The Recovering Introverts Society, Membership = 1

(Subtitle: "Like the Dead Poets, But With Better Handbags.")

I've droned on pontificated here before about the business of being a Recovering Introvert, that species defined as one who, left to her own shy devices, might be found hiding behind a book or laptop - or underneath a thank you note, as it were . . .

Yes, yes - it's the same photo as yesterday - live it, love it, note how the black & white + stationery obscures the (black) roots here. We're at Code Level Brunette here, folks. TSA has nothing on this panic level.

. . . but one who's also actively seeking to get better about, ya know, other new people. Old people - that is to say, friends I've known a long time, are fine in that I've had years to wear them down into tolerating me. A few moves later, and I'm learning that I can do this meeting new people thing too. You, for example, seem extremely nice.

*end reader arse-kissing*

This definition has come into play here at Pretty HQ, where I'm booked for a different social event every day this week (rare enough), culminating with a Vegas trip this weekend with a bunch of people I don't know well (rare rare - like, bleeding steak rare).

This schedule would be enough to send Old Me headfirst into my DVR'ed "Real Housewives" collection & the solitary comforts of the Pretty couch; new me, however, is happy about this new, busy normal. Don't get me wrong- there will be plenty of me time (ie, "spa","shopping" & "sleeping in") built into my weekend, but my happiness to meet new people is, for once, outweighing my anxiety about it & about leaving Master P & the Anonymous Husband for the weekend.

Plus, did you the spa/ shop/ sleep in bit? Funny how a girl can get friendly when faced with some Triple S time ("Triple S" somehow sounding racy whilst being the complete opposite).

(Not-So-) Guilty Summer Secrets

It is my sincerest wish that every last one of you imagines that I read "The Economist" and Dickens in my spare time, when I'm not otherwise expanding upon my extensive knowledge of opera and East Asian microfinance.

Alas, when left to my own summertime leisure devices (or any -time, for that matter), my tastes are admittedly a bit more, shall we say, pedestrian. Less "New York Times", more "US Weekly", if you will. That is to say, completely sketchy.

Having spent last summer engaged in the business of keeping a newborn and myself alive (which often seemed like mutually exclusive tasks), my leisure time was exclusively engaged in honing the art of napping. Oh, what a promiscuous napper - napper, I said; remove your minds from the gutter, pleaseandthankyou - I was, wantonly sleeping wherever & whenever I could.

Happily, this summer I find myself with a bit more sleep and time in which to get back to the business of the season. Though geography and mom duty prevent me from my beloved tradition of burning myself to a crisp by the ocean, other habits, such as my beachy reading, live on.

Here's what's on my summer 2011 bad habits list:

On the Pretty Trashy Bookshelf:

Let me preface this by clarifying that, at this very moment, I'm engaged in my annual "Pride & Prejudice" re-read. No, really. Pinky swear.


But - after I finish with that actual capital "L" Literature, I'm moving on - or down - to these:

Yes, young adult fiction (albeit by the Fug Girls) - because apparently I'm an adolescent both in maturity level & reading preference. (Photo Credit: Amazon)

I know, I know. But - pretty royal wedding pictures! Tabloid sludge! What's not to enjoy here? Photo credit: Amazon

In the Pretty Wine Fridge:

Because Pretty HQ is equipped with a wine fridge as befits a couple of card-carrying yuppies - who also belong to a wine club. Because that isn't First World privileged person behavior if I've ever heard of it.

Anywhoodle, as I learned over on the Waspy Redhead's lovely blog yesterday, I should probably be posting this sort of thing on "Wine Wednesdays"instead. Being timely isn't on my list of guilty pleasures, however, so I'm bringing you my summer favorite here:

Pacific Rim Columbia Valley Riesling, which I first learned of from reader, BFF & wine connoisseur, the International Woman of Mystery.

Here's what I know about wine, despite my yuppie credentials: (1) what I like and (2) what I don't like. So I won't bore you with "it has a note of this" blah blah & will leave it at this - it tastes expensive but isn't. Should run you $12-14 a bottle. Pairs well with trashy books. Speaking of...


In the Pretty Closet:

I finally did it. I Pippa'd:

This bag is classic, elegant, and big enough to store at least one trashy book. Plus, it's a purchase largely inspired by (trashy, needless to say) celeb magazine reading, so this otherwise high class closet entry is getting a hall pass to guilty summer pleasureland in my checkbook.


Am I missing anything in this trashy book/wine/fashion trifecta?

Signs You Are No Longer Dating, Friends Edition

My dearest twenty-something singleton friend just phoned with details of her latest wildly romantic escapade.  I'm talking bodice-ripper, scandalous yet soulful pirate on the romance novel cover level of escapade.  After a in depth dish session, she then asked what sorts of excitement I'd gotten myself into lately.

Having recently covered my tedious thirty-something basics - my job (fine), pets (fine), and mortgage (fine) - I signed off of the call shortly thereafter, resigned and, if I'm being honest, perhaps just a little sad.  Not that my friendship is by any means competitive, but our conversation reminded me that my days of calling friends to dissect the man du jour have come to an end.  

And then, not five minutes later, inspiration struck me - immature inspiration, admittedly, but inspiration nonetheless - as I grabbed my iPhone. Pulse racing, I snapped a picture, pressed "send", and breathed a sigh of relief as I realized that I haven't left all impulsive love affairs behind me along with my 20s.  

Readers, I sent my friend a photo of my new handbag.  Yes, handbag.  Because I may have happily promised some 2.5 years ago not to have any more romances with other people but, by God, I'm clinging to the right to love & cherish fashion which I find on sale, 'til death - or American Express - do us part.  

Edited to Add:  Here's the iPhoto of my thirty-something adolescence . . . 

Pretty, Preppy Picks, aka, Why You Should Be My Friend Instead of Paris’, Part Deux

Behold my impeccable taste in fetching, overpriced clothes!

Dear Saks, pretty please with a cherry on top put this fabulous dress on sale. It’s even called the “croquet dress”, and although I can’t tell a wicket from a windshield wiper, croquet gets my preppy seal of faux-sporting approval. Also, the waistline is like totally flattering for Miss Hips here. Therefore, I should own this dress. The End.

Loveyoumeanitlater,

Legallyblondemel