resolutions are hard.

20 days ago, I was like,

 "Bring on the new year. Bring. It. On."

"I'm going to catch up reading all of those classics I've made it 3/4 of the way through!"

"I'll finish editing all of those projects I've been working on!"

"I'll do awesome at exercising!"

"I'll totally do laundry!" 

"AND dishes!"

I was going to kill 2015 with my bare hands.
2015 was going to be MY year.

2014? It had some lovely moments, but I was ready to move on to 2015.

And then January 1st came by.

I thought, "Okay, lets finish up Les Miserables!
You've only got 100 pages left!!!"

"Lets get editing those projects!!"


"...okay, okay- let's exercise then! I won't even be too ambitious!
Let's just go on a walk every day!"



"...laundry?? ...dishes??"


The moral of the story is that resolutions are hard.
And I've been sleeping alot.

Writing this post was exhausting, and took me more time than I care to admit.


That's all.

the rest of the skirt story, or, why today didn't suck after all.

I think I know what you're thinking. 

You're thinking, "Move on, Alyssa. Move on." 

You're thinking, "We've heard enough about this magical skirt. 

We get it. You really really like it."

(sigh) 

You're right. 

This is my third blog post about this skirt.

 I can see how I might look super excessive.

But can I just tell you the part of the story I've been hiding from you? 

Can I tell you the dramatic details? Because believe it or not, 

this pesky skirt story has had a lot of ups and downs to it. 

And after today, I think I'm ready to share them with the rest of the world.

It is with great pleasure and honor that I present : 

THE SKIRT STORY

CHAPTER ONE 

My sister buys a lovely skirt. I drool over the pictures as I research all the different places you could potentially buy it. The cheapest one I find is over $200. I decide it'll be one of those garments that I dream of owning one day, but never would, because there's no friggin way I'm going to spend that kinda dough on a skirt. Even if its perfect. No friggin way. I convince myself that I probably wouldn't even like it on me anyway. 

CHAPTER TWO

I happen to be in my hometown at the same time my sister is visiting, and you guessed it: she brought THE skirt. I beg her to let me to try it on, and she allows it. I fall in mad, crazy love with the skirt. I feel like a princess, a ballerina, and audrey hepburn rolled into one entity. I continue to research retailers who might carry it where it might be cheaper. No dice. Still around or over $200. (sigh) I convince myself that, even though I adore it, I'd never have a place to wear it. A little part of my heart aches when I give the skirt back to my sister. 

CHAPTER THREE

Gideon surprises me by purchasing THE skirt for my birthday. Over the course of two minutes, I die a little bit. 

First I die of shock, because remember how it was crazy expensive? 

Then I die of fear. On the designer website that Gideon ordered from, they have a very clear policy of NO RETURNS. Talk about commitment right? I was terrified that Gid might have accidentally gotten the wrong size, color, or something else important. (FYI: He didn't. He's an impeccable secret shopper.) 

Then I die of shoppers remorse. I start asking myself if I really liked the skirt, or if I just felt entitled to any piece of clothing that my sister owned. I wonder where in the world I would wear the skirt, (remember how I wrote a whole post just about being brave with cool clothes? I'm such a hypocrite!) and start feeling guilty that my darling husband bought me a darling skirt that would never be worn. 

After my three stages of death, I finally just embrace the fact that I got an amazing skirt, and try to feel nothing but grateful. I give Gid the big thank you kiss he so rightfully deserves. 

CHAPTER FOUR

The. Very. Next. Day. We happen to be at downeast outfitters. You know how they've started selling anthro items that are out of season? Yeah. So we're at downeast, and I find THE EXACT SAME SKIRT, (same size, same color) for THIRTY DOLLARS. I die my three deaths all over again. Poor Gideon looked sick when he saw me and my discovery. 

CHAPTER FIVE

Gid sends an email to the New York designer, respectfully acknowledging the no return policy, and asks if there is any way, any possible way we can return the skirt we've ordered, explaining that we found another one through an anthropologie vendor. The designer takes a few days to respond, but surprisingly makes a gracious exception for us on one condition: the skirt needs to be returned within one week.

CHAPTER SIX

Immediately I take the skirt to the post office (it's Monday). I send it priority just to make sure it gets safely to NYC by Friday. They ask if I want insurance and a tracking number for an additional five dollars. Being a crazy cheapskate, I say "no thanks" and skip away, totally unaware of the major distress the decision will give me soon after.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Its Thursday. Gideon emails the designer, asking if the skirt has arrived. She replies that it hasn't. All day  Friday I'm flipping out, but there's nothing to be done, because smartie pants over here decided not to pay fiiiivvve bucks of insurance on a TWO HUNDRED DOLLAR delivery! 

I pray hard. Really really hard. "Please, please please let the skirt get to New York City today," I beg to the heavens. Friday comes and goes. The skirt doesn't arrive. Days go by. Then more days. Then a week. Big, fat tears stream from my eyes when I realize, not only that the skirt didn't arrive in time for us to get refunded, it's gotten lost in the mail. I mailed off two hundred dollars, and it got lost. It's probably sitting next to some vacated apartment, and will be thrown away. So I cry. Gideon holds me, runs his fingers through my hair, and says something along the lines of, "its ok. It's just a skirt." This only makes me cry harder.

CHAPTER EIGHT

This brings us to today. Can I just say, it's been a lousy day? I woke up early in the morning sick to my stomach (not preggo), and spent the better part of the morning in the bathroom crouched over the toilet. Not my cup of tea. I drag myself to class. The whole afternoon I'm clammy and have chills. I have a meeting that goes 30 minutes longer than it should, which makes me lose my break to grab a bite to eat.

I'm grouchy, tired, sick, and soo hungry. All I want to do is get my hands on a machete and go to town on everybody in sight. 

And then I check my email. Notice a message from Gid. The subject says, "Good News!" 

Turns out the package finally did arrive. 

And it turns out, the designer is making yet another gracious exception, and is refunding us our money.

Not a bad day, after all.  

THE END

ps- I think I'll send her a handwritten thank you card and have flowers delivered to her.
What do you think? Too much??

Phew! I'm glad I got that all out, friends! 

Thanks for listening.

a post about connections...

I love realizing that I have more in common with people than I thought. I love finding out that we enjoy the same (not so common) book, style, era, or favorite dessert. I love discovering that I share the same unique dreams with people. So fun to find out that someone shares my obscure taste in music! So funny to find out they share the same guilty pleasure that I enjoy.

So relieving to discover that we share the same frustrations. (Frustrations that I thought I was the only person in the world to experience, in the history of time, space and complete existence.) So validating to be reminded that we all have days when we're fighting a tough fight. Days when we're postponing going to bed specifically so we can avoid the inevitability of yet another day. 

Days when we watch crappy reality dating television shows so we can attempt to feel better about ourselves. ("At least I'm not desperate enough to be on this dumb show....that I watch every monday religiously... since that's not pathetic")

There are some days when I'm in a super mood; real swell. Walking through campus like I own the place. High fiveing my classmates just because. Feeling pretty. Feeling accomplished. Feeling fulfilled and good about the future. 

But some days, I'm not in the mood to high five anyone. I don't feel good about the way I look. Some days I don't feel super optimistic about the future, and all I want to do is eat sugary cereal and try to remember to avoid the bathroom scale. Some days I get bummed and sort of hate stuff.

And when I do, I can't tell you how much it helps to find a friend who is also feeling a little bummed and sort of hating their own stuff. We laugh about how annoying bad drivers are. How much we hate exercising. How we secretly love things like pizza, ding dongs, and making fun of the bachelorette. How we wish we could just fly to paris, eat macaroons and never worry about finding a job or raising kids that don't end up nuts like us...

Like I said, I can't tell you how much it helps to find a part of me in a friend.

And I like to think that they're relieved to find themselves in me, too. 

So grateful that its friday, friends.

Lets enjoy the weekend, yes? 

another post about being weird.

Hi Friends. 

Remember this post?

Remember the magical skirt? 

Last week, my sister and I were in Texas, and she let me wear it for 10 whole minutes. 

I begged my mom to take a few shots so I could pretend that it really belonged to me, and reminice through photographs of what it would be like to own such loveliness. 

So much talent in that woman.

 

Until next time, skirt. 

That's all, friends. Just wanted to share.

about being weird...

This is going to be one of those posts, my bloggie buddies. The kind that are too long, too ramble-y, and too "what is this even about"-y. But its something that has been on my mind lately, and I'm trying to write again, right? Ok. You've been warned. 

Now I go to the skirt story.

Somewhere out there friends, there is a magical skirt, designed by a magical fashion genius (named Alexander Grecco), with a magically expensive price tag on it. My sister was fortunate enough to find a reasonably priced one in her size, and bought it. 

Goodness, I was elated for her. And yet so jealous of her! Tulle all over, poofy in all the right ways, and delicacy everywhere. Oh to have such a lovely skirt! 

Every day I would telephone Melody and ask her if she had worn her sweet skirt. And each day she'd reply with a guilty tone that "no," she hadn't, and "someday soon" she certainly planned to. After weeks of not wearing the skirt, I finally questioned her reasoning. "Why, why whyyyy would you not wear such a skirt, and at every opportunity that came? "

Her answers were simple: She was shy. She felt like it was too ostentatious to wear on a regular day. She thought people would think she was weird; like she was trying too hard. 

I thought about it, and understood immediately. There are several pieces of clothing in my closet that I adore, but I've yet to wear them in public. I have a sweet yellow polka dot dress, but haven't worn it, because I feel like it's too girly; and people will think that I aspire to be one of the VonTrapp Family Singers. I have a flowing top that I'm in love with, but have yet to wear it, because I'm worried people will think that I'm pretentious and trying to look like I spend all my time at stuffy modern art museums. I could go on- there are plenty of dresses, tops and more that I could wear, but choose not to. "Not yet, at least." As though I'm going to eventually mature into the clothing that I've chosen to purchase for myself. I'm sure if I owned the fabulous Grecco skirt, I'd be just as apprehensive to wear it as my sister is.

This got me to thinking about what I think about people who are different. And by different, I mean fearless. The people who wear whatever they want, even if it is waaayy out of the norm. They remind me of budding toddler fashionistas; completely un-concerned about what people are going to think of their selected outfit. Except they're adults.

Goodness, I love those people. 

Now, keep in mind I'm not necessarily talking about weirdness for the sake of weirdness (aka "indie" or "hipster"). There is something significantly less heroic about someone who is intentionally different because they've been swept up by a wave of popularity. If you don't know why you like something, you may want to investigate it a little more.

I'm talking about people who choose to express themselves in a unique way because they are actively embracing their individuality. Its as if they feel they have nothing to prove to others. Do you know the type friends?  I can think of a handful just on the top of my head. Fearless expressionists are the best. They are comfortable with themselves. Able to be passionate about what excites them. And is it just me, or have you noticed these people tend to be less judgmental of others' individual expression as well?

I know this seems like a lot that I got from my sister's tulle skirt. 

My point is, (if there is a point) that we need more people who are different. More people who are brave, and confident enough with themselves to wear things that may cause double takes every now and then. We need more whimsical. More quirky. More feminine. (I suppose those are just my particular favorites...)

If we choose to be brave in one department in our lives (even one as seemingly superficial as wardrobe selection), I believe it perhaps inspires us to be braver in other ways. More significant ways. Maybe, in a small way, what you choose to wear can change who you are for the better (or worse, of course).

Anyway, Melody finally wore the skirt. Got a million compliments from people she knew, as well as people she'd never met. In fact, Melody's photographer neighbor approached her and asked if she'd be willing to wear the skirt in an upcoming photo-shoot. Talk about a wave of confidence washing over her. Not only in the decision to wear the skirt, but in her taste, her specific, unique fashion instincts. Melody sent me a picture of her wearing the tulle skirt at DisneyWorld (with Mimi in a pink tulle dress next to her). I beg her for more pictures of her wearing it. Mimi asks her to wear it every day now. She tries to find reasons to wear it, rather than find excuses not to. 

Told you it was a magical skirt.

I'm thinking I'll wear my polka dot dress tomorrow. 

Maybe, rather than looking like a VonTrapp Family Singer, I'll just look like myself. 

Goodnight, sweet friends. 

Thanks for reading the skirt story.

ask me to do something cool...

...and you'll probably get something super weird instead...

a big thank you to the lovely hannah stewart who asked me to be the subject for a project photo shoot.

and a big apology for my weird poses...

So. That happened.

I've been fighting a cold for the past few days. You know the drill- runny nose, scratchy throat, and pathetic droopy eyes. Thank heavens it came over the weekend; I'm taking way too many classes this semester to be getting sick this early in the game. Anyway, last night I decided I was feeling too sick to put any effort into a meal, so I looked up the easiest crock-pot recipe I could find. We were only missing a few ingredients, and since we live like 3 minutes away from a market, I hopped into the car around 10 p.m. last night, and made a quick grocery store run. 

Since I was still in my "hanging out in the apartment blowing my nose all day long" outfit, I looked pretty awesome. Wearing a zip up hoodie with my big clutch wallet in one pocket, my keys, phone, and notepad (with my grocery list on it) plus a pen in the other pocket, there was no need for a purse. That's one of the best things about hoodies, right? Anyway, I walked into the store, and by instinct headed straight for the best isle. That's right- the ice cream isle. As I gazed past the glass trying to decide (as I coughed and sniffled) if I'd rather eat orchard peach sorbet, or mango sorbet, an older lady came up to me, smiling knowingly and said, "late night cravings?" I smiled at her and nodded. She chuckled and said, "I remember those days." As she walked away I wondered why she would say that she "remembered those days". Isn't it our prerogative as women to always have late night cravings? Old, young, during any time of year and at any time of the month? Don't we deserve that? As I pondered the issue, I saw myself in the reflection of the glass, and noticed my bulging hoodie pockets.

And then I realized. Sweet old lady thought I was pregnant.

That awkward social encounter that I've had many friends cry to me about had finally happened to me. Not only did someone think I was pregnant, they thought it strongly enough that they actually commented to me about it. I tried to not let it bother me since I actually do have a pretty flat tummy, (when I'm not wearing an awkward hoodie with miscellaneous objects shoved into the pockets) but as I walked through the produce section I couldn't help but wonder how many other people thought I looked like I was expecting. 

When I got home, I told gideon the whole story and he laughed his deep gideon laugh and tried to insist that the lady didn't think that I was preggo, but I know the truth. I even made him take a picture of me so I could inspect it to see if she had good reason to assume I was expecting. I think I secretly stuck my tummy out a little bit extra, because I secretly wish I was a little bit pregnant, and it's sort of fun to pretend.

Anyway, the moral of the story is- I'm not pregnant. And even if I sometimes wish I was, I don't want to look like I am when I'm not. The end. Also- I think I'm going to start going to the gym when I get over this cold.

Happy Sunday to you all,

the mathematician and me...

So I'm in the library. It's the afternoon. I've just finished ballet technique, and I have a few hours before my choreography workshop.  Pink tights peek out from loose black sweatpants, paired with an old t-shirt I got on tour in Canada. In case you're having a difficult time painting a picture- go ahead and trust me when I say that I do not look cute. I'm fumbling over granola and yogurt, trying to get the crumbles into my mouth and not on the floor. Feeling very uncoordinated. Plus- not cute. (Did I mention that?)

I'm hungry. Tired. Grouchy. As I'm looking up european post modern choreography on youtube, (on mute) I hear an irritated voice say, "is that homework"? I become aware of the studious looking girl sitting next to me.


Her hair sleekly falls to her shoulders. She's wearing a button up 3/4 sleeve shirt, a pencil skirt, and glasses that suggest there's nothing wrong with her vision and she has impeccable style. I'm startled. I'd been in my own world; feeling sorry for myself for being tired and unable to eat granola gracefully. "Is that homework?" she repeats again, sounding a little less irritated and a little more patronizing. She continues, "Because if it's not, you're really not supposed to be using this section of the library's computers."


Half amused and half perplexed, I answer (my mouth half full of granola) "actually it is homework." She doesn't believe me. Slowly, she says, "what are you studying?"

Now I'm annoyed. Who does this girl think she is? The library police?

Determined to keep my cool, I tell her I'm pursuing a Master of Fine Arts in the Department of Modern Dance. "That oughta shut her up", I think to myself. There's a pause. She has nothing to say. (Good.)

 I return to the youtube search. She responds, "I used to dance".  My eyes flicker to her computer. She's working on some sort of equations. I'm thinking statistics or calculus. Goodness, how I hated those classes. I immediately feel sorry for this girl and regret being irritated by her.  Maybe I can make some polite conversation. I ask her what her major is. She answers: Math.

Then she continues (with a hint of smugness), "so I can get a real job someday."

Another awkward pause. 

I'm trying to figure out if she's trying to be funny, or suggesting that I will never get a job. Either way, this girl seems to lack some very basic social skills, and I'm more concerned for her than offended by her comments. I shrug, and cheerfully say something along the lines of "good for you for being so smart", and mention something about how I've always hated math because I'm so terrible at it. She rolls her eyes, and says perhaps the most depressing thing I've heard all semester:

"who says I don't hate math?" 

Third awkward pause. 

I'm beginning to think that there's no recovery from this conversation. I'd gone from being annoyed, to sympathetic, to trying to compliment a girl for being exceptional at solving equations to apparently offending her for assuming she enjoyed her major. She glares at me, says, "at least I don't have to starve myself by only eating yogurt and granola for lunch." Then she logs off her computer, gathers her books and backpack, and storms off. I'd just filled my mouth with another bite, so there was a fourth awkward moment (with the exception of me crunching my granola).

I go back to my youtube clips.

Not quite sure what to think about all of this, friends. I don't want to read too much into it. Most likely it was just an odd girl having an odd day (during an odd time of the month). I'm not suggesting that she's depressed because she's a mathematician rather than an artist. It was actually quite an interesting pop in my grouchy and tired afternoon. I do wish her the best. (Even though she really needs to see a therapist if that's how she behaves to every stranger she meets.) 

I wonder if she looks up dance on youtube during her free time. 

Probably not.

I will say this: I'm very glad I'm not studying math. 

Even if it means I don't dress cute all the time.

ps- for another awkward dance-y story that this reminds me of: http://theveryhappypear.blogspot.com/2011/01/matryoshka-story.html

a matryoshka story...

So, this story is part dance, part funny, and part "alyssa". 

If you look up my name in the thesaurus, 

you'll find awkward in large bold letters right next to it.

Just a warning. 

Today was the first day in my modern technique class, right? It's always awkward going into a new class with people who you're not familiar with when everyone is wearing tight clothing and throwing themselves across a well lit room filled with mirrors. It's silly, but there's a sort of politics to a first day of class: you don't want to be too front and center, yet don't want to be too timid. You don't want to be too show-off-y, yet you want to make sure you're challenging and pushing yourself. Am I the only one who senses these silent rules? Well, anyway. As we were going across the floor, I noticed the girl in front of me had a tattoo peeking out from the back of her drapy shirt. It was the top of a little matryoshka doll, which made my heart leap, not because I'm a tattoo enthusiast (as I'm sure you know), but because (as I'm sure you know) I just love everything russian.

After we finished going across the floor, there was a silent moment, and I decided to take the opportunity to ask my new russian-loving friend about her "artwork".

With all my enthusiasm, I said "Is that a matryoshka doll on your back!?"

She looked at me blankly, and I, now stuttering and thinking maybe this wasn't the best question to start off with said, "The tattoo.... um, is that a matryoshka doll?" 

Her eyes lit with understanding, and then she replied, "Oh. That's Mother Mary."

My heart fell like a bowling ball right next to the fruit snacks in my stomach. But before I could say anything to pull myself out of the awkward hole I'd just leapt into, our instructor called a few technique pointers to our attention, and then told us to take it from the top. I only had a moment to try to say something to her; something, anything. 

So in a hasty rush of insecurity, I said the first thing that entered my head. Looking her directly in the eye, I said in an unmeaning-fully matter of fact way, "I'm Christian."
Then I nodded. Like an idiot. 

The bowling ball sunk a few inches lower than I thought possible. 

Wow, Alyssa. Wow.

...wow.

How did I become so adept at awkwardness? I mean, I am Christian, I'm a proud Christian, but why did I have to bring that up after mistaking a tattoo of Mother Mary for a matryoshka doll?

When did I go from being a cute little girl with pink cowboy boots to this?!

I should get my masters degree in awkward studies. 

Actually, I should be the dean of the college of awkwardness. 

You get the picture.

Anyway, I'm lucky the girl just laughed it off; it could have been a truly offensive moment on the worst possible day to be offensive and awkward.

Wow. That's all friends. Thanks for being nice to me even though I say things like that.