tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55369453031241484842024-03-05T05:07:21.864-08:00The Pretty Vintage Girla blog about life, love, and dogs. and pretty vintage things.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.comBlogger105125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-37775396599111291642018-08-02T14:32:00.000-07:002018-08-02T14:35:44.755-07:00My Inner Voice is Dumb<div style="-en-clipboard: true;">
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This past Monday I had coffee with a friend I haven’t seen since I was married. In fact, the last time I saw her was when we were hanging out <i>with</i> my ex-husband. Since I haven’t been married to him for almost four years now, that’s kindof saying something.</div>
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I didn’t really know what to expect. I wasn’t sure if we would talk about my ex, or if we even should. What, exactly, was the protocol here? Were we supposed to pretend he didn’t exist, or directly acknowledge the elephant in the room and invite it to join us for coffee?
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I haven’t done the rather awkward “first conversation” in a while. In about four years.
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So I felt that familiar resurgence of shame and guilt, and thereby resorted to my familiar throwaway line of “I’m a terrible person.” I said it often four years ago, and several times in the years since when discussing my divorce. After all, I’d rather be the one to say it than to hear the same words from a friend. Self-flagellation is a strange form of self-defense. It hurts less to berate ourselves. We’re used to the negative attitude. We hear similar phrases all the time from our inner destructive demons, so often that we come to expect nothing less from ourselves.
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“You’re a terrible person.”
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“You’re not a good artist.”
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“You suck at writing.”
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“You’re bad in bed.”
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“You’re boring.”
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“Your laugh is dumb.”
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“Why can’t you do anything right?”
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“Why are you like this?"
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“No one really likes you.”
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I don’t know about you, but I’ve heard these things countless times. And all of these horribly mean things came from only one person: myself.
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Well, from those dumb inner demons, at least.
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No one has ever told me actually told me any of those things. (Actually, my ex-husband had a few colorful variations on that first one, but that comes with the territory.)
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And my friend, when I used my preferred emotional self-defense tactic for the second time, exclaimed: “Stop saying that!”
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She’s right. I should stop saying it. I should stop saying all of those terrible things to myself.
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You should stop saying them too. I hear you out there telling others how you’re not enough, how you’re less than you should be. I see the self-deprecating Facebook posts. And I want to channel my friend’s exclamation and scream “Stop saying that!”
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Words have incredible power, no matter what the old rhyme says, and they have even more power when the words originate from inside ourselves. Others may have the ability to wear our self-worth down over time, though we do at least usually start out with a sense of indignation when someone else tries to put us down. But when our own inner voice tells us that we suck? We tend to roll over in submission and agree with no argument whatsoever. Yes, Dumb Inner Demon, you’re right, I AM a terrible person. I AM fat. I AM ugly. I SHOULD stop doing something I love, because I’m no good at it.
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And I have just one thing to say: to you, to myself, to my Dumb Inner Demon.
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<b>STOP. </b></div>
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<b>SAYING. </b></div>
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<b>THAT.</b></div>
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Can you even imagine the freedom you would feel if you could mute that horrible inner voice, if you could just <i>enjoy</i> your life, your hobbies, your own body?
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This is not to say that critique and improvement should be dismissed. But they shouldn’t be all-important, or all-consuming. <a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2015/09/newsflash-im-not-perfect.html">None of us are perfect</a>, all of us are learning and changing and constantly making mistakes. Be compassionate towards each other.
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But, above all, be compassionate to yourself. Stop being your own worst critic and start being your own cheerleader.
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I’m not a terrible person. I’m a person, who made (and continually makes) mistakes.
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I’m not a terrible person. It’s physically hard to type that and not hit the “delete” key until it all goes away again. I’m so used to saying it, as a joke, as an excuse, as self-defense.
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I’m not a terrible person.<br />
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<a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2017/07/build-me-up-buttercup.html">Neither are you</a>. Make sure you tell yourself that. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-7146598518056727132018-07-27T14:10:00.002-07:002018-07-27T14:10:33.376-07:00World Enough and... Wait, Scratch That<!--?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8" standalone="no"?-->
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Quite frankly, I think it's time to do the Time Warp again. (Quite <i>frankly</i>. Get it? Get it?)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Anyway.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m currently struggling with the near-constant feeling of not having enough time. Does anyone else have this problem? For example:
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t have enough time to spend in bed in the morning.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t have time to work out in the morning (or the evening).</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t have enough time to sew in the morning before work.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t have enough time at work (it’s slower right now, so this one isn’t as bad as usual).</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t have enough time to go home and make dinner.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t have enough time with my husband.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t have enough time to work on all the projects I’m working on, or want to work on.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t have enough time to clean our house.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t have enough time to hang out with my friends.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t have enough time to write, or blog, or read.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t have enough time in the evening before it’s time for bed.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t have enough time to sleep.</span></li>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I can’t guarantee that this is all necessarily true. But I can guarantee that it’s exactly how I feel. And I can say for a fact that I’ve begun to feel a sudden wave of dread anytime someone asks me for more of my time. (It's an <a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2017/07/the-care-and-feeding-of-introvert.html">Introvert Thing</a>.)</span></div>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">My mom wants me to come over and go through old photos or (Insert Family Activity Here). Dread.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">My friends plan an outing or event. Dread (followed by wanting to go, followed by dread, followed by wanting to go, followed by...).</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I get scheduled for an event at work. Dread.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mark asks if I have ideas for dinner. Dread (followed by an irrational desire for Mexican food).</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>*I*</b> want to go to a show, or a movie, or to an event, or on a trip. Dread.</span></li>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s getting a little out of hand. And it doesn’t help that I recently started sewing, acquired a huge collection of patterns and fabric, and now want to do nothing but stay home and make myself a brand new wardrobe.
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But even putting my newest hobby aside, the dread and feeling of never having any time still hovers ominously over me. I’ve taken to watching the hours spin recklessly by at night, or on the weekends, counting down until it’s time to go to bed, or time to go to work. Where did the time go, I think? I just got home. We just finished eating. We just cleaned up dishes. How can it be so late? Why can’t I have more time?
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Not coincidentally, I think, I’ve also been feeling more anxious lately. I irrationally think something bad is going to happen. I’m having trouble going to sleep because my mind suddenly starts up a litany of worries against the backdrop of whatever song is currently stuck in my head (unfortunately, it's usually "Everything is Awful" by the Decemberists). And I’ve been waking in the middle of the night for no reason, then convincing myself that the reason I woke up is that I heard something.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Basically, I’m getting to be a bit of a mess. And, because of all the above-mentioned bullshit, I’m not enjoying my life as much as I’m accustomed to. Which is pretty much everything I’m against.
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Since my separation and divorce from my first husband, I’ve pretty much pledged to enjoy my life and not wallow in self-pity. And being stressed out and anxious and always upset that I don’t have more time is a bit wallow-y and really isn’t very enjoyable. Believe me.
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But what to do about it?
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I can’t take a week, or a month, or half a year off work to try to “catch up.” Besides, I don’t actually think catching up is humanly possible. Even if I miraculously finished all the things on my To Do list, there will always be something else to do. Hell, even if I achieve my dream of one day becoming a stay at home dog mom (which would also require us getting a dog), there would <i>never</i> be a lack of things to do. And there would never be more hours available to do those things. If I had but world enough and time for all the things I want to do, let's face it... I'd just find more things I'd want to do. (This is also why I don't understand people who get bored when they retire.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Also? I can't go back in time. If I could, then Current Me could go and wake up Past Me so that she would be a more productive member of society and Current Me would then feel better about her life. There is just the very minor problem that I have thus far not been able to time travel. At least, not until I find a Doctor or a DeLorean.
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So that seems to point to the fact that the actual problem is, well... me. Or, at the very least, my mindset is the problem. For starters, it’s incredibly negative. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don’t <i>like</i> being negative.
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I am, however, remarkably <i>good</i> at being negative. It’s not the best combination.
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And really, being negative about my own life is the opposite of productive. By constantly feeling that sense of “never enough,” by bemoaning what I feel I don’t have, I’m creating a self-fulfilling prophecy of discontentment and frustration. I’m shooting myself in the foot, setting myself up for failure, etc, etc, etc.
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I do have enough time. I have the same amount of time everyone has. But maybe, just maaaaybe, I don’t always make the best use of it. I do, I admit, have a significant number of bad habits I’ve fallen into lately.</span></div>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I look at my phone too much.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I stay in bed too long.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I waste time instead of being creative and productive.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I focus on what I’m not getting done instead of all the things I have actually gotten accomplished.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I make excuses</span></li>
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And, finally...</div>
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<li>I have an overall negative attitude that’s honestly getting annoying to myself.</li>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So Ashley, I tell myself. Cut it out. Bring back that girl who’s happy and positive and kick out this negative bitch who complains all the time. Who needs her?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Right?
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">There’s only one problem (and here’s your spoiler alert, so watch out): <i>they’re both the same girl</i>.
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">That being the case, it’s probably best I settle for a compromise: a happy bitch who complains only occasionally. I think that’s a reasonable goal, don’t you? She sounds like most of my friends.
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In the meantime, I’m trying to figure out how to better manage my time (and mindset). All suggestions welcome.
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">(Complaints and bitching are also welcome, because really, no one likes someone who’s too damn happy all the damn time. See above comment about most of my friends.)</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-29142272231003349862018-06-28T13:55:00.000-07:002018-06-28T13:58:17.687-07:00The Great Emoji Birthday Party<div style="-en-clipboard: true;">
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About a month ago, I threw my very first children’s birthday party for my stepdaughter! We <span style="font-style: italic;">kindof</span> had a party last year, in that we invited over our families at the very last minute, I cooked dinner, and her grandmother brought over a cake. We were still moving into our new house (well, we <span style="font-style: italic;">still</span> are moving into our new house, but it’s a bit more presentable now) and had already pulled off the world’s most inexpensive wedding. I hadn’t had time to devote to planning an actual party.
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But I vowed that this year would be different.
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(And it was.)</div>
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I grew up as a child who always, <span style="font-style: italic;">always</span> had a themed birthday party. (I still have themed birthday parties, and they’re awesome, shut up.) So I’m a firm believer that kids should have parties, and they should have themes. Really, I just love themes. (I blame the birthday parties.)
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Kaylee has been on a slight emoji kick for the past year or so (she's pretty much claimed one half of my <a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/FemmeDeBloom">Femme de Bloom</a> emoji collar clips), so I’d been working toward the idea of making her party emoji themed. Hell, I like emojis too. (The heart eyes emoji is my spirit animal.) The Emoji Movie was actually even than I expected. So I started a board on my mostly-dead Pinterest dedicated to party ideas and kept my eyes peeled for emoji gifts/decorations/etc.<br />
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Then, of course, the weeks leading up to her birthday weekend coincided with my busiest weeks at work (thanks, wedding season), so I ended up not having quite as much time as I intended to go completely overboard on the themed decorations/presents/food.
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So... I only went slightly overboard. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Gk5QMJq_kTHxC6RO5Vtvq5TsYQ9GLvF6fIuY0kk38rvBN8_ccRjdXBs-khGytkLFJ3IDTeffl5WduQZjDfHSCyA89eJok-OHb9-OCgDd5tgV70QjVl6KohvNobvOr5xU5v_3h9tmj-pd/s1600/IMG_20180605_193313_195.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Gk5QMJq_kTHxC6RO5Vtvq5TsYQ9GLvF6fIuY0kk38rvBN8_ccRjdXBs-khGytkLFJ3IDTeffl5WduQZjDfHSCyA89eJok-OHb9-OCgDd5tgV70QjVl6KohvNobvOr5xU5v_3h9tmj-pd/s640/IMG_20180605_193313_195.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I picked up a bunch of emoji plates/napkins/gift bags itmes from Walmart (where I also possibly went a little overboard on gifts, but nevermind that). I also made this cute <a href="https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/heart-eyes-emoji-pillow">emoji pillow</a> from a free pattern on Ravelry, and finished it just in time for the big day! It's now joined forces with the growing legion of stuffed animals and handmade pillows on her bed.</div>
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In properly keeping with the theme, I limited the snacks to food that there are emojis for. I don’t think anyone actually noticed this, but it pleased my internal control freak and that’s all that really matters here. Therefore, we had pizza, chocolate chip cookies made by the birthday girl and Mark, watermelon, grapes, and strawberries.</div>
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I also made (with Kaylee's help) an emoji cake and poop emoji cupcakes! She helped frost the face and put the eyes on the cupcakes. She gave me a high five and declared that I had “nailed it” which pretty impressive coming from a “Nailed It!” connoisseur.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8JuVVrSXEqfht20MZQm3LC7L-mVrcih2H5jTBvXzrFJgwqfjITEO0o-kRwlL4moBnGNbsrxYwK5anFsG4g7HJ31LPei2QtUYL5m35Bf_c_rIqf1eZN3ffggN8ELB0AKClh5RQel08Kb9c/s1600/IMG_20180603_200536_257.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8JuVVrSXEqfht20MZQm3LC7L-mVrcih2H5jTBvXzrFJgwqfjITEO0o-kRwlL4moBnGNbsrxYwK5anFsG4g7HJ31LPei2QtUYL5m35Bf_c_rIqf1eZN3ffggN8ELB0AKClh5RQel08Kb9c/s640/IMG_20180603_200536_257.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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For the cake, I used this <a href="https://www.kingarthurflour.com/recipes/back-to-basics-moist-yellow-cake-recipe">yellow cake recipe</a>, with a basic buttercream frosting. I scooped out two tiny bits of frosting to color for the eyes and mouth, and colored the rest as bright of a yellow as I could manage.<br />
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Pro-tip: lightly draw on the outline of the shapes you're going for before piping on the icing. It definitely helps minimize error (unless you have a newly-seven-year-old helping you, in which case Godspeed).<br />
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For the poop emoji cupcakes, I used my <a href="https://www.hersheys.com/kitchens/en_us/recipes/hersheys-perfectly-chocolate-chocolate-cake.html">go-to chocolate cake recipe </a>that’s on the back of the Hershey's Cocoa canister. It’s my absolute favorite, as it’s super easy and always tastes moist and delicious. I also used <a href="https://savorysweetlife.com/chocolate-buttercream-frosting/">this</a> chocolate buttercream frosting, and K stuck on some edible eyeballs. To quote my mother-in-law, “I thought they were really cute until I realized what they were.”)<br />
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In addition, I took her to Party City and let her pick out her own balloons, so I’ll just be waiting over here for my Stepmom of the Year award.</div>
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Ultimately, if you can’t be spoiled on your birthday, when can you be?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-AI7mStUUAmfG-2GwqYcA9DvZMXxNrk7vdX7YH1xDtAyCl39VQ_hnmDX3v4uMJ9ntLh4PhUyHLvzzSNmeW7xEgNUzb0bQIuK4SSMBSAsM1itYC60WY61P_w3kgn47-ZnIb7lsbyN24vm1/s1600/IMG_20180603_195830_239.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1145" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-AI7mStUUAmfG-2GwqYcA9DvZMXxNrk7vdX7YH1xDtAyCl39VQ_hnmDX3v4uMJ9ntLh4PhUyHLvzzSNmeW7xEgNUzb0bQIuK4SSMBSAsM1itYC60WY61P_w3kgn47-ZnIb7lsbyN24vm1/s640/IMG_20180603_195830_239.jpg" width="601" /></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-28195656561251586632018-01-09T15:05:00.000-08:002018-01-09T15:05:46.171-08:00Winter Survival Mode: Activated<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It's winter (obviously).</div>
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In my (not at all) humble opinion, the best thing to do in the winter is stay home. There's so much to do there! There are books to be read. There is food to be eaten. There are television shows to be binged (we're currently re-watching Doctor Who). There are projects to be knit (or crocheted, or cross-stitched). There's a husband to snuggle. And there's a lot of cleaning and organizing to do, when I can find the time and energy between all that reading and eating and snuggling.<br />
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Winter is not exactly my favorite time of year. I prefer warm springs and mild summers, when I can wear cute little sundresses and short skirts and heels as often as I want and not, well, freeze. I prefer when it doesn't look like midnight at five o'clock.<br />
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But, I live in the Midwest with no intentions of leaving, so I get to continue to experience the full breadth of all four seasons, including this <i>incredibly</i> cold winter.<br />
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My survival tactics have changed a bit over the years. Winter Ashley used to look a lot different than she does now, and she was a lot less happy in the winters. I didn't wear a lot of bright colors. Instead. I wore a lot of leggings, T-shirts, and cardigans, which is a pretty far cry from my winter style these days.<br />
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The problem was that I've never been a huge fan of sweaters, since they tend to make me feel a bit stifled. Really, I don't like bulky long-sleeved tops in general, which is unfortunately the Merriam-Webster definition for "sweater."<br />
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Now? There are remarkably more sweaters (since I've learned to be properly picky when shopping so that I will actually <i>wear</i> a sweater), more tights, more boots, more knee-high socks, and more layers. There's a lot of colors. And hats.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLnxDcqXqzCW_D1JLS7CpMzwbG46STemMTIxdcwCAynnKHGxGyimH9v7udFjd4s766A-t8i_eCK5vKRysEyu1uyIsHUchahtzN2W1WD9jZMqpzhqmV7oZh6IVkJA5_nE__bfGWSkYIQWos/s1600/26198520_818782008590_5346691994873047503_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLnxDcqXqzCW_D1JLS7CpMzwbG46STemMTIxdcwCAynnKHGxGyimH9v7udFjd4s766A-t8i_eCK5vKRysEyu1uyIsHUchahtzN2W1WD9jZMqpzhqmV7oZh6IVkJA5_nE__bfGWSkYIQWos/s640/26198520_818782008590_5346691994873047503_o.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love hats.</td></tr>
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And while I proclaimed the virtues of staying home during the winter, I also recognize that isn't always feasible. You might have a party to go to. You might have to trek to the store for vital necessities (eggs, bread, and milk for French toast). Your boss might unreasonably insist that he's not going to pay you to stay at home and knit. (How unfair!) You might actually want to go outside in the cold and... enjoy yourself.<br />
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In that case, it's important to have the perfect winter coat (or two... or twenty). If I have to cover up my outfit, it's going to be with a great - and preferably coordinating - coat. I have a slight vintage coat addiction, so I have a wide variety to choose from, but the key things to remember are comfort, warmth, and, yes style. Do you like how you look in your coat? Great! That's one step towards making winter less awful.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">I need to dig out this coat. It's my favorite.</span></div>
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Winter isn't exactly the worst thing in the world, I suppose. It has it's magical moments, like the first snow. And the first snowman. It has my birthday. It has Christmas and hot chocolate and comfort food and sneaking your cold feet under your husband's legs. There's ice skating (especially if you're more graceful than me), and fireplaces, and layers upon layers of warm blankets to burrow under.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vo0UN0j5ISjDDsE2JbSM2aB9QE-t-aIACASyBxssUvUzLrM23oZ9o-6SymnMnq_JswE2Ru-x8yjPuNqBiBtOvizuFKDP8HbbuXBNF1jx3Go4qYIdKTMCoATxrdf_nV13sGLd21hMMjNo/s1600/FB_IMG_1514769539723.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="768" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8vo0UN0j5ISjDDsE2JbSM2aB9QE-t-aIACASyBxssUvUzLrM23oZ9o-6SymnMnq_JswE2Ru-x8yjPuNqBiBtOvizuFKDP8HbbuXBNF1jx3Go4qYIdKTMCoATxrdf_nV13sGLd21hMMjNo/s640/FB_IMG_1514769539723.jpg" width="512" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4txHRnWn2iVEoPUSaTfkLc0JmD6vM8rYr2sFlXgQM6hjjmZNVFfPYy13bNIMA2Zbp_1kZQW5VRxxngSqFzvLQwvE9Vdf9VAMtuiNsq1yqm9tkFaGNBv8fPYciakK1zSPxZLl4RdioO9Kb/s1600/FB_IMG_1514769549803.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4txHRnWn2iVEoPUSaTfkLc0JmD6vM8rYr2sFlXgQM6hjjmZNVFfPYy13bNIMA2Zbp_1kZQW5VRxxngSqFzvLQwvE9Vdf9VAMtuiNsq1yqm9tkFaGNBv8fPYciakK1zSPxZLl4RdioO9Kb/s640/FB_IMG_1514769549803.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Winter weather also provides an introvert with endless excuses to stay inside and catch up on her reading.<br />
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Winter may be long, but it's not interminable. Or unsurvivable. You just have to know how. And it's different for everyone.<br />
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For me, surviving winter is about continuing to dress like myself, continuing to wear color, and not letting myself stay inside <i>too</i> long. It's about finding the little things that are still enjoyable, even in the bleak midwinter. It's about not letting the cold and damp stop me from my regular lifestyle.<br />
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It's also about how much I'm looking forward to going home and watching Doctor Who.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-36621458201708568432018-01-05T14:50:00.001-08:002018-01-05T14:50:24.746-08:00#ObsessedIn my post earlier this week, I mentioned that I was making a few changes to the way I blog. One change is that I'm going to be posting twice a week (generally Tuesdays and Fridays). The second change is that I'm going to post on more specific and regular monthly topics.<br />
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My second post of the month is going to be an easy one: things I'm obsessed with.<br />
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First off, I'm obsessed with my new phone. I've been clinging to my iPhone 5s for nearly 4 years because I didn't want to deal with the cost of a new smartphone. That phone and I went through a lot together. It was my first big "commitment" with Mark. It went for a swim a couple of times. I dropped it (a lot). I even replaced the battery recently just to try to keep it workable.<br />
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The final straw came late last week when I discovered that the camera lens was cracked (probably from me dropping it). <br />
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So, on Saturday, we ventured to Best Buy to see what I could replace it with. I'd pretty much decided that I was done with iPhones, and was debating between a Pixel 2 and a Galaxy s8, based on a lot of trusted recommendations. Honestly, my main qualifications were: nothing too big, plenty of storage space, a decent price, and (most importantly) a good camera.<br />
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As it happened, there was an <i>amazing</i> deal on the Pixel 2, so we both decided to take the plunge.<br />
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And? I love it, even with the learning curve that comes from being a long-term Apple user. It didn't come pre-loaded with a bunch of apps I have no interest in. It's not overly complicated. It's not too big. Mainly, though, I love the camera. It's something I used a lot, even on my crappy ancient iPhone. So I wanted something really good, and honestly? I'm not about to apologize for it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMfFhqY4OyRPt87ettDvZfYrJAHR-AEpx9gE_Ftgs551fKZ1QpnPM4f38cKENtRG0zo3GL7I5AqTVMJRT94sSrt0ciUODCMoJI_NQdh8ZGblDjeVDNR3twj9YIG27OI-We1-59_xw1PRQn/s1600/IMG_20180104_110940_757.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMfFhqY4OyRPt87ettDvZfYrJAHR-AEpx9gE_Ftgs551fKZ1QpnPM4f38cKENtRG0zo3GL7I5AqTVMJRT94sSrt0ciUODCMoJI_NQdh8ZGblDjeVDNR3twj9YIG27OI-We1-59_xw1PRQn/s640/IMG_20180104_110940_757.jpg" width="576" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm also obsessed with this cardigan (from <a href="https://www.target.com/p/women-s-printed-any-day-cardigan-a-new-day-153-animal/-/A-52507207#lnk=sametab&preselect=52231877">Target</a>), which makes me 150% extra when I wear it.</td></tr>
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On a completely different note, I'm also obsessed with my new <a href="https://www.erstwilder.com/">Erstwilder</a> pins. Mark's parents got them for me for Christmas and they are absolutely perfect. Mark told them I'd like <a href="https://www.erstwilder.com/collections/new/products/spiffy-the-sausage-dog-brooch-green">Spiffy the Sausage Dog</a> (which I absolutely do), but his mom thought I'd like the whale as well, since she'd seen me "wear stuff with whales on it." (<a href="https://www.erstwilder.com/collections/new/products/wesley-whale-brooch-blue">Wesley Whale</a> is now sold out as well.)<br />
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My very first pin/brooch purchase (a little over a year ago) was from Erstwilder, and I continue to grab the occasional must-have brooch from their continuing releases. They have some of the cutest high-quality resin brooches around, and I never fail to want at least three (or four... or five) when they announce a new collection. They're always quirky and delightfully kitschy (in all the right ways). Obviously, I'm a bit of an addict, and am fairly pleased with myself for having several sold-out or discontinued styles.<br />
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The final thing that I'm currently obsessed with is my absolute favorite pair of boots ever.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPfMRAfib02OvBYMtz0jjcrtyqYfHVi3PcVd3M7UIP5eSEeaIMOYVOPzye7DCoEBEY4xFXFJhomrsN5sMxN77vv0FqVkZVB2d4lzv8dGWE1knWljU0wxpaf_cGeQYn3sDCDIx75eJx4DmZ/s1600/IMG_20180104_110921_657.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPfMRAfib02OvBYMtz0jjcrtyqYfHVi3PcVd3M7UIP5eSEeaIMOYVOPzye7DCoEBEY4xFXFJhomrsN5sMxN77vv0FqVkZVB2d4lzv8dGWE1knWljU0wxpaf_cGeQYn3sDCDIx75eJx4DmZ/s640/IMG_20180104_110921_657.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ever.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I bought these on an impulse (and on sale) at <a href="https://www.target.com/p/women-s-magda-lace-up-tall-boots-mossimo-supply-co-153/-/A-52137032#lnk=sametab&preselect=52129607">Target</a> last season. I tried them on, looked at Mark, and doubtfully asked, "Do you think I'll actually wear these?" They weren't quite my style, really. They weren't heels. They weren't "vintage." They weren't that girly. But, I<i> </i>liked them. I just wasn't sure I <i>liked</i> them, and wasn't sure how well they would work with my outfits.<br />
<br />
Spoiler alert: I wear them all the time. They are ridiculously comfortable and surprisingly versatile. I pair them with both pants and cute skirts, effectively lengthening skirt season well into this ridiculously cold winter. I wore them all through the fall and winter last year and constantly bemoaned the fact that I didn't have them in black. (Ask Mark how many times he heard me whine that I wished I had black boots. It was a lot.)<br />
<br />
Never fear, this story has a happy ending! We'll fast forward to the beginning of this fall, when I was walking through Target and spotted them: The Boots, in black. I bought them instantly. (And I'm wearing them today. No regrets.)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-407981642000758072018-01-02T14:28:00.000-08:002018-01-02T14:28:08.100-08:00New Year, New Blog: or, I'm Not Dead Yet!So.... I bet you thought this blog was dead, didn't you?<br />
<br />
I totally fooled you, didn't I?<br />
<br />
Didn't I?<br />
<br />
Actually... you were partly right. It was mostly dead. In hibernation. A respite, if you will. Otherwise known as wedding season. And Thanksgiving. And Christmas. And...<br />
<br />
I haven't just been working, but it would take several blogs worth to catch up on everything that's gone on since July. Assuming I've just been working is easier. Because if it wasn't work that I got actually paid for, it's been work on my own personal projects, on maintaining friendships across state lines, and (more recently) on our house and on myself.<br />
<br />
It's also just been a hell of a year. In a good way. In 2017 I...<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Turned 32.</li>
<li>Moved.</li>
<li>Bought a house.</li>
<li>Had an amazing bachelorette party.</li>
<li>Got married to the love of my life.</li>
<li>Officially became a stepmom.</li>
<li>Went on a mini-honeymoon to House on the Rock/Wisconsin Dells.</li>
<li>Read 55 books (my yearly goal is 50).</li>
<li>Won judges choice in a poetry contest.</li>
<li>Made a lot of fun projects.</li>
<li>Watched the solar eclipse.</li>
<li>Went to Chicago for my friend's baby shower.</li>
<li>Dressed up for Halloween every single day of October.</li>
<li>Went to three Christmases in one day.</li>
<li>Got a brand new fancy smartphone.</li>
<li>Stayed home on NYE and did absolutely nothing.</li>
</ul>
It was a truly wonderful year, one of my best yet in spite of the obvious stresses of so many major life changes in such a short time frame (especially since I basically planned our wedding in about a month!).<br />
<br />
But now it's 2018. I have absolutely no idea what is in store, but I hope to actually blog about it this time.<br />
<br />
So, in case you'd forgotten, my name is Ashley and I (occasionally) write this blog. I love clothes, pins, books, food, dogs, being an introvert, and lots and lots of nerdy things.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Over the next few weeks, I'm hoping to change the way I blog here, including more frequent blogs on a wider variety of topics than my week-to-week life.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, you can always follow me on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/redhead_vintage_girl/">Instagram</a> (username redhead_vintage_girl), where I share my almost-daily outfit post, along with photos of my crafts, food, and life in general.<br />
<br />
It's 2018, guys. It's a whole new year, with countless possibilities and adventures. I'm looking forward to settling more and more into a daily routine, into our home, and into my still-newfound happiness.<br />
<br />
What are <i>you</i> looking forward to?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-42900877953504962112017-07-20T15:14:00.000-07:002017-07-20T15:23:06.100-07:00Jeepers Creepers, or How to Compliment a Woman in 5 Easy StepsIn my not-so-meteoric rise to Instagram "fame," I've started getting more and more direct messages from complete strangers (emphasis on the strange), which are, quite possibly, the bane of my Instagram existence. If it weren't for my desire to be a public part of the vintage/pin community on Instagram, I'd probably shut my account down to a very, very private setting (like my Facebook is).<br />
<br />
Because, come on. Just because I post a lot of selfies does not mean that I'm looking for attention. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-kGVkhiv-PC1enKSI1Jd1pcmnYBTUVR8p8FaT0uEsL-f_iVHeOeyvtkhHGFq4wMHG5MbPrlCACsSGUj7EnMFJnlDTPvzUKkRFXds22FG_gpKa3nFvaVVrRTB_gIXSs8ue6pYXmVrKHFnS/s640/blogger-image-1593237006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-kGVkhiv-PC1enKSI1Jd1pcmnYBTUVR8p8FaT0uEsL-f_iVHeOeyvtkhHGFq4wMHG5MbPrlCACsSGUj7EnMFJnlDTPvzUKkRFXds22FG_gpKa3nFvaVVrRTB_gIXSs8ue6pYXmVrKHFnS/s400/blogger-image-1593237006.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shocking, I know.</td></tr>
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It also does not mean I'm interested in sexting. Or hooking up.<br />
<br />
And yet. A guy literally sent me a picture of two people having sex.<br />
<br />
Another guy trolled through months and months of my photos, then sent me several messages in a row until I responded thusly:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc1kJ4I2QabTOCUeP08RCkLdQ9jIlnonv2im6pAWtkuLR1TgeZ4_buiNgfcmJC5vo-Dd5hMgA-K4JZKG3ic7FhuZch3THClVaMrVPaknBVFIYWzKz1myqczi0i8SK3bWiTQWCESlrnRI4T/s640/blogger-image--1221114827.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc1kJ4I2QabTOCUeP08RCkLdQ9jIlnonv2im6pAWtkuLR1TgeZ4_buiNgfcmJC5vo-Dd5hMgA-K4JZKG3ic7FhuZch3THClVaMrVPaknBVFIYWzKz1myqczi0i8SK3bWiTQWCESlrnRI4T/s400/blogger-image--1221114827.jpg" width="249" /></a></div>
<br />
Note: these are NOT men that I know in any way, shape, or form.<br />
<br />
I also continue to get... vaguely inappropriate attention from the lower end of the male population. Men who, I'm sure, think that they're being incredibly complimentary and yet have absolutely no idea how to compliment a woman (at least not in a way that doesn't make her skin crawl). Men who don't know when to stop talking. Men who don't know how to make eye contact.<br />
<br />
Does this behavior sound familiar? If so, I'm here for you.<br />
<br />
It is, surprisingly, not that hard to compliment a woman. Women manage to do it all the time. We gush over hair and necklaces and dresses (particularly dresses with pockets). We praise eyelashes and eyeliner. We high five over hilarious jokes and accomplishments. We rave about each other's talents. <br />
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<br />
All those things? Hugely complimentary. <br />
<br />
And I get it. It's way easier for women to compliment other women. There's some weird non-existent boundary that possibly comes from having tons of sleepovers and sharing clothes and makeup and secrets. So we can tell another woman that she's sexy af without it being weird. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyTjTKlLv_2z29JS8WOoQOCKWMh25vRmRIq1hfzqPt4JGE2cuoJRgCZDLwLUgl8aJ5J6fSOiZ9YT3BMs9sPEHXohI7MefdDSVhDWxwx-lAYHhcWOz9L3Pfo6MNCsJ8eJoyX0VUq_0dL0_i/s1600/bb6d198974bdfe1045d33fc02e7ad021--sarah-anderson-scribble.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="854" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyTjTKlLv_2z29JS8WOoQOCKWMh25vRmRIq1hfzqPt4JGE2cuoJRgCZDLwLUgl8aJ5J6fSOiZ9YT3BMs9sPEHXohI7MefdDSVhDWxwx-lAYHhcWOz9L3Pfo6MNCsJ8eJoyX0VUq_0dL0_i/s400/bb6d198974bdfe1045d33fc02e7ad021--sarah-anderson-scribble.jpg" width="233" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sarah's Scribbles only speaks the truth, obviously.</td></tr>
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And I get that it's not fair for you men. But that's just the way it is. <br />
<br />
That doesn't mean you should never compliment a woman. But, by the unfair nature of the game, there are many, many things you should not do (and a few things you should).<br />
<br />
(Please note: this is not a guide to how to get a girl to go out with you. I just Googled "how to compliment a girl" for the hell of it and the results were... really, really horrifying. So, I'm going to state this again: if you are reading this to find out how to get into a woman's pants? You've come to the wrong place. Or the right one, actually. This is a guide on how not to be a creeper, after all, and you sound like you might just fit the qualifications.)<br />
<br />
<b>How To Compliment A Woman (in 5 Easy Steps)</b><br />
<br />
1. Don't. Tell. Her. To. Smile. End of story. Don't do it. No exceptions. No excuses. (Okay, there's a few exceptions, like if you're doing her makeup or taking professional photos. But that's it. Really.) Women do not need to smile for you. Resting Bitch Face is real.<br />
<br />
2. If you don't have something nice to say, don't say nothing at all. Let's face it, men. Usually, you don't need to say anything. You don't need to catcall, or whistle, or anything. Because that woman walking by? She's busy. She's leading her own life. She's grocery shopping, or spending time with her family, or listening to a Star Wars audiobook. She's not looking for your phone number, or for casual sex in the parking lot of a Walmart. She's not waiting for the love of her life to wolf whistle her from a passing car. I hate to break this to you, but it's the truth. <br />
<br />
3. Learn to take a hint. If she doesn't seem interested, she's probably <i>not interested</i>. And that's okay. Let her read her book in the bar. Don't pester a random stranger on Instagram for a response. Is she walking away quickly? Don't follow. Did she refuse your offer of a drink? Stop offering. Did she not dance with you at a wedding because she's actually working at said wedding? Try asking someone else to dance. I'm sure there's someone else out there somewhere who is actually interested.<br />
<br />
4. Be genuine. Basically, don't try so hard, guys. Don't think you need to go for the gold in the Compliment Olympics. You don't. Sure, that perfectly crafted, clever-yet-not-cheesy pickup line can get a girl's attention, maybe garner a laugh, maybe even lead to a long and happy marriage, but the best compliments I've ever received from friends and strangers alike are the ones that are genuine and in-the-moment. Sincerity wins the day, folks. Sincerity also generally will keep you from lame lines like, "have you ever fallen in love with someone just by looking at their pictures?" Sincerity might also (hopefully) keep you from telling a woman how how great her tits look in the dress she's wearing. (Pro tip: just compliment the dress. We'll know what you mean.) Do you like the way she snorts when she laughs really hard? Tell her. Do you admire her excellent taste in whiskey? Tell her. Do you think it's awesome that she's reading a book by your favorite author? Tell her. Because you know what? Compliments are not restricted to sex appeal. And you can compliment someone without an ulterior motive. Because compliments (genuine, uncreepy, appropriate compliments) are awesome.<br />
<br />
5. Finally, guys, be a gentleman. Basically, this is an excellent rule for any encounter with a stranger. If you wouldn't want your mom knowing what you said/did/sent to someone you don't even know, then maybe, <i>just maybe</i>, reconsider it. Dick pics? Do I need to say it? As a rule of thumb, we probably don't want those springing up (pun so totally intended) on our phones if we're not actively in a relationship with you. I'm glad you're so proud of it, but a picture of your genitals is not exactly the way to my heart (or any other part of my body you might be interested in). Dick pics <i>do not </i>equal a compliment. I'm sorry. You don't always have to be a gentleman, but it's a very good place to start.<br />
<br />
In conclusion, I leave you with adult Wednesday Addams' video about catcallers, because, really, she says it all.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-78576883099716475282017-07-13T15:22:00.001-07:002017-07-13T15:22:28.971-07:00Build Me Up ButtercupHey, you.<br />
<br />
Yes, you.<br />
<br />
I need to tell you something, and I need you to listen. More than that, I need you to believe me.<br />
<br />
We might be close. We might not be. But it doesn't change what I have to say, which is this: You are worthwhile. You are amazing. You are <i>awesome</i>. You deserve the world and everything in it. You deserve happiness and love and support and true friendships and true partnerships. Not for anything you've said or done, but because you're you. You're a person. You have your own incredible, unique thoughts and emotions and feelings and desires and talents. You're unlike anyone else on this earth, and you can't even begin to appreciate how remarkable that is.<br />
<br />
What you don't deserve is someone, anyone, who makes you feel less than that.<br />
<br />
This is a subject close to my heart, as I wasted years of my life with a man (and I use that term loosely) who made me feel less than. Less than what, you ask? Less that good enough. Less than respected. Less than attractive. Less than loved. Less than amazing. Just... <i>less</i>. There were terms and limits on when I deserved to be treated well (usually reserved to <a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2015/09/on-relationships-and-what-theyre-not.html">when he wanted something from me</a>), and usually I didn't measure up. My needs and desires were less than his, and always would be.<br />
<br />
But, every now and then he would throw me a bone to keep me trailing along behind him. He would take me out for a nice dinner. He would buy me something. He would allow me to perform at a pole show. It wasn't much, but it was enough at the time. It shouldn't have been, but it was.<br />
<br />
Why? Because I didn't think there was better out there. Because I had barely dated anyone else. Because I didn't think it was that bad. Because I felt guilty for wanting to leave. <br />
<br />
I didn't know what I deserved. I didn't have the self-esteem to know what I deserved. I didn't have people telling me what I deserved, because they didn't know I what needed to hear until it was almost too late.<br />
<br />
If this is the case for you, then I have one thing to say to you: fuck that shit. You deserve so much more. You deserve more than you think you do.<br />
<br />
You deserve rainbows and unicorns and pizza and the fluffiest puppy/kitten of your preference. You deserve someone who thinks they're lucky as hell to have you in their life, and tells you so. It doesn't matter if that person is a friend, a family member, or a romantic partner. And it doesn't matter if sometimes you fight over stupid shit, or get on each other's nerves, or disagree about politics or religion or what the hell to have for dinner. What matters is that they are <i>there</i> for you, and <i>want</i> to be there for you. What matters is how they treat you, because actions 100% always speak louder than words.<br />
<br />
We live in an era of burgeoning girl power. We have Wonder Woman. We have Ruth Bader Ginsberg. We have strong, capable women literally all around us. We <i>are</i> strong, capable women. And yet, we find ourselves in situations where we continually compromise our awesomeness for someone who sees no problem with that compromise being made. We stay with men (or women) who are small, selfish people, who pull us down so that they feel better about themselves, who keep us safe and controlled behind the walls of what we can or can't do. And we have not grown up with the self-esteem required to know when enough is enough. Or we've somehow lost that self-esteem along the way.<br />
<br />
I was lucky. I <a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2015/10/one-year-later.html">found my self-esteem</a> through the world of <a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2016/04/pretty-strong.html">pole dancing</a> and through the friends that I made through the pole and burlesque world. I found a relationship with a man who didn't treat me like a second-class citizen, like a servant, like less than. But even if I hadn't have found that man, I would still be better off alone than with someone like my ex. <br />
<br />
That's the important part. You are awesome all on your own. All by yourself. You don't need someone else to make you awesome. You don't need to be thinner to be awesome. You don't need to be richer to be awesome. You're awesome just by showing up in your own awesome, imperfect skin. Bam. Awesome.<br />
<br />
Now, read that last paragraph again. It's important.<br />
<br />
We forget that. I know I do. It's easy to, even without someone else constantly dragging us down. There's that little voice inside that whispers our mistakes, our doubts, our fears. That voice tells us that it's all true: we are less than. We aren't talented. We aren't successful. We aren't worth it. We aren't awesome.<br />
<br />
That voice is wrong. Dead wrong. But it can be loud. And it is persistent as hell if we don't constantly work to keep it gagged, to drown it out with our own amazingness, with our own self-confidence, and with a chorus of friends who are there to shut that bastard down when we lose the ability to do so ourselves.<br />
<br />
I promise this: if you come to me, for whatever reason, I will always tell you how awesome you are. I will tell that voice inside you to shut the hell up, and I will tell you exactly what you deserve. Because I've been there. I've been lost and convinced I was less than. I don't want anyone else to get stuck in that same space.<br />
<br />
I'm pretty awesome (even on the days I don't feel like it).<br />
<br />
And so are you.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-15143071169594243202017-07-06T15:20:00.000-07:002017-07-07T05:21:25.129-07:00The Care and Feeding of an IntrovertI had a fairly epic meltdown yesterday.<br />
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Not only was it epic, but it was entirely unexpected. I mean, the usual triggers were all there: too much socializing, too little sleep, too many commitments. I'd been on the go on Friday non-stop from 6am til after 11pm. It was a long weekend with Kaylee, who likes waking up around 6 am. We stayed out late Monday at a movie. I battled Walmart on the day before a holiday and baked 4 desserts in the span from Monday evening til Tuesday morning.<br />
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But I didn't <i>feel</i> stressed out. I didn't feel like crying. I just felt, well, exhausted. And the exhaustion covered almost every other sign that I was on the verge of losing my Vulcan-like cool.<br />
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So, when Mark asked me what I wanted for dinner (how dare he, am I right?), I <i>may</i> have exploded.<br />
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Okay. I did. I exploded. I lost my cool. I completely melted down and sobbed for about five minutes. It was embarrassing and frustrating and I hated every damn second of it.<br />
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And now all I can do is think about the many and various ways that scenario could have easily been avoided.<br />
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You see, in my exhaustion and determination to Do All the Things and Bake All the Things, I forgot something very important.<br />
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I'm an introvert.<br />
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Quite simply, I can't do all the things. Not all the time. (I can still try to bake all the things, though. Try and stop me.)<br />
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I know I talk about <a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2015/08/psa-on-being-introvert.html">being an introvert</a> <a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2016/04/the-over-stimulated-introvert.html">a lot</a>. <a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2016/10/introvert-level-expert-halloween-edition.html">I admit it</a>. But it's important to me and how I function. <br />
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Being an introvert isn't just an reason to stay home or leave early. It's not a convenient or handy excuse. In fact, most of the time it makes me feel guilty. I don't always want to stay home. I don't always want to relax. Sometimes I do want to do all the things and go to all the places and see all my friends.<br />
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But I can't.<br />
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Being an introvert is who I am. And, if I ignore who I am for too long, if I keep pretending to be someone else (someone who can be blithely be a social butterfly), and if I don't remember the proper care and feeding of an introvert, there are consequences. <br />
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What is the proper care and feeing of an introvert?<br />
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Well. I'm glad you asked, since I clearly need my own reminder.<br />
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Before we begin, please remember this: being an introvert does not make me anti-social. I love my friends and my family and enjoy spending time with them. To an extent. And then I need a break.<br />
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<b>What To Do With Your Introvert: A Manual</b><br />
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1. Give her space. Introverts, more than extroverts, have a precious personal bubble that only certain people are allowed inside. (Note: Most pets are welcome inside the bubble at all times.) Space is not just physical. Space is needed in conversations, in emotions, and in new experiences. All these things take careful consideration for an introvert, and answers to serious (or not-so-serious) questions often need to be worded just right in an introvert's head before being spoken aloud. New situations need easing into. Don't rush an introvert if at all possible.<br />
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2. Give her alone time. If you see your introvert curled up with a book, or eating by herself, don't worry. She's not bored. She's not upset. She's recharging. This is very important for an introvert, especially after a long period of socializing. (Most introverts bring a book along with them to help maintain proper battery strength throughout the day.) She'd probably like some coffee, if you do feel the need to contribute.<br />
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3. Give her a book. Suggest a movie. Start a Netflix marathon. Basically, give her an escape and a mental break. A lot goes on inside an introvert's head. All the time. Constantly. The average introvert is almost always playing and replaying past situations, present dilemmas, and future scenarios. She is remembering song lyrics and movie quotes. She's making up stories. She's agonizing over a mistake she made ten years ago. She's analyzing the next day's schedule. She's worried someone's mad at her. Books are a refuge, a focusing point. They shut out the excess noise. So do movies and TV shows. If you're lucky, your introvert will snuggle on the couch with you, or at least share her popcorn. (Bonus points if you suggest she goes to a bookstore, takes a bath, or both.)<br />
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4. Make her food. Bring her a snack. Order a pizza. Pour her a glass of wine, or beer, or drink of choice. Or just let her loose in the kitchen, since cooking is one of the best therapeutic activities there is. (Maybe offer to help clean up, if the coast seems clear). Really, just do this for anyone. Everyone likes food. Food is awesome.<br />
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5. Don't issue last-minute invites. While this is not a hard and fast rule (see #6), as even introverts can behave spontaneously, it is a very handy guideline. You are more likely to lure your introvert from the safety of her den if you plan ahead and give her time to mentally prepare for leaving said den. Introverts, in general, like to know what to expect from day to day. Last-minute invites tend to trigger the warning bells. Note: planning ahead doesn't guarantee the presence of your introvert. Sometimes, it's best to stay home in spite of the best-laid plans. It happens.<br />
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6. Don't stop inviting her to things (even if it is last-minute). Introverts want to know that they're welcome to join in an activity, even if they decide not to. Introverts know that they live in an extroverted world and often feel guilty for not attending parties/group events, or for leaving said events early. Continued invites keep introverts from feeling unwanted and encourage your introvert to step outside her bubble (just a bit), but don't be discouraged if she stays home instead. Remember: your introvert still loves you, even if she didn't go to a concert with you, of if she only stayed for an hour at your party.<br />
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7. Text her. Introverts have an innate dislike for phone calls (and are often known for not answering). Most introverts prefer texting for day-to-day casual conversation, as it allows for fully-formulated thoughts at convenient intervals. Through reading what an introvert has to say (be it text, e-mails, Facebook comments, or blogs), you may come to realize that introverts are actually as funny, sarcastic, and ridiculous as any extrovert. They simply need the correct medium and comfort level to communicate effectively.<br />
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8. Accept her. Note: more important than any other step. Introverts need to be accepted. They have grown up in an extroverted world and have often tried to "pass" for extroverts in order to succeed at school, in business, or in relationships. There is no greater relief for an introvert than to be loved (like Bridget Jones) just as she is. Putting up a false front is far more exhausting than any crowded party or loud concert, and most introverts are willing to risk a little emotional exhaustion for those people who truly accept who she is.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-42358590079627298192017-06-29T15:04:00.001-07:002017-06-29T16:47:38.949-07:00Where Do We Go From Here<div>
I'm struggling a lot lately with what I want this blog to be. When <a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2015/07/pretty-vintage-girl-me.html">I began it</a>, almost two (<i>two?!</i>) years ago, its purpose was mainly to make sure I was writing weekly and to help me work through a whole world of issues and anger and frustration following my terrible first marriage and subsequent divorce. It was a place for me to be open and honest about what had happened, to talk about the many and various changes in my life, and to talk about the things that <a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2015/11/psa-equality-is-sexy.html">still infuriated me</a>. I wanted to help others by sharing my story, but I also wanted to help myself.</div>
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I don't have those problems anymore.</div>
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I mean, I do still get <a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2016/02/the-angry-vintage-girl.html">angry</a>. But it's not like before. I've moved on as much as I think I'm able to. I'll probably always be a little bit pissed off over what happened, but I think that's the way it should be.</div>
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But <a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2017/04/the-pretty-vintage-wedding.html">I got married </a>again (almost three months ago). <a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2017/05/come-on-and-feel-illinoise.html">We bought a house</a>. <a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2017/05/wicked-stepmothers-day.html">I'm a stepmother</a>. I'm (still) ridiculously in love with this man that I've known for <a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2016/07/in-beginning.html">fourteen years</a>. I have great friends who (I hope) still love me even though I'm not around very much these days. I have a wonderful job and am, generally, having a fantastic time. I'm busy and tired and very much in need of introverting most of the time, but I can't think of very much I'd change.</div>
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So that leaves me at a bit of a loss as to what to blog about weekly, now that wedding stress has ended. General happiness and/or being an introvert isn't that exciting, really. I don't have a current life goal to keep tabs on (though I probably should). I have <a href="https://www.instagram.com/redhead_vintage_girl/">Instagram</a> and Facebook for my daily selfies (and general photo-and-meme sharing). I don't travel (<a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2017/06/powerful-places.html">much</a>).</div>
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So what do I do?</div>
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I read.</div>
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I collect vintage and novelty clothing/accessories (and take selfies).</div>
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I knit or crochet or cross-stitch.</div>
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I bake and cook (when I can).</div>
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I step-parent.</div>
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I'm a wannabe 60s housewife.</div>
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I'm super nerdy, introverted, and not shy about any of it.</div>
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And I know there are blogs about (literally) all of these things. But it seems impossible to narrow this random little blog into one defined category. It also seems impractical to blog about everything I enjoy or do.</div>
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So I'm at a bit of an impasse. I don't want to stop blogging, even though each week finds me less and less inspired as to what to write about. Two years might be the longest amount of time I've managed to actively maintain a blog, after all. I don't want to break my streak now! But something needs to change. I just don't know what.</div>
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What would you like to see more of from me? Less of? What are you interested in reading about? What topics and formats do you find most appealing? I'm clearly at a loss here, so I'm very open to ideas and feedback as to how to keep this blog going and at least fairly interesting.</div>
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P.S. Please don't say less selfies.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-44890284175793389722017-06-22T15:06:00.002-07:002017-06-22T15:06:10.039-07:00Powerful PlacesI feel like I've been on the go constantly. So much so that I was literally in the middle of blogging about being busy last week when I had to leave to go somewhere, and never even finished the blog!<br />
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We just got back on Sunday from our "honeymoon," which was really just a whirlwind weekend away to Wisconsin Dells and House on the Rock. A "mini-moon," if you will. (Which also either sounds like something entirely inappropriate, or a slightly momentous lunar event.)<br />
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I've wanted to take Mark there ever since I went with Jessica, Sandi, and Kim several years ago. I thought it was the most magical place I'd ever been to, and still generally speak of it in a wistful, awed tone of voice.<br />
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Plus, we're watching American Gods (omg it's <i>so</i> good) right now, so it only seemed fitting to go (even if they didn't actually get to House on the Rock this season). We also wanted to go somewhere we haven't been together, and somewhere we didn't know anyone. Wisconsin fit the bill pretty well.<br />
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The thing about us is that was really suck at vacations.<br />
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We do. We actually kindof dread going. We're overbooked introverts, after all. We pounce on things like "free time" and "staying home." So the idea of taking that precious free time, getting in a car, and paying to stay somewhere that's not home? It's not the most appealing, to be honest.<br />
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But, we pry ourselves away from our couch and our comfort zone anyway. Because, well, adventure is out there, right?<br />
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In <i>American Gods</i>, Thursday explains to Shadow that tourist traps are "places of power." They draw people in, without reason or explanation. And that's exactly what House on the Rock is. It's unexplainable, indefinable. My mom has asked me for years what House on the Rock <i>is</i>, and I still don't have a good answer for her. </div>
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It's somewhere between a waking dream and a nightmare. It's a hallucination. It's a curated obsession. It makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. </div>
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And, best of all, it doesn't try to. There's nothing else in the world like it. And that's why people go. That's why we went. It's why I've been twice, and why I would go again.</div>
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It was, in spite of our general trepidation about vacations, a very good trip. We stayed in a kitschy motel in the Wisconsin Dells complete with a hot tub (and a shower that was probably from the 70s). We ate at touristy places and did touristy things like take pictures and buy cheese and souvenirs and take an "old-timey" photo. <br />
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We spent the whole weekend alone together (which was a huge step up from my first honeymoon that we basically spent with friends) and did exactly as we pleased.</div>
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And we returned exhausted and with plans to go back in the future, Kaylee in tow.</div>
<br />
Maybe vacations aren't so bad, particularly if you're with the right person. <br />
<br />
Just don't expect us to go on another one anytime soon.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-49492674530236580872017-06-08T18:15:00.001-07:002017-06-08T18:15:42.118-07:00The Angry Vintage Girl (Again)I've gotten spoiled. I really have.<br />
<br />
Because I know that terrible male behavior exists. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2016/02/the-angry-vintage-girl.html">I've experienced it, after all.</a><br />
<br />
But I haven't experienced it much lately.<br />
<br />
I blame my amazing group of friends (which includes countless awesome and feminist men). <br />
<br />
I blame my introverted nature (which has led me into more and more fully being a homebody). <br />
<br />
I blame my husband (who I actually love enough to want to spend my time with, therefore not being out on my own as much). <br />
<br />
I blame my job and being a stepmom and our new life as homeowners (which means that we always have something to do and I don't go out as much).<br />
<br />
Because it's all combined to make me a little oblivious to the world outside the pleasant and safe bubble I so often live in.<br />
<br />
And I admit it, I can be a little oblivious all on my own. Mark usually has to tell me that I've just been checked out, because I'm so often lost in my own little world.<br />
<br />
So you know the situation has to be pretty drastic when I notice male attention directed towards me.<br />
<br />
It can be the drunk guy at a wedding who told me I "didn't have to break his heart" when I turned him down for a dance (because, well, I was <i>working the damn wedding</i>, not to mention that I wouldn't want to dance with him anyway).<br />
<br />
It can be the slightly too aggressive "compliment" from a stranger.<br />
<br />
Or it can be walking through Walmart last Saturday night.<br />
<br />
You guys. It was bad. I could actually feel the looks. My skin crawled with them. I could literally see the male gaze blatantly following me as I walked by. And I did my best to ignore the guys who kept trying to catch my eye and talk to me when all I wanted to do was to be left alone to do my god damn shopping and get the hell back home.<br />
<br />
It was more than annoying. It was infuriating, so much so that I practically exploded when I got home and Mark asked me what was wrong. (Kaylee told me I should have gone to Aldi, and the kid probably isn't wrong.) <br />
<br />
I love dressing the way I do. I love wearing vintage clothes. I love wearing heels. I love having bright red hair and looking different than most people.<br />
<br />
But God, if I don't sometimes wish that I wanted to blend in.<br />
<br />
No. That's not true.<br />
<br />
I don't want to blend in.<br />
<br />
What I want, what I wish, is that all men could be like my friends, or like my husband. I wish that all men could pay a compliment without a complementary leer. I wish I didn't feel like I needed a male escort just to walk through a store without being harassed. I wish that I didn't feel the need to carry around a TigerLady defense tool just in case I get followed to my car one day, or worse. I wish that I didn't feel like the way I dress invites the wrong kind of attention.<br />
<br />
Because the way I dress is nobody's business but my own. If I want to wear heels through Walmart, that shouldn't mean that I should expect and accept the intruding stares. If I want to wear a dress most days, then so what?<br />
<br />
I don't know what the solution is, besides playing the long game of hoping that future generations of men will be better, will want to be better. <br />
<br />
Because guys. This is pathetic.<br />
<br />
I know it's possible. I've seen whole communities filled with men who can both enjoy <i>and</i> respect women. I know that better is possible.<br />
<br />
But I also know that worse is out there.<br />
<br />
I'm holding out hope for better. It's the only thing I know how to do.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-18219687471418806992017-06-01T14:46:00.000-07:002017-06-01T14:46:46.150-07:00No Way OutIt's our two-month anniversary today, or, as Mark says, "Day 61 of the hostage situation."<br />
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<br />
People have asked me how married life is, and, really?<br />
<br />
Honestly?<br />
<br />
It's great. <br />
<br />
I mean, come on. I've got a mostly-willing hostage! What could be wrong with that?<br />
<br />
But, in all honesty, I love being married to my best friend. I love it even on the days where everything feels off, or we have fights, or I cry, or everything goes wrong. Married life is still, overall, really really great. But our relationship and our life together was already great before we were married, so that helps.<br />
<br />
Little known, shocking fact: marriage doesn't fix a relationship. I should know. It didn't fix my first relationship. <br />
<br />
And, another shocking fact? Marriage is work. Really fucking hard work. It's not all breakfasts in bed and making out in the kitchen and dinner on the table when you get home from work.<br />
<br />
And it's even not the same as dating, even if you were already mostly living together. <br />
<br />
Marriage requires daily maintenance. It requires talking (which I'm not always very good at), and trust, and more vulnerability than you knew was possible. It means someone is almost always there, for the bad days when you hate the world and everything in it, along with the good days. You have to consider them, and you want to consider them (even when they tell you not to).<br />
<br />
Marriage means you're going to get your feelings hurt, and you're going to find out that you unknowingly hurt theirs.<br />
<br />
It means there is someone to willingly do the dishes for you, and someone you willingly rotate laundry for.<br />
<br />
For me, it means waking up to coffee. It means a partner-in-crime. It means playing just one more game of Minion Trouble (or Chutes and Ladders, or Sorry) with Kaylee so that he can have a few minutes of down time. It means he gives Kaylee a bath so that I can have a few minutes of down time. It means someone who knows me better than anyone else possibly could.<br />
<br />
It means planning a last-minute birthday party for Kaylee, joint-cleaning the whole house, and cooking dinner for 9 people.</div>
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<br />
It means eating Fazoli's and Imos on a fairly regular basis, even though I hate both.<br />
<br />
It means we go see the new <i>Pirates of the Caribbean</i> movie, because I have an endless love for Johnny Depp.<br />
<br />
So.<br />
<br />
Two months into our marriage. (Plus fourteen years total of knowing each other.) At this point of my first marriage, I'm pretty sure I already knew it was not going to be a good one. He'd already "stopped trying" (key words for failure if there ever were any). We were both depressed. I couldn't see a way out, even though I desperately wanted to find one.<br />
<br />
I don't want a way out this time. I want a way to make it last forever.<br />
<br />
And I'm doing my best to make sure that it does.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-61067805940280249732017-05-25T15:23:00.005-07:002017-05-25T15:23:59.742-07:00A Uniquely Portable MagicI know I said I was officially an Illinois resident <a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2017/05/come-on-and-feel-illinoise.html">two weeks ago</a>... but now it's really, <i>really </i>official.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I unpacked my books.</div>
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<br /></div>
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(As Mark's dad said, "I guess that means she's staying, huh?" And, well, yes. It does.)</div>
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It was about time, right? We moved my books over with the first load of boxes (okay, my 20+ boxes of books <i>were</i> the first load of boxes) back in February.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I've been without my books since <i>February</i>, guys. I don't know how I did it.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Actually, that's a lie. I know exactly how I did it. I bought more books, obviously.<br />
<br /></div>
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And I got a library card. That helped. If, by helped, you mean that I brought home a gigantic pile of books that I can't possiby read in three weeks.</div>
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<div>
But, over this past week, I methodically unpacked my books, put them back in order (alphabetical by author's last name, as God intended) and loaded up my bookshelves.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There are truly few things I find as purely and thoroughly satisfying as organizing my books. I know, I'm a freak. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't care.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Mark called it a "ceremony," and I suppose it is, a finely honed process that I've practiced throughout the years, with every move, with every life change (and with every major book purchase). Book by book, shelf by shelf, until everything is just right.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Books are, quite possibly, my one true love. They've been around longer than any of my other friends, certainly longer than any of my romantic relationships. They've been a source of comfort, of escape, and of familiarity. I bring books with me everywhere. I carted them back and forth to college (well, not all of them, but more than I could possibly need). I moved them to our campus apartment at seminary. I moved them to the old apartment in South City (and then moved them within that apartment after my ex left). <br />
<br />
I bring them along on vacation. I always have at least one in my purse. I've cried with them, laughed with them, and fallen asleep with them. I horde them and loan them out and always, always want more of them. I pick up books like abandoned pennies on the sidewalk, tucking them away for a rainy day.<br />
<br />
There's a great Stephen King quote that says "books are a uniquely portable magic," and I very much believe it. They have great power, as I said, to comfort and relax me. When I had my back surgery at age ten, I constantly asked my parents to read to me, to take me away from the hospital bed and the IVs and the sterile cacophony of the hospital itself. Together, we worked our way through the Chronicles of Narnia, and I drifted in and out of that make-believe world on a trippy ride of morphine-fueled imagination.<br />
<br />
Not much has changed, minus the morphine. I still rely on books, only now I don't need them to escape.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now? My books feel like... well, like home. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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And, even better, they make our house feel that much more like home for me. We're still struggling to move into a place that has still not been entirely moved out of (and, honestly, it's starting to stress me out), so every little bit helps. Seeing my books, in my bookshelves, lined up along the wall? <br />
<br />
That helps quite a bit.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-49184240779636106922017-05-18T14:35:00.001-07:002017-05-18T17:48:55.565-07:00Wicked Stepmothers DayIs there such a thing as <a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2016/03/no-fairy-godmothers-please.html">Wicked Stepmother</a>'s Day? Because I think there should be. <br />
<br />
I know, in theory, that Mother's Day is supposed to encompass mothers of all kinds: birth, step, adoptive, grandmothers, great-grandmothers, aunts, godmothers, etc. And so, according to that theory, this past Sunday was my first Mother's Day (outside of the one year when one of my foster dogs "gave" me a hand mixer).<br />
<br />
I even got a free meal and free cheesecake at Pasta House out of the deal.<br />
<br />
But, honestly? I felt like some kind of imposter. <br />
<br />
I'm not a mom. Not really. I happened to marry the love of my life, who happened to have a kid. That doesn't make me a mom. <br />
<br />
I joined this kid's life like some people join the army midway through the war. I haven't been down in the trenches since the beginning, slogging through the muck and dirty diapers. No, I joined up once the tides had turned and potty training battles had already been won. I got here just in time for games and adventures and crafts. (And the occasional meltdown.) <br />
<br />
I'm not the first line of defense. I'm not even the second. I'm back there in the reserves, just in case backup is needed. <br />
<br />
But, you say, you're there, Ashley. You took on a role that no one forced you to take. You Google mom questions like, "how do you a get a kid to stop sucking their thumb?" You stand in the middle of the living room while drinking a glass of wine with a kid wrapped around your leg. You wake up to tiny feet against your back. You eat Fazoli's even though you loathe it. You play Chutes and Ladders ten times in a row.<br />
<br />
And that's true.<br />
<br />
It is.<br />
<br />
All of it.<br />
<br />
But, I don't know. I still don't know if I feel like a "stepmom." Maybe it's that I've already been around for a few years, just as "Ashley" and nothing more. The transition into living in the same house on the weekends even happened before I was officially her stepmom. So there's been very little major shifting of roles or expectations. I'm still Ashley. I just also happen to now be legally bound to her dad.<br />
<br />
I want her to be happy. I want her to enjoy our time together, and to like me, and to make good choices. I want her to be as well-adjusted as humanly possible. I want to figure out the best way to make all that happen (hence the Googling). <br />
<br />
I also love that she writes notes for "Daddy Ashley," and draws us pictures, and wants to hang out with me and play games and read books. I love that she loves when we match. I love that she picks out what pin I'm wearing on the weekends.<br />
<br />
I guess that's the important part. It's not the name that matters, it's the intention and the actions. I would tell anyone else that, except when it comes to myself.<br />
<br />
So, I guess I am a stepmom. If you insist.<br />
<br />
And maybe, just maybe, I'm not <i>that</i> wicked of one.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-58011882417576681562017-05-11T13:58:00.000-07:002017-05-11T13:58:12.480-07:00Come On and Feel the IllinoiseIt's completely official: I'm once again an Illinoisian. An Illinioisan? An Illinosan?<br />
<br />
(Fun fact: all of those terms are technically correct, though I think my preference is Illinoisian, for the sheer fact that there are a ridiculous number of I's involved.)<br />
<br />
To be fair, my citizenship transfer was mostly official a few weeks ago, when I got my new driver's license. But now it's really <i>really</i> official, since my car is now an Illinoisian as well. <br />
<br />
All this after a very unfortunate incident on Tuesday involving my getting pulled over in East St Louis, discovering my Missouri plates were actually expired, getting a ticket, and the police officer then driving off while still in possession of my drivers license and insurance card.<br />
<br />
Yeah. It was a great day.<br />
<br />
... Not really.<br />
<br />
So. Yesterday I left early, went to the DMV, and got new Illinois license plates (for the low low cost of $200 plus that pesky expired plates ticket). I even put them on my car myself.<br />
<br />
I admit, it was a weird feeling. After all, it's been ten years since I had Illinois plates. The drivers license was one thing, but the license plates seem somehow more official. I don't know if it's because I had to physically remove the very old and very battered plates and replace them with ones so new they practically sparkle. The whole car looks different and unfamiliar with them on.<br />
<br />
For years, I called myself an Illinois ex-pat. Even though I was born in Germany, Illinois had always been my home. I grew up in Collinsville (notable only for the World's Largest Catsup Bottle and a remarkable absence of anything interesting to do besides hang out at Denny's). I went to college in Chicago. <br />
<br />
I didn't grow up with dreams of leaving home for the great unknown. I'm a solidly Midwestern girl. I like the slower pace. I like the smaller towns. I like that traffic isn't a complete nightmare (at least... not all the time?).<br />
<br />
Even though I've been all over the country, I've never once wanted to move outside of the Midwest. I don't even want to move outside the St Louis area, which is, thus far, as far as I've wandered from home.<br />
<br />
A lot of people seem to have a lot of disdain for St. Louis. I've never understood that. It's a great town, not too big and not too small, filled with tons of things to do. It's not quite bustling, but certainly not pokey. There are a multitude of different neighborhoods, ethnic food galore, and we even have an IKEA now (like anything else matters?). There's a free zoo, free museums, festivals, great parks, an awesome baseball team, and highways that are continually under construction (and often all at the same time!).<br />
<br />
Okay, maybe that last one isn't exactly a plus, but it is strangely endearing all the same.<br />
<br />
It's all so very Midwestern-y, isn't it? There's gooey butter cake and toasted ravioli (which I actually despise). There's the World's Largest Catsup Bottle. There's farmland and county fairs and random French names that no one pronounces correctly. You can have every single season all in the same week. <br />
<br />
It is, in a word, home. For all it's quirks and annoyances (Why are there no left turns on Gravois? Why are Illinois drivers so terrible? When will Kingshighway reopen?), I've never wanted to be anywhere else for very long.<br />
<br />
They say home is where the heart is, and if I'm being honest, mine has always been here. It is most definitely here now, as the main reason why I moved back across the river to join the other Illinoisians in our ridiculously corrupt and broke state. <br />
<br />
And so the ex-pat has come home. It wasn't a long way to travel, even though it took me 10 years to get here.<br />
<br />
Not surprised? Neither am I.<br />
<br />
After all, there's no place like home.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-2639608627082467692017-05-04T14:51:00.000-07:002017-05-04T14:51:21.075-07:00The Pretty Vintage NerdI've been a nerd for most of my life.<br />
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I'm not sure if I could have helped it if I tried. I grew up watching Star Trek and Star Wars with my dad (an equal-opportunity nerd, like myself). We watched X-Files. I read the Star Wars books that my dad owned and dragged home countless more from the library. I had a Star Wars birthday party when Episode I came out. I also wore a Padawan braid for part of that same year as well. (I know, I know, it's positively shocking that I was single for so long.) I wrote fanfiction.</div>
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Honestly, I think I was part of the last generation of kids where being a nerd <i>wasn't </i>cool. And really, even if it had been cool, I probably still wouldn't have qualified. Because... well, you read that last paragraph, right?</div>
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Along with being an introvert, being a fairly obsessive and fangirlish nerd is part of my very being. It's practically in my blood. When I like something, I really, <i>really</i> like it. I write about it. I watch it repeatedly. I collect items from it. I learn trivia about it. </div>
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And I really like Star Wars. I love everything about it, with the notable exceptions of Jake Lloyd, Hayden Christiansen, Jar Jar Binks, and most of George Lucas' poor decisions. I love the lore of it. I love the improbability of it. I love the music and the characters (see above exceptions). I love the books. I love the (up-to-now) strictly maintained canon. I love the pure nerdiness of it, and of all my fellow Star Wars nerds. I love that rare fellowship when you recognize a fellow (probably equally awkward) nerd out in the wild.<br />
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I do appreciate that that being a nerd is "cool" now. I'm not jealous of all the young nerds out there who essentially get a free pass to skip the uncool label. I love that it's perfectly acceptable for us all to come out, blinking, into the sun (for short, well-sunscreened, periods of time) and to shyly complement each other's badges of nerd-dom. It doesn't actually make me cool, by any means, but it's nice to have the nerdy company.</div>
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And lately, I've been more in touch with my nerdy roots. I read a Star Wars book for the first time since high school. And I haven't been content with merely buying geeky T-shirts for my equally geeky husband. Instead, I've been incorporating my nerdiness into my vintage style. <br />
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As it turns out, "nerd" and "vintage" are not mutually exclusive. And why should they be? After all, many sub- and counter-cultures tend to find each other and band together for warmth. As I've learned, dressing vintage is a way of expressing myself. Expressing what I love with what what I wear is really just the next step.<br />
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My pin/jewelry obsession is to <strike>blame</strike> thank, really. It's such a subtle, stylish way to declare to the world that yes, I am a huge geek because yes, that is an AT-AT necklace. Thanks for noticing.</div>
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I also have a few nerdy T-shirts of my own when I really can't resist.</div>
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It's not just Star Wars, of course. It's Harry Potter and Firefly and Doctor Who and Game of Thrones and Pirate of the Caribbean, and... I could go on, but I think you get the point.</div>
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The point is: it's a whole new world for nerds now. We're popular. We're cool. We're stylish. We're even (gasp!) attractive. We're fetishized and idolized. <br />
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There are burlesque shows specifically catered to geeks. There are dresses covered in the TARDIS, or in Daleks. There are conventions all over the country, for every imaginable fandom. <br />
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Yes, we geeks and nerds are still awkward as hell and can bore you in no time with obscure facts and fan theories, but gosh darn it, we can look good while we do it.</div>
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It's safe to say that I've grown up quite a bit from being the teenage girl skulking through the hallways with a Padawan braid. I'm the slightly-self-proclaimed Pretty Vintage Girl, after all, and hopefully will be for the foreseeable future.<br />
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But fandoms were my first love, and you never forget your first love.<br />
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And because of that love I know I will always be a nerd, be it pretty, vintage, or otherwise.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-71543854752721899382017-04-27T14:54:00.001-07:002017-04-27T14:54:32.851-07:00The Morning Owl<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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I've never liked mornings.<br />
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In fact, my parents continue, to this day, to tell me (and everyone else) that <i>they</i> had to wake<i> me</i> up on Christmas morning to open my presents. When we went to Disneyworld, I was entirely unimpressed with the fact that Mickey was calling me to wake up in the morning and just wanted to go back to sleep. I am basically a lifelong expert at hitting the snooze button and of knowing exactly how long it takes to get ready so I can fly out the door at the last minute. Up until a few years ago, I could easily sleep for 12 solid hours, then take a nap later.<br />
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That's changed recently.<br />
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Well, not all of it. I still love sleeping, but I've also grown accustomed to the face of pre-dawn.<br />
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This is all the fault of my husband. Or, at least, of his job. Mark wakes up at the ungodly hour of 4:30 every weekday, since he has to be at work by the equally ungodly hour of 6. For the past few years we've been together, I had a pretty solid routine going. His alarm would go off, we'd snuggle for a minute or two, and then I'd roll over and go back to sleep until my own alarm went off 2 hours later. Then I would groggily drag myself out of bed (after hitting snooze a few times, naturally) and get ready for work. I was the quintessential permanently exhausted pigeon.<br />
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Shortly before we moved, however, I made a decision. I was tired all the time, and tired of being tired all the time. And I had finally figured out that, by going back to sleep for two hours after Mark left, I was waking up directly in the middle of my sleep cycle and effectively making myself miserably exhausted.<br />
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So... I started waking up when Mark did. And actually stayed up, in spite of the fact that the sun itself wasn't even up yet. Mark now brings me coffee before he leaves for work (unless I have the day off and he thinks I should sleep in), and then I get up and get ready for the day.<br />
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It's nice, really. I usually have about 3 and a half hours before I need to leave for work, including quality time spent lying in bed looking at Facebook.<br />
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So I get to take my time. I get to be alone, and quiet. The sun comes up. The birds chirp outside the window (now that I have birds to listen to instead of traffic). I drink my coffee, and reheat it, and drink some more. Sometimes I make dinner for that night, or I bake. I cross-stitch, or knit, or crochet, or read. I do laundry. I've even taken a nap.<br />
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It's not exactly ideal, obviously, but it strangely works. I'm (usually) less exhausted than I used to be. I fall asleep faster at night and sleep better. Plus, I have that precious time to myself in the morning to introvert and to do whatever I want. And I actually do enjoy it.<br />
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This hearkens back to last week's blog about my actively working on <a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2017/04/happy-and-you-know-it.html">being happier</a>. After all, I've been reading for years about the benefits of waking up early. Successful people wake up earlier. Happy people wake up earlier. Morning people are the unacknowledged gods among us mere mortal night owls. Blah blah blah.<br />
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And I tried to get up earlier. I did. I tried the suggested and oh-so-sneaky method of setting your alarm five minutes earlier every day. This didn't work at all, because I already knew full well exactly how long I could sleep in without being late. My body wasn't about to be fooled that easily, and so I only succeeded in hitting the snooze button more.<br />
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As it turns out, the cold-turkey method works best for me. And I honestly don't know why I'm surprised by that. I've never been a girl to do something gradually. I'm either all-in or all-out.<br />
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So now? I wake up really fucking early four or five days out of the week.<br />
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And, believe it or not (and for God's sake, don't tell my parents), I think it does make me happier. <br />
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While I may be a natural-born night owl, I have to admit that the stupid early bird might actually be onto something. <br />
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Or maybe he just drinks a hell of a lot of coffee. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-6254098719081549822017-04-19T14:03:00.000-07:002017-04-19T14:03:48.676-07:00Happy and You Know ItI like to think that I'm a happy person these days.<br />
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Why shouldn't I be? I have a good job, a wonderful husband, a sweet stepkid, a house of my own, still-married parents, and an amazing circle of friends. I have money in the bank and all my basic needs are met. Sure, I go through my sometimes-monthly moodiness and have moments of melancholy (and always adore alliteration), not to mention recent wedding-and-house-buying stress, but for the most part I would say that I'm definitely happy. At the very least I'm content, and I think that's pretty awesome as well. <br />
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It's not that I expect to be happy all the time. That would actually be boring, not to mention unrealistic. And obviously, even though I have every reason to be thrilled with life, I'm not always. It happens. <br />
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But I do very much enjoy my happiness.<br />
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And, quite frankly, I think I could improve on it.<br />
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Mainly, I struggle with the fact that I often let myself get overly upset by the little things. More specifically, I let myself get overly upset by the little things that I can't control: by the guy who doesn't have his turn signal on but turns anyway, by the client who misses a question that I asked, or by someone not acting exactly how I think they should act. <br />
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Coincidentally (or not), I recently read<i> <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/6398634-the-happiness-project">The Happiness Project</a></i>, by Gretchen Rubin, a stunt book (do something slightly crazy for a year and then write about it in a very clever manner) in which Gretchen spends a year trying every means possible to be happier and more invested in her own (already very pleasant) life.<br />
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I recognize that this kind of book is not for everyone. But I find that I'm actually a sucker for the stunt genre. I adored <i>The Year of Living Biblically</i>, <i>The Know-It-All</i>, and (of course) <i>Julie and Julia</i>, the book/movie that forever changed my attitude about cooking. I'm unashamed of my love for the year-long-commitment genre of books. Maybe it's because I do my own yearly commitment to reading at least 50 books. Maybe it's because I've always subscribed to the mantra of "you can do anything for a year." Maybe I just like the fact that I'm not the only person who writes excessively about their daily life, and the fact that some people actually become famous by doing so.<br />
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Whatever the case, I completely loved <i>The Happiness Project</i>. Gretchen dealt with a lot of the same issues I have (or have had). She's a bit of a control freak. She's messy. She's a slight hoarder. She judges herself for the things she enjoys, and struggles with an innate sense of "I can totally make do without this necessary item."<br />
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In her book, Gretchen works her way through 12 months of happiness improvement, focusing each month on a different aspect of her life (kids, friends, husband, work, creativity, money, etc).<br />
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While I certainly don't intend to undertake a similar project right now, I do feel like I can improve my own happiness in baby steps, mostly by chilling the fuck out and recognizing that I do not have to (and, quite frankly, should not be allowed to) run the whole world.<br />
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So far, it's (kindof) working. <br />
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I'm trying very hard not to immediately rant when someone doesn't answer my entire e-mail. I'm trying not to swan dive into automatic road rage (curse words and middle fingers blazing) when other drivers fail to follow common sense road rules. I'm trying not to think that I know best about what other people should be doing. Just because I'm multi-tasking doesn't mean everyone else needs to be.<br />
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I'm trying, ultimately, to cut other people some slack.<br />
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Is venting fun? Is feeling superior to the idiotic drivers on the road enjoyable? Hell yes. Why else would we do it? But what I'm wondering is if it is actually worthwhile. I'm starting to think that, instead of innocently blowing off steam, I'm more likely blowing things out of proportion and giving myself a reason to be upset. Negativity breeds more negativity, at least for me. Once I start looking for the bad, I can always find more. And more.<br />
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I'd rather focus on the good. I'd rather focus on and remember Kaylee's joy of waking up and looking for Easter eggs and of opening her Easter basket rather than fixating on her stubbornness the night before. <br />
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Life isn't always going to be good. There are going to be times when I'm going to be sad, or anxious, or sick, or heart-broken, or any number of negative emotions. I'm going to be criticized, or be frustrated, or furious. But while I'm happy, and while I can be happy, I don't see the point in blatantly spoiling it for myself for no good reason.<br />
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I can't tell you I'm going to stop being snarky and sarcastic. Because I'm not. And if you consider that to be a character flaw or negative trait, then so be it. But I consider it to be an inherent part of my personality, and I actually do find happiness in a perfectly-crafted snarky comment, particularly when it makes other people laugh. My favorite relationships (both fictional and my own) are based on the snarky, witty repartee of two people generally giving each other a hard time.<br />
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So, I'm not going to turn into Little Miss Sunshine, but I am going to try to stop bitching quite so much about things that don't really matter in the grand scheme.<br />
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And I don't care what Yoda says, because "try" is truly the operative word here.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-54132225949875394162017-04-12T14:52:00.000-07:002017-04-12T14:52:02.064-07:00What's in a Name?The great debate has been raging: whatever will Ashley do about her last name?<br />
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People have asked. People have told me that they changed my last name in their phones without asking. People even made out wedding checks to Mark and Ashley Wood, which added an extra step when we deposited them in the bank. My mom thought I forgot to write "Wood" when I signed the church register this past weekend. Even my e-mails from Michaels have, over the past few months, gone from "Ashley Jones" to "Ashley Wood" to "Mark Wood" to "Mark Jones" out of either sheer flailing and confused desperation or some strange way of letting me temporarily try out all my available options.<br />
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The fact is that I haven't changed it yet. I couldn't even do so until after we closed on the house (which happened Monday morning, making us officially, terrifyingly, homeowners).<br />
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And honestly? I'm torn.<br />
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I changed my name without question the last time around (I don't think my ex would have allowed me to keep my maiden name anyway), and very much regretted it when we eventually divorced and I had to go through the entire process of changing it back to my maiden name (with his "permission," because apparently we still all live in the dark ages of chauvinism where even an ex-husband can continue to dictate a woman's choices). I changed my driver's license, I changed the name on the car title, I changed my passport, and I changed nearly every single damn thing that had my name on it. Bank account, apartment lease, e-mails, Facebook account, etc, etc, etc.<br />
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It's definitely not that I forsee having to change it back a second time, but the fact remains that I essentially fought to get my maiden name back two years ago when it would have just been easier to keep my married name (as much as I hated it). Changing it to my new married name feels, strangely, like a betrayal of all that work. Plus, I <i>like</i> being a Jones. It took me years to appreciate my incredibly common name, and now I find I'm rather attached to it (and not just literally).<br />
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On the other hand, I very much want the acknowledgement that I married the love of my life. I want to share that extra bit of life that comes from sharing a name. I want to be a Wood. It would make most things much easier to simply change my name. I wouldn't have to be annoyed with the people who assumed I changed my name and address things to "Ashley Wood." We wouldn't have to explain that yes, we are married even though my last name is different. Signing cards, etc, would be that much quicker.<br />
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But... I still don't want to get rid of Jones.<br />
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This would probably be easier if I didn't hate the concept of hyphenated names (for me personally; I don't care what other people choose to do with their names). Then I could have my name and change it too.<br />
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I also wish it didn't matter. I wish that I didn't feel like keeping my name or changing my name were both somehow a political and/or social statement, in spite of the decision being neither of those things for me. I wish neither were the "expected" option. I don't know if that would make my current decision easier, but I might feel less guilty about whatever choice I make.<br />
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This also might be the very definition of a first-world problem.<br />
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In slightly related news, being referred to as Mark's "wife" remains an incredibly jarring experience. As does calling him my husband. It was hard enough getting used to "boyfriend/girlfriend," then "fiance'," but "wife"? So weird. It makes me feel instantly old (says the girl who spends most of her free time knitting and crocheting and goes to bed around 9) and very formal. <br />
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Names are so strange. They are deeply personal. They define, they separate, and they group together. We attach so much meaning to titles and names and change both according to life changes, how we want to be perceived, and, sometimes, at whim. I don't know why "wife" sounds so strange to me now, almost ten years after I became a wife for the first time, but it does. Honestly, it's probably related to the feeling that changing my maiden name again would be a weird betrayal of the work I did to stop being a wife.<br />
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In spite of these strange hangups, I love being married. I love looking at pictures from our wedding day. I love seeing a ring on Mark's finger, and looking at my own ring. <br />
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It's just the words, and the names, that I have a problem with.<br />
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It's not even a problem in a bad way. It's more a problem in that I have to figure out what the words, what the name, <i>means</i>.<br />
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What's in a name? Everything, and nothing, all at once. In the grand scheme of things, does it matter if I change my name or keep it? No. But right now it seems like a bigger decision than buying a house. In a way, I worked harder for my name and "title" than I did for a house.<br />
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What does your name mean to you? What about your title? <br />
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Is the hangup just with me? This is entirely possible. But as someone who worked hard to become who I am and to define myself (as well as someone who continually turns over the meaning and intent of words), the threat of any change gives me pause.<br />
<br />
The reality is that changing my name, or being a wife, do not change who I essentially am as a person. They don't change my past. They don't change my personality. They don't make me any less of an introvert, or any more of a morning person. If anything, they add to who I am, never subtracting. I'm a wife. I'm a stepmother. I'm a homeowner. I'm a project manager. I'm The Pretty Vintage Girl. I'm either Jones or Wood or whatever I choose to be.<br />
<br />
I'm still me.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-34032193333222248682017-04-05T15:40:00.000-07:002017-04-05T15:40:30.341-07:00The Pretty Vintage Wedding<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin4T86YWIVNw1bkM2RaBqtHo4fZd2sihlH6TZW6_CNgpyHlfvBS8ImgLT9zuirqudGboQBIMeJo27H-FE1tTKysOr0gsSX7RVsGfB1dYUe-AGDZx695xRYKPrC42G7jQ4KJbE60xFn6PP_/s640/blogger-image-1383570281.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
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Well, it happened.<br />
<br />
We got married!<br />
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<br /></div>
It was not an elaborate April Fool's prank. It was not a joke. It was 100% real and 110% stressful and even, just maybe, 100% worth it.<br />
<br />
It's been a long time coming and a very short time planned for. Even though we got engaged back in July, we really didn't plan any of the actual wedding until the last three months. While moving. And buying a house.<br />
<br />
No sweat, right?<br />
<br />
But it came off beautifully.<br />
<br />
The weather (which I had stressed about for weeks) was perfect. The decorations were set. The cupcakes (and slightly crooked cake) were made. My bouquet (which I crocheted myself, because why not?) was finally finished and arranged rearranged to my perfectionist likings. I had delegated away all the tasks I couldn't handle myself and scheduled my friends to arrive early to keep me calm.<br />
<br />
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<br />
I lost track of how many times I'd said or wished that we'd just eloped.<br />
<br />
And yet, at just about 11:00 on Saturday morning, I stood (in full hair, makeup, and wedding dress) holding hands with Mark, and we walked down the "aisle" in my parents' front yard to "Have You Met Miss Jones?".<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNkzWz5FQH9iqanK5h9yDiLlpZhfW-kYm9GvFeHm7bJ3saIHaXVXVXlhrzZ5QdrRP98GQn_fKyb_Fi-1ShV-yWAHoRX9UbQ9qKRwRCTYb6Lka9o19fR1ynhnFjFiiEO_S30-zBFlKeOvnK/s640/blogger-image--1003898048.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNkzWz5FQH9iqanK5h9yDiLlpZhfW-kYm9GvFeHm7bJ3saIHaXVXVXlhrzZ5QdrRP98GQn_fKyb_Fi-1ShV-yWAHoRX9UbQ9qKRwRCTYb6Lka9o19fR1ynhnFjFiiEO_S30-zBFlKeOvnK/s400/blogger-image--1003898048.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Now, I can't quite say that the ceremony went off without a hitch. Because as soon as we got up to the podium and Terry started the ceremony, I had a terrible realization.<br />
<br />
... I had forgotten the rings inside.<br />
<br />
But, after a brief pause where Mark ran off to fetch the rings and everyone enjoyed a good laugh, we got back underway and the rest proceeded exactly as planned, up to and including us walking out to the Imperial March.<br />
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<br />
Really, in a wedding where I had put in the extra effort to be sure it was personalized just for us (the crochet bouquet, my custom "Happily Ever After" book pin, the music, and the readings (Pablo Neruda, Neil Gaiman, and a quote from "Serenity"), the fact that I forgot something so important was actually entirely fitting. I am horrendously forgetful (usually at all the worst times), so I'm far from shocked that in such a carefully planned-out event I forgot something as important as wedding rings.<br />
<br />
And now we're married.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin4T86YWIVNw1bkM2RaBqtHo4fZd2sihlH6TZW6_CNgpyHlfvBS8ImgLT9zuirqudGboQBIMeJo27H-FE1tTKysOr0gsSX7RVsGfB1dYUe-AGDZx695xRYKPrC42G7jQ4KJbE60xFn6PP_/s1600/blogger-image-1383570281.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin4T86YWIVNw1bkM2RaBqtHo4fZd2sihlH6TZW6_CNgpyHlfvBS8ImgLT9zuirqudGboQBIMeJo27H-FE1tTKysOr0gsSX7RVsGfB1dYUe-AGDZx695xRYKPrC42G7jQ4KJbE60xFn6PP_/s400/blogger-image-1383570281.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
And I'm so very happy.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ8Ct8LFBBMCgKX2ru0lDecJmMfbvCObrqaxKEJ3k4vImd_aoGOc68wXDxJp5jnG58TsNtFMs-OHE988lR7MO8f1Dv7qJJ-FDCpeozxN3xNYhCm-Di1WmpaxmJCxBWKQ-Af5zlGTJHKI20/s1600/blogger-image--1738984097.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ8Ct8LFBBMCgKX2ru0lDecJmMfbvCObrqaxKEJ3k4vImd_aoGOc68wXDxJp5jnG58TsNtFMs-OHE988lR7MO8f1Dv7qJJ-FDCpeozxN3xNYhCm-Di1WmpaxmJCxBWKQ-Af5zlGTJHKI20/s400/blogger-image--1738984097.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
It's not that anything is different. Our lives haven't suddenly changed. We're not different (even though we both find it very strange to use the words "husband" and "wife." We're still the same people, just a bit more legally bound than before.<br />
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<br /></div>
But I finally had a wedding that I enjoyed, a wedding that I truly wanted to a man who I truly love and who truly loves me.<br />
<br />
<br />
And that is very nice indeed. It even makes all the stress and worry and work worth it.<br />
<br />
Because I never, ever have to do this again.<br />
<div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-18968261160674863022017-03-29T17:54:00.001-07:002017-03-29T17:54:18.297-07:00The Final CountdownThere's only two more full days until I get married.<br />
<br />
Two days.<br />
<br />
I don't even know how that happened or how it's possible that time has gone this quickly. I swear we just got engaged the other week.<br />
<br />
Two days.<br />
<br />
One of my friends asked me the other day how many meltdowns I've had.<br />
<br />
And honestly? Not as many as I might have expected, none at all since almost two weeks ago when Mark and I both admitted to each other that we were freaked out that the other person didn't want to get married.<br />
<br />
Quite frankly, we <i>don't</i> want to get married. We don't. But we do want to <i>be</i> married. Those of you who have gone through weddings can surely relate, at least in part, and know that there is most definitely a difference between the two. Getting married is, simply, a pain in the ass, even when you do truly want to be with your future spouse for the rest of your life and all that nonsense.<br />
<br />
But the problem is the process. The problem is that weddings have gotten out of control. The problem is that everything costs way too much money for one little portion of one little day. The problem is that everyone has an opinion about what you should or should do and who should or shouldn't be invited.<br />
<br />
(The problem may also be that I'm a ridiculous perfectionist and therefore made my own bouquet and cupcakes, but that's totally besides the point.)<br />
<br />
The problem is not with me or Mark, and that is the one thing keeping me going. Right now I would give almost anything for it to be 11:00 on Saturday and for it all to be almost over, to be on the very brink of being married to the love of my life.<br />
<br />
Part of me wondered, during my momentary crisis a couple weeks ago, if I was sure about all this.<br />
<br />
I've been down this road before, after all. It wasn't great. It was, actually, one of the worst experiences of my life. And here I was, ten years later, about to do it all over again? Was I sure, was I <i>really sure</i>, that this was a good idea? What if I was making the same mistake again?<br />
<br />
But I thought about it. And wasn't scared of being married. I know, as much as I can know anything, that I want to be with this guy for all of the foreseeable future. There's never really been anyone else, in spite of all efforts to the contrary.<br />
<br />
No, what I was scared of was that Mark didn't want to be with me, that he would change his mind, realize he'd made a huge mistake. Because, really, I wouldn't blame him. I'm damaged goods. I've been divorced. I still have significant emotional damage and a tendency to stress-meltdowns. The fact that I don't drink as much means that I cry a lot more instead. I post selfies every day and have a ridiculous amount of clothes. And pins. And books. And shoes.<br />
<br />
Really, I wouldn't blame him if he decided I wasn't the best idea ever.<br />
<br />
But that would be awful.<br />
<br />
So do I wish we didn't have to go through this whole wedding thing? Yes. Do I wish we would have eloped back on Halloween? Yes.<br />
<br />
And do I want to marry him and risk everything all over again, ten years later?<br />
<br />
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Oh, yes. Hell yes.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-30639381459178460982017-03-22T15:30:00.003-07:002017-03-22T15:30:40.205-07:00The Long HaulFor this blog, I would just like you to picture me flailing around.<br />
<br />
Actually, no. Don't. Because I'm getting pretty bored with blogging about my stress levels and the many and various things I have to be stressed about. Which should seem contradictory, but really? It's getting dull quickly.<br />
<br />
Instead, can we talk about the fact that I'm now officially a "commuter"? I haven't had to actually commute in nearly ten years, and even that was only for a few short months before I moved to St. Louis with my ex. After that, I had a 15 minute drive on bad days. Then it became a 10 minute drive. Then it became a 6 minute drive, and I thought I had officially won at life.<br />
<br />
Now? It's a half hour each way <i>if</i> the rush hour traffic isn't too bad, <i>if</i> I cut into the bridge traffic as late as possible, <i>if</i> the weather is good, and <i>if</i> no one got in an accident.<br />
<br />
Honestly? As much as I don't want to move back to my old apartment, I do very much miss my six minute drive.<br />
<br />
The question is: why do you people do this every day? How do you do this every day? I'm barely a month into my new commuting life and I'm kindof tired of it. Or at least tired of how much gas it takes up. And how late I get home. And brake lights.<br />
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On the other hand, I'm burning through audiobooks at a much higher speed (an hour a workday, minimum), so I'm looking forward to seeing the boost that gives to my yearly book count. So it's not all bad.<br />
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Really, it's actually <i>not</i> the worst thing ever. People tend to act like Illinois is a foreign country when it comes to commuting. Without rush hour traffic, I can make it from St Louis to home in twenty minutes. I couldn't get to the airport in that time. Honestly, people, I'm driving over the river, not canoeing. My commute could be much worse. It could be an hour each way. It could involve a canoe.<br />
<br />
But instead, I get to listen to books. Or to music. Or to nothing. I get at least a half hour of downtime where I literally can't do anything but drive (or sit in traffic, as the case may be).<br />
<br />
The worst part, as in much of life, is the other people. The other drivers, to be accurate.<br />
<br />
It's possible I'm biased from years of <strike>torture</strike> experience, but St. Louis and Illinois drivers are honestly some of the worst in existence. Whether it's the inability to understand the simple concept of a turn signal, or that fact that merging is nothing more than a glorified game of chicken, or that traffic will be quite literally backed up for miles merely because someone got pulled over for speeding, or the fact that stop signs often seem to be all but invisible to most people... driving in the St Louis metro area can be challenging at best, and a sometimes-full-contact sport at worst.<br />
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But, it's home. I'd rather live here than anywhere else, and if having our own house means I have to live on the Illinois side of the river and drive a little farther to go to work, then so be it. Overall, it's worth the tradeoff. (Or, at least, it will be once the place is actually ours.)<br />
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If nothing else, this experience has at least more adequately prepared me for an inevitable Mad-Max-style post-apocalyptic existence. Lord knows I'd never make it if I stuck with my six-minutes-through-side-roads commute that I had for the past seven years.<br />
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Until then, I will ride eternal, shiny and chrome. (Or, perhaps, shiny and ginger.)<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-30486267749867543652017-03-15T15:01:00.003-07:002017-03-15T15:01:27.220-07:00With Friends Like TheseI talked only last week about <a href="http://theprettyvintagegirl.blogspot.com/2017/03/squad-goals.html">how awesome my friends are</a>.<br />
<br />
Well, this past weekend, they one-upped themselves. <br />
<br />
The bitches.<br />
<br />
This past weekend was my bachelorette party. Unlike my previous bachelorette party, this one did not take place the night before I got married, and thank God for that! Admittedly, I drank a lot less at this party, but I'm also ten years older and now get hangovers after a few glasses of champagne, so the recovery time was greatly appreciated.<br />
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I'm pretty sure that some of my friends have been planning my bachelorette party since before I was actually engaged. I know the planning began in earnest as Mark actually asked me, and once we picked a date, so did they.<br />
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It was not your typical bachelorette party. I didn't wear a tiara or a necklace covered in tiny penises. I didn't wear a blinking "Bride-to-Be" pin or go bar-hopping til the wee hours of the morning. Instead, I had a lovely day of adventures and new experiences, specifically catered to what they knew I would enjoy.<br />
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And I personally had no idea what to expect. The entire day was a surprise, with the exception of knowing that the final stop would be a co-ed party with a literary theme (everyone was supposed to dress like a book character). All I was told was to dress like I normally do for the daytime events and to show up at my chauffeur's house at 10:15 am. Outside of that, I had absolutely no clue what was going to happen!<br />
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Our first stop was afternoon tea at the London Tea Room, where the six of us spent quite a while drinking as many different teas as possible and trying (unsuccessfully) to eat all the amazing sandwiches, scones, and tea cakes.<br />
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Then they gave me the clue to the next stop.<br />
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I read it, read it again, looked up, and asked, "Are we going to <i>Cabaret</i>?!"<br />
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And we were.<br />
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They had gotten us amazing seats (apparently bought practically as soon as tickets went on sale), and it was an incredible show with an excellent Emcee.<br />
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After the show, I was allowed some "introvert time" before the night-time party, which was just as great as the rest of the day! And I dressed like Pippi Longstocking.<br />
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Everyone was wearing literary costumes, there was champagne and a nacho bar, and my favorite Jack Sparrow impersonator (who turned out to be nerdy as hell) had been hired!</div>
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I was maybe a little excited about that. Maybe. And I possibly stole his hat for a little bit. <br />
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All in all, I have some really nerdy friends, guys. And I'm entirely alright with that.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXIiJyfkRL1MAoruM-NVUmwCHgy-wkVS74K3GY-G4stWXFmcwouUH7LaH_5dnd5nVp_C3h1gre9sg-ooOfz2LueYdHOGp_ciQFiFb5-O5nJNaGX_YetteGehNoVutUAl1iMCulxnjIIKTO/s1600/17211917_10210744319536374_7811880498912383803_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXIiJyfkRL1MAoruM-NVUmwCHgy-wkVS74K3GY-G4stWXFmcwouUH7LaH_5dnd5nVp_C3h1gre9sg-ooOfz2LueYdHOGp_ciQFiFb5-O5nJNaGX_YetteGehNoVutUAl1iMCulxnjIIKTO/s400/17211917_10210744319536374_7811880498912383803_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photos by Carrie Meyer of Insomniac Studios! You can see all the photos that Carrie took <a href="https://www.facebook.com/carriesuemeyer/media_set?set=a.10210744315176265.1073741877.1001247791&type=3&pnref=story" style="font-size: medium; text-align: start;">here</a><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">.</span></td></tr>
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Once again, I find myself telling you how incredible my friends are (like you don't already believe me). I'm not sure how I ever came to deserve a group of girls who takes it upon themselves to give me a perfect day of low-key adventures, but I'm endlessly glad that they consider me to be worth the effort.<br />
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In spite of my introvert anxiety over not knowing what to expect or how much I would need to socialize (and in spite of all the rest of the wedding/house stress I'm dealing with), they made it easy for me to have a good time, eat more than enough, forget about some of my stress, and enjoy myself. I even stayed at the party til 12:30, which is an incredibly rare event indeed. <br />
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As much as I enjoyed myself, I don't intend to do this whole bachelorette party thing a third time. (Mark is stuck with me, for better and for worse.) But if I had to do it twice, this was definitely the way to go.<br />
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Even the hangover the next day was pretty worth it, if only because I got to lay in bed for a few hours instead of go get married. I guess you figure these things out a little better the second time around.<br />
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Still not going to aim for number three, though.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5536945303124148484.post-71260077619438808842017-03-08T14:30:00.001-08:002017-03-08T14:35:20.658-08:00Squad GoalsSo. It's under a month until we get married. <br />
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The countdown is on. The stress is mounting. Invitations <i>still</i> haven't gone out. I have literally no idea where the rings are right now.<br />
<br />
What else could possibly go wrong?<br />
<br />
Don't ask.<br />
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(Also don't ask me how unpacking is going. Unless you want either a 10-minute rant or spontaneous tears with no guarantees of which it will be.)<br />
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Basically, Mark is stuck with me because I am never ever <i>ever</i> going to get married again.<br />
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My last wedding was almost exactly 10 years ago (though in August instead of April). I don't know if I was better at wedding planning back then or what, but this has been hell. I mean, it doesn't help that we're both working full-time, buying a house, and living mostly out of boxes while digging through other boxes for what we need in the new house. It also doesn't help that the moving timeline was suddenly thrust upon us two months before the wedding, effectively postponing all wedding planning until what is essentially the last minute.<br />
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None of this helps.<br />
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What does help is my support system. Obviously, there is Mark (literally the only person I would go through this for). He keeps me sane. He doesn't judge me when I cry or meltdown (that I know of). He designed our invitations. Most of all, he's always there for me. <br />
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And there are my friends, who have been ever-present with suggestions, ideas, and offers of help. You've heard the phrase, "It takes a village to raise a child"? Well, this is going to be the village that planned a wedding.<br />
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The importance of International Women's Day is not lost on me at all, particularly this month. I'm well aware that I wouldn't be the person I am today without all the incredible women in my life, and I love that there is an opportunity to celebrate them more specifically than I already try to do. <br />
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I wouldn't be as strong or as self-confident without these friends, and I wouldn't have all the amazing role models that are available to me in the various and overlapping forms of mothers and partners and businesswomen and just general badass ladies. These are women who know who they are, what they want, and are always striving for their goals (and succeeding, or failing, or both). They step up to the plate and they admit defeat, they rock bad hair days and they look effortlessly glamorous. Most importantly, they own their lives. (Most often they are owning their lives while also being mothers and partners and businesswomen and general badass ladies.)<br />
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I like to think that they have influenced me in becoming more and more myself and less of the person I thought I needed to be. I like to think that I'm a little more badass than I might have been had I never gone to that first burlesque show, or never gotten the nerve to go to my first pole dance class. I know for a fact that I wouldn't have had so many offers of love and support when I got divorced. I wouldn't have gone to Mexico, or to House on the Rock. I wouldn't have had a tornado of women come and pack up my entire kitchen when I moved. I wouldn't have an entire day of surprise bachelorette party antics coming up this weekend.<br />
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Basically, I wouldn't have nearly as many friends to help me out when I so desperately need it.<br />
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I deeply love and am eternally grateful for the many wonderful women in my life, both today and every single other day. You help make my life worthwhile and, without you, I'm not sure that I would be marrying the love of my life in under a month.<br />
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So thank you, my loves, for everything.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15336885108303570864noreply@blogger.com0