If ever there was a day when this gal needed some Shania Twain, it was today. My horrid habit of eating the ice from my drinks caused a filling to crack. The dentist said it was in need of a crown. My first crown. No one told me exactly what to expect.
The appointment was just after the dentist's office opened. The idea was to go straight from there to my office. My nice pashmina protected my arms and shoulders from the chill in his office while the heating ramped up.
Barely after reclining in the chair, he stuck a huge needle in my gum. "Little sting." Little sting, my ass. Those needles weren't that big before. When did they get so big?
But the anesthesia worked. My lip and tongue tingled until they felt as large as a lemon. By that time, the tingling had subsided and there was no feeling. That's when the worst of the whole procedure began.
It's that smell. Like burning flesh. Like hair caught in a candle. And it doesn't stop. Because he just keeps on and on and on until my tooth is ready for the temporary crown.
Woah, woah, woah. Temporary? You mean I have to come back for more? Heaven help me.
And THEN... the anesthesia wears off. Can someone just hit me over the head with a bat and knock me out until morning? Somehow, miraculously, the end of the workday arrived.
On the drive home, the day was cooling into evening. But, hey! If I can stand the pain in my mouth, I sure as hell can stand a little chill. The convertible top went down, the seat heater went on, and the pashmina wrapped around my head and shoulders to keep my hair from tangling in the wind. Throw on some shades and I'm ready for my closeup, dahling.
Showing posts with label Clothing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Clothing. Show all posts
7.11.11
3.11.11
Hoooww-Deeee!
My sartorial peeves are about to become rants. If you're not ready for it, move to the back row [F*ck the back row! Yay Back Row!] and let someone else read it.
People, women mostly, who are so proudly brand conscious drive me up the wall. One sees all these Coach bags with the C's on them, or the Tory Burch flats. You know the ones. Little ballet flats with a big brass circle on the toe with two T's top to top in the circle.
A good 60% of my purses are Coach. But here's my dirty little secret. I despise conspicuous consumption so much that I never ever buy a Coach bag with the C's and the first thing I do even before the clerk has finished ringing up the sale is to remove the little leather or brass Coach-embossed tag from the strap.
But today's encounter topped them all. While waiting to genuflect at the altar of the caffeine addicted, the sleeve of a woman's coat caught my eye. There on the cuff of the left sleeve was the label -- Calvin Klein. Seriously? Did she just forget to cut it off? Or does she think that it's supposed to be there? Like those seams that hold jacket pockets together. Or the stitch on the pleat of a skirt.
For goodness sake, who is so proud of wearing So-and-So that they want to emblazon the designer's name all over themselves? If you're going to advertise for the company, at least make them pay you for your service. Stop and think. If no one knew who designed or produced what you wear, would you still wear it?
Enough for now. I better step off my soapbox before I launch into a diatribe about men wearing the wrong size suits.
[Title taken from this.]
People, women mostly, who are so proudly brand conscious drive me up the wall. One sees all these Coach bags with the C's on them, or the Tory Burch flats. You know the ones. Little ballet flats with a big brass circle on the toe with two T's top to top in the circle.
A good 60% of my purses are Coach. But here's my dirty little secret. I despise conspicuous consumption so much that I never ever buy a Coach bag with the C's and the first thing I do even before the clerk has finished ringing up the sale is to remove the little leather or brass Coach-embossed tag from the strap.
But today's encounter topped them all. While waiting to genuflect at the altar of the caffeine addicted, the sleeve of a woman's coat caught my eye. There on the cuff of the left sleeve was the label -- Calvin Klein. Seriously? Did she just forget to cut it off? Or does she think that it's supposed to be there? Like those seams that hold jacket pockets together. Or the stitch on the pleat of a skirt.
For goodness sake, who is so proud of wearing So-and-So that they want to emblazon the designer's name all over themselves? If you're going to advertise for the company, at least make them pay you for your service. Stop and think. If no one knew who designed or produced what you wear, would you still wear it?
Enough for now. I better step off my soapbox before I launch into a diatribe about men wearing the wrong size suits.
[Title taken from this.]
12.6.11
My Own Worst Enemy
Moving on with today's entry in the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge and recapping the last three.
8.A picture that makes you laugh - Da.
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most - Si.
10.A picture of the person you do the most ****** up things with - Here!
As you can guess from the title, I don't need anyone to help me in finding f***ed up things. But, in my defense, I'm not the instigator either. I'm the lone wolf who does an excellent job in f***ed up activities all by my lonesome. But my f***ed things skirted the rules.
In high school as the good girl, it wasn't until the day before graduation that I broke the mini-skirt rule. In royal style to boot. As the valedictorian, I was seated on the stage on the 50-yard line in the football stadium. To the graduation run-through the day before, I sported a navy leather mini-skirt. What were they going to do? Not let me graduate? Take away my valedictory speech like they took away all but one of the top academic awards? "You scored the highest in every class. But we need to spread the awards around. So you're only getting one. Which one would you like to be recognized for?"
My fearlessness increased with age. Even today, bungee jumping doesn't seem like too big of a deal. Except I probably wouldn't do it for the same reason I gave up roller coasters. Headaches from being thrown around in the seat. Sigh.
Sure, wearing a mini-skirt to graduation practice and bungee jumping aren't f***ed up by lots of people's standards. But getting sloppy drunk and ending up, as Laoch said to one of his friends, "sun soaked, covered in beer and strippers, and not knowing where my wallet or my car is" isn't my kind of f***ed up. I prefer meeting four men on the beach of Puerto Rico and having dinner with them, followed the next day by meeting one man on the beach and having afternoon tea with him, followed by meeting two men on the beach the next day and having drinks with them. All while vacationing by myself.
As I said, a lone wolf who can find plenty of f***ed up things all by myself. Yep, I am my own worst enemy.
8.A picture that makes you laugh - Da.
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most - Si.
10.A picture of the person you do the most ****** up things with - Here!
As you can guess from the title, I don't need anyone to help me in finding f***ed up things. But, in my defense, I'm not the instigator either. I'm the lone wolf who does an excellent job in f***ed up activities all by my lonesome. But my f***ed things skirted the rules.
In high school as the good girl, it wasn't until the day before graduation that I broke the mini-skirt rule. In royal style to boot. As the valedictorian, I was seated on the stage on the 50-yard line in the football stadium. To the graduation run-through the day before, I sported a navy leather mini-skirt. What were they going to do? Not let me graduate? Take away my valedictory speech like they took away all but one of the top academic awards? "You scored the highest in every class. But we need to spread the awards around. So you're only getting one. Which one would you like to be recognized for?"
My fearlessness increased with age. Even today, bungee jumping doesn't seem like too big of a deal. Except I probably wouldn't do it for the same reason I gave up roller coasters. Headaches from being thrown around in the seat. Sigh.
Sure, wearing a mini-skirt to graduation practice and bungee jumping aren't f***ed up by lots of people's standards. But getting sloppy drunk and ending up, as Laoch said to one of his friends, "sun soaked, covered in beer and strippers, and not knowing where my wallet or my car is" isn't my kind of f***ed up. I prefer meeting four men on the beach of Puerto Rico and having dinner with them, followed the next day by meeting one man on the beach and having afternoon tea with him, followed by meeting two men on the beach the next day and having drinks with them. All while vacationing by myself.
As I said, a lone wolf who can find plenty of f***ed up things all by myself. Yep, I am my own worst enemy.
1.6.11
Born the Redhead Way
Boobs or hip bones? What's more attractive? C'mon, fellas. Inquiring minds want to know what y'all think. It started over the weekend with pictures of two celebs on two beaches. LeAnn Rimes in Mexico and Christina Hendricks in Italy.
LeAnn tweeted a photo of herself in a string bikini. The paparazzi caught Christina stepping out of her cover-up. Those two pictures ignited the body wars again. "She looks anorexic." "That's obese." Women can't win. Either we're too thin or too fat.
It's been reported that Christina is 5'8", approximately 154 pounds, and a size 14. When you remember that the average woman's dress size in the 1950s was an 8, you also have to remember that in the 1950s, the average woman was 5'3", 120 pounds, with a waist size of 24" to 25". Today, the average American woman is 5'4", 150 pounds, with a waist size of 34" to 35". And her dress size? 12.
Don't forget that the U.S. Department of Commerce abolished the uniform sizing system for women's clothes in 1983. A size 8 in the 1950s is a size 4 or less today. A size 12 today would be a size 16 or larger in the 1950s. For anyone who sews, we know our "true" size because the sizes on patterns didn't change to fit our vanity as our waists expanded.
My mother was plump from her early 40s onward. At her largest, back in the 1970s, she was a 16. Granted she was only 5'2". Having inherited some of her nicer vintage dresses, it's surprising that they fit me. Me? A size 16? Okay, so I'm 5'10" and don't look as plump as my mother did.
Shockingly, my secret is that my dress size is the American average. Yep, just one dress size smaller than Ms. Hendricks. Hurray for us hourglass-figured women! Other than our figures, Ms. Hendricks and I share the same hair color. But I was born this way! [WARNING! Do NOT click the last link if you are offended by over-the-top music videos. If so, click HERE instead.]
LeAnn tweeted a photo of herself in a string bikini. The paparazzi caught Christina stepping out of her cover-up. Those two pictures ignited the body wars again. "She looks anorexic." "That's obese." Women can't win. Either we're too thin or too fat.
It's been reported that Christina is 5'8", approximately 154 pounds, and a size 14. When you remember that the average woman's dress size in the 1950s was an 8, you also have to remember that in the 1950s, the average woman was 5'3", 120 pounds, with a waist size of 24" to 25". Today, the average American woman is 5'4", 150 pounds, with a waist size of 34" to 35". And her dress size? 12.
Don't forget that the U.S. Department of Commerce abolished the uniform sizing system for women's clothes in 1983. A size 8 in the 1950s is a size 4 or less today. A size 12 today would be a size 16 or larger in the 1950s. For anyone who sews, we know our "true" size because the sizes on patterns didn't change to fit our vanity as our waists expanded.
My mother was plump from her early 40s onward. At her largest, back in the 1970s, she was a 16. Granted she was only 5'2". Having inherited some of her nicer vintage dresses, it's surprising that they fit me. Me? A size 16? Okay, so I'm 5'10" and don't look as plump as my mother did.
Shockingly, my secret is that my dress size is the American average. Yep, just one dress size smaller than Ms. Hendricks. Hurray for us hourglass-figured women! Other than our figures, Ms. Hendricks and I share the same hair color. But I was born this way! [WARNING! Do NOT click the last link if you are offended by over-the-top music videos. If so, click HERE instead.]
3.4.11
The Touch, The Feel of Gaelic
There are five senses. Yet there are only four here so far in my non-Bucket List list. There have been sight, sound, smell, and taste. Have you ever realised that most of your senses are located in the head region? The only one that covers more than just the head region is touch.
What is on my want-to-feel-before-I-die list? This:
Perhaps Number 11 on the list should be "a day without pain in the finger." But whining doesn't feel so good either. So we'll stop at Ten.
What is on my want-to-feel-before-I-die list? This:
- The Dead Sea keeping me afloat
- My grandbaby's soft skin
- The wind from a tornado as I chase the storm (with a professional, of course)
- Spray from the ocean on my face while sailing in the Greek Isles
- The silkiness of my daughters' wedding dresses
- Sheets made of silk
- Weightlessness
- Cool dirt while digging for truffles
- Spongy trails as the elevation increases on Denali
- My wedding rings on my left ring finger (they were cut off when I shattered the bone in my finger and won't be repaired until there is no more swelling in my finger)
Perhaps Number 11 on the list should be "a day without pain in the finger." But whining doesn't feel so good either. So we'll stop at Ten.
17.1.11
Breast Be the Tie that Binds
When a person loses weight, as I have in the past two weeks, articles of clothing fit differently. Usually it's seen in the waistband of a skirt or the seat of a pair of pants. Mine showed up in the lingerie department. And not in the expected way.
Since birthing my first baby, my non-maternity bra size has been constant. Let's just say that my bra size is larger than the average American non-surgically-enhanced woman. But it's exactly the same as the average American surgically-enhanced woman. And no, I'm not surgically-enhanced.
When the sales lady led me into a fitting room for a current sizing, my expectation was that I would be down to the average non-surgically enhanced size. She told me my new size. I was shocked! Shocked, I tell you!
Rather than moving down a size, she brought in the next letter up, even suggesting at one point that two letters up might be necessary. Did the weight shift upwards? And if so, how?
I went crazy. Not mad-as-hell crazy but lost-my-mind shopping crazy. Once the damage was done, there were five new bras in my shopping bag. Black, nude, midnight purple, light purple, and hot pink. Why so many funky colors?
To paraphrase David O. Selznick as he told Ann Rutherford on the set of Gone With the Wind, perhaps no one will see the undergarments, but I'll know they're more than basic.
Since birthing my first baby, my non-maternity bra size has been constant. Let's just say that my bra size is larger than the average American non-surgically-enhanced woman. But it's exactly the same as the average American surgically-enhanced woman. And no, I'm not surgically-enhanced.
When the sales lady led me into a fitting room for a current sizing, my expectation was that I would be down to the average non-surgically enhanced size. She told me my new size. I was shocked! Shocked, I tell you!
Rather than moving down a size, she brought in the next letter up, even suggesting at one point that two letters up might be necessary. Did the weight shift upwards? And if so, how?
I went crazy. Not mad-as-hell crazy but lost-my-mind shopping crazy. Once the damage was done, there were five new bras in my shopping bag. Black, nude, midnight purple, light purple, and hot pink. Why so many funky colors?
To paraphrase David O. Selznick as he told Ann Rutherford on the set of Gone With the Wind, perhaps no one will see the undergarments, but I'll know they're more than basic.
4.1.11
Leave Them High Heels On
The skirt from today's suit has a leather-edged zipper in back that zips from both ends. One continuous zipper with a half inch of black leather on either side. To make a kick-pleat, pull the zipper up from the bottom hem as high as desired.
Today's kick-pleat couldn't be too high because of my stockings. Yes, real honest-to-God stockings. With lace at the top around the top of my thighs. Too much of an unzipped kick-pleat and the lace tops peek through.
Bending over to retrieve a pencil that fell from behind my ear, the zipper decided on its own to take that opportunity to slide itself all the way up. My skirt began to slide forward from my hips.
It's amazing how fast a person can stand up and turn around! My hands quickly found the wayward zipper and slid it back to kick-pleat length while my eyes gazed around the room to see if anyone noticed my impromptu mooning.
As Shooter Jennings would sing, "Get outta that skirt, but leave them high heels on." Oh, dear!
Today's kick-pleat couldn't be too high because of my stockings. Yes, real honest-to-God stockings. With lace at the top around the top of my thighs. Too much of an unzipped kick-pleat and the lace tops peek through.
Bending over to retrieve a pencil that fell from behind my ear, the zipper decided on its own to take that opportunity to slide itself all the way up. My skirt began to slide forward from my hips.
It's amazing how fast a person can stand up and turn around! My hands quickly found the wayward zipper and slid it back to kick-pleat length while my eyes gazed around the room to see if anyone noticed my impromptu mooning.
As Shooter Jennings would sing, "Get outta that skirt, but leave them high heels on." Oh, dear!
14.12.10
Ode on a Sensuous Leg
Oh, to have my legs caressed with a special softness! To feel them wrapped snugly in a warmth that envelopes them entirely. All at once. From my lacquered red toes to the top of my ballet-toned thighs. Front and back and all around. A kind of softness that makes people want to rub their hands all over my legs.
I’ve only felt such a luxurious touch once in my life. And that feeling was so fleeting but also was so memorable that it etched itself forever on my soul.
Now my greed, envy, and lust want it again. My legs desire nothing more. Just to be swathed during the winter in nothing less than cashmere stockings.
But I’m not picky. If you can’t find cashmere stockings, I’ll take cashmere tights or hold-ups as well.
I’ve only felt such a luxurious touch once in my life. And that feeling was so fleeting but also was so memorable that it etched itself forever on my soul.
Now my greed, envy, and lust want it again. My legs desire nothing more. Just to be swathed during the winter in nothing less than cashmere stockings.
But I’m not picky. If you can’t find cashmere stockings, I’ll take cashmere tights or hold-ups as well.
2.12.10
Oops, I Did It Again
Remember yesterday? How I left the gym without underwear? Well, so, today at least I remembered my underwear.
Today's morning workout was much easier and quicker than yesterday's. Only a 45 minute abs-and-stretch class. Followed again by a quick shower.
Today's shower was planned. My bag was packed with underwear (!), street clothes, warm socks, and the most basic of makeup needs -- mascara and lip gloss. But no shoes. I was forced to wear my tennis shoes (sneakers, trainers, whatever you know them as).
It felt so weird. The only times you'll ever see me in tennies are at the gym or doing yardwork while wearing an old pair. Wearing jeans to a movie? Nope. Sightseeing? Uh-uh. Riding a motorcycle? Never.
One of these days I'm going to walk out of the gym freshly showered and dressed completely. Down to the underwear and shoes.
Today's morning workout was much easier and quicker than yesterday's. Only a 45 minute abs-and-stretch class. Followed again by a quick shower.
Today's shower was planned. My bag was packed with underwear (!), street clothes, warm socks, and the most basic of makeup needs -- mascara and lip gloss. But no shoes. I was forced to wear my tennis shoes (sneakers, trainers, whatever you know them as).
It felt so weird. The only times you'll ever see me in tennies are at the gym or doing yardwork while wearing an old pair. Wearing jeans to a movie? Nope. Sightseeing? Uh-uh. Riding a motorcycle? Never.
One of these days I'm going to walk out of the gym freshly showered and dressed completely. Down to the underwear and shoes.
1.12.10
Just the Bare Facts
It's a good thing no one pants'd me yesterday morning. They would have had the surprise of their lives.
Trying to maintain that weight loss from our summer holiday, yesterday's morning work out entailed 35 minutes on the treadmill (3.5 mph and 3% incline), 10 minutes on the rowing machine, 20 minutes practicing ballet turns and jumps, 15 minutes of upper-body weight training, and 20 minutes of stretching. My workout clothes were drenched afterwards. Rather than just leave wearing sweaty clothes, I took a quick shower at the gym.
The thought of putting back on those sweaty clothes made my skin crawl. But I hadn't come prepared for a shower and change of clothes.
I hope no one saw what I did. I can't believe I'm telling you this.
Before exercising, I had peeled off an outer layer of sweatpants, tee-shirt, and sweatshirt and left them in the locker. Not having anything else to put on, I quickly stepped into my dry sweat pant and pulled the tee and sweatshirt over my head. Commando style. No undies. No bra. Zip. Nada. Nothing.
And no one (until now) was any the wiser.
Trying to maintain that weight loss from our summer holiday, yesterday's morning work out entailed 35 minutes on the treadmill (3.5 mph and 3% incline), 10 minutes on the rowing machine, 20 minutes practicing ballet turns and jumps, 15 minutes of upper-body weight training, and 20 minutes of stretching. My workout clothes were drenched afterwards. Rather than just leave wearing sweaty clothes, I took a quick shower at the gym.
The thought of putting back on those sweaty clothes made my skin crawl. But I hadn't come prepared for a shower and change of clothes.
I hope no one saw what I did. I can't believe I'm telling you this.
Before exercising, I had peeled off an outer layer of sweatpants, tee-shirt, and sweatshirt and left them in the locker. Not having anything else to put on, I quickly stepped into my dry sweat pant and pulled the tee and sweatshirt over my head. Commando style. No undies. No bra. Zip. Nada. Nothing.
And no one (until now) was any the wiser.
19.11.10
I'm in the Mood for Fabric
If you ever hear me speak of Susan, she's not a real person. She's my height. Or she would be if she had a head. She also has the exact same proportions in the bust, waist, and hips as I do. But she has three legs instead of two. And she's blue.
She's not a Na'vi. Susan is my body double. My dressmakers form. And here's a secret. I can sew. And pretty darn well, too.
The last "simple" skirt I made had 18 pieces, and that's not counting the lining pieces. My favorite cocktail dress is a made-by-me sumptuous brown 100% cotton velvet completely lined and with boning in the waist. And no, I don't sew for others unless I've birthed them or married them. So don't ask.
On my way to Parents' Weekend at Finola's college last month, I made a pit stop in Manhattan. There are certain places in Manhattan that require a pilgrimage. One of those is a shop in the Lower East Side, but it was too far to travel for just one store. They have beautiful fabrics and are right next door to a bialy store. But a critical mass is more than one fabulous store in a two block radius.
How about dozens of fabulous stores in a two block radius? If you ignore the gentlemen's clubs and topless bars, my pilgrimage stores dot the side streets just south of Times Square off Seventh Avenue. So Rudy cleaned up Times Square. It just means that the seedier side moved a few blocks away from where the tourists are. Back at the fabric stores, I was like a kid in a candy store.
And when in the Garment District, 'tis best to dress in black, and funky shoes if possible. I didn't mention my pit stop to a friend I ran into getting coffee before getting on the road. 'Tis best to leave an air of mystery and then show up a few weeks (or months depending on how fast my project goes) wearing expensive looking togs that were handmade for more than half the cost of ready-to-wear.
And shhh . . . keep this under your hat. I don't want Dierdre to know that I shop at Mood, where the Project Runway contestants shop. She'll want a weekend shopping trip.
She's not a Na'vi. Susan is my body double. My dressmakers form. And here's a secret. I can sew. And pretty darn well, too.
The last "simple" skirt I made had 18 pieces, and that's not counting the lining pieces. My favorite cocktail dress is a made-by-me sumptuous brown 100% cotton velvet completely lined and with boning in the waist. And no, I don't sew for others unless I've birthed them or married them. So don't ask.
On my way to Parents' Weekend at Finola's college last month, I made a pit stop in Manhattan. There are certain places in Manhattan that require a pilgrimage. One of those is a shop in the Lower East Side, but it was too far to travel for just one store. They have beautiful fabrics and are right next door to a bialy store. But a critical mass is more than one fabulous store in a two block radius.
How about dozens of fabulous stores in a two block radius? If you ignore the gentlemen's clubs and topless bars, my pilgrimage stores dot the side streets just south of Times Square off Seventh Avenue. So Rudy cleaned up Times Square. It just means that the seedier side moved a few blocks away from where the tourists are. Back at the fabric stores, I was like a kid in a candy store.
And when in the Garment District, 'tis best to dress in black, and funky shoes if possible. I didn't mention my pit stop to a friend I ran into getting coffee before getting on the road. 'Tis best to leave an air of mystery and then show up a few weeks (or months depending on how fast my project goes) wearing expensive looking togs that were handmade for more than half the cost of ready-to-wear.
And shhh . . . keep this under your hat. I don't want Dierdre to know that I shop at Mood, where the Project Runway contestants shop. She'll want a weekend shopping trip.
9.11.10
Beneath the Kilt
What does a Scotsman wear under his kilt? It depends on the man.
Several years ago during a parade in town, several clans had been imbibing a bit too much scotch trying to warm their innards on a cold winter day. As one clan approached the reviewing stand, an elderly "gentleman" stumbled and proceeded to roll and roll and roll across the pavement right towards the crowd of dignitaries. In true Scots fashion, he wasn't wearing anything except his kilt.
This past Saturday night, one of our associate priests who is the dean of a local seminary held a Murder Mystery party at his house for the Beefeaters. The Beefeaters have nothing to do with gin or guarding the Tower. It began as a group of men at church who would clean up the church cemetery on a semi-annual basis. They also enjoy relaxing afterwards with a grill full of red-meat products and some good single malt. It has grown to include Lady Beefeaters who are either honorary members or actually help with the cemetery cleanup.
One of the Beefeaters is USDA-certified AAA prime beefcake eye candy. At a pool party in the dwindling days of summer, he was the one who wasn't embarrassed in his swimsuit. Rippling six-pack, shaved head, earring. And the life of party, even finding a way to attach a keg to floaties so the guys in the pool didn't have to go far for a refill.
The murder mystery party was a fancy dress affair. Although some people dressed for the role they were assigned (my role was the actress, Mr. Gaelic's was the doctor), most people wore long dresses or tuxes. Except BeefeaterCake. He wore a kilt tuxedo - looks like a tux from the waist up and a kilt from the waist down.
During the opening explanation and the closing accusations, we were seated in a large circle since there were 16 of us. (Eight characters per game so we were split into two different rooms for dinner but all played the same game. Yes, there was another actress and another doctor. And the Gaelics and another couple were lucky enough not to be seated with our spouses - you can interact with more people that way.) BeefeaterCake was seated directly opposite in the circle. And he doesn't seem to know how to keep his legs together, sitting with his knees spread.
But like a thoughtful Scotsman, he wore tartan compression bike shorts underneath. Not traditional, but thoughtful.
Several years ago during a parade in town, several clans had been imbibing a bit too much scotch trying to warm their innards on a cold winter day. As one clan approached the reviewing stand, an elderly "gentleman" stumbled and proceeded to roll and roll and roll across the pavement right towards the crowd of dignitaries. In true Scots fashion, he wasn't wearing anything except his kilt.
This past Saturday night, one of our associate priests who is the dean of a local seminary held a Murder Mystery party at his house for the Beefeaters. The Beefeaters have nothing to do with gin or guarding the Tower. It began as a group of men at church who would clean up the church cemetery on a semi-annual basis. They also enjoy relaxing afterwards with a grill full of red-meat products and some good single malt. It has grown to include Lady Beefeaters who are either honorary members or actually help with the cemetery cleanup.
One of the Beefeaters is USDA-certified AAA prime beefcake eye candy. At a pool party in the dwindling days of summer, he was the one who wasn't embarrassed in his swimsuit. Rippling six-pack, shaved head, earring. And the life of party, even finding a way to attach a keg to floaties so the guys in the pool didn't have to go far for a refill.
The murder mystery party was a fancy dress affair. Although some people dressed for the role they were assigned (my role was the actress, Mr. Gaelic's was the doctor), most people wore long dresses or tuxes. Except BeefeaterCake. He wore a kilt tuxedo - looks like a tux from the waist up and a kilt from the waist down.
During the opening explanation and the closing accusations, we were seated in a large circle since there were 16 of us. (Eight characters per game so we were split into two different rooms for dinner but all played the same game. Yes, there was another actress and another doctor. And the Gaelics and another couple were lucky enough not to be seated with our spouses - you can interact with more people that way.) BeefeaterCake was seated directly opposite in the circle. And he doesn't seem to know how to keep his legs together, sitting with his knees spread.
But like a thoughtful Scotsman, he wore tartan compression bike shorts underneath. Not traditional, but thoughtful.
29.10.10
Déjà Vu All Over Again
It's the '80s all over again. Leg warmers. They're back in fashion. And not just for ballet. Although Maeve wants a burgundy thigh-high pair for ballet.
When we were in Massachusetts for Parents' Weekend, leg warmers were at all the local stores. Maybe it was just in the colder climes of the United States. But that's how trends go. They start in one area and spread everywhere. Soon they'll be spotted on women in southern California.
Please, please, please, oh ye fashion gods. The '80s were good on the first go 'round. We don't need a second go.
Colorful corduroy slacks embroidered with palm trees, or ducks, or NCAA football team insignia are still in style at your local country club. Worn by men, mostly. Pink and green are still hanging around the club as well. If you segregate yourselves behind guarded tennis courts, that's one thing. But please don't bring back the other street wear from 30 years ago.
Just say no. No to parachute pants. No to ripped-neck sweatshirts. No to fingerless lace gloves. No to anything that hearkens back to Cyndi Lauper, or Irene Cara, or Madonna circa "Like a Virgin".
Fashion. Movies. Books. (The Official Preppy Handbook, anyone?) Is there no originality in anything anymore?
When we were in Massachusetts for Parents' Weekend, leg warmers were at all the local stores. Maybe it was just in the colder climes of the United States. But that's how trends go. They start in one area and spread everywhere. Soon they'll be spotted on women in southern California.
Please, please, please, oh ye fashion gods. The '80s were good on the first go 'round. We don't need a second go.
Colorful corduroy slacks embroidered with palm trees, or ducks, or NCAA football team insignia are still in style at your local country club. Worn by men, mostly. Pink and green are still hanging around the club as well. If you segregate yourselves behind guarded tennis courts, that's one thing. But please don't bring back the other street wear from 30 years ago.
Just say no. No to parachute pants. No to ripped-neck sweatshirts. No to fingerless lace gloves. No to anything that hearkens back to Cyndi Lauper, or Irene Cara, or Madonna circa "Like a Virgin".
Fashion. Movies. Books. (The Official Preppy Handbook, anyone?) Is there no originality in anything anymore?
25.9.10
In Case of Emergency, Remove Bra
For your dirty-bomb-terrorist-attack, shelter-in-place, hysteria-inducing survival kit, load up on plastic sheeting, duct tape, and red frilly bras. Not that you’d need the bra for entertainment. Usually if one is holed up in an airtight space with poisonous gases outside and a limited amount of oxygen inside, any type of undergarment would be superfluous. But a bra just might save your life.
A Ukrainian doctor has invented the Emergency Bra, inspired by her first-hand eyewitness of the effects of Chernobyl. Once off, which most adults can do one-handed, the cups separate into two masks which are then placed over the nose and mouth to filter out harmful particulates.
Now whenever a terrorist drops a dirty bomb in the city center, we women have the means to save our lives. And we get to pick which nearby man we might also want to save. Choose wisely, gals, ‘cause he better be eternally thankful.
Finally! A legitimate excuse for men to nuzzle women’s chests without getting slapped. “But I was just trying out the gas mask.”
A Ukrainian doctor has invented the Emergency Bra, inspired by her first-hand eyewitness of the effects of Chernobyl. Once off, which most adults can do one-handed, the cups separate into two masks which are then placed over the nose and mouth to filter out harmful particulates.
Now whenever a terrorist drops a dirty bomb in the city center, we women have the means to save our lives. And we get to pick which nearby man we might also want to save. Choose wisely, gals, ‘cause he better be eternally thankful.
Finally! A legitimate excuse for men to nuzzle women’s chests without getting slapped. “But I was just trying out the gas mask.”
24.9.10
Prep By Prep, Inch By Inch
Abercrombie and Fitch is dead; long live Abercrombie and Fitch. Did you ever stop to ask why there's a moose head hanging over the cash registers at A&F? What's with all the hockey sticks? Does anyone remember the first incarnation of A&F?
A&F's flagship store was on Madison Avenue in New York City and filled with goods for hunting, fishing, and sporting. Fashion was more of an afterthought, like what your grandparents wore. It died a dignified death befitting any store that catered to the monied elite of Bar Harbor and Nantucket. Its death was duly noted in "The Official Preppy Handbook", the parody that some people used as a Bible.
Abercrombie and Fitch is now the must-buy store for the new "Preps". Just in time for "True Prep", the sequel to the OPH. The new Preps sport Lily and Tory and Hermes and Goyard. There are still the old standbys of L.L. Bean, Ralph Lauren, and J Crew.
Raise your hand if any of these shoes ever graced the floor of your closet. Weejuns, Top Siders, Tretorns, Pappagallos, Maine hunting boots, or duck shoes? Stand up if any of these ever covered your body. Paisley, madras, Lacoste, embroidered corduroy, or monogrammed anything? True Preps of the world unite if you owned any of these! Bean field coat, Chesterfield, Skyr, Carroll Reed, Chris Craft, or anything Orvis.
All of a sudden I feel like piling the kids and the dog into the Volvo, heading out to the Vineyard, and playing a set of tennis with numerous breaks for Bloody Marys.
A&F's flagship store was on Madison Avenue in New York City and filled with goods for hunting, fishing, and sporting. Fashion was more of an afterthought, like what your grandparents wore. It died a dignified death befitting any store that catered to the monied elite of Bar Harbor and Nantucket. Its death was duly noted in "The Official Preppy Handbook", the parody that some people used as a Bible.
Abercrombie and Fitch is now the must-buy store for the new "Preps". Just in time for "True Prep", the sequel to the OPH. The new Preps sport Lily and Tory and Hermes and Goyard. There are still the old standbys of L.L. Bean, Ralph Lauren, and J Crew.
Raise your hand if any of these shoes ever graced the floor of your closet. Weejuns, Top Siders, Tretorns, Pappagallos, Maine hunting boots, or duck shoes? Stand up if any of these ever covered your body. Paisley, madras, Lacoste, embroidered corduroy, or monogrammed anything? True Preps of the world unite if you owned any of these! Bean field coat, Chesterfield, Skyr, Carroll Reed, Chris Craft, or anything Orvis.
All of a sudden I feel like piling the kids and the dog into the Volvo, heading out to the Vineyard, and playing a set of tennis with numerous breaks for Bloody Marys.
17.9.10
Does This Make My Baby Look Fat?
My eldest baby is off at college. For several weeks before moving into her college housing she went through her room creating three piles: take to college with her, store in the attic, and trash. For anyone who’s seen Toy Story 3, you’ll understand why I cried through the whole movie. Except that I didn’t cry when Ken was modeling his vintage clothing.
The teens were given two options: have a yard sale and split the proceeds or load up everything for a donation run to Salvation Army. They wanted to have a yard sale.
The last yard sale at our house was probably a good ten or 12 years ago. I detest yard sales. Having them, at least. So if the girls were going to put one together, I was going to get rid of as much as I could so that I don’t have to even consider the possibility of a yard sale for another ten or 12 years.
My closet looked like it was suffering from projectile vomiting. Piles all over the bedroom. Things that I hadn’t seen in years. I found my stash of cards from all the flowers that Mr. Gaelic sent me when we were first dating and he was leading up to the proposal. I also found baby girl clothes. So tiny! With the delicate lace that my mother insisted on buying when I was making their layette. And the ethereal cotton dresses that I wore as a baby before my father had air conditioning installed in the house.
When I held up one tiny gown I could only picture how big the girls are now. All grown up and off at college. When I was in the thick of it, I thought they’d never grow up. Now when I look back on it, their childhood was gone in a flash.
The teens were given two options: have a yard sale and split the proceeds or load up everything for a donation run to Salvation Army. They wanted to have a yard sale.
The last yard sale at our house was probably a good ten or 12 years ago. I detest yard sales. Having them, at least. So if the girls were going to put one together, I was going to get rid of as much as I could so that I don’t have to even consider the possibility of a yard sale for another ten or 12 years.
My closet looked like it was suffering from projectile vomiting. Piles all over the bedroom. Things that I hadn’t seen in years. I found my stash of cards from all the flowers that Mr. Gaelic sent me when we were first dating and he was leading up to the proposal. I also found baby girl clothes. So tiny! With the delicate lace that my mother insisted on buying when I was making their layette. And the ethereal cotton dresses that I wore as a baby before my father had air conditioning installed in the house.
When I held up one tiny gown I could only picture how big the girls are now. All grown up and off at college. When I was in the thick of it, I thought they’d never grow up. Now when I look back on it, their childhood was gone in a flash.
3.9.10
Observations from the Road
I-95 is the most traveled road in America. Some observations to make it at least tolerable:
- EZPass. Nuff said. Drive without it and lose several hours waiting for the Cash Only lanes at the toll plazas.
- If crossing the George Washington Bridge into New York City, get in the lane with the most tractor trailers. Even with the EZPass, hour-long lines stretch into New Jersey. Tractor trailers take up more space than cars. Two lines being even, the one with the 18-wheelers will move faster because there are fewer vehicles in the same amount of space.
- If there are three lanes of traffic on the interstate or toll road, the left lane will be the fastest, the right lane will be the second faster, and the middle lane will be the slowest. Those German laws of ticketing for passing on the right wouldn't even convince people in the middle lane to move to the right. But that's another blog entirely.
- Buy gas in New Jersey. It's cheapest by far and you don't have to pump it yourself.
- Take your own seat protectors. Even though some restrooms have the holders for seat protectors, they're not always filled. Women are nasty in restrooms. We squat rather than sit because we were told that we could get all kind of diseases from sitting on public restroom seats.
- If you buy it, they will eat it. Even if you're not hungry, if there is snack food in the car, you will eat it. So if you're trying to eat healthy, either buy healthy car snacks or don't buy it.
- Avoid New York City at all costs. If you're driving from points south of New York City to points northeast of New York City, take the New Jersey Turnpike to the Garden State Parkway to the Tappan Zee Bridge to Connecticut. We all (heart) New York, just not while crossing the Hudson River.
- Always question authority, especially Bitching Betty. She may try to take you on the fastest route, but in actuality it may not be. Sometimes that bitch just doesn't know what she's talking about.
- The economy must have been really hard on some folks. In past years, crossing the Delaware, George Washington, and Tappan Zee bridges have been quite boring. Now there are signs along the bridges reminding people that life is worth living and offering 1-800 numbers to call if in crisis. And CCTV cameras to boot. Just in case.
- When the toll road splits with trucks and buses on the right lanes and only cars on the left lanes, if you're driving a car, stay to the right with the trucks. It actually moves faster than the lanes with just cars.
- If you're offended by teens who wear sleepwear in public, men who wear socks with sandals, or women of a certain age who really shouldn't wear shorts past that certain age, then avoid each and every rest area, fast food joint, coffee shop, or gas station along the way. Your eyes will thank you.
23.8.10
Return to the Scene of the Coaster
This past weekend was our last fling of summer as a family. Next weekend we pile in the car to deposit Finola at college and do college visits on the way back with Deirdre. Our last familial fling of summer was spent at the amusement park where the teens and I celebrated my birthday.
Lesson learned. No more roller coasters for me. While waiting on the rest of the family to ride the coasters, several things came to my attention.
During an extremely long wait for the family on one coaster, I decided to count the number of thin to average kids versus those with mini-muffin tops and big bowls of jelly. Grand total: kids without bellies - 2, kids with bellies that pooched out - 38. Somehow I don't think any of those 38 tummies was distended due to malnourishment. Not when you get free refills on soft drinks but have to pay $3 for each bottle of cold water.
Lesson learned. No more roller coasters for me. While waiting on the rest of the family to ride the coasters, several things came to my attention.
- There's a prominent sign at the park entrance that says "shirts, pants, and shoes must be worn at all times". Does that exclude short pants, a.k.a. shorts? What about skorts? What about a dress? Or what I was wearing - an actual skirt?
- A different sign at the bumper cars says to remove all earrings before riding. Why? Are earrings more conductive than rings, watches, bracelets, or necklaces?
- Several rides have a demo seat at the beginning of the ride for people to try to buckle themselves into and see if they're too large for the ride. Why do people wait in the line and then embarrass themselves by having to be told by the cast member that they're too big to ride rather than try the seat out before waiting in line?
- If you don't want to eat meat, there aren't too many choices for meals. What if I don't want a salad or a slice of cheese pizza?
- There's only one Disney. Why do parks try to have a back story for the rides if there's really no story? And why do parks try to emulate certain Disney rides knowing that they'll fall far short?
- Having someone in a wheelchair gets you to the front of the line ahead of everyone else. Does that mean that you can fake an illness or injury, have a friend push you around all day, and jump to the front of the line just because you want to jump line? 'Cause there were a ton of healthy looking teens who would bound out of their wheelchairs and walk to the coaster seat then run back to their chairs after the ride ended. Excuse me. Can't you wait in line like the rest of us?
- The war is over. Or at least war fatigue has set in. Gone are the ticket booths reserved solely for service members. Gone are the tributes to the military throughout the park. Even though there are numerous military bases within an hour's drive.
- Americans are fat.
During an extremely long wait for the family on one coaster, I decided to count the number of thin to average kids versus those with mini-muffin tops and big bowls of jelly. Grand total: kids without bellies - 2, kids with bellies that pooched out - 38. Somehow I don't think any of those 38 tummies was distended due to malnourishment. Not when you get free refills on soft drinks but have to pay $3 for each bottle of cold water.
16.8.10
Two Steps Forward, One Look Back
My blogging is like a soap-opera writer. On almost any soap, story lines don’t always get tied up neatly. When Finola was rereading old postings of my blog, she asked the whatever-happened-to questions. Let’s start the week with an update from past blogs.
My job search is still on. It’s like playing a numbers game. If I get enough rejection letters, I’m bound to get an offer at some time. In the meantime, I’m beginning to think and work on alternatives to the office scene. So this update is like answering a question with a question. It’s “to be continued”.
But I’m still not tech-savvy enough or have the patience necessary to figure out where my photos from our summer holiday to Scotland and England filed themselves away on my hard drive. Mr. Gaelic is in the process of making a photo album after culling through over 2500 still shots and unknown hours of video. Hard copy photo album. Mr. Tech-Savvy uploaded them to a website that will produce a bound book for us.
This past weekend was a tax-holiday in my neck of the woods. But I didn’t buy any clothing. In fact, since joining the clothing diet, I bought only one pair of shoes. My reward points at a store were about to expire and coupled with a birthday bonus coupon, they were a steal. Only one slip-up on my clothing diet so far.
Now we get down to business. I was amazed after our time overseas that I came home lighter. And not just in the pocketbook. Somehow I’ve managed to keep those lost pounds from finding their way back. And to top it off, a few of their friends have gone looking for them. That’s almost ten pounds without trying.
I have a suspicion about what’s making those pounds pack their bags. But that is tomorrow’s blog. Same bat time, same bat channel.
My job search is still on. It’s like playing a numbers game. If I get enough rejection letters, I’m bound to get an offer at some time. In the meantime, I’m beginning to think and work on alternatives to the office scene. So this update is like answering a question with a question. It’s “to be continued”.
But I’m still not tech-savvy enough or have the patience necessary to figure out where my photos from our summer holiday to Scotland and England filed themselves away on my hard drive. Mr. Gaelic is in the process of making a photo album after culling through over 2500 still shots and unknown hours of video. Hard copy photo album. Mr. Tech-Savvy uploaded them to a website that will produce a bound book for us.
This past weekend was a tax-holiday in my neck of the woods. But I didn’t buy any clothing. In fact, since joining the clothing diet, I bought only one pair of shoes. My reward points at a store were about to expire and coupled with a birthday bonus coupon, they were a steal. Only one slip-up on my clothing diet so far.
Now we get down to business. I was amazed after our time overseas that I came home lighter. And not just in the pocketbook. Somehow I’ve managed to keep those lost pounds from finding their way back. And to top it off, a few of their friends have gone looking for them. That’s almost ten pounds without trying.
I have a suspicion about what’s making those pounds pack their bags. But that is tomorrow’s blog. Same bat time, same bat channel.
23.7.10
What Have I Done?
Holy Shit! I can't believe I just did that. And in public to boot! It's like announcing to the world that you're going to lose 20 pounds by Christmas. Everyone will know if you don't. Crap! What have I gotten myself into?
It all began innocently enough. Reading the New York Times. Then one article touched a nerve. How many times have a told Deirdre, my middle daughter, that she has too many clothes and nothing to wear? But am I guilty of the same thing?
I never thought so. I'm judicious in what I buy, making sure that things fill gaps in my wardrobe and match the colors that I already wear. Okay, okay. I also indulge in finer pieces such as silks and cashmeres. But in my defense, I know a terrific outlet mall with real outlets not just make-believe outlets where I've been known to buy $600 pairs of pants for $30 and $800 dresses for $60. And I sew a lot of my own clothes, especially the cashmeres and designer fabrics.
When I read the article, it was very easy to click on the outside links to the clothing diet programs. Yep, clothing diet. There are two extremes. One was to make do with only six articles of clothing (not including underwear, shoes, or accessories) for a month. The other was to not purchase any new clothing items for a year.
Damn, I hate the internet. Why don't I read hard copies of newspapers? That way I couldn't click from one of the programs to the "Like" button on Facebook. Maybe none of my friends will notice that I "liked" a clothing diet of not purchasing any new clothes for a year.
Or maybe I should stick to my guns and try it. Can I do it? Updates to come.
It all began innocently enough. Reading the New York Times. Then one article touched a nerve. How many times have a told Deirdre, my middle daughter, that she has too many clothes and nothing to wear? But am I guilty of the same thing?
I never thought so. I'm judicious in what I buy, making sure that things fill gaps in my wardrobe and match the colors that I already wear. Okay, okay. I also indulge in finer pieces such as silks and cashmeres. But in my defense, I know a terrific outlet mall with real outlets not just make-believe outlets where I've been known to buy $600 pairs of pants for $30 and $800 dresses for $60. And I sew a lot of my own clothes, especially the cashmeres and designer fabrics.
When I read the article, it was very easy to click on the outside links to the clothing diet programs. Yep, clothing diet. There are two extremes. One was to make do with only six articles of clothing (not including underwear, shoes, or accessories) for a month. The other was to not purchase any new clothing items for a year.
Damn, I hate the internet. Why don't I read hard copies of newspapers? That way I couldn't click from one of the programs to the "Like" button on Facebook. Maybe none of my friends will notice that I "liked" a clothing diet of not purchasing any new clothes for a year.
Or maybe I should stick to my guns and try it. Can I do it? Updates to come.
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