The Skinny

A few years ago, whenever I saw someone wearing skinny jeans, I shuddered.  The 1980s and early 1990s are not a fashion era I find very aesthetically appealing, and I didn't really want graffiti denim and parachute pants to make a comeback. I still feel that way, but I've become acclimatized to skinny jeans - and seen a lot of people pull them off adorably.  But my closet remains resolutely full of flared pants and bootcut bottoms that are quickly becoming "mom jeans"

Part of it is due to my overall ignorance when it comes to fashion - I love clothes, but I like shopping on the cheap and definitely don't keep up on my Chanel and St. Yves Laurent (if that's even a thing) or what ridiculous get-ups are draped over models on the catwalk (they can pull off anything... I can't).

Another reason I've avoided skinny jeans is because many of them simply don't fit.  A while ago, I found a great chart that evaluated your measurements - and it kindly informed me that my ankles would only be proportionate on a woman who stood over six feet tall.  Many skinny jeans in my size, even some of the stretchy ones, literally will not fit over my monstrous heels because the bottom hems don't have much give.

Both of these obstacles could be overcome... there definitely are skinny jeans out there that would fit, and they've become so pervasive that you can pick them up at K-Mart and wear them with any shirt on the shelf.  The real reason I persist in my mom-jeans is psychological.

There was a period of time, when my family lived in a ridiculously big house we couldn't sell and my family was trying to pay two college tuitions (both mine and my mom's) when we didn't have much money.  As a result, I was dressed mainly in hand-me-downs from relatives and the bounty from an occasional trip to DI.  When I was 14, I owned three pairs of jeans, and all of them were skinny jeans.  Today, this would probably be fairly normal.  In 2002, back when Britney was still all that and most teenagers didn't even text, wearing a pair of skinny jeans was something only women over 35 attempted.  Any passer by could have seen that I must be wearing clothes someone more sensible had rejected, and I was painfully aware of it.  Shy 14 year old girls don't tend to excel at "working it" in "vintage". 

When our/my money situation changed, I loaded up on flares and gave those skinny jeans back to DI.  Unless you count weak moments in dressing rooms when I've temporarily thought about giving in to the trend, I have't been in a pair of skinny jeans since.  My past experiences being unfashionable have scarred me to the point where I now insist on being unfashionable.  My main consolation, besides how awesome it is to wear skirts and not have to worry about pants at all, is that at some point bootcuts will be back and I'll be the hippest 30 year old mom around.

The Invention of Propaganda

Last night Mike and I watched The Invention of Lying.  From the trailer, the movie looked very entertaining - I imagined a screenwriter overhearing a child telling a fib and thinking to herself  "What would it be like if we lived in a world where everyone ALWAYS told the truth about everything, and then one man discovered how to lie.  He'd have a lot of fun, but someday it would catch up to him and he'd learn a valuable lesson... hey, this would make a great movie!"

The first part of the film was pretty enjoyable, though peppered with the unnecessary and unappealing vulgarity that Hollywood seems to throw into every PG-13 comedy.  About halfway through, though, during a long and uncomfortably sacrilegious scene, it became evident that the movie was actually born in a conversation by a bunch of Hollywood executives who consider themselves enlightened, creative intellectuals.  "Let's make a movie," one probably said "that forcefully drives home the point that Christianity is a sham and organized religion is a myth that paternalistically exploits people.  Oh, and let's package it as a comedy and get some big name actors, so people will actually watch it."

Such a disappointment...

You're (Unfortunately) Not a Kid Anymore When...

My sweet tooth and I are very good friends, and for a long time it has encouraged me to give it free rein in the mornings... preferably with some pie or cinnamon rolls, but, in a pinch, by munching on Trix, Reese's Puffs, or Cap'n Crunch.  Mike and I bonded over Blueberry Muffin Top cereal, and I've always stayed as far away from Raisin Bran and Rice Crispies as I could.


Lately, however, I've undergone a transformation.  While I still would NEVER turn down pie for breakfast (ok, so maybe I would if it was mocha or blueberry or a very mushy pumpkin without whipping cream), Reese's Puffs aren't so tempting anymore.  Instead, Mike and I load up on cereals with words like "almond", "grain", "oat", "morning" and *shudder* "fiber".  The worst part isn't even that we've been duped into buying them... it's that we're so deluded that we actually think they taste good.  I've taken to eating cereal just in the morning, but also again after I get home from school.  The dishwasher is full of bowls and spoons, proof of our new habits.


Clearly, we have a problem... and I think I've decided the perfect solution.  We'll stage an intervention this weekend in front of the TV - enough subjection to advertisements for sugar bombs and cocoa kernels and we might regain our sanity.  


P.S.  It has occurred to me that my face in the last picture looks far more MySpace than Chaplin, and definitely does NOT make me look ridiculously happy.  I must have been thinking about that parade :)

Three Reasons to be Ridiculously Happy

1.  It's still Spring Break, for another 48 hours and 4 minutes

2.  Thanks to the motivation provided by this delicious-looking photograph taken by my cousin, I have a giant container of homemade oreos sitting on my counter!

3.  At the outlet mall, I picked up this amazing hat for a mere $2.  I feel like a plaid Charlie Chaplain (despite the fact that this is most definitely a trilby, not a bowler - yay Wikipedia for clearing that up).

\

Granted, I can think of other reasons to be happy too, like having good health and a place to live and whatnot, but they're currently being cancelled out by the fact that it is literally raining on my parade.  Or at least on the parade that we would be downtown watching right now, were it not raining.

The Problem with Living in a City that Embraces Alcoholism

Like most former Utahans who have been forced to venture out into the wilderness of the eastern half of the United States, Mike and I miss Cafe Rio a lot. At least here in Indiana, there's not much Mexican food at all - the only popular Mexican restaurant chain in the area has gross, overpriced food, and even the people who love it admit that they really go for the cheap margaritas.

So every time we fly home to visit family, Mike and I make a point of stopping by Cafe Rio. He always gets a pork burrito, but I tend to mix things up... the burritos are good, but so are the salads and the tortilla soup and everything else on the menu. When it comes time for dessert, though, I insist that we get tres leches. If they're out (which happens far too often) then we hit up another Cafe Rio later in the trip to make sure we get some. Luckily, Mike loves it too, but I think my affection for the dessert borders on the frenzy otherwise reserved only for heroin addicts and meth moms.

To be sure, I've tried making the dessert myself a few times - my life would be much easier if I could conjure up tres leches on demand. Duncan Hines makes a mix that results in a decent cake, but I'm pretty sure you can't get them out here in the Midwest (I've definitely looked). The few from-scratch recipes I've tried were only theoretically edible, and ended up being a waste of whipping cream and sweetened condensed milk. In short, it's a sad, cruel world.

The other day I was pining for tres leches instead of doing my Fed Courts reading, when suddenly I had a brilliant stroke of inspiration. I opened up the internet and Googled "tres leches South Bend IN". And, believe it or not, the results showed that there is a local Mexican restaurant that's supposed to have good food and has tres leches on the menu. Less than two hours later, we were there at La Esperanza.

The food was delicious, and while not dirt-cheap, there were plenty of filling options in the $7 range. It was Mexican food as it's supposed to be - like it is in every random "Dos Amigos", "Del Sol", and "El Burro Agradecido" in Utah (no idea if those are the names of real Mexican restaurants... but hopefully you get my drift). We'll definitely go back next time we're craving Mexican food. But overall, the trip was a disappointment, and not just because our server allowed us to run out of water early in the meal and only came back when we were finished eating.

No, the real problem was the misrepresentation of the tres leches. Sure, they had it, and from the picture it looked pretty delicious (although not as good as Cafe Rio's). But thanks to the description, Mike and I didn't try it. A moist cake soaked with three milks and topped with cream and berries sounds delicious. A moist cake soaked with three milks and wine... not so much, no matter how many strawberries they thrown on top.

So here I am, still craving "real" tres leches and determined to eat one every single night I'm in Utah for my summer internship (which might leave me unable to fit into any of my suits, but it'll be worth it). Until then, if any of you want to commission a refrigerator truck to send a pallet of tres leches my way, I'd be most grateful.

Yay!!

As you may be able to tell by the new layout of my blog, which manages to be cute and use my favorite colors (black, teal, and purple) without being overly girly, my brother rocks. Especially given the fact that during the creative process, I must have changed my mind about a hundred-million times. I would pontificate further on his awesomeness, but I just finished a reading assignment of death, and tend not to be at my most eloquent at 2:16 in the morning after reading over 50 pages on federalism, preemption, and jurisdiction.

Thank you, Bronson! I definitely owe you one.

Wrapping It Up

So the advent of March has made me aware of just how lazy a blogger I've become. The hiatus has also made me decide to revamp the blog a little bit - after all, mikeandlashel.blogspot.com should really be about more than LaShel complaining about her homework once every several weeks. So stay tuned for new content and, if I can talk my techie brother into donating an extreme blog makeover, a snazzy new layout as well.

But first, before bringing in the new, we'll wrap up the old. It always makes me sad when I'm reading a random person's blog and they describe a conundrum or an exciting upcoming event, and then never mention it again. So I'll comb through later entries looking for hints on whether their dog ever came back or they got the big promotion at work, but to no avail. My own life is not nearly that exciting, but here are some random updates just in case there's a stranger out there wondering:

I did end up dropping a class - the one taught by the "greatest living legal philosopher" which turned out to be a fortunate choice because he retired a few weeks before the semester started because of health problems and the class wasn't offered after all.

My summer to-do list was semi-successful. I did the write-on and ended up on the Journal of Law, Ethics, and Public Policy, we enjoyed the swimming pool at our complex twice before moving to our new, deluxe apartment, and we traveled everywhere on our list except Washington DC. The writing a novel, watching movies in French, and getting ahead on coursework decidedly didn't, but it was a great summer nonetheless.

The British Museum collection was amazing... Victoria is a beautiful city. In fact, I was so enamored that it was disappointing to find out my legal education is not transferable to Canada.

The Venus Fly Trap, as predicted, died a hasty and inglorious death. I'm pleased to announce, however, that our marriage somehow managed to survive.

Luckily, the IRS, after months of investigation and endless letters, concluded that Mike and I were truly poor enough to not owe them any money. Yay!


Long story short, the special meeting called by the journal wasn't about my lack of morale, but because the elected leader of our journal was suddenly no longer a student at the law school. Speculation as to why continues to abound.

And there you have it! Stay tuned for further exciting adventures :)