beam "look what Andrew, my little artist protegy created!" when people would come over. Now Andrew's in second grade and Jack's in preschool. Everyday, and I mean everyday, especially Mondays and Wednesdays, Andrew and Jack are cranking out the masterpieces like air-bags at a Ford assembly plant. Every horizontal surface in my house is covered in artwork that consists of construction paper, popsicle sticks and googly eyes all held together by enough glue to fill in the ozone layer.
4)The Pine Forest Handbell Choir, of which I'm a member, proudly shaking each wrist to the tunes of B, B-flat, C and D-sharp, somewhere way up the scale. Used to, whenever I'd see a handbell choir perform, I'd make fun of their white or black gloves, as if they were about to administer a white glove test in an Army bunker or commit a neighborhood burglery. I'd laugh at the precision of their movements and the ultra serious, concentrated expressions on their faces like graceful, mute air traffic controllers. I've been a member of the PFUMC HB choir for a few months now and I love it. I get a week's worth of laughs and good times between the rings and have made some wonderful friends. Go ahead, call me a ding-a-ling, I consider it a high compliment.
5) That my husband didn't kill me when I broke his camera. I seriously thought he would. But, instead, he went out and cut the grass, which has been dead for a month and has experienced no noticeable growth during that time. The reason my husband has a camera is because I broke the one we shared, and the one before that, and the one before that. After I discovered that beach sand and zoom lenses don't make good bed fellows, James went out and bought his own little Samsung, 7.0 megapixel camera and dared me to touch it, not in a truth or dare sort of way, but in a "if you even come near my camera, I'll give you a knuckle sandwich (I'm exaggerating. Don't call DFACS).
Well, wouldn't you know the other day, the kids were doing some adorable leaf pile acrobatics and I just had to get a photo of them. What mother wouldn't? James wasn't home, but his camera was. He'd never know, unless he saw the pictures. Okay, he'd know. In taking the pictures, I didn't plan on tripping on Andrew's scooter, losing my balance and falling camera first onto our concrete driveway. But that's what happened. The camera made a squawking sound kind of like a mad hen...and then it died. But I didn't thanks to James' therapeutic grass mowing.
Okay, I've written. I'm done now. Maybe I'll come back to more things I'm grateful for later, but for now, I'll have another slice of cheesecake.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Go Kart Full of Fun
Okay first of all, let me say that in no way do I condone replacing the letter "c" with its sound sharing counterpart "k" just because it looks cute or "kute" as in Kute Kuntry Kollectibles (a store in Wrightsville that sold krap, in my opinion.) If the word is supposed to start with a "c" then leave it alone for God (and Webster's) sake. I bring this up because of the title of this week's blog. If you look on Craigslist (thankfully not Kregslist) which I've been doing a lot of lately, you'll see that nearly all the used go k(c)arts are listed as karts, not carts, which drives me crazy. I wonder why, since I manage to spell every other word incorrectly.
Okay, on with the show. Today, I dragged my husband all the way to Atlanta to the home of some guy named Tony and his bottle blond wife, who either doesn't have a name, or isn't worthy of an introduction, to purchase a used go kart with a tremulous purple paint job obviously performed by someone in the late stages of Parkinson's. I'd been eyeing the six horse power buggy for weeks trying to decide if Andrew would like it.
Each time I examined the digital images of the violet two seater with roll cage and pull crank, I'd reminisce about my own go cart drag racing years in the backyard speedway. The more I daydreamed, the more I was sure Andrew would love one. Mind you, he's never said a word about wanting a go cart, a four wheeler, a dirt bike, a remote control car, a hair dryer or anything with a motor. He's afraid of the electric can opener and rides his bike only as a last resort.
"He'll just LOVE IT, Honey!" I said, trying to coax James to drive me in his truck to Atlanta to meet Tony, the go cart salesman and what's her name.
When I called Tony to make sure it was still available and to get his address, his reaction was "You're driving three hours to buy a go cart you said your kid doesn't want?!? Are you sure? Can I take more pictures and send them to you? I understand if you don't want to come. Surely you'll find one closer by or maybe not one at all."
"Nope, this is the one." I said self assuredly, trying to sound business-like as if I were equal parts go cart expert and child psychologist with a sprinkling of price negotiator thrown in for good measure.
Tony responded, "Let me speak to your husband."
I walked out of the room, but was able to hear James say to him "Look, man, when my wife wants something, there's not much that can be done."
"So James and I left the kids with Grandma and drove the two and a half hours (which honestly, it's not like we had to go to Vermont.)
The whole way, James was quiet...pensive. He works as a financial planner for people who are getting ready to retire. With the stock market at its lowest level since Dow and Jones first became friends, and people's nest eggs dwindling away like melting snow, James hasn't experienced his highest levels of job satisfaction lately. In fact, I've met morticians and grief counselors who are perkier. After two hours of silence he opened up.
"You don't know what it's like living in this economic nightmare that's my work life. I'm seeing coworkers laid off every week. One guy was within a year or retiring. It's my job to tell our clients that they can't retire. I can't take much more of this." The mood on the inside of the truck was quite gray, even as REM's Michael Stipe sung cheerily, ironically "It's the end of the world as we know it...and I feel fine....."
When we arrived at Tony's house, no one was home except their two mixed breed dogs and a gray tabby cat. They all barked loudly (not the cat) as we stood at the door, awkwardly wondering if the doorbell worked between rings and knocks. Finally I called Tony's cell. He answered and said "Oh Man, you were for real???" I thought you were joking about driving up here. Let me speak to your husband." What was I thinking trying to talk to a man all by myself without James' assistance?
When Tony, a pleasant, balding contractor who matched his flannel work shirt with red Crocs, and Mrs. X finally arrived home, he pulled out the go ckart and started it up. James, who'd been completely somber, a total Eeyore of a person all day, sat down in the driver's seat. Hesitantly (he's never driven one) he pressed down on the gas. The boxy cart lurched forward, as if urging "c'mom, give me more. You can do better." James tapped the gas again, further down.... and this time he was off! Spinning around trees, zooming through the backyard, dodging dogs, cats, dogloos and an old folding chair. "Yeeehawwww!!!" he yelled like a 40 year old Duke Boy as he floored the accelerator. I hadn't seen James smile like that, throwing his head back, laughing, punching the gas, breaking, skidding and doing it all over again....Well, I've never seen him let go like that.
For five minutes in the yard of total strangers, my poor, burdened husband was able to let go of all be'd been carrying around. The panicky, desperate clients, the threat of not getting a bonus this quarter, the constant obligation to meet his sales numbers, and the CNBC ticker symbols plummeting into the red, none of that mattered. James was having fun, much deserved fun that made him look like a ten year old boy spinning wheels and putting on a show for us onlookers.
Right then I realized why I was buying that used go cart. It wasn't for Andrew, the little boy at home. It was for James, the little boy in front of me who needs to come out and play more often.
When he parked and slid out of the driver's seat with noticeable aches and pains in his knees and back, I handed Tony $350 and said "I'm going to back up the truck to load up our new toy."
Tony replied "Better let your husband do that."
Maybe I'll get to drive it once in a while too, the go cart, that is.
Okay, on with the show. Today, I dragged my husband all the way to Atlanta to the home of some guy named Tony and his bottle blond wife, who either doesn't have a name, or isn't worthy of an introduction, to purchase a used go kart with a tremulous purple paint job obviously performed by someone in the late stages of Parkinson's. I'd been eyeing the six horse power buggy for weeks trying to decide if Andrew would like it.
Each time I examined the digital images of the violet two seater with roll cage and pull crank, I'd reminisce about my own go cart drag racing years in the backyard speedway. The more I daydreamed, the more I was sure Andrew would love one. Mind you, he's never said a word about wanting a go cart, a four wheeler, a dirt bike, a remote control car, a hair dryer or anything with a motor. He's afraid of the electric can opener and rides his bike only as a last resort.
"He'll just LOVE IT, Honey!" I said, trying to coax James to drive me in his truck to Atlanta to meet Tony, the go cart salesman and what's her name.
When I called Tony to make sure it was still available and to get his address, his reaction was "You're driving three hours to buy a go cart you said your kid doesn't want?!? Are you sure? Can I take more pictures and send them to you? I understand if you don't want to come. Surely you'll find one closer by or maybe not one at all."
"Nope, this is the one." I said self assuredly, trying to sound business-like as if I were equal parts go cart expert and child psychologist with a sprinkling of price negotiator thrown in for good measure.
Tony responded, "Let me speak to your husband."
I walked out of the room, but was able to hear James say to him "Look, man, when my wife wants something, there's not much that can be done."
"So James and I left the kids with Grandma and drove the two and a half hours (which honestly, it's not like we had to go to Vermont.)
The whole way, James was quiet...pensive. He works as a financial planner for people who are getting ready to retire. With the stock market at its lowest level since Dow and Jones first became friends, and people's nest eggs dwindling away like melting snow, James hasn't experienced his highest levels of job satisfaction lately. In fact, I've met morticians and grief counselors who are perkier. After two hours of silence he opened up.
"You don't know what it's like living in this economic nightmare that's my work life. I'm seeing coworkers laid off every week. One guy was within a year or retiring. It's my job to tell our clients that they can't retire. I can't take much more of this." The mood on the inside of the truck was quite gray, even as REM's Michael Stipe sung cheerily, ironically "It's the end of the world as we know it...and I feel fine....."
When we arrived at Tony's house, no one was home except their two mixed breed dogs and a gray tabby cat. They all barked loudly (not the cat) as we stood at the door, awkwardly wondering if the doorbell worked between rings and knocks. Finally I called Tony's cell. He answered and said "Oh Man, you were for real???" I thought you were joking about driving up here. Let me speak to your husband." What was I thinking trying to talk to a man all by myself without James' assistance?
When Tony, a pleasant, balding contractor who matched his flannel work shirt with red Crocs, and Mrs. X finally arrived home, he pulled out the go ckart and started it up. James, who'd been completely somber, a total Eeyore of a person all day, sat down in the driver's seat. Hesitantly (he's never driven one) he pressed down on the gas. The boxy cart lurched forward, as if urging "c'mom, give me more. You can do better." James tapped the gas again, further down.... and this time he was off! Spinning around trees, zooming through the backyard, dodging dogs, cats, dogloos and an old folding chair. "Yeeehawwww!!!" he yelled like a 40 year old Duke Boy as he floored the accelerator. I hadn't seen James smile like that, throwing his head back, laughing, punching the gas, breaking, skidding and doing it all over again....Well, I've never seen him let go like that.
For five minutes in the yard of total strangers, my poor, burdened husband was able to let go of all be'd been carrying around. The panicky, desperate clients, the threat of not getting a bonus this quarter, the constant obligation to meet his sales numbers, and the CNBC ticker symbols plummeting into the red, none of that mattered. James was having fun, much deserved fun that made him look like a ten year old boy spinning wheels and putting on a show for us onlookers.
Right then I realized why I was buying that used go cart. It wasn't for Andrew, the little boy at home. It was for James, the little boy in front of me who needs to come out and play more often.
When he parked and slid out of the driver's seat with noticeable aches and pains in his knees and back, I handed Tony $350 and said "I'm going to back up the truck to load up our new toy."
Tony replied "Better let your husband do that."
Maybe I'll get to drive it once in a while too, the go cart, that is.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Elizabeth Garman, our In-Car GPS Shrew
There's something so refreshing about having another female in the car to pick on my husband's lack of navigational ability coupled with his refusal to follow directions. Her name's Elizabeth and she's a Garman GPS (the smart alecky, neurotic and slightly rageful model. Hey, it was being discontinued and an excellent price). I'm not sure why we named her Elizabeth, but she's kept me company on many a road trip, sighing loudly and hissing "Recalculating" in her prep school tone whenever my husband misses an exit. She always says "recalculating" whenever he doesn't follow her directions. Overtly it means, "you decided not to take the route I chose, so I'm now put to the task of finding the next best way of getting you there." Lately, though, the snippy way she's been blurting it out clearly means more, like "YOU ARE A COMPLETE FREAKIN' IMBECILE WHO HAS OBVIOUSLY NEVER BEEN ABLE TO FOLLOW A CLEAR DIRECTION IN HIS LIFE!!!!!! YOU DON'T BELONG ON THE FREEWAY. YOU BELONG ON A CAGE. DAMN YOU! YOU CRO-MAGNON LOWER LIFE FORM!!!!!!!!!!" (I'm paraphrasing.)
After a few silent seconds, her voice returns, exasperated, yet composed. If we could see her, I'm sure she'd be rolling her eyes at my husband. She starts again "turn right at Exit 22. Mountain Industrial Parkway (and if you have any brain cells whatsoever, you'll do what I say this time.) James is on the phone impressing his boss with his financial knowledge. Exit 22 passes by without so much as a nod to the right on his part.
As her voice returns, I picture a scornful, aristocratic, late 40's, somewhat attractive woman with large diamonds and even bigger hair about to scream at the top of her lungs in frustration. The vein in her forehead camouflaged with Lancome foundation and pressed powder is about to explode, spewing her rage at incompetent men all over the inside of my Saturn.
"RECALCULATING" She more chokes than announces. He's done it this time. Any time now a well-manicured hand will burst through the steering column to mangle my husband's jugular vein.
A few more seconds of silence. Hanging up from his call, James chirps "What did I miss?" as if he's coming in from a golf game. Just then a haggard voice, tired, defeated comes from the GPS. In just above a whisper, she starts. "Alright, James, you waste of perfectly good vital organs and a Social Security Number. Listen to me this time or just turn me off, I can't handle it anymore and I'm out of Valium and Scotch. Turn right on Exit 24. It's Talmedge Expressway. Do you think you can handle that? Do ya? DO YA?" because if you can't, I'm done.
Pretty sweet! It's like I've outsourced all the frustration of dealing with my husband's innatentive driving. If only I could have a "Toilet Seat Elizabeth" and a "Pick up your damn socks off the floor Elizabeth" and a "Stop Snoring, for Christsake Elizabeth." Maybe I'll get to work inventing those.
After a few silent seconds, her voice returns, exasperated, yet composed. If we could see her, I'm sure she'd be rolling her eyes at my husband. She starts again "turn right at Exit 22. Mountain Industrial Parkway (and if you have any brain cells whatsoever, you'll do what I say this time.) James is on the phone impressing his boss with his financial knowledge. Exit 22 passes by without so much as a nod to the right on his part.
As her voice returns, I picture a scornful, aristocratic, late 40's, somewhat attractive woman with large diamonds and even bigger hair about to scream at the top of her lungs in frustration. The vein in her forehead camouflaged with Lancome foundation and pressed powder is about to explode, spewing her rage at incompetent men all over the inside of my Saturn.
"RECALCULATING" She more chokes than announces. He's done it this time. Any time now a well-manicured hand will burst through the steering column to mangle my husband's jugular vein.
A few more seconds of silence. Hanging up from his call, James chirps "What did I miss?" as if he's coming in from a golf game. Just then a haggard voice, tired, defeated comes from the GPS. In just above a whisper, she starts. "Alright, James, you waste of perfectly good vital organs and a Social Security Number. Listen to me this time or just turn me off, I can't handle it anymore and I'm out of Valium and Scotch. Turn right on Exit 24. It's Talmedge Expressway. Do you think you can handle that? Do ya? DO YA?" because if you can't, I'm done.
Pretty sweet! It's like I've outsourced all the frustration of dealing with my husband's innatentive driving. If only I could have a "Toilet Seat Elizabeth" and a "Pick up your damn socks off the floor Elizabeth" and a "Stop Snoring, for Christsake Elizabeth." Maybe I'll get to work inventing those.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Okay, I'm a horrible speller. Here's all the stuff on the last misspelled attempt at a new blog.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Balloon Dresses Popping Up Onto the Fashion Scene
When I found a bag of 50 extra stretchy, brightly colored balloons leftover from my son's recent birthday party, I thought of using them as BB gun targets, or having a helium karaoke party, maybe even performing my own Angioplasty (insurance companies these days are so picky about what they'll cover). But designing a balloon party dress somehow never made the list. I'm not talking about those floaty, bubbly satin numbers that Paris Hilton is always photographed wearing into Hollywood night clubs with names like Vitamin X and Teflon. I'm talking actual squeaky, blow up, rubber balloons here.According to Internet fashion news Web sites, balloon artists like Ori Livney and Steven Jones (you've heard of them...right?) are no longer satisfied with wowing four year olds by twisting balloons into light sabers, crowns and poodles. They've upped the ante for all to follow creating blown up, rubber dress couture (that undoubtedly squeaks terribly when you move). Using hundreds of partially inflated balloons, these designers are piecing together wearable works of art that are popping up all over.Here are some examples. The two-piece sunflower themed outfit (right) is quite versatile and can be worn to many events like garden parties, kids' birthday parties, sun worshipper festivals and Milan fashion shows that feature clothing that no one in real life actually wears. Made from somewhere between 5,000 and 7 trillion yellow and brown balloons, it's sure to be a crowd pleaser.
If you're planning a wedding and searching for that perfect, one of a kind, gown that will have everyone breathless (because they had to help blow up your dress) choose a design like this one. However, you'll want to stay away from anything sharp until the honeymoon begins.
Every fall, plaid makes a comeback on high school and college campuses. If you want to stand out, try wearing this ensemble with knee socks, a leather backpack and lots of black eye-liner to class. Avril Lavigne and the Michelin Man will be seriously jealous. Note: This also doubles as a flamenco dancing pirate costume (in case you were looking for one).I'm simply blown away by the creativity of balloon fashion designers, as I'm sure you are too. However, before you go out and replace your current wardrobe with an inflatable one, take caution and consider the following.1) While wearing balloon clothing, you can no longer play with your pet house cat, porcupine, hedgehog or puffer fish.2) You'll want to avoid your cactus collection.3) No playing darts!4) If you'll be making your own balloon dress, resist the urge to fill them with helium. One designer floated off and was never seen or heard from again. However, she may have recently been picked up on a satellite orbiting Jupiter.5) Take a hint from Janet Jackson. In case you have a popping wardrobe malfunction, please, PLEASE wear underwear.6) Static cling can present a problem. Be sure to pull your hair back so it's not standing on end. Also no doing laundry in these dresses. You don't want to make a grand ball entrance with your husband's black socks stuck to your balloon dress.7) I hope you're not the active type. This isn't a sweat suit you'll be wearing. No running, jumping, somersaults, cartwheels, games of Twister, playing Leap Frog or even sitting down. You can pretty much just stand there. I think spinning around is probably okay as long as you don't get dizzy and fall down.While balloons as a fashion material probably won't replace cotton or polyester anytime soon, they make stunning conversation pieces that will last for at least one wearing (as long as you follow the suggestions above).
Posted by Angela Weight at 5:06 AM 0 comments
Smile Models. It's a Fashion Show, Not a Funeral
I've been following the glitzy pomp and progress of New York's Fashion Week 2008. Through all the parading of high style clothing and accessories, all I can think about is why don't runway models smile?Are they all uniformly tee'd off about something that we, the public are completely unaware of? Are they mad about having to wear outrageous clothing items that individually are worth more than my car? Perhaps it's because they haven't eaten in three years. It can't be that the job is too stressful. I mean these women get paid small fortunes to walk short distances in a climate controlled environment. What could they possibly have to be irritated about? Yet most of them present a face that ranges somewhere from slightly aloof to full throttle PMS.After an exhausting five minutes of research with my friend Google, I found the answer. And it has nothing to do with what the models are thinking... or if they're thinking at all. According to highly educated scientists called runwaymodelologists, who've dedicated their lives to studying the habits and characteristics of this misunderstood species of homo-sapiens, models are TOLD not to smile. (A bit of trivia--Runwayus Modelis is the first human species to successfully walk upright in seven inch stilletos). Back in the stone age of modeling, when runways were made of dirt, the fashion bosses all agreed that if their models went strutting out onto the catwalks wearing toothpaste commercial grins, audience members would be too busy smiling back at them to notice the apparel that they were modeling. So smiling was officially denounced. Any model caught uttering the word "cheese" or exposing even one tooth would be suspended without pay and told to "wipe that smile off your face."That really is the truth, even with all my expounding and exaggerations. Models aren't supposed to smile because smiling is considered a distraction from the true purpose of the fashion show....the clothing.Ahh, now that we have that answer out of the way, we can get on to even bigger questions like why light bulbs are packaged in thin, flimsy, open ended cardboard, while solid, sturdy Fisher Price toys are entombed in layer upon layer of plastic, and tied into their boxes by more wires than are found in a Georgia Power substation.But, that brings me to another question. If we're supposed to only be looking at their outfits, then why do models have to be gorgeous and skinny? Why can't any old gal be a runway model. Anyone with no teeth or who hasn't been to the dentist since the first Bush administration would be a perfect runway model because they probably don't smile a lot anyway.At runway model tryouts, do the judges say, "alright, gorgeous, let me see that frown! Now scowl! How 'bout a glower! a sulk! a grimace...like when you have gas and are trying to keep it in." Work it, baby. Poke that bottom lip out! Wow, you look thoroughly pissed off. You're hired. When can you start?"
Posted by Angela Weight at 5:04 AM 0 comments
Johnny James Stop Using My Phone Number...It's Not Yours Anymore. That's What Happens When You Don't Pay the Bill.
Lately I've become an unwitting answering service for collections people looking for some guy named Johnny James. He once had my phone number and gave it to every lender who stupidly issued him credit, all 937 of them. They now harrass me and my husband in the evenings. The persistent ones try to wear me down asking over and over if I'm sure I don't know Johnny and where he is. They think he's my derelict brother who's hiding out in our kitchen cabinets. They think that if they interrogate me long enough I'm going to hand the phone over to Johnny who's been standing there the whole time sipping brandy out of a crystal snifter that he never paid for. Like I'm going to suddenly realize, "Oh, you mean THIS Johnny James. Yeah, he's right here. Hold on."I've started calling them back and asking if they've heard from him yet. "Hey, Sue from Bank of America, did you ever get ahold of Johnny because I have messages for him from Chase, Citibank, Washington Mutual (the high interest rate division), In the Hole Credit Card Company, Failure at Life Auto Loans, Blind Bob's Rent 2 Own Recliners, the Family Jewels Pawn Shop, Kidneys 4 Kash, and some guy named Louie Ballsmasher who wants da money he lent you.If any of you good Laurens Countians know Johnny James, I'm sure he's a swell guy. But for goodness sake, don't co-sign on anything for him and tell him to stop using my phone number.
Posted by Angela Weight at 4:59 AM 0 comments
Bakugan...Saving the Universe One Toss at a Time
Last week, while doing pick-up at Northwest Laurens, my seven year old son Andrew shot out of his classroom like a lightning bolt to deliver my newest mission. "Mom, we have to go to WalMart right now and buy Bakugan balls!""Baku-what?" I asked as I checked my shopping list where I found cotton balls and tennis balls, but none of the mysterious Bakugan variety."Mom, we have to go now! All the other boys are playing with them and I'm the O--N--L--Y one in class who doesn't have any!""Poor, deprived child." I mourned. "I sure hope DFACS doesn't find out about this.""Mom, we have to go NOW!"There's no reasoning with a child who has Bakugan on the brain. So I did as I was told and drove straight to WalMart, directly to WalMart. I did not pass GO. I did not collect $200. As we dashed to the toy department, nearly running over the fabric department clerk, I took note of the expectant gleam in Andrew's eye...as if he were about to meet Bakugan in person, or warrior, or droid or whatever he is. Once we found the right aisle, which Andrew went straight to as if he were being directed by some Bakugan powered GPS, I learned all about Bakugan balls, the Bakugan game and how important it was that my son join the ranks of Bakugan players all over Laurens County. I dropped $20.00 on four chunks of plastic and some magnetic cards. Where's the "SUCKER" stamp for my forehead?For you parents out there, who haven't heard of Bakugan (Lord, hep you) here's a little summary. Bakugan Battle Brawler balls are small magnetized plastic orbs (about the size of an extra large cherry, or a small plum or my husband's thumb). In the Bakugan battle game, players toss their balls onto magnetized cards which trigger the spring-loaded magnets in the balls to react and morph into action figures. Are you lost? yeah, I figured. This is probably one of those things you have to see for yourself. The player whose Bakugan battle figure (which used to be a ball) scores the highest, gets points. There is math involved. So I guess it can be deemed educational. It's kind of like playing a game of Sci-Fi marbles. Andrew won't explain all the rules so I wind up losing every time. After doing a good six minutes of research powered by Google and watching a 10 minute anime video, I became fluent in the language of Bakugan (which I will teach at West Laurens High School next year (just kidding!)The Bakugan phenomenon began in Japan as an anime cartoon where everyday, ordinary kids learned that they had special powers to fight the evils of the universe in the form of magnetic game cards. Wild-haired, bug-eyed pre-teens with names like Runo, Marucho, Shun, Alice and Dan battle against other worldly bad guys. The whole concept is strangely similar to Power Rangers, Teen Titans, Ben 10, Star Wars and any other cartoon series where good fights evil with a gimmick.Yes, your kids have to have them. So run to WalMart NOW. Nothing shows parental love like $5.00 plastic springloaded magnetic balls that will probably break between three and six days after purchase. One day, I'm going to invent something like Bakugan or Webkinz. It must be a great feeling to laugh all the way to the bank as naive parents are hurredly navigated by their obsessed kids in the throes of consumerism. Well, I'll leave that for another blog entry.To learn more about saving the universe with Bakugan, visit http://www.bakugan.com/. To watch a full length episode, visit http://www.cartoonnetwork.com/.
Posted by Angela Weight at 4:53 AM 0 comments
Old Post: He Said She Said, VP Debate style
Disclaimer: The quotes, statistics and general content of this editorial cannot be counted on as true and shouldn’t be used as source material by any person attempting to impress others with his/her knowledge of politics.It’s now 54 minutes into the verbal tennis match of disagreements between Sarah Palin and Joe Biden. So far the only things they’ve agreed on are their mutual respect for Israel and that both of their jokes about being the vice president bombed. Palin and Biden’s impeccable memories for recalling specific voting records, legislature and proposed program details are amazing. What’s even more mind boggling is that one’s recollections of the same events, records and programs are completely different from the other’s. Kind of like an old married couple….my parents, even. They’ve spent nearly an hour disagreeing about everything and not giving us, the American people, much hope that Washington will be “new and improved by January.”Biden: “Obama sounded the alarm on the sub-prime lending crisis a full two years ago while standing on the steps of the Capital building with Barney Frank, drinking a Starbuck’s mocha latte with cream. McCain didn’t realize there was a problem with sub-prime mortgages until a few months ago when he was leaving the White House men’s room.”Palin: “Gosh darn it, Joe, you gotta be careful with your facts. Barak was drinking a vanilla latte and John wasn’t leaving the men’s room. He was at the water fountain. But one thing the American people need to know is that John McCain is a maverick who supports families across America.Biden: “A maverick? I’d say that when he voted 59 nine times to increase spending on the toenail clipper excise tax, he behaved more like a dissenter than a maverick. That’s a difference the American people need to be aware of”Palin: “No, he was a dissenter when he voted 8 times against the skunk spray alternative fuel initiative. He’s been a maverick the rest of the time. It’s true. Look it up for yourself in the Senate Yearbooks where you’ll see McCain was voted “Class Maverick” and “Most Likely Not to Concede” 72 years in a row.”Biden: “I have to take issue with that. It was Obama who voted 18 times against the skunk spray bill. McCain, in the end voted for the skunk spray bio fuels bill because it included an item promoting tax breaks for off shore manufacturers of pole vaulting equipment. And according to my records, McCain didn’t begin calling himself a maverick until the movie Top Gun was released in ’86.”And so it goes. 90 minutes of bickering about nonessentials. This is going to be a loooooong 30 something days until the election. And can someone please tell Sarah to say NU-KLEE-UHR? She confidently rattled off the name of Iranian leader, Ahmadinejad numerous times without stumbling even once. But nuclear was too much for her. I’m now going to see what Brit Hume has to say about all this. For more trivial nonsense, keep reading my blog.
Posted by Angela Weight at 4:50 AM 0 comments
Designer Bandages Make Delightful Boo Boo's
Before I launch into today's cool and unique fashion must have, I've got to throw out a question that's been bugging me now for years. Who can explain what the difference is between a boo boo and an ouwie? (I don't even know if I spelled that right). Are they simply synonyms for something of the abrasion/contusion variety on the skin? "My older son, Andrew, calls them boo boos. Jack, my three year old, swears they're ouwies. Is there a discernable difference. Do ouwies bleed more, leak more puss? Are boo boo's scarier?Whether you call them ouwies or boo boo's, if you have one, chances are you need a band-aid to stop the bleeding and hold the Neosporin. My kitchen cabinet currently stocks bandages of the Scooby doo, Sponge Bob and just plain Anglo-Saxon fair skin variety. Isn't there something better out there?Well, this morning, after severing a major artery with the can opener, I did a Google search and found a plethora of bandages for both the novelty lovers and fashionistas in your life. (Note to self: Finish scraping the dried blood off the computer mouse.) At way-out Web sites like http://www.mcphee.com/, http://www.gotbeauty.com/, http://www.scivolutions.com/ and http://www.epartyunlimited.com/ you'll find bandages themed for pickles, pirates, breakfast lovers, cowboys, sushi, luscious lips even our lord and savior, Jesus Christ, who could've used a few bandaids himself there at the end.
So, next time you drop a hammer on your foot, slam your finger in the car door, drag a sharp paper edge across the tender part between your thumb and index finger, or peel that hang nail just a little too far, don't reach for a boring old skin colored band aid. Everyone knows it's not your real skin anyway. Make your ouwie, boo boo proud with a one of a kind adhesive like these. They won't take the pain away and will probably still hurt like the devil when you rip them off. But, hey, you might get a few compliments, maybe even a date with that hot guy who has the designer suede eye patch and Viking themed colostomy bag.
Posted by Angela Weight at 4:45 AM 0 comments
The Rules of Purse Shopping
I've never modeled a purse in the mirror and wondered "does this make my hips look big?" But, apparently I should've. According to http://www.bagbliss.com/, which I stumbled upon today while looking for Frosted Flakes coupons, the right purse can help your figure immensely. And the wrong purse can be disastrous. Just like shopping for a skirt, a bathingsuit or a sweater, you should consider your figure, height and weight, and do some mirror modeling before making the purchase. For a handbag? Yes!Here are a couple of points to remember when browsing the handbag tables. First of all, the shape of your purse should be inversely proportional to the shape of your body. Secondly, the size of your bag should be directly proportional to your body shape. Don't get these confused or you'll miss the whole point of this article.Here's a handy guide:Shape -opposite than bodySize -same as bodyGot it? Good.For example, if you're really tall and thin. Never choose a tiny, flat, square-shaped bag. (This is why you never see giraffes with purses like that. They already know this rule) Tall people look better with bigger, more rounded bags. Slouchy, hobo bags are great for the Uma Thurmans of the world because the curves balance out their flat, willowy, non-shapeliness.If you're short and small framed, definitely take advantage of smaller handbags. You know the ones that will only hold a couple of Tic Tacs? No, kidding. But, you petite gals can take advantage of all the cute little swing alongs popular today. If you're a buxom, full-figured gal, who veers toward the plus-size racks, choose a large pocketbook too. Its size will look more proportional next to yours.Something else to keep in mind is what body part the bag is next to when you're carrying it because the purse will draw attention to that feature. If you're pear-shaped, you definitely don't want a shoulder bag that swings at your hips. If you're large busted, don't carry a short-strapped bag that hits the side of your chest because it will draw eyes directly to your upper cargo. If you're really wide around the middle, wearing a fanny pack amounts to fashion death.Ya know what, though? I think wearing a fanny pack AT ALL amounts to fashion death. I think fanny packs are the El Caminos of the purse world. They're hideous and shout "I'm a complete fashion failure. I probably wear black socks and white loafers with my madress shorts and veiny legs to the beach!....with my 1970's Polaroid camera." and I have a comb-over or a gray mullet hair style...or both." Yeah, Folks, this is serious. Just say no to fanny packs. Okay? I'm glad you agree.But the point I was making there before yielding to the fanny pack tangent, is if you've packed away too many Oreos and Heinekens, don't accent your mid-section.Okay, enough about purses and how to choose them. I hope this little lecture has been helpful today and remember "friends don't let friends wear fanny packs."Angela
Balloon Dresses Popping Up Onto the Fashion Scene
When I found a bag of 50 extra stretchy, brightly colored balloons leftover from my son's recent birthday party, I thought of using them as BB gun targets, or having a helium karaoke party, maybe even performing my own Angioplasty (insurance companies these days are so picky about what they'll cover). But designing a balloon party dress somehow never made the list. I'm not talking about those floaty, bubbly satin numbers that Paris Hilton is always photographed wearing into Hollywood night clubs with names like Vitamin X and Teflon. I'm talking actual squeaky, blow up, rubber balloons here.According to Internet fashion news Web sites, balloon artists like Ori Livney and Steven Jones (you've heard of them...right?) are no longer satisfied with wowing four year olds by twisting balloons into light sabers, crowns and poodles. They've upped the ante for all to follow creating blown up, rubber dress couture (that undoubtedly squeaks terribly when you move). Using hundreds of partially inflated balloons, these designers are piecing together wearable works of art that are popping up all over.Here are some examples. The two-piece sunflower themed outfit (right) is quite versatile and can be worn to many events like garden parties, kids' birthday parties, sun worshipper festivals and Milan fashion shows that feature clothing that no one in real life actually wears. Made from somewhere between 5,000 and 7 trillion yellow and brown balloons, it's sure to be a crowd pleaser.
If you're planning a wedding and searching for that perfect, one of a kind, gown that will have everyone breathless (because they had to help blow up your dress) choose a design like this one. However, you'll want to stay away from anything sharp until the honeymoon begins.
Every fall, plaid makes a comeback on high school and college campuses. If you want to stand out, try wearing this ensemble with knee socks, a leather backpack and lots of black eye-liner to class. Avril Lavigne and the Michelin Man will be seriously jealous. Note: This also doubles as a flamenco dancing pirate costume (in case you were looking for one).I'm simply blown away by the creativity of balloon fashion designers, as I'm sure you are too. However, before you go out and replace your current wardrobe with an inflatable one, take caution and consider the following.1) While wearing balloon clothing, you can no longer play with your pet house cat, porcupine, hedgehog or puffer fish.2) You'll want to avoid your cactus collection.3) No playing darts!4) If you'll be making your own balloon dress, resist the urge to fill them with helium. One designer floated off and was never seen or heard from again. However, she may have recently been picked up on a satellite orbiting Jupiter.5) Take a hint from Janet Jackson. In case you have a popping wardrobe malfunction, please, PLEASE wear underwear.6) Static cling can present a problem. Be sure to pull your hair back so it's not standing on end. Also no doing laundry in these dresses. You don't want to make a grand ball entrance with your husband's black socks stuck to your balloon dress.7) I hope you're not the active type. This isn't a sweat suit you'll be wearing. No running, jumping, somersaults, cartwheels, games of Twister, playing Leap Frog or even sitting down. You can pretty much just stand there. I think spinning around is probably okay as long as you don't get dizzy and fall down.While balloons as a fashion material probably won't replace cotton or polyester anytime soon, they make stunning conversation pieces that will last for at least one wearing (as long as you follow the suggestions above).
Posted by Angela Weight at 5:06 AM 0 comments
Smile Models. It's a Fashion Show, Not a Funeral
I've been following the glitzy pomp and progress of New York's Fashion Week 2008. Through all the parading of high style clothing and accessories, all I can think about is why don't runway models smile?Are they all uniformly tee'd off about something that we, the public are completely unaware of? Are they mad about having to wear outrageous clothing items that individually are worth more than my car? Perhaps it's because they haven't eaten in three years. It can't be that the job is too stressful. I mean these women get paid small fortunes to walk short distances in a climate controlled environment. What could they possibly have to be irritated about? Yet most of them present a face that ranges somewhere from slightly aloof to full throttle PMS.After an exhausting five minutes of research with my friend Google, I found the answer. And it has nothing to do with what the models are thinking... or if they're thinking at all. According to highly educated scientists called runwaymodelologists, who've dedicated their lives to studying the habits and characteristics of this misunderstood species of homo-sapiens, models are TOLD not to smile. (A bit of trivia--Runwayus Modelis is the first human species to successfully walk upright in seven inch stilletos). Back in the stone age of modeling, when runways were made of dirt, the fashion bosses all agreed that if their models went strutting out onto the catwalks wearing toothpaste commercial grins, audience members would be too busy smiling back at them to notice the apparel that they were modeling. So smiling was officially denounced. Any model caught uttering the word "cheese" or exposing even one tooth would be suspended without pay and told to "wipe that smile off your face."That really is the truth, even with all my expounding and exaggerations. Models aren't supposed to smile because smiling is considered a distraction from the true purpose of the fashion show....the clothing.Ahh, now that we have that answer out of the way, we can get on to even bigger questions like why light bulbs are packaged in thin, flimsy, open ended cardboard, while solid, sturdy Fisher Price toys are entombed in layer upon layer of plastic, and tied into their boxes by more wires than are found in a Georgia Power substation.But, that brings me to another question. If we're supposed to only be looking at their outfits, then why do models have to be gorgeous and skinny? Why can't any old gal be a runway model. Anyone with no teeth or who hasn't been to the dentist since the first Bush administration would be a perfect runway model because they probably don't smile a lot anyway.At runway model tryouts, do the judges say, "alright, gorgeous, let me see that frown! Now scowl! How 'bout a glower! a sulk! a grimace...like when you have gas and are trying to keep it in." Work it, baby. Poke that bottom lip out! Wow, you look thoroughly pissed off. You're hired. When can you start?"
Posted by Angela Weight at 5:04 AM 0 comments
Johnny James Stop Using My Phone Number...It's Not Yours Anymore. That's What Happens When You Don't Pay the Bill.
Lately I've become an unwitting answering service for collections people looking for some guy named Johnny James. He once had my phone number and gave it to every lender who stupidly issued him credit, all 937 of them. They now harrass me and my husband in the evenings. The persistent ones try to wear me down asking over and over if I'm sure I don't know Johnny and where he is. They think he's my derelict brother who's hiding out in our kitchen cabinets. They think that if they interrogate me long enough I'm going to hand the phone over to Johnny who's been standing there the whole time sipping brandy out of a crystal snifter that he never paid for. Like I'm going to suddenly realize, "Oh, you mean THIS Johnny James. Yeah, he's right here. Hold on."I've started calling them back and asking if they've heard from him yet. "Hey, Sue from Bank of America, did you ever get ahold of Johnny because I have messages for him from Chase, Citibank, Washington Mutual (the high interest rate division), In the Hole Credit Card Company, Failure at Life Auto Loans, Blind Bob's Rent 2 Own Recliners, the Family Jewels Pawn Shop, Kidneys 4 Kash, and some guy named Louie Ballsmasher who wants da money he lent you.If any of you good Laurens Countians know Johnny James, I'm sure he's a swell guy. But for goodness sake, don't co-sign on anything for him and tell him to stop using my phone number.
Posted by Angela Weight at 4:59 AM 0 comments
Bakugan...Saving the Universe One Toss at a Time
Last week, while doing pick-up at Northwest Laurens, my seven year old son Andrew shot out of his classroom like a lightning bolt to deliver my newest mission. "Mom, we have to go to WalMart right now and buy Bakugan balls!""Baku-what?" I asked as I checked my shopping list where I found cotton balls and tennis balls, but none of the mysterious Bakugan variety."Mom, we have to go now! All the other boys are playing with them and I'm the O--N--L--Y one in class who doesn't have any!""Poor, deprived child." I mourned. "I sure hope DFACS doesn't find out about this.""Mom, we have to go NOW!"There's no reasoning with a child who has Bakugan on the brain. So I did as I was told and drove straight to WalMart, directly to WalMart. I did not pass GO. I did not collect $200. As we dashed to the toy department, nearly running over the fabric department clerk, I took note of the expectant gleam in Andrew's eye...as if he were about to meet Bakugan in person, or warrior, or droid or whatever he is. Once we found the right aisle, which Andrew went straight to as if he were being directed by some Bakugan powered GPS, I learned all about Bakugan balls, the Bakugan game and how important it was that my son join the ranks of Bakugan players all over Laurens County. I dropped $20.00 on four chunks of plastic and some magnetic cards. Where's the "SUCKER" stamp for my forehead?For you parents out there, who haven't heard of Bakugan (Lord, hep you) here's a little summary. Bakugan Battle Brawler balls are small magnetized plastic orbs (about the size of an extra large cherry, or a small plum or my husband's thumb). In the Bakugan battle game, players toss their balls onto magnetized cards which trigger the spring-loaded magnets in the balls to react and morph into action figures. Are you lost? yeah, I figured. This is probably one of those things you have to see for yourself. The player whose Bakugan battle figure (which used to be a ball) scores the highest, gets points. There is math involved. So I guess it can be deemed educational. It's kind of like playing a game of Sci-Fi marbles. Andrew won't explain all the rules so I wind up losing every time. After doing a good six minutes of research powered by Google and watching a 10 minute anime video, I became fluent in the language of Bakugan (which I will teach at West Laurens High School next year (just kidding!)The Bakugan phenomenon began in Japan as an anime cartoon where everyday, ordinary kids learned that they had special powers to fight the evils of the universe in the form of magnetic game cards. Wild-haired, bug-eyed pre-teens with names like Runo, Marucho, Shun, Alice and Dan battle against other worldly bad guys. The whole concept is strangely similar to Power Rangers, Teen Titans, Ben 10, Star Wars and any other cartoon series where good fights evil with a gimmick.Yes, your kids have to have them. So run to WalMart NOW. Nothing shows parental love like $5.00 plastic springloaded magnetic balls that will probably break between three and six days after purchase. One day, I'm going to invent something like Bakugan or Webkinz. It must be a great feeling to laugh all the way to the bank as naive parents are hurredly navigated by their obsessed kids in the throes of consumerism. Well, I'll leave that for another blog entry.To learn more about saving the universe with Bakugan, visit http://www.bakugan.com/. To watch a full length episode, visit http://www.cartoonnetwork.com/.
Posted by Angela Weight at 4:53 AM 0 comments
Old Post: He Said She Said, VP Debate style
Disclaimer: The quotes, statistics and general content of this editorial cannot be counted on as true and shouldn’t be used as source material by any person attempting to impress others with his/her knowledge of politics.It’s now 54 minutes into the verbal tennis match of disagreements between Sarah Palin and Joe Biden. So far the only things they’ve agreed on are their mutual respect for Israel and that both of their jokes about being the vice president bombed. Palin and Biden’s impeccable memories for recalling specific voting records, legislature and proposed program details are amazing. What’s even more mind boggling is that one’s recollections of the same events, records and programs are completely different from the other’s. Kind of like an old married couple….my parents, even. They’ve spent nearly an hour disagreeing about everything and not giving us, the American people, much hope that Washington will be “new and improved by January.”Biden: “Obama sounded the alarm on the sub-prime lending crisis a full two years ago while standing on the steps of the Capital building with Barney Frank, drinking a Starbuck’s mocha latte with cream. McCain didn’t realize there was a problem with sub-prime mortgages until a few months ago when he was leaving the White House men’s room.”Palin: “Gosh darn it, Joe, you gotta be careful with your facts. Barak was drinking a vanilla latte and John wasn’t leaving the men’s room. He was at the water fountain. But one thing the American people need to know is that John McCain is a maverick who supports families across America.Biden: “A maverick? I’d say that when he voted 59 nine times to increase spending on the toenail clipper excise tax, he behaved more like a dissenter than a maverick. That’s a difference the American people need to be aware of”Palin: “No, he was a dissenter when he voted 8 times against the skunk spray alternative fuel initiative. He’s been a maverick the rest of the time. It’s true. Look it up for yourself in the Senate Yearbooks where you’ll see McCain was voted “Class Maverick” and “Most Likely Not to Concede” 72 years in a row.”Biden: “I have to take issue with that. It was Obama who voted 18 times against the skunk spray bill. McCain, in the end voted for the skunk spray bio fuels bill because it included an item promoting tax breaks for off shore manufacturers of pole vaulting equipment. And according to my records, McCain didn’t begin calling himself a maverick until the movie Top Gun was released in ’86.”And so it goes. 90 minutes of bickering about nonessentials. This is going to be a loooooong 30 something days until the election. And can someone please tell Sarah to say NU-KLEE-UHR? She confidently rattled off the name of Iranian leader, Ahmadinejad numerous times without stumbling even once. But nuclear was too much for her. I’m now going to see what Brit Hume has to say about all this. For more trivial nonsense, keep reading my blog.
Posted by Angela Weight at 4:50 AM 0 comments
Designer Bandages Make Delightful Boo Boo's
Before I launch into today's cool and unique fashion must have, I've got to throw out a question that's been bugging me now for years. Who can explain what the difference is between a boo boo and an ouwie? (I don't even know if I spelled that right). Are they simply synonyms for something of the abrasion/contusion variety on the skin? "My older son, Andrew, calls them boo boos. Jack, my three year old, swears they're ouwies. Is there a discernable difference. Do ouwies bleed more, leak more puss? Are boo boo's scarier?Whether you call them ouwies or boo boo's, if you have one, chances are you need a band-aid to stop the bleeding and hold the Neosporin. My kitchen cabinet currently stocks bandages of the Scooby doo, Sponge Bob and just plain Anglo-Saxon fair skin variety. Isn't there something better out there?Well, this morning, after severing a major artery with the can opener, I did a Google search and found a plethora of bandages for both the novelty lovers and fashionistas in your life. (Note to self: Finish scraping the dried blood off the computer mouse.) At way-out Web sites like http://www.mcphee.com/, http://www.gotbeauty.com/, http://www.scivolutions.com/ and http://www.epartyunlimited.com/ you'll find bandages themed for pickles, pirates, breakfast lovers, cowboys, sushi, luscious lips even our lord and savior, Jesus Christ, who could've used a few bandaids himself there at the end.
So, next time you drop a hammer on your foot, slam your finger in the car door, drag a sharp paper edge across the tender part between your thumb and index finger, or peel that hang nail just a little too far, don't reach for a boring old skin colored band aid. Everyone knows it's not your real skin anyway. Make your ouwie, boo boo proud with a one of a kind adhesive like these. They won't take the pain away and will probably still hurt like the devil when you rip them off. But, hey, you might get a few compliments, maybe even a date with that hot guy who has the designer suede eye patch and Viking themed colostomy bag.
Posted by Angela Weight at 4:45 AM 0 comments
The Rules of Purse Shopping
I've never modeled a purse in the mirror and wondered "does this make my hips look big?" But, apparently I should've. According to http://www.bagbliss.com/, which I stumbled upon today while looking for Frosted Flakes coupons, the right purse can help your figure immensely. And the wrong purse can be disastrous. Just like shopping for a skirt, a bathingsuit or a sweater, you should consider your figure, height and weight, and do some mirror modeling before making the purchase. For a handbag? Yes!Here are a couple of points to remember when browsing the handbag tables. First of all, the shape of your purse should be inversely proportional to the shape of your body. Secondly, the size of your bag should be directly proportional to your body shape. Don't get these confused or you'll miss the whole point of this article.Here's a handy guide:Shape -opposite than bodySize -same as bodyGot it? Good.For example, if you're really tall and thin. Never choose a tiny, flat, square-shaped bag. (This is why you never see giraffes with purses like that. They already know this rule) Tall people look better with bigger, more rounded bags. Slouchy, hobo bags are great for the Uma Thurmans of the world because the curves balance out their flat, willowy, non-shapeliness.If you're short and small framed, definitely take advantage of smaller handbags. You know the ones that will only hold a couple of Tic Tacs? No, kidding. But, you petite gals can take advantage of all the cute little swing alongs popular today. If you're a buxom, full-figured gal, who veers toward the plus-size racks, choose a large pocketbook too. Its size will look more proportional next to yours.Something else to keep in mind is what body part the bag is next to when you're carrying it because the purse will draw attention to that feature. If you're pear-shaped, you definitely don't want a shoulder bag that swings at your hips. If you're large busted, don't carry a short-strapped bag that hits the side of your chest because it will draw eyes directly to your upper cargo. If you're really wide around the middle, wearing a fanny pack amounts to fashion death.Ya know what, though? I think wearing a fanny pack AT ALL amounts to fashion death. I think fanny packs are the El Caminos of the purse world. They're hideous and shout "I'm a complete fashion failure. I probably wear black socks and white loafers with my madress shorts and veiny legs to the beach!....with my 1970's Polaroid camera." and I have a comb-over or a gray mullet hair style...or both." Yeah, Folks, this is serious. Just say no to fanny packs. Okay? I'm glad you agree.But the point I was making there before yielding to the fanny pack tangent, is if you've packed away too many Oreos and Heinekens, don't accent your mid-section.Okay, enough about purses and how to choose them. I hope this little lecture has been helpful today and remember "friends don't let friends wear fanny packs."Angela
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