Blue Jean Lame(y)

One would think that a retailer dedicated to carrying solely designer denim would, in fact, carry said designer denim. This weekend I tried - for the third time - to find some new jeans at this neighborhood establishment called The Blues Jean Bar.

I guess the idea is pretty cool, in theory. Different brands and style are laid out on a bar and instead of beer (or in my case, cranberry juice) you belly up to the bar and make your request for brand, wash, and size. I imagine that ladies who lunch - the ones who don't pluck their own brows or buy their own tampons- would like this arrangement, but in general I like to be left alone when I shop. Who wants to shout out their size over a large sea of pants? Plus, I don't like to be watched as I paw things and then stare into space, picturing what I'd look like walking down the street listening to Dolly Parton on my Nano. Stop judging me, crazy jean ladies.

But I was still lured into this concept of only-jeans-all-the-time, so after an cursory trip a few months ago, I stopped in two weeks ago, ready to drop some cash. I was serious about giving these people my money, but after searching for what must be an extra hidden room with scads of merchandise and not finding one, I realized they didn't carry most of my favorite brands. The one brand I really wanted to try and they did carry (True Religion) was only available in sizes way too small or way too big. And they barely carried any dark washes. "Very light is very cool for summer," they told me. Thanks. But you're wrong.

They promised there would be a new shipment in a couple weeks, so this weekend I trudged back down the hill. Their selection was even smaller! Still no Citizens, still no James, still no Earnest Sewns. Huh? Their TR section was even scrawnier than before and I was once again promised "a new shipment in two weeks." I tried to branch out and pick up a couple brands I wasn't familiar with, but they, too, were out in my size. And when I expressed disappointment or bafflement, the cougar chicks who run the place just raised an eyebrow and continued to fold.

This place is b-a-n-a-n-a-s. It's like the cheese shop in that Monty Python sketch. No matter what I asked for it wasn't there.

Well, eh, how about a little red Leicester.
I'm, afraid we're fresh out of red Leicester, sir.
Tish tish. No matter. Well, stout yeoman, four ounces of Caerphilly.
Ah! It's beeeen on order, sir, for two weeks. Was expecting it this morning.

Anywho. Some of my favorite pants of late have been under $40 (pretty much free!) and from distinctly non-designer retailers. I don't want to make any dramatic claims about giving up pricey brands forever or anything, but I'm definitely ready to give cheap another chance. Designer denim is so 2004.

The Wheels On the Bus

I think I was born in the wrong time, I thought to myself this morning, riding the bus to work, slammed against the pole by a middle aged man's backpack. Because, seriously, what happened to the good old days when dudes gave up their seats for ladies?

Young, sturdy-seeming gentlemen will grab the seat I was about to take, as we chug up yet another mountain and I desperately cling to my life and dignity. I stare them down, trying to guilt them into standing up, with pitiful sighs and dramatic bag shifts, but it's yet to have an effect. They refuse to even look up from their books or work, pretending to ignore the tragedy unfolding before them, nonchalantly flipping through their iPod.

I'm making progress, though. Today an elderly woman offered me her seat as she exited the bus, dismissing the man closer to the seat who had been on the bus longer. Victory!

This Just In

I was well aware of the marketing campaign to change the name of prunes to "dried plums" but this newest tomfoolery I just spotted involves wrapping each prune individually like some sort of delicious candy. FYI, prune people: I don't like lies. Okay? That is all.

Flip This Cast

Not sure if there's any Flip This House fans out there, but there are some serious turnover issues going on with this program. It all started with a crew based in South Carolina, headed up by a dude named Richard Davis and his sidekick Ginger (whose, uh, wholesome charms reel in my boy's attentions). I got hooked on the southern twangs, the trumped up dramas, the Diet Coke chugging, and Richard's pleated pants. But then one day, my DVR popped up with some crazy cats in San Antonio doing their own flipping - with no word as to where my friends went! Diligent interweb research came up with only some vague references to "creative differences" between the SC crew and A&E. Hmm. Mysterious.

I wasn't yet over the disappearance of Richard and crew, but started to watch the new peeps with muted interest. But soon those folks were gone, too, replaced by an Atlanta crew. Who were quickly replaced with another Atlanta crew. Who have now been replaced with the most recent (I think?) iteration - a bunch of hot dudes (including some former NFL guy I'm sure non-theater types would know) in New Haven. I don't mind the eye candy, but what in God's name is going on? What is A&E asking of these people or vice versa that is causing all this nonsense and confusion to my DVR?

The only good news to come out of this disruption to my regularly scheduled programming, is a new show premiering this weekend on TLC. It's called The Real Deal and stars my old South Carolina friends presumably doing the same thing they were doing before. It's recording right now; I'll keep ya'll posted.

To B or Not to B

Okay, people. I may have lost it. Feel my forehead, because I'm actually considering the purchase of a Blackberry. I didn't think this day would come, but I also didn't think I'd be working in the (probably as un-corporate as it gets) corporate world. I experience small to large stabs of fear when I leave my computer behind for more than ten minutes. I buy my lunch at a light jog, making it back to my desk quick like a bunny and checking/replying to email throughout my sandwich chewing/cookie inhaling. I figure if I have a little obnoxious friend in my hands at all times I'll feel freer to maybe walk to lunch and/or chat with a coworker for a minute? Am I right or am I right?

There are a couple obvious downsides to the whole thing - you're never disconnected from the office etc. - but the most troubling to me is how much I'd have to cut down on the complaining I do about the boy's Blackberry (aka Crackberry aka The Other Woman). What will I do with all that spare time? I have been meaning to finish The Brothers Karamazov...

Where's Stanley Tucci When I Need Him?

I know Stacy London (Has anyone seen her new show? Keep your day job, sister.) would kick me for saying this, but I just can't make it through a work day in heels. Or any attractive shoe, for that matter. I spend most of my hours at the agency on my feet, and much of that time running up and down 5 flights of stairs. If I'm not wearing shoes with support and a sensible sole, I've got shin splints by noon. I'm happy to swap cheery feet for my new sitch, but I do miss looking not crazy.

I gaze longingly at the girls wearing wedges and pumps, their hair smooth and shiny, their makeup dewy and fresh; I'm straight-up Amy Version 14 (years old, that is). Black Chucks and a falling-out ponytail, my face dewy with sweat, tripping over my shoelaces. I'm hoping once I get the work stuff figured out I can break out my style, but for now it's last under my large piles of stickies. That and eating foods not from a vending machine.

It's Like 1992 When I Used Encyclopedias to Do My Homework

Turns out to blog you need a computer, something BJA doesn't possess at the moment. I'm currently at a 15-minute-limit computer at the public library ("San Francisco has those?" asked my boyfriend) and thought I'd drop in for a quick hello.

Tomorrow I start my new jobby job so that's exciting and tonight Sanjaya will take another stab at ruining my favorite guilty pleasure. Tune in and please don't vote.

Until I'm back on the Interweb...

BJA

Dear America

If you do not vote Sanjaya off this week I will be forced to make it happen myself. I will drive down to LA, steal him, drive away in my vdub, and drop him in places unknown. I don't even want the ransom, I just want him out of my face and ears for life. This brush with the law shouldn't be necessary, but you've forced my hand, America. You've forced it by making me listen to him ruin everything from the Kinks to No Doubt and by making me stare at that dead animal on his head week after week. Please keep me out of jail. Get him gone. I mean it.

Happily

We've got a Japantown here, so where's my Happily? I just read about this aptly named, for-females convenience store found only in Japan, and I wa-nt one - I want an everlasting gobstobber now.


This place is like the anti-7-11. It's got an all female staff, a smoothie bar instead of a hot dog bar (which, honestly, I would kind of miss) and one restroom for - yup - women only. No standing in line next to sketchy dudes eying my stuff, flowers on the sink- heck, I could walk barefoot ala Brit and not even raise a brow. Pick up a cali roll (health food vs. junk food), a new gloss (at the extensive cosmetic aisle!) and an O without Maxim up in your kitchen. I'd wander around this place for hours; it'd be my Cheers. And yet, I'm not. I'm still grabbing my Gatorade and Lil' Debbie cupcakes in coed squalor. Get on it, SF.

Yaz

Does anyone else feel like crawling inside their refrigerator when they see that commercial for - gag - Yaz? It lasts about 3 hours and takes place in a club, where one Carrie Bradshaw wannabe (who we're lead to believe is a medical professional) is lecturing her - surprisingly naive for their age - fellow CBWBs about birth control. It's whiny, condescending, and the whole thing is inexplicably dubbed like a Kung Fu movie. I think it's safe to say if your moving mouth doesn't match the words coming out of it, birth control should be the least of your worries.

I'd be hard-pressed to think of a prescription ad that I enjoyed, but this thing makes me embarrassed to be female. Although, I must say their interactive website - you can direct CB to her doctor's office, a cafe, or her apartment and then explore each room for tips - is, uh, something to behold.

American Apparel

When I first learned about American Apparel I was delighted. Bright colors, soft cotton, no labels, made for skinnies; it all exuded such sophisticated simplicity. And of course there was that socially responsible/no sweatshops/made in the USA thing.

I'd step in that store and cash would just fly out of my pockets. I couldn't get enough of the soft scoopnecks that fit my scrawny pipes or the skirts that invented a bum where none existed. After awhile, though, it simply lost its novelty.

If I want a plain t-shirt, why shouldn't I just hit Target and drop 10 bucks vs. 36? And I don't really need a moderately-priced, ill-fitting turtleneck in my closet. I'd rather spend a little more at Banana and have it look right. It's not cheap enough to buy in bulk nor quality enough to be expensive. And the holes and stretched-out necks might be hipster-approved, but I'm working towards becoming a professional woman, people. Maybe Kathie Lee was onto something?

What was once appealing about their sizing has become ludicrous; the undergarments, especially, are made for girls with no hips and their "one size fits all" selections are a joke. And, finally. The soft porn in the dressing rooms made me giggle my first time around, but now I just find it distracting. I have to avert my eyes to focus on my own booty shake and not Kiki's.

I still get sucked in when I want a bright colored item with a clean line, but they need to step up their game (show some love for curves, improve quality, find a more sensible price point, tone down the scandalous shots of strangers - are you listening AA?) if they want to win back my heart.

Couch Potato

Our couch is no good. It looks fine - creamy oatmeal, clean lines - but it's stiff, the cushions always move out from under me, and it doesn't fit the two of us unless one is lying down with one's (his) feet on the other (me). I also think it'd be nice to have a pullout, so when my East Coast peeps come out I don't have to throw them on the floor. They're usually so ugly, though. (The pullouts, not my friends.)

I found this today. Don't think it answers the comfy/space problem when folded up, but it looks snappy and makes me want to have a pajama party.

Now that's the way to watch Lost.

Half a Baby Ruth

I woke up today, saw half a Baby Ruth sitting on the counter, and picked it up for breakfast. I quickly dropped it in horror. Not because I shouldn't eat candy bars for meal substitutes, but because I shouldn't eat them with guilt. Which apparently means it's time for BJA to work out. I don't have a gym membership and Billy Blanks is too big for our apartment, so I thought I'd give running (!?) a try. I haven't done it since junior year of high school at soccer tryouts - and I do believe I quit those for ballet.

Some people avoid the gym to avoid the scrutiny of others, but I think the gym's a safe place. Everyone is so preoccupied with their sports bra indents, butt sweat, and the mysterious difference between the abductor and adductor, that there's no time left for judging.

The real danger zone, my friends, is the streets. And I'm not talking about construction workers and their impressive vocabularies. Women think the reason to stay stationary is these dudes. Eh. It's not water slide fun, but let's not pretend we don't deal with this on a daily basis. Whether we're running or ordering a pumpkin slice at Starbucks, it's just a fact of life. Personally, it just makes me run away faster as I'm hauling my lady lumps up these hills.

No, no. It's the chicks I'm afraid of. I see a cute, put-together chick in my path and I will backtrack faster than Tom from Katie's advances. And while I know she's silently judging herself for hiding her flab under designer jeans that pull the junk in, or eating that fourth plate of tapas last night, or driving to her colonic this morning instead of walking, it doesn't take the sting out of her icy stare at my tomato face and Walmart sweat pants.

But, I did it. Now where's that nougaty goodness...

BJA Recommends

McSweeney's - my trusty employer and the bringer of many good things - has a little section on their website called McSweeney's Recommends, which offers helpful suggestions on a vast array of topics. Definitely check it out - but not before you check out BJA Recommends, a new little feature I'm putting into test mode.

Here goes.

Old Navy jeans
They fit great, their lack of label keeps 'em guessing what mysterious designer brand you're rocking, and they steer clear of fake holes and frays. They're also under $40. Basically free!

Sleeping with a sleep mask
Slip one of those free airplane things on and you'll snag another two hours, I swear. Plus, you'll look a little like a Sugarbaker - never a bad thing.

Un Lun Dun
A young adult fantasy novel about a girl exploring a secret city underground London. Just started, but promises to be spooky and fantastic. I'll keep you posted.

Nature Valley Sweet and Salty Peanut Granola Bars
I ate hundreds of these during play rehearsals last spring and rediscovered them a couple weeks ago. Run, don't walk, to pick them up. Crack in a box.

Heated seats
Having a warm bum is entirely underrated.

Aim High, Ladies

There is this sitcom that airs after my daily Frasier repeats (my new obsession - I never got involved during its 35 year run so imagine my glee when I realized I'm in love and have 300,000 episodes to watch in outdated bliss!) called Still Standing. This show is the WOR-st. It has that now-accepted setup of Fat Husband and Hot Wife, which I find ridiculous and offensive and also sort of personally frightening. He's always bumbling around, yelling at the game and doublefisting beers while she gives him stale sass, and covers up his domestic blunders. Not exactly the shoot-for-the-stars message I'm looking for whilst eating a Butterfinger and job hunting in my underwear.

Who watches, much less enjoys, this nonsense? There was actually an episode on today (I caught the beginning - just the beginning!) about the Fat Husband not wanting the Cool Teenager to go to therapy because that was "admitting your problems to a stranger." I think this was supposed to be touching in a blue collar sort of way, but again - following Frasier? Who is in charge of programming at this station?

In a related note, but noted with a much kinder keyboard, there's a current contestant on American Idol who is...husky and teetering on cartoonish, but has (to his surprise as much as ours) snagged a hot blond wife. For some reason, this warms my black heart instead of making me crumble my Butterfinger in rage. Go figure.

But I Still Don't Like Hugs at the End of the Half Hour

Either it's my recent move to the headquarters of Wake Up San Francisco or my recent you're-definitely-an-adult-now birthday or a combination of the two, but lately I find myself slowly morphing into Danny Tanner.

You know sometimes when you're by yourself watching Arrested Development or Spinal Tap or even HGTV for that matter, and you catch a glimpse of yourself in the window and realize you have a huge, creepy smile on your face? That happened to me today when I went down to the mailbox and received my first issue of Living. I'm frightened by the domestic bliss I felt.

Yesterday I manically DustBusted every inch of my apartment, foam at the corners of my mouth. It was like that spooky song in Sweeney Todd (I know, I know obscure musical references border on torture, but humor me) where Sweeney goes on and on about the razor being an extension of his arm. That was the DustBuster and me. We were one.

When I get back to my car (that's Jack-Jack to you) after leaving it for awhile, I notice new specks of dirt on it. I actually reenact Danny's little schtick from the show's intro when he's wiping down his car and smiling like an idiot.

The only thing left is snagging my own talk show. And John Stamos moving in. I'm working on it.

Ten Things I Learned in Tahoe

1.) It's not against the law to wake up at 8 a.m. while on vacation.

2.) "Snowboarding" actually means snowboarding, not sipping fluff-filled hot chocolate by a crackling fire, holding hands, and gazing into each other's eyes.

3.) Confirming popular belief, instructors use the word "totally" as a substitution for all affirmative exclamations. Example? Me: "I can't do this!" Him: "Totally. I mean - you totally can."

4.) There are no rules on the slopes; there are "responsibilities". I'm not sure what these exactly are, although I think one of them entails screaming out tips ("Hey! Keep your back straight!") while you pass talented, but perhaps very slow, learners.

5.) In the words of our instructor, my boyfriend is "the best student I've ever had" and "the most natural student I've ever had" as well as "the most incredible student I've ever had."

6.) Really old people go skiing. According to the ones sitting next to me at lunch, they're also really into racing each other, but "let the slow ones win."

7.) If you scream "OW! My knees are BROKEN!" while mountain rescue people speed past you, they won't stop. I'm not sure what they're specifically looking for.

8.) Those bib-style pants I used to wear when I was 12 are pretty fetching, but tend to ride up in places that aren't polite to discuss in mixed company.

9.) My new hero is a 5 year old girl who yelled at her meddling father: "YOU! Get out of my way so I can see what I'm doing. NOW."

10.) Guns don't kill people. Strategically placed trash cans kill people.

The Best of the Rest

Enough, American Idol, enough. As with Ms. Spears, I spend valuable free time defending you to the educated and cynical masses, but I'm seriously considering changing my vote - so to speak.

For the fourth week in a row you are presenting me with the most vile programming this side of VH1's Best of the 90's series. FYI, Simon Fuller: hours upon hours of auditioning fools does not a good television show make. I was jazzed to think this week we'd finally advance to Hollywood and the beginning of the actual competition, but alas, no. Last night we were treated to more special friends singing their faces off in San Antonio (a hotbed of hidden vocal talent, I'm sure) and tonight there's an auditions finale called "The Best of the Rest". As if an entire month of this shizz were not adequate (Adequite? Adiquite? Damn you, Lohan!) and we're just thirsting for an ineptly edited montage of "Black Horse and the Cherry Tree".

I've never blindly erased AI from my DVR without a second glance, but I did so last night. And I will continue to do so until I see a strong turnaround from my good friends behind the table. But meanwhile...Josh Holloway and his dimples are back in Oahu tonight and my thumb is firmly fixed on the rewind button.

Back in Love Again

I had just about sworn off Britney. What with her renewed interest in Marbies, those inexcusable nappy extensions, her sudden conversion to Judaism after dating the spookiest guy since K Fed (Did ya'll see his commercial during the Superbowl? Comedy gold.) and no Jayden James sightings, I couldn't see a reason for my undying support to continue.

But then this popped up and I fell hard. Again. How can you resist a chick worth a supposed 100 mill who wants to pump her own gas, but doesn't know how? And pees (multiple times) in the pit of scum that is a gas station bathroom? What about that cute little shuffle/jog she does? Or how she puts on the paparazzi dude's coat? Swoon! What doesn't kill us makes us stronger, Brit. I think we might be together forever.

Blush: I Wish I Needed It

The title pretty much says it all.

Most women have one type of makeup they refuse to leave the house without. For my grandmother it's lipstick. For my mother it's blush. Growing up, blush was the only makeup I ever saw her religiously apply before facing the wilds of small town Massachusetts. So to me, blush = necessary to grownuphood. The little brush and the little mirror and the chalky smell and the swirly circular application that must be finessed - such a complex little universe! But sadly, unless something is terribly wrong with my health or sleep, I tend to look a bit like Mary Poppins.

At summer camp, this fellow Mean Girl and I once read another camper's diary. I know, I know. But I'm sure we had a really good reason. On one of the pages she listed everyone in the cabin with a quick description following their name. "Heidi: Funny. Jess: Quiet. Amy: Rosy cheeks." That's it?! That's all I got? La-ame.

I've tried many times to deny the truth of the matter. I read beauty blogs about blush and ask other people what they use. I try to figure out if I have cool or warm undertones to match the shade to my skin. I apply powder to my face to make it paler so then I can make my cheeks pink on top of it. Pathetic.

Recently, I bought the blush I've spent hours reading about, a Nars blush called Orgasm, aptly named for the lovely fresh-faced glow I imagine it gives the user. I like to open the container, barely touch the brush into it and swirl it onto my cheeks just to make me feel all growed up. But this won't cut it long term, so I'm working up a pitch for Nars or Almay or - lawd - even Wet 'n Wild if they'll take it: a blush that looks pink but goes on clear, with tiny mirror, little cute brush, and chalky smell intact. Kind of the equivalent of candy lipstick, but without the calories. Brills.