Book (Cover) Review - Love, Lust and Faking It

I recently came across this gem while browsing celebrity gossip:

I have a few problems with this book cover. (I should clarify here that I have no real problem with Jenny McCarthy. Given the fact that she became famous in the first place for being a hot blond with awesome boobs, she's at least done stuff to somewhat maintain a career as an actress, plus she's used her celebrity to advance autism awareness, which is truly admirable. And I haven't read the book, which apparently has some decent reviews. The source of my rant is truly the book cover.)

First and foremost among my hangups is that Jenny McCarthy is identified as a New York Times best-selling author. I know she earned that accolade with the books she wrote about babies and autism and she's very dedicated to her cause. But seriously. I mean, she started out as a Playboy model and then got her big break with Singled Out. She starred in movies like Wieners and Dirty Love.* I also know many questionable titles, among them Sarah Palin's Going Rogue, have ended up on that list, which is really just a measure of sales and has nothing to do with literary or cultural merit. And yet it bothers me that this book cover (accurately) identifies its author in the same company as writers like Norman Mailer, Boris Pasternak, Salman Rushdie, John Irving, David Sedaris and numerous other authors I adore.

My second problem with this book cover is that it's just weird. The artwork is very Danielle-Steele-meets-Gothic-fantasy-with-a-modern-twist. Sunset on a jetty? Are your boobs obvious enough? Is he muscle-y enough? Did he just rescue you from the surf or is he about to whisk you away to that lighthouse? And there must be something pretty amazing on that cell phone you're distracted by to keep you from devoting all your attention to the serious smolder that guy is trying to rock.

Except for my third, and honestly biggest, problem with this book cover. Smoldering Steve there has a MULLET. A CURLY MULLET. That was honestly the first thing that caught my eye. Really Jenny McCarthy? And Jenny McCarthy's editor? And the art department at Harper Collins? I mean, if you wanted to emphasize the "faking it" part, put a picture of Jenny and Jim Carrey on the cover, because I'm guessing there was some faking it happening there. But to take what would otherwise be a solid artist's rendering of a hot guy and topping him off with a curly mullet just confuses me. And leads me to believe that whoever you're connecting with on that cell phone doesn't have a mullet, which means you will be leaving Smoldering Steve for Mullet-free Matt, and the whole sunset-on-a-jetty-before-hot-sex-in-a-lighthouse thing is just a tease. It gets even more confusing when you realize that the first chapter of her book describes how her mom reconnected with her high school love after divorcing Jenny's dad. Which is a sweet, heartwarming story that has little to do with giant boobs and sunset and lighthouses. So your bookcover is misleading. And you should be warned that cat-ladies everywhere are going to be disappointed when there is no mention of that gleaming mullet ravishing you in that lighthouse.

*You really should check out this review. Consider it my Christmas gift to you. And you're welcome.

Who did we think we were?

That's what I asked when I sent my college roommate and still dear friend several pictures I dug up from our younger days. She had asked for photos to use in a slideshow in her upcoming wedding and I finally sat down a couple of weeks ago to go through old pictures so I could scan and send some to her that pre-date the advent of digital cameras. Most of them date back to 2001-2002, our freshman year at OU. As I looked through boxes of photos, I was struck by how young everyone looked and I couldn't help but laugh at our always-ready-for-party-pics poses.

The day we moved into the dorm.

I miss those girls. I miss them running up and down the dorm hall in preparation for a night out. I miss them getting biscuits and gravy from the student union and eating it in line outside the stadium at 4 a.m. so they could get good seats for the big game. I miss them riding around in the Explorer, rap music blaring and congratulating themselves on how bad-ass they were for nailing the entire song. I miss their anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better ambition, their sometimes overinflated but always unflappable confidence and their conviction that one day soon they would reach "the top." Those girls had everything going for them. They were young, cute, smart and fearless. I was dead-set on being a hotshot attorney, crusading for women and children and giving a voice to those without one. She was med school bound, with the goal of being a top cardiac surgeon and having a major impact on the world of medicine. They had big dreams and all the tools they thought they needed to make those dreams reality.

The night we ended up at the infamous Forum, or
the church-converted-to-a-nightclub-that-lasted-about-a-year.

But for all the book smarts God saw fit to gift them with and all the street smarts they were acquiring for themselves, they were missing a vital piece of information: You can't plan Life. When you try, it will shake your hand and tell you good game after it's beat you in a close race -- at best. At worst it'll roundhouse kick you in the teeth, spill your Dr. Pepper, steal your Coach bag, max out your credit cards, ram your car into a stop sign and then drop it off in your driveway with f*ck you keyed into it. Of course, being either hopelessly optimistic or a glutton for punishment, you'll throw yourself back into the milieu , bruised and broke, but hopefully not broken, and you'll start planning your next trip around the sun.

We made the most of the snow day we had that year.

I'd guess that about 90% of our plans didn't quite pan out, or at least not the way we thought they would. I could argue and say to Life, "Ha. You thought you changed all my plans, but here I am, married and a lawyer, just like I said. Sure I don't have three kids, but I have three dogs, which are much better than kids because they don't talk back, they don't touch all your nice stuff with their sticky little fingers and you can leave them unattended for a whole day." But the next week I feel my biological clock ticking and some kind of maternal instinct fighting for air, whereas the week before I was convinced that I never want the smelly, noisy, sticky little things. And let's face it, the road to (and through) law school was a bit bumpy, and right now the road to that hotshot career I envisioned has all but washed out. I'm sure Life is smugly gloating at my continued attempts to make plans and control their outcomes. The girl in those pictures would have flipped off her intangible nemesis and marched her headstrong self straight into the flood. The woman I am now stops and says, "Ok, I get it, I'll find another road."

I like to think that my mom is right when she says everything happens for a reason, and so there's a reason for all the dumbshit or hurtful stuff I've done just like there's a reason for all the smart, good or nice things I've done. But I also think it's bullshit when people say that they wouldn't have done things differently if given the chance. If the girl in these pictures would have been able to look ahead and see where she'd be in nine years, I'd hope she'd have been smart enough to do a lot of things differently. But that doesn't mean I'm not ok where I am, and it also doesn't mean that I think I'd be any happier -- I'd likely just have a different set of regrets and a different set of problems.

Proud of almost having finished our freshman year at OU
without getting alcohol poisoning or roofied.

While my friend and I have both been able to mark some things off the long list of things we set out to accomplish, we haven't quite conquered the world the way we thought we would. We aren't movers and shakers, travelling the world, making heads roll and hearts melt. We're living our relatively quiet lives, caught up in building our lives as part of a couple, planning weddings, juggling family holidays, fitting in girls' night and watching football with friends, all the while slowly carving out our niches, which by now probably appear to be series of unconnected tunnels that lead nowhere. However, if my mom is right, all those tunnels will join up eventually and we'll have had fun exploring them all along the way.

Circa October 2010. We still know how to rock it,
we just call it a night earlier.

It was good to be reminded of the girls we used to be. It made me appreciate who we've become and all the unexpected turns our lives have taken in order to make us comfortable with being women that our 18-year-old selves would have scoffed at. But it was also good to remember the I-can-be-anything-and-do-anything attitude we had back then. And I still think we'll both reach "the top." The mountain may be a little smaller and closer to home, but that's fine because we'll be able to recognize a lot more of the people and places that make up the view.

A Thanksgiving Tableau

Attendees at my parents' house this year for Thanksgiving dinner were my parents, of course, my aunt Sue and uncle Victor, and Scott and I. A traditional holiday feast consisting of turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, dressing, veggies and rolls was served. Conversation began with the usual topic of midget wrestling* then moved on to co-workers my dad has had at various jobs, including but not limited to Fish Eye and Broke Toe. Eventually, my dad worked in his schpiel about how men are inherently greater than women. At this point I began clearing the dishes, followed shortly thereafter by my mom and aunt. My dad continued to regale my uncle and Scott with his opinions on women, how they should be kept** and their uses.*** He then tried to help us finish clearing the table and was met with dismay. My mom insisted that he join the menfolk and that they could talk about manly things that we poor women just wouldn't be able to understand. She also told him that the next time he got hungry he could just go to the reservation and hunt him up a new woman.

On Saturday before we left, my dad apologized to me and said he had his medicine and would start taking it again.****

I love family holidays. Only three more weeks to go until the next one!

*If my dad doesn't bring it up, Scott will; he loves hearing about the glory days of the aforementioned "sport."

**In case you're wondering, as I'm sure you are, women should be kept on reservations, then when a man needs one for whatever purpose (see note below) he can just go and hunt one up. Who knows, this could turn out to be more entertaining than midget wrestling. After all, no one said we can't carry our own weapons.

***Sex, cooking, having babies, cleaning, sex, laundry and, obviously, sex.

****Which means that Christmas will be much less offensive but also much less entertaining.

Graduation Recap

Bre, I'd totally hire you.

It's been almost a whole month since I officially went from unemployed law student to unemployed law grad and with all the subsequent commotion, I am just now getting around to uploading those pics to my computer, and I thought I'd share some highlights from the day:

1. Commencement Speaker WIN - Secretary of Energy Steven Chu. In a surprisingly entertaining and sincere speech, Secretary Chu advised all Wash U grads to "do something that matters." That was after he likened himself to the corpse at an Irish wake, i.e. the only thing between us and the party.

2. People Watching WIN - While waiting for the processional to end at the university-wide ceremony, we were afforded a great people-watching opportunity. Reagan found a guy with an awesome pompadour, and we decided that the Secret Service was there with Secretary Chu. Also, while waiting to leave the first ceremony, a poor WULAW staffer, stuck waiting with our banner, had clearly had enough of the festivities.







3. Undergrad WIN - At least I assume it was an undergrad scheme to bring in a giant inflatable penis, blow it up and send it flying through the graduate section toward the end of the university-wide ceremony.

4. Commencement Speaker FAIL - Strobe Talbott, President of the Brookings Institute. We all had much higher expectations for this speaker than for Secretary Chu, but our confidence was misplaced. The speech was more appropriate for a political rally, making many in the audience, regardless of political standing, a little uncomfortable. I was trying to hang on, thinking the president of one of the nation's oldest think tanks would eventually have something to say worth hearing, but as soon as the words "nuclear proliferation" escaped, I became much more interested in trying to find people I knew in the crowd and calculating how long my poor feet could hold out, which brings me to...

5. Cute Shoe FAIL - So I had these super cute strappy snakeskin, 3.5" heels that I wore. Big mistake. While they gave me a bit of much needed height, my hubby informed me that I was still one of the shortest grads. He said he found my spot in the processional for looking for the dip towards the end of the alphabet. (In my defense, I was surrounded by about a dozen guys on either side, so I could have been a normal-sized person and still been shorter than those around me.) Also, in the process of crossing campus for the first ceremony, I tripped and bit it, hard. I actually have a graduation scar on my anklebone. The shoes came off as soon asI got to my seat on the quad, and stayed off until I had to process in for the law ceremony. They are now in their box in a packing box, probably never to be unpacked again.

6. Voice of the Class WIN - Becky's "Part of Denmark" story was cleverly analogized to our class and she left me feeling good about choosing Wash U, largely due to the many fabulous folks I have been lucky enough to meet while here.

Just one of those fabulous folks, my old rooomie!

7. Gathering FAIL - Due to the general chaos of the day, and the large number of people I was toting around after the ceremony, I was unable to find any friends post-J.D.-conferment for party pics. Dang. But I did end up with some great ones before the whole shindig got underway. Plus, our 7 a.m. mimosa toast on top of the parking garage was hard to beat.

8. Regalia WIN - Despite my last post, I have to say we all look pretty sharp in our robes and tams. And the hoods definitely add to our general overall scholarli-ness. Way to spring for the high-quality stuff, Wash U. If we get nothing else from our degree, we looked pretty damn sharp on the day you gave it to us.

At least we look official.

9. Diploma...WTF - So I get my diploma, get back to my seat to read over it, and realize I can't. Read it, that is. Because it's in Latin. Even the name of the school. And the name of the state. I'm pretty sure there isn't a real Latin word for Washington, much less Missouri. It looks like the fake diploma that comes with the diploma frames you find at Wal-Mart. I did get a nice, classy frame for it, with Wash U School of Law in gold on the matte, and I hope that quells any doubts people might have about the legitimacy of my degree if they see my diploma.

Washingtoniana? Missouriensi?

All in all, a memorable day. Thanks to friends and family, a great few days leading up to and following it. But mostly, I'm just glad I don't have to go to summer school.

Regalia Fail.

Graduation is in four days. Today I picked up my cap and gown, etc., cracked up with a friend who I ran into in the bookstore over the caps we have to wear, got home and got an email from the same friend suggesting that I try on my gown, because as a fellow shorty, the one I got might just be too long. So I broke into my bag of goodies:

Along with the robe, tam (because we're too cool for mortarboards) and hood, I was delighted to find a message from the Commencement Committee telling me to BYO water if I think I'll get thirsty during the four-hour ordeal, instructions for how to use my hood and how to care for my robe (otherwise that shit'll cost ya $600). I proceeded to practice looking like a grad:

The thing about robes or gowns or whatever you want to call them is that one-size-does-not-fit-all. I got the 5'2" version, which is intended for all of us vertically challenged graduates. The problem is that there is no difference between mine, my equally-short-but-30-pounds-lighter-friends and a 200 lb potbellied linebacker for the midget football league. Also, I'm never quite sure how long those things are supposed to be. At any rate, this one definitely made me look like a midget in a choir robe. I thought maybe the hat would help me look more "doctoral":

It did not. It did, however, lend itself to some stylistic interpretations that would most likely not be law-school approved:

Chef Liz! Ummm, does this mean I have to BYO snacks, too?

I must have been thinking about paying off my student loans with my non-existent income.

Then I remembered I hadn't added the tassel! That had to make it better.

Or just kinda sad and droopy.

THEN IT DAWNED ON ME! I forgot my cape.*

Am I swooping? My superhero* instincts must have taken over.

*You doubt my terminology? Just wait until you've had Commencement/Superhero Training.

Still missing something. Luckily, my graduation garb came with a coordinating Adult Hooded Poncho!

The hooded poncho helps, especially with the logo in front.

So basically, I hope it rains Friday. Otherwise I'll just look like a midget linebacker in a choir robe and funny hat.

I'll show you my Schmoo if you'll show me yours.

Apologies to anyone who was hoping for a picture of a vagina.

Excerpt of actual conversation I had with my friend Ep via Blackberry messenger today:

It started out talking about how Scott and I are trying to make a post-bar exam trip to visit Ep in Curacao, and about how Scott's fam is taking a cruise that will port there for a day in June, but how I have been dying to stay at an all-inclusive place so I could spend more than 8 hours exploring any given place.

Ep: Branson! Problem solved.

Liz: (I explained that we were thinking more Caribbean sun and snorkel, then...) Oh, don't you worry. I get to spend a week in Branson with my mom, sister and nieces this summer. It's my mom's favorite vacation destination.

Ep: (Funny story about his mom suggesting Branson as a romantic get-away spot, then...) Tell the fiddling Asian I said hello.

Liz: Branson is hard to beat for romance! And I happen to love Shoji Tabuchi.

Ep: (Clearly amazed that I knew not just of whom he spoke, but that I also knew the star performer's name.) You always have to one up! I saw the man for something like my eighth birthday. OU lost to Miami. I cried.

Liz: I'm glad someone else has childhood Branson memories. I, unfortunately, have teenage Branson memories too.

Ep: Yikes. Shepherd of the hills, bitches!

Liz: Been there. Oh yeah. Fire in the hole!

Ep: Hell yes!

(Sorry if you don't get the references to Branson's awesomeness. Just know that you're missing out. And that Fire in the Hole is a roller coaster with drunk singing miners pillaging a town that used to make me cry. It's like Pirates of the Caribbean at Disney World, only Ozark-style. Oh YEEEAHH.)

Ep: Going back as an adult...if I prayed, you'd be thought of.

Liz: (Brief exposition on the romance that could be had over fried chicken at the Dolly's Dixie Stampede, then...)

Ep: HO-LY hell! You're way too dangerous not to stay aligned with. What recall!!

Liz: Well, it's not often I realize a friend has the same fondness for Branson that I do. (I fill Ep in on the post-finals-pre-graduation trip to Dollywood in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, complete with a stop at the original Dixie Stampede, that I'm taking with friends.)

Ep: (Suitably impressed.) Get. The. Fuck. Out.

Liz: Why Dollywood, you ask. It's got Dolly, roller coasters, friend food and presumably lots of mountain people.

Ep: Did you ever make it to Dogpatch U.S.A?

Liz: Yes. (As if he needed to ask.) I LOVED that big white thing! I also saw the Rainbow Brite Show at Dogpatch. Do you know, that big white blob that danced around there? I forget what he was called, but I definitely have a stuffed one of him here at my parents' house.

Ep: Been googlin' like mad since first mention...

Liz: My mom tried to get rid of it once and I 'bout had to cut a bitch. I was all "NOOO! I love (insert-name-of-big-white-blob-from-Dogpatch-USA)!!!"

Ep: The schmoo?...Yeah! The Schmoo!

Liz: YES! I kept thinking Moo, but I knew that was wrong. SCHMOO! (If you knew the Schmoo, you'd understand why this excitement is completely appropriate.) I'm sad that if I have kids, they will never meet the real Schmoo.

Ep: He lives in our hearts.

Then I sent Ep this picture:

Schmoo makes my heart happy.

Liz: I found him! In the top of a closet! I sent you a picture of my Schmoo! I feel like you are my long-lost childhood doppelganger. All this time I had no idea we had so many shared experiences. (Notice the irrational excitement. Irrational because now, in my calm state, I realize that there are hundreds of thousands of children who experienced the wonders of Branson AND Dogpatch U.S.A. But irrational excitement is what happens when you find your Schmoo.)

Ep: Whoa! He's glorious! (Yes. Yes he is.)

Liz: Also, if one didn't know what a Schmoo is, one might think it's a dirty thing to send a picture of.

Ep: Hahahaha. It's still porn to me.

Liz: I think I will dedicate my next blog post to Schmoo.

And here we are. I figure I might as well keep going with the childhood throwback thing. Plus, I really like saying Schmoo! I actually say it out loud every time I type it. Good thing no one was around this morning, or for the last half-hour...

My Skipper was a soap star, how 'bout yours?

Today, on Sirius 90s on 9 (my new absolute favorite radio station, shout-out and thanks to my dad, who will hopefully never read this blog, for getting me 6 more months of listening pleasure) I heard that controversial hit from 1997, Aqua's "Barbie Girl." Every time I hear that song, which has been about twice in the last 6 months thanks to the aforementioned 90s on 9, I go back to a simpler time. Not junior high, because let's be honest, those three years were a bitch. No, I'm talking way back. Back to when I actually played with Barbies, Kens and Skippers.

I had probably around 12 Barbies, but only 2 Skippers and 2 Kens. Every Barbie needed a Ken, which meant that each Ken had to do sextuple duty. When I busted out all my Barbie loot, I was very careful to maintain completely separate story lines for each Barbie/Ken pairing. I'd like to say my young mind was subconsciously thinking metaphysical thoughts and I saw every Barbie as an extension of all the others but it probably had more to do with my early affinity for following daytime TV. At any rate, even though my Kens had to fill the role of boyfriend/husband for multiple Barbies, there was never any jealousy amongst the bevy of buxom blondes. Ken was never seen as so much as a two-timer, much less a six-timer. It was like they all knew they were just actors on the stage of my imagination.

Now, I firmly believe that the story line I am about to relate came about as a direct result of watching too many soap operas with my Nana. I spent all day every Monday-Friday with her until I started kindergarten, and then I spent the summer weekdays with her. My Nana was my absolute favorite person in the world. She taught me lots of things, like if you make your oatmeal with milk and loads of sugar, it's actually quite delicious. She also introduced me to soap operas. Every day, from noon to 3, we watched "our shows": Days of Our Lives (going strong since 1965), Another World and Santa Barbara. Oh, the drama! The love affairs! The scandal! The cat fights! The people dying horrible, fiery deaths and then mysteriously reappearing years later! The way women always went to bed and woke up with alarmingly perfect hair and make-up!

(I admit, somewhat shamefully, that I occasionally still tune in to Days of Our Lives just to see if my favorite Salem-ites are still alive, whether they have some sort of soap opera amnesia and whether their unrequited love has been requited. Also, I love trying to figure out if Sami Brady is in good-girl or bad-girl phase.)

Anywhooo, my most memorable (i.e. the one that horrified my mother and so I actually remember it) Barbie saga involved a love triangle between Barbie, Ken and Skipper. Now, I always assumed Barbie and Ken were in their mid-to-late twenties. I didn't really think about Skipper's age, I just knew she was slightly younger than Barbie based on the fact that she was shorter and had smaller boobs. I would like to stress that I did not grasp that Skipper was apparently intended to be between the ages of 13 and 15. Anyway, everybody knows Barbie and Ken are a supercouple, just like Bo and Hope. Anyone who knows their daytime soaps knows that a couple doesn't achieve supercouple status without their share of strife and scandal. So I created a little real-life (and by that I mean entirely soap-opera-based) drama for Barbie and Ken. Enter Skipper.

Apparently Barbie, with all her blonde, big-boobed, tiny-waisted bombshellness, wasn't enough for Ken. In his defense, I've always thought Barbie must be a lot to handle. I mean, who looks that good all the time, no matter how you butcher her hair or mis-match her outfits. Keeping that perfect tan and always being bikini ready must take a lot of effort, so I'm gonna go ahead and say Barbie's high maintenance. Plus, imagine how hard Ken must have to work to afford not just all the dream homes and cars, but the education for Barbie's many job changes over the years. She's as schizophrenic when it comes to her career as I am.

Point is, I guess Ken needed a break from all that hotness and all that hot pink. To tell the truth, I never really thought about Ken's motivation until just now, I just knew Barbie and Ken were epic, and since most of my knowledge of love and marriage was, at this point, informed by the aforementioned, I knew Dance Club Barbie and Animal Lovin' Ken needed some daytime-style drama if their relationship was going to survive. Skipper was the obvious choice. Cute, bubbly, and slightly more au naturale than her big sister, she was a refreshing change. (Of course, if I had realized at the time she was jail-bait it would have been even more awesome...) Too bad for Ken and Skipper, my 8-year-old self didn't know about contraception. That's right folks, my Beach Blast Skipper got knocked up. Luckily for Skipper, her clothes weren't as tight-fitting as Barbie's, so no one noticed the baby bump (cleverly crafted from bits of torn Kleenex) for a while.

To my way of thinking, the only thing more scandalous than a Ken-and-Skipper-love-child was five love-children. Luckily, I also happened to be the proud owner of Quints, the cute little set of quintuplets that pre-dated, or perhaps foreshadowed, America's obsession with multiple births and unreasonable numbers of children. I guess since Barbie didn't want to sacrifice her 36-18-33 figure or her constantly morphing professional life to have kids, Ken figured that when he got the chance to spread his seed he better do it up right. At any rate, soon Skipper's bump grew to mammouth proportions. Eventually, my poor mom noticed.

I was a pretty quiet kid, content to hole up in my room for hours on end reading books or acting out my elaborate doll-dramas. Mom would occasionally come upstairs just to check on me, as she did on this occasion. I can't recall the exact details of my mom's discovering the sordid details of my active imagination, but I imagine that she had to have heard a bit of my improvised character dialogue as she walked up the stairs and down the hall, which may have gone something like this:

Barbie: I can't believe you would cheat on me! And with my little sister!

Ken: I'm so sorry, Barbie, I love you, really I do. But it just happened.

Skipper: But Ken! I'm pregnant with your children! You said you loved ME!

Ken: Sorry babe. Barbie's the love of my life. I just bought her a hot pink Corvette convertible to prove it to her.

Barbie: Oh, Ken! I love hot pink Corvette convertibles! Let's go for a ride down to my 50's-style drive-in!

Skipper: But what am I supposed to do? I'm having five babies! And they're all yours!

Ken: Don't worry babe, I'll pay child support.

(Barbie and Ken ride off in hot pink Corvette convertible, heading to the drive-in then back to their dream house. Meanwhile, Skipper is left all alone in Barbie's (pink) RV where she has been living for the last few months.)

Cue real-life mom: (worriedly) Honey, what are you doing?

Young Liz: (innocently) Playing with my Barbies.

Mom: What have your Barbies been up to lately?

Liz: (matter-of-factly) Ken had an affair with Skipper. But it's ok, Barbie forgave him because he bought her a Corvette.

Mom: (cautiously) Well, that's good, I guess. But what's under Skipper's dress?

Liz: Kleenex. I had to make her pregnant because she's accidentally going to have five of Ken's babies.

Mom: Elizabeth, why is Skipper going to have Ken's babies?

Liz: Because she had an affair with Ken.

Mom: But why did they have an affair?

Liz: Because Skipper liked Ken, even though he likes Barbie. Then Ken and Barbie had a fight and Ken thought he might like Skipper better. But then she got pregnant and he decided he really liked Barbie after all.

Mom: (clearly concerned about the fact that this all makes so much sense to her daughter) How on earth did you come up with that?

Liz: (patiently explaining to mother who clearly has no idea about the ways of the world) It happens all the time on mine and Nana's shows. Except sometimes on those people have affairs because they think their wife is dead when she's really not.

Like I said, I can't recall the exact conversation my mom and I had, but subsequent discussions (when I was old enough to actually properly discuss such themes) reveal that my mom was confused/concerned/horrified over Skipper's pregnant state and my thinking it was weird that she didn't understand that stuff like that just happens. I think at this point my mom tried pretty hard to convince me to forego this storyline and have some of my Barbies go on a camping trip with the Kens and a non-pregnant Skipper. Of course, I would have had none of that because I had big plans for Skipper and those quints. Also, I figured at the very least, Skipper could convince Barbie to have pity on her/not want Skipper to tell the whole town that Ken was her baby-daddy and give her the fold-and-go cottage, and maybe the RV for keeps. After all, Skipper would need something a lot bigger than a hot pink Corvette convertible to haul all of Ken's babies around...

Liz's Top 10 Tips for Surviving Law School

Let me start off by saying that if you aren't currently a law student, I have ONE tip for you: Don't do it. That's all. You'll thank me later, when you still have youthful optimism, faith in humanity and confidence in your own intelligence and competency. (You'll really thank me when you realize you've saved three years and $150k.)

For you suckers who have already made the mistake of signing on to finance the hallowed halls where the goal is to kill your dreams and eat your soul, here is a guide for coming out with a little bit of your "-ness" still intact.

1. Don't take a class that doesn't have outlines from past years available online. Even if you're a crazy-outlining-fool, these things can get you through on-call days with at least a little dignity intact. And if you hate outlining, there's really no need to reinvent the wheel.

2. Don't eat the NASCAR burger out of the vending machine. Or if you really must, say, for a challenge created to make the last semester more interesting, don't examine it too closely.

They don't look like this when they come out of the vending machine...

3. Make the effort to find good friends. You will need them to bitch with, to laugh with, to cry with, to find amazing excuses not to study with. You'll probably have to look hard as most of the folks who will stand out in most classes will be either still-in-college-mode-too-cool-for-school types or else pretentious douchebag types. But when you find them, whether it's early or late in the game, it will be well worth your while. They are the only people who will truly understand the 3 years of pain.

4. If there happens to be a British professor, take their class. It's totally worth it to hear them say things like "states can't go around cutting people's bollocks off just because they've been naughty." It will take you from this:

to this:

5. Don't expect the career services office to be much help in your job search. Unless you're gunning for BigLaw and are near the top of your class, they likely won't know what to do with you.

6. Every once in a while, venture across campus to the world of the undergrads. It's refreshing to see what you were like not so many years ago...just try not to get depressed when you realize you'll never be that carefree again.

7. Don't be a douchebag. Or a gunner. Or a think-you-know-it-all-prick who prefaces words with "pseudo-" or "quasi-" or who uses big words that don't really make your point any more clear. Everyone gets that you're smart. We're all smart. We're just not all assholes.

Special tips for spring semester, 3L year:

8. Try really hard to take as many pass/fail classes this semester as possible. By this time no one cares enough to actually put forth the time or effort to compete with the asshole 2Ls.

9. Don't take a class with an attendance policy this semester. Again, you won't care, and as spring looms on the horizon, you'll want to be out in the sunshine, i.e., not in class surrounded by asshole 2Ls.

10. Plan a kick-ass post-finals trip with some of those friends you've made. Preferably to Dollywood in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, with a stop in Nashville and then dinner at Dolly's Dixie Stampede, but really, anywhere will work. You'll deserve it by this time.

So I'm in debt up to the eyeballs of a much taller person and I have no job prospects -- I'm going to the Dixie Stampede, bitches. So, so worth it.

I hope these tips help anyone who happens to stumble upon them. Friends, feel free to leave your nuggets of wisdom in the comments. Together, maybe we can help those who have already fallen prey to dreams of making the world a better place or promises of 6-figure salaries come out on the other side not much worse for the wear.

Speed-Networking, CSO's answer to the Great Recession?

Here at WULAW, today is Solo, Small and Midsize Firm Day, brought to you by your helpless helpful CSO office. It promises "one-to-one time with no less than 10 attorneys." It includes a fifty-minute speed networking session, followed by a half-hour reception.

Now, I don't want to be Debbie Downer, but really? Speed-networking? I mean, I guess the CSO gets an A for effort, and maybe I'm just jaded, but I don't really see many meaningful connections coming out of 5-minute chat sessions with alumni who have likely been somehow guilted talked into sharing their nuggets of wisdom and encouragement to ten downtrodden law students apiece.

It's a great idea, in theory. But I never saw a list of the attorneys who would be here. I assume they're mostly from St. Louis firms, which is great. Except a lot of us 3Ls will be out of student loan money soon, so if we want to stick around here to take advantage of all our new connections, we will need jobs. I doubt many of these fine folks are handing those out at Solo, Small and Midsize Firm Day.

Of course, I'm being selfish here, we 3Ls aren't the only ones in need of jobs, plenty of 1Ls and 2Ls are still floundering around, hoping for bite at a summer job. And to be fair, we seem to have been officially dubbed "The Lost Year" in the legal job market. So, go, you young, fresh-faced young ones, with the glimmer of landing a six-figure salary still in your eye. Speed-network. Speed-network until you can't remember another name and until you have run out of
resumés. Godspeed.

And CSO, don't worry about us 3Ls. We will find jobs. We may not make enough to pay our student loans, or even our rent, but we will find ways to fill our time, whether we be deferred or utterly jobless. I hear Chipotle is hiring.

When I grow up (Or, 5 career paths to fall back on).

Now that I have submitted my bar application, it's time to start seriously considering my fall-back plan. Really plans, since I don't expect any of them to pay the bills for any extended amount of time. My current top 5:

1. Boradway Star. When I was a little kid, I used to say I wanted to be a singer/dancer/actress on stage. I honestly feel like right now I have as good a chance at this as I do getting a job as an attorney. A quick review of the qualifications:

• Can I sing? In my car and in the shower I put on quite a concert.
  
• Can I dance? I actually took dance when I was younger and won some talent contests. Then again, 10-year-old me was pretty freaking awesome at just about everything. Seeing as how I am pretty much old balls now, I would probably break a hip.
  
• Can I act? We should check with Professor Rosenzweig on this one. I try to act like I'm paying attention in tax class three days a week, so if he's convinced, I'm pretty sure it's a go.

2. Reality TV Star. For further explanation, read this.

3. Coiner of Words. There is actually a story to this one, and it goes a little something like so: One Friday afternoon, during a make-up tax class where we were all dreaming of the booze and boos to come at the annual WLC auction, Jackie and I got to talking about rompers. Rompers? you ask, Why on earth were you talking about rompers? Well, it just so happens that our new mutual bff (who doesn't yet know she is our new mutual bff, but once you read her blog, you will want to be her bff too) has a vendetta against rompers of the adult variety. And in case you haven't noticed, for some inexplicable reason, the fashion world for some reason thinks they are a great idea right now. Anyway, Jackie accidentally found herself the confused owner of this gem:

And the following conversation ensued:

Liz: You know, that romper truly reminds me of stuff I wore in the summer when I was about 5. Jackie: Agreed. Which, is awkward, since as Una points out - you have to get completely naked to pee.
Liz: I think I would think it was a really short dress on the rack.
Jackie: Dislike. It looked like a long halter!
Liz: That is so true...the whole peeing thing is not overcomable.
Jackie: Overcomable.....good word.
Liz: I know. I just coined it. Rompers are good for something. Maybe I can get rich off that word. Jackie: I'm not sure you can -but might as well try. You can sell that word to dictionary companies while wearing a romper. It's a unique marketing strategy.
Liz: And they will know exactly what I mean.
Jackie: Totally - because you can strip down to show that the peeing while completely naked thing is wierd.
Liz: And then they would feel sorry for this poor girl who just humiliated herself by getting naked in a business meeting to which she wore a romper and they would totally buy my word.
Jackie: YES! I think this is the best idea yet.
Liz: I will add it to my list of fall-back plans.*
Jackie: Please place it near the top. And hire me as your fashion consultant. I can buy rompers with the greatest of ease.

To anyone reading who happens to work for Merriam-Webster or Random House or any other dictionary publisher: "Overcomable" is for sell.

To any of my friends who happen to have taken IP law classes: I may need your help soon. "Overcomable" is going to be big. HUGE, in fact.

*Done.

4. Professional Poster Maker. Reagan and I are going in together on this one because, as we learned while making posters for the ROW raffle and bar review at the Atomic Cowboy, we are awesome with an electronic paper cutting machine, glue and glitter. Here is just one of our creations:



We are available for weddings, birthdays, bar mitzvahs, happy hours, auctions, potlucks, upcoming evening of fabulousness at Shiver, Sugar and/or Norwoods' and road trips to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.

5. Mechanical Bull Rental Company. Haven't you ever been to a party and thought, man, this is a great party, but it just seems to be missing something? What that party was missing, friends, was a mechanical bull. Because a party just isn't a party until something like this happens to one of YOUR friends:

Friends don't let friends ride mechanical bulls...sober.

Also available for weddings, birthdays, bar mitzvahs, happy hours, auctions, potlucks, upcoming evenings of fabulousness at Shiver, Sugar and/or Norwoods' and road trips to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. (I hear Dolly's got some serious mechanical bull skills.)

NB: I am currently seeking investors for any/all of these endeavors. Checks can be made out directly to me. Thanks in advance for your contribution.

Why I will never keep a food diary.

1. A can of Dr. Pepper.

2. St. Louis Bread Co.'s You Pick Two - I picked the Fuji Apple Chicken Salad and Chicken Noodle Soup, with a sourdough roll and a Dr. Pepper.

3. A Butterfinger and a 20 oz. bottle of Dr. Pepper.

4. Two cold pieces of the Colonel's Original Recipe Kentucky Fried Chicken, left over from yesterday's dinner.

Only 35 calories per serving.

5. A can of Del Monte Stewed Tomatoes. Straight from the can, to a bowl, to my mouth.

6. Two Marshmallow Peeps. (Moderation is key here, folks.)

They only come around this time of year.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

On the upside, the Vending Machine Challenge returns tomorrow, live from the WULAW Commons.

I don't need your stinkin' nickel.

I can run out to my car, in the cold and rain, and get my own, thankyouverymuch.

The stuff ephiphanies are made of.

Thus began my epiphany, Sunday afternoon, at this 7-Eleven:

Where an epiphany is free with your Dr. Pepper Big Gulp.

I stopped there on my way to Reagan's to watch Mizzou lose. (Not hating on the Tigers, I had on my Mizzou shirt. But they lost anyway.) Anyway, back to my epiphany. Whenever I run in somewhere to get a Dr. Pepper from a fountain, I bring in the following: five quarters, two dimes, one nickel and four pennies. (Sometimes I bring in a dollar bill and only one quarter.) So I can pay in exact change* and not collect more pennies. Well, today, I thought I had five quarters but I only had four. My extra-large Dr. Pepper rung up at $1.34. Once I realized I was short, I said, "Oh, hold on! I have to get more change from my car." To which the completely unoffensive, non-lecherous, rather mundane-looking man next to me responded, "How much are you short? I have tons of change." Which he did. But I for some reason thought it necessary to dash for the door, calling over my shoulder, "Oh, it's fine, I have tons of change in my car!" Which I did. However, I thought it more reasonable to run outside to my car (did I mention it was cold and rainy?) to get a nickel, forcing the aforementioned man to wait while I did so before he could be rung up, just so that I would not have to accept assistance.

Of course, I realized how unreasonable I was as I left 7-Eleven. Why couldn't I take five cents from a stranger? It was not offered in a manner that made me think the man questioned whether I actually had five more cents or whether I was dashing out in embarassment, never to return for my soda. He had a handful of change, so it wasn't like I was worried that the man couldn't spare me a nickel. It was a simple case of one person being nice to another. AND I COULDN'T LET HIM BE NICE TO ME. He wasn't lecherous. Pretty sure he didn't expect anything in return for his nickel. He wasn't dirty or smelly or anything that would inspire repugnance and he seemed to have all his teeth. I just couldn't let someone help me.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I couldn't help but wonder how the hell I became so eaten up with maintaining independence that I couldn't bring myself to accept five fucking cents from someone. It's not like I think I don't deserve it. I leave pennies in the Take-a-Penny-Leave-a-Penny bowls. Sometimes I even leave dimes. I have totally given someone near me in line change to make up for what they are short, so it's not like I have anything against random acts of kindness toward strangers!

I mean, let's face it, at the moment my income consists solely of student loans and the occasional handout from the folks, and while I did have a real full-time job for two years, I have never considered myself "financially independent." Yet I pride myself on being "independent."

Then I started thinking of all the other unreasonable things I do to assert my so-called independence:

• I refuse to let anyone help me carry out my 40-pound bag of dog food at PetSmart, nor do I use a cart, even if I also round out my trip with several other treats and toys.
  
• I refused to let my mom have a plumber come fix my toilet, which ran constantly for at least two months until the water bill got so high that I started turning the water to the toilet off after every flush which was a pain when my mom, my sister and my two nieces spent a week visiting last summer. (In my defense, after they left I went and bought the $20 part and fixed it myself, which probably saved at least $100 that a plumber would have charged for labor. Plus I kind of felt like a bad-ass because it required more than just replacing the stopper ball, which is what I had been telling everyone all summer but no one believed me, not even the man at Lowe's. Normally I like Lowe's, but this man clearly thought I was a dumb little girl and I ended up arguing with him over what my toilet pump looked like until I finally got frustrated, went home, took a picture of the inside of my toilet tank and went to Home Depot where the man knew what I was talking about without my even having to show him the picture.)
  
• I spent an entire weekend raking and filling 80 bags of leaves last fall rather than just paying the neighbor kid to keep up with it over the course of the two preceding months. I could hardly move on Monday morning.

I am sure I could think of more, but I am starting to see a pattern. An anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better kind of pattern. Mostly it seems I refuse the help of men, or maybe when anything that is stereotypically something a man would take care of is involved. Perhaps I would have taken the nickel from a woman? Or perhaps a woman would have been more insistent that I take it, or would have just handed it to me or the clerk, thereby removing my chance to refuse? Is it the fact of the help being offered in and of itself or is it from whence the help cometh?

Come to think of it, the last time I can remember asking** a man for help, I was about three. (And I don't so much remember this as my parents have pictures proving it happened.) I asked my dad to help me put ALL of my little Goody barrettes in my hair. I had a big mason jar full of them, so there was a lot of barrette happening on my head. We're talking crayons and sheep and hearts and ducks and probably Christmas trees, just to name a few. Did I mention they came in pairs? Like I said, a lot was happening. And for the record, I looked sooo pretty when we were done.***

What I have learned:

1. I should pare down my neuroticism and just grab a random handful of change. Better yet, just put it on a card.


2. When a person offers assistance and I find myself about to refuse, I should pause and ask myself whether accepting proffered assistance will indebt me such that that sexual favors, drugs, or my services as a housewife or an assassin (personally, these are equally to be avoided) are expected in return. If not, seriously consider accepting.


3. It's probably okay to accept a nickel from a stranger at 7-Eleven.


4. Goody barrettes rock my face off.


5. I like the word "epiphany."
   

*This clearly only works for anything $1.54 or less. Do the math in your head. And yes, I do realize that I am likely obsessive compulsive with neurotic tendencies, and I'm fine with that.

**However, as my dear friend explains so well, while it is true that I may not always accept help, I feel perfectly justified in getting all sorts of pissed off when it's not offered at all.

***I will post a picture of the results next time I am home. You'll see. My 3-year-old fabulousness will overwhelm you.

I can't abide a whiny man.

I know this is belated, but since he has decided to remain on Reality TV Radar via Dancing with the Stars, I'm fine with airing my grievances now. Jake the Bachelor is a whiny bitch. I only watched the first episode and a half of this season, but between that and his time on the last season of The Bachelorette, I say he is a whiny bitch with full confidence. First of all, look at him. Also, any man who confesses (often, as Jake was prone to do) that women always tell him they are breaking up with him because he's just "too perfect" and who has the "good guys finish last" chip on his shoulder needs to check to make sure he still has balls. (Although in Jake's case it may have worked out for him, as I have been convinced since she stepped out of the limo that Vienna was a tranny. Hopefully a pre-op tranny so they have a full set between the two of them. )

A message to whiny men everywhere: Get ahold of yourselves. I mean, I get it, it's the twenty-first century and all, which means:
- Little boys can play with dolls and little girls can play with trucks.
- Men can be nurses and women can be doctors.
- Daddy can stay at home with the kids while Mommy goes off to work (looking fab in her power suit and mankiller heels) every morning.
- Men can emote and be sensitive and commit and women are free to, as Carrie Bradshaw put it, "have sex like a man."

But come on men, have a little pride. Good for y'all for being "in touch" with your emotions and for being comfortable talking about relationships and blah blah blah. But seriously, enough is enough. No one besides your mommy is happy to listen to your pity party. It's not that we don't care. Well, that's not entirely true because, often I for one don't care at all. Sometimes we want a man to be a man.

I will give him the benefit of the doubt and allow that perhaps poor Jake is a product of the times. He tries so hard to be the perfect man. He has a sexy job, a sexy smile and a sexy ass. He comes across as a gentleman and seems to genuinely want to find the perfect woman, settle down and start a family. (Of course, the fact that he went on a show where he knew he would likely develop more than one incredibly contrived relationships with women he only knows in a controlled environment calls his judgment into question, but a rant about the ignorance of Bachelor/Bachelorette participants is for another day…)

Back to Jake and his quest for the perfect woman and why he won't find her. These days, the perfect woman isn't necessarily going to be wearing an apron and pearls, greeting her man at the door, martini in hand, saying, "Wash up dear, dinner's on the table." Hopefully, she's the woman who knows what she wants and goes after it, and she may just want a man to greet her at the door with a martini. The point is, unfortunately for Jake, she most likely doesn't want to shack up with a whiny bitch unless the sex is really just that fabulous. If she happens to be a house-wifey type she probably wants a man's man. And if she's a woman in a man's world, she doesn't have time to nurture his "mama's boy" tendencies. Either way, she would almost certainly prefer not to have the pressure of matching his perfection added to her already busy day.

Also, to clear something up once and for all for all the Jakes in the world - you're not "too perfect." If a woman tells you that , she doesn't actually think you're perfect. Why on earth would I dump a guy if I thought he was perfect? I may be moody, manipulative and easily excitable, but I'm not stupid. When a woman says that, what she really means is that you might genuinely be a "good guy" and have none of the character flaws we women are taught to watch out for (e.g. a wandering eye, a controlling nature, a hot temper, a tendency to burp and fart in polite company) you are also overly aware of your good qualities that you cultivate martyrdom, and nobody wants to bang a saint. Basically, you've just grown annoying, but we're too nice to tell you that so we stroke your ego by telling you it's not you because you're perfect, it's us. (Trust me, it's usually you.)

Besides, all you Jakes, perfect is fake. Just what are you hiding under that façade? Six toes? A penchant for porn featuring women who look like men (with six toes)? Even if you are pretty near perfect, women are by nature suspicious and we will keep waiting for the AHA! moment where our worst fears are confirmed and our pristine image of you crumbles before our eyes. Do yourself a favor and develop some harmless little idiosyncrasy, like wearing brown socks with black shoes so we'll stop overanalyzing every aspect of your personality.

So guys, stop the whining because no woman worth her salt will put up with it for long. Nut up and stop feeling sorry for yourself. Also, don't fall for the tranny - her balls are almost certainly bigger than yours.

Cheer up Jake. Vienna's got a used set of balls you can have.

Stop the car, I want out.

One of my favorite cards from Ashley has a quote from Grey's Anatomy, "We're adults. When did that happen? And how do we make it stop?" I want it to stop. Right now actually.

I now know just how profound my parents were when they said (repeatedly) something to the effect of, "Don't be in a hurry to grow up. Enjoy this time, because one day you'll look back and realize how great it was and how easy you had it." And man, I had it easy. Good friends across the street and down the block. Lunch money, movie money, gas money. Harmless crushes that left you giddy and giggly with friends. Breaking up accomplished simply by not returning a boy's calls. The feeling that we could be anyone, do anything and end up anywhere in the world because we were that fabulous and our opportunities were that plentiful. Confidence that all would work itself out in time if we just sat back and enjoyed the ride, preferably in a hot little coupe.

My dream car, just for funsies.

Then someone started tapping the brakes. Now friends are in difference states, the Bank of Mom and Dad is drying up, crushes equal complications, break-ups involve deciding who gets the house and who gets the kids and being anyone, doing anything and going anywhere actually requires quite a bit of cooperation from the rest of the world. Sometimes momentum is the only thing that propels us forward.

How much does the car need to slow down before we get out? Am I the one driving? If I am and I jump out, where does that leave anyone who might be riding along with me? But then again, shouldn't we all be driving ourselves around by now? Would I even want anyone in the passenger seat? I mean, sometimes I like to pretend I'm a rock star when I'm driving and I don't know if I want anyone pointing out my obvious lack of rock star talent.

Ironically, I have traded in my real-life coupe for an SUV, which should have more room for any potential passengers who want to tag along wherever it is I might be going. But I kinda like having all the extra room and I'm not sure how crowded I'm willing to let it get in there. I also don't know if there's anyone who could put up with my complete lack of a sense of direction without wanting to take over at the wheel, and my control-freak self actually enjoys driving. I also hate asking for directions.

I guess I should listen to my inner compass, because even when it leads me down an unfamiliar highway, I always find something that makes the detour worth it. Then again, maybe that's why God created GPS. Or maybe I need to trade in my Escape for a gondola...

New Year, New Non-Resolutions.

So I'm usually not that into New Year's resolutions. They're really hard to keep. At least one always involves losing weight/getting into better shape, which just isn't fun. Last year I did P90X for a month, and just for the record, if I ever see Tony Horton in person I will probably kick him in the nuts and try to stuff a cheeseburger in his mouth.

But back to resolutions. They are, by and large, about bettering oneself. This in and of itself isn't a bad thing, I think we should all try and be a better person every chance we get. The problem with resolutions is that they are rarely carried out, which then sort of makes the resolution-maker feel worse for failing. So this year, instead of resolutions, I am setting goals. (And if you're questioning what the difference is, it's probably non-existent. "Goal" just doesn't carry with it the same sense of impending failure as "resolution.") So here are my goals for this year, in no particular order:

1. Learn how to do 3 new things. I don't know exactly what yet, although I do want to get my motorcycle license this summer, so even though technically I can sort of already ride, I may count that as one. I do want them to be fun things, so if anyone has anything they want to teach me, I might be up for anything!

2. Stay in touch. I love my friends, but I'm not the best at staying in touch. Facebook and email are my primary forms of communication, mostly because I pretty much hate talking on the phone. I feel like I have lost touch with many great people from my high school and college days. Come May I will be parting ways with many amazing people I have had the privilege of befriending over the past few years and I plan to make sincere efforts to stay in touch with them, as well as get caught up with friends from the past. My days of screening calls and letting my voicemail box get full are over.

3. Stop planning. As I grow older I realize that I am neurotic in many ways. One of my biggest neuroses is my need to plan things. I'm not talking about little things, like what's for dinner or what I'm going to wear tomorrow because when it comes to the mundane details of life, I'm pretty laid back, even indecisive at times. I'm talking about the big picture. While I don't so much care what I'm doing tomorrow, I would really enjoy knowing where I'll be and what I'll be doing this time next year, as well as five years from now. Maybe I'm a a control freak. Maybe I'd appreciate it if God would give me a roadmap so I could at least make sure I'm on the right track. I know, I know, it's the unknown that makes life worth living, blah blah blah. But every once in a while, a hint would be awesome, or if God's already been handing out hints, maybe he could make the ones intended for me a little more obvious. At any rate, perhaps my goal is to be more open to changes in the plans I make for myself rather than to stop planning altogether.

4. Take better care of myself. This is, admittedly, where the whole working-out-and-eating-better comes into play. This year it's a combination of cardio and Nautilus machines at the community center and my Wii Fit, just to make things fun. And only having class three days a week will hopefully make it a little easier to fit my new fitness goals into my schedule. Coupled with my own fitness goal is my goal for Doc. The vet says he needs to lose about ten pounds, so we will be venturing out into the neighborhood on a more regular basis.

5. Figure out what I want to do when I grow up. Not necessarily what I want to do for the rest of my life, just maybe what to do for the next ten years or so. Maybe I'll put my education to good use. Maybe I'll try out for a reality TV show (see previous post for more info!). Maybe Sarah and I will rent out a strip mall and open the bevy of businesses we keep adding to every month, which up to this point includes Sarah's baby boutique and card store and my shoe/gift boutique and cafe. Ooh, maybe I'll just start designing shoes and Christian Louboutin will want to hire me! Or maybe I'll come up with a gimmick to make my blog more interesting and marketable and sit home in my pj's all day and watch the cash roll in.

There it is. My plan for self-improvement in 2010. Maybe my blog gimmick should be tracking my progress...