Pretty Polly Alphabet Tights are the perfect icebreaker to get the conversation rolling. The correct response to "Can I buy a vowel?" is "No, but you can buy me a drink."
I have been wanting to play the guitar forever and I am not that bad on my husband's, but my hands are a bit smaller than his and my chest is kind of large making it hard to play some of the traditional acoustics. For valentines day he got me my Dean Playmate, 3/4 size guitar. It looks just like a slightly smaller version of his beautiful blue Dean. It has a smaller body that accommodates the chest and the neck is shorter-nice for small hands. It has all the quality of a Dean (once the factory strings were replaced) and it was very wallet friendly for beginners etc.
By jenisedai, Sunday, February 28, 2010, 0 comments
If you are on facebook and like playing low-stress casual games, you've GOT to try Treasure Madness. Incredibly addictive and fun mini-games (I just wish I could play Pearl Mania as a stand-alone game). The premise of the game is that you're a treasure hunter 'digging' for archaeological treasures. Each square you dig will net you one of four results. Either you get nothing, you get gold (used for buying game helpers), you get fruit (reloads your energy), or you get to play a mini-game. If you win the mini-game you get a piece of treasure.
By Skirt.com, Monday, February 01, 2010, 8 comments
y friends and I are a fairly amazing bunch of women. We’ve got brains and dash, and a certain sleek je ne sais quoi reminiscent of Katharine Hepburn at her best. Among the four of us we possess: three kids, two successful businesses, one dog with a Gold Star Certificate from the Perfect Puppy Academy, three advanced degrees, and at least six lovely thighs (Meg refuses to let me count hers, for no good reason that I can see.) One of us is a dab hand with a chainsaw. Without a doubt, we are fabulous.
Yet at a recent social gathering (margaritas and games of Quelf were involved), we calculated that as a group, we have spent approximately 14 years of our lives nursing broken hearts. Fourteen years.
All that time, staring into space like shell-shocked bush babies. Bursting into sobs when a waiter asks what we’d like for lunch. Knowing beyond doubt that we were flabby warthogs who would never be loved. Wondering if warthogs were allowed to join enclosed religious orders.
By Skirt.com, Monday, February 01, 2010, 3 comments
never took our dog for the cheating kind. After all, he’s a Labrador retriever—the model of canine loyalty. And if I do say so, he’s a mighty fine example of the breed. He comes when called, sits on command and fetches anything you could ask for, including the morning paper and cans of dog food. With a broad blocky head, he looks like we ordered him straight out an L.L. Bean catalogue. In reality it was the newspaper. We brought our handsome ball of fur home during our first year of marriage and he quickly became our “child.” But three years later, when we moved to a sleepy mountain town—where the streets are like sidewalks and the dogs roam free—our dog began leading a double life.
Upon moving in, we considered installing an invisible fence like some of our more responsible neighbors. Instead, we settled for a collar with his name and our phone number on it. While it may have seemed imprudent to let him roam free in the neighborhood, every time we pulled into the driveway he was anxiously awaiting our return. We boasted about his steadfast devotion. “He’s just not the wandering type,” we’d say.
By Skirt.com, Monday, February 01, 2010, 0 comments
Dear John,
We have more in common than you might expect. You and I grew up in the same small town, a North Carolina furniture and hosiery mill town, where my grandfather, a doctor, tended the sick, and yours, a preacher, tended souls. It’s possible that my granddad—the town’s only surgeon at the time—operated on your kin. And it’s possible that your mother and aunt, who worked at the country club where I would spend summers playing tennis, waited on my grandparents, maybe even my father as a boy, when they came for Sunday lunch. Years later I would have my rehearsal dinner in this same country club. I knew of you by then, but not about our hometown connection, and I didn’t fall for you until years later, after I was married and you had long since gone.
You needn’t worry, this isn’t a typical “Dear John” letter. It’s a love letter from a secret admirer. A thank you note from a neighbor you never knew, a girl who walked the same downtown sidewalks you once walked, and now, on return trips back home, jogs down them grooving to your tunes.
y friends and I are a fairly amazing bunch of women. We’ve got brains and dash, and a certain sleek je ne sais quoi reminiscent of Katharine Hepburn at her best. Among the four of us we possess: three kids, two successful businesses, one dog with a Gold Star Certificate from the Perfect Puppy Academy, three advanced degrees, and at least six lovely thighs (Meg refuses to let me count hers, for no good reason that I can see.) One of us is a dab hand with a chainsaw. Without a doubt, we are fabulous.
never took our dog for the cheating kind. After all, he’s a Labrador retriever—the model of canine loyalty. And if I do say so, he’s a mighty fine example of the breed. He comes when called, sits on command and fetches anything you could ask for, including the morning paper and cans of dog food. With a broad blocky head, he looks like we ordered him straight out an L.L. Bean catalogue. In reality it was the newspaper. We brought our handsome ball of fur home during our first year of marriage and he quickly became our “child.” But three years later, when we moved to a sleepy mountain town—where the streets are like sidewalks and the dogs roam free—our dog began leading a double life.
