Fendi, Fendi, Prada

"...basic (expletive deleted) wear that (expletive deleted) so I don't even botha'."

The Cosmo. I added my own flair by attaching a pocket for my iPhone.

As Kreayshawn poetically explained in her song about the rampant ownership of designer bags, I decided to make my own. Ok, it's not a stand against consumerism - I just like to sew. Yes, I like to make handbags. I make aprons, baby dresses, and even dolls. My sewing machine is part of me and I am part of it. We complete each other.

Jon says that sewing is a gateway drug to hoarding cats. Lots of them. Naturally, he has become afraid of my new hobby. The hurricane Cyndi level mess that's created when I start to cut my patterns is kryptonite to his need for neatness. There is a reason they sew in studios and sweatshops, not kitchens.

This bag was created in a class I took is Pasadena.

The thing is, I don't really use anything I make. I parse it out as gifts or barter them at Trader Joe's when I'm low on cash. Some of the things I make are simple (at least they are now), but others take quite some time. Take bags for instance. My last one took me a week. It was a Chapter 1 bag in the sewing book that's supposed to be easy. They don't know me. If I were to actually sell these things, I'd probably charge Neiman prices because of the time and nicks they cause me.

But for some reason I finish a project, gift it away, and look for a new mountain to climb. Research and Jo-Ann, iron and cut, stitch and sew - all over again. So if one day we're at lunch and I happen to bring a bib for you, just know that it's from the heart and not a critique of your chopstick skills.

I'm Afraid Flash Will Go Blind

They grow up so fast. I am restricting his TV and internet. No more Jersey Shore for Flash.

A Gathering Storm

His name is Flash. In this picture, he is sleeping. Puppies look so peaceful and innocent when they are asleep. If you dig deeper, there is more going on here. I like to think that he's recharging, saving potential energy to be later unleashed as a kinetic firestorm. In his little brain, there is plotting going on. He is asking himself, "How can I be the most disruptive little ball of cuteness this planet has ever seen?" Most of the time - mission accomplished.

This is not to say I don't love almost every minute spent with him. His little face stops traffic better than a tire changing on the 405. Literally. I had somebody pull over in their car just to take a picture with him. He takes more pictures than a Kardashian. We cannot take five steps in a Petco without drawing a crowd. Fathers bring their daughters over to pet him. Jon says he must be the best wingman ever - whatever that means.

I sorta knew the attention he would bring. Before, when we'd see a bullie on the street, we'd pet it and talk to the owners. Luckily, bullie owners are nice and not meatheads at all. What I wasn't prepared for is the attention he'd need from us. The little bugger barks for our attention all the time. We've managed to let him know that the tactic doesn't work, but every once in a while he'd test it out again - just to make sure.

Potty training means three hour rotations at night to let him out of his crate. At 11 weeks, he's quite good at it except for two instances: when the pad is too far for him to bother and when we're not home. When we're not home to watch, sometimes he just says, "screw this pad nonsense, this corner right here looks good." At least he's penned up so it not like an Easter egg hunt for the humans.

There are other things he does that I personally would not do, like chew on furniture or step on my poop. Although I underestimated the work of raising a puppy, I also underestimated how adorable his little antics and sounds are. We are so happy to have Flash, sometimes it's us that has separation anxiety.

Please Do Not Fire Upon Me While I Shop

I was leaving South Coast Plaza through Nordstrom on a Saturday afternoon. I pass by the shoe section and try not to pay attention to all the high heeled goodness on sale. As we're breezing through the crowd of people coming in, a young boy catches my eye. He's no more than 8 years old and kinda chubby. He looks at me, raises a make believe machine gun and begins to make shooting noises. Double you tea eff! I stared back in shock. What do you do when you get pretend gunned down by a fat little snot? I look at the mom and she says nothing. If it were my kid, I'd tell him, "You are not to do that to anybody here. Wait till we get to Sears." I fear for our future.

They Really Exist!

I hear clicking sounds outside so I step out to the balcony to see what's the ruckus, and lo and behold... I see LARPers! I never thought they existed outside of stories and lore. This was so exciting for me, like I just saw a leprechaun. I run to grab the camera and try to zoom in as far as I can. I manage to snap off about four shots until one of them turns around and sees me. Must be one of their special powers - extra-sensitive hearing. I quickly duck down. Will they cast a spell upon my home and people? Should I grab one of them and force them to take me to their treasure? I decide just to lay low and hope I don't grow branches.

I upload the pics and realize that I recognize one of them. It's my lumberjack neighbor across the hall. (Probably not a lumberjack, but looks like what I imagine one would look like.) We always joked that they looked like people that play Dungeons & Dragons and go to conventions. They have a baby too. I think we can rule out professional athlete or being cool from the kid's future. Unless Tiger Woods is a closet larper, then I'll stand corrected.