Ratios

So, I'm not going to lie, Monday was a rough day for me. I dreaded checking my email all weekend long as I knew that my inbox would be flooded with letters with people who would not be very happy with the news I sent to them Friday afternoon. I was not expecting, however, that around 100 of those emails and the like would be waiting for me. Ugh. By 9am I was officially on the struggle bus and by noon it was game over.

After working a week straight of 18-hour days (and a good portion of the weekend), I decided I needed a little break from the daily grind and my usual jaunt to Starbucks just wouldn't cut it. So I took a little trip to a bridal salon to pick-out my bridesmaid dress for my little sister's wedding. Let's just say that this dress will be lucky number seven for me.

I slunked into the salon already feeling a little defeated and was greeted by a 19-year old bridezilla trying to find dresses for her eight (yes, you read correctly) bridesmaids who range in sizes 2 to 22 for her wedding in three months and a rather exhausted consultant. The consultant looked at me and I looked at her. "I just need long and black," I said. "Rack's there, knock yourself out," she sighed. I began the hunt, but my search for a red carpet rather than "bam. . . bridesmaid" dress was looking dreary. Then I made a decision: if I get to pick my dress and I have to wear it to my baby sister's nuptials, then by God, I'm spending the money and I'm going to look good.

The consultant came back to check on me and I explained my situation to here. "I knew you looked like a pro. I think I have a few things hidden away that may be what you are looking for." Feverishly she took to the overcrowded clothing racks and pulled three dresses that fit my description beautifully, except for their $300 and up price tags. But a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

I crept into the dressing room and slipped into gown number one. Eh, not bad. Dress number two, not worth what they were asking for it. Dress number three deserved to be observed in the 3-way mirror- that's right next to the brides, and I gave them a run for their money. Two consultants came over to me and began pinning and tucking the dress to make it fit even better. . . and. . . bam. . . booty. . . wham. . . hips . . . shazam. . . waist. . . Done.

I went back into the dressing room, took one last, long look at the price tag. After a five-second stent of soul searching, I choked down a deep breath and handed the gown to the consultant. She whipped out a tape measure and starting maneuvering around my body. "36-24-36." "What?" I said, a bit perplexed, but very excited. "Yes, you're the perfect size 4. Is that an okay size to order you?" "I'm still stuck on the measurements, are you positive you did that right? Bust, waist, hips?" "Yep, own it, sweetheart. And I'm going to cut you a deal."

I walked out of there in 30 minutes flat, and I was walking on air.

One Foot in the Grave

For Christmas last year, my family saw it fit to bestow upon me one of the greatest gifts ever given: the monolithic hardback "1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die." This is unfortunate because upon my count today, I have seen close to 400 of these films. What does this mean? Have I lived 40 percent of my life thus far? Say it isn't so! However, dying before I hit 70 doesn't sound all bad. 70 is the new 50 these days, so kicking the bucket before I get senile and wrinkly sounds like a pretty good deal.

Back to the list: I've decided that it's bunk. Don't get me wrong, it is because of the book that I was introduced to incredible films such as The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and The Red Shoes, but I find that it leaves me wanting. Seriously, who can publish a book with such a brazen title and leave off such masterpieces as Wayne's World- a film that shaped a generation, or Empire Records- a movie that has one of the greatest collection of 90's music in history? Zoolander is nowhere to be seen and Dumb and Dumber fails to even earn a honorable mention. For shame, dear publishers, for shame.

Now I realize that my taste in movies may not be as sophisticated as those who took a film-critic correspondence course, but I think that I know a good movie when I see one. Which begs the question- what makes a good movie? Some would argue that it the story, art direction or even the dialogue that makes a flick worth watching, but I contend that it is the feeling, nay the emotional investment the viewer experiences while taking in a reel. Though I probably can't come up with over a thousand films, I humbly offer my list of the top 20 films everyone must see that can't be found in a publication.

20. An Affair to Remember (not as scandalous as it sounds)

19. Grease 2 (it involves motorcycles and the lively tune Reproduction. . . you'll thank me later)

18. Stranger Than Fiction (you'll want to write a novel after taking in this one)

17. Sixteen Candles (Jake Ryan is to blame for my taste in men)

16. O Brother, Where At Thou (I still don't know why it is entitled that)

15. Christmas Vacation (You'll never look at cats the same way)

14. A League of Their Own (chick version of Band of Brothers)

13. The Three Amigos (plays a big role in my family's lore)

12. Top Gun (I take that back, Maverick is to blame for my taste in men)

11. Big Fish (Tim Burton's best work, in humble opinion)

10. The Dark Night (if you haven't seen this film, where have you been living for the past three years?)

9. Donnie Darko (hauntingly good, creepily executed)

8. The Princess Bride (how can any list about movies leave this one off?)

7. Tommy Boy (the highest quotable line/scene capita in film history)

6. Benny and Joon (Johnny Depp before he was Johnny Depp)

5. Pretty Woman (just. plain. good.)

4. The Prestige (Christopher Nolan strikes again)

3. Goodfellas (because I LOVE ganster movies)

2. Forrest Gump (the film that made me love films)

1. Almost Famous (a biopic with the perfect soundtrack)

Mazeltov!

Domestication.

I'm sitting on the couch looking at my nephew rocking away in his stereo-phonic swing. The base for his car seat currently resides in the back of my MINI. To my right, a diaper bag, to my left, pacifiers and a burping cloth. I'm loving every minute of it.

I walk by a mirror and I no longer recognize the reflection. When did I start liking kids? Correction: when did I start wanting to hold, rock, soothe and dare I say it. . . change small children (in particular, my nephew)? For those of you who know me, which if you are reading this blog, I imagine you do, you know that I do not particularly care for miniature-sized humans. They lack the intellectual stimulation that I crave with those that I interact with on a regular basis. Even when I was a wee lass, I never cared for children. I was the weird, precocious kid who would rather go over to a friend's house and enjoy a cup of coffee with their mom than play barbies. In fact, I decided at the age of five that I was too old for barbies and by the age of eight I made a conscious decision to close the Disney animated movie chapter in the book of my life. And for a non-sequitur, I am also holy opposed to children who are sticky. Sticky children are those who have a permanent kool-aid stain around their mouths accompanied by fragments of encrusted animal crackers and Chips 'Ahoy. I'm fairly certain you can Google the term. I will always love my nephew, but as soon as that sucker becomes sticky, he is no longer welcome at my home. Don't scowl, my sister and I have had this understanding for years now.

Back to the new man in my life. My nephew is the coolest thing since the other side of the pillow. Basically, from the first moment I held the little stinker, I fell in love. All I want to do is hold him and buy him clothes, both of which things have proven to be problematic because I live 1500 miles away and my sister has complained that her son has more clothes than she does. What concerns me about all of this is that I am kind of a natural. Is it possible for the girl who doesn't want to have children to posses maternal instincts? Moreover, could I be changing my mind about having kids? Stay tuned.

Another reason why I love my nephew, he just spit-up all over my little sister.

Yule-Tide Exterior Illumination

As a child, nothing brought more joy to my heart than the gentle glow of Christmas lights outside my bedroom window. My dad would tuck me in, kiss me on the forehead and turn off the light leaving me snuggled in my blue blanket while the hues of red, green, blue and yellow filled my room. The cold wind would gust against the glass panes, but the shadows of the tree branches would dance across my wall keeping me entertained until I surrendered to the warmness of my bed. To me, this is Christmas.

In the Lessly household, Christmas lights are an important part of the holiday season. The house is lit before the tree goes up and is a month-long source of pride for my father (even if he chumps out and doesn't outline the roof like he did on the old house). Last night, the crew took the 'ole 4 wheel drive sled out for the annual Christmas light looking/my sisters doing everything we can in our power to annoy our parents trip. For the record, I could be 80 and this will never get old. We typically end up critiquing, and by that I mean criticizing, the lights we see in the neighborhoods around North Texas. It is from these trips that I have formed a rather strong opinion about Christmas lights: they should be white, straight, C7s that outline the roof and other defining characteristics of the house.

Now I realize that this might be a bit extreme, but if you are going to display your holiday cheer to the whole neighborhood, why not do it with a little class and a hit if dignity? I've never understood why people think that crooked lights are socially acceptable, or moreover, why icicle lights are appropriate in places like Phoenix. It's 60 degrees outside, the jig is up, we know they are not real. And since when did icicles light up anyway?

Once upon a time, a friend of mine decided to put lights up on the residence hall we both worked and lived in. After a long, and unnecessarily intense discussion about what said lights would look like, I was under the impression that we had come to a compromise and though the lights would be multi-colored, they would at least be straight and function free. One evening while I was passing by his door, this friend of mine called me into his apartment. As soon as I walked in, he closed the door, grabbed my hand and turned off the lights. Being that this now friend was my boss at the time, I was a little confused and a bit nervous as to what he was up to. He led me into the kitchen and fiddled around until it was illuminated with a prism of colors. I was impressed by his selection. "Wait, there's more," he slyly said. Uh oh. Just the white lit up. Acceptable. Then the red, then blue, then they began to flash, then travel, then go in reverse. 24 functions later, the lights in the kitchen came on to reveal a very proud man and his disapproving employee.

Much to my dismay, the lights soon found their very caddiewomper way onto the roof. 24-hours a day for the next two weeks, the lights haunted and mocked me. When I would come home, I would readjust the lights so that they would look clean and crisp. The next morning, I would rise to the gentle flashing of green and red bulbs outside my window. Each day revealed a new function, each evening would provoke my animosity.

The morning after the students checked out, I headed out to do some last minute Christmas shopping. On my way out the door, I found myself sidestepping little pieces of colored glass on the sidewalk. I looked over to find my friend reaching up with his and and pulling the lights off of the gutter, allowing the twinkle lights shatter on the concrete. "What are you doing?!? We could have used those for next year," I exclaimed. "What," he relpied. "You never liked them anyway." And another strand hit the ground.

A Public Service Announcement

Dear Persons of the Feminine Persuasion:

Tights are not pants! Leggings are not pants! Stirrups should never be worn and only used when riding horses and going to the doctor. And you can quote me on that!

Today I was walking across main campus and noticed that a young lady and I were sporting the same tights, the only difference is that I was donning them as an accessory to my pencil skirt and sweater ensemble, she was substituting them as pants to complement her longish-flannel shirt. I imagine it was a bit breezy, especially since I could see where the patterned stopped and the control top began (guys I know that just went over your head, but trust me, it was not a pretty sight). Heading up the stairs and turning the corner, I see another female student wearing black leggings and blazer. And nothing else. I asked her why she was so dressed up and she sad, "Oh, I'm giving a presentation in class, we're supposed to dress professionally." I'm not an advocate of nylons and shin-length skirts as the standard of professional dress, but VPLs and an exposed lacy bra do exactly scream CEO material to me.

Com'on ladies! What are you thinking? I too once balked at the idea of stretching up a pair of lycra infused material up my leg as a grown woman, but tights today are a far cry from the white and pink heart number that my mom would make me wear as a 5-year old going to church. I now embrace them as an extension of my wardrobe and quite frequently rock the boots, tights and sweater dress combo (I call it the triple threat), that being said, it does not mean that tights can be used as a substitute. Use this good rule of thumb: if when even on your person and your unmentionables are still visible through said article of clothing, do not use as pants. You are a Glamour DON'T waiting to happen.

And, oh, 1993 called, they want their leggings back.

Boxing Gloves

I've spent the last week in the Motherland, aka Tejas to all of you out there who don't speak Texan, for the Thanksgiving holiday and waiting for my nephew Andrew to arrive. No baby yet, but I've been able to fill the time reconnecting with friends, both from my youth and college years. Meeting up with people has required me to go all over the place and has led me to two conclusions: 1) God has blessed me with a good sense of direction and 2)Dallas is much cooler than for which I gave it credit. I moved away from the Big D almost a decade ago and during that time, my hometown has changed just as much as I have. How is it possible that I spent 18 years of my life living the metroplex and know almost nothing about it? Needless to say, it's been a surreal week.

Over the past six months, I have had several people, important people to me, talk to me about moving back to Texas, to which my reply mimics that of a scoff, and after a brief moment of existential thinking, claim that I would only move back to Texas if it were to Austin (as it is the closest thing to LA that Texas has to offer). However, after this past week, the main thought that has been rolling around in my head is the question: can you ever really go home again?

Let's let them fight it out, shall we? In far right corner of the ring, we have the rough 'n tuff Lone Star State herself, Texas; and in the opposite corner we have the king of cool, California. In the department of economics, Texas throws a right cross at Cali and breaks his jaw. The killer combo of no state income tax and gas under 3 dollars a gallon brings round one to a quick close. Cali fires back with a sucker punch and upper jab when it comes to culture. Texas blocks with exponentially better food, but begins to lag at the end of round two after ingesting a lethal amount of butter and barbeque sauce. Round three ends a draw after California swings and misses when it comes to politics and Texas missteps in the category of climate. It all comes down to round four, sudden death. Will Texas pull it together to defeat Cali's fun in the sun? Can California must up enough strength to combat Tejas' Southern charm and hospitality? After a brief moment of silence and a tension so thick you can feel it in the air, Cali winks from across the ring and kicks Texas in the teeth: the Pacific Ocean, baby! TKO.

This probably won't be the last throw down for my two homes. . . but for right now, the PO is where it is at. Thoughts, anyone?

I'm Having an Affair

Well, being that it's the Lord's Day, I figured that now is as good a time as any to come clean. I'm cheating on Thanksgiving with Christmas. Yes, I, Michelle Heather, have broken the cardinal rule of my family and committed the mortal sin of indulging in the Christmas spirit before the carving of the turkey. For this, I may have my nickname status revoked, but this year, I just can't help myself.

What led to this blasphemy you ask? Well, a long series of events and influences culminated into my concession today by putting up the tree. It all started with seeing my first Christmas commercial on Halloween eve and it all went down hill from there. Starbucks busted out their holiday cups almost three weeks ago and stores have been blasting Jingle Bells since the Santa Annas started blowing. Even the Colony has trimmed the town with tinsel and garland. A friend of mine (who shall remain nameless) is a November 1st kinda guy and has been talking about Yule Tide Cheer for quite sometime. He convinced me to start watching Christmas movies, so this week, I decided to kick the season off right with my annual viewing of my favorite, Miracle on 34th Street. Thursday night I made my famous fudge, a Christmas staple in my household, and yesterday my roommate busted out the carols. I even broke out my apple cider body wash this morning in the shower. But it didn't become official until this afternoon.

I was at the mall picking up some last minute items for my trip home (and by that I mean buying another sweater dress) and could sense that the pre-holiday rush tension was in the air. I managed to wiggle in and out of the dressing room unscathed and waited in line at the register while the crowd swelled around me. Finally I made it to the front of the line and cringed as the total began to rise, but my buyer's remorse was quickly interrupted by a yelp to my right. Nondescript words and hand gestures soon followed. Then I heard it, "Oh no you didn't." People actually say that? Who knew? Then a woman in line behind me began to yell at the sale associates behind the counter to do something. She then took it upon herself to intercede and try and stop the fight. . . that's when the punch was thrown. The gentleman behind the counter smiled and handed me my receipt. "Happy Thanksgiving and an early Merry Christmas," he said to me. "Thanks," I said, "and be sure to keep you scan gun handy."

Peace and joy to all mankind.