True Love is Toxic...and Finally Edited and in One Piece!

My Lucky Keds

Today I couldn't stop thinking about my past (and extremely limited) romantic life. I can't claim ten million boyfriends like Paris Hilton, or even a husband like my mom. I had a 'boy-friend' pre-middle school, but the worst we could manage in secret was holding hands then dropping the grip because of how sweaty they had become. If we really got ‘racy’, we'd even take a walk to the drinking fountain in the hall when no adults were around. I ‘remember’ going out forever, like five whole months (a real record breaker) then one night, the boy came to me and asked out of the relationship, I happily said yes. I was too stressed out what if we were caught? I might get spanked or my new book taken in punishment. No boy was worth that mess. 

Well, that was pre-middle school. A bygone era, I'm a different human now; all that remains is the same thick German nose and my curly brown mop of a hairstyle. I am a displaced, unprepared fool trying to navigate high school with nothing but an elementary school education on fleeting young romances. They say, "Nothing ever prepares you like working in the field.” All I can say is, ‘amen’. Falling into such a crush for me was like being dropped into a vat of toxic waste. A real eye-watering experience if you ask me.
I was given the chance to go far away the summer of my seventeenth year, all by myself. So after kissing my family goodbye, giving my plane ticket to a large, black woman somehow managing to look dazzling in a airport uniform, and skipping down the lines in my lucky purple Keds, I pulled my lumpy green luggage down the way and eagerly awaited my plane. My adventure (in my current state of mind) had nothing to do with true love, or finding it for that matter. But even in my pseudo runaway-state of mind, I couldn't help but notice the cowboys when my plane landed in Dallas. I had an hour to scurry around the airport to pass the time. I found my waiting area and plopped down and chowed into a ridiculously-end-of-the-world-priced vegan turkey club and a gallon of icy water (which was a mix-up at the Shoppe I'd bought it from, and another story involving a delusional Armenian with cute earrings.) when....I finally was able to view the people about to fly into the tiny Colorado Springs Airport (my final destination). I figured the majority of the tanned teens to be going to the same place as me. A small mountain hotel and hidden tourist gem with ice cream shoppes galore, I knew I was going to love it here.
True love sometimes strikes like a tiger, snatching a small baby deer with its teeth and ripping its head off. Yes, I have come to the truthful conviction that love, is a violent action with teeth, quite capable of gorging.  Love hit me slowly. I just felt like using that frank metaphor even though it has zip to do with my own experience. But if quick love is all that terrible, slow love is like peeling a band aid off of a festering wound after three days in the heat; much worse than a two second death. Love was like that. Only for me, it left an infection and other costly complications. Thankfully no amputation was needed and I recovered to my present state of madness.

On with the darn story you shout. Okay, okay, okay.

I had settled into my room, met my adorable, wilderness-loving roommate whose name was Angela, and I couldn't help but drool out my 19th century window at the mountains and the beautiful little swirls covering them that I assumed to be trails and small roads. A good setting for a story, I probably thought as I walked down the thousands of stairs to the old dining room straight out of Bonanza. I ate something delicious that I cannot remember for the life of me, listened to a boy play the piano better than anyone I'd ever heard live and silver clattering and glasses sloshing. The sun was setting and unlike the weather back home, it was cool enough to don a jacket.

Dinner was over and we (the students) met in the 'classroom' for an introduction and our directions for our next two weeks. I met my classroom mates, including the imaginary person to my left (I sat on an edge and so I only had a right seat buddy) whom I fondly renamed twenty million times in the days that followed. The sweet guy who sat behind me had a silly laugh that was extremely contagious, and the young man who sat at my right, a lanky, early-morning riser claimed he flew a Cessna in his spare time. I was happy just to be there; the people at that time, a bonus.  I had met several at the airports and had even sat next to a cute long-legged swimmer from up North (very nice, and he made quite an excellent body guard) and wasn’t at all disappointed with the great personalities of the teens around me.
The students were piling in, laughing and looking not at all jet-lagged. I was immersed in a people watching parade and then suddenly, as the bell rang one last time as a warning, “it” happened.  “It” being the event that would surely have a domino effect on my mind and cause me to fall into some real live love. A frail girl with short little legs had tripped and fallen straight on her face in the aisle. I gasped and jumped up to help her, only someone else had gotten to her. A very tan young man with a white smile was helping her to her feet, he set her in her chair and bent back down to gather her things. He smiled at her (in a strictly non-flirtatious way) and walked to his own seat in the row next over. I smiled his direction and hoped for a glance in my direction. Lady Luck was on my side; the handsome gent smiled my way and sat down. During the talk given by the camp staff, he gave a tissue to the geek blowing his nose behind him, a pencil to the pretty girl sitting beside him, and thoughtfully watched and listened. He didn’t text a single message, didn’t become distracted. I found this very, very attractive.

They (those overly-wise, probably dead old quote-maker-uppers) used to say, "When you meet the woman of your dreams, time stands still." and for some this is probably true. For the majority of the universe, a real connection is usually made through conversation. People have to talk to fall in love, I believe. You may casually glance at some wandering passerby and drool, but what is drool to love? For me, I view a man's possibilities in the way he writes and his focus during a face to face conversation. His eyes have to be stuck; no meandering around for goodness sakes! So when Mr. Kind finally unglued himself from the cute acts of the staff at the hotel (they were explaining the rules through skits) he began to look around again.

I let my left eye wander, and my right was keeping careful observance of the Cessna Dude who was happily scribbling a smiley face on my right hand. Mr. Kind was looking STRAIGHT at me. Both eyes shot forward, my face turned rose and I screwed up Mr. Flying Artist's face when my hand shot forward and clutched my pen. My breathing sped up so much, the nice guy behind me leaned forward, and inquired if I was having a mild heart attack. I assured him I was fine, as fine as a soon-to-be-married girl can be, I guess.

Now, you may be laughing at me right this very moment. I am too. Now. Then it was like one of those old black and white films that occasionally get stuck in the middle of a crazy passionate kissing scene. I couldn’t move an inch. The tanned Mr. Kind smiled at me as I looked back a second time and I quickly realized, he'd been looking my way the entire length of my wannabe-heart attack. He turned his head and began listening to the speaker again. I continued to stare. My mama used to say staring was rude and I shouldn't even think about doing it. My mama also almost named me after Luke Skywalker (1. Had I been a boy and 2. Don't bring this up when she's around, she'll just ardently deny it 3. And promise you that it was after my Grandfather). The moral of this small story is to listen to parents. Listen to parents and love them, even when they barely escape naming you after a Star Wars Character. My staring wasn't an act of rebellion, but an act of an uncontrolled neck twitch which I have recently acquired. A very unfortunate circumstance that was thankfully quick to mend.

Then it clicked like a pair of scissors coming together. Two WHOLE weeks. I had two whole weeks to find out where this guy was from, what he wanted to do for his life's career, when he wanted to set the wedding date, our kid's names, whether or not his mother liked hopelessly sappy romantic writers who eat raw bananas and mint leaves for fun? I suddenly felt blessed, and I realized the speaker had finished talking several minutes ago and I was almost the last student sitting in the classroom. I frantically searched but to no avail; my happy little boy person was gone.

"Hello, where are you from?" I snapped my attention to the voice in front of me. Nothing but green. I looked up. Still nothing but green. A little higher and bingo, I finally could talk. 

"Missouri-The Show-Me State where we really have nothing that great to show...." I'm not exaggerating; the guy was ten feet tall and had the look of a bandit. His green shirt was the length of the Amazon River stretched out and pinned, like a dead beetle on a Science board. Oh, double metaphor; sweet.

We chatted and suddenly the bell rang and Mr. Towering Bandit (who had undoubtedly grown another foot during our conversation) ran off. He hadn't been the deep conversation type; in fact, he seemed so anxious to go rob a hemp store or some unfortunate business.

I picked up my pen bag and fluffed my seat cushion and walked slowly towards my wing of the hotel. My mind completely stuck on Mr. Kind and how nicely he had reached out to help the poor frail girl (okay, I was slightly concerned that the young man I had just talked to was not of strong moral character....) and I was looking down at my toes, they seemed very uncomfortable in my Keds and in need of some oxygen and maybe even a glass of water. Poor dears, I was thinking as I walked into a brick wall. I, of course, stepped back and raised my face. The brick wall was Mr. Kindness; in front of me, smiling this ridiculously goofy smile (chiseled chin and all) and opening his mouth to speak.

Now imagine an American high school boy who is always slumping and suddenly his fiercest and most terrifying teacher leaps in front of him. What happens? Well his spine cracks as he straightens up at the speed of lightning. A very unattractive noise and a slightly embarrassing action. I'm not sugar-coating my story, so in truth, I did just that. I composed myself as quickly as I could without dying and smiled a half-smile (I couldn't seem toooo eager). 

"Why hello, I'm A-"

"Nice to meet you!" I jumbled into the conversation, cutting him off. He smiled a little deeper. We started to chat, my nervousness wore off and I could talk with utter ease. He was so nice and his eyes were glued on mine, he was the poster child for my theories on love. Forget his looks, the boy could talk intelligently. Okay, let’s not forget his handsome, rugged looks. He informed that he was from California and I automatically assumed him to be :(1) a surfer, (2) wealthy beyond all reason, and (3) probably a heathen...but none-the-less, very attractive heathen. He said goodnight as the warning bell rang, and he turned and walked up the stairs.

After sloppily wandering up to the fourth floor of the old hotel to my room, I dropped into bed and lay staring up at the bottom of the bed (please, do not be confused; the bottom of the bunk bed above mine) and noticed scribbling from all the fallen girls before me who had apparently slept in this very place. I found the words haunting and utterly romantic, being carved or written in permanent marker; especially the ones that followed.

I love you Jake with all my heart
I love you James with all my soul
Redheads are beautiful people
Mike Adams is cool (Yes, this one seemed out of place)
I (heart) Thomas and George
www.savethestorks.com  
I (heart) mancakes and Thor
I (heart) Reese with all my (heart) and I hope we will be married (heart)
Ronald Reagan rocks my sox

But what confused me the most was You are all mine Mary! Either it was the fact that a boy had also slept here (ew), or the fact that he was creepily saying, "YOU ARE ALL MINE."....or the creepy fact that it could have been a girl….disturbing the words you find written under beds. I began to think as only I can think; I wonder if my Mr. Dreamboat is writing to me from under his bed. I imagined such doodles as, I love you my beautiful, quirky, slightly confused about life, girl-I-met-five-minutes-ago and I hope we will be married and get matching tattoos. Talk about the man for me.

I tried to sleep but I couldn't; this guy was just amazing. My mind began to skip ahead; what about the fact that he was obviously from far away and I was from far away (but far away from another direction), and the fact that I wasn't exactly of the legal age to be married.  People say that long distance relationships are shots in the dark because they never work and you always end up fantasizing about him/her; making them out to be some amazingly   cool/beautiful/intelligent/angelic being. I think that theory is preposterous and should be evaluated with a truckload of salt. This would never happen between myself and Mister Kindness; our relationship was simply too sound.

Finally, my mind was so full of ideas, dreams, and mostly estrogen that I felt like a brown paper bag. At two in the morning, a love sick girl who is so terribly in love that she feels like a brown paper bag, can do naught but sleep a restless, toss full sleep. Of course I dreamed about 'My Guy' and the dream may or may not have involved a sky blue convertible with the top down and lots of xoxoxoxoxoxoxo. Strictly girl stuff and all, nothing guys would like; apparently perfect rot to them. I woke up and smelled bacon frying and literally leaped from my bed, over my roommate, brushed my teeth, straightened my hair, and dappled with some makeup all in less than thirty seconds. Rushed downstairs, holding my breath and ready to basically spring myself upon Mr. Kinds and maybe fake a good faint (so he could catch me)......as I rounded the corner my heart stopped beating.

Mr. Kindly was sitting outside on the deck, shirtless, laughing with some other guys and flipping through his Bible. I glanced in the mirror and surveyed my appearance; my nose looked smaller, my hair wasn't killing anyone, my eyes actually looked pretty and my nails were clean. Time to go in for the killing. I poked my head out the door and smiled a toothy smile (not the best thing to do so early in the morning) and tried to start breathing again.
The plan was to walk out, say ‘good morning’ and then start to walk back inside, at which point I would then faint.

Apparently when that strange ware wolfish dude in Twilight took off his shirt in the movies, the first reaction was as follows:
"He's SOOOO hot."
"He's MINE!"
"MARRRRY me! Now!"

And a general screeching and yelling that caused massive headaches for miles. When I saw a slightly-clothed, Mr. Kind sitting in the morning sun, flexing naturally just to breathe.....my ability to think, breath, or reason shrunk from all reason. But I didn't cause massive chaos or scream "He's SOOOO hot." At least not aloud.... He was too much and I was just too in love and I still had thirteen whole days with my tanned, kindly guy. I wasvery excited, maybe a bit too excited, because as I 'casually' walked outside towards him, I found myself on top of him. I was stammering apologies, murmuring something about a demon cat and a sudden gust of unexpected wind. He smiled ridiculously much and helped me up and said he wasn't in the least, injured.

Suddenly a cute voice chirped delightfully, “Aaaaron baby...." I think I made a noise between a tortoise being stuffed and an armadillo being scraped across icy pavement. My little heart started to sputter, like am out-of-gear stickshift on an incline. Then I saw Her. My heart broke, my mind slightly snapped, and….

"Yeah Babe?" he said looking away from me and towards the steps. A beautiful girl, thin like a piece of chalk, hair fluttering about in her face, catching on her lip gloss like a spider web on sweaty skin. She was wearing a silly pink get up with the words 'PINK' plastered across her shapely rear. I frowned and lifted a bushman eyebrow higher than humanly possibly, listening to the conversation playing out before me.

"Are you ready to go, Honey Pie?" she sung.

"Just coming, my Foxy Lady," and he turned back to me and said, "See ya later, kid."

I’m not usually the type to strike people, or make their noses bleed or pluck out their eyeballs. Usually being the key word here in this instance my eyes went black, my nose turned into a witchy spiral, my fingernails grew several inches and I pounced on Mr. Kindly. The girlfriend ran screaming towards her cute little pink Porsche, and Mr. Evil Aaron lay gasping for breath on the ground. I simply turned and walked inside, following my nose towards the crispy smell of breakfast bacon. As I walked away, the very tall bandit man suddenly appeared and offered me his arm, which seemed to be the length of Route 66. Not all was lost.

 The Moral of THIS story: ALWAYS eat bacon. It just makes everything better.

I Became A Vulcan

Laurel: Age 7 + Mr. Fluffy

Have you ever had such a terrible dream that left you panting, sweating, and swarming in terror? When I was a little girl I'd have nightmares every night, and I'd always end up running to my mum's room. Jumping on my parents bed, almost assassinating my father and causing my mum to spring up at the speed of a Monster-crazed kangaroo. "Mum! Mum! They (foggy loss of memory here) tried to tickle me to utter death and then they shot me with a flaming arrow." So, I had a rough childhood and even now I still get antsy in the dark, by myself, and sometimes I can swear that I see little ugly monsters coming down from my ceiling at night; pretty awful. But as time goes on, and I grow up and my nightmares have changed. They're still a little harrowing but now they are on a totally different subject. Failed matchmaking attempts, nerds coming after me with knives because they were too geeky to match, girls in teal puffy dresses that just wouldn't listen to me, and my father screaming, 'You can't date till your fifty two years old!' .......
You get my picture. Nightmares.

Laurel: Age 17 + Mr. Fluffy

Anyway, lately, I have been having the most odd reoccurring nightmare...

I awoke (in my dream) lying on a park bench in Paris, a pink balloon tied to my hand and a box of chocolates at my side. The balloon's ribbon was digging into my wrist and after opening the box, I discovered it to be empty; naught but wrappers. The sky was gray and the sun was covered up by a storm cloud. The street was empty and all the windows were shut tight. The street was silent and I could see Fleur De Lis everywhere, an old French symbol of murder & crime. And like the turning on of a light, my sight went black and white.

I tried to call out and see if anyone was around, but my voice was gone and instead, little glossy bubbles of sparkling pink soap came sputtering out. No words just bubbles and they weren't sweet bubblegum bubbles but nasty soap. Like having your mother clean out your mouth for saying a bad word. A continual sense of punishment and the sky was getting a darker gray by the minute.

I started to walk, not looking around, just walking. Sending little bubbles out, and then popping them.  Do you know that feeling one gets when someone is about to jump on them? The hair stands up on your arms and her neck prickles. I rounded a corner and found myself at the foot of Eiffel Tower.

Up until this point I realized I had not had a positive emotion towards anything I'd seen. I was finding myself very derogatory. It was not until I saw an actual person that I realized what exactly had been stolen from me.

I heard a noise that was very unpleasant to my ears, like metal hay scratching glass. I held my ears and tried to shout 'Stop!' but all that came out was bubbles and I almost gagged on the strength of the soap. A very tall man had slid down the side of the Tower beside me and was smiling directly at me. He looked like an idiot, and his clothes were too perfectly pressed.

"My name is Christian." He said, his eyes were much too dark and I frowned at the sound of his voice.
"Go away." Inside I stopped and slapped myself inwardly. Laurel! My inward voice shouted so loudly I was sure he'd heard. What are you thinking? It's Christian Bale and he's saying 'Hello"....and you're just standing here like an idiot. Hello Girl! I swallowed and tried heard to be.....interested in this random guy standing in front of me.
"Want to go for some coffee?" he asked, apparently unaware of my insulting reply to his introduction. I snorted and replied, "I have better things to do." I suddenly realized I could talk without bubbling, but the taste was still there. Darn girl, no coffee break? 


Suddenly, like a jungle rain storm Bale was gone. I laughed and told my Inner Voice, "I have better things to do." I cannot believe that you just did that. You're insane. I laughed again and started to skip, in a blink of an eye I was  on a busy street in London.

Cute guys walking straight at me, and nothing made me inclined to smile. I'd lost any positive reaction towards life, and my hopeless romantical sappy way of being towards guys was gone. I had been deprived of my ability to have a crush and the worst part, I wasn't crushed at all. I was happily skipping. But deep down my little Inner Voice was very sad. For the Hopeless Romantic to lose her Hopelessly Romantic self is like making a Nutella sandwich without the Nutella and no one notices or cares. I had basically become a Vulcan, a total loss of affection + sunny side upness was zip. Gone like the wind.

I had been skipping along, head down, blowing soap bubbles down into the dirty black street. I bumped into a very tall person and looked up, ready to blow some soap into their eyes.
A young Harrison Ford, right off the Star Wars lot, still dressed in the nerdy attire of the shoot.

Victim 

Murder Weapon

He winked his famous wink and I should have melted but I simply raised and eyebrow. Then I promptly took out an umbrella and stabbed him to death. I wiped my umbrella on his white shirt and grinned, an evil grin and walked on in the black and white rain. My Inner Voice had shut off like a faucet and I heard the noise of a TV turning on. Then I felt sad, slightly guilty, and very much alone and a deep voice said, 'The End'. I woke up in my bed, not panting for breath and sweating, just very sad and terrified.

What a horrible black, white, and loveless world. I went about my morning task, but even as I brushed my teeth I could still feel the soapy taste. I had been forced into being a....(gasp) an Unromantic.

What a nightmare!

I (Heart) Vintage

Every year growing up, I would promise myself I'd learn to sew. Time after time, summer after summer, I put off the task of educating myself in the ways of the seamstress. Now I am an old gal of eighteen and cannot sew hardly a button. Though I do like to dream and drool over other people's tasteful creations.

So, sit back and help yourself to some chai and please, enjoy this small slideshow of what I would sew "If" I could sew.

Shop Reinvintage

Talk about some style. 

Check out Modcloth & Enjoy!

I give full permission for you
to buy this for me!

Pretty Sassy Stuff

Etsy!

Lace Affairs

And last but not least, a true vintage clothing store all at your finger tips. Only the darn site wouldn't let me advertise! Free advertising and still no takers. Hahaha.

Please, enjoy, and end me all the cute dresses you want!

Pride & Parody

A recreation of Jane Austin's precious love story. 

Mr. Michael Matthews III & Lacy Anne (Part One)

Dear Friend,
I recently was hired for the most amazing job and I will never forget it. Never. I was taught that love (the right kind) was built for survival. Lady Gaga once said that she doesn't believe in any One True Love (and then she contradicts herself a sentence or two later in saying I believe in Soul Mates) and she thinks multiple partners are the way to go. Phooey on her, I told myself. After the miracle I saw a week ago, I believe in one true love and I believe that no man should be alone. Even the grumpiest, scroogiest men. Like Mr. Michael Matthews, hardened business man with billions squeezing out his nose pores and nothing but a gold cane and a hallow heart.

Mr. Michael Matthews III

I received a call early one morning last week and was told the following:

"Meet me at the bridge in Central Park at noon. For just showing I'll give you an advance of twenty thousand. Be there young whipper snapper or...." and he went into a hacking, coughing state, unable to speak. The line clicked and I leaned back into my plushy seat and weighed my option. It was time to call my new secretary in and ask for his brilliant, intelligent reasoning.

Jon Yon: Fashion Designer at Yale. Single and Straight. 

"Come in Yon, I need your reasoning skills." I said over the intercom.
"Yes Ma'am?" He said, smoothing his tie.
"I have been offered a substantial amount in lieu of simply meeting a gentleman. I could also be meeting my death, especially with all those threats I've been getting from those angry anti-romantic mobsters..."Yon looked thoughtful and placed his small hands together. He bowed and said, "I shall have my brother tail you, he's excellent in the body guard business." I smiled, I love my connections.
"Good thinking Yon. Sounds like a bonus to me." I winked and he escorted himself out and began to call his brother over his earpiece.

I dressed accordingly in spy attire and chose the perfect  pair of boots. Time to go to work, but first-to meet this brother in the bodyguard business....

I got quite the deal when I was in Japan last...

Yon's Brother, Won

Yon's brother Won, showed up on the street next to my car thirty minutes later. I couldn't help but notice his excellent.....gun (s).

He didn't speak a word as we climbed into my discreet car and drove off towards the park and my next big bucko bucks job.

He dropped me off at the park and walked towards the bridge, Won circled the park, gun in hand. An old man was standing at the end of the bridge, I could smell the grouch from ten feet away'; an evil old spinst. He waved his cane at me and said,
"Will you accept my job offer?" he asked, snarling.
"I.."
"Yes or No. Ten million."
My eyes grew so wide they gave me a headache. That was a load of cash. I could buy a ton of stuff, a new house, a new car, a horse, and my all time biggest want.....

Jet Pack!

Or a small island...the list goes on and on. No danger could be so great? Hm. Life is for the daring risk takers who own jetpacks. I was in.
"Yes sir!" We shook hands and the old man led me to a picnic bench to discuss the affair.

He began in a slightly different voice, old, weathered, and extremely sad.
"When I was 27.." I laughed aloud. Whoops. He raised an eyebrow and continued. "I had the most beautiful girl...."

"I truly love her and I had a chance long ago to keep her. I didn't take it because I pursued money and fame instead and now, look at me!" I did and the image was disturbing. I started to count the man's warts. I nodded in a daze. 22. I now knew someone who was a world record holder for warts. Woopty doo.

He went on to tell me the following story....

Mr. Matthews was just Mike at the time and his love, a beautiful girl by the name of Lacy.

Lacy Anne

The day had been a chilly October day and they were in the park. Mike was leaving for a Europe business trip and Lacy wanted to come with him and marry him. He said no, he didn't want a single distraction because if this business deal went, he would be richer than a pot of gold. Lacy begged and begged, and Mike just sighed and said, "I'll be late for my flight." She started to cry as he kissed her goodbye and left her.

"I boarded that plane and left for Europe, before I could come back I was stuck in the War. She wrote letters for several months (all of which I still have) but then they stopped. I came back four years later, alone, rich from my business endeavors."

By then, Lacy was gone and I couldn't find and to be honest, I didn't try. I was too darn ashamed!" I had started to tear.
"What can I do about that Mr. Matthews?" I asked leaning forward. I was truly interested.
"I want you to change my mind and tell me not leave for Europe." He said with a glint.

Look for Part 2! Coming soon!

I'm Going to Be a Princess.....

We as Christians do not celebrate Halloween, but we do enjoy dressing up at social events this time of year! I have decided to be your complete guide  to what to dress up as!

Here are my suggestions:

Audrey Hepburn:

Key Essentials: a long cig holder, a little black dress, an updo, and make sure you work those dramatic eyes!

Coco Chanel

Strings of pearls, a short stylish sweep hairstyle, and of course, a black dress.

Agent 99, dress as a Spy

Sport an undercover jacket, a short bob, and add a spicy 60's dress underneath. Don't forget your gun.

Esther, go Bible Babe

What an honour! Add eastern bling and some dark eyes, a full dress with lots of flow. Of course gold, silver, rubies, and diamonds!

Mary Todd Lincoln, wife of the prez

A beautiful Dr. Quinn-style dress with some flowers, make sure to pack your hoop skirt!

The Indian Princess, Pocahontas

Long hair, lots of dark long hair, a scampy little deer-skin dress and a blue feath necklace with pendant, maybe a pouch and of course, a talking racoon.

Snow White (maybe you'll be lucky enough to find seven men to follow you around in beards and hunting attire.

Carry a bluebird, sing into wells, and bake pies.

Taylor Swift

Depends on what Swift persona you're attempting, but dye your hair blond and croone with an accent

Dr. Quinn; Medicine Woman

A western skirt and blouse, boots, and a doctor's bag, a braid really completes the image....and a tanned, buff, rugged, mountain man.....

Queen Elisabeth II

Crown, millions in jewels, and some red lips!

Dear Reader:

These are the first ideas to come to my poor dilapidated mind. If you don't approve of my ideas, just Google Coolest Holloween Costumes Ever, and voila, you get half naked guy in a pizza box, Eve (very sketchy..), and the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Of course, if none of these really spark your imagination....you can ALWAYS dress up as me. Laurel Bader.

Ingredients for Laurel Costume:
1. a tattoo of Laurel Hearts Keaton on the left arm.
2. bow earrings made from silver
3. bugbites, scrapes, scars, and scabs on every inch of your legs
4. a hopeless, dreamy, distracted state of eyes.
5. And last but not least, no shoes.





Urban Dictionary Definitions of a Hopeless Romantic

A Hopeless Romantic This person is in love with love.They believe in fairy tales and love.They're not to be confused as stalkers or creepy because that's not what a hopeless romantic is. All hopeless romantics are idealists,the sentimental dreamers,the imaginative and the fanciful when you get to know them.They often live with rose colored glasses on.They make love look like an art form with all the     romantic things they do for their special someone.

My Sad Ever Afterly

After sloppily wandering up to the forth floor of the old hotel to my room, I dropped into bed and lay staring up at the bottom of bed (please, do not be confused; the bottom of the bunk bed above mine) and noticed scribblings from all the fallen girls before me who had apparently slept in this very place. I found it haunting and utterly romantic, being carved or written in permanent marker; especially the ones that followed.

I love you Jake with all my heart
I love you James with all my soul
Redheads are beautiful people
Mike Adams is cool (Yes, this one seemed out of place)
I (heart) Thomas and George
www.savethestorks.com 
I (heart) mancakes and Thor
I (heart) Reese with all my (heart) and I hope we will be married (heart)
Ronald Reagen rocks my sox

But what confused me the most was You are all mine Kimberly! Either it was the fact that a boy had also slept here (ew) or the fact that he was creepily saying, "YOU ARE ALL MINE."....disturbing the words you find written under beds. I began to think as only I can think; I wonder if my Mr. Dreamboat Curl Man is writing to me from under his bed. I imagined such doodles as, I love you my beautiful,quirky, slightly confused about life, girl-I-met-five-minutes-ago and I hope we will be married and get matching tattoos. Talk about the man for me.

I tried to sleep but I couldn't, this guy was just amazing.My mind began to skip ahead, what about the fact that he was obviously from far away and I was from far away (but far away from another direction) and the fact that I wasn't exactly of the legal age to be married.  People say that long distance relationships are shots in the dark, because they never work and you always end up fantasizing about him/her; making them out to be some amazingly cool/beautiful/intelligent/angelic being. I think that's preposterous and should be evaluated with a truckload of salt. This would never happen between myself and Curls. Our relationship was simply too sound.

Finally, my mind was so full of ideas, dreams, and mostly estrogen that I felt like a brown paper bag. At two in the morning, a love sick girl who is so terribly in love that she feels like a brown paper bag, can do naught but sleep a restless, tossfull sleep. Of course I dreamed about 'My Guy' and the dream may or may not have involved a sky blue convertable with the top down and lots of xoxoxoxoxoxoxo. Strictly girl stuff and all, nothing guys would like; apparently perfect rot to them. I woke up and smelled bacon frying and literly leaped from my bed, over my roommate, brushed my teeth, straightened my hair, and dappled with some makeup all  in under thirty seconds. Rushed downstairs, holding my breath and ready to basically spring myself upon Mr. Curls and maybe fake a good faint (so he could catch me)....as I rounded the corner my heart stopped beating.

Mr. Curls was sitting outside on the deck, shirtless, laughing with some other guys about something only shirtless guys can laugh at. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so how five other girls could simply shuffle past without stopping to drool; amazes me to pieces. I glanced in the mirror and surveyed my appearance, my nose looked smaller, my hair wasn't killing anyone, my eyes actually looked pretty and my nails were clean. Time to go in for the killing. I poked my head out the door and smiled a toothy smile (not the best thing to do so early in the morning) and tried to start breathing again.

I heard a noise across the street and noticed the sketchy bandit guy running away from a small child, stealing it's cupcake.The child was now crying.

Apparently when that strange warewolfish dude in Twilight took of his shirt in the movies the first reaction was was follows:
"He's SOOOO hot."
"He's MINE!"
"MARRRRY me! Now!"

And a general screeching and yelling that caused massive headaches for miles. When I saw a slightly-clothed, Curls, sitting in the morning sun, flexing naturally just to breathe.....my ability to think, breath, or reason shrunk from all reason. But I didn't cause massive chaos or scream, "He's SOOOO hot." At least not aloud.... He was just too much and I was just too in love and I still had thirteen whole days with my Curly guy. I was just very excited, maybe a bit too excited, because as I 'casually' walked outside towards him, I found myself on top of him. I was stammering apologies, murmuring something about a demon cat and a sudden gust of unexpected wind. He smiled ridiculously much and helped me up and said he wasn't in the least, injured.

Suddenly a cute voice chirped delightfully, " Aaaaron baby...." I think I made a noise between a tortoise being stuffed and a armadillo being scraped across icy pavement.

"Yeah Babe?" he said looking away from me and towards the steps. A beautiful girl; thin like a piece of chalk, hair fluttering about in her face, catching on her lip gloss like a spiderweb on sweaty skin. She was wearing a silly pink get up with the words 'PINK' plastered across her shapely rear. I frowned and lifted a bushman eyebrow higher than humanly possibly; listening to the conversation playing out before me.
"Are you ready to go, Honey Pie?" she sung.
"Just coming my Foxy Lady." and he turned back to me and said, "See ya later kid."

I'm am not usually the type to strike people, or make their nose's bleed or pluck out their eyeballs. Usually being the key word here, in this instance, my eyes went black, my nose turned into a witchly spiral, my finger nails grew several inches and I pounced. The girlfriend ran screaming towards her cute little pink Porsche, and Mr. Evil Aaron lay gasping for breath on the ground and I simply turned and walked inside, following my nose towards the crispy smell of breakfast bacon.

 The Moral of THIS story: Don't fall in love with curly haired men at American summer camps and always eat bacon, it just makes life so much better.

I Will Finish My Story On My Day Off (In the meantime...)

The Curious Case of Cardalia Codlings......(I wrote this for Lit. a few years ago)

I shall start with the events of my earliest recall.  My name:  Cardalia Codlings.  I know no more on that subject.  Long ago, my parents discovered their only child to be me.  It wouldn’t have been such a vile occurrence, had I not been who I was. You can imagine that it is not a pleasant event, when you see a baby as unattractive and revolting as I was.  For I had hair of horse, great mounds of coarse purple matter that stuck out from my tiny head in every possible direction (and even some that weren’t possible).  I dearly loved my purple hair; no one else could claim to have purple hair, and it was truly me. Perhaps my parents would have kept me, had I not looked like some terrifying professor or chemist? 
            Do you think that if I had kept friends when I was young, they would have kept me?  I never kept friends for they held no interest for me then.  Instead, I played with dolls, only not in the normal eight year old sense of the words.  I toyed with their heads and hair.  This involved elderly bath water and purple gel.
            Away I went, with a great ape of a nursemaid to an old country estate.  To be rid of me?  I still remember that day, when I was dropped off at the manor.  I stood with my nanny, looking up at the great house.  It was old and surrounded by cabbage roses (infested with purple wombats).  I liked that manor house, ever so much.  The entire outside was painted black with purple polka dots.  Oh, how I loved it.  My days at this country manor involved my sleeping, and painting, or reading from the great library inside the manor house.  I also enjoyed a wombat for breakfast on occasion.
            As soon as eight years of service, my nursemaid, who was then eighty years of age, disappeared; I think she went off on safari.  That would have suited her just fine.  Finally, I could be free, have the manor to myself.  I was alone in the house day and night. 
            The day was luminous, absolutely brilliant.  Perfect for hanging out of windows; the tall ones are best.  Ah, dangling in the sunlight, not letting toes touch earth for at least a good half hour.  This day when I was hanging, I saw a crow flying out of a little cove on the floor above, and I noticed something I had never seen before.  On the floor above, there was an unaccounted window.  Oh, the wondrousness of hidden windows, do you know that feeling?
            I scampered inside; I knew that the window had to either be on the eighth floor or on the next, or maybe the one below.  Oh, dear, I had forgotten.  Never can I recall which floor is which.
             The search took eighteen and a half minutes.  The door (to the room) was hidden by a giant tapestry with eighteen mirrors embroidered on to it.  The room (the one with the window I was searching for) was behind the tapestry.  The room was well lit; the cracks made sure of that.  My! - how this room was covered in dust.  Every inch was like a snow drift, only this was a dust drift.  My bare feet left prints.
            The room was at hand.  It was decorated with dust, lots and lots of dust.  I like dust, do you?  I saw what fun my feet were having making prints. The rest of me joined in.  Quite pleasurable, as I’m sure you can imagine. I saw the mirror, for I was lying on the flat of my back, an angle that meant staring straight at the ceiling.  The mirror was up there, you see.  Funny thing the shape of this mirror; it was in the shape of a person.  Arms, legs, even a head, framed in purple, the insides all glass. 
             For eight months I lay below that mirror.  Do you say that I had gone balmy?  On the eighth second, of the eighth minute, of the eighth hour, of the eighth day, I made a discovery.  I was not alone in that room.  Do you believe me? This person was trapped in the mirror.  This person was a boy.  Not so much boy, but more like young man.  I preferred to call him boy person; it was so fitting.
             He had hair so purple, and it was curly.  Oh, a purple-haired person?  Like me!  I fell into something that is next to impossible to climb out of:  love.  Yes, full of blueberries and butterbeans was I.  I knew, even though he couldn’t speak, that the boy person with the purple hair felt the same about me. 
              So, I set about to release him.  Not a difficult chore with a library such as mine.  I never did explain, did I?  This library was odd.  The books were all bound with purple leather and they smelled of lavender.  Every time I visited, every book I wished for appeared in this library.  Then, as soon as I was done, it vanished.  I set about finding some volumes pertaining to rescuing people from enchanted mirrors.  The fantastic library gave them to me.  Three volumes:  one was written by a lady, one by a man, and the third was written by a young witch who had no ears.  I chose the witch’s book (for her book was the only one that had pictures).  All the spells and spooky whatnot in the book were much older than I.  No, I will not tell you my age.  Oh, if only you could see your eyes.  I can tell; you want to know.  Oh, how much fun.

            I set about the tasks that the witch said would release my boy.  The spell involved gathering purple hairs of cats; I substituted wombat for cat.  All these witch spells are all the same.  I think those folks to be so unoriginal. Just as I was finishing, the moon burst out of a cloud.  What a horrid thing, if you understand anything about spells and moonlight bursting out of clouds.  I perceive that you do not.  The mirror caught an enormous ray of moonlight, and combined with the spell:  dispersed.  My boy person was gone! The event was monstrously terrible.  He, my purple-haired prince boy person was gone. 
            After I sat on the floor for a good long time, trying not to cry, I went to my eighth floor window.  The moon was beautiful.  Good for window hanging, thought I.  So that was what I did.  I hung from the window, allowing the mysterious mist and the purple moonlight kiss my skin. Then, being eight floors up, found that it might be nice to float for awhile.  I had never floated before.  I let my fingers (all eight of them) slip off the glass ledge.  A float clears the head, and after eight months of dust, and sitting in the most comfortable-turned uncomfortable position, a float was extremely agreeable.
(Where did I land? Into the arms of the most striking purple-haired boy person;

My Characters To My Story Below

Me

Curls

Bandit

P.S. This story is really fictional. No lie.