Boy, Oh Boy

Last night whilst on my favorite piece of cardio equipment, I was feasting my Baby Greens on the latest issue of Glamour (my substitute for subscribing to the now-defunct Domino one week prior to its closing). One of my favorite celebrities is Taylor Swift. I really think we could be friends, and I was delighted to see her featured on the cover looking cute, classy, sassy and beautiful (squinty-ish eyes and all). Her feature was focused on all-things denim, and when I got to this look, I fell in love.


I have a lovely pair of denim bermudas from Gap that are fine, but they are close fitting to my thighs and upper knees, and while they are decently flattering, I knew in my heart I needed a pair slouchy, loose, relaxed jorts (in the lovely sense) to call my own.

Living on a shoestring budget I've learned to adapt and overcome when pursuing many objects of my desire, and this look was no exception. I decided that the best course of action would be to find a pair of relaxed-fit men's jeans, and cut, distress, roll and sew them in place to make my own Swift ensemble.

I pranced into my friendly, neighborhood Target and approached the dressing room with 8 different pairs of male jeans to try on.

When the sales woman saw what I was bringing in she said, "Those are boys' jeans."
"Yes, I know," I replied pleasantly.
"Why you tryin' dem on? They're not for girls."
"Because I want to buy some," came my cheerfully condescending reply.
"But those are for boys," came the unsurprising answer.
"Yes, I know, and they're for me too."

Unimpressed, she let me into a fitting room, and when I returned to her the seven pairs that didn't work and proudly clutched the winning pair she eyed me judgementally and rolled her eyes, probably remembering a time when women looked like ladies, and so on and so forth.

Regardless of that minor obstacle, I practically skipped to the register, where my total amounted to $6.48. I will document the transformation and hope that the mental image for the final product matches the end result.

True Story Tuesday - Bunnies & Babies

I have Lobster to thank for refreshing my memory about this little nugget. How I could have forgotten is truly beyond me.

After quitting my sorority, I spent the rest of the semester (about 2 more months) living in the house (awkward much?) with the delightful Southern Sunshine. When my stint was over, I moved into the apartment beneath Lobster's. My two new roommates were utter strangers, but were sweet and nice and all around good roommates. Several days after moving in, I returned home to an empty house to find a rabbit hippity hopping around the apartment. We lived on the bottom floor, so we were no strangers to the odd bug or somesuch making its way into our abode, but I thought the rabbit a bit odd. Hours passed until Roommate A arrived home, shrieking, "Buster! How did you get out???" Apparently Buster was her pet bunny that lived atop her dresser (and parttime roaming the apartment). A nice rabbit he certainly was, but I didn't have any extreme emotional attachment to him. We bonded quickly, though, when my roommate disappeared for several weeks leaving Buster Boy with no food, water, etc. It became my sole purpose to keep him alive. When she finally returned and found Buster safe and sound, she didn't thank me, question who had fed him or anything. Strange, I thought, but the weirdest was yet to come.

I had been there for a few months, and while we lived our lives very differently, I really had no complaints about our arrangements; however, one day I came home from the gym to find both my roommates home with a friend. All were sitting on the floor in the living room playing with a precious baby. "Polka Dots!" Roommate B cried when she saw me, "This is Trixie LaRue and her baby. They're going to be living with us for a few weeks." Ummmmmm, what??? I love babies, and I'm certainly open to letting friends visit for weekends, etc, but having a mom and tiny baby LIVE with me? Notsomuch. As it happened, though, mother and baby did stay with us... complete with bottles crowding the sink, diapers in the trashcan, crying all night and spit up on our carpet. When I kindly inquired about the living situation, Roommate B informed me matter-of-factly, "Well, she's between apartments right now. Her boyfriend is paying for her to have a personal trainer, so she can get in shape, then she'll move to Greensboro to be a stripper." Ooooh, in that case, no problem. ?!?!?

Roaming rabbits and Striving Strippers? I just don't understand people.

1 Winner and 1 Notsomuch

I've been remiss not to announce the winner of my Sew Your Own giveaway. Using Random.org, we have our winner. Drumroll please... Jill at Peeptoe Pumps & Pearls! Jill, email me at polkadotsandproteinbars{at}gmail{dot}com, so we can discuss making your apron or sundress.

So there's our fabulous winner. Now for the Notsomuches. I have been reading as blog after blog extols the liquid goodness of Sonic's Diet Cherry Limeade. Call it peer pressure, curiosity, conforming or a search to quench my thirst, but I decided to try it. We have multiple Sonics in town, but I had never been to one. Until yesterday.

Grabbing Baby Sis (did you forget about her? She's dropped off the face of the blog, I know), I headed first to Zaxby's to tame my zzzzzzzzzzzzzalad craving (oh yeah, I'm looking at you Zouthern Zunshine). Because apparently Sunday is all about walking on the wild side, I opted to forgo my regularly scheduled grilled chicken house zalad (minus the cucumbers and tomatoes, with Light Ranch, pleaze) and chose the Blue Zalad Buffaloed (with Light Ranch instead of Bleu Cheese, natch).

Now, I was beyond excited to dig into this zalad, that is, until I actually did. I've had it on several occassions, and it's delish, but apparently the Zunday night crew was feeling fiesty and drenched my zalad in XXX Habanero Heat sauce. I'm not wimp to spicy foods - my mom's Louisiana-born, after all - but my mouth was in flames... I'm talking sweaty, red face (as per usual, really), crying, etc. I pushed the plate away, disappointed and in pain. Or so I thought. The pain in my mouth was N-O-T-H-I-N-G compared to the pain that quickly hit my chest. Immediate Onset Heartburn? Perhaps. I'm not sure. All I know is that several tiny people, wielding machetes were stabbing me repeatedly in the chest. I was gasping for air and trying not to laugh, move, cough, or breathe while Little Ziz calmly finished her much tamer zalad. Ever the compassionate zibling, Sis laughed at my ordeal, noted that I sounded like I was in labor and inquired whether I was still up for a Sonic run to cap our evening of torture fun and bonding.

Always a trooper, I agreed, certain that the chilly goodness would ease my pain. When we arrived at the drive-in window, I could barely feel the chest blades thanks in part to my overshadowing excitement. With the precision of synchronized swimmers, Sis and I plunged our straws into the icy depths and took a sip. Aaaannnddd... that's it? I mean, really? It wasn't bad, but it was just... off. Too much tang, not enough sweet? Overall the experience was more than a little underwhelming, I must say. Maybe my expectations were too high. Maybe I shouldn't have put earth-shattering standards on a drink. From Sonic. In Indian Trail, NC. Whatever the reason, I was disappointed. I threw the drink away while it was still half-full (or half-empty, however you choose to see).

In conclusion:
- My heart did, in fact, stop dying.
- I will never again trust the workers at Zaxby's on Monroe Rd.
- While I still love the Sonic commercials, I will only admire them from afar.
- Diet Cherry Limeades don't live up to the hype. My tastebuds said so.
- If you think you may be near death, make sure to have my sister with you - she will absolutely not overreact, and will remain robotically calm. She will also laugh at you and give you strange looks as you hyperventilate.
- She may also call you a drama queen.

Clowning Around

I was going to save this for True Story Tuesday, but it was just too good.

Earlier this week I was driving down 485 in Charlotte, when I passed a car. Ah, yes, that does happen often in this city, but this was no ordinary '88 Corolla with rusted paint and no hub caps. In fact, this car was being driven and passengered by 4 full made-up clowns. On a weekday. What?!

So. Many. Things. Wrong.

Can we talk about the all sorts of wrong happening here (minus the insane abs, of course)?

Butterfingers

I've kept you out of the loop. I'm getting a roommate. She's a stranger, and she's moving in tomorrow. Actually, she's not a 100% stranger; in fact, she's good friends with one of my best friend's sisters (capiche?). Considering that I've lived alone for the last year and loved it (still have scarring from my stint with Crazy-Psycho-Roommate-From-Hell), I'm not exactly excited about the arrangement, but my bank account is thrilled, and she's a lovely girl, so I know it will be great. Who doesn't love making new friends, right?

I decided to get serious making the upstairs presentable, oh, about an hour ago. Proper Roommate Readiness Cleanup mandated making room for her in my closet-sized bathroom, clearing out Christmas decorations residing in the extra bedroom, transporting said decor to my CRV, sweeping dust bunnies from the vacant room and removing all my clothing from the extra closet (oh, how I'll miss the extra closet).

Another thing you should know about me... I abhor, hate and loathe taking multiple trips. Why take 3, 4 or 5 trips when you can schlep it all in 1? In theory the practice sounds perfectly efficient and time-saving. 2 shattered bottles of nail polish, 18 nail polish remover soaked cotton balls, 6 broken Christmas ornaments, 1 (or more) scratch in my 1930's hardwood, 4 broken fingernails, 2 smashed toes, 1 bloody lip, 64 tears, and 27 minutes later, and everything is ready for Miss Rooms to set up house. Yes Sirree, efficiency at its finest.

How to Not Make Friends

Many of life's most important lessons I learn from observing human behavior at the gym. Recently I've learned that by committing any singular behavior or combination of the below habits, you will not make friends. In fact, most people will avoid you.

1. Treadmill Tootin' - No stranger to or 'phobe of natural body functions, I understand that it sometimes happens, but if each step is accompanied by flatulence, you will not be wildly popular. In fact you may notice a 2 machine buffer on either side of you. Your name is Tooty Nofriends.

2. Stairmaster Soprano - It has been documented on this humble blog that I have a pet peeve of people singing aloud whilst wearing headphones. The irritation has reached new heights when, while plowing through a step-climbing workout, my ears were assailed by the vocal renditions of Beyonce-wannabe. Clearly, you are not working hard enough if you can muster the oxygen capacity to sing. No one likes a Sweaty SOLOist.

3. Scented Cyclist - Perhaps it's just my hypersensitive neurosis, but it is not counterproductive to suck down an entire pack of cigarettes pre-workout? Aside from the black lung you've strapped on to accompany your iPod, the entire gym is now filled with a rancid nicotine after-burn odor. Like Tooty Nofriends, there is also a built in buffer surrounding you. Few people plan on receiving secondhand smoke with their six-pack. Oh, Blacklung Betty, my respiratory system aches for you.

4. Entitled Ellipticalist - Hey, Grabby Gloria, no, I am not finished reading that magazine. Yes, that book on the floor does belong to me. No, you may not look at it. Yes, that is my towel. Yes, I have wiped my perspiration on it. No, you cannot borrow my cell phone while you are drenched in sweat. Yes, you are a terrible machine neighbor. We may share oxygen space, but we do not share the rest of our "stuff." Please keep your hands to yourself. K? Thanks.

Boom Boom Pow

Nothing beats a long holiday weekend! Thursday night BF and I attended his hometown's Independence Day Carnival. Live music, rides, games, fresh squeezed lemonade and homemade ice cream made our evening divine. I spent Friday at the gym, helping my dad paint my bathroom, and put some finishing touches on the rest of the rooms. I also worked on some sewing projects and enjoyed the beautiful Southern sunshine.

Despite a migraine ending my night early, I spent a wonderfully festive Fourth of July at a Sundresses & Seersucker party with Boyfriend, some coworkers, and some friends. Intense rounds of cornhole ensued, and neighbors' fireworks capped the night. I finished my peacock dress in time for the festivities, and I'm thrilled with the result. Speaking of which, don't forget to enter my giveaway by Wednesday!

I just got home from a wonderfully rejuvenating day of church services, and I'm still basking in the joy that being in fellowship with passionate believers provides. God is truly with us.

Polka Dots & Protein Bars "Sew Your Own" Giveaway

It's official! Time for a giveaway!

As you know, you've all voted and chosen this fabric to win.
Because of the diversity of what you ladies want made from it, I'll leave that to the winner. Want to play? It's easy (and really blase and standard by now - sorry I'm not being more creative with the rules)!

For one entry: Leave a comment telling me what you would like made out of this fabric.
For two entries: Become a follower or let me know that you already follow.
For three entries: Leave a comment, do the following bit and blog about the giveaway on your page.

In your comments let me know how many entries you're entitled to. I'll pick a winner Wednesday, July 8. I hope you all enjoy this one! Good luck! :-)

Rule #20 - Best Before...

Before topping your Lean Cuisine Quesadilla (have you had these? SCRUMPTIOUS) with a (large) dollop of Light Sour Cream and taking a bite, it is advisable to check the date on which the container expires. If it was best before December 19, 2008, don't try to pretend that it could still be decent on June 30, 2009. It won't be. It also won't really look like sour cream. Gray is not the same color as white.

After dumping the quesadilla and opting for a peanut butter sandwich instead, you may think that the sour cream incident proves that it's time to clean out the fridge. When you stumble upon a container of pineapple juice in the back of the fridge that was best before December 9, 2008 (and absolutely essential to your Christmas punch), hold your nose when you dump it in the sink. Instead of light, fruity, tangy, delicious pineapple nectar, you will discover thick, black tar in its place. Pina colada anyone?