Blondes and Blue Eye Shadow

I have recently upped the ante of my eyeshadow experience.

I once had only one eyeshadow palette. Then, on New Years Eve, Mindy of Sugar High Boston blogging fame gave me an impromptu eye makeup lesson. I then had a bunch of adult beverages and forgot what she taught me. (Sorry Mindy). Then, I sucked it up and bought myself new eyeshadows. You can't really tell in the photos, but they're definitely labeled "Base", "Lid", "Crease" and "Liner". Yes. I buy pre-labeled eyeshadows. And no, I have not yet gotten up the courage to try the liners. All in good time, dear readers.

All this talk of eyeshadow reminds me of freshman year of college.

One of my two college besties, Shell, had quite the cosmopolitan roommate. Among other things, she held the belief that blondes should NOT wear blue eyeshadow. Ever. I think it sprang from an underlying fear of the 80s. Miss Cosmo feared big hair, loud prints, high tops, and blue eyeshadow on blondes.

Shell, college bestie Em, and I all laughed about Miss Cosmo's wierdness regarding our common hair color and blue eye shadow.

Towards the end of the semester, I had a brilliant idea.

I made sure to wander over to Shell's room when Miss Cosmo was around. Seeing Cosmo at her desk, I said, "Shell, may I borrow your blue eyeshadow tonight?"

I put the fear of God in Miss Cosmo.

"NO! Clare! You cannot wear blue eyeshadow! Blondes should never, ever, ever wear blue eyeshadow!"

Oh, if only writing could convey the disgusted and horrified tone of voice.

I quickly left Shell's room, for fear that I would burst into laughter at Miss Cosmo's predictable outburst. Was that mean? Did I trick her into exploding? Perhaps. But she was not the nicest person on our freshman floor, not by a long shot.

Needless to say, that girl did not live with Shell after freshman year of college!

Go to Towne

Go to Towne

In spite of my title, I’m not necessarily telling you, my readers, to visit Boston’s new-ish bar, Towne.

One finds Towne in a space adjacent to the Hynes Convention Center. Its ‘culinary directors’ are local celeb chefs Lydia Shire and Jasper White.

I’m afraid that, while a classy place with pretty good drinks, Towne takes itself a little too seriously.

I went there on Saturday night and had to walk through crowd control ropes and had two different doormen greet me. Rather excessive, especially considering that there was no line whatsoever. I was not even charged a cover.

Drinks range from $10 to $14. In my opinion, unless there is top shelf booze involved, a drink should not exceed the $10 or $11 mark. The ladies I was with concurred - if we are charged $13 for a cocktail, we expect hand lotion in the ladies’ room (there was none.)

I began with the Apple Press, which contains St. Germaine (new favorite alcohol) and various apple flavored things. Quite tasty.

I then asked for a St. Germaine cocktail, to which the waitress replied that the bartenders also do one with a splash of vodka, would I like to try it? I’m always game for something new with St. Germaine, so of course I agreed. When she brought it back to the table, she said that the bartender went a little heavy on the vodka, and if I didn’t like it to let her know.

Holy booze, Batman.

Thankfully, she brought it back to the bar and they put it on ice (a lot of ice, in a huuuuuuge plastic tumbler.) Took me the next hour and a half to finish it, and my goodness did that drink pack a punch. The next morning’s greasy brunch with AT was absolutely necessary to soak up the leftover vodka still running through my veins.

The decor itself is half swanky, half reminiscent of your great uncle’s basement, refurbished circa 1965. And who could forget the photograph of the breast on the back wall?

The bathroom sinks are pretty cool, but a place that size needs a few more stalls and a little bit longer of a mirror.

The bar stools are squishy and comfortable, although treacherous if one leans too far forward - they tend to topple over.

Don’t get me wrong - I had a fantastic time (in fabulous company). Our waitress was quite possibly one of the best waitresses I have experienced - she became our buddy and shot the sh*t with us towards the end of the night.

While I fit in appearance wise, in my skinny jeans and party blazer, I think the flip flops were a little out of place.

At first, the single ladies were a tad disappointed at the female to male ratio (not great), although not surprising considering that the Red Sox and a Final Four game were on at the same time. We sat underneath a TV, so every so often a group of dudes stopped to look at us (or so we thought. The train of thought went “Why are those dudes staring a... oh, right, the TV.”)

Then, suddenly, the men abounded. We met half-hat Steve, whose hat only covered half his head. We met some super drunk dude with longish hair and a Robert Plant concert tour T-shirt. We even met a man who was the spitting image of my father’s cousin’s husband, who we affectionately call ‘Uncle Al’. We even met a few Australian men, one of whom, even after learning I had a boyfriend (and before getting Juju’s digits), told me that if my sister wanted to go to a footie game in Brisbane when she visits, to let him know and he would hook her up. The Aussies really are the nicest people on the planet.

Towne is fun, especially when in good company, but an expensive habit.

Springtime in Boston

(idea courtesy of Cat Craig)

Why yes, that is my flippie-flopped foot (navy blue haviana peackock, I'm a flip flop snob) next to a teeny tiny snow pile.

This is what springtime in Boston looks like.

Home envy

Ever since I moved to the Boston area, I have had home envy of a lot of people - the MIT and Harvard dorms overlooking the river, the Back Bay brownstones, the modern, airy lofts in the South End (Joe and Mindy's apartment in Southie...)

But that envy pales in comparison to what I feel about one particular building on Beacon Street in Brookline -number 1514, called 'Stoneholme'.

I mean, what is this building doing in Massachusetts? It belongs in Paris.

I have taken great interest in Stoneholme and its inhabitants. I often check out their cars, to see if it is the home of ridiculous millionaires with sweet cars. The parking lot has Mercedes, Audis, and BMWs... But there are also Hondas and Toyotas (new models, but still not luxury!)

I try to peer into the windows, which is difficult from the sidewalk and I'm not about to walk up the hallowed stairs to try to get in. My mom taught me better manners than that!

I sometimes wonder if it has a tragic story attached to it. Maybe if it is haunted the property is worth less and we can purchase an apartment in it some day. I can handle ghosts, you just have to make friends with them.

Or maybe there is a super long waiting list to be able to buy or rent an apartment in there, and its such a gorgeously popular building that people secretly commit murder to be able to live there.

So if anyone is in cyberspace looking for someone to bequeath their fortune to (like the Nigerian billionaires who constantly email my work account) - this is what I would spend it on. Quite a worthy cause, I should think!

BSC

This is not a post about Boston Sports Club.

In second grade, in the winter time, I took a book out of the library that cemented my status as a bookwork forever. It was called Claudia and the Bad Joke.

Yes, my friends, it was a Baby-Sitters' Club book, and I was forever hooked.

I pored over them like they were manna from the wilderness. My cousins just happened to have passed down a whole box of them to me around that same time and I read them with gusto. I'd discovered the Baby Sitter's Little Sister books the summer before, about Karen Brewer and her antics and her two of everything, but somehow the BSC characters pulled me in the way only my favorite of books have done since.

I wanted to move to the fictional Stoneybrook, CT (I knew it was not a real town because I, too, lived in CT.) I wanted to join their meetings, help construct kid kits, write in the notebook, and pilfer candy from Claudia Kishi's bedroom.

My favorite character was Stacey McGill. I still write some of my S's like her's, and used to dot my i's with hearts just like she did. My third grade self wanted to become a model, just like Stacey.

Early on in the relationship, I wrote a letter to the author of the series, Ann M. Martin. No response. Then my mother, the library director, found Ann at a huge book show in New York City. Mom scored several autographed books with a note in one of them (Dear Clare, Keep on reading! Keep on writing! Love, Ann M. Martin). I was thrilled.

Ann also mailed me a BSC fan club application, which of course I filled out and sent in. My application came with, among other things, a map of Stoneybrook with each sitter's house and street plotted out, along with each baby sitting charge's home. I spent hours plotting the courses from Kristy's house to Stoneybrook Middle School, from Stacey's house to Claudia's, from Jessie's house to Matt Braddock's. I would daydream that I hung out with all of them. When I played with my exorbitant number of barbies I had enough to give each Barbie a BSC name. They were all adults, and lived together in a mansion. Mary Anne and Logan (Ken) were married, Kristy and Bart (Ken) were dating. I had a black barbie for Jessie, an old Barbie that used to be my mother's and looked vaguely Asian as Claudia. Everyone else was blonde, obviously. Mary Anne and Mallory were actually represented by Skipper, since I didn't have quite enough Barbies to do the job. Another Ken rotated around as the boyfriend of various other members.

Now that I think about it, though, the ladies of the BSC had lasting effects on my life:

- I'm still an avid reader
- Dawn taught me at an early age the importance of environmental sustainability
- I enjoyed, and indeed strove for, baby-sitting jobs, which led to an awesome part time nanny job when I lived in London, involving me being flown to Salzburg and Nice for family trips
- Stacey's short run with the cheerleading squad inspired my own cheer experiences, giving me coordination, a mild ability to dance, and quite a few awesome friend!

These weren't just whimsical, Pleasantville-esque stories, either. Ann M. Martin brought up real issues in a way that communicated them very well to 8-12 year olds. Adoption, handicaps, cancer, death, prejudice, divorce, these were all themes of different books.

Martin recently wrote a prequel to the series, and Scholastic re-released a bunch of them. The original audience is old enough to have their own young daughters, and wants them to have an accessible series with positive role models. I hope these books are still around if I have daughters.

Force of Habit

If you have known me for any amount of time whatsoever, you will know this: I play with my hair.

A not-so-great habit, I will admit. When interviewing for jobs I of course made a maximum effort to keep my hands away from my head at all times.

My hair is just so soft, though. Its long and blonde (which you have hopefully figured out from the blog name by now) and silky smooth. I’m not trying to brag; merely stating a fact.

I don’t always think it is about my hair-playing, though. I am just one of those people who needs to be constantly doing something with her hands at all times. During those aforementioned interviews, or work meetings, I play with my pen. I play with my necklace. I play with my ring or earrings. Anything close by, really.

I don’t think it is a ‘nervous’ habit, per se. I am not nervous when I play with my hair. Half the time I don’t really know I’m doing it. I once had a boy I kind of dated for a second tell me he could tell my emotional state by the way I played with my hair. Never mind that he and I didn’t really have a whole lot of one-on-one time, just lots of long lectures and class discussions, during which time we sat in the same room. Creepster. Although it might be true. I certainly play with my hair more harshly when I am nervous, or do not feel well (especially when I don’t feel well, see fear blog in the vomit section).

My Lil Sistah plays with her hair as well. In fact, I see some of the same hair playing mannerisms in her that I do in myself.

I’ve had several friends try to break me of the hair playing, but either they didn’t try hard enough or it’s impossible. Just to show you, this is when I play with my hair:

- Watching people at the shop

- Talking to friends

- Hanging out at the bar with the boy

- Watching movies

- Skyping with the Lil Sistah (and laughing when she does the same thing)

I also think that my new dabbles in jewelry making have something to do with hair playing. Or at least, with the necessity to always be doing something with my hands. I wanted to do something while also watching sports games and other things that did not need absolute concentration.

I guess I am unapologetic about the hair playing. Its better than smoking, or picking my nose, right?

Jersey Shore on Newbury Street

I don’t often use this blog to vent frustrations at specific people (tights are a completely different story, and thank you Em for the Spanx suggestion – I will look into it for Fall/Winter 2011!)

However, this morning I had a rather comical pseudo-encounter I could not help but share with cyber space.

I go to the gym on Newbury Street, which, for those of you unfamiliar with Boston, is known for its good shopping and some pretty hip restaurants. It is the most convenient gym for my life right now, and while I’d love to shell out over $70 a month for Health Works (where I guarantee this would not happen), that’s just not in the budget right now.

Every other day or so, I try to do some type of muscle building exercises on top of my cardio (abs, lunges and squats, etc.) Today was arm day. I usually go to the secondary studio area, that has little 5 pound dumbbell weights and is normally quiet and sometimes private. I avoid the weight area like the plague because it is normally crowded and testosterone filled.

This specific morning, I walk into my usual weight studio, and who is working his obscenely oversized arms but a wonderful male muscle-head with gelled hair, a black cutoff T shirt, skinny legs, and tattoos. But the appearance wasn’t enough for Mr. Man. He also had created a bench for his weights with an aerobic step and several layers of the pedastal things to put underneath them to make them higher. AND (get ready for this) he had rigged a small table with the foam long cylanders often used for floor work to hold a miniature laptop that was showing an exercise DVD.

Don’t get me wrong, I do not often mind sharing that space with others who are also using it as a more private exercise area. What I do mind is excessive grunting. I get that it may help people in their weight lifting, but if you’re going to groan and grunt every time you pick up your weight, perhaps you should switch to something a little lighter.

As for the gelled hair… Come on, dude. Its 9 AM and it looks as though you have been at this for a while. Do you really need to put on your full hair gel before you go to the gym? That is akin to me putting on full makeup, complete with a smokey eye and jewelry. And the only two people working out near you are a tiny Asian girl and me. Are you trying to impress us? Something tells me we are not your type.

Also, I will take a moment to talk about the guy’s legs. Looking at his upper body, you would think that he would have powerful legs, with Jason Varitek Man-Quads (as AT and I like to call them, with all the squatting baseball catchers have to do they must have thighs the size of tree trunks). TINY legs. They seriously look like he does no work on them. In other words, they look like my legs. My legs aren’t puny, they have a bit of muscle to them (thanks to my 45 minute jaunts on the elliptical and the squats, lunges, and other moves AT has taught me to do). But his legs reminded me of a British friend of mine who had spent a year in the US – a rugby player who also spent a good deal of time at the gym. He wondered why American men spent so much time working their upper bodies, and neglected their legs, ending up with the puffed up muscular chests and huge arms with spindly toothpick legs.

But I digress. This man looked like he was the lost Jersey Shore cast member who accidentally wandered away to Boston and its much more demure health and fitness clubs. I did find his presence a little off-putting, but was otherwise entertained during his grunting, groaning, and DVD watching (eyes were rolled, smirks were covered).

In the wise words of the SATC ladies – some people do arts and crafts... (finish this statement).