What's for lunch, Mom?

It's Christmas break, so obviously there's no place I'd rather be than home. But after living on my own for so long, I forget what it's like to have two live-in roommates, plus a dog running around. For some reason, every time I walk into the house, I still expect my dad to be doing something up on the roof all day and my mom to be spraying Solarcaine on my war wounds. It's not like that anymore. Here's the latest:

Dad: watches a lot more TV than I remember - most commonly, music videos On Demand. I often hear the famed work of Rhianna, Lady Gaga, and Beyonce coming from the family room when only he is in there. To follow up with that, I noticed his library bag contained their CDs. Mid life crisis, anyone?

He also eats a lot of sweets. Today for lunch, he downed a bag of Twizzlers, and chased it with a cheeseburger. Our freezer is also packed with a variety of bakery goods - cinnamon buns, sweet rolls, coffecakes, etc. - all cut into single-sized servings and delicately placed into ziplock bags. How can he get away with this diet? I'm concerned.

As if the strange TV and eating habits weren't enough, I've caught him napping more than once a day with our dog. I fear he is heading down the road to be a Biggest Loser contestant, even though looks exactly the same as 10 years ago.

It's safe to say he has clearly relieved himself of his man-of-the-house duties, as I was the one who did all the dusting and shoveling around the house today. However, I suppose 55 years of hard work warrants the man a break. Where's the Swiffer?

Mom: is doing a lot more busy-work than I'm used to. Today, she decluttered the dining room table, sorted a tub of winter gloves and hats, AND cleaned out an entire closet to make room for 6 wine glasses. What happend to making lunches and watching Days Of Our Lives? Now she's pulling out things I made in first grade and getting nostaligic on me - I don't know how much of this I can take.

Unlike my dad, my mom seems to be caring a lot more about her health and fitness these days. Today she commented that she was feeling "fat" - which is news to me considering this woman previously had no regard towards her 4-times-a-week Coldstone Creamery habbit. Now her and I do a lot together - including watch Jersey Shore, bake brownies, and shop - but never has she asked me to attend a "Body Pump" workout class at the local gym. I'm in shock.

Finally, I'm noticing she's cutting more coupons than usual, and she's replaced Charmin toilet paper for something generic from Target. I know times are tough, but I never thought of her as someone who would skimp on quality toilet paper!?!

Dog: There's not much to say about this creepy crawler. She pretty much has resorted to following my dad around everywhere, which is fine with me since it means she won't eat my underwear or destroy the things in my room.

Needless to say, I'm going to have to keep an eye out on these freaks.

Goodbye salary. Goodbye benefits. Goodbye 401K.

For those of you who do not already know, I decided to do something bold, something brave, something for myself.

I quit my job at online fashion magazine, LVCmag.com, and became a Freelance Copywriter. I realized that fashion is an interest of mine, not a career path. And I had to get somewhere where I could put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard) more often.

How could I give up such a prestigious career so easily, you ask? Because by doing so, I was heading in the direction of my dreams. To confirm this, was my mother, who called a few weekends ago to say that she had uncovered my first grade report card. On it, my teacher had noted: "Emily is a very creative individual with wonderful story-telling skills." Right on, Mrs. Swanson.

And now, nearly 20 years later, I'm finally living the life I imagined - and it feels great. Thank you all for your support, and welcome "OUT THERE" by famed copywriter, Emily Belden.

Style meets sophistication...

Not much has changed from the days I used to dress myself before going off to kindergarten. I still never match, wear crazy patterns, and love bows. This only difference is now I comb my hair and wear sassy boots to complete the look. It's funny how not always fitting in as I grew up helped me stand out as a young adult.

Moral of the story: being matchy-matchy is a no-no on a lot of levels.

See the full article about my look here:  http://lvcmag.com/ItGirlArticle.aspx?ArticleID=306

Come hither...

Stores, Restaurants, and Establishments I'd appreciate coming to Omaha:

• H&M
• Nordstrom
• Nordstrom Rack
• Lord & Taylor
• Macy's
• Portillo's
• Trader Joe's
• Howl At The Moon
• Lou Malnati's

What am I missing??

Holy inbox!

Jealous of our connection?

It never gets old.

Eighteen years ago, my family planted an Autumn Purple Ash tree in Elmhurst, IL near the historic train depot (also known as, right across from the TCBY). We planted this tree in remembrance of my grandfather who passed away from cancer in 1991.

And though nearly two decades have gone by, it seems like the only things that separate the day we planted the tree from the day we visited it last weekend are a few gray hairs and some wrinkles on my parent's faces. For me, it's a few front teeth and highlights.

Wow, time flies.

-----In Celebration Of A Wonderful Life, Paul H. Cohen, 1917-1991------

A morbid "FAIL"

Like a lot of women, I consider Women's Health Magazine the ultimate workout buddy. After all, she keeps me motivated for up to an hour and four minutes at a time on that beastly elliptical. And, to be honest, I truly enjoy the story she tells.

But this weekend, she took a turn for the creepy and scared the shit out of me by beginning a story about fitting into your old jeans with:

"Deep inside your closet hangs an old friend."

Creeeeeepy. They must have cut the edtiorial board due to the recession...

Unacceptable.

Last night, before going to a wedding, I pulled a Cher from "Clueless" and took a polaroid (errr...cell phone pic) of my outfit. While the photo helped to confirm my shirt wasn't in fact making me look pregnant, it also proved that my 23-year-old workin' hard for the money self still had an ounce of post-college sass. And while I'd love to upload it to my Facebook as my new profile picture, we all know that that can't happen. Why, you ask? Because you can see my cell phone in it and this isn't MySpace.

Maybe in another life when I come back a little more tacky and I sTaRt* wRiTiNg LiKe tHiS :-), then it could be a possibility. Until then, this picture's home will be here, lolz omfg.

Seriously, what the hell?

I love sexual innuendos. I'm a huge fan of "That's what she said" comments. And I couldn't be more thrilled when our newest client, Dick Crumb, signed on with the agency.

Naturally you can imagine my happiness when I took my garbage out to the trash room during my weekly Sunday cleaning and found an empty penis-enlarger pump box in the recycle bin. My first thought was, "That looked like a penis." After doing a double take and confirming my initial suspicion, my second thought was, "Interesting...the mystery dude with the little wiener is a recycler."And of course, my third thought was, "I'm so glad I still have my rubber gloves on, where's my camera?"

As I uploaded the photo, I convinced myself that the whole thing was probably a big joke by some immature kid living down the hall. After all, Dr. John's "adult store" isn't too far from the complex, perhaps some UNO student found it on the ground while walking home from the PipeLine and thought it would be hilarious to recycle the packaging...no pun intended. I mean, who would leave their penis pump face-up in the recycle bin for the world to see?

Well, my naive perspective soon changed after I found a penis-girth enlarger in the recyle but days later. This time, I did not get my camera. I did, however, get nauseous. Pretending I never saw that, I carried on with life.

A few days later, Tiny Tim struck gain. This time leaving his "beaded penis sheath" in the bin. A repeat offender, indeed. Feeling highly creeped out, especially considering the trash room is four feet from my front door, I decided to write a note to our mini mystery man in an effor to stop the madness. Using my sharpest copywriting skills, the problem deflated.

The worst part about this whole ordeal is not the feeling I get in the pit of my stomach when I envision the usage of these products, but rather that discovering this paraphanelia has ruined my chance at becoming friends - hell, even talking to - any male in my apartment complex. Even just a casual "Hello" from a dude checking his mail freaks me out. If a guy is holding the elevator for me? No thanks, I'll take the stairs. I can't help it, I now believe everyone is a pervert.

I can't wait to become a homeowner.

A very hopeful display

What's more refreshing than a Pepsi? How about seeing an entire wall of 24-packs with the new breast cancer awareness design on them in Bakers. Well done, Pepsi.

P.S. Can't wait to see what design the sugar-laden soda company comes up with to deal with obesity awareness....

Wild at heart

Late this summer, Banana Republic started carrying a "Mad Men" line - being the only female ad copywriter in my agency (and yes, the copy machine IS in my cubicle as well), I channeled the Peggy Olsen within me and purchased a 1960s inspired dress to wear at the office.

Now, a fabulously trendy upscale boutique called Opening Ceremony in New York City has launched their "Where The Wild Things Are" line. Though I may not be able to identify with it quite as well as the said above, I still appreciate what this store and their designers are doing. We all know the movie is going to rock it at the box office, so I have no doubt that this line will sell out and be a huge hit.


Photo courtesy of the blog at ideeli.com

Triplets in the Twin Cities

This weekend I made the back-to-back trek from Omaha to Minneappolis. In under 36 hours, I managed to drive for 12, party for 14, sleep 6, and shop at Ikea for 4.

Was it worth it? Well that depends what "it" is. And in my case, "it" is an irreplaceable, unrepeatable, invaluable time with the closest friends I've ever had. So, yes. "It" was.

Not to mention, the room off my landing now looks incredible thanks to a touch of Swedish decor.

No, I don't feel bad...

...that my boyfriend and I split an X-Large pizza and I ate more than him.
...that I jammed out to Miley Cyrus' "Party in the USA" on my way home from work.
...that I didn't workout yesterday.
...that I did that (shall remain nameless).
...that I boxed dyed my hair the last two times I changed my color.
...that I'm sometimes too tired to brush my teeth before bed.
...that I tattled on the person above me in the apartments for having a dog (illegally) that barked all day (annoyingly)
...that I wore your shirt to make guacamole and ruined it.
...that I told you I made a fat-free chicken wing dip when it was probably the biggest calorie bomb out there.
...that I got an overpriced t-shirt at the John Legend concert.
...that I ate an entire batch of brownies in two days.
...that I called you out on going to the strip club.

Home is where the neckline is.

Lately I've been feeling pretty homesick. In the midst of dreaming about a Portillo's Chicago-style hot dog, a Lou Malnati's Chicago pizza, and a true skyline...I found refuge in placing a simple online order from Maya Brenner's "State" collection. Each state is offered in gold or silver, and a small diamond can even be placed anywhere around the inside border for an additional charge.

So, there I had it, hometown pride on 16-inch chain.

Showing my love - or lackthereof.

I just realized something.

I used to think that I showed my affection for people through tampering with the visual arts. You see, I've made paintings, designed things in photoshop, and drawn pictures for a number of important people in my life. This is odd to me. I'm a copywriter by trade, thus, I'm usually all about words, not pictures

This is where I deduced the scary part. I tend to reach for a brush rather than a pen because I feel that the written word is very committal, more committal than I'm comfortable committing to. You see, I am of the belief that once you have something down on paper, there's no going back on it: shit has been declared. So if writing down "Apples are my favorite fruit" gives me a panic attack, why in the hell would I write on a piece of paper that "I love you more than anything ever."?

Given that, how much can I really care about these people who I do these artistic gestures for? Not enough to put it on paper, that's for sure.

So if you were the unlucky recipient of the above artwork, I hereby declare, I'm sorry.

Disclaimer: This post is utterly facetious. To the beholder of this custom monogram, I love you very much, you have my word.

High-style

I'm a displaced Chicagoan living in Omaha - you can bet that when I dress up for anything in this cow-town, I look like I came straight off the runway. But all that changed when I met - and was styled by! - fearless fashionista Mal Pearson. She's the editor-in-chief of LVCmag.com, an online fashion magazine that originally debuted in New York City. I thought I had style...but boy was I mistaking. Here she showed me how to turn my go-to summer look (a bright flowy, graphic dress) into a fall staple.

What I learned:

• Belt everything.
• An oversized comfy sweater is a must.
• Boots of all colors, textures, heights and lengths are in.
• Offset summer brights with distressed fabrics and washed out neutrals.