jamie ann

Hi everybody it’s…. oh, well, that’s awkward.

You see, I’ve reinvented myself and gone anonymous recently, but I’m without anonymous moniker. You know something witty and sleek and a touch sexy, something that tells you what I’m all about without telling you WHO I AM. My favorite anonymous bloggers all have that something: Dooce, the Damsel, Deutlich. Maybe the key is having my name start with a D? Delight? Delicious? Dainty? Dandy? Dangereux? Dumb Dumb.

While I try to figure out exactly what I should be called (suggestions are welcome!) I’m really here to take up some space while Jamie’s away. I’m not really sure what to do in a guestblogging role, so I guess I’ll just butter up the host. Just like toast, but less calories! Like you, I find Jamie witty, adorable and all around rad. But seriously, the perfectness of her hair makes me hate her. Just a little. Like hate in the “I want to graft the follicles of hair off of her head while she’s sleeping and give myself the hair I’ve always wanted” way you hate someone. What is that too much?

Unfortunately the universe has something against me and the Lovely One ever meeting, and so we admire each other from a distance. Makes me think the Universe might actually implode if the two of us where to ever enter the same zip code. It would be just like the Rise of the Silver Surfer. (I actually don’t know what that means, because I’m only 19 minutes into the movie so please don’t ruin it for me! And yes I’m aware it came out like a zillion years ago, but I’m a little behind on video films, like I just saw the first Shrek! How funny was that, with that weird green creature in love with a girly princess! Improbable, but funny! I’ll tell you what I thought about Sex and the City in about 4 years!)

So yes, I love Jamie. We share important common interests, like recapping Project Runway (July 16th, the madness returns!) and thinking that Tyra has absolutely lost it. The latter is more like a statement of fact though, I’m sure we of the Intelligent Internets will agree. The only thing we can really disagree on is which team should prevail in the epic battle of good versus evil (Detroit Tigers vs. Chicago Wrong Sox), but I still respect her for being woefully mislead. I mean, I thought the Pussycat Dolls were really singing on So You Think You Can Dance Thursday night. Mistakes happen, Jamie!

Now that Jamie is appropriately scratching her head wondering why she ever asked me to guestblog, I think my work here is done. Happy weekend, everybody!

I deserve a little spanking.

No, not like that.

But I’ve been a bad, bad blogger.

Wonderful Jamie asked me to guest post for her on Thursday June 19 and I accepted.

Wait, that’s not the bad part.

The bad part is that I didn’t do it. The reasons why include something about my strep throat infection spreading into my jaw and repeated trips to Urgent Care, but let’s not discuss that because I Am Not Happy About It.

Instead, let’s discuss a homeless girl’s dream about the best blog meet up ever.

(If you’re interested in why I’m homeless, click here).

So, getting to the point.

The point is that I want to host a Blog Bash. A huge f*cking crazy awesome blog bash. I know they have BlogCon and all those formal thingies, which I’m sure are pretty neat and dandy.

(Who says neat and dandy?)

But I want to have a blogger party weekend. Maybe one where everyone who can come stays in a hotel for a weekend and I plan an itinerary of stuff and then everyone just attends the stuff that interests them. Or maybe one where we go on a cruise (not likely, I know, but wouldn’t that be incredible? Bloggie cruise 08!). I don’t know, I just want to do something. It would be amazing if that something was on New Year’s Eve, but I’ll settle for any random weekend.

Now I’d like some feedback. What could we feasibly do? Where could we realistically do it? Would anyone actually come? Suggestions, ideas, anything that could contribute to the Best Blog Bash of All Time.

Yes, that’s what I’d call it.

Dear lovelies,

From what I hear, I am to be one of the week’s last guest-posters while Jamie is off frolicking with Mickey Mouse and the Princesses in Florida. That means, that by now, you a) have already read materials from the A-list bloggers of the Oh How Lovely armada, b) are sick of guest-bloggers altogether and really just want Jamie to come home, c) have been lured here from No Ordinary Rollercoaster with the promise of hot, sexy porn (Joke on you, pervs! And you, Jamie, who will now have to deal with these keywords for the rest of your life!).

No matter what your answer or how much you want sweet, little Jamie to rescue your Google Readers, it’s Ben Day here at Oh How Lovely and I couldn’t be happier about it unless of course I was in a big tub of puppies, eating copious amounts of Doritos while listening to Kelly Clarkson. But then, as any of my faithful readers would tell you, I have plenty of puppy in my life to begin with and when it comes to Doritos I really should avoid the extra calories before I’m required to post another I’m-going-to-get-in-shape post.

If you’re keeping track, I have officially gone two full paragraphs without saying a single thing of value, let alone finding a theme for this post.

That’s what happens when you’re paid writer monkey – when your days are spent with key messages, advertising quips and the oh-so-overrated clarity. You end up starting a blog, mashing your forehead into the keyboard, slapping a picture of your mini dachshund on it, clicking publish and hoping for the best.

Add a dash of homo-tastic undertones (but not enough to clue in potential readers within my extended family) deliciously drunk and quotable parents and friends (Ask that girl if she wants to play with Calvin?. I am NOT going up to a little girl on the street and saying: hey you, come to the backyard. We have a puppy and candy! Tell her we have cigarettes too! Those are still cool right?!) and you can kick back and wait for the book deals to come soaring in.

And while you wait, if nothing else, you’ll somehow manage to capture the attention of one Chicago reader whose blog shames you into shelling out the cash for a professional design and who will eventually request that you post for her while she’s in Disney, a place much like the 20-something blogosphere except without the binge-drinking and anonymous sex. Okay, without the drinking at least, that means YOU, Sleeping-Around Beauty.

You’ll start writing without any topic, purpose or strategy and end up reading back the tragic train-wreck of a tale that has become your life. You’ll wipe away that one, obligatory tear that you learned in a high school theatre class, knowing that another opportunity at attracting international acclaim has been wasted, and you’ll click that publish button one more time.

Hi everyone, It’s Meghan from over at Blog Voyeur Turned Blogwhore and the Oh! So Lovely Jamie asked me to do a guest post while she’s visiting the house of mouse. This is my first time doing a guest post and I’m kind of insanely nervous, so really it makes me think I should just share another classic first time with you so we can all be awkward together.

I’m kind of a trainwreck on my blog, why change that now?

The First Time I ever Went to the Strippers!

I was eighteen when I left home and made my way to college, and like most of the people unpacking in the dormitory was looking forward to my first year of independence, studies but more importantly FREEDOM to do whatever I chose.

The slight difference that was noticed between the others and myself which became apparently from the first night was my lack of experience, of…..anything. Cards and beer and coolers came out and as the fizziness of my first ever Mike’s Hard started to loosen up and as the conversation flowed the divide became even more obvious.

“So you’ve never drank before?” Hot European dude.

“Nope, other than the occasional drink, but not drunk.”

“So you’ve never had sex?” girl sitting on guys lap across from me. I think she had.

“Nope. Never even kissed a guy other than a school play.”

“Let me get this straight… You’ve never been away from home, never been kissed, never smoked, done drugs or been in trouble?” The girl who would soon become my best friend and take me under her wing.

“Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope. »

There was no response necessary. The group just eyeballed each other with what I thought was amazement, but I now know looking back was something else. Excitement.

I was fresh, untainted, corruptible meat.

So the plans started formulating and before I knew it Saturday night had come and I had been outfitted with the best of short skirts and the worst of Fake ID’s armed to take on the club almost a full year before I was legal to do so. The energy was electric and yet there was something off I couldn’t quite place my finger off.

“Don’t the guys normally come out to the bar with us?”

“No, no. They always come afterwards. The women always go for the first hour or so by themselves.”

So off we went, purses and glitter and wedge heels that only the late 90’s would allow. Noone was gonna break my stride, noone was gonna hold me down. No way.

It worked! The fake ID worked! And inside the college bar, home of the dollar beer and the toonie shooter I looked around and was amazed by the glowing beer signs and the large screen TV’s showing The Simpson’s in the background in case we got bored. It was smelly. It didn’t look hygienic. It was fabulous.

I was barely propped up on my barstool, trying to find the best way to hold my drink and sit like a lady in a miniskirt, when I saw the smirks on the faces of my friends. I turned around.

There was a male there and he was naked. I saw things I had never seen before. My peripheral vision was aghast with mantan and body oil, zebra thong and washboard abs. I couldn’t hear the cougars in the background screaming like banshees. I couldn’t see the stagette full of women pawing at him like a walking, talking sample sale. It was just me, him and his thing. So I did what any person would do.

I screamed in his face.

At the top of my lungs, a scream that could curdle blood and rival anyone big breasted woman in a B grade movie getting chased by a knife. It was loud enough the music paused and the naked man jumped about ten feet in the air almost landing on me and yelping back in surprise.

And the bar howled, my friends being the worst offenders. From that point forward the rest of the male exotic dancers had already heard about me and made it their point to come over for a show. My face matched the hair and possibly the curtains that none of these boys were ever going to see. It was horrifying. And when the boys came to meet us at the bar afterwards and they heard all they could do is laughing knowing it was exactly the reaction everyone was going for.

I hated the dorm boys for it. I hated the dorm girls for it. I hated the strippers whose face I screamed in. But eventually I got over it, as with a few years of debauchery and hijinks under my belt, with the halo dimmed and put away for good I knew that in my last year I had a mission to pull off. A tradition.

Let’s corrupt the new girl.

Everything.

All of it.

I mean, it can be daunting enough coming up with a neat topic to write about in your own blog, but when it’s time to do so for someone else it can be really nerve wracking. It’s all about figuring out what to write and – OMG – what if her regular readers really hate this entry?

Then there’s the fear of writing something completely offensive. I can do that in my own neck of the internets but it’s kinda rude to sit at someone else’s dinner table spouting off about S&M or George Dubbya.

Somehow, those two topics fit perfectly in the same sentence. At least in my twisted world.

So why’d you accept the invitation to guest blog?

Shuddup. Nobody asked for your sensible questions.

Actually, in all honesty? I {heart} teh Jamie. I do. And yes, I spelled that wrong on purpose.

Just to throw you for a loop.

Miss J is off in the wonderful land of the Mouse and I might be a smidge envious. Oddly enough, this comes at the same time that most of my co-workers are down in the same area for work shenanigans.

Eh, that’s really neither here nor there.

Ever wonder why this mouse has become such a staple in America? Why wasn’t it some cartoony version of a frog? Or mayhaps even a talking tree? Or a slug!

Technically speaking, a mouse is a rodent and those can be kinda gross.

But not Mickey. He’s just all kinds of awesome. McAwesome, even.

To end this slightly erratic and nonsensical post, I would like to note that I will meet teh Jamie and a crap ton of fantastic bloggers in Chicago in LESS THAN TWO WEEKS!!

Oh, and in case you’re wondering who this is… I am the one called Deutlich from Speak On It. Hope you’ve enjoyed the reading. If you’re in Chicago, I hope to see you soon!

Hello everyone.

I’m Chris and I write at my site surviving myself, but because Jamie thinks I am quite lovely too, she invited me to guest post here today while she’s at Disney World.

I have to admit, I’m not really that happy with that introduction. I am writing for a whole new set of readers and the above paragraph is what I come up with?

Terrible.

I bet Jamie is shaking her head right now and saying, “I knew I shouldn’t have asked Chris to do this!”

And I bet Mickey is agreeing with her.

But that doesn’t surprise me because Mickey and I – well, we had a bit of a falling out. And no, I’d rather not talk about that right now. Okay, fine, Mickey stole a woman I was in love with and for years every time I saw anything remotely Disney related I flew into a murderous rage.

But I’m fine with it now because I hear she got fat.

So let me start over.

I’m Chris and I have the privilege of posting here today.

See, I don’t even like that one. In fact, I don’t even really like my name.

Chris.

It’s so damn boring, isn’t it?

When I was young I used to want to change my name to Sebastian.

Sebastian!

How bad is that???

How I ever thought Sebastian was a good name for anyone other than someone who appears on the cover of romance novels with flowing hair and maybe guys who write Dark Poems About Serious Things is beyond me.

But I did. I hated my name.

I think everyone does at some point.

At some time in all of our lives we think to ourselves, “My parents are such morons! I should change my name and then they’ll understand who I really am!”

But usually that rebellious cry is followed by us sitting down and watching Mr. Belvedere and forgetting the whole stupid thing.

So unfortunately I’m stuck with the name Chris and not Something Awesome like “Danger Man” and unfortunately you just read this entire post about nothing.

Life is unkind.

Hello readers! Let me begin by telling you that I’m not Jamie. I’m not stylish, nor do I have cute Etsy works adorning my home. I don’t know anything about America’s Next Top Model, or Project Runway. I don’t have a blog so pretty I swoon when I see it, I don’t have a cute new hair do complete with perfect bangs and lastly- I don’t have a boyfriend.

I’m Brandy, I write at “It’s like, I’m…mmmagic“.

I bring up the singleness because it’s one more thing that Jamie and I don’t have in common. Yet, Jamie falls into a group of coupled people that I adore. The kind that manages to have a boyfriend, yet isn’t consumed by them. She mentions him, but never have I once read her blog feeling as though my life is less because I’m single. And that? Is something this single girl can appreciate.

Maybe it’s the season- summer brings out couples in full force- I find myself struggling to navigate sidewalks, determined couples refusing to let go of each others hand being my biggest obstacle. Or maybe it’s my recent movie viewing- watching Sex and the City (however much I disliked the movie), maybe me swooning for a Big of my own. Or maybe it’s my musical taste (“Paperweight” by Schulyer Fisk makes the idea of sleeping alone sound about as fun as chewing on tinfoil). Or maybe it’s all of these things. Or none of them. I just know that lately, I’ve found myself feeling like the world is divided into three camps- singles, couples who I adore (and Jamie falls into this group) and couples I want to bash over the head with my new wedge heels I bought while ignoring all those couples who dress alike on the weekends.

I’m not sure why the dressing identical bothers me (maybe it was the matching visors? Or maybe it was the fact that they wore visors in a clothing store to begin with?), but it does. So, to combat my rage, I thought I would make a list to share…..

5 Things I Want All Girls In a Relationship To Know

1. Jen and Brad would dress to compliment each other. Tony Parker and Eva do the same. Ditto Will and Jada. I’m all about dressing to COMPLIMENT the other person, but when I walk into a store and see you wearing the EXACT same Nike shirt, the EXACT same yoga pants (and sir, those pants were two sizes too small. And not in the good way, for shame!), the EXACT same visor (we already know what I think of wearing a visor inside) and the EXACT same shoes- it’s weird. And not “cool-we-are-so-cutting-edge

I leave Sunday for my super amazing Orlando vacation. Now while I’m hanging out boozing it up with Mickey and partying with Spiderman, I’m leaving the blog keys to Jenn. She promised to take care of the Lovely while I’m gone. Of course, I couldn’t leave this blog all barren and lonely for 7 days, so I’ve lined up some great, no – AMAZING guest bloggers to post while I’m away. Seriously, you will laugh and you might cry and you will curse the day I come back and take over control again because I will not live up to the awesomeness that was here while I was gone.

So you better check in every day and leave my guest bloggers some love!

Secondly, I was checking my little blog stat thingy and came across a delightful surprise. Turns out I’m up for a Blogger’s Choice Award! The always fabulous Lisa of The Lisa Show nominated me for Best Blog About Stuff. Blogging directions are over-rated which is why I’m all about the Stuff. I think that describes this little blog very well. Many thanks to Lisa!

While I’m telling you to go vote me (which you should), I’m also asking you to vote for my friends! Seriously, if everyone voted for our 20SBs who have been nominated, we’d sweep the Blogger’s Choice Awards. Go register and vote for all of them. It doesn’t take too long! If I missed anyone, let me know.

Oh! How Lovely!

Margot to Bed

The Larissa Monologues

Keep Your Receipt (here too)

Surviving Myself

Distracted Spunk

No Ordinary Rollercoaster

Must Love Geek

The Lisa Show

Beyond Megapixels

Vote or Die.

With that, I’m off for some magic in the Land of the Mouse. Catch me on twitter, maybe, if I’m not too busy spewing fairy dust and falling over from one too many times on the teacups.

The winner of the Second Party giveaway is…..

Allie of Allie’s Answers!

Thanks everyone for entering. You should all go show Second Party some support and pick up something that strikes your fancy! Super big thanks to Megan and Katie for doing this giveaway!

Etsy features and giveaways will become a regular thing around here once I get back from vacation. Make sure you check back for more!

Allie, email me with your address and I’ll forward it to the girls!

Tents? Sleeping bags? Icky bugs? Cooking food over the fire? Being handed a roll of toilet paper and pointed to the woods? Jamie doesn’t fuck with that.

Pop up campers. People who come by and light the fire for you. Swimming pools. Actual bathrooms.  Yes yes yes and yes. Jamie likes. Also, know as sissy camping.

Well not so much anymore. I haven’t been “camping” in ages. When I was younger we would pack up our little Voyager mini van and pop up camper and hit the road. We were off! Off to Chesterton, Indiana? I know, I know, camping in Indiana? There was a campground called Sand Creek, that my family would go to all the time when we were younger

We’d drive up, stop in the store/office and get our little plot of camping space and get settled in. Of course, after we got the camper set up, we’d make a run to the nearest grocery store to stock up on food. Food that we would cook on our little stove. Inside our camper. I’d get some marshmallows and some chocolate bars to get the real feeling that I’m camping. I was totally justifying my fake camping, even at age 7 by making s’mores on the fire, even though someone from the campground would come by and light our fire at night.

Whatever, I’m camping, give me my s’mores!

Also, in the wilderness that was our campground, there was a game room with vending machines and PACMAN, a store full stocked with anything you might need while “camping”. There was a swimming pool, naturally. Attached to the pool were showers and bathrooms. Don’t forget about mini golf, duh. What would camping be without mini golf? NOTHING. Then of course, if we were feeling extra rugged that night, a hayride. A tractor with a trailer filled with bales of hay for you to sit on and drive through the campground, taking in all the sights.

I mean, I guess there were people that went into the woods to do “real” camping but how real is it if you have all the aforementioned things at your disposal? So I guess that means there are three kinds of camping – real camping, sissy camping and then “real” sissy camping. In “real” sissy camping, all you get is a tent and a sleeping bag but it’s still in the camp ground with the rest of us sissys.

Fake vacations and sissy camping.

That’s just how we rolled here at the House of Lovely.