I Put Some New Shoes On Today

Dear Blogosphere, Bobbi has a confession to make. Today I bought a pair of Reebok Easy Tones. Please, hold your giggles, your chocolate milks is gonna shoot out your nose, and boy does that hurt.

So I did it, I was seduced by the commercial of the skinny bitch with the nice butt who says my butt will look like hers if I wear her shoes.

Lady Foot Locker was possibly the most horrifying experience of my life, especially when the lady untied the shoes and tried to put them on my feet---I'm not a cripple here lady, I just want some trendy exercise shoes. She then added "you can't run in them, you'll twist an ankle." Oh darn. Another pair of shoes I can't run in. Aw shucks.

So now I'm wearing them, and I feel like I'm walking on sand, and my but doesn't hurt yet, and my feet only look mildly stupid. So $100 bucks later I find myself sitting, looking at my nice new shoes, wanting to run.


Owls and Cowls?

Bobbi is confused. In a fury of "it's too close to christmas to actually order gifts on time" shopping, I can't seem to escape owls and cowls. So I've written a poem about it.

Owls and Cowls about.
Too many for me to hide from.
Who made them trendy?

No, seriously kids, where in God's name are the owls and cowls coming from? It's everywhere, UO, Anthro, Etsy, EVERYWHERE.

So what's next? Frogs and Clogs? Fishes and Dishes? well?

Even my pals and I at At Home Hipster are exploring the Owl Cowl Craze.


Better Than a Mai Thai

So everyone knows Bobbi hates the gym, but Bobbi being the lady she is does not want to get fat. Getting fat is worse than marrying a republican. So this evening, browsing good ole Etsy, I came across quite possibly the most brilliant thing ever. A hula hoop shop. Yes, hand made hula hoops (who knew). What could be better for my figure than hula?

So it appears Lola runs The Hip Revolution which is quite possibly the coolest/craziest/most entertaining etsy store yet. Not only do these hoops come in a variety of epically named colors, Lola even sells hoop bags. I had no idea hula hoops had bags.

And, even better, The Hip Revolution is out of Olympia, I had no idea you could hula hoop in the rain.

The things you learn...If only I knew how to hula.


Holiday Dinner Dash

The time has come. It is just barely two weeks until the day in which a large majority of main stream folks celebrate a fat guy who brings gifts or a baby of immaculate conception. Either way, it means it is time for holiday parties and no one besides Brie Vandicamp and Martha Stewart have the time to prepare anything to take to a party. So, in traditional Bobbi Noodle fashion, I shall reveal the secrets to the holiday festivity foods...

Get yourself a simple boxed mix, just not white or yellow--hello tacky.
Use half oil half butter.
Use given egg amount.
Add TWO teaspoons canned frosting--vanilla, chocolate, whatever works with your cake flavor---not white--once again, tacky.

The frosting adds mositure and fluff to your cupcakes making them just a little different. The crowd will have no idea they were made by Betty and not you.

Once again, not white--it's tacky. Any frosting you like is good, the whipped ones will seem tacky too, stick to traditionals and add to them--nuts, chips (chocolate, not Lays), a little flavoring--via coffee syrups or extracts. Also, food coloring will ALWAYS give you a fun, festive, homemade look.

Slightly alter box directions-
Use given amount of eggs.
Cut water amound down by a third and bump up the oil.
Add two tablespoons of a flavored coffee syrup (vanilla, hazelnut, and raspberry work well)
Pour in pan and add a topping--pb, chips, chunks, nuts, reeses, whatever floats your boat.
Cut when cool with a PLASTIC knife. It helps them keep their shape.

My personal fav...
Melt dark chocolate chips in micro, spread evenly on a baking sheet. Freeze ten minutes.
Melt white chocolate chips in micro, spread evenly over dark chocolate layer.
Crush a few candy canes in a baggie, in a towel, with a happer, sprinkle on top of white chocolate. Freeze for another ten. Break and serve. Easy and theraputic.

And there you have it folks. Three ways to cheat yourself into a party that is bound to have food just as good if not better than your sorry excuse for "home baking."



Bobbi's Guide to Fall

The leaves are changing--somewhere in the country, there is a chill in the air--east of the Rockies, and most importantly a new season of television has premiered. Thus, it can only be deduced that fall is upon us.
Like most autumn seasons, this year will be the year Bobbi stays on her shit, but before the season can really begin, I feel it is my right, no, my duty, to give my guidance to the rest of the cheap, chic world. So here goes nothing.

Numero Uno: Do not make rash decisions involving money while on major pain killers. This decision could result in a shotty new driveway or a myriad of used furniture off Craig's List that really has no place in your home.

The Duce: Home hair coloring kits: never go lighter on your own. It's like how Lauren Grahm says not to cut your own bangs. Just listen. Don't do it. I reccomend checking out the local beauty school for a cheap color.

3: Smile like you mean it at work. No one wants summer to be over. So just fake it, and beautiful things will start to happen.

Four: Do not buy your H-Day costume yet. Take the appropriate amount of time to mull. But don't wait until the 30th either.

V: As tempting as it may be in the Whole Food's checkout line, don't bother buying Martha's Halloween spooktacular. Yeah, it looks cool, but its a bunch of crap you could make without paying $6 and killing a tree. Use your imaginations, that what H. is all about.

666: A new pair of fall shoes--boots mainly--is not only important and fun, it is essential. So tell the judgemental men in your life to suck it and hit the Nine West outlet or the flea market.

7: Take a nod from the Emmy's and check out the winner's work. Haven't seen Mad Men, Big Love, or Tara? Check them out. Seriously, the talent, clothing, and story lines are worth it.

And finally...

Eight: Get crafty. This is the one time of year where it is totally legit to knit yourself into a heap like the craziest old lady in town, so why not embrace it.

Bobbi's Guide to Fall was brought to you from the knowlege and wisdom of Bobbi Noodle, all tips come from the personal experiences of Bobbi's trial and error in daily Fall life, so give them a thoughtful read.


Confessions of a Shoeaholic

Hi. I'm Bobbi [Noodle], and I'm an addict.

I think I began collecting shoes religiously five or so years ago, but it was not until this past summer that my addiction began to truly affect others.
I used to buy heels.  Sometimes they were little black Guess stilettos, or a pair of ballet flats that happened to be only 5 dollars.  But now, I've really gone and done it.

I'm Bobbi and I'm a bootaholic.
Uggs. Frye Boots. Cowboy boots of any shape and color, price is no object.  When I see them, it's like my pinky toe cries out "mine bitches!"

And just like that, the plastic jumps from the innards of my wallet and the boots are mine.  While there may not be any shame in owning a pair of thigh high mocchacins (they were on sale!), there is shame in the fact that my addiction cannot be conquered.  In fact, I'm not even sure where to begin overcomming addiction.  They don't make shoeaholics self-help books.  There are no boot-buyers support groups.  I think I'm on my own with this one.

It is moments like this my wallet and I long for my peanut butter addiction to return.  But until then, at least I'll go broke in style.


Time After Time

The blogasphere and I have spend a summer apart.  It has been sad and painful, and my desk drawer is fresh out of kleenex to wipe my teary eye.  My time apart from this world called Bobbi Noodle, has left me with no other thoughts than that of time itself.

Who ever said "time heals all?"  Whom ever it was, I want to sue.  I want a trillion dollars for false advertisement, because sometimes even time doesn't cut it. 

It seems we spend our time waiting for time to pass, yet wasting that time longing for more time.  It is a vicious, painful cycle that gets me every time.

I wait for fall shows to air, but when they do, I beg time to go slower so I get more moments with Chuck and Blair, in the romance of the century.  But no, time just won't cooperate.

I think the real problem is, time and I lack a certain level of understanding.  I want time to let me forget the past, and slow the future, but time just wants to tick away like its nobody's business.

So, as my summer ends and I resume my post as Bobbi Noodle, I just ask time this one little favor: either rewind three months or fast forward ten, or whatever you do, just don't stand still.


The Summer of Sleep

Blair and Chuck are together.  A Top Model was crowned.  It is nearly Father's Day.  If I were a mathematician or detective, here is where I would derive the onset of summer.  And here is where I should come upon the usual wealth of emotions that accompany my second favorite season: regret for not exercising, relief the school year has ended, and contempt for the sudden lack of fog.  (Maybe some day I'll relocate to a cooler climate)

But, here, in what I now must admit as the thick of summer's beginning, I find myself sleepless in--well, not Seattle.  
There is no feeling of relaxation.  My joy for the Blair-Chuck affair has faded, my rose glasses have come off, and I find myself stuck to Dawson's Creek re-runs, a tub of fro-yo, and the couch.

With this lack of emotion I have begun to wonder if the beauty of summer and the magic I once felt this time of year is just something that fades with age.  I swear it used to feel just like the intro to the Wonder Years--sprinkler on the lawn, backyard bbq, smiles.  Where have they all gone. 
Maybe it is because I traded in trips to the ice cream man for a discount tub of Dryers, or the fact that pool is too cold, the weather too warm, and disappearing into television from the 90's seems so comforting, that I have just traded my old comforts for new.

Things change.  But then again, if Blair and Chuck prove anything, it is that anything is possible, so tomorrow, I work on my bikini-bod just incase. 


Buying Like a Collector

This weekend I had the pleasure of attending the California Ceramics Festival in the charming college town of Davis.  While I found the scads of work both stimulating and inspirational, I couldn't help but wonder what all the art collectors were like.  I'd watch a slough of people enter a room, grab a price list off the wall, and immediately begin to check off what they want.  I, on the other hand spent the weekend par-oozing the small town shops, in search of my own treasures.

How to Buy Like a Collector:

1. Name of Work: It is sad but true that brand names go a long way.  Think, if you want to resell some day, brand names may be the way to go.

2. Artist's ethics: I'm generally anti-chinese made, USA all the way!

3. Price: Is it worth the moo-la?

4. Practicality:  Here is where my thoughts differ from the art collector's, but if an item is amazing and not practical, I might get it anyway.

5. Love: Do you love it? Will you die if someone else owns it?

Today I followed the role of the art collector.  I cataloged items I liked in each clothing shop in town, compared prices, weighed my options, and chose what I couldn't live without.  I happened into Nina and Tom a great family-based homegrown clothing store, and purchased an exquisite  recycled wool purse by Queen Bee, as priceless as the finest china! 


Chalked Full O Love

Today I ate quite possibly the most delectable cookies I have ever consumed.  The decadent German Chocolate Cake Cookies by Liz Lovey are not only heavenly, but also full of love, organic materials, and animal rights friendliness.  The cookie line includes a gluten free variety, and being one with a nasty intolerance to the weaty ingredient, I'd challenge anyone to find a better cookie sans gluten. 

LL's cookies come from a little town in Vermont, are vegan, and totally organic.  They are delivered in pairs, perfect for sharing with your hubbie, date, bff, or a stranger to spread the sugary love.  They are decked out in lovely colorful cello bags, or can be ordered in sampler sets sent in pink doughnut style boxes.

The next thing from Liz's arsenal: chocolate goodies--mint, pb, mangoes, organic oreo style cookies, and ginger candy all come heavily coated in organic dark chocolate.

Liz truely is spreading the love as I, a now loyal customer put on the pounds.


Gossip Guilt

A recent post by my dearest friend Ariel, and last nights seedy and sultry episode have resulted in my single obsession: Gossip Girl.  I know I should be ashamed.  I know I should pretended to not give a damn about Dan and Serena, Blair and Nate, and especially Blair and Chuck, but the Waldorf-Vanderwoodsen-Bass-Humphry clan has got me hooked.  I don't know if it's all the gossip, all the sex, and the fabulously fabulous clothing, or the fact that they make high school everything it never was or could have been, but whatever it is it is good.

Other than my childlike love for iCarly (don't knock it til you try it--Nick can do no wrong)  Nothing can take me away from Gossip Girl, not even my dear friend Dr. Gregory Masochist House, who now fights Gossip Girl for air time.  

I just wish I could know what it is these kids--or twenty-somethings do to make the hour of programing so irresistible that it even has my very level-headed  mother watching calling me to ask "is there a new episode next week, I must know what will happen to Serena!"

This is one kind of gossip I just can't do with out.  Dare you to miss it!

Bobbi Noodle


Theory of the Lost

I'm finding myself lost in theory without attention.  At first I defended my state as a day dream, but have since realized that hour after hour of social, political, economical, plain old boring thought must be theory.  I once read that people constantly practice theory and don't even know the term.  It's like practicing feminism, without knowing the meaning of the word.  

 This rose my curiosities, why does Ashton Kutcher have more Twitter followers than CNN? Why do either of them have any?  Who really cares to read what anyone ate for lunch? (I of course had a grilled cheese sandwich)  And moreover why can't I stop ponder these thoughts?  

Here is where I get stuck in the catch-22 of theory, theory cannot exist without these questions, and questions are what lead to theory, they are as hand-in-hand as Zach and Vanessa, PB & J, AM & PM, or me, Bobbi Noodle and her over active imagination. 


Tube Tied

After a long day, I took to watching back episodes of the new NBC show Cupid last night.  A good twenty minutes into the romantic comedy my worries, troubles, aches, and pains began to vanish.  I had, and for a good few hours found myself lost in the glory of television.  I wish I could say this was not a regular occurrence.  I wish I could say that not nearly every evening in my week was spend this way, but alas it is.  I sometimes spend my afternoons in bed dreaming that if the great artists like Proust and Watteau lived now, they would be highly less productive and also love America's Next Top Model as much as I do.

I fear its become an illness greater than the illness that confines me to my bed.  Gossip Girl has not been new in two weeks, and like a dear friend who is equally concerned and P.O.ed, I just have to say "What the fuck are they doing to us!" 

Some people--mainly my mother--think that this television (which lets face it, is now mostly web-based) addiction is going to kill me, or at least rot my brain.  Alec Baldwin thinks so too.  But you know what I think?  Screw them.  Sometimes there is nothing greater than getting lost in a 47 minute love story to avoid 47 minutes of your own.


Exercise Shmexercise

Yesterday I braved the ever-dreaded task of visiting the gym.  I say visiting, because I, like many, fear the gym and its kind and feel like a visitor rather than a member.  

Luckily my body looks like it belongs at the gym, but my mind doesn't.  Generally I am far too clumsy to face the major machines that all the body builders use, so I hit the women's only center when no one can laugh at my lack of coordination and my sweat stains.  But unfortunately, yesterday I was stuck with everyone else in the small smelly room of bikes and elliptical trainers.

Being rather a gym dunce, I noticed a new machine and was immediate curious.  It was part bike, part video game.  I could sit there and bike to chase people and animals and win a race! Being the sucker that I am, I ran for the machine.  

First try--I biked away and was miles behind all the other bikers on my course.  There was no way in hell I could do this I thought as I panted away.  After paroozing the menu I found a handicap that aids you in your race.  Two miles and ten minutes later, the finish line and pit stains were mine! WOOT! 

Except I couldn't walk. For a good 10 minutes. And the the computer was so kind as to tell me I shouldn't consider using the regular version until I can reduce my handicap by at least 20%.  20 freaking percent and spaghetti thighs.  Woopty freaking do. 

Gym Technology?  Officially not for everyone.



I have had two true addictions in life: weight loss and peanut butter (in that order).

Towards the end of high school, in attempts to health up my diet, I went with the trends: low carb, high greens.  The result was around a ten pound loss.  My new shape and sugar free rush was amazing.  I began to obsess over eating healthier foods.  Leaner meats.  Less processing.  No chocolate.  I hadn't done drugs, but now knew I didn't need to, this was the best feeling of my life.

College hit. So did addiction number two.  I cannot truly explain the joy of eating peanut butter. Creamy or chunky, 100% or full of additives, it didn't matter.  I was no pb snob.  It was creamy and sweet, nutty and fabulous.  The only problem--it was never enough.  In class, I'd pull out a mini jar from the convenience store and a plastic fork--spoons were too easy.  I had to work for my pleasure.

Needless to say, 30 pounds plus, I quit. Cold turkey.  And quittin' ain't easy.

I am here today to fess up to my latest addiction: etsy.  I have become a slave to the internet's largest handmade community, and I need help.  Every day I sit in front of my screen, clicking, refreshing, hoping, praying, screaming in frustrating agony at my laptop.  I just cannot take my eyes away.  Only for moment like this and when my bladder beckons to I have the mental strength to change the page.

My name is Bobbi Noodle, and I'm an etsy addict.


Where has all the spermicide gone?

A friend goes to the drugstore. (I'm settin' this up like a bad joke)

He's gone in search of spermicide.  He checks out the sexy-time aisle.  He finds her pleasure. His pleasure. Lambskin.  A shit load of money suckin' fun.  Whoever said sex was free had obviously never set foot in a drugstore.

He scans the aisle.  Nothing.  Double-checks.  Still nada.  Finds a clerk.  They try again.  Call the pharmacist.  Take three.  Where is the manager?
Four grown men find themselves on all fours crawling past everything other than the gelly they seek, the loudspeaker blaring more assistance to aisle 12.  

So with this I ask, how many grown men does it take to find spermicide?  Or rather, where has all the spermicide gone?  It sure hasn't gone to the flowers, that is for sure.

Have all the fancy inventions in the form of pills, patches, and rings made the need for spermicide obsolete? Or is just this another case of the impending threat of manhood found in the sexy-time aisle?


My New Man: Heythere47

I wish Speed Date would stop suggesting men to me.  Can it not see that I am otherwise unavailable and have no desire to meet Heythere47 or any of his skeevy bros?  It is times like these I feel the technology of social networking has gone too far.

Let's be honest, I'm a child of technology, but when facebook is constantly telling me that I should met lame and lamer, even though my profile distinctly states that I am taken, I begin to question facebook's intelligence.  But then again, when facebook's profile tailored adds scroll through on my boyfriend's account, they are definitely tailored to the gay man, so maybe I should give Heythere47 my number.  Maybe facebook think's I'm the man...

It is like twitter.  Yes, I care that Jen broke Johns heart.  I would rather read it on twitter than pay for a smutty magazine to read it second hand, so on some level twitter seems inventive.  No one cares what I ate for breakfast, but I probably tweeted about it just for kicks, because, like Speed Date, it is easy to ignore, until one day it isn't.

When that day comes, I will still probably be eating a grilled cheese sandwich, just incase you didn't want to know.


The Luck of the Irish

Every year I patiently wait for the one day of the year I don't have to think about what to wear.  This morning I careless threw on whatever was lying around, and effortlessly managed to dress in 3 green garments before turning on the radio to be reminded that yet again, I have managed to effortlessly dress for the greenest day of the year.

On this day, I find myself contemplating the luck of the irish.  I myself am about 1/8th potato loving--ironic I know because I strongly dislike potatoes, but I find a new sense of irony that on the greenest day of the year I find myself seeking a new treatment for a disease which is also ironically named after my favorite color.  Lime green...or rather Lyme Disease.

As something I generally avoid to discuss due to my wild imagination that keeps me focused on the groutfitti that plagues the men's room or the newest daily candy, today I just want to take a moment to relish (also green) in the irony of my own St. Patty's Day.

So here is to being green friends.


Ding Dong the Economy Ain't Dead

I was just out an about (among the cyberbots that is) and ran across a great blog column about the economy.  Granted, it isn't difficult considering every fifth entry is about our current suffering economy, which led me to wonder if businesses are really failing just because of the economy.

Personally, I spend my spare change on dinning out--ok, eating frozen yogurt, but still--and necessities like toilet paper, kinoki foot pads, and think thin bars (creamy peanut butter is the best, try it. seriously.) 
So thanks to people like me, local eateries are doing just fine. But then again, everyone has gotta eat.

But what about other places? We still need to wear clothes.  We still want to buy electronics.  Granted I don't want to buy them now that Circuit City is gone, but someday soon I will need too.  Face the facts.  We are American's--consumers by nature.  We can't really just blame business failure on the economy.  

Perhaps the average business man has lost his knack for the advertising world--we can't all be as sexy, smart, and lung cancer free as Don Draper.  Or, perhaps advertising just don't get to us the way it used to.  Ipod commercials were cool once, but now, not so much.

So who's fault is it?  Wallstreet? Bush? You? Me?

All I know, is whether we like it or not, everything can be caused by the economy's ability to earn a passing grade.


The Hurry Up and Wait

Today I have been a repeat victim of The Hurry UP and Wait--THUW for short.  The agony of stressful rushing, my nagging impulse to be on time to all destinations, and the world's laziness and causality has led to today's episodes of THUW.  In attempts to console my poor THUW-sing situation, I have come up with a McGyver inspired list of THUW Activities.   

1. Pick ingrown hairs with my mailbox key.
2. Write a whitty haiku: 

oranges taste like spam.
oh wait. took the wrong bite. oh.
oranges sound good now

3. Make a mental list of all the things I would rather be doing than waiting:
-properly removing my ingrown hairs.
-eating actual oranges
-promoting world peace.

4. Time myself holding my breath and not blinking, just incase I need those skills in the future.

5. Practice my circular breathing for a potential future as an infamous female digeridoo player.

6.  Or. maybe I could just convince the world to be on time, so I don't have to hurry up and wait.


the end is...

This afternoon I got in the car for my horrendous commute home, to learn that my favorite radio show was broadcasting its last show.  For a moment, I wanted to burst into tears, throw my car over an embankment and sacrifice myself to ensure the continuation of the B Team radio show.

With this impulse, I began to think about other ends.  Mostly television ends.  I am sure I cried when Ally McBeal ended. Friends was bittersweet.  I can't even say the words Loreli and Rory without getting choked up.  But why?

Have I become far too attached to the media?  Yes and no.  While I'm sure I could find a very expensive, spec wearing doc to tell me that I suffer from emotional issues, I beg to differ.  Rory and I went to college together.  She was there for the hard times.  When I wanted to hear someone else complain about the horrors of Thanksgiving, Chandler had a handfuls of one-liners.  I can't even begin to discuss the comfort of Ally's dancing baby.

It is only human nature that we make deep and meaningful connections to those people, places, or things that become routine.  Tomorrow I will twist the ignition, the antenna will rise,  and the sultry Aussie voice of Biron, and the catty snapping of Chrissy will not be there to guide me home.  Perhaps I am dramatic.  But I prefer sentimental.


Oscar Tamed

The Academy Awards always make me feel nostalgic, perhaps for the good old days when cinema was an art. There is just this mystical heir of glamor and sophistication looming among those starving actresses in spanks.

It is a night of true appreciation of the highest in cinematic arts...or it is supposed to be.

Last night, the golden man himself left me thoroughly disappointed. When Will Smith got up to talk about achievement in editing in sound--under appreciated, incredibly difficult categories, he also added a one liner along the lines of "my (action) movies have fans." The clips that followed were of this years nominees, which were all across the board, ranging from Wanted--a ridiculous graphic novel brought to life by the larger-lipped half of Brangelina, to Slumdog Millionaire and Wall-e, both big winners in their categories.

Comments like Smith's, began to lower the quality of the evenings presentation, and I could see the little man himself began to tarnish with embarrassment.

I wonder if the future for Mr. Oscar will be left in the hands of Smith's action loving fans. Do we really not care about hard, truthful stories anymore? Do we really just want to watch fast cars and slo-mo bullets? Are indie films only watched once they show up on award's season radar??
In the words of Meryl Streep "I have doubts. I have such doubts." About the future of cinema, that is.

for all my groutfitti fans out there, news flash, the groutfiti has emerged from the men's restroom, and has made its way to the outside of the door and has lept across the hall to tarnish the women's room door. No meetings scheduled for discussion yet. will keep the world posted.


oh what a country song i would write...

The past few days I have found myself stricken with a broken heart.  It is much like the gnawing pain of chili fries heart burn, but the pink stuff won't make it go away.

What's worse is the effort and agony that goes into the masking of the broken heart.  A hotpink cast with neon sharpie doodles would be a much better treatment. 

This got me thinking, how does one truly mend a broken heart?  Of course the movies make it look easy.  Painful, but easy.  They tell you it involves pints of Hagen Daaz and Elizabeth Taylor, Jimmy Choos and a bottle of tequila,  Sinatra and Sleepless in Seattle.

Even empowered women make it look easy.  Every night on Sex and the City Carrie Bradshaw would climb into bed with the man of her dreams, her neck draped in long faux pearls, yet in the morning she never awoke with them choking her slender neck, even on those episodes when the man in her life was absent.

In this case, however, my heart does not break for a man, which in fact, could be part of the pain.  I'm overwhelmed with a sense of guilt for feeling pain in a place of my body that culture has assigned to men.  Maybe that is why Meg Ryan is no help to me now.  Maybe that is why a broken heart is not so easy to cure.  Its not as clear a medical condition as the television says.

 They just don't make women as glamourous as Ms. Bradshaw, and maybe if they did, with glamour would come better acting skills. 


The Groutfitti Culture

Yesterday I had the pleasure of sitting through a mandatory meeting addressing the concern of the overtake of groutfitti in the men's room at work.

What is groutfitti one may ask (believe me I had no idea)? Groutfitti is the idiotic idea of writing jokes encompassing the word grout in grout-lines between the tiles above urinals.  

First of all, why would anyone have the desire to write jokes about grout.  There is nothing funny about grout.  It is boring and grows bacteria and is hard to clean.  Not a laughing matter.

As the meeting progressed, it was made clear that the issue itself was not that of groutfitti, but rather that it had expanded to the wall, which was apparently not ok.

So then, what is it that makes writing on the space in-between the tiles perfectly acceptable, but then it isn't ok to write on the wall itself?  

Because my lack of urinal experience made me question this culture as a whole, I posed the simple question "why can't you guys just pee and be done with it."  
The male response I received?
"Because we have a free hand!"

I'm sorry, while I pee, I have two free hands, but it doesn't mean I sit on the toilet and make origami swans.

Having a free extremity doesn't mean you have to use it, and if you are going to multitask, it should at least be constructive.

So by the end of the painstaking half our the conclusion was drawn to provide the able handed gentlemen with a white board above the urinal to voice their opinions.  

And when I mentioned that we are not in first grade and do not write on our bathroom walls at home, a conference table full of blank stares looked back at me.

So maybe I'm wrong and should put up some butcher paper next to the toilet tank and let the enabling of childish habits thrive.


I Want Bloody Froyo

I sat down tonight, with full intention to blog about overpriced shoes.

But instead I find myself burdened with a question: Is getting your way worth it, or gratifying if you bully your way into it?

Is owning that fabulous pair of shoes--the only pair in your size--worth snagging if you have to trip the tall leggy blonde next to your for them?

At some point I feel getting what you want might not be what you want at all if it comes at the expense of others, or at the expense of your own conscious.  The stilettos might slim your ankle and improve your posture, but is it worth the blister that will leave an unsightly scar on your pinky toe?

Right now I want froyo.  In the morning my lactose intolerance will tell me it was not the decision I wanted to make at all.  Yet, I have consumed the low-fat delicacy multiple times this week despite my tummy grumbles.  

So then why is it we as humans push so hard to get what we want if we know in the end it isn't what we wanted at all?
And if it is, is it worth a guilty conscious, or worse bloody feet and stomach cramps? 


The Most Desperate Housewives

Last night when paroozing the Etsy forums, I came across a disconcerting thread.

There was negative discussion about shop owners bombarding the world with self promotion.

Last time I checked, websites have forums with categories like "critique" and "promotion" for just that reason.

Does it make someone who doesn't shamelessly self promote a better person? Certainly not if the non promoter is poo-pooing their fellow etsians. 

So what is it that has lead to all this self promotion?  Are we really that desperate?  Perhaps we are not all as pretty as Eva Longoria, smart at Felicity Huffman, or as great a baker as Marcia Cross, but we are definitely desperate.

Times are tough, especially for people who make a living through arts and crafts.  Is it really the job of their peers to insult the pursuit of profit?

And perhaps its not all desperation.  Did it ever occur to anyone that fruitless self promotion could be just a person's outlet for sharing their creativity.  Isn't it something they should be proud of, sharing their creations with the world?
Selling hand-made goods isn't always about money, its about sharing art with others.

And lets be honest, I'm sure Donald Trump got where he is in life with a little self promotion.


a world post v-day

Valentine's Day has passed. The chocolates are gone.  Hallmark has taken a breather.

Somehow I just feel a little less love in the world.
Do we love more between, say, Feb. 1st-14th?
Once the holiday ends do we as a culture return to our rude, loveless ways?

For example, lets take drivers.
Every morning I pull my car out of the world's most obnoxious driveway.  The week before Valentine's Day several drivers were kind enough to stop and let me into the chaotic line of cars.
Starting yesterday, however, my volvo and I got no such love.

So then do we just stop loving the world after the middle of February? If so, why not celebrate St. Valentine many times a year, hell, why not year round.  We could all use the chocolate.  It is an excellent source of antioxidants after all.