{on a cheerful note}

A layout for my mama :)

Apple, Solver of Problems

I am now the (super duper) proud owner of an iPhone 4S. Go me! My favorite features include the fact that I can set it to chirp like a bird when I get a text message (such a happy, pleasant sound) and the camera. It's a lovely camera. It takes purdy pictures. It even allows you to be an absolute narcissist and take pictures of yourself.

I'm used to doing the awkward hold-the-camera-so-it's-facing-you-and-hope-for-the-best-with-your-aim thing. I assumed that I had to do the same thing with my new camera. A higher resolution picture, maybe, but not very well... framed.

But Apple has fixed my problem. There's a little button that you push that causes the camera to turn around and point at you! Ohmygoodness this makes the narcissistic pictures of myself not only higher resolution, but actually centered. Or somewhat flattering since I can arrange my face accordingly.

What makes me laugh about this whole scenario, though, is that my Italian Mama knew about this feature and I didn't.  TAC really did an effective job of killing any tech savvy I might have otherwise possessed.

Head Over Heels

I'm in love. I'm in love with scrapbooking. I want to do more. I want to create beautiful pages to which I paste family photos. It's a great way to use some of my many, many photographs. I love to photograph. When I'm rich (yeah, that's not going to happen), I want to buy a really nice camera. At the moment, I have the nicest point-and-shoot that money can buy... and it takes good pictures. With scrapbooking, I hope to take an image I love and devote a whole page to it and the story behind it.

Like my dear friend who was a beautiful bride...

 

Or my second date with my "big brother" .... (not as weird as it sounds)

Or my Italian Mama posing for summertime pictures...

 I am SO excited about this. It's ridiculous.

Mama's Musings

This morning I managed to poison myself by inhaling fumes from orange oil bug spray. What the heck? I'm still uncurling. My stomach muscles are so tight and painful. Anyway. I'm not dead, but why I'm even feeling sick is a mystery to me...

But that isn't the real point of this post. The real point is to tell you that my Italian Mama now has her own blog. We spent about an hour finding her a name and a layout that she liked. I'd give you the link... but she hasn't written anything yet. She's still hung up on that I'll-wait-until-I-have-something-important-to-say thing that new bloggers have. At least, that's what I like to think about that... thing. I certainly don't write about anything important, but I like to think what I write about is enjoyable to read. Maybe that's another... thing. You know... a syndrome-that-has-no-concise-title-so-you-connect-all-of-the-words-with-dashes thing. I'm sure she'll write soon. When she does, I'll share. Then all of you will stop reading mine and start reading hers because it's more interesting.

Random happenings

Today didn't contain anything that I would write more than about 100 words about. It did have several things worth communicating, though. So here they are, all in short form:

1. I have a Michigan accent
I went in for a pseudo-interview today. I say pseudo because it was with a temp agency that places administrative assistant types. No job, but more possibilities. Anyway, the lady at the front desk asked me very seriously if I was originally from Michigan. Apparently, I have a "really strong" accent. I guess that's what I get after becoming good friends with many people from the hand state at school. The more I deny it, though, the more it happens. Unfortunate truth.

2. I clean up well
The man who interviewed me escorted me into a little room where I could be interrogated. I mean questioned. I mean... oh, you know what I mean. Interviewed. As I sat there, he half-listened, but mostly kept looking me up and down. About halfway through, he said that if he had known that I would look "this way" an hour ago, he would have had a position for me. Cue mystified feeling. Wrapping up the interview, he warned me that they don't place all of their candidates, but he thought I had a good chance because I "seemed smart, had a college degree, didn't expect to be paid a lot, and..." He paused and looked me up and down, clearly at a loss for the appropriate words. He finally settled on "clean up well."No, I wasn't offended. I was amused at the scene. A young man, who doesn't know me and is in a professional setting, trying to figure out how to compliment my appearance. Yes, I was amused.

3. My Italian Mama is brave
Or stupid. I haven't decided which yet. We had some errands to run after my pseudo-interview. (GROSSNESS WARNING) She stopped off at a restroom and lo-and-behold, there was a large wad of paper towels in the toilet. Not wanting to make a mess, she scooped up the paper towels (eeeewwww) before using the toilet herself. The hoped-for result was that the toilet would flush without the obstruction. Then she could put the paper towels back. Unfortunately, her theory didn't hold water. But the toilet did. No flusheo. So she had to restore the paper towels to their former residence. (eeeeewwwww). I would have waited til I got home. Just saying.

Reality vs. Imagination

I totally get carried away in the imagination department. I always have. It usually leans toward the "panic because there's an impending disaster" kind of imagining. My recent experience was no exception.

Here are the factual events:

Sunday, 11 a.m. - I sent a text to my "big brother" in Michigan, letting him know that I'd mailed him a chocolate cake.

Sunday, 8 p.m. - Something happened that made me really, really, really want to have some big brother time, but 1) it was late in MI and 2) he hadn't ever texted me back, so he obviously wasn't around.

Monday, 9 a.m. - I got a text from him, telling me that he was just headed back from vacation so he hoped it hadn't gone bad. I told him to put ice cream on it if it was dry and then proceeded to vent at him about the other thing via text for the next seven hours.  (hey, I'm a girl. These things are necessary.)

Here's what happened in my head:

Sunday, 11 a.m. - I really hope that cake didn't get lost. It really should've been there by now. I'll send a text and see if maybe he just hadn't mentioned that it had arrived.

Sunday, 12 p.m. - hm... it's been an hour. Maybe MI fell off the face of the earth.

Sunday, 3 p.m. - Ok, this is really unusual, even for him. Maybe something bad happened to him...

Sunday, 5 p.m. - OH MY GOSH, HE HAS CANCER AGAIN. I saw that facebook thing about a CT scan a while ago and never heard that he was ok so maybe he relapsed or whatever they call it when cancer comes back. Come to think of it, I haven't seen anything from him OR his dad on facebook or twitter for at least a week. OH MY GOSH, HE'S DYING. CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP panic panic panic panic PAAANIIIIIC!!!!!!!!!

Sunday, 8 p.m. - Wow, that email totally turned my world upside down (totally different story that won't be shared... at least for like 30 years. It's going to take that long to look back on it and laugh). I I really want to talk to him about this... BUT if I'm right in my panic-stricken imaginings, my relationship problems are going to seem so trite and pathetic and unimportant and dumb and he'll hate me for bringing them up. That text would be so humiliating to receive: I'm sorry you're having this problem, but I have cancer. Keep your problems to yourself, honey. At least until you find out for sure if he's dying.

Several times throughout night - Wake up panic-stricken and pray he doesn't have cancer. I said so many Hail Mary's during those 8 hours when I should have been sleeping.

Monday, 9 a.m. - My big brother texts me letting me know that they're coming back from a 9 day vacation. Cue relief and a feeling of idiocy. Oh. He was on vacation. Ok. I can tell him about my trite, pathetic, unimportant, and dumb relationship problems now with a clean conscience.

Like I mentioned before, we texted sporadically back and forth for seven hours (with a break for my dentist visit and interview downtown). I cannot tell you how helpful it was. My Italian Mama tweeted him later to thank him for being the bringer of "sanity, perspective, and the epically placed cuss word."

Big brothers are so much better than superheros.


And I need to learn how to control my imagination.

Too Poor for the Floor

I don't really think of my family as poor. We aren't. Dad has a good job... and he always has. We aren't excessive in our spending. We can't buy whatever we want, but we've always been able to afford what we needed. I've never felt poor.

Compared to the people surrounding us yesterday though, Mum and I felt poor.

We went to the mall near the airport. We've gone to almost every mall in the county, but never this one. Ok, that isn't strictly true. I've been there twice. Once when I was about 14, I went out for lunch and a movie with a couple of friends. The second time was more recently, but I went in to buy a gift certificate for someone at a store located year the entrance to the mall. On neither occasion did I peruse the shops or even really look around. Yesterday was different.

Yesterday, we entered the mall near the Bloomingdale's. Never been to Bloomingdale's before. We didn't go in, since we were search of food first. We looked at the little map thing and decided to go to the Nordstrom Cafe. It was clear on the other side of the mall, but we didn't mind the walk and (more importantly) I'd eaten there before without having an allergic reaction. So off we tromped.

Looking from side to side at the various shops we passed, we noticed two things: first, they were all designer stores (GUCCI & LOUIS VUITTON!!!) and everyone was wearing designer products (EXPENSIVE & FANCY!!!). Both of these findings were disconcerting: we were definitely in the wrong income bracket to be in this mall. We were definitely under-dressed.

Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.

I told Mum, as we strolled through in our shorts and t-shirts, "Just exude confidence." She responded with, "Yes, just pretend you dressed this way on purpose to make a statement." Right. Ok. Into Nordstrom we went (passing a TIFFANY & CO. and NEIMEN MARCUS on the way!!!) and headed to the third level. There were pretty lights everywhere. Mirrors on all the walls. The floor was shiny as all get out. (Seriously, the white and black marble was polished to mirror standards.) Up the escalator we went.

First stop: the super fancy, chic lounge bathroom. It was the size of a small home. Everyone in it looked like they were going out for a nice night on the town. I felt like I was in one of those dreams where you realize you're up in front of a bunch of people completely naked. I wasn't naked, but the glares I received from the snobby rich ladies seemed to indicate that I might as well have been.

Second stop: lunch. I made a complete fool of myself, not knowing how one is supposed to order at the Nordstrom Cafe. It's a weird combo of buffet/order first/sit down meal restaurant. I was so confused. And under-dressed. Couldn't really get the under-dressed part out of my mind. We ate, while a nice man (Gustav?) waited on our table. Needless to say, we didn't much feel like lingering.

As we were trying to exit the store, Mum was having difficulty walking. Her shoes kept catching on the super shiny floor. "Look, Mum," I said, "we're too poor to even walk on the floor." We giggled to ourselves as we left, inciting annoyed stares from the snobby rich ladies.

We definitely didn't fit in around there. But we were definitely alright with that.

Sustained Beauty

I looked in the mirror. My face was a weird shade of purple, my hair was sticking out at all angles around my head, and all of my visible skin was shiny and red.

My Italian Mama stood next to me. Her face was slightly tinged with pink, she wasn't shiny. She didn't look rumpled. She looked pretty.

Believe it or not, we just finished the same workout. We did the Zumba "Sculpt and Tone" followed by the "Flat Abs" routine. Looking at the two of us, one could assume one of two things: 1) I worked out wayyyyy harder than she did or 2) she's in unbelievably better shape than I am. While the second may be true (though she denies it), the first is simply not true. She wiggles and bounces right along with me.

Then why do I need to cool down, shower, change, and rearrange my face, while all she has to do is put on different clothes? And the only reason that she even has to do that is because neither of us is in in the habit of wearing work-out clothes around the house or the town.

My face turns red when I merely think of working out. It proceeds quickly through the shades of red to a blotchy purple within minutes of beginning to exercise.

She has what I recently dubbed "sustained beauty." She can Zumba her heart out and appear no different for it. She believes that this is a disadvantage because people assume that she isn't working out as hard. I am jealous. While I collapse on the floor, panting and dripping, she sits on the couch and calmly and coolly checks her twitter. So much more ladylike.

One thing that is not different between the two of us is the result of this Zumba-ing. We both sweat (although I appear to do so to a greater degree) and we've both gained (yeah, that's right) three pounds over the past three weeks. What the heck?! Shouldn't a70 minutes of cardio and light weight training every day help you lose weight? Or at least maintain your current weight? What's with the upward tending of the scale's needle???

Now I've come to grips with the fact that my Italian heritage will not allow me to have slender hips, and small bum, and little thighs. What I got ain't goin' nowhere. I will never be skinny or slender or elegant. The most I can accomplish is a curvy cute due to the combination of short stature and genetics. All I'm asking is that I don't gain weight when I work out.