Work Hard, Dress Smart.

I don't normally post on Thursdays, but today was a pretty good day, so why not? I'm window shopping on Amazon, which is something I usually reserve for purses, shoes, and watches, but today is different. Today I am totally looking at power suits. Yes, you read that right, I am looking at all things business professional. After years of working in the finance realm, I enjoy a pair of good quality, reasonably priced slacks, and the hunt is always challenging finding said slacks.

When I was a little girl growing up in the 90's, everything was all about girl power (thank you Spice Girls), so obviously I imagined myself as some big shot businesswoman with a corner office, a $200 haircut, and a wardrobe so sharp it would make you scream "owe!" when I walked by. This was also partly influenced by my mother who was a big shot businesswoman. Except, back then, I saw myself doing something with writing or music, and my mom worked for a rather successful trucking company (more on that later, because there is a hilarious story to go along with power clothing) so I was SO not going that route because it sounded boring. Anywho, I assumed by the time I was 25 I'd be a record label executive on Music Row, or an editor at some publishing firm in New York. And yet, here I sit, 25 years old, in a rocking arm chair I inherited from my grandmother, on my day off from my low man on the totem pole job, one town away from the one I grew up in, flat broke, and writing a blog on the iPad I could only afford because its cost was rolled into my tuition at the college I dropped out of.

Sounds depressing, right? Well you're wrong. Yeah, so I'm not where I assumed I'd be. But I didn't actually make the plans to get there when I was a kid. Now that I'm older, and less naïve, I realize being a top dog in any company at 25 years old is pretty freakin' rare, and takes so much more time and dedication than I had to give until recently. Also, those young professionals who did make it to the top early probably devoted their hard earned high school job cash to their wardrobe, and I didn't. I spent mine on cheap whiskey and take out, and one fire red designer handbag (That bag was life. I wish I still had it.)

I know you're wondering about that last sentence, hopefully not about the whiskey and take out, or the handbag part, trust me my mother was kept in the dark about those shenanigans, but seriously dressing the part is crucial. I went to high school with a kid we all swore would be president some day. This kid was hardly ever seen in anything but nicely pressed oxfords and creased jeans. Guess what, that guy turned out to be pretty darn successful as an adult. Why? Well he worked really hard, and he dressed very smart.

I watched a Ted Talk once about power posing and its impact on your confidence. Basically the speaker, Amy Cuddy, found through a study that standing in positions that symbolized power, you could increase your self confidence a little. Totally makes sense right? Well I wondered if the same went for dressing well, and I conducted my own little experiment through out my many interviews I've had in the last few months. And it works. I felt like I looked like I owned/belonged/was perfect for whatever position I was interviewing for, which made me more confident in my abilities, and made my interviews go as smooth as silk. Clearly I didn't get any of those jobs, but I did get recognition on my professionalism/humor, and my attire more than once. All of that inflated my already rather large ego to XXXL, and I have had even better interviews since. Dressing smarter also made me feel more comfortable with myself in front of total strangers who wanted to know every little detail about my work history, and a few details about my blog.

So I'm assuming there is a lot to be said about a person who dresses for the job all the time, and I'm wondering if I should start stocking up on power suits to aid in my efforts to the top. Which brings us back full circle to my window shopping on Amazon. My only problem is, who has the cash to drop on a slick suit, and then pay to get it altered? I certainly don't...not yet at least.

The Great PSL

It's finally Fall. Which means it's basically Halloween. Which means I'm going broke buying all the Disney Channel Halloween movies on Amazon because I HAVE to watch Halloweentown everyday and I don't have satellite anymore. Halloween is my second favorite season and holiday (Yes, Halloween is a season. Don't try to convince me otherwise). In celebration of the second most wonderful time of the year, I had my first ever Pumpkin Spice Latte yesterday. I know I'm late to the game. But cut me some slack. I like hot tea, Red Bull, and actual coffee. So steamed milk with sugary syrup was not anywhere on my radar. However, I've been embracing my inner basic white girl lately, so I gave it a shot. *haha espresso pun*

Anyway, we happened to be driving by a restaurant chain that recently launched their take on this widely popular drink, and I thought why the hell not? 

At first I wasn't terribly disappointed. It was smooth, not too hot, and had whipped cream on the top. But the more I drank of this concoction, the more I wondered what all the hype was about.

First of all, the price of a small cup is equivalent to the price of a healthy human kidney on the black market. B, it doesn't taste even remotely like pumpkin, or the spice used to jazz up pumpkin purée for pumpkin pie. Lastly, there isn't enough caffeine in it to support my habit. 

I guess I just can't taste what is so appealing to folks around the world that they would set count downs on their phones and camp out in front of Starbucks, waiting to grab the first few brews of the season. Is this just some grand marketing scheme created by the coffee industry/Starbucks? I mean they have swindled me out of a good $21ish dollars in the last couple of months with their Coconut Milk Macchiato, which is really just iced coffee poured over coconut milk, so it is reasonable that this PSL craze is all just a ploy to get us to spend our hard earned dollars on subpar coffee drinks.

While I will never understand the hype, there is clearly a reason why people all over the world flock to the Great Pumpkin Spice Latte like it is a saving grace in the fall. I'm going to get weird here and blame it on subliminal messaging, probably placed in all those Halloweentown sequels that I've been watching.

Ahh, Sunday Morning.

Good morning, Dear Reader. It's a lovely Sunday, AND I FINALLY HAVE A DAY OFF FROM WORK!!! I was even able to sleep past my typical 4:45am wake up call, without the help of a sleep aide. I don't know if you can hear it but, there are angels singing songs of rejoice in my honor. It is glorious.

You know what isn't glorious, though? Sleeping next to your toddler.

Per her usual routine, Robbie woke up at 5am, got in our bed, and we all tried to rest peacefully. And at first we managed this. But then I started dreaming about the book I've been reading. (Gary L. Stewart's account of trying to find his birth father, and discovering his father was the Zodiac Killer. Super creepy, but I can't put it down.) Being that I am quite the sissy and couldn't return to sleep, I laid beside my sleeping toddler, quietly, when out of nowhere, the smelliest of smelly toddler feet smacked me right in the face.

Unsure of what to do, for fear I might awaken my child, I just suffered and suffocated under her toes and foot stank. It was awful. But it gets worse. Soon I found my face being crushed by BOTH of her stinky feet. Unable to stand the stench anymore, I rolled over to face away from her. At last I could breathe, and I was beginning to tire, so I decided to go back to sleep.

I'm certain I was starting to snore about the time the kicking to my back began, so I am sure I deserved that. But what came next was unjust. In my half asleep haze, I rolled back over believing I would cuddle with my sweet sleeping baby. But there were no cuddles to be had. Oh no. In place of the cuddles that should have been, my child gave me the gift of possible decapitation. She slashed her arms through the air, coming down directly on my windpipe. Still in fear of waking of the child, I tried to cough and sputter in to the blanket. My attempts were spurned by my child's head butting straight in to my chest. Such action surely left a bruise on my sternum. In my head I screamed in pain, but only bit my lip to keep from crying out and awakening the storm that is my offspring.

Blankets and pillows began to fly as my little darling pelted me with anything that was within her am's reach, and I began to realize that the entire time I believed my child was sleeping wildly, she was in fact very much awake.

I was hurt and insulted by her mischievous behavior, but I was unwilling to get out of my warm bed at the time, so I continued pretending to sleep. It was not long before I was found out, and demands for cereal and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse began. Defeated and battered, I limped into the living room to provide the solution to my child's demands and begin typing this for you, Dear Reader. In the event that I should pass away due to my injuries, or am suffocated by my toddler's beloved blankie at nap time, please remember me as I always was, dramatic, sarcastic, and over caffeinated.