Fashionable At Any Speed
I love my VW Jetta, which is a good thing, because it's going to be around a long, LONG time, being made, as far as I can tell, entirely from plastic. Don't you miss the old school cars, that had solid metal quarterpanels that BENT when you backed into a tree, rather than shattering? That had those shiny metal belt buckles that seared their logo into your skin after sitting for hours in the afternoon sun? Good times. Now you can relive a little bit of that golden age of automobilery with these Chevrolet Logo Seatbelt Belts -- click these retro-styled Chevrolet logo buckles around your waist and see the USA!
Buy it! Chevrolet Logo Seatbelt Belt, $17.00, at yque.com.
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On a recent trip to Baaahstan, Massachusetts (the destination behind the slightly bewailed 
Suddenly it's all babies, all the time on this blog. Which is cool, I am totally into babies. My hypothesis on the matter is that girls who aren't yet moms (me!) are really into babies because they are basically nice-smelling dolls on which it is socially acceptable to spend lots of money accessorizing. Since I am of the un-sprogged persuasion, I can really only speculate, but I am guessing that the face-smack of reality kicks in right around the first diaper change, when you realize that your chubby doll that you just named Emma or Jack is displaying undeniable signs of giftedness in the arena of pooing. 
So as the date of my baby shower draws ever nearer (at which time I will attempt to wedge my 9-month-pregnant self into steerage for a 45-minute flight across Lake Michigan, during which I will STILL no doubt need to visit the powder room 11 times), I keep running across things that I want people to give me. If it weren't so rude as to give Miss Manners a massive aneurysm, I would buy the darned things myself and shove them into the hands of the nearest relative, screaming "OMG GIVE ME THIS AND YOU ARE MY FAVORITE SECOND COUSIN TWICE-REMOVED FOR *LIFE*!" Like this Baby Bunch Clothes Bouquet. It's BABY CLOTHES. In the shape of a FLOWER BOUQUET. To borrow a word that my mother reserves strictly for baby shower gift commentating, it's PRECIOUS.
I probably am the last person who should be writing about piercing jewelry: I don't have one man-made hole in my body. (And BOY would THAT sound wrong taken out-of-context.) I have a feeling that Pope Benedict might be slightly less qualified than I, but, on the other hand, he had a swingin' childhood in Germany -- who KNOWS what is hiding underneath those fancy robes? 
People who know me probably think I'm a little too obsessed with Hell and His Dark Majesty Satan and eternal damnation. After all, my working title for the child currently in utero IS Hellspawn. 
The only thing that made today's 800,000 percent humidity bearable was the knowledge that tonight we're supposed to get a humdinger of a summer thunderstorm. (Humdinger is, of course, the technical term; look it up.) There's nothing quite like a summer rainstorm, especially when you throw caution, common sense and decorum to the wind and go splashing around in some warm insta-puddles. Barefoot, preferably, although holy cow do I love these adorable Blue Daisy Rain Boots. They're mod, they're super-cute and they'll keep the soaking to a minimum, if you can't QUITE completely let go of that decorum...
On a gorgeous summer Solstice (northern hemisphere) day like today when it seems the sun's fingertips have to practically be pried off the day's doorjamb, even a sunphobic person like myself can appreciate summer's appeal. (For two, three minutes. Then it's back to the cellar with the rest of the vampires, lest my skin burst into flames.) Such a glorious day makes that whole sun-worship thing make a lot more sense; maybe those ancient Egyptians were on to something (the whole pulling-the-brains-through-the-nose-mummification-thing notwithstanding.) It makes me want to carry around a little piece of summer with me all year-round, which is what makes this Amber Sun Pendant so perfect: silver and amber in a stylish contemporary design, it's sure to warm even the WINTER solstice.
Mr. rethwyll and I would like to be the Nick and Nora Charles of the kitchen (minus the copious booze and unfiltered cigarettes, of course -- so unhealthy!): devastatingly witty, dashing, urbane, meticulously dressed. Mr. rethwyll has that down in spades, right down to his natty "DANGER: MEN COOKING" apron. In the meantime, I've been sacrificing shirt after shirt to the cruel gods of olive oil splatter -- I'm not so much Nora Charles as NOPE-A Charles. When will I learn? What I need is some sharp togs like this Pink Funky Dots Apron -- goes from the risotto to the Rialto in no time flat!
Whenever I see anything about miso soup, that fabulously satisfying and intriguingly complex Japanese traditional soup, I am immediately transported back to a trip to Japan a couple of years ago. It was the first time Mr. rethwyll and I had been, and we were eager to immerse ourselves neck-deep in the culture, which to us meant eschewing the Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurants on every corner, no matter HOW much kitschy fun it might have been. (Seriously. The prospect of eating with The Colonel in Tokyo was an almost insurmountable temptation.)
Although the fact that it was THIRTY-NINE FRICKIN' DEGREES the other morning would imply otherwise, summer is right around the corner here in Wisconsin. And while I am generally the enemy of all that is sunny and sweaty, I love the summer for the fresh produce that finally starts appearing in our stores and farmer's markets. (Or, heck, the fact that we start HAVING farmer's markets again.) The fresh influx of Vitamin C certainly does my chronic rickets good.
When you're pregnant, I'm discovering that you begin to spend a surprisingly large amount of time thinking about your pelvic bones, a heretofore little-considered area. "Should my pelvis be this sore at 19 weeks?" "Is that popping noise normal?" "Why is 'pelvis' such a funny word?"
Ah, children: they grow up so fast. One day, they're lying on their backs, drooling and playing with their feet; the next, they're hanging out behind the gas station smoking and selling their Adderall pills. Somewhere between the formula bottle and the tequila bottle, there's a happy medium where they take those first toddling steps toward being the terror of the sandbox. Supportive parents everywhere can now give their precious tot's life of crime a kick-start with these Baby Tattoos! The variety pack comes with a wide range of designs, including barbed-wire armbands, anchors and even a tasteful heart with "Mom" emblazoned across the center. Non-toxic, temporary, but still totally bad-ass, these baby tats will make your kiddo the envy of the timeout corner!
Now that I'm gestating the next generation of superhumans (chock-full of superior genetic material!), I need to plan how I'm to utilize him or her for my own particular brand of shenanigans...at least while he or she is still too young to protest. I'm particularly looking forward to shocking and appalling the Old Lady Brigade -- those elderly women who hide in stairwells and underneath mailboxes, only to spring out at you while you're walking your child on a fine sunny day with their terrifying shrieks of "WHY ISN'T THAT BAY-BEE WEARING A HAAAAAT?" -- with this adorable Dingo Snack t-shirt. Advertising how extra-edible my tot is to the world's roving packs of dingoes should shut those old biddies up.
We are a child of the '80s, which means that a significant portion of our early life was spent watching television. Sadly, not all of it was quite as intellectually stimulating as The Electric Company and "Schoolhouse Rock": most of the shows we watched were thinly-veiled, half-hour-long commercials. While the other girls were absorbing Jem and the Holograms, She-Ra and other "girl-oriented" (read: mind-numbingly lame) cartoons, however, we divided our time equally between G.I. Joe and The Transformers, because we are all about the intergalactic robots, elite special forces and ruthless terrorist organizations determined to rule the world. 
We first met our husband when we were a mere child, a 19-year-old college student at a crossroads in life in terms of education, career and relationships. It probably wasn't the best time to throw love on the pile. But we were helpless to resist, and we soon found ourselves in deep smit. As the months went by, it was clear to both of us that this was the one that was going to stick around: we were practically inseparable, to the point that our friends sat us down to let us know that we were making them ill with our PDA (Public Displays of Adorableness). 
Straight from 
Even though it seems like only yesterday that we were cursing the local real estate agent for littering our lawn with plastic flags on Memorial Day, the winter is already swiftly descending upon us, as tends to happen when one lives in a northern state like Wisconsin. Indeed, the flurries that drifted past our office window over the last couple of days are just a preview of what's to come.
The Dunderdon P40 is a peculiar pant. It has a slightly baggy feeling to it without actually being very baggy. The inseam is lower, so you get the appearance of wearing your pants halfway down your ass, when really they are fastened tight around your hips. They are long in the leg so you can make big fat cuffs at your feet. Otherwise, they are a reasonably cut pair of pants, comparable to your average "relaxed fit" American jean.
Dear 
Dear 
Yarrrrr! Life on the high seas can get pretty rough-and-tumble, what with the keelhauling and raping and pillaging and whatnot. 'Tis even tougher for pirates of the fair sex: at the end of the day, we just want to unbuckle our sword, slide off our breeches and — just once — feel like a lady instead of a bilge rat!
We are a huge fan of illustrator extraordinaire 
