my two best friends are a tomato and Liza Minelli.

Uh so guess who broke their camera the other night? I'll give you a hint. Her name rhymes with Schmabby (note: textbooks on top of your bed WILL NOT provide a stable surface for one's camera when one is being lame and attempting to take artsy outfit pics. It will not hesistate to slip and fall.)

So while the kind camera docs work all sorts of magic and I continue to fail at life, let's just all just enjoy the amazingness that is Penelope, mmkay?

been an awful good girl.*

I hope you've had a lovely holiday, full of so-ridiculous-that-you-can't-look-away Lifetime movies and lasagna and reading books in your pajamas all day and procrastinating schoolwork and magic. (What? Yours wasn't? That's just me? Oh, well, it's been quite nice.) As far as Christmas loot goes, I made out like a bandit. And by bandit, I mean one who wears red patent leather pumps.I have stalked these shoes since I spotted them, while window shopping last April. Just like a crazed junkie who stalks her ex-husband in the aforementioned Lifetime movies, our relationship was unhealthy. The display pair happened to be my size, which means I inexplicably had to try them on every time I walked by the Marc by Marc display every few months or so. I would stare at my foot longingly and whenever the kind salespeople asked if I needed any help I'd just say "NO.NO THANKS. UNLESS I CAN PURCHASE THESE WITH THE FOURTEEN CENTS AND COUPON FOR A FREE ICED COFFEE THAT HAVE TO MY NAME...NO!"

Fast forward to Black Friday: I spot them on the sale rack 60% off. I squeal. My mom says I do not need designer red patent pumps, especially with my tendency to jump in puddles/lack of social life that would allow me the opportunity to wear red patent pumps. Besides, even at 60% off, they are still much too much. I try to thoroughly convey to her that if these shoes were a boy, I would marry them. The saleslady jumps in the argument and tells my mom these shoes are a great deal and, hey look, the bottom is made of genuine leather, she'll even scratches them to prove this us. Um, thanks a heap for scratching my dream shoes, lady. I attempt to sweet talk her into giving us a better discount and fail. Miserably.

On Christmas morning I spot a giant package. I suspect that it is a waffle iron and become really excited. Turns out, it's the pumps, hidden in a giant package (those rascal folks of mine).My mom went back a week later and the shoes were marked down even more. When they are not on my feet, I plan on placing them on a shelf where I will feed them bon bons and whisper sweet nothings into their ears.

Oh and I also did get a waffle iron, along with this recipe binder my mom made with a bunch of pictures from an old food magazine she found at the thrift store. I think it kind of upstages the shoes. I mean, DO YOU SEE HOW THAT JELLO MOLD GLISTENS?

*This was supposed to be posted a week ago. Did you really take me for that much of a procrastinator (don't answer that...)Blogger and I were going through a bit of a tiff, but now we're besties again.

the boy least likely to.

This video and this song just make me insanely happy. Especially at times like these, when winter break is ending and I just realized I have a day to write a ten page essay. Fudgesicles. (Resolution # 1: Stop procrastinating. And blog more. And stop eating chocolate chips out of the bag...)

P.S. Blogger has been acting like a hormonal teenage girl for the past few days. I promise a belated holiday post for your viewing pleasure as soon as it gets it's act together.