“You’re tacky and I hate you”

When I was driving home the other day (ugh, that sounds just like the beginning to every horrible story my high school biology teacher, Mr. Mott used to tell us. Except his usually started with “When I was walking to school this morning…” and yes, he walked to school every morning. And yes, there were considerable times I considered running him over with my car.) a radio ad for Pier One came on and I was sufficiently perplexed. (I spent WAY too much time trying to find the audio for it. Next time I hear it, I’ll try and record it.)

Perhaps you’ve heard it. It stars a mom named “Leigh” who is attending some sort of support group. I’m not quite sure the purpose of said support group, but I don’t think the ad people considered the weirdos out there like me that have to dissect everything. So, “Leigh” tells the group that her kids complained that their backyard was boring and they wanted a trampoline. Well, in “Leigh’s” world, there will be no trampoline. I imagine it’s akin to having broken down automobiles, trailers or garden gnomes in the yard (aka the “White Trash Special”). So what does she do to liven up the yard?

Well go to Pier One, of course! To buy new lawn furniture! Because what kid doesn’t want a new outdoor chaise lounge. ESPECIALLY if it comes from Pier One.


Except for maybe this one.

When I was growing up, my siblings and I begged our parents for a trampoline (And, yes, we were eventually victorious. We jumped the crap out of that thing.). If they had come home sans trampoline and instead, had new patio furniture, we definitely would have mutinied. And I’m not kidding. When my folks told us we’d likely be moving to Chicago, my brother E got so enraged, he punched a hole in a wall (to be fair he was only 8, but thanks to him, they had to re-wallpaper an entire wall in their two-story foyer. To this day you can tell which wall because the coloring is slightly off). Moral of the story: unless you want your kids going all “Braveheart” on you, if they ask for a trampoline, don’t buy a new patio table and chairs. It won’t go over well.

Unless of course, this is your kid.


And in that case, I still wouldn’t spring new outdoor furniture on him. He STILL may mutiny. Especially if your taste runs more Bobby Trendy than Nate Berkus.

“and for just $100,000,000 I can make your house look just like this!” image courtesy of TMZ


Dirty (un)Sexy Politics

I was all set to write about Axl Rose’s bizarre letter to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame today or maybe the “shocking” exit on American Idol, but then something else happened that I couldn’t resist putting my two cents into. And, warning, it’s political. Again. Can’t help it. These people are bringing it on themselves. (and don’t worry. Axl and Idol are on my ‘to do’ list tomorrow!)

Wednesday evening on Anderson Cooper (an S-Dizzle staple), Democratic strategist Hilary Rosen started a firestorm when she attacked Ann Romney by saying she was out of touch with modern women because she had never worked a day in her life.

Now, although I disagree with Rosen’s comments (seriously? raising 5 boys close in age ISN’T a full time job???), that wasn’t what bothered me.

It was the truly horrific comments that people felt the need to tweet after the whole debacle. (Thanks, Emily for bringing it to my attention).

A sampling of tweets (be aware, there’s some really gross and disgusting language. I’m not condoning and I think it’s deplorable)


First of all, I can’t think of a scenario when calling a woman a “stupid, ugly, cunt bitch” is appropriate. Secondly, I feel the need to remind everyone this is stemming from comments that Ann Romney didn’t even make! Someone (another woman, in fact) called her out on never having a “real job” and not understanding struggle because she comes from money. This isn’t some case when a candidate’s spouse shot off their mouth. This is the case of a woman being told that because she didn’t have a job outside the home, she couldn’t POSSIBLY understand what other women go through. But that’s not what drives me crazy.

It was the total classless and disgusting reaction of some on twitter. Honestly, how does calling the former First Lady of Massachusetts a worthless bitch add ANYTHING to the debate. Newsflash: it doesn’t. All it does it make you look stupid. And trashy.

At a time when the term “war on women” is being thrown around fast and loose (and as a woman, I’m not exactly sure who my nemesis is supposed to be these days), gross and ineffective “political” (I use the term VERY loosely) statements from the braintrust on twitter make you wonder who the real “enemy” is…and they aren’t Republicans or Democrats.

It’s the idiots on twitter (or Facebook, myspace, blogs…whatever) that are the real problem. It’s the people that call women “cunts”, “bitches” and to “shut your fucking mouth” from the comfort of their homes (more likely their mothers’ basements) without realizing just how destructive it is to refer to a woman—ANY woman— like that. THERE’S your problem. And it doesn’t come with an R or a D after their name. It comes with a @  BEFORE their name (or an anonymous handle like “FearlessWarrior” “HotDude8835” or “LivinInMomsBasement2353”).

I’m alllll about social media. I tweet. I Facebook. I pin. I blog. I foursquare. I’m always looking for the newest trinket or tool in new media. But I’m also all about using social media responsibly and effectively. And throwing around profanities and name-calling for no actual reason is not why social media was invented. Sure, I’ll mock contestants on American Idol. I’ll call Christina Aguilera a fool while watching the Voice. I’ll tweet mean things at Toronto Blue Jays players (come on, they’re from CANADA). But those are in jest and (what I hope) are funny. And I’m 110% sure the phrase “stupid bitch whore cunt” is nowhere to be found in my twittefeed. Mockery of the Real Housewives? Absolutely. Thinly (and not so thinly) veiled insults a the Cleveland Indians (and their opponents)? Without a doubt. But I’m also keenly aware of what I say and how I say it. And I would never cut down another woman for being wealthy or being a stay-at-home mother.

I also have to defend my girl Ann Romney (also referred to as “First Lady Barbie” or “Lovey Howell”…but all with affection!). So she didn’t work outside the home. Big deal. She raised five sons. I’ve babysat for families with TWO boys and I couldn’t wait to go home. I can’t imagine FIVE in the house—and she didn’t have the luxury of “going home.” Also, I have to take issue with statements that Ann Romney doesn’t know struggle. Fact check, people. She’s living with Multiple Sclerosis and is a Breast Cancer survivor. I think that qualifies as a struggle, no? So let’s recap: raised 5 boys while her husband worked (and it’s probably likely he worked insane hours when the boys were little), beat Breast Cancer, lives (and thrives!) with Multiple Sclerosis and made it through two Presidential campaigns. That’s pretty baller (in my opinion).

Regardless of your political opinion on Ann Romney, we can ALL agree to call the geniuses commenting above what they are: bullies. In an age where everyone is concerned about bullying, we shouldn’t just toss the idiots aside with a shrug, going “well that’s politics”—it shouldn’t have to be like that. I’m all for intelligent discussion and debate…but calling a candidate’s wife a “dumb bitch” isn’t exactly breaking a mental sweat, now is it. But it’s easier to hide behind a computer screen and call someone a “heartless whore cunt” than think of something substantial to say.

But I suppose on the opposite end, it IS how the Real Housewives make their living.

misadventures in not being homeless

It’s been a crazy week. No, really. It has.

As of January 16, 2012, I am the proud renter of a very crappy, very expensive, apartment in Arlington, VA with 3 roommates. I’d post a picture, but I failed to take any photos while I was there. Suffice it to say, while I won’t be living in the Ritz of apartments, I won’t be residing in McPherson Square with the Occupiers. But it’s probably closer to tent city than the Watergate.

In all seriousness, it’s actually not that bad. It’s tiny, that’s for sure. And definitely not as nice as home. But it’s a start..and it’s within walking distance to the Metro. My commute is going to be amazing—5 minute walk to the train, 10 minutes on the train and like a 2 minute walk across McPherson Square to the office. As long as the trains run quickly in the morning (which they usually do), I’m looking at less than 20 minutes. Boo-yah.

To back up, my parents and I went to DC for the weekend to find a place. I thought “no biggie, I’ll find a place, sign a lease, no problem.”

Except that Washington DC real estate is a big f-ing problem.

Sunday was spent driving aimlessly through Maryland and Virginia. That’s about it. Maryland was a go…and then it wasn’t. Virginia was a go…then it wasn’t. The District was a go…and then it wasn’t. We had a list of apartment complexes, each one worse than the next. The neighborhoods not that great (Lee the D nixed several areas that resembled East Cleveland more than the East SIDE of Cleveland). We managed to look in one apartment complex that was close to nothing, stupidly expensive, and smelled like death. There were lots of tears.

At dinner (where I ate a giant cheeseburger to calm myself down), it was decided that I would do the unthinkable: go on Craigslist to find a roommate.

Yes, THAT Craigslist.

This trailer kept playing in my mind

I was NOT about to be the victim of the next Craigslist Killer.

However, my cheapness and desire to not have to commute to DC from Cleveland every day won out.

So I combed through the ads, trying to separate the creepy ones (no, I do NOT want to send you a picture of myself and I DEFINITELY don’t want to share a bedroom with you) and the misspelled ones (I believe it’s spelled “bathroom” “apartment” and “Washington” not “bathrome” “appartementt” and “wasshintone’) and manages to find a dozen or so that didn’t bring out the scary. I, however, was pretty insistent that I ONLY wanted to live with other girls.

Ha. Last laugh is on me.

I ended up finding a place that, though expensive, wasn’t going to require me to donate a kidney to pay my rent for the year (plus it was close to the metro!). I contacted them, asked if I could come see the place. We made plans, but I ended up getting caught up at work a lot longer than I anticipated.

Never fear, though. My parents went instead.

Yes, I’m 2[redacted age] years old and my mommy and daddy went to vet my potential roommates.

Luckily, no one was weirded out (probably because my roommates and my parents are not weirdos). And it all worked out. I headed over after I left the office, saw the place (and determined it was totally fine), met the roommates (determined they were awesome) and called the landlady (who is definitely ripping me off). In the matter of 20 minutes, I had signed  a lease, gotten a key, and attained two new people in my life in the process.

And they are boys.

WEIRD. I never in a million years assumed I’d ever live with guys. I’m a girls girl. I like pink and sparkles and shoes and the “The Bachelor” and chick flicks. I was in sorority. I own the ‘Sex and the City’ boxed set!

But, desperation makes strange bedfellows (or maybe apartment-fellows).

In any case, M and T are now playing supporting roles in the ‘Misadventures of Stacey’. I don’t know if they know what they’ve gotten themselves into, but they’ll find out quickly 😉

I move in on Saturday and I’ll be in the office full-time on Monday. It’s amazing how quickly life can change.

Today is going to be spent doing some work and then packing like a champ. One of my best girlfriends is coming over this afternoon to help…and I’m sure I’ll be a sobbing mess at some point (aka probably most of the afternoon).

Tomorrow is ‘packing the truck day’ and Saturday is “the move”. I’ll definitely be sure to document this. It’s going to be a circus.



today’s post is brought to you by small time crooks and WalMart

I know it’s been a few days since I’ve posted, but, well, LIFE got in the way. Finals are over (yay!) and that means the Christmas season is here. I’m looking forward to hanging out with the dog, seeing friends that I haven’t seen in FAR too long, finishing my grandmother’s Christmas present (scrapbook!) with my sister, baking (gluten-free!) Christmas cookies, and (of course) watching every conceivable made-for-tv movie (there’s already 4 on my DVR. I’m so pumped).

So, in the spirit of the holidays, I’m going to share with all of you one of my favorite (and true!) stories that happened last year when I was in Columbus, visiting my sister before Christmas.

I’ve blogged pretty extensively about my younger sister, Nicole. She’s one of my favorite people in the world and I love hanging out with her, despite living 2+ hours away. So when we DO get to hang out, it’s always a treat.

So last year, to celebrate the end of finals (double yay!), I made the trek down to Columbus (side note: I lived in Columbus a few years ago and it really is a great town) to visit for the weekend. Since it was literally the day after I finished with law finals, I had done exactly ZERO Christmas shopping. Nicole and I figured we’d figure out what to get our parents and our brother (and other random people too) and maybe try a new restaurant. It was going to be a nice quiet, stress-free weekend.

That clearly didn’t happen.

I met her at Easton so we could go have lunch (Northstar Cafe—if you haven’t been, go! And try the Champagne Vinaigrette.). We stopped back at the Verizon store (so I could get my car to drop off at Nicole’s apartment).

That’s when the day started to get weird.

I noticed someone had smashed my passenger’s side window. Initially, I thought it was a hit and run. However, upon further inspection, I realized someone broke into my car. They tore through EVERYTHING.I assume they thought they’d find a laptop, iPad, iPod or something else like it. However, they were wrong. The only things in my car were ancient sweatpants from college, a pair of brown Uggs (sue me, I wear Uggs), a few cosmetic items (makeup, toothbrush, contact solution), a pillow, and a few law textbooks.

The bastards left everything, but my eyeglasses and toothbrush.

Here’s the note I left them on facebook (but I doubt they got it).

dear idiot who broke into my car, 
i hope you enjoy my used toothbrush, three-quarters gone foundation and blush and my eyeglasses. i really appreciate you leaving my textbooks, GRE prep books and the chik-fil-a coupon. i’m sorry there wasn’t anything really good in the car for you (but, tough, you got an extremely lovely pair of prada eyeglasses). hope santa brings you a warrant for your arrest. 
love, stacey

I was robbed by the worst criminals ever—considering the only things they stole were a pair of eyeglasses, an old toothbrush and some used makeup. I was still (rightly) pissed.

So, since I had to buy a new toothbrush, Nicole and I headed  to WalMart.

If there is one thing you should know about Nicole (and my dad) is that they HATE WalMart. Hate it the way that I hate “The View” and Joy Behar.

But we went anyway because Nicole had to return something (it was part of a Halloween costume that she never used). The two of us pull up to Wal-Mart, I’m pissy because I was robbed, Nicole is pissy because we’re at WalMart.

We head into the store and see the return line is ridiculous. And this isn’t one of those nice newer WalMarts either. This is an old-school, dirty, icky Wal-Mart. There’s a huge-ish line of people waiting and one person doing actual work behind the counter. The other few people are there just to hang out (or something). So now that’s making us TWICE as angry.

So we stand there waiting, me complaining about my glasses (I loved those glasses) and Nicole complaining about Wal-Mart. We see a woman get in line behind us, struggling with her “bag 0 crap” (which is what I called it. I think it was actually just a bunch of hangers in a few plastic bags). She had her daughter with her—an adult, but looked like she had some sort of handicap. The mother was struggling to hold the bag o crap and zip up her daughter’s coat.

Nicole, being the sweetheart she is, got over her hatred of WalMart and asked the woman if she could help her—maybe hold her bag so she could help her daughter.

Now, I SWEAR TO GOD that this next portion is true.

The daughter, who had been fighting her mother, had her head down. She snapped her head up to stare at my sister, threw her middle finger in Nicole’s face, and then (BEST PART), started to kick her in the shins.

Nicole froze, not knowing what to do (me? I was busy trying to figure out how to work the video camera on my iPhone to capture this special memory forever, all while laughing myself to an asthma attack). The mother, sort of feeling embarrassed, calmly told her daughter “Now, Heather, that’s not very nice,” and lead her away from Nicole.

Nicole looks at me and says (something to the effect of) “Did that just happen??” I was still laughing too hard to answer, so the other people in line assured her that, yes, in fact, she did just get flipped off and kicked in a WalMart.

The best part? We’re still in line! There was NO WAY we were leaving until we got that stupid shirt returned. The next ten minutes were spent split between silence (wondering what the hell just happened) and fits of giggles (mostly courtesy of me). She finally returned her shirt and the cashier said that was the craziest thing she had seen in awhile (I assume other ridiculous things happen at WalMart. people of walmart is a site for a reason). As we’re ready to go, I see that Heather’s mom is back (with her bag o crap).

She (Heather’s mom) is just standing there. The cashier says that she can take the next person. Heather’s mom doesn’t move. The cashier says, again, she can take her. Again, Heather’s mom just stands there. So the woman behind her shrugs and walks to the counter.

This gets Heather’s mom’s attention. She grabs her bag o crap, shoves the other woman out of the way, throws said bag o crap on the counter and screeches “EX-CUSE ME, BUT I WAS NEXT”. The other woman (a remarkably normal lady, looking as incredulous about what was going on as Nicole and I were) was taken aback and tried to apologize, but Heather’s mom didn’t want to hear it. She ignored the other lady and then proceeded to dump out the bag o crap…which was, in fact, a bunch of hangers. I burst out laughing (and, again, trying to figure out how to video tape this gem).

You can’t make this stuff up.

And, on our way out, Nicole says (incredibly loudly) “That’s it! This place is the worst! WE’RE GOING TO TARGET” (or something like that, I was still laughing my face off).

So there you have it. I was robbed, Nicole was assaulted, and WalMart was forced to take back an entire bag of hangers (or risk being attacked by Heather).

This year, Nicole is coming up HERE and we’re definitely not going to to WalMart. That’s a promise.

someday…(Justin Bieber will eventually go away)

Since I DVR just about everything I watch, I rarely see commercials. However, today I was watching a terrible made-for-tv Lifetime holiday movie starring Dr. Johnny Fever and Janet Gavin—obvs not their real names, but since Howard Hesseman & Andrea Roth haven’t been in anything else noteworthy (with the exception of Hesseman’s tenure on “Head of the Class”—a longtime S-Dizzle favorite) they will forever be known as that DJ from WKRP and Tommy Gavin’s crazy wife. I can’t even tell you what the movie was about other than Janet Gavin wearing a chauffeur’s hat for most of the movie and being set up with a gay guy.

I’m getting off track. This is about commercials. A Justin Bieber commercial in particular

I saw this little gem and found myself laughing myself into an asthma attack. I don’t know what’s the funniest part—Justin Bieber singing an annoying Christmas song in the middle of a tree farm and then in the middle of the street or the fact that someone is selling his perfume at a random outdoor kiosk in the middle of said tree farm.

There are so many questionable things about this. Is that his girlfriend? Did he see her window shopping and go “I must have her. Immediately. I shall show her what a man I am buy taking her to a Christmas tree farm and spraying her with some cheap smelling perfume!”?

If it was his girlfriend, I’d be super annoyed that for Christmas my uber pop star boyfriend gave me a crappy bottle of his nasty smelling perfume. I’d begin to question all of my life choices that had lead up to that moment.

If it was someone he just met, it gets even weirder. How does he know where she lives? And why does the note say “I knew someday that we’d be together.” Creepy. If Justin Bieber sent me that little gift, I’d probably call my attorney and request a restraining order and check my house for bugs and buy a really big guard dog that could take out Justin Bieber in two seconds.

I suppose Justin Bieber needs to do everything he can now…before the eventual flood of paternity suits. You KNOW this lady is going to be calling soon.

“Justin Bieber owes me!”

drinking the haterade

Contrary to popular belief, I really DO try to live my life without too much hate. I’d rather focus on things that I love (my family & friends, my dog, politics, writing, nail polish, funny & sassy books written by amazing women, tv shows that make me laugh, etc.) than on things that I hate.

But once in awhile, something comes along that I have such a physical & visceral reaction to that I can’t help but write (i.e. complain) about it.

Today’s rant is brought to you by this

If you know me, you’ve probably been on the receiving end of one of my hate-fueled Twilight (the book and the movie) rants. I make no bones about my feelings for Bella, Edward and company: I can’t stand them.

I read the books—well, two and a half. I was halfway through Eclipse and realized that I was actively rooting against EVERY CHARACTER in the book (with the exception of Jacob, sassy Jessica, and Bella’s dad, Charlie. To quote my girl, Jen Lancaster I’m Team Bella’s Dad!) so I had to stop the insanity. I never finished it and never picked up Breaking Dawn. I never considered my life incomplete.

Today, however, with the incessant buzz about the new movie (even my beloved Entertainment Weekly had those bozos on the cover!), I wondered if maybe I was missing something. Maybe I had been too stubborn in my hatred and really just needed to give it another chance. I was “breaking down” (see! see what I did! I made a really awful pun of an awful book!). Armed with only my pride (and a very large diet coke), I sat down with a copy of Breaking Dawn. I was determined to give it a fair shake.

I made it thirty WHOLE pages before I physically couldn’t take anymore and had to stop or my eyes would become permanently attached to the back of my head (and they hurt from the constant rolling). Thirty pages in and I remembered why I hated all of the characters (minus Charlie Swan! Team Bella’s Dad!) and wanted to get Bella into a very serious deprogramming rehabilitation program (she drank the vampire kool aid BIG TIME, folks). I couldn’t help but pull out my phone to check the definition of “stockholm syndrome” and realized that Bella was (is?) a textbook case.

Some people (including family members that I love dearly!) cannot understand why I drink the Twilight haterade. My answer? Have you READ the books? Or seen the movie? There is so much to dislike and hate on!

My first beef was with the book itself. I’m alllll about people reading. I love to read and probably have read a book or two a week since I was a kid (I’m really not kidding). Obviously not all of them were gems. I’ve read some really awful and terrible books. Some waaaay worse than anything Stephanie Meyer had written. But none of those terrible books have the cult-like devotion that fans of Twilight have.

I’m all about liking a book,even if it’s terrible (I do own almost every Babysitters Club book ever written). But I have to draw the line at obsessive behavior over a creepy antihero (but more on that later). Mostly, I have a problem with people thinking Twilight is some great fantastic piece of literature or an eternal love story. Let’s call a spade a spade: it’s a Harlequin Romance Novel (minus all the sexy bits) for adolescent girls and emotionally starved women. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less.

I’ll hand it to Stephanie Meyer for tapping into a market that had been drying up for some time. When I was a teenager, we had Sweet Valley High and boy bands. As stated before, I spent much of my pre-teen and early teen years convinced I was going to be Mrs. Nick Carter. I don’t fault girls for having a crush…but this OBSESSION with Edward Cullen goes beyond my schoolgirl crush. It delves into Charles Manson Family territory. Scary stuff.

But my appreciation for Meyer ends there. I think she’s a terrible terrible TERRIBLE writer. She has no sense of how to develop a likable main character (I’m convinced she accidentally made Jacob likable. There’s no other explanation) and has no concept of how to move or even start a plot. Her characters are flat and one-dimensional. I have no reason to like (or even relate) to Bella. Bella is a “perfect” character if you think about it. She has no real faults, other than she’s clumsy. Seriously. That’s it (and that in itself is a MAJOR cop out). She whines her way through four books (five movies) waiting for someone to save her. She never even considers saving herself. She meets Edward maybe twice and then in hopelessly and eternally “in love” with him. Yeah. At age 16 she is “hopelessly and irrevocably in love with him.” How about you graduate from high school first, Bells. Maybe go to college, date a guy who doesn’t think your scent is like a “drug to him,” get a job, maybe move out of your dad’s house? Just a thought.

Anyway, besides Bella being incredibly stupid, I also have a problem with Edward “Ike Turner” Cullen. I know, I know, he’s not physically abusive like Ike Turner, but I couldn’t come up with anyone else. Edward is supposedly based on the triumvirate of old school male love interests (and many a girl, including this one’s, literary crushes) Fitzwilliam Darcy from Pride & Prejudice, Edward Rochester (whom E. Cullen actually shares a name) from Jane Eyre and (my personal favorite) Gilbert Blythe from Anne of Green Gables (and the rest of the Anne books).

Seriously, who can forget this scene from Anne of Green Gables?

 Anne and Gil meet for the first time. And Anne does NOT fall hopelessly and eternally in love with him (that doesn’t happen until, like, the end of the THIRD book). He teases her by calling her “Carrots” and she breaks a slate on his head. Sassy, feisty and independent, that one. I was totally smitten with Gilbert (in the books AND the movies)—and why wouldn’t I be? He was nice to Anne (without being creepy or stalky), was her FRIEND first (for a looooong time), encouraged her to go out and follow her dreams and was a-ok with letting her go (hoping that after she’d been around the world, or at least Canada, she’d come back. Guess what. She did.) Lucy Maud Montgomery created a lovely romance between two people that made sense and that you rooted for. But I digress. My love for Anne & Gil is a post for another day.

This is about why I think Edward is terrible. Besides being annoying (seriously? the brooding? didn’t like it with Mr. Darcy, certainly don’t like it with you), he’s also way possessive and stalker-y (breaking into her house and watching her sleep for months? That’s not sweet. That’s a FELONY). You would think that in a hundred or so years he would have picked up on the what-not-to-do’s when courting (Oh, God. Did I just say “courting” apparently I’m channeling 1898 Stacey. I apologize) a lady. Hell, he’d be better off asking Leon Phelps for advice than to go with his gut instinct (which, of course, is to be creepy and weird).

The books are terrible, no doubt, but the movies almost make the books look like Pulitzer Prize winners. The awful acting, coupled with atrocious dialogue makes for cringe-inducing filmmaking.

I guess what I don’t understand is WHY? Why are women (and girls) obsessed with this stuff? I understand the need for a good romance novel or a sappy chick flick (Hell, I’m WRITING a chick lit novel!), but I don’t understand the undying and unwavering love for these unlikable characters! I don’t understand people that say “man, I SO ‘get’ Bella”. I don’t…what’s to get? There’s nothing there! She’s a flat character! My DOG is more complex than Bella! (and likely a better actress than Kristen Stewart). And Edward? Oh girls, if I could wrap up Gilbert Blythe, Atticus Finch, Rhett Butler, Nick Carraway, George Knightley, and Theodore “Laurie” Laurence and send them to you, I would.

Anyway, this is getting waaaaaay too long. If you disagree, feel free to comment! I won’t take offense 😉

misadventures with Maggie May

My name is Stacey. I am a former sorority girl-turned law student and I have a small white dog. I sometimes have blonde hair. I am aware of what a cliche this makes me.

However, I’m sure that Elle Woods’s dog, Bruiser, was much better behaved than my little monster (and not in the good Lady Gaga  kind of way ). No, I am the proud owner of the worst behaved dog on the planet. She might look sweet and cuddly.

my name is Maggie and I am a princess!

But she’s actually the worst dog on the planet. Her biggest problem? Listening. You want her to come inside? Not gonna happen. Ask her to sit? She’ll look at you like you’re mental. She knows zero tricks. Her saving grace? Did you see her face? She’s cute. That’s about it.

I lied. She does know one trick. Escaping. She’s like a furry little Houdini. No space that she can’t find her way out of.

Take my backyard for example. It’s completely fenced in with a large six-foot wood frame. For most animals this would present a problem. Not Maggie. She has found little crevices and cracks in the fence to dig her way out. I don’t know why she wants to escape so badly. She has a preeeettty good gig at Casa D.

Except she clearly doesn’t think so. She escaped a few weeks ago (I tweeted about it) and I was pissed. I ruined a lovely pair of dress pants and killed a few of my neighbor’s bushes and THEN I had to give Miss Mag a bath (which she HATES).

Today, as I was cleaning the bathroom, I let her outside. Stupid me. I went to check on her and she was gone. So I threw on a pair of shoes (my favorite flip flops. Yes, I’m aware it’s November. Shut up) and sucked it up to go look after her.

My neighbors very likely hate me. I feel like I’m always traipsing into their yard, looking for my stupid dog. today, no different. I walked through the icky, muddy swale and climbed over their recently placed plastic netting fence (to keep THEIR dogs out of the icky very back, natch, snagging my clothes on branches and ensuring that nothing back there can actually GROW  by stomping on them. All while I’m screaming “MAGGIE MAGGIE!” at the top of my lungs, which, if you paid attention before, you know would be useless because she doesn’t respond when she hears her name. At this point I have now completely ruined my pedicure and manicure, little burrs and branches are stuck in my hair and allllll over my leggings (I’m still picking them out) and I’m still minus a ten pound furry ball of misery (ok, she’s not a ball of misery. But I was pissed at her). I’m now running through random people’s backyards, tripping all over myself, branches hitting me in the face and tearing up my leggings (yes, they are now pretty much in shambles) and reaaaaallly mad that my nail polish is totally ruined. I FINALLY see Maggie and she sees me. However, she thinks its now a game, so I am looking like an asshole, chasing my (now muddy) dog in a stranger’s backyard, screaming at her to stop.

I’ll let you pause with that visual: Stacey, looking like a hot hot mess, burrs and mud in hair, ripped leggings, smudgy gross manicure and yelling at her little white dog to stop.

Finally, after some more yelling, I finally catch her and try to figure a way back to the house without hopping over a large fence, dog in hand (because there was NO way I was letting her down). I realize I have to go back through my neighbor’s yard (the one filled with mud and burrs and branches). I grumbled through, telling Maggie what a bad girl she is, and I trip. Yup. I TRIP. I end up on my ass in the mud. Getting up, my hair gets caught in a tree and I’m screaming. Maggie, thinking I’m hurt, starts barking. We are making quite the scene. I de-tangle myself (luckily Maggie did not run away this time) and in the process of trying to hop over the plastic netting, I BREAK MY FLIP FLOP.

RIP, flip flops. I’ll miss you.

And, of course, once she’s safely back inside, what’s the first thing she does?

Stands by the backdoor, begging to be let out.

Yeah, I don’t think so.

"What? What'd I do? By the way, your hair looks awful, Stacey. Burrs are so not a good look."

Thanks for advice, Mag.