“I came up with direct marketing. Well, someone else already had, but I came up with it independently.”
– Mad Men (Pete Campbell)
“I love your necklace!” said a patron to me today. “Did you get the idea from Ugly Betty?”
“Er, no,” I answered, having never watched the show. “Anne Boleyn.”
“Oh. Who’s that?”
Sigh. Stupid history degree. Nobody has a clue what I’m talking about half the time.
“Ah, Venice!”
– Casanova
Venice, who if you did not know, is a rather awesome crafter, recently launched a blog and Etsy shop to share her jewelry creations. Go check them out at once! I’m particularly digging her vintage-y looking post earrings, and fantastic charm necklaces (the Lovebirds Necklace is my current favorite and I’d totally buy these green lovelies if I didn’t already own three pairs of emerald and one pair of peridot earrings already). She also does exchangeable watch bands to match any outfit, and best of all she does custom orders!
You’d pay twice as much for these pretties at stores and no two are alike so you’ll never have a “That wench is wearing my outfit!” moment.
Another reason to follow her blog? She finds other great Etsy sites and artists to pass along and highlight and she’s always doing giveaways and who doesn’t like shiny, free stuff? Valentines Day bonus at her Etsy shop going on now, run don’t walk!
“AUGH!!!!!!!”
-C.
Unbelievable! J. Crew was having a sale on shirts (which I needed a couple more of for winter to give my few work sweaters a break) and the skirt I was lusting after was also miraculously on sale as well. PLUS I had a $50 gift certificate that I got from my health insurance company for completing a bunch of health challenges they do throughout the year so I could afford them. Obviously I had to take advantage, n’est pas?
Not as easy as it first appeared! This sale closed at midnight over the weekend and I (ridiculous creature that I am) of course forgot the gift certificate in my work desk. Which meant a late night weekend gallop to the office, fetchingly attired in an old shirt, flannel pajama pants, mad hair, thick socks, and heeled shoes because they were the closest thing to hand as I rushed out the door. Accompianied by J.’s fond head shakes and sighs of, “You’re a nuggins.” His “adorable” nickname for me when I’m doing something particularly silly (I’m not so fond of it).
But apart from the slight craziness I exhibited, all was well! I ordered my things happily and went to bed at peace.
This morning I woke up to a shiny online coupon in my inbox advertising 20% off one’s total order. Which means had I waited 24 hours (and was psychic), I could have gotten my order for over half off.
Snarl.
“Remember, Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but backwards and in high heels.”
-Faith Whittlesey
Thank goodness we’ve moved into colder weather, where my work wardrobe can do me some good! However, it has been brought to my attention that looking nice at work can have some unforeseen consequences. Apart from the expanding waistline (that comes from less exercise)…wearing some sort of heel everyday has apparently given my calves such a workout that they are getting bigger. To the point that my nice boots are snug!
A girl can’t win…
“To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy not respectable, and wealthy not rich…this is my symphony.”
-William Ellery Channing
A worthy, worthy goal, my loves, but how is a girl supposed to resist the allure of the fabulousness we endured during our secretaries retreat today?
How can a secretaries retreat be fabulous you ask? I shall tell you.
First of all we went to the local ski town/get-a-way for many of the rich and famous. We were treated to an incredible suite in an amazing five-diamond winning lodge-style hotel, because the guy who is head of security there used to work for our police department and likes us. We were given the works! Valet parking, personally escorted to our rooms, a charming young man sent up to light a fire for us, lunch at the five-star restaurant on the house, and the grand tour of the premises. He pointed out the various celebrities homes on the neighboring mountain (many of which he’s run security on), walked us through where a certain un-named actress was recently married, took us through the rooms where a past president stayed, gave us several un-repeatable bits of gossip into the lives of some celebrities and dignitaries as he led us through the rooms they occupied, and also told us stories about the incredible lengths they go to in this place to preserve privacy
Sidenote – why oh WHY am I a secretary?! Why didn’t I go into protocol, start in the government and military circles that revolve around themselves in England and work my way up through the fabulous hotels of London, doing the obligatory stint in the Queen’s service of course, and finishing up in a place where interesting people whirl in and out and ask you for nothing but to keep their secrets? Whilst leaving five hundred dollar tips! My only recourse at the point is to somehow break into the world of writing and become one of those interesting people with secrets, I suppose.
Back to our tale! After being wined and dined, we spent two glorious hours attacking the local outlet stores that include everything from GAP to Coach! I justified buying myself a few things by buying even more things for other people, knocking a solid three family members off my Christmas-shopping list in an hour. Completely disregarding the fact that we are still paying off the four new tires currently cushioning my car. Christmas is coming, and there will be no goose to get fat because C. will have pawned it in desperation.
And believe it or not, we managed to have a lovely meeting in which frustrations were discussed, problems were solved, training was accomplished, and much needed venting got done. It was glorious.
“Why don’t the guys ever go on retreats like this?” asked Wise as we pulled out our folders, took notes, and stretched our feet luxuriously towards the fire.
“Because they don’t know how to do things properly,” I retorted. “Peasants.”
“Make it classy.”
“I thought we were supposed to be sexy.”
“It is possible to be both.”
-Sushi for Beginners, Marian Keyes
Halloween was easily my favorite holiday growing up. I have fond memories of strategically mapping out my plan of attack in neighborhoods in the search for candy, staggering home under the weight of a bulging pillowcase, and spending days or even weeks on my costumes. For a chunk of my childhood we lived in Germany so we had Fasching instead of Halloween (German version of Carnivale), but since the concept of costume + candy + pranking remained the same, there wasn’t too much of a difference to me.
See back in my day, darlings, we made our costumes. Sure some kids were starting to run around in polyester store-bought Power Rangers outfits, but I always regarded them as sad, unimaginative creatures more to be pitied than envied. Even the year I went as a ghost, I took the time to shred my own sheets and drape them hauntingly about my white and black smudged face. My mother would take me to fabric stores to wrinkle my six year old forehead over the merits of historically correct Indian vs. Polar Bear, rifle with me through the chest that held my hats, boots, and scarves that I used for dress up, and applaude my ideas enthusiastically.
The crowning achievement of my dorkiness trick-or-treating career was the year I announced impressively that I wanted to go as…wait for it…Anubis.
That’s right. Egyptian god of the dead. I think I was seven or eight at the time. As an adult I can now only begin to fathom what thoughts might have scrambled through my impressed/perplexed/weirded out parents’ minds as they heard this plan, but they rallied with admirable self control. My dad helped me fashion a jackal head out of a baseball cap for the base, wound about with wire to form the long snout, face, ears, and Egyptian headpiece, and then mummified (pun!) in paper mache. This whole contraption was then painted with black, gold, and glaring white eyes. A baby towel wrapped around my waist, a white tee-shirt, and a cardboard collar painted gold with blobs of color for the gems completed the look.
No one I begged candy off of had a clue who I was. It was also sweltering hot so by the time I made it home, black streaks of sweat and paint had slithered down my face, but I had the most absolutely amazing costume ever!
And nowadays what am I left with? The only Halloween costumes available to me (since I can’t sew) are cheap, mass produced trashy stuff usually involving thigh-highs and not much else. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate a touch of tart as much as the next girl, but I also firmly adhere to the “time and place” mentality. I also believe absolutely that sexy and slutty are not the same things at all. For example, one year one of my flatmates went as a Victoria Secret Angel: bras, panties, wings. Fin. Kiri and I were saloon girls, complete with fishnets and garters, but we took the time to make sure that the OK stayed corralled!
Trick-or-treating seems to be on the decline, too many weirdos out there I suppose, but I’m still debating how to get in on the holiday this year. Perhaps a party with fabulous friends? Or be boring and just watch Hitchcock movies? I’ve never been to a haunted castle/cornmaze/whatever which seem to be all the rage in these parts, so I’m going to try to trick (or treat) J. into taking me to one. Small Dog has no comment on the possibility of thigh highs.
EDITOR’S ADDITION: COURTESY OF DAD
“A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips. I think I’m feeling a little fullness!”
-Absolutely Fabulous
Nothing reminds you that you haven’t been to a gym in nearly three months like going to a seamstress to get the new trousers you bought mere weeks ago tailored to meet your exacting petite standards…only to find that you maybe aren’t as petite as could be desired, girth-wise.
“What do you need?” she growled.
I put on a bright smile and help up three pairs of trousers. “Just some hemming.” The glare intensified so I actually stuttered, “Unless you’re booked, I could try someplace else-”
“When you need by?” came the rumbling demand.
“Oh, whenever you get done with them,” I said meekly while my alter ego Small Dog looked down from on high and howled in embarrassment for my lack of spine.
“Not ’til mid October!” she snarled.
“Ok,” I smiled, heart wilting at the thought of my lunch break wasted, and turned towards the door when she waved a hand towards the changing room.
“No! In there! Put them on!”
I was going to say that I had already measured and knew that I just needed two inches off…but I thought better of it and obediently trudged into the room to strip.
It was then that I noticed that the trousers seemed a bit tight, but ever the (cautious) optimist, I chalked it up to bad lighting. Then I fastened the first pair around myself, looked at my reflection, and blanched.
Now, to explain. I’m short (duh!) but I also have no waist. Well I do, but there’s only an inch and a half between my ribs and my pelvis, as if someone took me by the feet and head and scrunched. Therefore I’ve got the same organs, skin, and…er…other bits that normal women have but all compressed and with no where exactly to go but…out. Diet and exercise keeps everything in place, but as I said before I haven’t been a gym bunny for some months now.
And friends, out everything has come.
Having tumbled down a well of despair (actually, having formulated a ruthless plan of attack incorporating carrot sticks and dragging a hapless Venice along to the gym with me as a workout buddy) I stepped back out to face the dragonish woman crouched menacingly on her stool by the unforgiving three-way mirror.
“Where are you from?” she growled, trying to make small talk while she thumped around her shop for measuring tape and pins.
“Here for the last few years. My family is in England.”
The dour look started to slide off her face as she happily declared she was from Ukraine. I gulped and nodded as she whipped the tape around me in twenty directions. But the day was saved when she measured me head to toe.
“Just under five feet! You are same height as my daughters!”
From then on we were pals.
Now to reacquaint myself with the gym, because I don’t think I can go through this ordeal again to have anything taken out!
“Oh…WOW…the eyebrows…”
“Nothing about those things are ok…”
-Hildegarde and C.
No, your friendly neighborhood Small Dog hasn’t shuffled off this mortal coil…she only wishes she had.
In my quest for all knowledge about U.S. Law Enforcement, and deep and abiding passion for all things criminal (the first part was sarcastic…the second not as much), I am being subjected to…I mean fortunately able to attend training with Hennessy and Hildegarde. None of us are particularly thrilled because Hildegarde has to be “trained” to use a database she’s been using for years, and Hennessy and I have to go to learn how to use the system to run background checks on people. However, due to some things we learned this morning, Hennessy and I are worried that we aren’t going to legally be able to use this system to run the kind of background checks Chief and Sgt. M want us to. In fact such a use of this system seems to bring snarling FBI agents down like locusts.
However, in spite of my grumblings there are the odd perks of an all-day-three-day training meeting in the city. The first is obviously that I get out of the office for nearly a week, the second is that with travel time tacked on I’m getting all sorts of overtime, third is getting to wear jeans on the clock, and the last is the comedic value of the instructors!
Metro Marko, as he is apparently named (I overheard a conversation), and his wife are expecting their first kid any second now. However, and I jest not, the first time I clapped eyes on him I could have sworn he was a drag queen. It wasn’t the tightness of the clothes, the painstakingly coiffed hair, or even the facial features (though they are suspect). This man has eyebrows more finely plucked than my own, which lent him a Spock a la Nathan Lane in The Birdcage air.
And in continuing poor fashion choices news, our other instructor has the Jon and Kate + – ⅝ √ Ω ∞ 8 mom haircut. She’s trying to grow it out so she’s managed to make the reverse mullet look even worse. She screams everything, especially her jokes, and says the same thing several times in a row. Much to the class’ amusement!
All in all, the true downside of this class has been discovering that I’m nearly a month late in registering my car. Blast!
“You need to get up.”
“No!”
“Yes. You need to make money to support your rock’n’roll lifestyle.”
“I don’t have a rock’n’roll lifestyle!”
-J. and C.
We have a trip to England to pay for, school is starting and with it the flood of ridiculously expensive books to be bought, and food must be paid for I suppose. But fall is coming and that means so are fall lines! Venice doesn’t help by calling me at work to tell me that Express is having a sale on their work shirts (two for the price of one! That’s an investment, right?), and neither does my beloved Shabby Apple by debuting new fabulous dresses and accessories! My Lust List expands exponentially, rather than relative to my wallet (lovely thing though it is) and the only thing that keeps me safe is an iron will combined with absolute horror towards credit card debt commercials! I therefore bring you:
Small Dog’s List of Things She Wants But Cannot Have
And in the category of accessories, considering that I’m living in a fantasy land, I’m also rather smitten with this little item (above headband). More bohemian than my normal tastes, but I want it just the same. Oh, come on. Like you’ve never wanted something you couldn’t have?
“My doctor grabbed me by the wallet and said, ‘Cough!'”
-Henry Youngman
My Alma Mater does not have a Spring Break, but while I worked at the International Students’ Office as an undergrad, I found a way to circumvent this. Our director would round us up every spring saying, “It’s, ahem, very important that you realize how difficult it can be for the students coming to our university to get in and out of the country” [Item: nearly every girl who worked there was an international, and every girl who worked had been out of the U.S. multiple times in her life] “and so we’re going to give you a little tutorial.” And thus we were annually whisked off to Mexico!
This trip had to include a trip to an embassy/consulate to make it right and proper with the university, but after that we could do just what we…actually whatever Dr. F. wanted. But as this always meant a trip to the beach, open air markets, and the good doctor’s favorite restaurant (which highlighted a mariachi band with what appeared to us to be excruciatingly tight pants…but that never seemed to diminish the musicians’ enthusiasm for dancing up to our tables, looking like their gut/bum/whatever were about to burst free any second), we were happy to go along for the ride.
A couple of years ago, we were down in Sonora in Hermosillo and going through an open air market selling all things cheap and designer knock off. I was on the prowl for a new wallet as my old was a shabby wreck and where better to get an abominably fake looking wallet than Mexico?
I’d all but used up our allotted hour and was trying to seem as if I did not hear Dr. F. calling while I frantically searched case after case of goods. Finally, at the very instant I was turning around to trot after my friends in defeat, I saw it. Laying in the case was a so-not-Coach-but-maybe-from-far-away-it-would-fool-somebody brown wallet that needed me as much as I needed it.
“How much?” I enquired in broken Spanish.
“Five-fifty,” the woman answered in accented, but much superior to my sad attempt at her language, tones.
“Done,” I said. I probably could have talked her way down, but Dr. F. was motioning sternly so there was nothing to be done.
I stuck my hand into shirt and snatched my money from under my bra strap (where else was I supposed to carry it?!) and plopped my pesos down on the table in front of her.
Something about my humor/pathos amused her because she burst into laughter (which had a You Poor Thing! undertone to it) and said, “You can have it for just five.”
Gracias!
My wallet had finally outlived its usefulness and the inside was starting to come apart, so the other day I traded it in for this sassy red, ultra thin clutch. But I felt bad tossing my old one and the entire day whenever I caught sight of it in the bin my first thought was that I’d made some horrible mistake (like tossing our marriage certificate again…still think J. did it), and even now I go searching frantically through my bag for it until I recall it’s been replaced.
Small Dog Syndrome 