Tuesday, June 9, 2015

If you build a bigger closet...


Bitches, Stiches I'm Back...

I LOVE projects. It is the thrill of the hunt in tracking down a canvas and paints, tea towels and thread and fabric and buttons.  I have a closet of crafts just waiting to be crafted, a novel already outlined but only 20 pages written and a barrel full of wine corks for my...well I just like wine. I love the creativity and the initial idea of a new project but that is where the excitement ends and the clutter begins.  Note to self: need more corks.

I've attempted many times to come back to this blog.  A repost here, a small paragraph there. What I have lacked is overall commitment.  The commitment it takes to roll over like a walrus and consume that last slice of pizza on a Saturday night (hey the box won't fit in the frig).  Or chugging that last sip of wine at the wine tasting regardless of the smell or taste, COMMITTMENT.  So I'm giving it another shot.  Because if I don't write these stories down, they will get out of control with the embellishments.  And I really will turn into the 85 year old cat lady wandering around the pet food aisle on a Friday night telling stories to the cashier of mouth enemas and parades.

So I'm gonna get my feet wet by bringing up a post I wrote way back in 2011.  I read through it, bedazzled it a bit, but I thought it was again relevant as we swing into the Summer and the dreaded season of the "PCS". 

This weekend while putting the laundry away,  I couldn't believe it, I counted 1, 2, ...11,12... 27 pairs of jeans- jeans collected over the past 10-20 years!!

Does that make me a collector? An overachiever? A hoarder? I realized that it was time again to sift through the lot and send some of these pants-a-packing. Twenty years, 3 countries and 8 moves had caught up with me and my wardrobe.  So I did what any "overachiever" (like I how did that) did and I zipped and buttoned my way through the ridiculous jungle of denim. Some pairs slipped on easily, others I may have had to lightly "jump" into and others, just three words- deep knee bends. One thing in common, with each I recollected the good times I had while with them, and I pair after pair I thought to myself--can I really stand to let any of them go? 

First pair, designer jeans,  I paid a hefty price for these and waited patiently until it was the perfect time to make the purchase. Because of this, I now only bring them out for special occasions.  I take good care of these jeans: gentle cycle, wash cold, lay flat to dry.  While I treat them gently, because they are designer- they are the toughest of the bunch and always keep their shape- KEEP.  Next my comfy jeans, holes in the knees, perfectly worn-in. Regardless of how much weight I gain or lose, they are completely versatile and always fit perfectly- KEEP.  I uncovered a small stack of my daytime jeans...an army of different blues that are the most important to me while just living life.  They cover my ass from Monday to Winesday to Friday and back to Winesday again- KEEP.  In the very back of the closet were my dark denim work jeans, while I don't wear them as much as the others, I love they way they fit, just like the first day I bought them- KEEP.  And lastly my mom jeans- while not conservative in cut or shape, I find I keep going back to them over and over again, because they are so supportive and reliable- KEEP. 

Those remaining, well, herein lies my dilemma. They are all just taking up space in my closet. Does this 2ft high stack of trousers really stand a chance against the rest? The answer is YES.  Sure I may only wear the others  a couple of times during the year, but it is always nice to slide an old pair on and take them out for a spin.  Sending my jeans to Goodwill so that someone else can take pleasure in wearing them is just...out of the question. It took a long time to accumulate this denim, purchased from all over the world, their diversity should be appreciated by me and definitely not determined by the size of my closet. And if I move my shoes over I may be able to fit just a couple of more pairs in.  Or maybe I will just have to build a larger closet...Seriously, Why Can't I?

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Awkward Silence...

Wordle: Untitled
A repost...
Those of you who watch Seinfeld will completely understand. But do you remember the episode when every time Kramer would hear Leeza Gibbons' voice on Entertainment Tonight and he would go into convulsions, his whole body would spasm and he would eventually black out? Well that is what happens to me when I find myself 3 seconds into an awkward group silence.

I go crazy bananas, I can feel my eye twitching, my mouth gets drys and barely six seconds will pass before I find myself blurting out something ridiculous like "you know I am wearing band aids on my nipples because I couldn't find a clean bra to wear." You see, I would rather say something completely self depreciating than stand there sliding deeper and deeper into an abyss like silence.

And tonight at a dinner party I had to trudge my way through about a dozen of these awkward, silent pauses. I mean seriously, out of eight educated, employed, relatively bright adults, you would think that one person could find something interesting to say. For God sakes, A-N-Y-THING, a grunt, a burp or even some gas would have at least cut the silence, if only for a moment.

So as you can imagine I found myself teetering on the edge of insanity and full disclosure. With every silent pause I came closer and closer to accidentally blurting out my truths...starting with the fact that sometimes I pee in the shower when I am really tired in the morning (OK that only happened once...maybe twice) and ending with the fact that I haven't washed my hair in 6 days. Could someone please save me from going down that dirty yellow brick road of no return? Argh...

Fortunately it didn't get that bad, I did leave with my dignity and my bra intact. But I wanted to gouge my eyes out with my oven cooked, well done, crispy charred steak. And that's all I have to say about that.

Friday, February 22, 2013

Do you see happy?




How often do you stop, think and say out loud, "I am happy."

Just a random, life is great moment that sidles up quietly and tap, tap, taps you on the shoulder when you least expect it. It can happen in your car, standing at the ATM, or enjoying a cold corona and lime on your back porch. Always unexpected but truly appreciated, and all you want to do with that moment is tell someone about it without sounding like a pompous ass or like you have been drinking wine secretly in your diet coke can.

I seem to be having those moments more and more. (Disclaimer: Karma if you are reading, please move on, I am sure you have more important points to make).

Does appreciation for the small things come with age? Does it rear its head only when there is enough free time to receive it and recognize it? Or does it come with comfort? Good health? Money? Good friends?

Enquiring minds want to know...

Friday, January 18, 2013

Archiving...


At the gym today I was reading a June 2008 Glamour Magazine. I am not sure what that reflects more poorly on, the fact that my gym that still has 2008 magazines or the fact that I chose a 2008 Glamour instead of the most recent National Geographic Mag. Admittingly, after forgetting my Ipod, I would have read a copy of New England Journal of Medicine if that was all there was, ANYTHING to take my mind off both the monotony and the pain of walking "uphill" on that damn treadmill.

So in this issue, they had a page dedicated to things it's OK to do without feeling guilty. So to keep my mind off the task at hand (or as I like to call it, project ass shrink) I came up with a list of my own.

Like I think it's OK to...

...when someone compliments your shirt, tell them the price and that it came from Target.

...order both a beer and a carafe of Saki at dinner, I know two drinks at once, pretty empowering, but those Saki bombs aren't going to make themselves.

...wear blue eyeliner or blue mascara or both.

...tell someone your dress is "vintage" even if its not and you purchased it from TJ Maxx last week.

...say "shit" in front of your kids. You wouldn't say it unless you meant it.

...leave the last sip of beer in your glass, we're not in college anymore, no need to chug.

...weep while watching Extreme Home Makeover or that damn commercial with Sarah McLaughlin and the ASPCA.

...tip 15% instead of 20%.

...change you hair color.

...use the word "shart" in a sentence. Like, I shart while in yoga class.

...avoid the airplane rows that have babies in them. Been there done that.

...go to the beach and NOT get into the ocean.

...think that Zac Efron is hot, even though he could be your son.

...sing out loud with air guitar.

...order the house wine.

...defriend people on FaceBook and in real life.

...spend more money on a pair of sunglasses than on your kids clothes.

...carry a purse that's bigger than your head. (That one is for hubby.) In your face.

...take pictures of everything and everyone.

and lastly...it's OK to...order fries with everything.

Sunday, September 23, 2012

Everyone poops, even Godzilla


We all have our own poop stories. There I said it, threw it out there for the majority of you to judge and criticize. But the rest of you, you know who you are, you are actually recollecting about you last good poop tale, wishing you had a blog so you could write about it. You also know what it is to iPoop, what it means to drop your kids off "at the pool" and still spit milk through your nose over a good fart joke.

But one thing that we all have in common, both story tellers and "little miss prissy" is that NO ONE likes to poop at the beach. That poop fact is listed somewhere between #5 Fear of sitting on an airplane toilet and #45 something about counting the leaves before wiping in the woods. However, sometimes you have to make exceptions to the rule because one's intestines can only take so much Orion beer, cheesy pizza washed down with a gallon water jug filled with red wine for dessert. Your wine soaked gut don't give a shit about your poop rules.

So this particular day, after an internal battle between wishing it away and making some hard choices, I politely excused myself from the beach and head towards the 90 degree, public restroom, which may as well been the powder room of Hades himself. Surely you didn't think I went in the water did you?

Side note: The Japanese are very creative with their small spaces. Most inside space is comprised of different levels, for this reason you may step down into a bathroom or up into a toilet stall. This was the case on this wickedly hot Saturday afternoon.

So I lock myself into the 3 ft by 9 foot standing coffin, I mean stall, and sit upon my porcelain "musical" throne and get to business. After five minutes I begin to wrap up and I hear the giggling of little Japanese children. They are playing in the cool sink water, washing their hands and having a great time out of the sun, into the shade and now in my kingdom. I think to myself, surely, I can wait them out, and become immediately frustrated that I didn't take advantage of the anonymity given to me just one minute earlier. But they don't leave and now I hear adults. Three minutes or sixty-five pass and now I am covered in sweat and slowly working myself into a mild panic.

I had to get out now and fast, forget time was of the essence. If I didn't get out and soon, I saw a premonition of me fast forward ten minutes slumped over a singing Japanese toilet in a public restroom with my swim skirt to my knees and my ridiculously huge sunhat dangling partway in the throne. I couldn't wait any longer.

So I "rupture" out of the stall and took one giant leap/ or trip towards the floor (remember the step). The children first see me, and then unfortunately smell me. I swear they froze in terror, mid-wash, with soap on their little hands. Can you imagine...giant blonde women falling out of what they thought was an empty stall, red faced with bug-like sunglasses, obnoxious straw hat and smelling of sweat and last night's Orion.

I didn't know whether to say hello or to ROAR.