i don't like doing anything i don't like to do

because that sucks. doesn't it? however, sometimes, external forces dictate that i must. i keep not making any more money, so i'm always a little strapped for cizzash, mainly because what little i do make i spend here. and here. and here. and here. funny story - i still look like crap in spite of dropping serious scrill on the fancy(ier than old navy and ross) brands. anywho, this month, june 2010, i am imposing a moratorium on apparel purchases. i have several pair of shoes that have gone unworn for years. dresses with price tags still attached. skirts i wore once then never ironed to wear again (because i am both lazy and afraid of hot things). well, june is the month when i reclaim my own wardrobe. i was going to do a thing where i wear a different pair of shoes each day, but i chickened out because i'm still super wobbly on heels. but maybe. we shall see. won't we won't see are bags from forever 21 stuffed with crap clothes (that i love, but still, they're crap) and scary credit card bills and bank statements. i can do it!

ghosts of closets past - i clearly have a problem. yes, it's weird because, yes, i still always look a little homeless even in my best outfit. it's a gift. marry me!

exhibit a:




i swear there was an exhibit b, but i can't find it. trust me. it was worse.

Riddle me this:

I am almost twenty fucking nine years old. Now, why do I have a zit nearish my chin? WHY? For fuck's sake. Good thing Zeb prevents me from leaving the house other than work. Soon, soon he will be able to stay in his crate alone and I will again be antisocial for different reasons. Soon.

Happy Sunday, y'all.

I'd like the crap sandwich with a side of extra crap sandwich.

Have you ever woken up one morning and realized that you haven't had a haircut since August? And then you check your mail and there's a letter from the IRS that insinuates that maybe you forgot to report some of your income from 2007 and now you owe lots of money?* And then you realize that your attempt at political humor was so pedantic that even your six year old cousin made the Kenneth/Bobby connection? And work blows serious donkey balls, but you can't talk about it because it's all confidential and shit? And then you check your 403(b) just for shits and giggles, but end up sobbing? And your deadbeat, college dropout brother has been MIA for weeks causing your mother to have a slow, drawn out series of mini nervous breakdowns punctuated by terrible cell phone reception? Also, you have a denti$t appointment in the morning, which will undoubtedly lead to a crown and public drooling.

All I've managed to do to mitigate any of this is to make an appointment to get my hair cut that I can't afford because of the taxes I owe.

*The best part about this is that I forgot to report severance pay. It's not like it was anything exciting like a salary or lottery winnings.

I can't wait to show you my reverse plank!

(That's what she said.)

Part of NoWhine09/wedding to myself means workin' on my fitness.* In addition to the gym going and dog walking/running, I've now thrown yoga into the weekly mix. I'm super excited about this because I am a woman in my mid (fine, late) twenties and my goals in life are to eat Activia, get the morning after pill, serve in wedding parties and prance around in expensive yoga clothes (see below):

There is one problem with this, though. Actually two problems. You see, yoga was developed in the mid 90s by Madonna and that chick's flat as her songs. I, however, am not. How do I put this? I've got some serious fun bags. I'm not trying to brag, but I've been bustier than necessary since about fourth grade. Middle school was a delight. Let me tell you. Anyway, yoga is hard when you got a lot goin' on up top. When I lower my head over my legs, the girls hit the ground first. Plow is life threatening. This supposedly calming activity becomes stressful. You're damn right I have tension in my back and shoulders! There's prenatal yoga, how come no yoga for ladies with somewhat substantial knockers? Perhaps I'll just take up another trendy fitness craze - rock climbing. Here I come Rocktown!**

*Fergie reference. I know.

**P.S. your new name is stupid.

Attempt at humor FAIL!

Surely, you have been all over FAIL blog, surely. It's a good time, trust me. In an effort to prevent my premature death from extreme ultimate boredom disease, I went on the hunt for a FAIL in my own flickr account, which was hard because I only have like three pictures and one of them is of a chinchilla I would name Bobby Flay. I captioned, clicked and submitted! What do we think? Not doing it for you?



I took this photo when I was subbing for an AP/remedial English class at Noble High School when I first returned to the OK. For realz.

a-hem

I have a big announcement to make. This is embarrassing, but is required as part of, you guessed it, a 12 step program for AA*. Here goes.

I DO NOT HAVE AN iPHONE.

*Apple Anonymous, obvs.

It's Friday, I'm in Love

with the anniversary of this blog (but seriously, only because no one else is and I have to, it's contractual). SPOILER ALERT: this has the potential to turn into a sapfest. Either get out now or, yeah, just click the little x. But before you do, as this is my blog, I can use it for evil as well as good. In the words of Bobby Brown, it's my prerogative.

Last year was an extraordinarily bad year. I mean, mega shitteous. Coupla things: 1. tragically dumped by high school boyfriend of seven years/love of life (so I thought), 2. beloved dog Zealand stolen (and, unless you've raised a dog from a puppy, it's really hard to describe just how absolutely heartbreaking this was) as a result of my dumping, 3. sold myself out of gainful employment (long story), 4. moved back to Oklahoma from the remains of my seemingly happy life in Northampton, MA. I know people have been through worse, yes, but this was all so completely unexpected and expected. Anyway. Shitty. I started this blog while I was tinkering with spreadsheets at good ol' Yankee Candle as a way to kind of creatively get through this crappiness. A year later, it's strange to peruse the archives to see who I was and think about where I am now. Also, this is a good test to see if I know my months.

A year in the Blythe: a photographic and postographic retrospective.

September

I picked apples.

October

I went to a Halloween party in a barn. It was very New England. I do love Fall in New England. Something I already miss.

November

I met Augusten Borroughs.

December

I went home to the OK for Christmas. While Christmas is about family to most, to me it is about gifts. Too bad for me.

January

I decided to move home. Yup. That's all I'm gonna say about that. Oh, except that before I left, Party Cat (featured in November) got tape stuck in her ass.

(I suggest clicking to enlarge.)

February

I will be single forever! And ever! and ever!

March

I loved substitute teaching middle schoolers in Noble, OK. No, really. I actually did.

April

I got all nostalgic and shit.

May

Shain and I continue our tempestuous relationship.

June

I celebrated my the one year anniversary of my dumpage. Sometimes I can't believe I made it. Sometimes I can't believe I stayed with that kid for so long. Bygones! Also, L and I hung out a lot. This is when I starting thinking I would someday ask her to be my hetero life mate. This is also one of the best perks of moving home.

July

I got HPV(II).

August

I got old.

And now, well, looking back, it seems pretty mundane, but trust me. It was. Ok, seriously? It was a fucking awful year, but I think things are on the upswing. I really do. Well, as long as OU continues to dominate.

The one where I post sporadically and poorly at best.

Hey there. Long time, no write. Lame. Let me start over.

Hi. Sorry I didn't call. I lost your number and I've been really "busy" with "work" and "stuff." So, be prepared for a barrage of posts chronicling the craptastic life of Blythe. For all four(4) of you who are still reading. Three comments is the new 24!