Baby I'm Back.

It’s Wednesday April 18, 2012. Notice the last time I posted was exactly one year ago today.

Happy One year anniversary of no post updates!!

The time has come to vanish those days of no satire writing and begin to tell you about my life in the big D. For those of you unfamiliar with this very intellectual and scientific terminology…the D stands for Dallas. And as in Dallas I mean Texas.  Howdy!

This is where I call home and have called home since August 2011. Yup. Just a year ago I was writing about days of no sleep and brain storming ways to keep a “normal” social life while regaining sanity due to my days and nights spent in the studio.  I now bring you a slightly less tired, smidge bit mature (at least from 8-5), and incredibly still single Anna with adventures ahead that will significantly make up for my year of neglect to you.

So…I know you are all so interested as to what I am doing in Dallas. Well, it has NOTHING to do with anything I have remotely EVER talked about nor studied.  I work for a wonderful company with a witty surrounding in a high-rise in downtown Dallas. I am in Sales and advertising and golly gee….I love it. But that’s all for the serious work talk…ah.

You can laugh now.

Stay tuned.

All my love and laughs,
ae

shout. out. loud.

I have a confession that I must get off my chest.  You can call it an addiction, you can call it infatuation, or perhaps a little crazy; however, I call it jealousy. Over Christmas break, my entourage, which included 4 of my gal pals, and I flew to the one and only New York City.

Hold on to your britches readers, the next four NYC posts will transform your mind, body, and soul into a full believer of white powdered substances and have you believing that you and lady liberty have an incanting resemblance of each other. Don’t turn green with envy that you didn’t jump on board this extravaganza just yet….what happened this trip, none of us saw coming. But before I can relish the happenings of this NYC trip of a lifetime, I must first introduce you to the characters.

It hit us like the stench of the subway in China Town, our first New York morning minute.  Snuggled up in the quaint hotel beds, the first breath of the previous night’s apple martini to break the honking cab horns and street commotion was Pinky, signaling for a roll call. Pinky, our beautiful Indian princess and closest thing to culture we had in our travel group, shot up out of the bed, whipped her hair back and forth, and said southerly slow “pr-e-se-nt”. The sound that escaped her mouth was not Pinky’s normal southern chime. Mugged and left for the pigeons, her vocal cords were a force to be reckoned with, resembling a cross between an ESPN sports caster and the 3rd and 45th jazz player. The previous night Pinky’s voice worked every room she entered, signaling to the local boys to sing like the piano man for her grace and charm. She found herself that night taking a stroll in Samantha’s shoes, embracing every stitch of Christian Louboutin thread, weaving her hot red sole into all the gentlemen’s hearts.

A few minutes past and everyone rolled back into their mattress indentions to hear a faint “present” coming from the bathroom.
        Huh? Head slanted. Eyes squinted. Jaws dropped.
The sluggish moan, echoed off the bathroom walls and onto our deconstructed faces. Little did we know we were in the presence of royalty.  The queen herself was tucked behind her castle wall curtains, lounging in her throne, enjoying her private suite...tub, snuggled up to her stunning vintage, scalp to heal fur vest. Spike. The only person in the world who has the power of Moses. With feet shoulder length apart, the crowded NYC streets parted ways perfectly around the perimeter of her fluffy fur vest, to clear a straight path to move through. All because her sinfully obsessed love for spotting trends and finding deals takes on roadrunner characteristics, exuberating clouds of smoke behind her, leaving only one thing on everyone’s mind: who let the dog out?

The queen had spoken, and the room began to shake with the thunder of our hotel room door slamming shut. We had an addict in out group. Quest. That morning, Quest fled like taxi cabs in search of a hand in the air, toward her nearest corner.

A country girl, raised on the farm learning to drive a tractor and shoot a gun before the age of 10 goes beyond the stereotypical southern sweetheart. Her obsession with the wild city of NYC came at every corner this trip. Whenever in the absence of Quest we knew we could locate her on the corner. Four bucks. That's all she costs. Simple. Easy. And quite the catch. Every corner would indulge in her southern charm at least twice a day. Starbucks. Being the supportive traveling companions, we encouraged our friend in her growing relationship with her time spent at her corner each morning.  She clinched her venti sized cup, filled with driven navigational talent, that routed our destiny through the squared streets of the island with star power that even  google earth couldn't map quest. Her guiding north star qualities left no travelor behind, as we wished upon the NYC lights for her guiding light each night.

Her light shined on all of us that morning to get out of bed and reach for the stars, for it was a beautiful 32 degrees in the city that never sleeps. Last to open her big baby blue eyes was Pesto. Still green from the night before and discovering her morning beauty, Pesto, rolled over on to a sour patch kids tiff with what lied ahead of her that trip. Her love for life, trying new things, and taking party planning anuchative,  proved to us all in a later night, dont mess with the shorty in stilettos. Pesto had a special spunk about her no one could deny. Maybe it was her inevitable ability to fall to the ground for fun or her sick sense to fit perfectly into the biggest little city in the world at such short height. Pesto's self discovery and to be frank, our discovery of Pesto, alarmed all Italian boys to migrate toward her luscious looks and I'm single, hard to get qualities. She actually needs no further introduction in this post...as she has a post dedicated to the sweet, saucy flavor she stirred into the NYC wintery mix new years eve.

Open up that sence of humor lingering in your satire deprived sole and into the trip of our lifetime.

A Shore Chance of Snow.

Hello Reader.  I would like to start off by apologizing for my terrible behavior and lack of attention to you over Christmas break.  After an eventful trip to see lady liberty in NYC I planned on blogging, however I have been recovering from PTPD. Post Traumatic Plane Disorder. Yes, I am taking elaborate precautions and joining forces with Charlie Sheen to insure sky high results and a full recovery.  Justin Bieber is keeping me company with a large Papa John’s pizza to provide me with comfort and stability. NeverSayNever.   

The past couple days have been a Dennis the Menus dream of snow days; providing me with the opportunity to embrace my inner child by frolicking in the snow.  However, my inner child is still recovering from PTPD and came to the conclusion to collect $200 to pass go and embrace my inner couch potato, topped with a triple serving of graduation anxiety. From one problem to another, this week I’m rolling with my homies Ellen, The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, and the cast of Jersey Shore.  Thank goodness I didn’t leave my couch and miss anything, because reality television left me with many wise words to live by that even Oprah can’t OWN up to. 

The super bowl is on Sunday and Ellen’s super bowl episode showed off Channing Tatum’s best assets, which resulted in me watching Step Up an embarrassing 3 times that afternoon.

On the RHWBH, the women got candid and “real” during a question and bitch session.  Their smooth as a baby’s bottom skin glowed motionless as they reexamined their caddy cat fights of the season.  From Kelsey Grammars’ Ex-Wife, who smirked her redesigned lips when told she was delusional, to child star little Mrs. Kimmy who cries weeee weeee weeee all the way home until she gets her way, this episode possess award winning qualities. Pinky promise Kim will end up on child stars gone bad one day. Soon.  My favorites are Kyle, Liza, and Jiggy, which is Lisa’s adorable four legged daughter/sidekick (Dog). Since Cedrick, Lisa’s house guest, has official moved out I would be more than happy to fill his space and move in. Living in Liza’s house would be a dream come true.  Turn on some Luda, slip into a pair of super soft socks and clear the hallways friends because it’s time for an ultimate sock sliding extravaganza.  I could pick a new hallway everyday for a month and still not retrace my super fly sliddin moves.

Come Thursday around 5:00 p.m. I am preparing myself for the hour of eye open shenanigans that the thirsty Thursday episode of Jersey Shore sprays at me.  This cultural experience got me wondering if it rained on Snookie after a spray tan, would she start spotting like a Dalmatian. On all fours she would resemble the very rare and limited addition Mexican breed Dalmatian. Grab a leash Angelina. I also prepare myself for the non-sanitary feeling I get because they look like they stepped out of an inferno, puffed their hair, and slopped on last nights shacker t-shirt.  Snookie is so tan, that when the sun goes down she disappears because she blends in with the dark. Michael Jackson wanted to be like Eminem, Snookie wants to be like Chewy from Chelsea Lately.

We all have our aspirations.

Blissful Babies.

Thanksgiving. Let’s reminisce.
It’s a holiday that has been taken over by overactive appetites, instructing us to race to a food line dominated by a collection of jello-based casseroles.  If you consumed the amount of food you did at thanksgiving every day, not only would it be embarrassing, but you would be living on a prayer that your heart wouldn’t attack you. It is the only day pigging out to seconds and thirds is socially acceptable and in my family encouraged.

Each Thanksgiving my family and I arrive just on time for lunch to blankly glace at new faces, bow our heads, and say grace.  I’m not sure if my blank stare is because I don’t know who the new faces are or if it’s because they don’t know who I am. I am always blinded by what the turkey will bring in each year. However, my Granna always frantically greets me upon our perfect timing, says hi, and grabs the casserole I claim to have fixed up.  No one actually cares about how you are or what you have been doing when your late, the only thing on their mind is the food you brought, its placeholder in the food line, and how satisfying an overly proportioned sum of it will end up on their plate.  So when I jumped in the line of hungry savages’ my eyes were on the prize…the macaroni and cheese my sister made. Our food line is about as energetic as a senior citizen mixer: no talking, strictly mones and the occasional clearing of the throat which means enough already, leave some for me.

Before I made it to the end of the food line I had already scooped up seconds and claimed the first piece of homemade chocolate pie covered in a fluffy moraine. My stomach slowly formed a food baby and then grew into food twins by the end of my plates. Yes, it’s plural.  The elastic pants I bought last year at Forever 21 sure did come in handy today. Nice planning on my part. The three hours I spend with my extended farming family each year for thanksgiving is always rewarding and always exceeds my expectations.  Not only did I leave with a to-go container of chocolate pie but I got a colossal size serving of pasta salad to take away with me.  Home is where the heart is, but my heart was in heaven eating those leftovers that night.  Embarrassing.

That weekend a friend of mine brought something to my attention.  Apparently, you can receive personal attention when eating large amounts of food at a tailgate before a  football game. This game is a Thanksgiving tailgating tradition.  I don’t think thanksgiving for Arkansas fans should come around once a year, but every Saturday during the football season. So, since this game falls during Thanksgiving break I figured I would honor it by consuming a thanksgiving serving.  My friend approached me that night and said “Anna, we have a confession. For a girl of your size your sure do eat alot”… I laughed, perspirated, and then asked myself if this was reality while he proceeded to tell me what I ate in a list form, which I will spare yall. The conversation went something of that nature which made me go a little foggie after I realized someone had just named off everything I had eaten that day.  It’s not like I was shoveling it into my face, stuffing chips in my bra, or making friends with the tailgating neighbors for their tasty chicken and veggie kabobs right off the grill with yummy spices.  Nope, definitely wouldn’t do such a sin.

So turkey or no turkey, celebrating with wonderful company like my extended relatives or tailgating neighbor Jerman Taylor is something to be thankful for.  I am also thankful for my tasky skinny bitch drinks around the holidays.  And since the Victory Secret Fashion show is conveniently right in the middle of the holidays, I wil be enjoying one tonight with my food babies.



All my love and laughs,

AE

a royal flush.

The events of last week were devastating and one in particular will change my life forever. So I’m going to make this short and sweet, using this post to vent. When I am finished I will never look back again. Therapeutic.

It’s official. I can stop pretending to have a British accent, stop practicing my wave from the car to screaming adoring fans, and stop acting intellectual by filling my conversations with fortune cookie sayings. Last week, my life took an unexpected turn for the worst.  I took myself to my room with a bowl of ice cream and refused to let reality set in; I am not going to marry Prince William.  Last week my Mom told me she wished I would date more…well Mom, I have been trying to date Prince William for the past 22 years. 

It took a solid 72 hours for my brain to comprehend this so called “royal” engagement. Yes people, somewhere in my body I was convinced that it would be me marrying Prince William, with my face on my own memorabilia China collection. My face could grace your presence at my favorite time of the day…dinner time. Special.

However, I never wanted to be Queen Elizabeth. I wanted to be Anna Elizabeth, The Wife of Prince William. This way England could rest at night knowing that I was not making any political decisions.  So, technically, if Kate Middleton wants to share her role, she can take the Queen's title and I will happily accept the responsibilities of the wifey side: going to social events, accepting beautiful dresses from fabulous designers, and of course hosting club openings and social gatherings. That’s my cup of tea.

Sassy Logistics.

For those of you who do not personally know me, I am an interior design student who 75% of the time possesses the qualities of a zombie.  My passion for design comes alive at the black of night and pulls me into my studio work; thus, resulting in vampire-like characteristics and days of no sleep.  It’s imperative that I tell you how entertaining it is to be delirious.

I swung hard, hitting three all nighters last week to work on my Pre-Design document.  After 3 restless nights, my sanity level went right down the hole with Alice in Wonderland.  So, logically, a night out on the town was the spoon full of sugar I was craving.  I spent Thursday and Friday night embracing a bottle of my favorite vino and indulged in dilusions of sleep. Come Saturday morning, I was starring into the back of my eye lids, fabricating excuses to keep me in bed and not studio. 1) Obama is president 2) I’m not Mark Zuckerberg 3) PF Changs doesn’t deliver and 4) the Asians aren’t at the library yet. Needless to say, I slept all day.

I spent my Saturday night solo with my pre-design document, listening to drunken behavior outside my loft apartment, which looks over the bar scene of town.  Screeching voices yelling “I just want Jimmy John's” or a guy chuckling at his friend who just face planted into something that appears to be amusing, truly makes my life more satisfying to know that for one night…I’m not “that” girl. Bet you didn’t get a blocked phone call Saturday night did you?  Self. Control.

Anyway, it quickly became a late night when I realized it was 6 a.m. and time for a break.  I don’t recall my brain instructing my fingers to type www.facebook.com, but before I knew it I was jumping into my Barbie dream world of online socializing. I began facebooking (dictionary debut coming soon) with a Landscape architecture buddy about how ridiculous it is that we torture ourselves into a state of mind that doesn’t even recognize the difference between Sarah Palin and Jackie O: two women recognized for standing up and having a voice. One is famous for her classic glamour and positive influence while the other is famous for her excessive vocal media attention, causing Alaskans to drink more heavily, resulting in an increase in alcoholic problems statewide in 2006.  All I hear when you talk are nails on a chalk board.  You sport cute specs, so surely they have something to fix that nose in Alaskaaaaaaa. 

 Saturday night ended early with a big bang for your buck studio marathon that continued into Sunday. Sunday’s highlights are smushed in with today’s and now I find myself in studio, but taking a break to write this.  Yes. My priorities are slowly getting in check as the herbal funk of coffee, redbull, and diet coke breath, creates a breathtaking fragrance that even Wet Seal would put on clearance.  And while the concept of dropping out of school to join the fabulous life of paparazzi sounds more promising every second, being delirious is only temporary…at least until next Sunday.

Today in studio 7, I turned in my Pre-Design Document for my senior project. I will blog soon and explain what I have chosen to design.  In the past, several students have woken up on Christmas morning with a letter saying “Merry Christmas and I’m sorry but you failed studio 7…see you next year. Love your caring teacher.”   What’s it going to take for that letter to NOT be delivered, Santa? All I want is my name engraved on the sidewalk. Geez.

The anticipation of graduation and my name being carved on the side walk along side other graduates of the University of Arkansas is going to be surreal moment for me and my whole family.  However Mr. Chancellor, I am starting to get anxiety that sidewalk space will run out inches before my name. It’s not the yellow brick road Toto…it’s going to stop and I better have a spot. Between you, me, and the 2 other people that actually read this blog, one being my mom, and the other my only fan follower, who wishes to remain nameless, I would like to propose a solution to this problem.  Continuing the names of graduates down Dickson Avenue would actually make more sense than putting them on a sidewalk that runs through campus.  A majority of our students, me not being one of them, spend more time on Dickson in their 4-8 years here then actually on the non-smoking perimeter of campus.  Just saying.

As I think about leaving, my heart will always belong to my home boy Dickson.

Hell No H2O

It’s a tradition every month that my pledge class gets together at someone’s house for supper club and for a charming evening with friends.  We try to be adults about it, but let’s face it…when we get together we leave dinner stumbling, couragously texting, and screaming about how great of a pal JoBelle has been through the years.  Needless to say, I’m never disappointed.  After dinner is Dickson. Watch out.  It’s similar to the running of the bulls...but with heels and vodka.  Anyway, tragically the downfall is I must bring a food dish.  I am usually the designated Skinny Bitch drink-maker but, its thanksgiving so I’m trying to be classy. 

For those of you who have not had the opportunity to grace my presence in the kitchen, well, it’s like watching boys put on Chap Stick: awkward but impressive.  Yes, I blew up my microwave recently because I didn’t add water to the pasta.  Stupid “Just add water” instructions should be in bold print, light up, and on special delirious cooking occasions have a vocal reminder saying "H2O in the bowl!" Healthy choice you owe Mark and Bev $50 for the replacement microwave, me $25 for destroying my microwave cooking confidence, and my roommates a week of nostril depression and lack of smelling back.  Our apartment smelled like burnt Houston Nutt: ugly and dull.  So when looking for a hubby, I guess I should move Chase Crawford look-a-like to number 2 and Culinary Chef to the top of my check list. That’s a piece of work. 

The theme for this Friday’s supper club is Thanksgiving food.  My favorite holiday, however, I’m better at eating the food then actually preparing it.  I would never ask someone to try my food in the fear of a swirly. So what’s it going to be friends? Sam’s Club, Ricks Bakery, or perhaps some Chili’s cheese dip and salsa.  I’m officially making it a thanksgiving fiesta. The cheese dip and salsa are Thanksgiving colors so in the word of Tim Gunn, “Make It Work”.

Now if only I looked like Heidi Klum.