A Field Guide to a Charmed Life

I love this.

Except I would never burn the roast.

(Found on Matchbook Magazine's website)

Pardon Moi

History was made on Trim last week, when an "anonymous" reader posted my very first bad comment. In a haste I deleted it, but thankfully not before snapping a screen shot of Negative Nancy's opinion. Instead of ignoring the matter, I decided the best way to address the situation is head on.

Dear Anonymous,

Thank you for identifying that I have female reproductive parts. This is indeed accurate. However, I am not imature (or did you mean to say immature?), simply opinionated. Here's the deal, this happens to be my personal blog. And while I acknowledge the blog is open to the public, the things I say here still get to reign as truth... if only in this minuscule fraction of the entire blogosphere. Second, none of my critiques hit a celebrity on a personal level... except for maybe Mariah (can you blame me?). I agree that Ms. Weaver is quite a classy lady. She simply fell prey to a bad team of stylists on this particular evening.

I stand by my statement, and encourage you to find better things to do with your time than post misspelled comments on blogs you don't enjoy reading. If I could give you a piece of advice, it's never classy to cuss in print, even if your slang comes from the UK.

And for the record, I still don't like Avatar.

Aging

I'm having a hard time coming to terms with the reality of the older I get, the more complicated my daily maintenance becomes. Now instead of just moisturizing after washing my face, I need a night cream, eye cream, hand cream, and neck cream. My hair requires preventative sprays and treatments to keep the color and texture. I have teeth bleaching trays, exfoliators, scrubs, masks, and detox teas. I even use one of those daily pill reminders to keep track of all my vitamins. My joints are starting to hurt, which requires additional stretches, and my feet don't tolerate 4 inch heels as long as they used to.

And it's only going to get worse as the years progress.

Just for one day I'd like to be the nineteen year old who could roll out of bed, throw on a pair of stilettos and head out the door.