I KNEW it!

Remember my prediction that American Apparel would attempt to bring back the thin cotton turtleneck? I wanted it to be a joke, I truly did, but I flipped open a Mercury yesterday and found a three-part ad featuring the thin cotton turtleneck. Shocking. 

An unfortunate item that I wore for the number of years that I was not dressing myself, the thin cotton turtleneck is one of those things that adorned moms and children alike in the 90s. Sometimes it had patterns (my mom had one covered in tiny Mickey Mouses) but usually it was plain, solid, and most definitely neck warming. They are somehow unflattering, something about that tube of fabric extending up your torso right to your chin and the awkwardly tight sleeves. The only thing worse is the mock turtleneck or collarless shirts for men. And of course, you can now get them in any number of different finishes and colors from American Apparel. Jeez. They've brought us bodysuits, guacho pants, and turtlenecks, who knows what sort of horror is left. 

Predictions? I'm afraid to make anymore, because they'll probably come true.

Oh Jeez

Most of the time I am not very sincere on here. This is not meant to be my diary. But today I am so sad. January was a horrible, horrible month for Mt. Hood. It was so warm, and then it was dry, and then it rained. Over and over and over again and we watched all the snow melt off the mountain. It seemed like the season was over.

It finally snowed a million inches of cold, dry snow up there and I am in Portland. Working at a desk. While people I know are having fun. I feel really left out today. It's like high school when you knew someone was having a party and you weren't invited and it's Friday night and you're sitting with your parents watching Jeopardy, eating pork chops and peas. And I'm listening to The National which is probably the worst idea ever, but that's how it goes.

Oh no they didn't

We're back in the velvet covered headquarters of American Apparel.


Two designers are sitting on the giant bed that serves as the room's only furniture. One is wearing athletic socks and briefs and sketching in a drawing pad. The other is sitting cross-legged with a laptop, large gold-frame glasses on the end of her nose. They are both smoking cigarettes. All signs point to the fact that they are involved.

Socks and Briefs: Who was your first crush?

Laptop: My  first crush? Um. Blake Green. He had freckles and this super-cute round face. He grew up to look like a pregnant elf.

S+B: Gross.

L: Yeah. Who was yours?

S+B: Ms. Griffin. My third grade music teacher.  She had like, really curly blond hair and blue eyes. She used to give us gummy bears if we were good.

L: Hot.

S+B: She always wore those flowy pants. You know the ones that looked like a skirt, but they were actually pants? Tribal patterns?

L: Those were totally bewildering. They were hammerpants without elastic in the hem. Not hot.

S+B: Are you kidding? They were like flowing rivers of ethnic fabric around her ankles. Seductive curtains for her shins. Always beckoning . . . .

L: Where are you going with this?

S+B: Well, we've done mom-butt denim and pleated pants, I think it's time we go in a new direction.

L: You want to do third-grade teacher pants? Aren't those basically long gaucho pants? All the sorority girls were wearing those a few years ago with their Uggs and raving about how comfortable they were. Sorority girls.

S+B: Gaucho pants! Those were pathetic imitations. They only extend past your knees. Bah! I want to be confused. I want to look at you and not be able to tell if you're wearing a skirt or pants. I want to be tortured. I want to be left wondering until you're walking away. I want to truth to strike like a thunderbolt.

L:  . .  . . . .

S+B: Once they go to production I want you to wear them. Those and nothing else.

L: I'm not sure I'm ready for that kind of commitment.

S+B: Just try it. And feed me gummi bears in bed. Then you''ll see.

The Tragic Downfall of Smoothie Prichard

On Tuesdays I drive to work. This is because I have accordion class after work and have no other way to transport my giant accordion. There is probably some gypsy roaming around Portland with their accordion and their bicycle but I am just not that dedicated.

This morning I decided to take advantage of my status as a driver and take my breakfast to work with me. This came in the form of delicious smoothie. Strawberries, orange juice, and yogurt. I got in my car and propped my full-to-the-brim mason jar full of smoothie in my purse in the passenger seat. Now I'm sure you're all thinking: That's idiotic. That's totally stupid. But rest assured, I have done this many times and have never had an issue with this form of transportation. I did think: Hmmmmm. It would suck to have smoothie all over the inside of my purse. But that will never happen.

I began driving. I got as far as Fremont and 9th, before coming to a stop and watching the jar tip over and unleash its contents all over the front seat of my car. And, of course, my purse. I will spare you the expletives that spilled from my mouth. I continued the drive to work in resignation as the smoothie lake sloshed around on my leather seat and spread through my car like lumpy pink cancer.

Once at work I ran to the bathroom and grabbed a mile of industrial grade non-absorbent paper towels and smeared the smoothie all over my seat, my car floor, and my car mats. I ended up dumping out the smoothie-coated contents of my purse and soaking the whole thing in the sink. It seems that smoothie is actually extremely water-resistant and could be used as a coating for an aging rain jacket or an old pair of boots. Who knew? There is now dried smoothie on my skirt and these splotches look less like smoothie and more like I had an accident involving my bladder. And this is only the beginning of my day.

I'm not exceedingly fond of giving advice on this blog. But there's a lesson in this, and I hope some of you have picked up on it. Smoothies are stupid.

Neigh

The things that really get to people are always a fascinating window into the psyche. For example, Alexa hates cake, people who eat cake, people who hate mayonnaise and apparently people who pick their teeth in public. Charissa can't stand men with tiny lady hands or men with tiny creepy teeth. Heidi hates convertible drivers in Oregon (I'm not sure if she makes an exception during the summer months).

I hate these pants.



They are spandex pants modeled on english riding breeches, complete with the reinforced knee for the serious equestrian. This annoys me for several reasons. You can get them for about $20 at any store that sells riding apparel and tack but American Apparel is charging about $70 for them. I have expressed how I feel about leggings but the devil continues to plague my soul by sending pantless minions out into the world with their short t-shirts and their camel toes. And because American Apparel is producing these, people all over Portland are going to be wearing them, and I am going to have to look at dumpy khaki butt all summer and probably all fall and winter too. Ugh.

Eye Curse

While it was nice to get rid of the blood curse, I am worried that I still carry a remnant of the curse. Every time I have watched a Blazers game this season (with the exception of the time Meagan and Huy and I watched them from the beery haven that is Billy Bob's Dive) they have lost. Usually they have a lead and I watch them lose it in the last five minutes. Yesterday was worse. I went to my first playoffs game (yep, $60 dollar seats and commemorative towels and $8.50 beers and a band reminiscent of Aerosmith playing outside the Rose Garden and a man maybe high on ecstasy dancing in the intermittent fountain trying to get us to do calisthenics with him) and watched them play a miserable game. Miserable. I wore my jersey. I wore a Blazers jersey in public. Heidi wore her hat and a Canadian tuxedo. Jesse and his brother wore what they always wear, probably, but they also purchased chicken strip dinners. We clapped. We yelled. We stood up. We catcalled. We would have done the wave if someone had started it. We watched the Blazers somehow, miraculously bring the game to an eleven-point difference in the fourth quarter and then just fizzle out miserably. Was it me? Is this the curse? Why can't they keep it together?

Blood Curse

Okay. So this is kind of crazy but here it is. Last summer I crashed a wedding with some friends at the request of the best man and it turned out to be a disaster. Total, horrific disaster which culminated in the best man tackling me onto a wine glass which punctured my lower back and created a gash that ended up bleeding profusely onto a white suede couch. It took a long time to heal. I still have a scar. The best man went back to Japan where he is teaching English to Japanese children. And I vowed that when he came back I would return the favor and stab him.

He still isn't back but we were talking about my vow last night, Liz was trying to tell me it was unacceptable (as if I didn't know that and would never actually stab someone on purpose unless maybe they were actually trying to kill me and even then I would have a really hard time with it) and we had been singing and playing music and then we decided to play darts. And I was really sucking at darts. Like my darts weren't even hitting the board. Like, one out of three was actually making contact with the board, and even then, not inside the circle. I was getting really flustered and I turned around to hand the darts back to Jesse and one of them, I don't know, slipped and flew out of my hand and kind of hit him. It was this extended awkward moment and I was apologizing and trying not to laugh and Liz and Michael were laughing (hysterically) and Jesse was a little bummed and was like, "Yeah, that kind of hurt," and then he looked down and exclaimed, "I'm bleeding!" He was. He was bleeding through his white athletic sock. And then I was even more apologetic and he went upstairs to clean it up and I was feeling pretty horrible, I mean, what are the chances of inadvertently stabbing someone in the foot with a dart? Then I took off these fingerless gloves I had been wearing and proceeded to play one of the best dart games of my life. Liz and I destroyed them.

So here's the thing. I'm pretty sure some sort of horrible blood curse was enacted with the spilling of my blood at that ill-fated wedding; it started with Brian's horrible blunder and then passed on to me, and now it's been passed on to Jesse and he's going to have to make someone else bleed in a really ridiculous way. It may go on forever. Watch out for that.