tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17332063052626182742024-03-05T15:19:22.748-08:00The Boulder and the BeautifulFashion columns by Aimee HeckelUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger122125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-31033977235856865592011-12-14T08:36:00.000-08:002011-12-14T08:36:59.176-08:00<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlipEFkzOq1fN2_iA1LuyYygnOg7MrxWYqRxgIYBm0cWYthVHBeZUdSv2Pc6OZ2LaW63WPV_CVUOi_ZvE7ek51I1lKMRI3FPZpaxNF_QGEFpD7V7ogjh4UYRT8v3mz0RuJ2CpZL_JjTGI/s1600/bodacious.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlipEFkzOq1fN2_iA1LuyYygnOg7MrxWYqRxgIYBm0cWYthVHBeZUdSv2Pc6OZ2LaW63WPV_CVUOi_ZvE7ek51I1lKMRI3FPZpaxNF_QGEFpD7V7ogjh4UYRT8v3mz0RuJ2CpZL_JjTGI/s320/bodacious.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10px;">Rachel at The Bodacious Beauty, which is scheduled to open at the Twenty Ninth Street Mall in Boulder late December. Makeup by DeAnne Grasinger, using D Lauren Cosmetics, sold exclusively at The Bodacious Beauty. (Photo by Molly Plann of The Bodacious Beauty. )</span></td></tr>
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DeAnn Grasinger had me at the pink claw-foot tub.<br />
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Then she introduced me to her Victorian chaise lounge and her closet of corsets and bustiers. And then -- heaven help us, fetch my smelling salts -- she brought me into a pink room accented by pink pinkness, where she introduced me to her own mineral make-up line, skincare treatments and stuff like Boulder's only HydraFacial machine. I wanted to ask her what it was, but instead I think I asked her to marry me.</div>
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Grasinger is Boulder County's Superwoman. But I don't mean in the comic book kind of way. She's like a super woman, as in queen she, as in the creator of the ultimate haven for girls.</div>
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She calls it a boutique spa like you've never seen before.</div>
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And it really is. At The Bodacious Beauty, clients can get a wide variety of spa treatments (chemical peels, waxing, facials, microderm, temporary eyelashes), get a makeover and new makeup, go shopping for lingerie and then capture it all in a boudoir photo shoot. The studio has a half a dozen different scenes, from tall mirrors to a (less subtle) bed. You can bring your own outfit, or shop in the on-site store.</div>
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"It's like a haven where a woman can come and be herself in a safe and nurturing environment, and explore who she is and learn what's the best look for them without being chastised," Grasinger says.</div>
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And then capture that moment in time, she says.</div>
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The Bodacious Beauty (a name Grasinger's father helped her coin shortly before his unexpected death) is currently running out of Grasinger's in-home studio, and is scheduled to open at Boulder's Twenty Ninth Street Mall (on the second floor, above Starbucks) just after Christmas. The grand opening party is scheduled for Jan. 21, Grasinger's 45th birthday and the day that she will realize a dream that started when she was 13 years old.<br />
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That's when her Aunty Fanny introduced her to makeup. It became her passion, and Grasinger says she remembers telling her dad that vacation that she wanted to have her own makeup line some day.<br />
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She launched it, called D'Lauren (a combo of her name and her daughter's) about 16 years ago. Over the years, the mother of three added more spa treatments, is formulating her own skincare line and most recently decided to expand services to include photography and boudoir.<br />
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The idea came after Grasinger and a friend treated themselves to boudoir photos just for fun.<br />
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"We realized it was a perfect addition," she says. "Women get skincare treatments, learn make-up and show off who they are, and once they've realized their potential, we can capture that."<br />
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The Bodacious Beauty offers membership packages, from $39.95 a month for a twice-a-year makeover and full line of D'Lauren cosmetics. Add regular spa treatments to the package and the monthly rates rise, too.<br />
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Photo shoots start with $199 up front and increase based on the add-ons and products (such as books, canvas prints, calendars).</div>
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Grasinger plans on franchising within the year, with plans already in the works for DC, Soho, LA and Seattle.</div>
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"Watching women fall in love with themselves is the most gratifying thing. It makes my heart swell," Grasinger says. "Whether you're 18 or in your 60s, when you see yourself and you come out of your shell, it's the most unbelievable thing."<br />
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<strong>For more info,</strong> check out <a href="http://www.thebodaciousbeauty.com/" style="text-decoration: none;">thebodaciousbeauty.com</a>.</div>
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Read more at dailycamera.com. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-8604055628923283322011-11-30T10:25:00.001-08:002011-11-30T10:29:14.450-08:00Fashion for your left brain<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi69Ukxs11JVfv_yeLUvrkoGrDttjQ2Jdu_fahmhEoeLtwEWLDRUK2_w89WqDJsuzFkExNzOHvubwcCXpoeo2uNunCWmYkPXSH8VKbuAtPdm7I1-tBc5y-PCA4nLIUyFmGfsIEc4FK8Lyc/s1600/bat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi69Ukxs11JVfv_yeLUvrkoGrDttjQ2Jdu_fahmhEoeLtwEWLDRUK2_w89WqDJsuzFkExNzOHvubwcCXpoeo2uNunCWmYkPXSH8VKbuAtPdm7I1-tBc5y-PCA4nLIUyFmGfsIEc4FK8Lyc/s320/bat.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10px;">"Bats have feelings too" coat, a haptic coat for the blind. Designed by Lynne Bruning (lbruning.com). Stylist: Courtney Snider. Model: Ellyette. (Carl Snider)</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">Beauty schmeauty.<br /></span><br />
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Bill Stoehr is more interested in what's captivating.</div>
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<br />"I think beauty is a dysfunctional term," he says. "What most people think of as beauty is one of their own personal criteria in some subset of what's captivating."</div>
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<br />Stoehr is a Boulder-based painter. But he's intrigued by neuroscience: how art expresses itself in the brain, and how genetics and life experiences weave together to influence what we consider beautiful or interesting.</div>
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<br />He organized a recent sell-out series at the Boulder Museum of Contemporary Art, delving into how humans create, perceive and appreciate art -- from theater to music, and down to fashion.</div>
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<br />There are certain aesthetics that appear "hard-wired." Stoehr says. Humans appear to be genetically predisposed to be attracted to volumetric curves over straight lines. ("What would Darwin think of that?" Stoehr asks with a laugh.)</div>
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<br />But how do we explain everything else? Take Lady Gaga, he says. Not everyone would describe her as beautiful, but who can dispute that she's interesting? And in that, she has become a fashion icon.</div>
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<br />"It turns out as humans, brain scientists are discovering that we have a built-in desire and interest and are captivated by something that's ambiguous or that is mysterious or creates a puzzle," Stoehr says.</div>
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<br />In other words, what is beautiful in Iowa might not be considered beautiful in Nigeria, due to cultural influences, but underneath all of the attraction is the notion of mystery.</div>
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<br />Some scientists believe that's why Michaelangelo didn't finish about two-thirds of his sculptures. He wasn't bored or distracted by another project, Stoehr surmises.</div>
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<br />Maybe he did finish them.</div>
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<br />"He left something for us to finish, let us complete the puzzle," Stoehr says. "When we see something ambiguous or unfinished, we finish it with our own perfect image, and then we create something that may be better than what the artist could have done, because it's something that appeals to us."<br /></div>
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<strong>Art and science are not </strong><strong>opposites or enemies; </strong>in fact, one can enhance the other, as the emerging field of neuroaesthetics teaches.</div>
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<br />Award-winning fashion designer Lynne Bruning (<a href="http://www.lbruning.com/" style="text-decoration: none;">lbruning.com</a>) is proof of that. Bruning, of Denver has a degree in neurophysiology. And in architecture. She considers herself equally a scientist as an artist. Which, in a sense, is redundant. Bruning does not see a difference in the two.</div>
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<br />"In science, there's an inherent beauty in it. When you look through a microscope, you're privy enough to understand how nature comes together on a cellular level," she says.</div>
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<br />Architecture, fashion and art all use the same building blocks, she says.</div>
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<br />"Everything's the same. There's nothing new here. You jump scale and you change palettes," she says. "That's it."</div>
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<br />Simple. Sure. Like a coat Bruning designed called "Bats have feelings, too." The gorgeous red coat is packed with ultrasonic range finders that constantly sense the environment and feed it into a microcontroller, which activates vibrating motors so the wearer knows when something is in the way.</div>
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<br />In other words, it's a fashionable haptic coat for the blind. A wearable cane.</div>
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<br />Bruning specializes in technology-based clothing and textiles, including a handcrafted blacklight-reactive 1870s-influenced evening gown, with a corset and bustle illuminated by ultraviolet LED lights. (It took her one hour to weave one inch of fabric, and the dress has 120 inches of fabric.)<br /></div>
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As Bruning sees it, something is captivating when it's a fresh interpretation of something you already know. Take her floor-length lace evening coat called "What golden webs we weave." It uses a traditional method of making lace, using nontraditional fibers, such as novelty yarns, metallic threads, ribbons and wool roving -- inspired by a spider web.</div>
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<br />"Something can be captivating to me, whether I look at a computer code so elegantly crafted that it's beautifully simple -- just exquisite -- or a painting that's done," Bruning says. "The craftsmanship can be in any discipline, but it has to have rigor and a fresh interpretation."</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-89076858496136894742011-11-30T10:20:00.001-08:002011-11-30T12:27:47.526-08:00A surprising encounter at the thrift store<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJEgAqGZJKDN4KHh3HKSNiQ6zFllskolkBA91tgAOSF7AoBJCENz9GnJtwZV_BEzoMUdlZUgvLkHI_gCmaNRTniF01ps0Ay8-Lhqd6uCVDiwJlZ6UJv2Od5cmy-IG_20Au1JcZs2S0SoQ/s1600/1+bird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJEgAqGZJKDN4KHh3HKSNiQ6zFllskolkBA91tgAOSF7AoBJCENz9GnJtwZV_BEzoMUdlZUgvLkHI_gCmaNRTniF01ps0Ay8-Lhqd6uCVDiwJlZ6UJv2Od5cmy-IG_20Au1JcZs2S0SoQ/s320/1+bird.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10px;">Thrift-store score: This weird lamp with a fake bird. From the collection (cough, cough) of Aimee Heckel.</span></td></tr>
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I'm kind of cynical. So I figured I'd been had.<br /><br />The old man walked out with the antique lamp. And the clerk looked at me to pay for it. How did I end up in this mess?</div>
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I guess it started with stress.</div>
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Whenever I hear or anticipate bad news, or worry in general, or worry about worrying too much, I pacify myself via pretty things.</div>
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In other words, when the fit hits the shan, I go shopping. I figure it's healthier than boiling crack on tin foil, and only slightly worse than ordering a bowl of gummy bears at Ben and Jerry's, which is my other go-to.</div>
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I don't usually purchase anything, because that just leads to more bad news in the form of ramen noodles for dinner for the rest of the month. So I am a looker. A toucher. An admirer from a distance, with such convincing fervor that it's no wonder the older man assumed I was about the buy the lamp at the HospiceCare and Share Thrift Shop in Boulder.</div>
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I wasn't.</div>
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Still, it was glorious: antique and brass, with intricate detailing and accents that reminded me of an old skeleton key. Suddenly, a white head was peeking around the other side of the lamp.</div>
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"Hmm, I could fix that," he mumbled, pointing at a piece near the bulb that I hadn't noticed was busted. Suddenly, I felt protective over the lamp that I wasn't going to buy; was he trying to buy it out of my hands? How did he know I didn't want it even though I didn't?</div>
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The clerk joined in the conversation, explaining that the lamp had been a set of two, and a well-known antique dealer had bought the other one because it was in better condition. This lamp would be very valuable, if it weren't a total fire hazard, she said.<br /><br />Eek. Now I knew I wasn't going to buy it. My kid can injure herself on feathers and air.</div>
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Suddenly, the man had the lamp upside down and was unscrewing piece after piece, pointing at wires and fuses (maybe?) and spark plugs (maybe not?) and all of the magical components that make electricity go zap. It looked complicated. But now I couldn't just walk away. I was invested, because I was holding the screws.</div>
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Trying to draw the attention back to me, and the fact that technically I had dibs on the lamp, even though it was $21 and way out of my planned budget of $0, I small-talked: "Are you an electrician or something?"</div>
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"Use to be," he said, while plucking out some more wiry guts. And then, he called across the store to a woman, "Hey, honey, what time is your birthday dinner tonight?" It was at 6. And then to me, "Can you get it before 6?"</div>
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I cocked my head like a confused puppy listening to a hamster wheel.</div>
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"Here," he said, suddenly grabbing a pen off the counter. He wrote down his name, Bob, and an address. He handed me the paper and walked out the door.</div>
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"That'll be $21," the clerk announced, which was my first realization that I had just purchased a lamp. Possibly for a stranger.</div>
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As the day grew closer to 6 p.m., I kept eyeing that peculiar piece of paper and wondering what to do. Was he for real? <br />
Was it a scam? Was he a murderer, luring in girls in with antiques? Was he going to charge me $600 for the repairs? Because surely, no one would just do something nice for a stranger and expect nothing -- on his wife's birthday, nonetheless.</div>
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My curiosity defeated my skepticism, and I decided to scout out Bob's house. If the address was even real.<br /><br />It was. They probably wouldn't be home.</div>
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They were. In fact, when Bob opened the door, he and his wife greeted me with such enthusiasm that I briefly wondered if they were actually my grandparents but I had just, um, forgotten?</div>
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Bob brought me to his garage, where he had completely replaced the head of the lamp, installed a three-level dimmer and even given me a fresh bulb. It looked brand new, and he assured me it was just as safe. I prepared for the catch.</div>
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"So how much do you want for the repairs?" I asked, while imagining ramen noodle salad and ramen noodle sandwiches for the next three weeks.</div>
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Bob laughed. Now it was his turn to look confused. The thought had never crossed his mind. He was the real deal. An honest to goodness pure and undiluted Nice Person.</div>
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Whoa. It was like being face to face with an endangered ivory-billed woodpecker.</div>
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Every night now when I get home from work, I flip on my beautiful brass key-pattern lamp -- my absolute favorite possession -- and it instantly diffuses any stress and worries. It fills my house with light and love, like the unsolicited light and love poured into it by a stranger. And it reminds me to keep spreading mine.</div>
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And that sometimes the most unexpected, and even unwanted, gifts can be the best.<br />
<i><br />Read more at Dailycamera.com.</i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-43212037767474381602011-11-18T10:07:00.001-08:002011-11-18T10:12:37.622-08:00Grin and beard it: Mustaches aren't funny, and other facial hair trends<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJCQzNIaIzIYGs51KZpBs2nb1b4kwqRrNkJ46QVHk5iD-L-9dXrHSc8H7SlBnbRKPSS4RDR6UJaHJytB9DKPCquAEf0NpcvaU9GabQP1IabdnGzZwi-TEcpAsv-KXxK88bniEx0Ev9zmk/s1600/mustache.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638969928473801298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJCQzNIaIzIYGs51KZpBs2nb1b4kwqRrNkJ46QVHk5iD-L-9dXrHSc8H7SlBnbRKPSS4RDR6UJaHJytB9DKPCquAEf0NpcvaU9GabQP1IabdnGzZwi-TEcpAsv-KXxK88bniEx0Ev9zmk/s320/mustache.jpg" style="display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 214px;" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A subtle way to celebrate Movember. Photo by Bill Hogan.</i><br />
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Happy <a href="http://us.movember.com/" target="_blank">Movember</a>, you hairy beasts!<br />
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<a href="http://www.worldbeardchampionships.com/" target="_blank">Mustaches </a>aren't funny anymore. There. I said it.
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No more mustache theme parties. No more <a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_195673256" target="_blank">moustachio-etched coffee mug</a><a href="http://www.cafepress.com/+mustaches+mugs?cmp=knc--g--us--hum--drinkwa--search-b--Mustaches_coffee%20mug&pid=3607873&utm_medium=cpc&utm_source=Google&utm_campaign=Humor%20Drinkware%20-%20US&utm_content=search-b&utm_term=Mustaches-coffee%20mug&gclid=CIqWkMLdwKwCFQRYhwods17Tqg" target="_blank">s</a> or pink stick-on crumb-catchers. I am calling for an end to 'stachical <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Black-Resin-Handlebar-Mustache-Necklace/dp/B004QXZDSG/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1321638129&sr=8-1" target="_blank">jewelry </a>and stickers, and even requesting the removal of all <a href="http://www.glamour.com/sex-love-life/blogs/smitten/2008/10/dating-do-or-dont-a-moustache.html" target="_blank">mustache tattoos</a> on the inside of the pointer finger. I never want to see another sarcastic soup-strainer, I swear. Even though they still make me chuckle. At some point, the nose bug has to lose its funny.
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Doesn't it?
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiEyC0z-hI1DFeavIqyM2SJt2nn_lhmQA2cROw0DovO3LEn7HoyOHr0rYdMZca9o1MRkPiFoGiQEGd2eV7Pj0cy23nyOxGhRTqPpmEduM2JntWHBoUzJKRgrstINjDM_LeCQzEVBDMues/s1600/magnum-pi-selleck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiEyC0z-hI1DFeavIqyM2SJt2nn_lhmQA2cROw0DovO3LEn7HoyOHr0rYdMZca9o1MRkPiFoGiQEGd2eV7Pj0cy23nyOxGhRTqPpmEduM2JntWHBoUzJKRgrstINjDM_LeCQzEVBDMues/s1600/magnum-pi-selleck.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at this guy and his mustache. Just look at him.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Why does the fuzzy upper lip tickle me so, metaphorically and literally? Perhaps it's a passive anti-bourgeoisie statement (because everyone knows all bosses have mustaches, even the women). The nose-tickler denotes control: Hulk Hogan, Magnum P.I., Josef Stalin. Could there be some underlying rebellion rising with this unstoppable trend?
<br />
<br />
Or is facial hair just plain amusing?
<br />
<br />
Supporting the latter is my friend Clayton. His wife, Alex, wanted him to grow Elvis sideburns. He wanted a Groucho Marx. The end result was a hybrid of the two, a sort of Sgt. Floyd Pepper from the Muppets. A burnstache. Mustchops.
<br />
<br />
Clayton grew in a wee <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=soul%20patch" target="_blank">soul patch</a> under his bottom lip, just to get wild. He ended up with hair everywhere except his lower jawbones, or the opposite of K-Fed's famous pencil-thin, chin-strap (also known as the "douche beard"). When asked about his unique scruff, Clayton explained that it had been "originally popularized by a U.S. president in the 1800s," if a trend can still be considered popularized 200 years later.
<br />
<br />
Coincidentally -- purely -- Clayton is also beardbald on his lower jaw area. As far as I can tell, most guys suffer this ailment, where a peculiar patch on their face has zero hair follicles. My husband's is next to his left ear, which results in one Vanilla Ice sideburn, with lines and zigzags naturally shaved in. This has not, however, stopped him from occasionally growing them out.
<br />
<br />
The plus side: I never have to fear my man attempting the lumberjack fave: mutton chops.
<br />
<br />
<b>Options for <a href="http://www.holytaco.com/what-your-facial-hair-really-says-about-you/" target="_blank">facial hair designs</a></b> <b>are only limited by a man's imagination (well, and his blank spots).
</b><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg88iMlRj9iZge_unJvf1m7ASv45q9unsmHBZVfaNMucpp57CDy6MdR5m_6A5Ubg3bMIEHhV1nic6AoK2pUFUMu_IQi-zDyn1xo_mEWhmar6zaKb8GWxyrus4uhCd268mSCgJy3LXAAd3k/s1600/Hollywoodian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg88iMlRj9iZge_unJvf1m7ASv45q9unsmHBZVfaNMucpp57CDy6MdR5m_6A5Ubg3bMIEHhV1nic6AoK2pUFUMu_IQi-zDyn1xo_mEWhmar6zaKb8GWxyrus4uhCd268mSCgJy3LXAAd3k/s1600/Hollywoodian.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Hollywoodian, from Dyers.org. This guy is a facial hair genius, that's what.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In a "quest for every beard," blogger Jon Dyer experimented with 42 different scruff styles (<a href="http://dyers.org/blog/beards/beard-types">dyers.org/blog/beards/beard-types</a>), including a few rarer species, such as the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beard" target="_blank">Hollywoodian </a>(mustache-beard sans sideburns). Dyer calls himself an annual winter beard-wearer and active celebrator of not only <a href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=5&ved=0CEgQFjAE&url=http%3A%2F%2Ftosh.comedycentral.com%2Fblog%2Ftag%2Foctobeard%2F&ei=85nGTq-sKMrIsQKj0rwh&usg=AFQjCNGXelvKm9LVkKbWRl1U7GtACIRFRg&sig2=d9aq1qTOG1QG2clTClV8zA" target="_blank">Octobeard</a> and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/NoShave" target="_blank">No Shave November</a> (<a href="http://movember/" target="_blank">Movember</a>), but also December's MaBeGroMo (Macho Beard Growing Month, which he created himself).
<br />
<br />
"Growing a <a href="http://www.beards.org/" target="_blank">beard </a>is one of the simplest, zero-effort, macho things you can do," he writes on his blog.
<br />
<br />
When selecting your beard style, experts recommend complimenting your face shape. Let it grow for two weeks, and then re-examine your creation, according to <a href="http://www.ehow.com/">eHow.com</a>. At this point, the Web site says, you will have experience two bouts of itching and you possibly look homeless.
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh44Y-8-bs8YTdTYljES9W1QsibmP2I9GFXeyWB3U-GWbeLwoVQCnFNrpWyfZyZoxfAZoV8O8i8Z6EAMFtdD4ZMnA93dAF6S6rpATMWUFOU2Adk4xkVE3zdaKTU9vS_2E-DHYHCVbiDy6A/s1600/greg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh44Y-8-bs8YTdTYljES9W1QsibmP2I9GFXeyWB3U-GWbeLwoVQCnFNrpWyfZyZoxfAZoV8O8i8Z6EAMFtdD4ZMnA93dAF6S6rpATMWUFOU2Adk4xkVE3zdaKTU9vS_2E-DHYHCVbiDy6A/s1600/greg.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My friend, Greg, after four minutes <br />
of not shaving. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Considering your follicular strengths, choose a style. A weak stache? Opt for the Lincoln. Bare cheeks? A goatee is your friend.
<br />
<br />
Are your strengths on the edges of your face? If so, grow it long and flowy, a la Amish, or if you want to get beat up all the time, step into the chin strap. Feeling innovative? Shave everything except the edges, sideburns and then shave your head, except for your bangs. Voila -- you've mastered the Hair Ring of Fire. I'm pretty sure that was popularized by a red-headed U.S. Secretary of State in the 1700s.
<br />
<br />
With options like that, how can anyone ever laugh at Tom Selleck again?
<br />
<br />
<b>Important vocabulary
</b>
<br />
Increase your knowledge and impress your friends by incorporating these terms into your daily life. Source: <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/">Urbandictionary.com</a>.
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=stache-ism" target="_blank">Stache-ism</a>: Prejudice or discrimination toward individuals with mustaches.
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Beard%20Goggles" target="_blank">Beard Goggles</a>: When you see a man with a beard, and you automatically think that person is awesome, funny, chill or just an overall cool dude just because he has a beard.
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Beard%20of%20Shame" target="_blank">Beard of Shame</a>: The beard that a man will grow after his girlfriend has broken up with him.
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-78916747411375920972011-11-16T14:22:00.001-08:002011-11-16T14:29:29.741-08:00Hot boots<span id="Global_Site"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2DsICZkzI0j_Y0fkXxWXWuw5dGRrb2eu5dXUqYFdsaXudRgIt5fvVFDw3N9mmD2yRFwWUuhMinRmzOpI8tRkWUxrCBhYhSEBiFtaf1toDnK7DkAnYMUGybCCQ6Rdb_8iRXW-Pb7OIgw4/s1600/duo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2DsICZkzI0j_Y0fkXxWXWuw5dGRrb2eu5dXUqYFdsaXudRgIt5fvVFDw3N9mmD2yRFwWUuhMinRmzOpI8tRkWUxrCBhYhSEBiFtaf1toDnK7DkAnYMUGybCCQ6Rdb_8iRXW-Pb7OIgw4/s320/duo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Duo Boots, will you marry me?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
If I want to know how to build a house, I
will ask a carpenter. If I want to know how to bake a great cookie,
I'll talk to the chefs at Old C's.<br />
<br />
So obviously, if you want to know about good boots, you gotta go to the most esteemed expert: a Brit.<br />
<br />
Ah
yes, London. How many times have I cursed that frigid air because I
attempted to wear heels? I have decided that even in summer, the only
shoe suitable for England is the boot.<br />
<br />
So when my British pal,
Catherine, sent me this e-mail tip the other day, I knew it was legit.
Not to mention, I love how British people write. Tea!<br />
<br />
"Check out <a href="http://www.duoboots.com/">www.duoboots.com</a>.
They are a company based in Bath who make simply the best long/mid-calf
boots in lots of different width fittings. I've had a pair that have
made it through three winters of 'I want to wear a dress but it's cold
and wet,' have been resoled and reheeled and still survive. They are
brilliant and the more people who know about them the better the range
will become, so I thought you'd like them, too! I have to say that I'm
starting to think on this rainy Sunday that I should buy these: Jesolo
boots, Textured metallic patent leather boots with leather covered
platform sole and heel. So I'm going to have a cup of tea."<br />
I love the idea of patent leather boots. And tea.<br />
<strong><br />QUOTE OF THE DAY</strong> <br />
"You know you have an amazing pair of shoes when . . ."<br />
(guess)<br />
" . . . when your feet hurt but you love them so much that you just walk through the pain."<br />
-- My friend Devon<br /><br /><i>Be my friend on Twitter: @Aimeemay</i><br />
<i>Or Facebook: @Boulderandbeautiful<br /><br />Read more fashion stories, along with other stories, at <a href="http://www.dailycamera.com./">www.dailycamera.com.</a> </i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-64197862132381601302011-11-16T10:28:00.001-08:002011-11-16T10:32:13.120-08:00Don't by a fashion sloth: Gluttony is so 2006<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghuE3xm1v-7DnS-YVG2RUmnBgCUurKkZ-eLaK5biiD4CcWmdwTKguzL2rTA-mxOYdtYrTQ285JD31W5PAJ4qTwsTUsVLQgnlnJLVNbXjTIxnDF6nQp70HtrFv3ViMuVQj3CZXwntxm5Rs/s1600/hip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghuE3xm1v-7DnS-YVG2RUmnBgCUurKkZ-eLaK5biiD4CcWmdwTKguzL2rTA-mxOYdtYrTQ285JD31W5PAJ4qTwsTUsVLQgnlnJLVNbXjTIxnDF6nQp70HtrFv3ViMuVQj3CZXwntxm5Rs/s320/hip.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
Blame it on the economy, or whatever your opposing political party is, or on the weather. But fashion around here has a whole new meaning.</div>
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<br />
The magazines and catwalks are still so old fashioned; they haven't even yet released designs for the season of Recession 2007-11. I laugh at the "Lust/Must" pages, featuring billion-dollar couture items and their "inexpensive" inspirations -- for only $559 per glove!</div>
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<br />
Right. Sure, let me just count that out in coins from under my car seat. And then run that "must-have" shopping list past the "Occupy" crowd.</div>
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<br />
Sure, a few Boulderites have squeaked by in lucky oblivion, but for the former CEOs now scraping by on $10 an hour (or journalists who have been broke since the advent of the Gutenberg Press), true style is about creativity, prioritizing, recycling and a darn good deal.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br />
Style is about being smart. It is no more sexy to be <span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline ! important; float: none; font-family: arial,helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 16px; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">gluttonous<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>with your credit card than it is with your lunch menu. Sure, a grease-soaked bag of French fries is novel on occasion, but balance it out with some leafy-green discretion, or you're honestly kind of gross. Same goes with your labels. Head-to-toe inflated price tags lacks individuality -- and discretion.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br />
My BFF Brittany and I have a bit of a competition going on (although she doesn't exactly know -- yet) for who can best rock Recession style. One point for cuteness. One point for craftiness/DIY. Two points for creativity. And one point per every $10 saved, per item.</div>
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<br />
Take a flower-accented belt that Brittany saw in the store for $40. She bought a fake flower, glued it to a clip and affixed it to a belt she already owned, totaling $5. That's like 293.5 points, if my math-for-liberal-arts-majors training is correct.</div>
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I can't DIM-A (do it myself -- anything ). But unfortunately for Brittany, I've got a new secret that is about to take her down: Hip Consignment, 1468 Pearl St. in Boulder.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br />
Vanquish any idea you have of consignment shopping. Because if I didn't tell you (well, that and the store's name), you wouldn't know. You'd just think you were in a beautiful boutique hallucinating over finding designer dresses around $40, accessories from $5 and, um, excuse me while I weep in delight, but is that a brand new Diane Von Furstenberg line?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
<br />
The 8-month-old store was designed to break the stigma of consignment shopping, while hooking ladies up with fancy-pants clothing for Marshall's sales rack prices.</div>
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<br />
I'm going to need a new fashion point system. Either that, or more fingers and toes to count on.</div>
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<b><br />Tip:</b><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Like Hip Consignment on Facebook (<a href="http://www.facebook.com/hipconsignmentboulder" style="text-decoration: none;">Facebook.com/hipconsignmentboulder</a>) and get in on regular specials, including the Mad Dash Lunchtime Specials from noon-1 p.m. Monday through Thursday. Select merchandise goes on sale for just this one hour, like 30 percent off boots for winter.</div>
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<b><br />Coming up</b><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>at Hip Consignment: The Holiday Dress Extravaganza, Nov. 26-27. The plan: Accumulate 100 fantastic <br />
holiday dresses to put on sale the weekend of Black Friday.</div>
<br />
<br />
<i>Read more at <a href="http://dailycamera.com/" target="_blank">Dailycamera.com. </a></i><br />
<i>Check out my BFF Brittany's blog at <a href="http://loislanelifestyle.blogspot.com/">loislanelifestyle.blogspot.com</a>. </i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-52843347762101482892011-11-09T13:51:00.000-08:002011-11-12T08:42:51.820-08:00Finding your inner steampunk<br />
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkqPamUGVGUI2LuVArkaGK-tokrQoa0g9CAu6dtevN527A6ssSnM1r6KtR9lIBtv90UecxUJC5qIQmTeS1TXXicm53dHjVrSaRRXaUsi6batUaHABsY3ukgKtHsKK7hNxrq7MsbkJ_iBE/s1600/steam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkqPamUGVGUI2LuVArkaGK-tokrQoa0g9CAu6dtevN527A6ssSnM1r6KtR9lIBtv90UecxUJC5qIQmTeS1TXXicm53dHjVrSaRRXaUsi6batUaHABsY3ukgKtHsKK7hNxrq7MsbkJ_iBE/s320/steam.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: verdana,arial,sans-serif; font-size: 10px;">For more subtle steampunk style, check out the brown lace-front Sarai top, $70, by Australian-based tahnaya.etsy.com. With cap sleeves, high turtleneck collar. Also check out the shops' Gothic Victorian-inspired dress ($160) with a standing lace collar, short puffy sleeves, layers of ruffles and tulle and carved wooden buttons up the back. (Jeremy Sypniewski)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Steampunk is second nature to modern-day alchemist, Joshua Onysko.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">
Beyond the fact that he moved to India in 1999 so he could ride steam-engine trains, in his practice, and in his daily life, the Boulder man enjoys combining different elements to create something else. Whether it's as simple as adding a brass belt buckle to a regular outfit, or as complex as deconstructing plants chemically and them recombining them to create a mood-enhancing candy.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">
<br />
In fact, Onysko used ancient alchemy to create a cutting-edge skin-care line, Pangea Organics (<a href="http://www.pangeaorganics.com/" style="text-decoration: none;">pangeaorganics.com</a>), an organic, fair-trade, natural skincare line that boasts a long list of awards and national accolades. Including the (very) lesser-celebrated Aimee Heckel Test; I use and love the Italian Red Mandarin with Rose face cream, ($36 for 2 ounces).</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">
<br />
On Halloween, Onysko organized a steampunk-theme fundraiser at the Boulder Museum of Contemporary Art. The party raised money for the campaign Hey GMOs, Stop Trying To Get In My Plants, a media campaign to raise awareness about the risks of genetically modified organisms in our food.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">
<br />
"I've always been fascinated by combining two different cultures, and that's what steampunk is," Onysko says. "It's combining the steam era with futurism."</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">
<br />
As Onysko sees it, adding steampunk to your daily wardrobe can be as simple as copper earrings, aviator goggles, puffy shirts, brass jewelry or boots. Imagine futuristic innovations as Victorians may have imagined them. Some call it neo-Victorian: a mix of clothes from 1950 to 1910 with technology using gears and mechanics, instead of computers. <br />
<br />
But it's more than "brass and watch parts," according to the blog <a href="http://www.thesteampunkhome.blogspot.com/" style="text-decoration: none;">thesteampunkhome.blogspot.com</a>.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgiTg20E21j98chLtZf2o09cz2GHCTu8ZTQZP9iJm0YpLbjUh0CRMcgMpAk_MQpCZAQqVSyT-PjAYZRexA5LUuvMgFcaC_e2OqMiNqaORa5TBZwEBGypqbIrbthX98Mu_jN4KD22ZwJFg/s1600/shoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgiTg20E21j98chLtZf2o09cz2GHCTu8ZTQZP9iJm0YpLbjUh0CRMcgMpAk_MQpCZAQqVSyT-PjAYZRexA5LUuvMgFcaC_e2OqMiNqaORa5TBZwEBGypqbIrbthX98Mu_jN4KD22ZwJFg/s320/shoes.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: verdana,arial,sans-serif; font-size: 10px;">Antique black leather Victorian lace-up boots, $175, from Boulder-based charlesvintage.etsy.com. Made by Peters Shoe Company in the 1900s, and in excellent condition, too. Granny meets old school teacher meets a Salem witch.</span></td></tr>
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"It's finding a way to combine the past and the future in an aesthetic (sic) pleasing yet still punkish way. It's living a life that looks old-fashioned, yet speaks to the future. It's taking the detritus of our modern technological society and remaking it into useful things," the blog explains.</div>
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<i>Want to infuse a little more steaminess into your punk this fall? Check out these items from local Etsy sellers:</i></div>
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<b><br />Compass necklace,</b> $55,<a href="http://www.chainedbeauty.etsy.com/" style="text-decoration: none;"> chainedbeauty.etsy.com</a> -- Wrapped in chain mail, made from a variety of metals, including brasses, stainless steal and aluminum. The Boulder-based designer, Peter Cacek, has been immersed in medieval art forms his whole life, "ever since my dad worked a blacksmith's forge when I was a child."</div>
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<b><br />Antique black leather Victorian lace-up boots,</b> $175, from Boulder-based <a href="http://charlesvintage.etsy.com/">charlesvintage.etsy.com</a> -- Made by Peters Shoe Company in the 1900s, and in excellent condition, too. Granny meets old school teacher meets a Salem witch.</div>
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<i><br />Here are some other Etsy ideas from around the globe:</i></div>
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<b><br />For more subtle steampunk style,</b> check out the brown lace-front Sarai top, $70, by Australian-based<a href="http://www.tahnaya.etsy.com/" style="text-decoration: none;"> tahnaya.etsy.com</a>. With cap sleeves, high turtleneck collar. Also check out the shops' Gothic Victorian-inspired dress ($160) with a standing lace collar, short puffy sleeves, layers of ruffles and tulle and carved wooden buttons up the back.</div>
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<b><br />For blatant steampunk,</b> go for a handmade Alfresco-style mechanical bracelet watch with a skeleton pattern, $109, by<a href="http://www.alfrescouniquegroup.etsy.com/" style="text-decoration: none;"> alfrescouniquegroup.etsy.com</a>. Leather band wraps around your wrist twice from both sides. And to be extra authentic, this watch works without a battery.<br /><br />Read more at <a href="http://www.dailycamera.com./">www.dailycamera.com.</a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-20576918656842342122011-11-03T13:13:00.000-07:002011-11-12T08:43:05.121-08:00High-end fashion in Longmont<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Y87ExZ56wR16cJVzJFWtI5zSHYIKWmE4Dz3RUVTQ2YvND0Ccik4zYrl3h5oZ4g63veoSqHhPmecD_NbRZWl2GGTB_hrp4eNM7nMfYy4j6x2c96OlAfwHG_Pmk3KRe04TLzyZ1Hd76SY/s1600/apparel.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670865503310165682" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Y87ExZ56wR16cJVzJFWtI5zSHYIKWmE4Dz3RUVTQ2YvND0Ccik4zYrl3h5oZ4g63veoSqHhPmecD_NbRZWl2GGTB_hrp4eNM7nMfYy4j6x2c96OlAfwHG_Pmk3KRe04TLzyZ1Hd76SY/s320/apparel.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 212px;" /></a><br />
<span id="Global_Site">Danielle Seiss has it rough. She is surrounded by jaw-droppingly stunning clothes all day long. This might not sound so terrible -- unless you've also worked selling something that you love. Then you know the amount of self-control it takes to not blow your entire paycheck before it hits the bank.<br /><br />
Seiss is the owner of <a href="http://www.apparelvalley.com/" target="_blank">Apparel Valley</a>, a high-end fashion boutique that opened in downtown Longmont two weeks ago. The shop, which first launched online in 2009, already has a following, and features quality, timeless women's clothes, accessories and gifts with a European flair. The racks are filled with some of <br /><br />Colorado's best designers, as well as products that support disadvantaged women around the world. All items are chosen for simultaneously being elegant, yet practical. Like machine-washable leather. Or boiled wool, which has the warmth of wool but with a smoother texture and lighter weight.<br /><br />"The problem we have is we love everything in our store," Seiss says, with a laugh. "I appreciate it when people buy things in my size."<br /><br />She's holding a long, fitted red fleece trench coat-inspired jacket with an oversized external pocket and asymmetrical buttons. The shop has been open for three days and it's almost sold out of all of the scarves. That's a good problem to have, Seiss admits, for the shop's sake and her own.<br /><br />"It's dangerous working around beautiful clothing," she says. "It's like setting a chocolate cake down in front of (yourself) and saying, 'I'm not going to touch that.'"<br /><br /> Indeed, it's dangerous seeking out and writing about beautiful clothing, too. Seiss let me try on the <a href="http://www.apparelvalley.com/Covelo_Degas_Coat_p/11f-cov-bk11-3-tl.htm" target="_blank">Covelo Degas</a> jacket, a below-the-knee-length boiled wool jacket, dip-dyed to have a gradient of teal color, and accented with dramatic ruffles and oversized fabric flowers ($318). While wiping the drool off my chin, I sized up Seiss to determine if I could outrun her out the front door. I decided the length of the jacket might slow my stride, reluctantly hung it back up and went to smother my envy in greasy hash browns in Janie's Cafe a few doors down.<br /><br />
Every resident in east Boulder County should be sending Apparel Valley, 471 Main St., a thank you card, for bringing some legitimate fashion to this side of the Rockies.<br /><br />
The shop's staple is Longmont-based Icelandic Design (<a href="http://www.icelandicdesign.com/">icelandicdesign.com</a>), which makes sweaters and jackets in the handicraft tradition of Iceland, where the founder is from. My favorite Icelandic Design piece is an Asian-print inspired sweater called the Taiko: 100 percent wool, $238, in charcoal and gold (two of the top colors for this fall).<br /><br />
Clothes in Apparel Valley range from $48 to $400 a piece. Accessories start at $38. And if you're looking for inexpensive gifts, check out the <a href="http://cubesuds.com/" target="_blank">Cube Suds</a> (locally made all natural soap), starting at $8.<br /><br />
<b>For more info on Apparel </b><b>Valley,</b> check out <a href="http://www.facebook.com/ApparelValley">facebook.com/ApparelValley</a>, <a href="http://www.apparelvalley.blogspot.com/">apparelvalley.blogspot.com</a>, or buy online at <a href="http://www.apparelvalley.com/">apparelvalley.com</a>.</span><br />
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Read more at <a href="http://www.dailycamera.com./">www.dailycamera.com.</a><span id="Global_Site"> </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-90351861822002954992011-11-02T08:13:00.000-07:002011-11-08T11:21:07.986-08:00Scary hairy<span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDzTTNBIjGzDZ8_svJiCtPt9Lq6d5ugr0OA6zJzJS4EycqGYwHFWsiABN_ukUqPBjteoiOB6-eUq7n_TI6c9GbbvBp1vQfwiymyqKEuHAxtfQGXRNN6uCNAy-Q3AKS4QlDk0WkCaxnC7E/s1600/perm.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670417292038407186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDzTTNBIjGzDZ8_svJiCtPt9Lq6d5ugr0OA6zJzJS4EycqGYwHFWsiABN_ukUqPBjteoiOB6-eUq7n_TI6c9GbbvBp1vQfwiymyqKEuHAxtfQGXRNN6uCNAy-Q3AKS4QlDk0WkCaxnC7E/s320/perm.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 294px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a><i>Originally published 8/31/09</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">When I was 12, I got a horrible spiral perm. One tragic day, I went to bed with wet hair. The next morning, I combed it out, using no balms or gels or serums or, heck, I would have even benefited from squirting straight lotion on my head. The result: I looked like a lion that got stuck on an electric fence.<br /></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span">So I share the sadness and stress of this poor runway model, pictured at right, who obviously also got a bad spiral perm and slept on it and forgot her balms at home.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><br />Equally as tragic is this poor lass, pictured at left, also from the <a href="http://beautyfesyen.blogspot.com/2009/08/hair-fashion-show-in-sao-paulo.html" target="_blank">Hair Fashion Show in Sao Paulo</a> on Wednesday. She obviously tried the lotion trick, but ended up looking like a member of the Misfits.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="http://community.adn.com/sites/community.adn.com/files/images/misfits.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><span class="articleImage" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></span></a><a href="http://www.dailycamera.com/portlet/article/html/imageDisplay.jsp?contentItemRelationshipId=2613717" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_new"><img alt="" border="0" height="325" src="http://extras.mnginteractive.com/live/media/site21/2009/0831/20090831_044012_Brazil_Hair_Fashion_Show_XA%282%29_200.jpg" title="" width="200" /></a></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span">(AP photo)</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">Kids give us an excuse to be as ridiculous as we want to be. And that is how I justify an otherwise disturbing scene that encompassed a recent Monday evening.<br /><br />
Bettie Anne, 19 months old, was wearing her favorite outfit: a plastic pirate's hat and her pink rain boots that are four sizes too big. She was also wearing her pajamas, which are not "pajamas" by anyone's definition other than hers: her ubiquitous pink bow and her pink-and-white polka-dot jacket. Yes, that's what she likes to sleep in.<br /><br /> And I let her. Because I am the mom who, including at this particular point in time, wears a white wig for no reason. Bettie thinks I look better with white hair, based on her requirement that I wear this wig at all times while we play trains, but not when we play dolls or read because, gosh, duh.<br /><br /> I've got it easy. Bettie thinks her dad looks better with blue skin. Which explains why, on this fateful night that I hope Bettie never remembers out-of-context in a psychiatrist's chair, he was stuck in a head-to-toe blue spandex Morphsuit. Not sure what a <a href="http://www.morphsuits.com/" target="_blank">Morphsuit </a>is? You're luckier than my neighbors. Which might explain why no kids ever trick-or-treat at our house, not even when we stack mountains of those addictive little pumpkin candies on our doorstep with a sign that says, "Take this, for my saddlebags' sake!"<br /><br /> The neighbors might be terrified of us. But my daughter has no fear. Other than of normalcy. She screams in disgust when her dad takes off his stretchy blue legs to do things such as go to the bathroom or shower or go to the grocery store. If Bettie Anne had her way, every day would be Halloween.<br /><br />
Ah yes. That's my little mini.<br /><br /> Sure, silly little things like the "alphabet" and "numbers" are neat. But what really fills me up with pride when she covers her feet with sidewalk chalk or paints her cheeks with watercolors or builds virtual pants on her little legs with hundreds of Band-Aids. Bettie laughed while we painted my bunny mask with fake blood, and it was her idea to decorate daddy's taxidermy hammerhead shark with thick silver necklaces. Her favorite toy is a realistic-looking, feather-covered black crow.<br /><br /> Her creativity is as wide as the universe. It hasn't yet been smushed and boxed by peer pressure, self-consciousness and judgment. And as far as she knows, all daddies have blue spandex flesh, all kids wear pirate hats to breakfast and every day really is a special occasion to dress up. She can be anything in the world for no reason -- only limited by her imagination. And as her mom, it's my job to wind that up, let it whirl and get out of the way.<br /><br /> Plus, it makes Halloween easy. She already has her costume: a pirate with a black crow on her shoulder. And no ghosts and goblins could possibly scare her. Not when she's used to a mandex-clad dad.<br /><br /><i>Photo by Larry Sullivan.</i></span><br />
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Read more at <a href="http://www.dailycamera.com./">www.dailycamera.com.</a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><i> </i></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-74677520412952705782011-10-12T08:35:00.000-07:002011-11-12T08:43:30.858-08:00The Pretty Campers Club<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtgbu35RrKW_RYn2xd5A2gOLjpnFt_NRUhqDQ0YmX6vaZr9M-E60FlsfJA3c93-e_O4ob-pioyH69_vvaH4vsTQVsWtbklU3Vl0i6UTp1L1kjf-dsQhyphenhyphenLF0kEfG_ZWlURUGoBmDkc_eIc/s1600/horse.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662630382719090626" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtgbu35RrKW_RYn2xd5A2gOLjpnFt_NRUhqDQ0YmX6vaZr9M-E60FlsfJA3c93-e_O4ob-pioyH69_vvaH4vsTQVsWtbklU3Vl0i6UTp1L1kjf-dsQhyphenhyphenLF0kEfG_ZWlURUGoBmDkc_eIc/s320/horse.jpg" style="display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
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My daddy would have been proud. Everyone else was just stunned.<br />
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When I crawled out of the tent, my friends stopped and cocked their heads, like they had just discovered a new creature on the shores of <a href="http://www.lakepowell.com/" target="_blank">Lake Powell</a> in Utah. One with polkadot markings.<br />
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Or perhaps my fluffy parasol clashed with the sand, lake muck and last night's campfire smoke.<br />
Finally, someone spoke: "You look like love child of 'The <a href="http://disney.go.com/mickey/" target="_blank">Mickey Mouse</a> Club' and 'I Love Lucy.'"<br />
It was true. And totally my intention.<br />
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I was wearing a red-and-white polka-dot vintage-style bathing suit from West Side Sinners in Denver (<a href="http://www.westsidesinners.com/">http://www.westsidesinners.com/</a>) and an oversized white hat, in addition to the umbrella, which matched my skirt.<br />
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Sounds high maintenance. But it was quite the opposite. I had the lightest bag in the group, and I was also the only face to not get sun-fried, thanks to my double decker umbrella-hat fortress.<br />
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You see, fashion involves much more than simply putting on clothes. It spans the entire process of visual self-expression, including what you choose to use, how you use it and why. And person's fashion consciousness is amplified when condensed into a tiny duffel bag.<br />
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I have packing down to a precise equation: multi-purpose. Everything must hinge around one color and style scheme, maximizing style options and minimizing space.<br />
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<b>For my dad, the bottom line is lightweight.</b> He and his buddies have a club, the Rocky Mountain Titanium and High Tech Devices Backpacking Club. Because my dad worked in IT for 30 years, he insists I use the acronym RMTAHTDBC.<br />
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The RMTAHTDBC prides itself in low-weight, but not minimalist, packing. Points are awarded for the coolest devices that are invented in the garage, always involving duct tape. For example, piece of foam that quadruples as a chair, pillow, table and hat would be considered top-of-the-line couture.<br />
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Your overall pack weight earns the most points. Any pack weighing more than 35 pounds is an embarrassment. My brother's once came in at 20 pounds. Granted, he slept under the stars -- and later the hail -- without a tent, but that just elevated his style status.<br />
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<b>Unlike my hail-beaten brother</b>, my secondary objective for outdoor packing is to shield myself (and expensive hair dye) from said outdoors. A massive sunhat is a must, such as the wide-brim Jeanne Simmons hats for $29 at Paper Doll, 1141 Pearl St. in Boulder. My fave is the 7-inch-wide black-and-white striped wire brim hat, which comes with a matching handbag.<br />
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Some hats even boast 50 SPF and can fold into a tiny wad. Check out <a href="http://www.hatstack.com/">http://www.hatstack.com/</a> for more of the glory.<br />
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For a slightly smaller but still ridiculously awesome 5-inch brim hat, check out the Raffia Exotic Hat by Tropical Items Madagascar (<a href="http://www.tropicalitems.com/">http://www.tropicalitems.com/</a>), a Boulder-based retailer of handmade, fair-trade crafts made in Madagascar.<br />
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A portion of all sales goes to the nonprofit Hope for Madagascar, which aims to improve the lives of the Malagasy people and their country. Find the raffia hat at Boulder and Beyond Art, 1211B Pearl St., for $39.99. It comes in 12 colors, including dusty pink.<br />
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Which just so happens to match my Lake Powell parasol and skirt.<br />
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I think I need to start my own club: The Rocky Mountain Pink Parasol and Pretty Campers Club.<br />
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Read more at <a href="http://www.dailycamera.com./">www.dailycamera.com.</a> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-8475333770647635732011-10-12T08:12:00.000-07:002011-11-08T10:57:12.006-08:00Fashion karma: Why I hate the bus and the bus hates me<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOpbL-4dU39jdbXBz5xuHrcdEIuAjfo3E_TiQGa85um-7p7bNLDlp5SEEbkQgSivqsLP9C5RWPTmNiCRGq5wO4jApPh43W2xT_1jN8lGBuW3YdiHwalZ59a4UK_x7ET3QmSnvbUl7en88/s1600/gold.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662624441607245170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOpbL-4dU39jdbXBz5xuHrcdEIuAjfo3E_TiQGa85um-7p7bNLDlp5SEEbkQgSivqsLP9C5RWPTmNiCRGq5wO4jApPh43W2xT_1jN8lGBuW3YdiHwalZ59a4UK_x7ET3QmSnvbUl7en88/s320/gold.jpg" style="display: block; height: 214px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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10/07/2010 </div>
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Sometimes, I ride the bus. Although this helps secure me a seat in EcoHeaven, I loathe the bus. It's boring and smelly and cold, and it takes twice as long as driving. I can't read or text because I have severe (like SEVERE in all caps with extra exclamation marks!!) vertigo. I never used to have vertigo. It's a new feature on Aimee 3.1.<br />
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Yesterday, I had a brilliant idea on how to pass the 16 hours it takes to go the 14 miles from Boulder to Longmont. As a new mommy, I never have time to paint my nails. (It's OK to already start shaking your head at me as you anticipate where this one is going.)<br />
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I figured I could paint my nails while waiting at the bus stop, because I am a complete wreckmaniac about bus schedules and I am always 25 minutes early because I'm so stressed out and terrified of missing the bus, and the whole time I'm at the bus stop I pace around nervously checking the time and looking around for the bus like if I relax or blink I will somehow miss the 40-foot-long, screaming vehicle moving at 2 miles per hour as it churns past me.<br />
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I hate the bus.<br />
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So I thought, in the peak of my ultimate brilliancy, I thought I could paint my nails while waiting at the bus stop, and then I would have one full hour of staring out the window counting cows for the polish to dry.<br />
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How could I go wrong?<br />
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Oh, let me tell you.<br />
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Turns out yesterday I was so early to the bus stop that I ended up being almost late for the bus earlier than the one I originally planned on taking. I know that doesn't make sense, but get over it. As I walked up, there was already a line forming where the bus driver would soon open the doors, the gateway to nausea and an inexplicable popcorn odor.<br />
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I hopped to the back of the line, totally stressed out because I always am when I get near buses with their "schedules." That's when I realized I only had one or two minutes to paint my nails so they could dry on the drive.<br />
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I crouched down near by bag and opened up my new bottle of shiny gold polish. When the lid came off, it hit me: the odor. Holy McMoly, I hadn't thought about the offensive smell of nail polish in the enclosed space. But I had already launched this mission, so I was committed.<br />
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I stayed crouched down by my bag decided to quickly paint my nails in the secretive wall of my long hair, and then I would slip the polish back into my bag and walk onto the bus and no one would ever know it was me who was responsible for the stink. Perfect plan! And I'd have awesome nails.<br />
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One fingernail, two, I got my left hand done. And then the doors cracked open and the line began wiggling forward. Ah! I scooted forward in crouching tiger position, trying to inconspicuously screw the lid back onto the bottle when:<br />
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Noooooo!<br />
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I dropped the entire bottle, and in slow motion, a ribbon of bright gold hell spewed out the top and landed with a violent crash onto my<br />
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FAVORITE<br />
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WHITE<br />
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VINTAGE<br />
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BEAUTIFUL<br />
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ONE-OF-A-KIND<br />
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FANCY<br />
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BLOUSE.<br />
<br />
By now the line was rushing forward, and I had dropped the polish. It had also painted the sidewalk, and the shuffling shoes skidded through it, leaving the striped proof of my error in rays surrounding me. Everyone knew it was me, and as I stood there with my jaw dropped, just staring numbly at the horrible splatter of gold nail polish that had violated my blouse, every passersby getting on the bus scowled at me. (Rightfully so.) Scowl. I scowled at myself. The stench was immeasurable.<br />
<br />
Finally, I reached into my bag to get my Eco-Pass -- oops, I smeared three fingers' worth of polish across my white (yes, white, of course it had to be white) bag. I tried to rub it off with my other hand, but then ended up with the pads of my other hand covered in gold lacquer, and the small dots of gold on my bag smudged into what looked like, let's just say, something less than gorgeous that happens when you feed a baby too many yams.<br />
<br />
I showed the driver my Eco-Pass and took a seat behind him, afraid to touch anything for fear of soiling the seats and then getting stuck with a $9 million bill to reupholster the whole RTD line. I locked my eyes out the window, knowing if I looked at anything in the bus I would immediately be stricken with the urge to vomit like a pregnant woman on a Tilt-A-Whirl after eating eight funnel cakes, when -- ohhhh. No. Nooo. NO.<br />
<br />
The scent of the polish had crawled up my arm and tickled its way into my nose, pulling the nausea plug and sending me head-between-legs sick to my stomach. But I couldn't complain.<br />
This was my fault. I couldn't escape it either; half of my blouse was soaked, my bag was smeared and both of my hands were covered. I even had some near my right eyebrow.<br />
<br />
So there I sat for an hour, huffing nail polish; actively striving not to vomit and thereby further offend my fellow passengers; and basking in the karma of yet another fashion disaster.<br />
<br />
The bus hates me.<br />
<br /></div>
<br />
<i>Photo by Flickr user <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/lollaping/">Ollie Crafoord</a>. </i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-56071345096818274222011-10-12T07:56:00.000-07:002011-11-08T11:15:42.422-08:00Before you get a tattoo, don't consider this<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbeP7jO430zrPAnnIfbAMVo9AbLt4d1q3gKe1vllIx1ZJqB9S6sFN0dxl3rDZyfSPbHcEzpcYAXlzlQjgXQ4rg3u3x4NdY4rpo9mjZ5k4N-kaIQiHvgAzOJJIKGlRC62Bf1dlPGWZnZxQ/s1600/tattoo.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662621919434558594" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbeP7jO430zrPAnnIfbAMVo9AbLt4d1q3gKe1vllIx1ZJqB9S6sFN0dxl3rDZyfSPbHcEzpcYAXlzlQjgXQ4rg3u3x4NdY4rpo9mjZ5k4N-kaIQiHvgAzOJJIKGlRC62Bf1dlPGWZnZxQ/s320/tattoo.jpg" style="display: block; height: 213px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<div>
So, I wore black Ed Hardy sweatpants to work out last week.<br />
<br />
I know.<br />
<br />
Even though <a href="http://www.buckle.com/" target="_blank">The Buckle,</a> <a href="http://www.vegas.com/" target="_blank">Las Vegas</a> in general and a handful of unfortunate fratbags don't, I do know that <a href="http://edhardyshop.com/" target="_blank">Ed Hardy</a>, excessively embellished "tattoo design" clothing and fight apparel (starting but not ending with <a href="http://www.afflictionclothingstore.com/" target="_blank">Affliction</a>) are now officially overdone and therefore out of style.<br />
<br />
But the thing is, these sweats are so comfortable that I don't care. (I sound like a <a href="http://www.crocs.com/" target="_blank">Crocs</a>-wearer.)<br />
<br />
Plus, I'm hoping that sweatpants somehow get exemption from trends. I mean, they're sweats. Their very nature is anti-sexy.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I get all Hot Tub Time Machine and imagine I'm looking back on the late 2000s/early 2010s. I think people will wear Ed Hardy costumes, pink hair and ear gauges, similar to how we wear jelly bracelets and banana clips when we dress for an '80s party. Surely the J-Bieb swooping man bangs (the preppy version of the Emo) will be a costume staple. So will the Kat Von D wig: black hair with blonde highlights.<br />
<br />
Which brings up tattoos. No one can deny that tattoos are super trendy right now. They started out alternative, but now everyone and their mom, literally, has one. Full sleeves are no longer novel, not even on police officers, pregnant women and doctors. Certainly not on women. Thanks Angelina. Thanks Suicide Girls. We can single-handedly thank Megan Fox for the side rib tattoos.<br />
<br />
I've got my share of ink, and it's worth disclaiming that my husband is a tattoo artist. Which makes me ponder about the longevity of his career; like other tattooists, he only is getting busier.<br />
<br />
How will tattoos be perceived in 10 years, 20 years, 50 years? Will everyone eventually be covered? Will no one care? How does a trend that is permanent change the dynamics of what's "in" and "out?"<br />
<br />
With so many people with tattoos, especially tattoos that they love (elaborate -- and expensive -- works of art), it seems unlikely that tattoos can ever actually go out of style.<br />
<br />
But I wonder if my daughter will hate them because all the "old people" have tattoos. Or will she get one when she's 10? Will body modification just get more and more extreme, like with glow-in-the-dark LED implants? Or will there be a huge surge of rebellion against what is now the norm, a wave of people removing them to look "cool" and not "old."<br />
<br />
Look at history. Every decade or so seems to be a rebellion against a previous one. Following the minimalism of the Depression, the '50s were all glam, excess and glory. Red lipstick and curls. Then '70s rebelled against that, with minimalism. No makeup, natural hippies and straight hair. Then the '80s rebelled against that, with another version of glam -- more excess, layers of necklaces, ruffles and lace and bows. Then the '90s went the opposite direction: grunge, plaid and boyish ruggedness.<br />
<br />
I don't exactly understand the evolution we are in now. I ponder permanency, and how that will change the ebb and flow of trends. What if the red lipstick of the '50s were permanent? Would all of those women have regretted it just 20 years later, but then been happy to have it again in the '80s?<br />
<br />
How will permanent body modifications play into the trends of the future? And if they go "out" somehow and people begin removing them, will that make the rest of us who keep our tattoos rebels again -- bringing tattoos back to their original roots?<br />
<br />
I asked my husband these questions and he looked at me blankly. Then he responded:<br />
If you worry about what others will think of your tattoo, then you're getting it for the wrong reason to begin with.<br />
<br />
Maybe I should let him tattoo "touché" on my forehead.<br />
<br />
<i>Photo by Molly Plann.</i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-72210986787976139922011-10-05T13:46:00.000-07:002011-11-08T11:43:48.332-08:00The Work Shower<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGeWYkdsX79wjsvmfGHHQ8UF3iOoykTWflQEnaQTLWz1upvUWiQNiUAcr6kZ5NqUge7HZgRYVs2NRquPomRGP62LIgyZvKjO-_zk2Oo9kLCxb9ixAkNRJZEa8iSKb3s9zOK8hIe-WqlFM/s1600/shower.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660113264157810882" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGeWYkdsX79wjsvmfGHHQ8UF3iOoykTWflQEnaQTLWz1upvUWiQNiUAcr6kZ5NqUge7HZgRYVs2NRquPomRGP62LIgyZvKjO-_zk2Oo9kLCxb9ixAkNRJZEa8iSKb3s9zOK8hIe-WqlFM/s320/shower.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 214px;" /></a><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">So this is what it's come to: the work shower.<br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">I could blow the next 10 minutes telling you how I've been too busy to shower, much less pamper myself, but instead I will explain everything in three and a half words (because one is a contraction): I'm a mom.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />And last week, I literally packed up my soap and razor (forgot the shaving cream, but that's the least of my problems) to bring to work. So I could shower. And shave. To save my marriage. And my dignity. No offense, peace-loving hippies. None taken, of course; you're peace-loving.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />That was my idea of "me time." Who, me? I'd forgotten about her.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />No time to shower this morning, but I'll squeeze it in between interviews. Awesome! I'll even bring my special<a href="http://www.pangeaorganics.com/" target="_blank"> Pangea Organics</a> body wash. Awesomer!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />I didn't even realize how truly pathetic I had become until I told a friend.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />Me: Sorry I missed your text. I was showering.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />Unsuspecting friend: Oh, are you at home today?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />Me: No, I used the shower in the work bathroom.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />Sympathetic friend: Ew, I'm sorry.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />Me: Sorry? Oh, yeah, I mean, ew, yeah, gross.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />Concerned friend: Is yours all dark and moldy, too?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />Me: Of course it is.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />Repulsed friend: Yeah. That's the very description of "work shower." They're one step below truck-stop shower and one tiny step above washing your feet in the Conoco toilet. I always wondered who used the work shower.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />Me: Now you know: moms.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />Maybe it was my confession, or my realization, or maybe it was actually true, but after my work shower, I felt dirtier than I felt before I stepped into that dark, moist, tile-covered cave just past the breast-pumping table. And I began to dream about other spa treatments that don't require a tetanus shot first.<br /><br /><i>Photo by Flickr user stevendepolo.</i></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-83179630461601556772011-10-05T13:42:00.000-07:002011-11-08T11:18:16.755-08:00The fine line between participation and caricature<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCRwnuWvENg4NV3bUJf_G7CGGdVUafao5pQyQLbn5OTceiyMxwytKxB9D5LTVDSCQ3eECfah8cF6VqRqnWtc8Ujf7GFnD8PllNa1EJGGp0iZdbZ-3IvzPQh0ho9YJG6FaI4V-S5EoFnNU/s1600/deflep.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660111597495000802" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCRwnuWvENg4NV3bUJf_G7CGGdVUafao5pQyQLbn5OTceiyMxwytKxB9D5LTVDSCQ3eECfah8cF6VqRqnWtc8Ujf7GFnD8PllNa1EJGGp0iZdbZ-3IvzPQh0ho9YJG6FaI4V-S5EoFnNU/s320/deflep.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 214px;" /></a><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">When it comes down to it, this is actually quite ridiculous. My dad would call it a "high-level problem." It's not like I'm worrying about dying of cholera in contaminated drinking water or where my family is going to sleep tonight.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />I've been sitting here in tears because my daughter won't nap, and I'm supposed to be writing about <a href="http://www.betabrand.com/" target="_blank">Betabrand</a> "Cordaround" pants (with horizontal instead of vertical corduroy), but I absolutely cannot do it because, well, all I can think about is what I'm supposed to wear to the <a href="http://www.defleppard.com/" target="_blank">Def Leppard</a> concert tonight.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />Yup. That's my stress.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />I think the last time I felt this anxious about what to wear was the first day of seventh-grade, which, incidentally, was around the height of my Def Lep fanaticism. Now, I'm what you might call a serial sarcastic-concert-goer. I wore stirrup pants to Bon Jovi and a baggy tee and tight jeans to <a href="http://www.bretmichaels.com/" target="_blank">Bret Michaels</a>. I even curled and ratted my bangs, just for good measure.<br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">When attending such a concert, you must swathe yourself in the right amount of ridiculousness, in order to securely draw the line between participation and caricature. Otherwise you could be swept into the sea of serious Cherry Creek moms, swaying and holding their hands over their hearts/Mom Jeans' waistbands (same location), while nodding that yes, every rose does have its thorn. Sniffle.<br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">In a way, concert slumming is simultaneously owning and chuckling at your past -- a way to indulge in excellent power ballads like "Love Bites," while rising above the fact that Tommy checked "no" in the letter you passed him, even though you carved a "T" with an eraser on your ankle for him. Or so I hear. (The "T" on my ankle is a totally natural scar from some injury that I can't seem to remember.)<br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">You see, if I just hopped in my car without crimping my hair, people might think I seriously like the greatest stripper song of all times ("Pour some sugar on me," obviously), or that I regularly dance around my house to it while sweeping when my husband works late on Thursdays.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />Yet my costume creativity is depleted, and like any art form, you can't force it when uninspired. I used all of it for a photo shoot this weekend for my husband's business, <a href="http://www.surfbillytattoo.com/" style="text-decoration: none;">Surfbillytattoo.com</a>, whereby I hula-hooped while wearing a latex dress and stilettos; Lisa ate Astro Pops in a kiddie pool of squirt guns; and Caleb sipped fine whiskey in a beach chair in a graffiti-covered alley. How could I possibly one-up a photo stint with a pirate piñata and mermaid costume? I don't even know what's normal or bizarre anymore, much less what a proper '80s costume entails.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />Plus, we're going to the concert with our friends Mike and Renu, the ultimate hair-band couple. Renu is a mad scientist who can infuse glitter into any substance, from lip gloss to cocktails to a curry dinner. She's the only human more sparkly than Joe Elliott himself, with his matching silver glit-sneakers, mic and stand, guitar, belt and (probably) man thong.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />Whereas Mike, with his long, curly brown hair, is a dead ringer for Vivian Campbell. Did I mention he plays the bass? Mike, not Vivian. See? Even I'm confused.<br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">As for my husband, I caught him cramming on Def Leppard's Wikipedia page so he would have some "limo banter." (Of course Mike and Renu rented a limo, because they are the ultimate.) My shaved-headed man won't even paint his nails, and he doesn't own one single pair of leather pants or glitter shoes.<br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">We are doomed for a very serious night out in our regular clothes.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />I guess I'll just wear what I already have on: a short leopard-print ruffle dress, pumps with socks, one single fingerless fishnet glove and this cropped leather jacket.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />Sigh. Maybe Tommy will be there.<br /><br />Link: </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><a href="http://www.dailycamera.com/ci_18829944">http://www.dailycamera.com/ci_18829944</a></span><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-15086301536419822952011-10-05T13:36:00.000-07:002011-11-08T11:26:01.981-08:00What happens when two artists create a human?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEQJ-3IXla6lxI34icLtv8FUMDa7MtlF8aXYfCf1TxkU5MtitBbcujJyaxig8qFy-rMy_PjhI_5XqZI2lf0qVWX9p1RfNFxFGHtk5UEYS6mcPR-VPHwBSRORm160aVhTzqt0OJUwl20To/s1600/bettiebarf.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5660110834172813346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEQJ-3IXla6lxI34icLtv8FUMDa7MtlF8aXYfCf1TxkU5MtitBbcujJyaxig8qFy-rMy_PjhI_5XqZI2lf0qVWX9p1RfNFxFGHtk5UEYS6mcPR-VPHwBSRORm160aVhTzqt0OJUwl20To/s320/bettiebarf.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 176px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><br /></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">I don't know a thing about kids, but what my 18-month-old daughter does with a paper and pen seems weird to me.<br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">First of all, she thinks Crayons and markers are stupid, and she demands a ballpoint pen (which is obviously an eyeball-poking hazard, but remember, I don't know anything about kids). Then she puts her face 1 inch from the paper and draws -- for like an hour or more, uninterrupted -- the tiniest, most intricate loops and swirls that I've ever seen. No scribbling. Just these hyperfocused hieroglyphics that are probably the key to the center of the Earth.<br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">As a mom, I'd like to assume this means my kid is a savant whose incredible brain capacity future generations will study in awe -- and not a future serial killer, the line between which is terrifyingly fine.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">But the truth is probably somewhere in between the two extremes, and she's probably just copying what she sees around the house.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />As a geriatric Luddite at heart who doesn't "trust that gosh-darned modern technology," combined with my complete lack of any short-term memory whatsoever, I write everything down. The only way that I can remember to feed and water myself, much less do grown-up things like "keep my kid alive" and "wash my face," is to follow a stack of extensive to-do lists.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">And my husband is an artist. He has covered nearly every inch of our house, his body, my body and the backs of all of my to-do lists with sketches and tattoos and doodles and masterpieces.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />So as far as little Bettie Anne knows, the pen is an extension of the human hand. If I could read Baby, I bet I'd find she's making to-do lists about how she needs to draw more.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />Either that, or she's doing long-hand calculus and physics equations. You know, just to spite her mathematically disabled parents. Rebelliousness also runs in the fam.<br /></span><br />
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">
<strong>Here's a story problem for you:</strong> What kind of daughter do you get if you mix an artistic Cuban family with a carpenter dad who always brings his blueprints, sketches and wood tools home?<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">
You get a jewelry genius, that's what.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">
<br />Her name is Lorena Marañn, and she moved to Boulder from Miami last year. Marañn, 22, creates unique necklaces, bracelets, earrings and military-style shoulder pads (my favorite) out geometric-patterned hand-embroidered wearable art.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">
<br />The bright colors are inspired by Cuban music, food and culture. The sharp patterns are inspired by her dad, who she says taught her about shapes and lines and how they can be manipulated.<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">
Marañn Jewels (<a href="http://www.maranonjewels.com/" style="text-decoration: none;">maranonjewels.com</a>) are available online and in <a href="http://fancytiger.com/" target="_blank">Fancy Tiger</a> in Denver, and she's looking to offer her line in Boulder County soon.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">
<br />Although each piece takes as long as several full days to even a month to hand-make, Marañn keeps the price point low, from $30 to $150.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">
<br />"People have told me I'm underpricing my pieces because it takes so long, but I think that things like this should be available to everybody, because I don't come from a very wealthy family," she says.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">
<br />Marañn taught herself how to do needlework after she lost her job and picked up a kit at a thrift store. She began selling her art on <a href="http://www.etsy.com/" style="text-decoration: none;">Etsy.com</a> two years ago, but did well enough to start her own online store and pursue the passion full-time.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">
<br />She admits her family -- "very humble, nonconformist, and a line of a lot of artists" -- played a big role in her growing into the artist she is today.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;">
<br />"They showed me that I could find happiness and a good life through art," she says</div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><br />Link: </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px;"><a href="http://www.dailycamera.com/ci_18929691">http://www.dailycamera.com/ci_18929691</a><br /><br /><i>Photo by <a href="http://imanwoods.com/" target="_blank">Iman Woods Creative.</a></i></span><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-38801141653442405182011-08-09T14:50:00.000-07:002011-11-08T11:29:11.010-08:00Real rewards<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYslurtuVv6AHVNfnhpnxqJy0qWZaN1NlNYzGAWkznJuX8s5pk4H9XljRNR12sQnh_gRMg4c6pXEBtsrzj32Q_8Que2ACbKIXmt_eZDCeS7MLRDWAvxl4SMmqJyjWYaS4beUc_SyPStj8/s1600/biglot.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638977370626267474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYslurtuVv6AHVNfnhpnxqJy0qWZaN1NlNYzGAWkznJuX8s5pk4H9XljRNR12sQnh_gRMg4c6pXEBtsrzj32Q_8Que2ACbKIXmt_eZDCeS7MLRDWAvxl4SMmqJyjWYaS4beUc_SyPStj8/s320/biglot.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
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<div>
One of the prominent qualities of a true fashionista is the ability -- nay, the instinctual need -- to one-up.
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<br />
You wear a feather in your hair. I wear an entire ball gown made out of feathers. To <a href="http://www.walgreens.com/" target="_blank">Walgreens</a>.
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<br />
You wear a trendy patch of lace on your sweatshirt. I wear more lace than a Mexican quinceanera: a purple seven-layer(-dip) lace skirt, black lace leggings, a gray lace corset-style blouse and a gray scarf. Too much? Nah, I scaled back and I left the lace wrist-length gloves at home. Ridiculous? Only if you're boring. I prefer fearless and fun.
<br />
<br />
So needless to say, when my husband achieved the master one-up on me, it sent me into an identity-crisis tizzy.
<br />
<br />
He put the card in my pants. How? How did he do it? And more importantly, how could I ever beat that?
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<br />
The challenge began about a month ago in the queue at <a href="http://www.biglots.com/" target="_blank">Big Lots </a>in Longmont. Despite the Hub's intimidating appearance -- he towers above Too Tall Jones like a 7-foot-tall tattooed totem pole -- he, like most huge beasts, is extremely gentle. So much, in fact, that he could not say no to the elderly cashier when she asked him to sign up for a Big Lots Buzz Club Rewards card. Just spend something like $200 a Big Lots and you can redeem your 20-percent-off reward.
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<br />
Gee whiz.
<br />
<br />
I understand a <a href="http://www.walmart.com/" target="_blank">Walmart </a>rewards card because it's impossible to walk out of that war zone without dropping $2,000, even if you just "run in" to "grab some batteries."
<br />
<br />
But is it even possible to spend $200 at Big Lots? I don't think the entire store of dinged-up junk amasses to 50 bucks. And if we were to somehow blow that much cash at Big Lots, 20 percent off is a totally sucky prize. I mean, isn't the premise of the store that everything is already discounted? So, what, after spending $200 I can get my toilet paper for $1.40 instead of $2 discounted from $5?
<br />
<br />
Obviously, I had to make fun of my husband, because I am as short as he is tall and everyone knows that short people are generally evil. To rub it in, I sneaked the Big Lots card into his car -- "Just in case you need it, sweetie."
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<br />
Later that day, I found the card in my wallet. So I put it on his key chain. Without saying a word, he wedged the card into my lipstick.
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<br />
Oh, hell no. Not the lipstick.
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<br />
It was on.
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<br />
He nearly choked on the card while popping sunflower seeds on our recent road trip. I nearly vomited when I found it at the bottom of my beer. Then it appeared stuck on the inside of my sunglasses, in the leg of his surfing wet suit, under his scrambled eggs, wedged inside my apple pie, in the left cup of my bra.
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<br />
The card made it inside my book, inside his shoe, under my pillow and in the bag for my white Halloween wig.
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I was impressed when he managed to affix it to my bobby pin while shopping in <a href="http://www.vegas.com/" target="_blank">Vegas </a>without me noticing. When he grew suspicious of my actions, I enlisted a friend to slip it in his right shorts pocket while we were dancing on Halloween. I thought the superlative was when I found the stupid card taped to my back; it had been there all day.
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<br />
But then I found it in my pants.
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<br />
This brought up all kinds of complicated emotions for me. How oblivious must I be to my surroundings if A) He had managed to accomplish this, and B) I had not noticed for I don't know how long. Not to mention the gross factor. He swore he'd disinfected it, but after the scrambled eggs and wet suit, I felt a little violated, I did.
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<br />
Which brings us to today. I've been paining over how to get back at that sneaky freak of mine.
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<br />
With the full acceptance that some things just can't be one-upped -- like, say, Gaga's dress made out of raw meat -- I wouldn't be true to myself if I didn't at least try.
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<br />
Dear Husband, I hope you enjoy your lunch. I made that pizza just for you. Pick a slice, any slice. I call this game Russian Rewards Roulette.</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-81906446746545857702011-08-09T14:47:00.000-07:002011-11-08T11:31:00.831-08:00Peeping tomboy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhikNeBN774PHmKKohnK8MuzFaW8nBLsZhz9h3TJSBAOGlnsCXYnHIfhk6655a8_GAyFmRHi-8CGCfVCpUqy7S8gPdtNE9CoSvWl9yJ-jrV-X5FiHQaWBJfJKK1zin4bFX2aizZysTQ5GA/s1600/spy.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638976489602848610" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhikNeBN774PHmKKohnK8MuzFaW8nBLsZhz9h3TJSBAOGlnsCXYnHIfhk6655a8_GAyFmRHi-8CGCfVCpUqy7S8gPdtNE9CoSvWl9yJ-jrV-X5FiHQaWBJfJKK1zin4bFX2aizZysTQ5GA/s320/spy.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 214px;" /></a>
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<div>
Indisputably, the creepiest thing about me is how much I love to people-watch.
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<br />
When I lived in the city and not North-side-til-I-die Longmont, my favorite hobby was to walk through the neighborhoods around 6 p.m., right when everyone was shuffling around their homes after work. It was late enough that they turned the lights on, illuminating their windows like miniature stages, but early enough that they still left their curtains open.
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<br />
My interest wasn't perverse. And it's not like I stalked a certain family, so put away that restraining order.
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<br />
I just loved imagining things. I would turn to whatever poor friend I suckered to walk with me and exclaim, as if it were the most amazing news since <a href="http://www.drmartens.com/" target="_blank">Docs</a> came back in style, "People live there. They relax on that couch. They've probably spilled on that couch, and only they know the memory associated with that stain. What do you think that stain is from?"
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<br />
Needless to say, it was hard to keep a steady walking partner.
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<br />
From the outside, I was a creeper and it was just another window to pass. But to someone inside, that window marked a meaningful refuge, his or her own little personal station. I saw a window into another life. Every home was another story. It was like walking through a virtual library, or window-shopping for imaginary characters based on actual home décor.
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<br />
It's fantastic how much you can imagine about a person based on a glimpse into their living room. Like this guy: middle aged, long gray hair, spends 14 hours a day on a recliner watching TV. His walls are completely empty. His furniture is stacked magazines and plastic kitty litter outhouses.
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<br />
You can't help it, your imagination is already piecing together this guy's life story, isn't it?
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<br />
He's my neighbor. Yeah, I've been window-shopping again. I can't help it, though. I'm a gypsy with a mortgage.
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<br />
My nature is that of <a href="http://johnny-depp.org/" target="_blank">Johnny Depp</a> in the movie "Chocolat," yet I'm too something (or too little something) to actually follow through with city-hopping. So instead, I constantly rearrange my furniture and change my hair color, and I relocate every day (sometimes even 23 times in one day) in my imagination.
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<em>Photo by Flickr user </em><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/stacyanderson/"><em>texasgurl</em></a><em>. </em></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-62100357724934679082011-08-09T14:42:00.000-07:002011-11-08T11:32:04.828-08:00A surprising comedy about human consumption and Saran wrap<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBJ15FRYeltlKjkBgkKyo2jJvYlVrQRNMrFpRoXOQpMdCDJeB3CNfGBs_7R7qDm1X1STAXkI_G5IJd_xzH9P-NDHKvyEhbxle30N78ah3JF8aF6CdPHtmmuIS_4GkI1ILdZn4gVuAci24/s1600/mask.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638975185060832050" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBJ15FRYeltlKjkBgkKyo2jJvYlVrQRNMrFpRoXOQpMdCDJeB3CNfGBs_7R7qDm1X1STAXkI_G5IJd_xzH9P-NDHKvyEhbxle30N78ah3JF8aF6CdPHtmmuIS_4GkI1ILdZn4gVuAci24/s320/mask.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a>
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<div>
The bodies, compressed shoulder-to-shoulder, gut-to-gut, pulsate as one unit. Expanding with the inhale, quivering in anticipation with the exhale. Pacing from foot to foot, cheeks red and anxious, hovering over the Saran-wrapped pallet.
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<br />
The bodies wait, staring at the immobile plastic mountain, elbows pressed outward to mark their space, their ranking in line based on who got there first. Hierarchy rules.
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The supply is limited, which heightens the stress and competition. In this tight bubble, there is no room for sharing, no consideration for need. The poor and the greedy perch on the same branch, rewarded solely by their aggression and steady commitment to piercing the plastic barrier.
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<br />
The bodies have been waiting weeks for the looming moment when the plastic is removed and they can possess the object underneath. This is important. Pivotal.
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<br />
<strong>I have been here before.
</strong>
<br />
It is 2008. I stand in the center of a circle on a refugee camp in Uganda, my hand on a plastic-covered stack of pink mosquito nets that we are distributing. This part of the world has one of the highest death tolls by malaria -- one child dies every 30 seconds from this preventable, mosquito-borne illness.
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<br />
Mothers wearing dirty babies press toward the thin rope that we strung between trees, hoping to create some semblance of order. At first, it works. But as time crawls on, the tension swells. I hear the crowd growing in my ears, like a rabid dog pushed into the corner. I try to stay calm, to somehow send peace across the crowd.
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<br />
But the dirt-lined faces begin spitting at me, shouting and demanding. They are sick of waiting. I rationalize with myself, knowing that I am here out of love, knowing that fear is the opposite of love. I reject the fear. Breathing. Breathe. I summon compassion, for the refugees' suffering, for their desperation. They are fighting to survive. I stand still and accept their anger, words slapping my face like cold, open palms. Now fists.
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<br />
A sharp hand claws a mosquito net out of my hands, and the man runs away like a frightened thief. He thinks there are not enough nets, and this is a matter of life or death. I feel a chill rise, and with the crescendo, the crowd bursts through the rope barrier, a sea of despondency. The levy breaks.
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<br />
I frantically look for an exit out of the mob. Claws, ripping, my heart chokes in my throat. I have no saliva. In its place, the rusty taste of fear. The riot explodes at my feet. I scream and tear for any exit, through arms and faces and sweat. With the next pound of my heartbeat, I suddenly understand the fight for life or death.
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<strong>Ah yes. I have seen this before.
</strong>
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I look across the crowd, anxious bodies, circling a mountain of plastic-wrapped goods. Only this time, I am staying on the outside of the throng.
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<br />
And this time, the mob swarms around a stack of DVD players that are discounted 70 percent for Black Friday.
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This time, the mob is fighting for -- what?
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<br />
I laugh.</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-4346902400995484172011-08-09T14:37:00.000-07:002011-11-08T11:33:21.179-08:00Unplugged<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj76UAkpkFYt1_2iQ4AWGpv5emn886wRUV7wfMCbt1YpU-f0J8LAI5Ds5q5bFMu1hH3pi4bljwaIqGf40xln4Ub5_PGFPM2PsNmH0ZOw-LYSnHqdEZxeKqTacNfxsONoJRdPRxPqBfXwiY/s1600/tape.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638974489647442562" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj76UAkpkFYt1_2iQ4AWGpv5emn886wRUV7wfMCbt1YpU-f0J8LAI5Ds5q5bFMu1hH3pi4bljwaIqGf40xln4Ub5_PGFPM2PsNmH0ZOw-LYSnHqdEZxeKqTacNfxsONoJRdPRxPqBfXwiY/s320/tape.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 224px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
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Boulder is the third-techiest city in the nation, according to a TechAmerica Foundation report.
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And we would be in first place if I weren't throwing off the curve. Ask my office's IT guys; I crash computers by looking at them. I should just start carving my articles into rocks.
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While prepping for a recent party, I realized our boombox was broken. Well, I lost the cord, and I didn't want to look for batteries. So I sent an e-mail (very high tech) to several friends asking them to bring some good CDs to play from our DVD player (fancy) through the TV (some might also refer to this device as a "television set").
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<br />
That is when it came to my attention that no one listens to these small silver circles of ever-
<br />
scratched plastic anymore. My friend Jess put it gently: "I can burn you some CDs from my iPod, I guess." Burn. Pod. Help. I was so out of my league.
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<br />
Jess is the same friend who gave me a laptop she didn't want anymore because she was sick of me responding to her Facebook Evites three weeks past event date. That meant I also had to get the World Wide Internets in my house. When I signed up (it took three months), Comcast offered cable TV, too. I said no thanks, but we were satisfied with our bunny-ears antenna with crushed PBR cans on the ends (tech tip: they work excellent to boost the signal).
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If you think I'm ignoring the photo you sent me of your engagement ring or new flip phone blackberry 32L network pad pod (see, I can't even come up with a fake product name), I'm not. I just don't get pictures on my Sanyo Qualcomm 3G CDMA, which came with my $35 per month contract. But feel free to post a "digital photo" on my "Facebook wall." I've been known to check that every two weeks, now that I have the Information Superhighway running through my very own house.
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Just pretend I'm your grandmother. Ten years ago.
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<em>Photo by Flickr user <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/kitakitts/">kitakitts</a>.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-43830753568289879262011-08-09T14:35:00.001-07:002011-11-08T11:35:27.917-08:00Brittany: How we got punked by an 80-year-old<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinV6rY9ci_M2ZQBcbcnYNkJnuTFkVj5KVonv6AKDhNCTm5WCxB33FM0sKMNhle3pDP3xYoWNY4yFQnPboYFM1ZkWBY4IF7BWQPw_QuMBo-qu5ktdBlm9ODyVc76U7utFhBwPMzGnYSyc8/s1600/sweater.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638973136032693170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinV6rY9ci_M2ZQBcbcnYNkJnuTFkVj5KVonv6AKDhNCTm5WCxB33FM0sKMNhle3pDP3xYoWNY4yFQnPboYFM1ZkWBY4IF7BWQPw_QuMBo-qu5ktdBlm9ODyVc76U7utFhBwPMzGnYSyc8/s320/sweater.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 310px;" /></a>
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<div>
<br />
The judgmental smirk from the older woman walking past our table tipped me off. We had Lola all wrong.
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<br />
My BFF Brittany and I were stuffing lo mein into our mouth-holes at a Chinese restaurant called Golden Heaven Gate Red Dragon Lotus (or some arrangement of those six key words). Coming off a tumultuous week, we'd decided to kick the fun up a notch and sarcastically sport two extra-special Christmas sweaters to our lunch festivities.
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Brittany's grandma, Lola, had recently given her the two sweaters, disclaiming that Brittany "might be out and about a bit more and need them."
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Thoughtful, yes. The problem? Let's start with the looming sequin tree dominating the front of the boxy, thick red fabric; the star made a precise nipple bull's eye. And the decorative jingle bells. And the silver tinsel. And. And. And.
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<br />
It felt a little National Lampoonish (where grandma wraps up her live cat as a present). Yet Lola, 80, was distinctly no Griswold. In fact, when she gave Brittany the sweaters, she, herself, was wearing skinny jeans under knee-high boots and a classy white blouse with a subtle holly embroidered on the collar.
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<br />
Curious.
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<br />
Thinking about it, we'd never seen Lola wear anything like the nipple-star sweater. She looked like a movie star, from her still-pristine complexion to her signature necklace -- a cross that rivals 50 Cent, formed out of all of her old wedding bands ("reshaped into love for Jesus"). The exact number of diamonds is unclear, but let's just say any self-respecting rapper would be glittering with envy. I know I was.
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<br />
Trying to piece this growing mystery together, Brittany and I began tracing back the gifts her grandma had given her over the years.
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It started with a calculator with multi-colored gemstones instead of numbers. ("Probably why I'm so bad at math today," Brittany explains.) Then there were the purple bedazzled sunglasses with lenses in the shape of butterflies.
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"These reminded me of something you might like," Lola had told Brittany.
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When Brittany received a shapeless mauve winter jacket one year, Brittany noticed her grandma was wearing a fitted, trendy, double-breasted military-style coat. Then two years ago,
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<br />
Lola gifted two ballcaps, smothered and heaving in multi-colored sequins because "I thought these might be of use to you."
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We had laughed it off as just one of those bizarre gifts that grandmas give.
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But on this day, at Heaven's Dragon Gate Golden Red Lotus, I looked at what Brittany was wearing -- underneath her sparkling jinglesweater: a royal blue dress from Forever 21, with a modest scattering of sequins on the shoulders.
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That's when a woman about Lola's age walked past our table and looked us up and down, in unmasked horror.
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Lola had never been spotted in sequins or insect-shaped sunnies. She wore over-the-knee boots three years before they hit the runways, military-style jackets and classy blouses. "These reminded me of something you might like." "I thought these might be of use to you."
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Oh, my<a href="http://www.goldengirlscentral.com/" target="_blank"> Golden Girls</a>. Heavens to Betsy. I gasped.
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Here we thought we were so hilarious, wearing Lola's ugly Christmas sweaters out to lunch. But this chic grandma was the one really laughing. At her granddaughter's garish style. Her gifts over the years had actually been gags.
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And that's how we got punked by an 80-year-old.</div>
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<em>Photo by Flickr user Robby Mueller. </em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-29129424144365720562011-08-09T14:33:00.000-07:002011-11-08T20:52:47.769-08:00Sometimes it's just sexier to be fake<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWOTtWgJRnPXNu4_8bz-Tnmj5J1eHUdON_qGJYWlX_PF2TI-cZQUAAaNKN8pXHgB5ruGsQWTw6S6VYtZAzVT2DljhFyambqbo_Ovlf0sEM2mXsJDHQcad2G0SsAIjAsFmtGnM57uWHPLU/s1600/fur.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638972756848180354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWOTtWgJRnPXNu4_8bz-Tnmj5J1eHUdON_qGJYWlX_PF2TI-cZQUAAaNKN8pXHgB5ruGsQWTw6S6VYtZAzVT2DljhFyambqbo_Ovlf0sEM2mXsJDHQcad2G0SsAIjAsFmtGnM57uWHPLU/s320/fur.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 303px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>
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<div>
<br />
The fire tickled the fresh-cut logs, as the scent of isolation painted the cabin with cozy stillness.
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<br />
My new husband and I, obnoxiously sappy amid the first 48 hours of our marriage, stepped over the threshold (a word only acknowledged by new brides, never to be used again) of the mountain retreat that was our honeymoon.
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<br />
Visions of sugarplums, porch swings, bird songs and calling each other "schmoopy" in the shadows of the fireplace danced through my head. No cell service or Internet. Just a stack of books, a teapot, my beloved and... two terrified eyes gaping at me from a decapitated head that had been nailed to the wall.
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<br />
It wasn't the remnants of a voodoo ceremony or an ancient Roman battle. It was a bobcat. And an elk. And a deer. And a zoo of hunting trophies, paralyzed in their death for decorative purposes.
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<br />
Now, I'm not committed enough to be an activist or rich enough to be a Boulderite or a vegan. I grew up in the mountains and learned how to brandish a shotgun before I could dress myself.
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I've killed a snake with a shovel and eaten elk jerky and even Rocky Mountain oysters.
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<br />
I just think it's gross to hang them on my body.
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<br />
Decorating your house with preserved carcasses is like wearing a real fur coat or snakeskin boots. My closet is more sparkly and impractical than a Vegas showgirl's bustier, but it is not deceased. I own a floor-length faux fur black cape, a fake fur hand muff, and I recently acquired an <a href="http://urbanoutfitters.com/" target="_blank">Urban Outfitters</a> coat made entirely out of fake feathers (which, according to the drunk guys who stopped me on New Year's Eve, actually looks like woolly mammoth or perhaps pterodactyl).
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<br />
My closet boasts more faux leather skirts and corsets than food crumbs stuck in all of the Hell's Angels' beards combined. And I have enough fake snakeskin to clothe a fake python long enough to fake squeeze a fake elephant to fake death -- and subsequently enough of said elephant's imitation ivory jewelry to build a tower for at least half of Boulder to sit in.
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<br />
My statement isn't political; it's fashionable. We are not cavemen, so we have options to not have to rub against rotting bones, flesh and fur of dead animals. Why don't we crystallize livers and hang them from our earlobes, or concoct an entire dress out of meat slabs? Oh wait, Lady Gaga did.
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<br />
Let me explain something here.
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<br />
When I first met my husband, before that one day I used the word "threshold," his mutt of a dog, Stitch, was almost a deal-breaker. Stitch is like Pig-Pen from Charlie Brown, except instead of dust, she constantly walks in a cloud of white dog fluff. If I try to sweep up her hair, before I get to the dustpan, the hair has already regenerated in every corner -- even if Stitch is locked outside. She actually drops tiny hair seed pods, which procreate when they touch oxygen and then multiply exponentially, like Gremlins, or H1N1, or the terrifying trend of jeggings.
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More than half of my waking hours are spent trying to escape animal fur; the idea of intentionally swathing my body with it makes me twitch.
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I am sure there are more profound reasons to protest fur apparel, just like I'm sure Lady Gaga had some underlying sanity to her bloody steak suit. But for me, I've got enough leverage to stand my ground on the mere evolution out of the Neanderthal and into a species with more options, and better-smelling synthetics. Ones that don't spy on you with shell-shocked, frozen eyeballs while you're trying to get your honeymoon on.
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Perverted bobcats. </div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-21229032441585445552011-08-09T14:27:00.000-07:002011-08-09T14:30:05.721-07:00Laura: Some things you never outgrow<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXN8kPRtyXjNnsQocQexJBwjsiKWyCZnbgAXO4KUt9BcRX2a0GriS18JPg-OZaJw8LLE5dY35XHdHtvclgAdQ2nBFUU5-nr6ovZ_S1K611izJOJ0gAtVaD_HkpbjVfRNqoWg-Q54EYxlw/s1600/laura.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638971338753238098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 253px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXN8kPRtyXjNnsQocQexJBwjsiKWyCZnbgAXO4KUt9BcRX2a0GriS18JPg-OZaJw8LLE5dY35XHdHtvclgAdQ2nBFUU5-nr6ovZ_S1K611izJOJ0gAtVaD_HkpbjVfRNqoWg-Q54EYxlw/s320/laura.jpg" border="0" /></a>
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<br />The rent-a-cops at the hotel couldn't prove it, but they kicked Laura out anyway. On New Year's Eve, at 9:30 p.m., they sent her packing to the ice-rink of I-25.
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<br />It would have been tragic if we hadn't had 20 years of practice handling, and thereby laughing at, fashion-related adversity.
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<br />Laura and I were both straight-A students who grew up to be intelligent, respectable mothers with clean houses, emptied dishwashers and a regular stream of elaborate dinners that make
<br />Martha Stewart look as lame as Colonel Sanders (OK, that last part is jut Laura, but I'm taking credit by association).
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<br />Except somehow when it comes to anything fashion related. Then we become terrorists.
<br />Take New Year's. Granted, the security guards had their eyes on us, after they physically removed us from the life-sized gingerbread house for trying to consume the candy corn fireplace (apparently this "stressed out the children").
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<br />But don't build a glass elevator running through the middle of a hotel if you don't -- how do I phrase this? -- expect teenage boys to seize the opportunity when a woman wearing a short pink satin dress takes said elevator, and, unthinking, leans against the glass.*
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<br />If you ask me, the po-po should have kicked out the horrible teenage boys.
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<br />*For written record, this is exactly how the events unfolded, and no other possible way.
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<br /><strong>Perhaps Laura and I have bad luck.</strong> For example, in seventh grade when her mom asked us to paint the living room, how were we supposed to know that she wanted white paint and not bright orange? I thought we were overachieving by including the doors, hinges, light switches, trim and even some of the floor. Who knew her mom would cry?
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<br />This incident sent me into a spiral of rebelliousness against walls. At school, every time I went to the ladies room to apply lipstick (three times per passing period), I kissed the wall to dab off excess color. Soon, I had created an elaborate collage of pink smooches across the vast wall of blue tile.
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<br />Not even the notes the custodian left deterred me; first, pleas of cessation, explaining how difficult it was to remove dried Mauve Magic. Then, a sign announced that the walls were being washed with toilet water. Pssh. I actually kissed a toilet that day to make a statement about my untouchable insubordination. Looking back, there might have been a less hepatitis-y way to make my point, which I guess was, "I am the master of all walls, and the toilet."
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<br />Toilet water could not restrain my lips, but in-house detention eventually did.
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<br />A few weeks later, a substitute teacher said she smelled alcohol in my locker. "Yes, of course you do," I confessed cockily, and pulled out the bottle for her to see: Aquanet. Duh. I sprayed it in her face, to give her a good whiff.
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<br />I got sent to detention, which was whatever because I was already in detention for stealing an ID card from the library Rolodex (for you youthful whippersnappers who don't know what a "Rolodex" is for, well, neither do I) of the boy I had a crush on. Luke was cool because he had a puffy Buffalo Bills Starter jacket. He wore that jacket in his library picture. I needed it -- to kiss, now that I was banned from using the bathroom at school.
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<br />Detention wasn't half-bad, because there I could hang out with Laura. This time she was there due to controversial school pictures. Laura, whose parents were super strict (who wouldn't be after the orange paint incident?), left the house wearing a ribbed turtleneck and overalls. But by the time she got up to the front of the line for class pictures, she was sporting a midriff-baring lace shirt that would only be acceptable on an actual prostitute.
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<br />These photos remain immortalized in the yearbook today. Which makes the three days in the detention room totally worth it.
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<br />Of course, now that we're all grown up, we have risen above our troubled pasts, or at least we have better excuses.
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<br />Like it was the seamstress's fault for not sewing a tighter seam up the back of Laura's pants. Otherwise, they wouldn't have busted when she dropped it like it's hot. Twice.
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<br />And David's Bridal should make higher quality dyeable heels. Otherwise, Laura wouldn't get in trouble at a wedding for pounding her shoe against the wall, to try to repair the nail in the heel. Three times.
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<br />Luckily, over the years, Laura's mom has forgotten about the offensive paint job. Laura helped divert her mom's attention by meeting her at church, smoking a cigar and wearing a T-shirt that said, "I kissed your girlfriend."
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<br />At least it wasn't a lace crop top. See? A lesson learned.</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-62131245293355807142011-08-09T14:25:00.003-07:002011-11-09T14:16:35.263-08:00Reba: Home weird home<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIaTcfaosmAdXRunbM7szhBKfrufj9M2-Q3c6iGNo2h0ubZ2HZSn0qj5Bls0Da9ppEge8erkBVxkVFMWmGUzMnLzVXnigw5Xkc4mAUbPPBj4ziTSS3r-LmIK0sHPhF_N1Wj0JF3qU162A/s1600/rebahouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIaTcfaosmAdXRunbM7szhBKfrufj9M2-Q3c6iGNo2h0ubZ2HZSn0qj5Bls0Da9ppEge8erkBVxkVFMWmGUzMnLzVXnigw5Xkc4mAUbPPBj4ziTSS3r-LmIK0sHPhF_N1Wj0JF3qU162A/s320/rebahouse.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reba is weird. I love her.</td></tr>
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Reba's apartment is a museum of the world's most amusing flea market items. It's a gallery of conversation pieces. It is, in and of itself, a work of art.
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Public speaker Patricia Fripp once said style is being yourself, but on purpose. My childhood friend Reba's home is like diving inside her beautifully mad brain and backstroking across her dreams. It's the most alive building I've ever walked through, a character. And a dangerous inspiration.
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Reba's living room boasts not one, but two, sets of mannequin legs. One rests upside down between the green nightstand, barely wide enough to support her television, and Charlie McCarthy, the ventriloquist doll, who I simultaneously want to hug and set on fire.
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Full-scale skeletons dance on Reba's walls year-round, along with a sad clown portrait made out of yarn, various robots, a picture of a dog in a tuxedo and an oversized landscape of a German castle. She uses old doors for picture frames and a newspaper rack for dishes.
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On some street in Oregon that I forget but it was cool. Being stalked by a cardboard wolf.</div>
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She adorned her kitchen table -- and four mismatched chairs -- with decoupaged coffee bags, and she let her 6-year-old son, River, decorate the bottom of the table. He chose hundreds of googley eyeballs. When new people visit, Reba excitedly ushers them under the table to lie and gaze at her son's creation.
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Spend 10 minutes in this apartment and you'll feel like you've known Reba for 20 years. It's the opposite of a beige <a href="http://www.potterybarn.com/" target="_blank">Pottery Barn</a> showroom house that could be anyone's. Reba's house couldn't
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be anyone else's. That's what makes it so glorious.
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I visited her in Oregon last week, and returned home to an office that had relocated from a 120-year-old station on the Pearl Street Mall to a modern business park in east Boulder. At the new desk, first I noticed the cleanliness (more than a century of newsprint, yellowed papers and journalist tears really crusts up a place). Then, I jumped out of my chair. This order was uncomfortable. My desk needed flair. And a little crust. Just enough for character.
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My first reaction was to hit up one of the Pearl Street shops that I've grown addicted to over the past 10 years (gross, I'm old) at the <a href="http://www.dailycamera.com/" target="_blank">Daily Camera.</a> <a href="http://www.urbanoutfitters.com/urban/index.jsp" target="_blank">Urban Outfitters</a>. Goldmine Vintage. But that was no longer my 'hood. I wept three tears.
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I needed to trailblaze east Boulder, like Christopher Columbus blazed the Atlantic, or like Russell Brand explored every woman east of Wales.
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My sense of adventure and lack of finances led me to the Salvation Army on 33rd Street. After I ran across a cookbook so ancient that it was growing a new variation of mushrooms, I knew I was home.
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My house, albeit lacking eyeballs on the underside of the table, has its own energy. Obnoxiously bright walls, furniture from the 1950s and '60s and even pictures of a glittery unicorn and a hologram wolf (both gifts) (amazing). I'll never claim my house is immaculate, and I'll never pretend I'm rich. But I am proud of my odd little nest that reads about me like my own palm.
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At the Salvation Army, I found records for 49 cents each. Frames for $1.30. Books for 49 cents. I almost bought three dozen Chinese literature books (for the colorful pictures of birds and mustached men), but instead, I opted for two Whitman classical books, printed in 1955. Ever blasphemous, I ripped out my favorite sketches from "Five Little Peppers" -- of a girl crying, burglars breaking into a house and a gaggle of kids writing a letter -- and I framed them.
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Nearby on my desk, I hung three record covers that make me laugh, including "Sing Along with the Honkey-Tonks," and I bought an old milk pitcher to hold my pens. I found a wooden jewelry box to organize my office supplies (paper clips, sticky notes and lipsticks). I used the records to divide up my desk. The grand revamp: $8.45.
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As I complete my first article in the Camera's new quarters, I feel a little greedy, like I get the best of both worlds: a modern office without asbestos flaking into my tea, and a little old-fashioned weirdness, to remind me of where we came from.
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I even decorated the underside of my desk, in honor of River. Feel free to peek under there. The carpet's clean of journalist sludge.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTlWkfNxvfQ5TRyYZqdm8sNsV9QyRnuDL6ZBI9HsVT1vv8CLRmZQmRB6byAiCgRf-__MTQtV7uDTqz6tUnuUiUMI3BOKpns7M69tEyxky4FlLO_rmYUTuyXaQYN_qNIcRE83uX96jYfyU/s1600/desk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638970566356180962" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTlWkfNxvfQ5TRyYZqdm8sNsV9QyRnuDL6ZBI9HsVT1vv8CLRmZQmRB6byAiCgRf-__MTQtV7uDTqz6tUnuUiUMI3BOKpns7M69tEyxky4FlLO_rmYUTuyXaQYN_qNIcRE83uX96jYfyU/s320/desk.jpg" style="display: block; height: 213px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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At least for now.</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1733206305262618274.post-80059318229943096042011-08-09T14:22:00.001-07:002011-11-09T14:20:39.510-08:00Clayton: Grin and beard it<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJCQzNIaIzIYGs51KZpBs2nb1b4kwqRrNkJ46QVHk5iD-L-9dXrHSc8H7SlBnbRKPSS4RDR6UJaHJytB9DKPCquAEf0NpcvaU9GabQP1IabdnGzZwi-TEcpAsv-KXxK88bniEx0Ev9zmk/s1600/mustache.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5638969928473801298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJCQzNIaIzIYGs51KZpBs2nb1b4kwqRrNkJ46QVHk5iD-L-9dXrHSc8H7SlBnbRKPSS4RDR6UJaHJytB9DKPCquAEf0NpcvaU9GabQP1IabdnGzZwi-TEcpAsv-KXxK88bniEx0Ev9zmk/s320/mustache.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 214px;" /></a>
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Mustaches aren't funny anymore. There. I said it.
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No more mustache theme parties. No more moustachio-etched coffee mugs or pink stick-on crumb-catchers. I am calling for an end to 'stachical jewelry and stickers, and even requesting the removal of all mustache tattoos on the inside of the pointer finger. I never want to see another sarcastic soup-strainer, I swear. Even though they still make me chuckle. At some point, the nose bug has to lose its funny.
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Doesn't it?
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiEyC0z-hI1DFeavIqyM2SJt2nn_lhmQA2cROw0DovO3LEn7HoyOHr0rYdMZca9o1MRkPiFoGiQEGd2eV7Pj0cy23nyOxGhRTqPpmEduM2JntWHBoUzJKRgrstINjDM_LeCQzEVBDMues/s1600/magnum-pi-selleck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiEyC0z-hI1DFeavIqyM2SJt2nn_lhmQA2cROw0DovO3LEn7HoyOHr0rYdMZca9o1MRkPiFoGiQEGd2eV7Pj0cy23nyOxGhRTqPpmEduM2JntWHBoUzJKRgrstINjDM_LeCQzEVBDMues/s1600/magnum-pi-selleck.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />Why does the fuzzy upper lip tickle me so, metaphorically and literally? Perhaps it's a passive anti-bourgeoisie statement (because everyone knows all bosses have mustaches, even the women). The nose-tickler denotes control: Hulk Hogan, Magnum P.I., Josef Stalin. Could there be some underlying rebellion rising with this unstoppable trend?
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Or is facial hair just plain amusing?
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Supporting the latter is my friend Clayton. His wife, Alex, wanted him to grow Elvis sideburns. He wanted a Groucho Marx. The end result was a hybrid of the two, a sort of Sgt. Floyd Pepper from the Muppets. A burnstache. Mustchops.
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Clayton grew in a wee soul patch under his bottom lip, just to get wild. He ended up with hair everywhere except his lower jawbones, or the opposite of K-Fed's famous pencil-thin, chin-strap (also known as the "douche beard"). When asked about his unique scruff, Clayton explained that it had been "originally popularized by a U.S. president in the 1800s," if a trend can still be considered popularized 200 years later.
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Coincidentally -- purely -- Clayton is also beardbald on his lower jaw area. As far as I can tell, most guys suffer this ailment, where a peculiar patch on their face has zero hair follicles. My husband's is next to his left ear, which results in one Vanilla Ice sideburn, with lines and zigzags naturally shaved in. This has not, however, stopped him from occasionally growing them out.
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The plus side: I never have to fear my man attempting the lumberjack fave: mutton chops.
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<strong>Options for facial hair designs</strong> are only limited by a man's imagination (well, and his blank spots).
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In a "quest for every beard," blogger Jon Dyer experimented with 42 different scruff styles (<a href="http://www.dyers.org/blog/beards/beard">dyers.org/blog/beards/beard</a>-types), including a few rarer species, such as the Hollywoodian (mustache-beard sans sideburns). Dyer calls himself an annual winter beard-wearer and active celebrator of not only Octobeard and No Shave November, but also December's MaBeGroMo (Macho Beard Growing Month, which he created himself).
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"Growing a beard is one of the simplest, zero-effort, macho things you can do," he writes on his blog.
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When selecting your beard style, experts recommend complimenting your face shape. Let it grow for two weeks, and then re-examine your creation, according to <a href="http://www.ehow.com/">eHow.com</a>. At this point, the Web site says, you will have experience two bouts of itching and you possibly look homeless.
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Considering your follicular strengths, choose a style. A weak stache? Opt for the Lincoln. Bare cheeks? A goatee is your friend.
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Are your strengths on the edges of your face? If so, grow it long and flowy, a la Amish, or if you want to get beat up all the time, step into the chin strap. Feeling innovative? Shave everything except the edges, sideburns and then shave your head, except for your bangs. Voila -- you've mastered the Hair Ring of Fire. I'm pretty sure that was popularized by a red-headed U.S. Secretary of State in the 1700s.
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With options like that, how can anyone ever laugh at Tom Selleck again?
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<strong>Important vocabulary
</strong>
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Increase your knowledge and impress your friends by incorporating these terms into your daily life. Source: <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/">Urbandictionary.com</a>.
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Stache-ism: Prejudice or discrimination toward individuals with mustaches.
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Beard Goggles: When you see a man with a beard, and you automatically think that person is awesome, funny, chill or just an overall cool dude just because he has a beard.
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Beard of Shame: The beard that a man will grow after his girlfriend has broken up with him.
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<em>Photo by Bill Hogan.</em></div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0