iReality

Wow, it is March. March. Is that possible? Apparently. I am impressed by how time has flown, and put it down to an incredible flurry of activity for me.

I went back, after a hiatus of feeling lazy, to putting together a structure for my novel. I'm also brainstorming with the proprietor of Falkora Jewelry, on some fun social media campaigns to increase her network. She does great sales when she goes to shows and conventions, but as we all know, 140 character virtual tweets are now how we communicatively define our lives.

Seriously, though, I've been having a real love-hate relationship with technology lately. I recently read an article about AT&T and Verizon's predictions that within the next couple of years, we will have serious spectrum issues trying to handle the volume of data being volleyed through the ether by smartphone users. P.S., trying to find that article again to repost it here, I had to wade through about 3,000,000,000 articles about the iPad 3 or 4 or 8 or whatever. Another tangent.

I really hate how slow my android Motorola Citrus is most of the time. We pay for an unlimited data plan, but half the time I feel like I could walk to Google's headquarters in California before their homepage finishes loading on my tiny touchscreen, which is covered in my tiny-hand fingerprints. I also hate myself for caring about something so trivial. What do I really do on my smartphone that's that worthwhile?

I want to be disconnected from this crippling need to constantly be connected, and yet it is supposedly critical to social and economic survival in this world. Isn't it? I don't know.

I would like to be a writer, and a marketer, who makes peace with the monsters of technology. But is it possible to compete in a world of communication, without being constantly in communication?

Shopping For Jeans: The Saga

Today I went to the stamford mall to look for some jeans.

That was a simple statement–one subject, two predicates. Was the execution of the statement simple? Let us see. I spent three hours in the mall today, and yes, I did come home with two pairs of jeans. One of those pairs is likely to be returned if I can find them in a shorter version at another store. But really, three hours for two pairs of jeans? Painful. I just looked at my hands and there are blue fibers under my nails. That is how many pairs of jeans I tried on today.

I always hate jean-shopping because invariably I go through six or seven stores and come out with nothing, after what feels like some pants-inured quest for the holy grail.

Everyone knows that the whole challenge for women when shopping for jeans is in how they fit around your hips and waist, and how long or short they need to be to the ground. Jeans were a great concept for men because they are made from a material that dislikes bending, and men are pretty much the same size from hip to toe unless they've been hitting the bean dip pretty hard lately. For women, however, the art of wearing jeans that fit around hips and butt but still make thighs look flattering is comparable to finding a piece of burlap that looks nice when wrapped around a blender.

Then, there is the complete madness of the shelves. Shelves that contain jeans are never in order, and half of the stickers running down the leg that proclaim the size are incorrect. The size that you want will, in fact, never be labeled, but just in case you then conclude that the unlabeled jeans must be the ones you want, the store has meticulously left just enough other sizes in jeans unlabeled so that you can't find a pattern in the system.

Stores try to make the process even more frustrating by folding all of the jeans into squares that make it impossible to see if they are straight leg, tapered, wide leg, bootcut or flare without picking up each individual pair and flinging it open. Frustrated shoppers who have come before you have already tried this method, so when you get to the shelf you have the option of picking through the stacks of folded jeans, or through the piles of abandoned jeans flung haphazardly all over the display.

Jeans hanging up are a little more helpful because you can gauge a little more quickly what they will look like. Pictures of the jeans' cut above the display table are also helpful. But for the most part, the whole process is still one of the most painful in the shopping world. And this is a from a woman who–trust me–loves her shopping.

creative scrabble

back by popular demand, here is the glorious and creative scrabble game that was played by my sister, my cousin and myself one time while at our grandparents' house. making real words is hard and boring, while making up words with whatever scrabble letters you have and then assigning them definitions is infinitely preferable. the initials after each definition indicate which of us made up the word (emily, kierstyn, agatha)...although it really was a group effort all around.

dievib: (n.) a type of dip used for vegetables. (e)

loinvix: (n.) situation on the highway when you’re trying to get into the right lane to exit and another car is in front of you and another car is to the right of you and basically you are stuck and uncomfortable. note: this is an analogy for a wedgie in the wrong place. (a)

reboadad: 1. (v.) to boadad again; re-snickering. 2. (v.) to re-caulk a large object. (k)

physmfid: (n.) as in “physmfid packets”, used like alka-selter. (e)

smaruf: (n.) the offspring of two inbreeding smurfs. (a)

gloedft: (n.) a small swedish woodland creature, resembling a gnome. note: the gloedft refuses to bring presents to nasty children. (k)

crypuj: (n.) the crusty build-up residue on jars of food. (e)

bisanzal: (n.) a person with a tendency to cross-dress as fairy-tale figures. (a)

jaergty: (p.n.) first name of the abominable snowman from the claymation rudolph video. (k)

ottink (p.n.) the australian professor who became the founding father of sea-monkeys. (e)

werain: (p.n.) the real first name of jim morrison. (a)

toedag: (n.) stuff between your toes that comes from another country. (k)

euphlow: 1. (n.) something medical. 2. (p.n.) a prescription feminine geriatric product. (e)

rivant: 1. (n.) an exotic dance involving bag pants that can easily become a raincoat with a few easy snaps. 2. (n.) a deragatory term. (a)

ercioe: (n.) something italian that only italians understand. (k)

cuenog: (n.) (silent “g”) a tribe in the himalayas that gathers the cuenog plant that grows in the amazon. (e)

iquasent : (adj.) to be accepting of one’s own flawed gene pool. (a)

otexe: (n.) an exotic form of botox. (k)


it was so exciting the day we actually got to use the word "reboadad" in context.