Ha! I'm an award winner Bitches!

There is no stopping me now! You should all begin to tremble in fear! I won an award! MWAA HA HAA

The author of 'Make Daddy a Sammich' (Which is a totally freaking awesome blog by the way and I highly suggest you read it. And not just because he gave me an award, even though it totally looks like that. It's not. I thought his blog was funny before the award. Okay I'm going to just stop now. Seriously, it's funny. Check it out.) gave me an award today!

Check it out here: Look, I'm an award winner Bitches!

Yeah, I'm beautiful. I know. 

Since this is my first ever blog award I'm totally psyched. Apparently it's for beautiful blogs with that 'little bit extra.' In this case I'm imagining that the little bit extra is because I tell you, the blogosphere, all of the intimate details of my life that no one really needs to know. (See sneezing out your tampon and my whiny biological clock.)

I'm supposed to list 3 things that I love about myself.

Ahem:

1. I love that I'm awesome. You should love that about me too. Seriously, I'm kind of a big deal.

2. I love that I'm charitable. Seriously, I am. Actually seriously. Non-sarcasticly serious. Actually actual serious. You get it right? I volunteer twice a month at the homeless shelter, give blood and I've started to cook food once a month for the families at my local Ronald McDonald House. I also aggravate the shit out of everyone when we go to eat because I grill the waiter about the source of the fish I'm getting ready to order and then decide to get the chicken or the pork because I'm concerned about the status of the fishes in the ocean. Especially the large, piscivorous fishes. Our oceans are in trouble ya'll! Check out this page and sign the pledge to reduce your plastic consumption! Oceana.org

3. Can I mention that I'm awesome again? I think I'm awesome enough to warrant two points on this list? No? Okay. How about...I love my...eyelashes? They're super long and I'm pretty grateful to have them.

 Next I'm supposed to pick 5 blogs that I read:

Just Married., This is my friend Brooke's blog and it really does truly deserve this award because she is insanely creative and talented and her blog/ideas/inclinations are truly beautiful. She's pretty good looking herself.

Sassafras Junction, This is my friend Susan's blog and it is fracking HILARIOUS. This is one funny bitch and if you don't read her blog you should.

sewNAmber, My friend Amber. Also another creatively talented woman and friend who really deserves this. I CANNOT WAIT until she opens her Etsy shop.

Things Liz Loves, Yes I do have friends. This is Liz's awesome blog. Check it yo. She's serious about this blogging thing.

Venom, Secrets & Lies, And just to round out the 5 with a total female sweep we have Venom's Hilarious Blog.

Thanks again Trash for the award! I totally appreciate that!

Thank you rain!

Right now, as I type this, I'm standing in the rain avoiding my friend Ron at the bus station. That's right. I'm using the rain as a shield. If I wanted to stand under the overhang that'd put me directly in his personal space bubble.

At least I think it's him. Honestly I don't know. I haven't looked at him because I'm afraid he'll recognize me. I'm wearing my rain coat with a hat pulled way down with my hood on so as to discourage people from talking to me. I'm just assuming as much because this guy keeps creeping towards me. Maybe not though, because if it was him he'd probably be chatting me up.

Shit I spoke too soon.

Good news! He's getting his own place. (Where does he live now? Maybe with Damont and Howard. I don't know I didn't ask.) He's been busy. Apparently.

Yesterday when I got on the bus in Greensboro there was an older gentlemen that sat in the seat in front of me and said 'Watch out, here he comes.' Thankfully he was just poking fun at me (his words) because he saw me wave him off from sitting with me the other morning and found it funny. Actually he was very appreciative because he was tired of hearing Ron's damn mouth. The guy never shuts up. He's talking to the bus driver now. Can't a person enjoy their bus ride in the rain in silence so they could get in a quick nap? No, that's not going to happen today.

At least he's not sitting with me this morning.

Thank you rain.

This is my life.

My mother, bless her soul, only ever wanted one child. I think. Whether she did or didn't is irrelevant because she ended up with only one child, me. She may look back on that decision and think that she should've wanted no child. I don't know.

Due to the fact I am an only child, all of the childly duties of maintaining my mother's household fell to me. This combined with a natural mechanical ability makes me pretty damn handy. I've installed laminate flooring, painted every room in her house, wired outside security lights, installed garbage disposals, laid down carpet, everything but hang wallpaper. That I cannot do. My uncle once said 'Anna can do about anything she sets her mind to.' This was a nice way to say I'm too damn obstinate to give up and admit there actually may be something I cannot do. I'm thinking of quitting my day job and install tile professionally. Just for a change.
The past two weekends I've spent painting my mother's bedroom. It wasn't too bad except for the fact that she interpreted 'You'll have to get all the stuff out of your room for me to paint it' as 'I'll just move piles of stuff around and make it look like I'm doing what she wants.'

I'm not sure if you've ever painted a bedroom with the full antique bedroom suit still in said bedroom but it isn't easy. I cannot count the number of times I screamed 'Damnit Momma! I'll be damned if I'm doing anything for you ever again.' I liked to killed myself at least twice. Literally almost died. (This is much funnier if you imagine my exaggerated Southern drawl. Go ahead, I'll wait.)

(Hang in there, we're getting to the point of this story shortly.)

Now the room is painted. She just needs to buy a rug. (Why anyone would cover those hardwood floors is beside me but I have no doubt that once I've got whatever rug she buys installed she'll decide to re-finish the floors.) A large area rug which is really freaking expensive but never mind that because she just has to have one and she has to have it this week. The other thing she has to do this week is go to the beach.
She has this grand plan of ordering a rug and going to beach. Guess who is going to be at her house to receive this rug and lay it down?

Bingo, was her name-o.

Here's the fun part of this story.

We go to the locksmith to get a key made for me so that I can do just that. (Not that I mind because honestly it's a lot easier for me to get things done at her house if she isn't there.) Can you believe that my mother lost her house key in the lobby of the locksmith's for 20 freaking minutes? SHE LOST A KEY AT THE LOCKSMITH'S. How, in the name of all that is Holy, do you do that?

You seriously cannot. Make. This. Shit. Up.

I finally found it in the coat of her pocket which I told her to check no less than 42 times. This, the futility of it all, is my life.

How to win friends at the bus station.

Answer: All you need to have in your possession to win friends while at the bus station is a nice rack
.
Today started like any other day. I got up and fiddled around until it was time to go catch the bus and headed to the bus station. I've carefully timed my arrival at the bus station so that at the most I wait 6 minutes if the bus is on time. Today the bus was late.

We've had some amazing fucking weather lately and normally I would be the last one to complain but for one fact. They let the loonies off the farm when it's warm. Today I met 'Ron.' (Yes, 'Ron' is Ron's real name. Normally I use pseudonyms when depicting people here but I'm not going to do that today. Only because you need to be prepared if you happen upon Ron at the bus station.) Last summer when I started riding the bus I wore my mirrored aviators and listened to my iPod as loud as it would go as kind of like a sensory-deprivation/crazy-person-deflection thing. If I just ignored everyone no one was the wiser because they couldn't make eye contact or talk to me.

I rolled over my iPod dock with my desk chair and broke it so not listening to them isn't an option unless I dig out my old school Discman which is God knows where. I also wear my glasses in my winter-time which that prevents me from wearing my aviators. I need to schedule an appointment with the eye doctor ASAP and get some contacts.

This morning, I'm standing, sans lunatic-shielding, at the bus station beside Ron. Both he and I have an adequate amount of space in our personal space bubble which is where he caught me off guard; judging from this behavior I was unprepared for the onslaught of Ron to come. He asked if the bus was late and I said yes. This next step is where I went really, really wrong. He wondered if it was because of the bad storms we had last night and I said 'Gosh, they were pretty bad, weren't they?'

I should have never responded. Next thing I know Ron introduces me to his friend 'Damont' who just got out of jail and 'Howard' who after having some difficulty finding a job as a convicted felon has finally found some success. Congrats to Howard. And I pray for the bus to come. Ron inches closer to me and begins to invade my personal space bubble.

Ron apparently can talk to a brick wall. He talked and talked and talked, right up until the bus came and I finally had some hope of escaping Ron and his story about the tardy Time-Warner cable guy. No, Ron gets on the bus. This joker rides the same bus I do. Go fucking figure. Guess who sits down right beside me on said bus? That's right. Ron. Who remarked upon seeing me on the bus 'Oh, you saved me a seat.'

Normally Ron gets off at the first stop. I know this because he told me he gets off at the first stop. Today he didn't get off at the first stop because he was having such a good time talking to a sweet (Translation: young), attractive (Translation: Damn, you've got a nice rack) woman (Translation: Gurl, if we weren't in public. Mmm. The things I'd do to you.) This means I get to sit crammed into a bus seat beside Ron for 20 more minutes within which he regales me with details of his cousin's incarceration due to repeated 'grand theft auto' and 'possession with intent to sell' charges. He also mentions that he's seen me on the bus many times before and has been too shy to talk to me but today just seemed different. On and on he goes.

Here's the coup de grace of this whole story.

Ron asks me for my phone number.

Normally I come up with a fake name for when people at the bus station ask me my name but when Ron first asked me this morning I just thought he was talkative and less-lecherous than he turned out to be. So he already knows my name. Actually he thinks my name is Hannah; I'm generally too lazy to correct people when they assume this and when anyone at the bus station thinks I've said something different for my name than what it actually is, I roll with that. Normally I give random men who ask me for my phone number the number to the Papa John's near my mom's house. I figure they can eat their disappointment once they discover I've purposefully mis-led them. It's these little compassionate gestures that make me a real catch in the relationship department. For serious! But upon careful consideration I gave Ron my real number. For this reason: If he actually called and got Papa John's I have no doubt that Ron is the kind of person that would ask me about it the next day when he saw me on the bus, since he clearly sees me every day and what an awkward conversation that would be. At least this way I can still ride the bus and make nice while actively ignoring Ron and after repeated calls that go un-answered and not returned maybe he'll get the hint.

Then again he doesn't seem like the type to take a subtle hint. Does he?

3 reasons why I need a pet pig.

1. Out of all the people you know who'd look cool with a pig, I'd look the coolest. Why you ask? Because I'm awesome.

2. It could be the first-ever service pig. If people can have depression puppies, I can have a boredom pig. That way when I get bored at work I could just play with my pig. He would have a ball and a rope and pillow for naptime and his name would be Beaureguard. And he would be awesome. And medically necessary. My doctor would totally prescribe me a boredom pig. That man owes me one.

3. I need something to scare the giant rabbit my best friend keeps threatening to get me. For serious. The next time you get a yin to be scared google 'Flemish Giant', and imagine opening the door to your apartment one day and that thing come flopping down the hall at you. Scary stuff I tell you. Scary stuff. Anyways Beau would totally root that rabbit out of hiding and protect me.

4. (I know I said 3 reasons but I came up with a 4th.) Whose life wouldn't better with a little, pink pig with a curly tail? Plus I looooove Ham at holidays.

Frustrated Anna is, well, frustrated.

I'm having trouble sleeping these days and have been for a while now. I'm tired and all but then I get to bed and I just lay there. Turning over and adjusting pillows and huffing and puffing until I finally just get up and do something or read until I'm tired again and the whole process repeats ad infinitum.

I cannot figure it out. I've never had issues sleeping. Never, ever. I could seriously sleep through the next World War. I have no doubt about it.

Except for now. Now I'd be awake to fight it. I'm not sure whose good fortune that would be but if WWIII pops off anytime soon we're good, as long as we fight it from the hours of 1-4 AM EST.

After doing some pseduo-serious soul searching (I tend to not do it a lot because what I find is somewhat disturbing. Not crazy ax-murderer shit but enough conundrums and circular logic to drive any sane person batty. It's easier just to stay out of it and let it be.) I've discovered that I, Anna Gray, am Frustrated.

Yes, Frustrated with a capital 'F.' An all-encompassing frustration that is indicative of a proper noun. I don't believe I need to spell it out.

But what is a girl to do? She tries to combat the Frustration with exercise and that helps but it really doesn't get to the crux of the problem. No, this is a resolute and unyielding frustration.

It looks as if our hero Captain Cynical will be waiting it out because that seems to be the only solution that has presented itself currently. Either that or I can get over myself and invest in that whole 'Skype' thing.

As for the sleeping issue I'll just try a double shot of jack and a tranquilizer or two. That seems reasonable.

The Wristwatch

I learned something new tonight.

We were at a certain alternative lifestyle club and I was asking my friends certain questions about strippers. For example, here in NC you cannot get fully nude at a club that serves alcohol. That's only at a 'juice bar' which seems like a total waste of money. Not only do you have to purchase your own alcohol and bring it with you, you then have to pay people to serve it to you. Where's the logic in that? I don't know, I've never been to a stripping establishment. I'm off topic.

Anyways I was asking questions of my friends about stuffing socks in your underwear. Like where does the sock go? Between your kibble and your bits? Or in front of it? This was somewhat a point of contention as we couldn't decide on a definitive answer and from the look of the go-go dancers here, they wouldn't know. Which believe me is a shame for everyone involved. You'd think their friends would have looked and them and suggested a different career path or at least handed them a tube sock or two.

I got to talking out loud about how much fun it would be to have a penis. If I had one I'd just take it out and play with it. Upon this revelation I was compared to every 3 year old boy. Apparently they get bored and play with it a lot. Giggles ensued. So I quizzically asked what they did with it.

After a quick mention of the 'helicopter' and a hilarious pseudo-demonstration then the 'wristwatch' was introduced.

Yes boys. I'm guessing you've all done this at least once in your life because let's be honest, if I had one I'd do it! For some reason the idea of every man I know flopping his member over his wrist at some point cracks me up to no end. Think about it.

Boys.

All you can do is grin and shake your head.

Then this point was made: 'Well, really only the well endowed ones can play the wristwatch game.'

Snort.

There's a novel idea.

I woke up this morning to the sound of my room-mate's cat yakking all over my bedroom. That's how I know she loves me.

Then on my way to the bus station I almost got hit by the meter maid in his little car. I guess he's really a meter butler because he's a man but he was going to the run the red light and almost damn near hit me but finally stopped. And then flirted with me. Really? You almost maim me with your meter cart and then hit on me? Thanks, but no thanks.

Fast forward an hour and I'm on the bus going to work and another bus driver gets on the bus and strikes up a conversation with the bus driver driving the bus about where to eat lunch that day. It's a perfectly nice conversation to which they require no input or external opinion. Then passenger 'Lisa' speaks up.

She starts yammering on and on and on about all the places to eat in town and where they are and how she apparently knows the owners of all of these places and guess what? 'They're all super nice!'

What-the-fuck-ever.

I'm going to warn you about what I'm going to say next as it is quite possibly one of the worst things I will ever say and I'm totally driving the bus to Hell. Get on if you want.

You know why everyone is super nice to Lisa? BECAUSE SHE'S A CRIPPLE. Seriously, who is an asshole to cripples? I'm just putting that out there. I've worked in the restaurant industry and people that own and run restaurants are not nice. They're fucking asshole coke-heads with a superiority complex and a point to prove. They usually end up drowning in the bottom of a whiskey bottle followed by 8-balls and dirty hookers.

Lisa then goes on and on and on about this one pizza joint on the corner (It isn't that great.) that is apparently owned by 'Kyle and Leo' and quelle suprise! They're Italian and from New York.

Imagine that. Italians from New York running a pizza joint. There's a fucking novel idea.

At my house, two's a crowd.

My best friend is also my room-mate and he is an interesting person, to say the least.

He's scary smart and uber-anal retentive. I'd say he'd probably have some penis envy just to keep in line with the Freudian-isms but he has a penis so I guess that's the end of that. Please insert some smart comment about Kant or Hegel. What? I told you he was smart. He's into philosophy and teleogical devices or something. I don't know. I'm a scientist I figure Nature is the way it is for a reason.

He's one of those people who can identify what is misplaced in his room faster than any normal person could stand on one leg, squawk like a chicken and lay an egg. Seriously, you could just walk in his room and just re-arrange the books on his shelf, you don't even have to remove and hide them, just move them around and he can re-arrange them in 10 seconds flat. It's scary.

We've been friends for 12 years now which is also scary but only because that makes us OLD. I'm not sure if he's turning 25 or not this year...But everyday that I spend with him I learn many new and different facts about him which never cease to amaze me. I've always knew he was smart but the fact that he can be actively smart and process all this extra random shit is truly a testament to his excelled mental faculties. Seriously, it's scary.

One day I didn't go to work and when he got home he looked around the apartment once and said to me: Did you enjoy your day off? I sometimes get home before him and I was dumbfounded as to how he could have known because I made a special effort that day to keep everything in it's special place.  He saw the lumpy pillow and knew that I had been reclining on it. He saw the grocery bag on top of the washing machine and knew I'd been to the grocery store and could tell by the absence of circles under my eyes that I'd gotten an adequate night's sleep. Go figure.

Generally I think he's a good influence on me. He tries to keep me organized, sane and together. I think it's probably the one thing that he's failed at. I probably won't have a place to live next week because he'll have kicked me out because he's a perfectionist and will not accept failure. Well except that one time I was right, but I probably negated that by throwing that book at his head. It was kind of a thick book. Oh and also the time I swore he'd set up the DVR to record 'A Fish Called Wanda' and he said that he hadn't because it wasn't in the queue. We went back and figured out that he had indeed set up the DVR to record but the channel wasn't available so it didn't. If you're keeping score the tally is now up to: Him: 37,482, Me: 2. It's rare that he's ever wrong, so all of our friends have that one story where they're right and he was wrong and we relive these stories regularly. It's really the only way to stay sane.

I think I'm a good influence on him too. I just haven't figured out how yet. Unless you count the rigors of walking in on your room-mate in the midst of certain sexual acts on the couch in the living room. Hey, he wasn't supposed to be home for another hour. I was eventually going to my bedroom we just hadn't made it that far yet. Luckily out of the three of us involved I was the most embarrassed. The room-mate thought it was hilarious and the Boy was mostly upset he was interrupted but once the deed was finished he was quite amused too. Although he did kind of bust my balls for shrieking, jumping up, grabbing the blanket and running away which left him to make nice with the room-mate and gather our clothes. At least he'd met the room-mate the night before otherwise that could have been reeeeeally awkward. I think he's rooting for you by the way.

 The other day the room-mate says to me: 'I'm taking Thursday, Friday, Monday and Tuesday off of work. I'm going to need you to go to work at least three of those days.' This was directly after I'd set off every smoke alarm in the apartment and we'd had to call the building manager to have them cut off. I tried to placate him by reminding him that our next door neighbor, Sex-on-Skates, was in Mexico and that at least I hadn't caused the evacuation of the entire building like the asshats on the third floor did a few weeks ago with their burnt fucking popcorn. See here. He still wasn't enthused. I'm not sure why, we only have one neighbor and he was gone and no-one actually had to leave nor was there an actual fire. He's a stickler for details. Details like there never should have been reason for the smoke alarm to go off in the first place but I figure I pay rent there, that entitles me to set the smoke alarm off at least twice a year. I'm going to get my money's worth, damnit.

Needless to say I'll probably be met at the door in the morning with the cat so I can take her to work with me because at my house, two's a crowd.

No matter how hard you try, you cannot wiggle back onto your tampon after you've sneezed.

You've seen it happen in action but maybe you just didn't notice it. But you've seen it. Every woman, or at least every woman who wears tampons during allergy season, has done it.

There is a particularly violent sneeze, a pause, a face-scrunch to one particular side, a odd wiggle-type shimmy and a groan. Yes, you've just witnessed a woman with good kegel control push her tampon halfway out.

I'm here to inform you, the public, that it is impossible to wiggle back onto your tampon. Goodness knows I've tried. Of course with me this always happens when I'm out in public without a spare on me, or heaven forbid I have a spare but it's one of those God-awful Ob tampons that don't have applicators. My mom bought me an economy size case of them from Walmart one time because they were on 'Sale.' One fine spring day she calls to tell me she's bought me tampons and is so proud of herself; she's finally accepted her only daughter wearing tampons.(She's always thought I was trashy because I refuse to walk around in what amounts to the 'Juniors' section of adult diapers. You get comfortable in a maxi pad and it's a slippery slope from there to urinating in your undergarments because you cannot miss a single episode of the Nanny marathon. Because you haven't seen them all.) I go to pick up said tampons and immediately shriek in terror and loathing. She hands me some line about looking a gift horse in the mouth and I explain that they don't have applicators. She processes that and then says 'I wondered how there were able to fit 500 of them in a Kleenex box.'

Ever observant she is. Ever observant and facetious. I still maintain it was her way of sticking it to me for being a skanky modern woman who doesn't relegate herself to a dark corner of her basement room if there is a pool party while on the rag. By the way, the code word for the string hanging out of your bathing suit is 'Ice Cream.' Next time you're at a public pool and an adult woman screams 'Ice Cream,' she's not trying to incite a riot among the 10 and younger crowd. She's informing her friend that her tampon string has become the newest accessory to her bathing ensemble. It doesn't hurt that screaming 'Ice Cream' normally distracts every child and adult male long enough for the affected party to recover the rogue pull-cord. Anyways the point being is that my mother associates my usage of tampons with the lack of a hymen. Which may or may not be true.

In general it sucks being on the rag. Gone are the days when the men shut the women up in a tent with one another and let them sit for the better part of a week giggling and carrying on.

I figure this is why whenever you get 3 or more us together at a time in a space sans men we always have period talk. This is quickly followed by a close comparison of the member of the person with which we had out last sexual encounter with, as we're wont to do. Complete with diagrams, gestures and comparisons to random food items. Cucumber good, cinnamon stick bad.

So the next time you see a girl sneeze, stop and psuedo-break-it-down to the 'muzak' in the department store you'll know she's on the rag and just partially shat out her tampon. Or she's clearly psycho because she appreciates the muzak. In which case, take that girl out and introduce her to some applicator-less tampons. She can waste some time figuring out how that works and maybe become less socially awkward.

The Xanax fairy came and I missed it.

Today I went to a funeral. There was a death in my family and it was tragic and sad and I'm truly sorry for my family and their loss but I have a bone to pick with these people.

My entire family was fucked up. Seriously. Apparently these people have had enough grieving so they got in line at the Pharmacy counter and partook. Granted it was nice that they didn't sob their brains out but where else can you sob your face off and grieve than at a funeral? That would be the appropriate place for crying. Not for being fucked up. Then again maybe they just needed their own way to self-medicate. I guess we all do it.

Another thing and I really hope I don't offend anyone here because I don't mean to be malicious but can I please go to a Baptist service one day and not have 3 different people tell me they're concerned about my immortal soul? and try to baptize me*? I get that's what they do but damn ya'll, can we talk about the deceased and how we can help his family move on? Instead of forming a queue at the baptismal submersion pool?

Just a thought.

Back to the Xanax thing, here is the last thing I'm going to say about that. If my mom wouldn't have made us late I'm wondering if we'd have got in line too? Who knows? Probably not. Someone had to drive.

*For those of you that are concerned about my immortal soul, I'm Methodist. I was baptized at birth and yes it does it too count. 

The Federal Government is totally cock-blocking me.

You'll remember my new year's resolutions:

Insert the word 'mother-fucker' into my every day lexicon. Check.

Books with pictures. Kind-of-Check. I haven't read a whole lot of anything this year.

Get a passport...I'm trying.

Now you have to make an appointment to get a passport which means that I unnecessarily went to the post office, which I am afraid of, only to have them tell me that I need to come back a different day. Actually I did not talk to them, my mom did. (What? Yes I took my mother with me to the post office, I told you I was afraid.) Needless to say that I have to go back AGAIN next week.

It's not that I'm in a hurry, I'm not. The only place that I'm really anticipating going is the UK (You remember when Captain Cynical was mortally wounded, well it just so happens that said antagonist of Captain Cyncial happens to live in the UK. Because I cannot find someone to sleep with here in the contiguous 48. I have to be difficult, you've met me. Plus I kind of dig him. He only reads this blog sporadically and hopefully this won't be the week that he deigns to read it. That would be AWKWARD. But if you are reading this, 'Hey! Miss you! Hide the whiskey and cookies, company's coming over!' Jesus I am such a dweeb. ) and I'm not going there it's at least 65 degrees (Fahrenheit. Not Celsius.) for a significant period of time. The only other place that I want to go where one would require a passport it's warm all year long so no hurries there. Except for the fact that they're all on an island in the middle of the ocean and global warming seems to be ticking along at a reasonable pace so I need a passport within the next 20 years or so.

Now I have to get up the gumption and the courage to go visit the Post Office again and I know my mother will not go with me a second time. She didn't want to go the first time, something about me being 'a grown woman' and about 'how it's time to put away those childish irrational fears' and what not. Geez, whatever Mom.

I'm blaming the Federal Government for this one. It's just unnecessary.

Anna Gray cannot make up her mind.

Today I went dress shopping because I needed a really great dress. Normally this would have been an all day affair but it is my opinion that Hell has officially frozen over because I went to one store, tried on 5 dresses and bought the first one I put on.

HELL HAS FROZEN OVER. The end is near. Nevermind the Mayan calendar predicting the end in 2012, I bought a dress, that I like mind you, in under an hour.

No worries though. You've still got some time to wrap up your affairs before the apocalypse and his riders reach us. There is still the issue of shoes. . .what to do, what to do?

I couldn't decide on one single pair of shoes so I bought 3 pairs of black leather ankle booties. I know, I know. No one needs three pair of black ankle booties but I just couldn't decide. One pair has ruffles (pro) but are suede (con). The other two pairs are normal leather (pro) but one pair has this really cute bow (pro) but are a little casual for my current purposes (con). The last ones I think I'm definitely going to keep because they're definitely dressy enough (pro) but then again I should take at least one pair back, right?

Then again I am the person that has 3 of the same black strapless dress. What? They're each a little bit different but I'm a big fan of sticking with what works. You know I hate change and besides I like to think of it as design loyalty.

Plus it's way easier to make a decision if you already know what it looks like before you've worn it before. Think of it as an example of efficiency.