In Which I Contemplate that Bodies are Beautiful, So We Don't Need Tattoos

So, I was thinking about how I would explain to someone why I don't support getting tattoos, and it led me to remember some phrase I read on a "Mom-aesthetic" Facebook post (you know the ones I mean... Random quotes, usually some joke about getting older, With the weird clip art and some cheesy font that middle-aged and older women pass around).

Anyways:

"Why don't I have tattoos? Would you put a bumper sticker on a Ferrari?"

And I think, well, that's pretty rude to all the people who DO have tattoos. What are you saying, that they aren't Ferraris, but you are? Or that they're idiots for putting the bumper stickers on their less-than car selves? Either way, it's no good.

And I don't think it makes all that much sense, anyways. Because while there are a lot of terrible tattoos out there, bad enough to be equalifized as a bumper sticker, there are a lot of really gorgeous ones, too. Incredible works of art. 

So, instead of the bumper sticker on a Ferrari analogy, I'd suggest something more like: "would you ask Picasso to paint on the side of your car?" No, because that's ridiculous. Those are two things-priceless paintings and vehicles of transportation- that have nothing to do with each other. Just like bodies and tattoos. Bodies are already works of art themselves. You don't need to add to them with permanent ink to make them beautiful, or interesting, or different. If you have a great love of art, sweet. Support artists! Just leave the ink on paper, not skin, where you can give it the proper admiration it deserves. That way, both the art AND your body get their time to shine without having to compete with each other.

In Which I Get Backup On Closet World Hate: Closet World Part III

**Note: this is the third post in a sequence about a particular commercial spreading filth and hatred throughout the San Diego county. In order for this to make complete sense, scroll down four posts to the first note, then scroll up to the next immediate entry for part two. Then it's just one jump up back to this one. Or be the little rebel you know you are and read them backward. You little rebel, you.

So, Mom and I were watching TV today, and guess what commercial came on? Mmmm-hmmm, you know it. Closet World. 

Now, it's been a few weeks since the jingle fiasco, so I didn't immediately start imploding. But then MOM starts freaking and is like, "Oh my gosh, I HATE the dancing robot guy they have in their commercials! See! There it is! It's so creepy! I hate him"

And suddenly I'm imploding for a completely different reason, and I'm trying to explain that I've 

Literally just blogged about how much I hate this commercial, but it seems like I'm trying to upstage her hate, like I'm trying to one-up-her in the dramatics (which, let's be honest, I am the most dramatic one in this entire family, if only by unintended exaggeration alone), so I just shut up and mourn lost Closet World jingle innocence.

Also, way to show that you never read my blog, Mom. Not that it's worth checking all that often because I tend to not update, but maybe once a month or so would update you on my current rants and obsessions. And settle the score, proving that Closet World commercial hatred was totally mine first. I hated it before it was cool. I'm the hipster, here. 

(PS, Mom: This is dramatic sarcasm and self-deprication used for comedic purposes, not a passive-aggressive lash-out. I don't want your feelings to be hurt. Cause every time I mention you in a post, you seem like I hurt your feelings, which is not my intention. Like when I mention the time when I was dying of food poising from Subway and you slept through it and you were upset because you felt like it showed you in a negative light, that was not my intention. I was just trying to give details that made the story even more interesting and dramatic. I thought the whole thing was funny, actually. So, yeah.)

What was my point here? Oh yeah, Closet World. The important thing to note here is: I'm not crazy. Someone else hates Closet World commercials, too. The jingle is wretched, and now that Mom mentioned it, the dancing robot guy (what is he supposed to be, anyways? He's like a disproportionate silver Michelin man) is awful too. You haven't got anything right. You may make totally sweet closet, who knows, but since I'm judging you completely on your commercial, I've concluded that you are complete rubbish. 

So, put that in your juice box and suck it, Closet World.

In Which I Try to Riddle Out the Connection Between LDS Members and the Dentistry Profession

Question: why are there so many LDS dentists? I'm pretty certain that every dentist I've ever been to has been LDS, including my orthodontist and the guy who took out my wisdom teeth. My Sunday school teacher as a early teenager was a dentist. The bishop of our old Temecula ward's counterpart ward (and good family friend) is both my mom and dad's dentist (but randomly not mine... But don't worry, my dentist is LDS, too. He's in my ward, actually. I worked with his wife in Young Women's). My mom worked for him for a while, because, that's right, she was a dental hygentist back in the day... The day before they wore gloves. My dental hygentist as a teenager was in the stake YW's presidency, so it was always super nerve racking to see her (the dentist was a member, of course). I had a friend growing up who wanted to be a dentist, but then he left the church and ended up going into the Air Force and posts pictures on Facebook of him and his buddings surrounding bongs and beer.

Not that I have anything against ex-members who join the Air Force and enjoy taking pictures of them and their friends relaxing with beer and bongs. Their just not LDS dentists. Which is the point I'm trying to make. 

....... 

Well. That was a mood wrecker. 

I suppose I'm off to go ponder some more just what makes cleaning crusty crap off other people's teeth so appealing to members of the LDS church. Or anyone, for that matter. It's just gross, you know? 

(And, you know, going to the dentist is one of the things that is like a serious bummer in life, like on a scale of mild dislike to the ninth circle of The Inferno's hell, it's pretty close to jamming with Dante for a lot of people. So just how enjoyable can it be for the dentist? I mean, unless the dude is some secret super villain, I can't imagine it being all rainbows and butterflies. But what do I know. I'm just the girl who hates toothpaste with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.)

Follow Up On Yesterday's Closet World Post

What the heck!

After singing Closet World's jingle all last night, and again this morning when I woke up, I finally froze it out when something else caught in my brain. I can't even remember what it was now.

But just now, as I'm calming reading my book, it emerges... "1-800-4800, Closet World!"

Where did it even come from? I was reading. My brain was thoroughly occupied. I was nourishing it! How could it betray me like this? I've overdone the italics now, but I needed to emphasize my point. Plus they're fancy.

Gosh darn it, Closet World. This whole thing would a thousand times less frustrating if I actually knew the phone number. But I refuse to learn it! I will never give in to your marketing schemes, Closet World! Never!! You won't take me alive!!

In Which I Discuss Why Annoying Ads Suck

I have the jingle for Closet World stuck in my head. Which really sucks because the words to it is the phone number, and we all know I can't remember a sequence of numbers to save my life... So I just mumble random numbers each time.

I take back my not-being-able-to-remember-any-number-sequence statement. My seventh grade P.E. Locker combination, which I shared with my best friend Stephanie Lovett, was 35-21-11. Because I usually sang about what I was doing at the moment back then, I inevitably came up with a tune for 35-21-11, and sang it every time I opened it. Granted, so did everyone else around us in the locker room, but it was forever solidified into my brain!

Back to Closet World. See, this is the thing I have about marketing. I get that companies go to extreme lengths to make (hopefully) catchy, or weird/annoying ads, because you remember them. And if you remember them, then you're thinking about their company, and they win. But that's the thing, marketing people: if you have an incredibly annoying commercial or ad, I will remember it. And I will deliberately remember NOT to buy your product, just because your marketing is so terrible. So, there's that.

And those are my pressing thoughts for tonight. 

I Don't Find This Entertaining

So, I was going through a list of prompts I have written for blog posts to write, and one simply states, "Nothing ignites my fight or flight reflex more than musical chairs." Nothing else. No hints to a story I wanted to tell, or some experience in which I discovered this fact, just that "nothing ignites my fight or flight reflex more than musical chairs."

But, really, does that need explaining? Do you really need an anecdote here? I'm pretty sure musical chairs ignites some sort of primal instinct in everyone. There is no way to take a game of musical chairs lightly: every game is a game to the death. Even bowing out early in the game to avoid the slaughter is like giving natural selection a helping hand.

I am a woman of the 21st century, I have the capacity for higher intelligence and live in a world full of technology and education and thought: I SHOULD NOT BE SUBJECTED TO SUCH OUTRAGEOUS, INTELLECTUALLY DEMEANING ACTIVITIES. At least not without considering the ramifications of such intense anxiety on my psyche. Or, you know, taking a Xanax. 

In Which I Realize My Art Of Professional Placement, And Am Proud

So, my cousin is getting married and my mom is happily helping along with reception decor and planning and such, which means not only is it all over the house, but Mom often pulls me in when she's making something for my opinion/help.

Just now, for example, she was decorating a "G" with shells and such (it's a beachy-themed wedding), and after coating it with a layer of tiny beige shells pieces, she asked me to come take a look. Several questions thus ensued, "should I outline it with this? Or this? Or these beads?" "Should I fill it in or sort of scatter things?" "Big shells or little?" and many more that had my imagination spinning and not grasping anything. After three minutes of complete bafflement, Mom started placing shells, and I simply began rearranging them, flicking off ones too small or two dark, picked a few small beads from her bowls and placed them just so. And, voila! Under ten minutes we'd figured it out.

And that, my friends, was the very first time I understood my own talent. Because I had started out feeling like nothing was going to make that thing pretty (not that it was ugly, I just had no optimism in the materials around), and then being able to do my thing, and see the results, I understood that there is something to this "having an eye for art, for placement." It's the first time that I saw something I had made (or, well, mostly me), and understand that it really isn't something Mom or anybody can make. Because that's what I've thought all this time-- that ANYBODY could be doing what I do, making the frames, (because, hello, it's just glueing things down on a frame) just nobody DOES because they have more important things to do in their real lives with real jobs. That if people just tried it, they'd produce the exact same things I do. 

And maybe, on some level, that's true. There are surely some people out there who are artistic and creative and could make some awesome frames. But maybe a lot of people WOULDNT. Their quality or look or whatever wouldn't be the same, because, apparently, "they don't have an eye for ________." Placement. Color. Art. 

But I do.

Huh.

The Process Of Picking A Name For My Etsy Store

So, I've recently overcome some of the defining hurdles with Etsy that have been holding me back from selling my frames and stuff, which is rad. I still have a ton of work to do, and I'm petrified of the whole process because of my perfectionism, but I'm really, really trying to get this going.

So, sweet, right?

Wrong.

My progress has screeched to a stop as I've encountered, once again, the horrid process of coming up with a name for my Etsy shop.

Dun-dun-DUNNN!!!

I've said it before, and I'll say it a million more times: I cannot title things to save my life. I'm surprised my essays for school never got docked for having such overly-pathetic titles. The documents saved on my computer are all labeled "uh" and "argh" and "jfjjdjcnfkslsjdj" because my brain literally goes blank when it comes to titles. I wrote my journal as a Word document as a teenager, and I called it "fruit loops," because that's what I happened to be eating as I wrote the first entry. (I aimed to subsequently name the next volumes of my personal journal after other cereals, like Frosted Flakes: Holly's Journal Volume II, but I have yet to continue writing a continuous journal, so there goes that idea).

So, how in the world am I supposed to name something as large and important as my Etsy shop? (Side note: will you judge me if I start referring to my website as a shoppe? Because I totally want to be   A pretentious wannabe bloke who adds extra letters to things).

I've literally lost hours of sleep over this. So many hours. You see, it can't just be any old name. It has to tell what my product is: picture frames, preferably something jewelry or seashell themed. It has to be creative, because Etsy is known to be creative. (Like, I once saw a shop-- shoppe?-- that was all hand-knit things, called "Too Legit To Knit" which I thought was BOMB... this is a reference to cult classic movie Hot Rod, if you didn't know, FYI, and it's absolutely PERFECT) And it has to be something I'm not embarrassed to say out loud. Like, I thought I had one figured out like 2 years ago, and I told my aunt and grandma, and they were both totally underwhelmed and I got totally insecure and embarrassed... Embarrassed enough to wipe whatever that name was right out of my head, like it never existed. So it has to pass the Grandma test. Not that she has to like it, but I can't feel foolish saying it to her.

So, I thought I'd share my wins and (mostly) losses in the never-ending, bane-of-my-existence, process of naming my Etsy shop.

A few months ago, as I was under the influence of antibiotics that made me drowsy, I came up with a list of names. Here are some of the winners I discovered a few days later on my phone:

Sassy Shells and Fancy Frames

Special Snowflake Products

Jazzy Junk and Stuff

... And my personal favorite: Pimpin Picture Frames

Now. Though I laughed at those, and was confused at others that I didn't bother to put on here, I knew I did have one winner-ish: Sassy Shells and Fancy Frames. Meaning: it said what my product was, it had alliteration (score!), and the true selling point, my mom liked it. So, for a few months, that's what I had unofficially officially named my shop. 

But guess what happened when I went to officially name my shop on Etsy last week? IT'S TOO LONG. I CANT USE IT. 

*mutters mild bad words under breath*

Okay. This is okay. I can work around this, right?

WRONG.

I try simply "Fancy Frames". Not all of my frames have shells anyway, so who really cares, right? Nice and simple. 

NOPE. The name "Fancy Frames" belongs to someone else.

DRAT.

Okay. Alright. Well, not ALL my products are frames. I've blinged out, like, 3 sea shells before, and they were AWESOME. And, really, I do use a lot of shells in my frames. So I try. "Sassy Shells".

NOPE. Someone else has claims to Sassy Shells. (Really? I'd like to see your sassy shells. I doubt the amount of sass they possess has nothing on my evacuated sea-created husks. Mmmm-hmm, grrrrrrl.)

What the Fletcher Jones am I supposed to do now?

Technically, I've been rooting for "Jazzy Junk and Stuff" since the beginning. However, I don't think it'll do good for company or customer morale to refer to expensive, hand-crafted products as "junk." 

"Pimpin' Picture Frames" comes in a real close second in my book as well, but it doesn't pass the grandma test. Well, actually. That's up in air. It's about 50-50 that she'd either think it was funny or not get it. But my Aunt probably wouldn't. I'm most concerned about the Ellie test, however. I can't have her going around telling her primary teachers about her favorite aunt's rad website if the word "pimpin'"s in it. I think it'd be adorable, but Steph probably would object.

So. Once again I am nameless. So, dear friends, family, readers, I'm out of ideas, and I'm totally turning it over to you. I beg, I plead, I implore, please come up with an excellent name for my Etsy shop. I'm so totally over this process.

Please, help a girl out. If I have to go something utterly lame and generic like "Holly's frames," I think all my creative juices will evaporate and die and my hopes and dreams shall be no more. Please, y'all, do it.

Things I Love

My family.
Ellie and Cameron, my niece and nephew.
Also: Peterson baby #3, who is still a bun in the oven, sex currently unknown.
Books. Or: really well told stories.
Donuts.
Makeup. Which I wear for no one but myself, simply because I like it.
My cat. All cats.
Cat videos on the internet. The adorableness is neverending.
Anything and everything by my favorite author, Maggie Stiefvater.
Dr. Who! I'm only a million years late to get on the bandwagon...
Girl Scout Cookies.        
The Google Chrome swear filter I found last night. Tumblr is much safer now.
Making other people happy.
The Avengers! Loki and Thor and Captain America and Tony Stark.
Pretty shoes you can actually walk in.
Target.
Daisies.
Wedding planning on Pinterest.
The sound of rain.
Bursting bookshelves.
The journal I keep of random thoughts I have. And I mean random. I mean, with the strange things I talk about here, think of the random stuff that's in there... It's awesome.

In Which I Suffer Injections and the Humiliation of Being Rejected by a Homeless Man

This week has been pretty full of shots and needles, and I'm pretty done. 29 shots of Botox into my head and shoulders on Monday, then 8 steroid shots in my back and a blood draw today. Not that I'm complaining, I'm so glad that I have these medicines and therapies availble to me--they really do help me feel better!!

But, you know? Ouch. That was all quite painful. 

Also, I tried to give a pan-handling homeless man my Happy Meal today, but he didn't want it. That was odd, depressing, and slightly humiliating all at the same time. Like, "oh, okay. I'll just be over here, eating my white trash food. The stuff that apparently is so awful homeless people would rather starve than eat it." I mean, what the heck kind of food snob was he? It was a Happy Meal! I wasn't throwing around Quarter Pounders with cheese and other artery-cloggers on a bun. There are apple slices in there!

Anyways.

So now I'm going to jump into bed early with a box of highly caloric Girl Scout cookies and watch Dr. Who.

Yeah, that's right. I'm following up a Happy Meal with Tag-A-Longs. What now, old man? WHAT NOW?!