If there was a bucket of things…. Part II

If there was a bucket of things that Heidi and I don’t like, Floppy Knit Hats would be in that bucket. My darling former teammate, Heidi "H" Hanson recently brought the floppy knit hat epidemic to my attention and I didn’t realize how bothersome it actually was until I took a stroll about downtown during lunch. Crocheted turquoise, muted yellow and purple hats are running rampant around this city!  What’s the point of a crocheted hat really in the first place? Is it even warm with all those holes? Ok, so I'll admit I have a cashmere beret-ish type thing I wear from time to time on days when the wind chill is below zero to cover my ears. BUT I also have the hood up on my giant puffy coat so you can’t see the grey cashmere monstrosity that’s atop my head. These girls are really trying to make a statement with these hats seeing as they do not serve any functional benefit. What they don’t realize is the statement they’re making is much more fugly than fashion-forward. To quote Heidi, “And... girls [who] wear those knit hats on the back of their head. They're like berets, but knit or crocheted, and floppy. At first, I only saw [fugly] girls doing it. Now, its gone viral.”  Mind you she lives in San Francisco, a place where it doesn’t really get cold enough to cover your ears. Next time you want to mimic an Olsen Twin, stick with the latex leggings and oversized sunglasses (a la Holly and I for work Halloween circa 2008).

MacBauer

With every season of 24 that comes and goes, I’m perpetually disappointed by one obvious plot line they’ve thoughtlessly avoided. Wouldn’t it be the twist of all twists if it was revealed that Jack Bauer’s real father was actually, dum dum duuuuum MacGyver!? MacGyver would be summoned for duty by CTU after being released from government service a decade prior due to an undercover operation that inevitably went sour. Amnesia ensued and MacGyver lost any memory of his son, Jackson, who lived with his mother throughout the peak of MacGyver’s paperclip/string/straw/duct tape rescue missions. It’s not until the two rendezvous at the climax of an international nuclear bomb scare and realize their father-son kinship. Upon this realization, a series of fist fighting and gun slinging proceeds which ultimately results in the MacBauer team saving the world from itself yet again. Duct tape and Jack Bauer’s fist eat terrorists for breakfast.

There’s even a striking resemblance between the two.  And don’t the MacGyver producers owe us some sort of closure?  I mean, I wouldn’t be all that surprised if MacGyver was actually my own father.  Maybe that’s where my affinity for drinking straws initiated…

Adios Sr. Bell

Glen W. Bell Jr, the founder of Taco Bell, died this past weekend (yes the man who brought us such delicacies as the Cheesy Gordita Crunch and the Soft Steak Taco). Bow your head in respect.  I guess I never realized that the 'Bell' in 'Taco Bell' referred to a real person. I hate to even ask, is Mr. Hut still with us?

Sun Valley High

Last weekend, work was kind enough to fly us all out to Sun Valley, ID for a long weekend of skiing/working. After meetings until noon each day, we had the remaining hours until dinner to play around the mountain, take advantage of the spa, judge what all the little snow bunnies were sporting, or shop around this darling little mountain town. Blah blah, it was beautiful (as you can see from the pic above where we’re all trying as hard as possible to not tumble backwards down the mountain) and fun but instead of going into detail about the trip, here are a few key takeaways from Salt Sun Valley 2010:

• I’m really not fun on work ski trips: after drinking a bit too much and passing out by 10 the first night, I used the rest of the trip as a means to improve my skiing skills and hence abandoned my standard weekend drinking practices for early nights to sleep. Plus blacking out in front of work people = awkward.
• The blue runs out West are the black diamonds of Cascade (the 'mountain' 30 mins from my hometown): Ok, so mayyyyybee I hadn’t skied in 7 years, but this was my first time out West skiing and was ill prepared for how steep those long mountain runs are. Over a week later, I still have the bruises to prove it. Or Dave’s just beating me (jk). Either way, it’s not cute.
• My co-workers like to make human pyramids while playing flip cup: I’m kind of bummed I missed out on the flip cup night because I was tending to my ski wounds from the afternoon prior, but it probably wouldn’t have been as fun if I was there anyway (I’m so much better at flip cup than everyone as both Laura and Erica can attest to).
• Most importantly, I need a cuter ski jacket.

Hibernation

Don't you just love summers? Days at North Ave Beach, walking Katie's pup Lambeau to Oz Park, cruising the Rail at Nordstrom for dudes (sorry Dave), weddings and other significant milestones of close friends and family, the Neiman's last call sale in July. Every day of every weekend in the summer is filled with some sort of glorious activity; everyday is Christmas morning. I'm never able to sleep in during the summer months because hey, if you're sleeping, you might as well be sleeping on the beach somewhere right? And by sleeping I mean curling up with a Happy Meal and orange drink nursing a hangover. When the calendar turns to September, the fun fall activities take over of course: football games, trips to Madison, more weddings, late fall collections arrive. Then out of nowhere, BAM! winter happens. All the sudden, I'm sleeping ‘til 10 (ok some days 11) and spending as little time outside as possible. Not because I'm tired necessarily, but because I'm hibernating. Sorry mom, no, I cannot make it the 4 blocks to Walgreens today to get a new passport picture taken. Conditions are entirely too dismal to venture outside today. Plus there’s a House Hunter’s International marathon on tv and I can’t possibly miss finding out what vacation home the old Arizona couple chooses in Bali. Maybe I'm part bear or something but it is seemingly impossible to jump out of bed in the winter months to participate in some sort of activity. Obviously it's cold, but maybe we're all just storing up all of our excitement for daytime weekend activities for the summer, when daytime weekend activities are actually fun. Maybe it's just me, but don't call me on the weekends before 10 until mid-March, I'll be hibernating.

Fa La La Lame

Last night, Katie went on a date with a guy who sang to her. I’m assuming there was some liquid courage involved but yes, upon her expressing her fondness for the Jason Mraz song “I’m Yours,” he took it upon himself to sing his rendition to her. Totally good on paper guy. But anytime you find yourself floating up out of your body and peering down on the date in disgust (think Ghost Dad), it creates an incredibly uncomfortable situation. Apparently this guy was an excellent singer. But ya know, just because I happen to be excellent at closet organizing, doesn’t mean I’m going to stop the date in it’s tracks and start labeling plastic shoe containers. Just because Megan can extract your teeth doesn’t mean she’s going to throw you down on a table and pull out your incisors during intermission at Jersey Boys (actually…maybe she would).

If there was a bucket of things…. Part I

Those of you know who me well are all too familiar with my favorite intro into most conversations/profound statements: if there was a bucket of things. This first segment pertains to the one thing I dislike more than anything in the entire realm of human existence: walk-smoking. If there was a bucket of things I really don’t like, people who walk down the street while smoking would be in that bucket. I wonder if these people realize the negative effect they’re having on everyone walking behind them. Having a nose with a bird hunting dog-like sense of smell, I get to experience their repulsive habit for blocks and blocks behind them. Luckily, most smokers are inherently slow walkers. Being a daughter of a profoundly efficient speed shopper, I learned at an early age how to cover a significant amount of ground, or Nordstrom’s department, speed walking. Not like weird, side to side, hip gyrating speed walking we learned in gym class, but still pretty GD speedy. Thanks Mom for providing me with the proper skill set to effectively move past these walk-smokers. Anyway, if you are one of these walk-smokers, just know you’re not only killing yourself, you’re also killing others. I believe expressing that very sentiment to someone at Wandos in college before the smoking ban was passed almost resulted in a shiny black eye. Luckily my friends only let him spill a drink on me because a) I did throw his cigarette on the ground and b) they were twice his size (thanks Joe and Mark).

You're Your Own Demographic

When I worked at shopbop.com, my brilliant co-worker and editor extraordinaire Maureen said to me, “Anna – you’re your own demographic you know that?” This of course stemmed from a conversation which began with us chatting about fur in new fall collections and ended with me showing everyone in the office a picture of me bird hunting (in UGGs, Chanel sunglasses, and a camouflage hat no less). I decided to start a blog not because I work in online marketing, but because after college the majority of my closest friends scattered about the country and left me home alone in the Midwest (ok not alone, but still). It’s gotten to the point to where I’ve been sending out page long emails to these college cohorts where I often drift off into random ramblings about life, love, and miscellaneous Seinfeld-esque annoyances which plague my daily existence. What better way to share stay in touch with my favorite friends and family (and anyone else stupid enough to read through this) than a blog. Ugh, blog- such an ugly word. Like frugal, isn’t that the ugliest word you’ve ever seen ---- see what I mean.