Flynnbox (3) The Sisterhood of the Black Listed Pants

Thanks to a satin-loathing terror from Cornell University, the former Panhellenic recruitment chair in me is feeling better about the zero-jolerance (that’s no denim) dress code enforced during my recruitment reign in ’06.

A fellow former soristitute tossed the below gem into the Flynnbox. The post sheds light on said terror from Cornell as she John Edwardses her chapter’s national reputation with a six-page diatribe of recruitment fashion do's and are-you-@#$%-kidding-me's. Through jabs a la

“No one looks good in satin dresses unless it’s from Betsey Johnson or Dolce & Gabbana, you weigh less than 130 pounds, have three pairs of Spanx on and it’s New Years Eve,”

this monster (I like to think her name is Mary Catherine Grace) makes the cast of Mean Girls seem more like The Babysitters Club.

Her full manual, found here, forbids glittery butterflies and "gross, plastic shizzzz," but notably condones denim leggings. Eh, agree to disagree.

Cake in Breakfast's Clothing

If Jon and Kate buried the hatchet and renewed their vows and Tiger Woods called on me for advice to help with his current branding woes, I'd suggest he research the ultimate marketing success story: the breakfast muffin. Society's acceptance of the muffin is nothing short of miraculous, if not downright bizarre. Essentially cake, the arbitrary label of muffin transformed a mix of sugar and butter into an acceptable alternative to oatmeal.

Unless you've been hijacked by a kindergartner, it'd be social suicide to cruise into Starbucks and ask for a cup o' joe and chocolate chip ice cream. Contrastly, pair your grande with a double chocolate chip muffin, and $7 later you're armed with morning props ripe for the office break room. If the moniker switcheroo worked for cake, why not pulled pork? Show me a marketing team who can put pulled pork on the menu at Panera Bread, and I'll show you the mindset who can lead Tiger out of the woods.

Peeing is Believing

Everyone's a critic, even the eternal optimist that is me. After J. Crew slapped a pair of jean shorts on the back cover of its Spring 2010 issue, I refused to believe that they'd gone the jort route until I saw the jatastrophes perched on a display at Lenox Square.

In turn, I get that people are slow to swallow my claim that Huck has extreme urination capabilities. Yup. Extreme urination capabilities. Some dogs catch zigzagging Frisbees. Others master roll-sit-stay-paw sequences that rival fraternal handshakes. Mine? He relieves his bladder for a startling amount of time. He sits on command when the mood strikes. He throws up a paw if and only if there's a treat involved. But ask him to display some liquid action, and color me a fire hydrant's mother.

Flynnbox (2)

The "A Guy, A Girl and a Cheez-It Box" engagement story below hit the Flynnbox by way of a friend of a friend of this bride-to-be. As Jill parlays details about her fiance's lunchbox-cracker-driven proposal, she makes it clear that the Cheez-Its of note were of the reduced fat variety. Jill may be a fan of the exclamation point, but a glutton for saturated fat she is not.

Hello friends and family,

I’m writing to share some very wonderful news with you! Jeff and I are ENGAGED! We’re so very, very excited.

The proposal was a complete surprise and very cute! I was back in California for Christmas and Jeff picked me up at the airport on Sunday. As we were walking into the apartment, he said that he had gotten me my favorite snack – reduced fat Cheez-Its (I eat “RFCs” constantly and normally have to throw the box out after a few handfuls or else I will eat the entire box in one sitting). When we walked in, the box was on the counter, but there were also Cheez-Its all over the floor. Jeff exclaimed, “Oh no, Sampson (our dog) must have gotten into the box!!” But I looked closer and there was a little trail of Cheez-Its leading down the hall. I opened the door to the bedroom and there were roses on the bed in the shape of a heart and “Will you marry me?” spelled out in Cheez-Its. I turned around and Jeff was on one knee holding a ring!

We couldn’t be happier!

XOXO,
Jill

Nails in Comparison

At the bottom of the list of things I deem intimidating, tucked just below maltipoo puppies and Paula Deen, is the art of naming a nail salon. I'm no mathematician, but the equation seems fairly simple: take an adjective, add “Nails” as a suffix and call Emeril Lagasse 'cause—bam!— it’s time to invest in neon signage. Consider these metro Atlanta gems: Crystal Nails, Deluxe Nails, Dynamic Nails, Elegant Nails, Fancy Nails, Foxy Nails, Happy Nails (Avatar 3D glasses and child-size orange soda free with purchase), Magical Nails, Millennium Nails, Regal Nails, Solar Nails, Spontaneous Nails. Given the replicated context clues, even this liberal arts major can surmise that Adjective + Nails = Profit.

Sprinkled among the cluster of Adjective + Nails flagships are traces of creativity (Alpha Nails Salon, Blooming Nails), nonsense (Nailport Express, Victoria Nail Sup), apprehension (Nailtrap, Second Try), humor (Pamper My Peaches Nail Salon), confidence (Ten Perfect Nails), bluntness (Kim for Nails), vulgarity (Number 1 Nail, Number 2 Nail) and nightmarish grammar (Oh! La La La Nails, Poochiez Pawz Nail Studio). But even 99 Fashion Nails* pales in comparison to Panahar Bangladesh Cuisine. That’s right. Atlanta is home to the Georgia Aquarium, Turner Field, the World of Coke and the all-in-one Bangladesh-style restaurant/hair and nail salon that is Panahar Bangladesh Cuisine. Mani, pedi, pad thai? Check, please.

*Flynnsight suggested slogan: We’ve got 99 problems, but chipped paint ain’t one.




Say it ain’t so? Click here for a full list of nail salons in the greater Atlanta area.

Flynnbox (1)

While completing her application for Junior League, a friend asked which phone number she should include for me as her potential sponsor. When I replied with (404) 867-5309, the musical reference to Tommy Tutone’s 1980s chart topper went undetected and said friend submitted her application with a sly tribute to Jenny and her number on a wall. Below is the recon e-mail this good sport fired back to the League:

Hi Mary,

I recently submitted my application for the winter provisional class and have a question about my sponsor. I spoke with Julie about having Meg Flynn as my sponsor. If she is approved for sponsor-dom, please note that this Tommy Tutone-loving sponsor’s actual number is (954) 821-1604.

Sincerely,
Gullible Friend

Once, Twice, Three Times iLazy

What did 2007, 2008 and 2009 have in common, besides a flailing economy? Oh, that’s' an easy one. They all started out as The Year in Which I Would Join the Blogosphere. As markets plummeted, a Portuguese water dog made headlines and the iPhone (the iJealous for my fellow Verizonians) became ubiquitous, my blogger aspirations continuously gave way to e-malaise. Write about the time I confused—and used—nail polish remover as eye makeup remover? Eh, maybe I'll just make a snack and start some laundry. Document the blind date that ended one oniony cheeseburger, a split check and two handshakes later? Eh, maybe I'll just fold some laundry. Scribble about the weekday morning when efforts to retrieve my debit card from a neighbor’s storm drain landed me at the corner of Virginia Avenue, armed with a flashlight, a broom, chewing gum and electrical tape? Eh, maybe I'll just clip coupons for fabric softener.

Proofread: You're On Candid eCamera
So, here we are. Lucky 2010. In an effort to stave off another year of idled e-authordom, I'll share ownership [read: plagiarize] of Flynnsight content with the supporting cast in the Life of Meg Flynn. If it's been e-mailed, tweeted, texted, mailed or Facebooked and it hit the inbox—the Flynnbox, if you will—color it fair game for posting. I'll also share Flynnsight into quirky passions like my crusade against exclamation points and contempt for commercial America's love affair with Papyrus font. Occasionally, you'll find an anecdotal blip a la the nail polish remover and storm drain follies. All posts will be of the exclamation-point-free variety, natch.

Ladies and gentlemen, start your engines (and by engines, I mean left neural hemispheres). First post drops tomorrow.