I got reported to whitewhine.com earlier this week for posting something on Facebook about scheduling family vacations. And yeah, I know, first world problem, blah blah blah, but ya'll, let me tell you. That shit is hard. Last year, I just let Matt do the whole shebang and then just showed up with a smile on my face, rocking the greater Williamsburg area LIKE A BOSS. But this year, I told him I'd do something, like research stuff and whatever, since I sit in an office all summer just working on my novel (SHUT UP!) and occasionally fielding calls from people who preface their requests with "So, I'm thinking I might like to go to college and shit." So it's not like I don't have the time. Anyway, I start looking and let me tell you--it is bananas. Tripadvisor is great and all, but there is only so much you can take before all the pictures start to run together and you really start thinking that the DoubleTree in Cleveland is the Hampton in DC is the SpringHill Suites in Gatlinburg. And yes, ya'll, at some point this summer, my husband and I are (willingly) going to Cleveland.
Matt has this (nerdy) Five Year Plan for family vacations. He describes it as a "Ward Cleaver cum Clark Griswold cum Hal Jordan BOSS move." Whatever. This year, we are taking our kids to the nation's capitol, because we enjoy feeling like we are burning from the inside as we gently goad our progeny into looking at some mothereffing pandas. The kids are really excited, because, hey, what can I say--we raise nerds. Sam is all like "OH MY GOD MOM. CAN WE GO TO MOUNT VERNON!!!!! GAAAAAHHH!!!!" And then he laid down in the floor and did this really weird lay-dance. Wanting to capitalize on all this blatant nerdery and Matt's seemingly endless patience for travel, I had the great idea to also take some "fun" weekend trips as well, where we really just go over the top and perhaps visit places where we don't have to read anything. Like the J. Crew Outlet. And since this is my baby as it is, I have to plan that too, on top of the Great Washington DC Nerd-Out of 2011. Had I realized that, my kids would be having the same kind of summers I had as a kid, which mostly consisted of me riding around with my mom as she audited the area school systems, playing Tetris and picking scabs.
So last night the kids were at the table and we're eating and I get the great idea to really tease them, and I go, "So kids. Guess where we're going next week?!?!" And the answer, I'll tell you my loyal readers, is the Knoxville Zoo (we are members after all) and to the greater Pigeon Forge/Gatlinburg area which, yes, has a J.Crew Outlet and more blatant redneckery than any of you really thought possible. There is fudge there too, and a decent minor league baseball team, so you know, it might be the greatest place on the planet.
Gabby, however, who probably ingested just a little too much chlorine a the pool yesterday, goes, "DISNEY WORLD?!?!?!"
A normal mother would gently say, "No, sweetie." A slightly more unhinged mother would have said, "Um, in what universe do people just pick up and go to Disney World for a couple of days just for giggles?" And of course, I said, "Uh, no. If we decide to visit America's stretch mark any time in the next 5 years, I'll give you a little bit more than one week lead time."
Now, I mean no disrespect to anyone who lives in Central Florida. If you live there, you can take massive solace in the fact that I live in a town that is not even really a town, just an unincorporated land mass, and it probably ranks pretty low in the ole per capita tooth rankings. One of the finer dining options in my town is called Ma's and Pa's and they let you trade gold teeth in for fish dinners. They do not, however, accept Visa. NOT JOKING. So Central Florida, comparatively, is probably a lot better than where I live. But I'll just say, I've been to Central Florida a couple of times, and it is what I imagine the Gaza Strip is like. It is really hot, there's gunfire, random things are on fire, buildings are sitting there, half completed, there are random car parts laying in random places. Even more disturbing is the high concentration of really old people in shorts. Not my cup of tea, ya'll.
The fact that Disney World is just plopped in the middle of this crap is, I think, just a big middle finger to all us parents. It is like taking my lovely Liev Shrieber and plopping him down in a sequel to Kangaroo Jack. Sure he's great and all, but do I really want to go sit through that steaming pile just to see him? HELL NO. And the thing is, I don't think Disney is all that great. Sure, I've been there when a couple of times when I was younger, and I think I liked it. I don't have any strong memories either way. But the thing is, I grew up in a simpler time. My kids are growing up in a time with iPads and TiVo and all manner of quality television programming and private pools and all kinds of crazy shit I couldn't even conceive of as a kid who only had three television channels until she was 10. They've been to theme parks on both sides of the country, beaches, had parents who, you know, totally effing RULE. I would find it highly surprising if my kids could even pick Mickey Mouse out of a line-up. Why would they want to go see a guy dressed up as said mouse and hug a princess who probably works the late shift at Captain Jack's Girls and More?
But they do. Gabby went to Disney with a friend earlier this spring, and she's just ga-ga for it, I guess. And when she mentioned it, Sam's eyes lit up. And I'm thinking, "Oh HELL no. Sure, you can puke on me, scratch me, keep me up at night, force me to see the freaking Gulliver's Travels with Jack Black and even admonish me when I try to tell you afterwards what the book was like. But this shit? And I have to pay for it, to be willingly tortured? To see princesses that I, yes, morally object to because I am just that kind of self-righteous, pretentious beast? Oh NO. MOMMY OUT."
Matt though, being Captain Geek Sparrow himself chimes in with a "I so want to go to Universal Studios and ride that Harry Potter ride." And while I briefly consider the fact that I'm pretty sure I should be arrested for being married to someone who is obviously a 12 year old with incredible beard growing abilities, I think, "This is happening. My God in Heaven. This is really happening."
There's part of me that wants to make a line in the sand and just say that we're to my limit. That I'm allergic to mice and princesses and tacky castles made out of stucco. But I won't. Because I love my kids, and my husband for that matter. Sure, I'll object to the point that even the dog is rolling his eyes at me. But they will put it into some dazzling SIX year plan, I'm sure, and I'll go along because really, they're awesome and they let me watch them do things like play baseball and dance and be just generally along for their ride.
But I'm saying it now: some kids that I know better be gettin' those iPod's and DS's and PSP's ready because they will be accompanying me to go outlet shopping a whole hell of a lot to make up for this. Mama knows how to make these things right.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
Forever 21
When one is in their mid to late 20's, as I am, there is a great deal of angst and agony over where one sees one's self on the age scale. Or maybe there is not. Maybe it is just me. At any rate, I find myself toeing the line between kid and grown up, toeing it ever so lightly, pitching over it at some points. Yes, for all intents and purposes, I am a grown up. I pay taxes, I have a job and utility bills and weekly grocery store lists. But there is still that part of me, laughing at fart jokes, all too willing to seperate myself from the grody adults I see walking around my office building in their sensible shoes and polyester skirt suits. In many ways, I find myself identifying with my 12 year old daughter as she toes the ever-changing line between child and adolescent. And I like to think that the whole "where do I fit in" thing is a shared experience with my fellow late-20's group as well.
On Friday, my husband I sent our children to stay with his parents for the weekend. Our anniversary was actually last weekend, but my MIL was out of town and could not watch the kids, so we put it off until this weekend. We had many, many plans. At first, when we began considering this weekend away months ago, we had considered going to Bonnaroo. But then I wondered if my husband could take it, him not being the music fan that I am and not having the uh, let's say, weak tie to personal needs and cleanliness that I have (which is not to say that I'm some Pigpen-esque woman--you just haven't met my fastidious husband and his perma bottle of Purel). And then we thought of driving somewhere else--a cabin we went to last year, a minor league baseball team several states away. We decided to leave it to the fates and decide spur of the moment on the day of our parental parole. But then, on Friday, we were tired, and it was oh-so easy to make the executive decision to have a kid-free staycation. Lots of books, booze and very un child friendly movies and TV shows. What a plan.
On Saturday was when I first felt it. The freedom of it all. Our house was messy--toys that had not been put away littered one side of the living room, laundry laid in a haphazard pile in the bathroom, dishes rose to frightening heights in the kitchen. This normally would cause me to, no shit, break out in hives. But for some reason, I was ok with it. I laid on the couch and watched an entire season of Californication and consumed all too many calories and was just generally ok. Matt remarked on my general demeanor. I was chill. I was calm. For the first time in literally as long as I can remember, I was not multitasking. I was sitting there, being. My neck was no longer tight. At night, I slept in a happy mass on the bed, not waking once, not moving. I slept until 10. And it is here that it should be noted that I have pretty wretched insomnia and often get up around 3, often with Journey's "Lights" playing over and over in my head (analyze that shit, ya'll).
On Sunday, Matt and I drove to a close by city to eat Thai food and look for Green Lantern stuff for Matt's upcoming-nerd-Christmas. On the way there, I remarked that I wish that I had something worthy of a nerd-Christmas--I have mentioned earlier on here that I have never really hooked into a pop-culture fad (no Twilight or Harry Potter or comic book movie--not because I am pretentious or mean, but just because it doesn't appeal to me). I lamented the fact that I feel old, that nothing gets me super excited, that no movies are really made with me in mind. That I am stuck in reality a bit too much. Matt normally rolls his eyes at these laments. But that day, he smiled and said, "Well, you haven't been very old this weekend. You've seemed a lot younger. I bet you don't even know how much fiber you've had today."
I smiled because it was true. I had had precious little fiber, except for that from a smattering of banana peppers, eaten greedily from the jar. And I did feel younger. Like a younger version of myself. Then I bristled a bit--had he meant that I'm normally an old, heinous bitch?
We got to the mall and did a cursory look around. Matt got bored and wanted to go to a comic book store a bit down the road. I said ok, even though I was really done with the mall myself. Faced with not much to do, I found myself ducking into the humongous Forever 21 store. Now, let me just say, I have said my share of negative things about F21. I felt their clothes were cheap, poorly constructed, and made much, much too small, especially when I was a size 14/16 gal. If anything, they pissed me off because they didn't have anything to fit my frame at that point in my life (they have since added plus sized offerings, I'm told). I hadn't really given them much of a chance. But lately, I've seen ladies finding some cute, serviceable maxi dresses there, dresses that would be perfect for days spent with my kiddos, bathing suit on underneath. I began my search for the cheap, elusive maxi dress.
I'll just tell you now that I didn't find it. I tried one on (this is the closest approximation I could find online) that I absolutely, bar-none adored, but alas, I'm about 6 inches too short to really rock the look. So that was a fail, a sad, weeping fail that I spent a good chunk of our dinner talking about. But I did find so, so much more. I ended up walking out with a flowy camisole, a floaty vest type thing (neither of which I readily found online, but really, that whole website is a clusterfuck and I'm not very patient), a fedora, some turquoise earrings, a necklace with a matroyshka on it, and a pair of espadrilles. Yeah, none of this is representative of a classic piece, something I'm going to come back to forever. Who gives? It is fun--full of summer and and fun and perfect for an easygoing time with the husband and kids. I have started wondering where F21 has been all my life.
And while I was in the dressing room with my 14 articles of clothing, just having a grand time, I listened a bit to all that was going on around me. My fellow dressing room denizens were teenage girls, not so much older than my daughter at home. They were excited, they were happy with the clothes, with a day out with friends, with their bodies and their place in life. Their mothers, however, seemed old, standing there in the harsh light, wearing oversized t-shirts and khaki shorts. And they were oh so tired. And negative. And I was saddened for them and for myself, knowing that in ways, I am much closer to that than I am to the girls giddily zipping up dresses and matching up outfits.
I won't say that I have changed because of this past weekend. My kids came home to a clean kitchen, and I would have gotten a nice start on the laundry, had our machine not decided to overflow and flood our entire laundry room. And then, well, I woke up with a start at 3:00 this morning, went to the couch and tossed and turned for an hour and a half before I finally threw in the towel and read, finally falling asleep at 5:30 and waking again at 6:00. I ate my old lady cereal, and for lunch, I enjoyed a low-fat chicken salad sandwich that I made, and really, there is no more old lady food than chicken salad. But, in ways, I feel a little farther from that old lady line, a little closer to the line where I sleep like a baby and where my neck is free from the knots and bumps that usually reside there. And I think I know better now about how important it is to stay far, far from that line with the downturned mouth, the grumpiness, the multi-tasking need to get it all done. And maybe I have Forever 21 to thank for it.
On Friday, my husband I sent our children to stay with his parents for the weekend. Our anniversary was actually last weekend, but my MIL was out of town and could not watch the kids, so we put it off until this weekend. We had many, many plans. At first, when we began considering this weekend away months ago, we had considered going to Bonnaroo. But then I wondered if my husband could take it, him not being the music fan that I am and not having the uh, let's say, weak tie to personal needs and cleanliness that I have (which is not to say that I'm some Pigpen-esque woman--you just haven't met my fastidious husband and his perma bottle of Purel). And then we thought of driving somewhere else--a cabin we went to last year, a minor league baseball team several states away. We decided to leave it to the fates and decide spur of the moment on the day of our parental parole. But then, on Friday, we were tired, and it was oh-so easy to make the executive decision to have a kid-free staycation. Lots of books, booze and very un child friendly movies and TV shows. What a plan.
On Saturday was when I first felt it. The freedom of it all. Our house was messy--toys that had not been put away littered one side of the living room, laundry laid in a haphazard pile in the bathroom, dishes rose to frightening heights in the kitchen. This normally would cause me to, no shit, break out in hives. But for some reason, I was ok with it. I laid on the couch and watched an entire season of Californication and consumed all too many calories and was just generally ok. Matt remarked on my general demeanor. I was chill. I was calm. For the first time in literally as long as I can remember, I was not multitasking. I was sitting there, being. My neck was no longer tight. At night, I slept in a happy mass on the bed, not waking once, not moving. I slept until 10. And it is here that it should be noted that I have pretty wretched insomnia and often get up around 3, often with Journey's "Lights" playing over and over in my head (analyze that shit, ya'll).
On Sunday, Matt and I drove to a close by city to eat Thai food and look for Green Lantern stuff for Matt's upcoming-nerd-Christmas. On the way there, I remarked that I wish that I had something worthy of a nerd-Christmas--I have mentioned earlier on here that I have never really hooked into a pop-culture fad (no Twilight or Harry Potter or comic book movie--not because I am pretentious or mean, but just because it doesn't appeal to me). I lamented the fact that I feel old, that nothing gets me super excited, that no movies are really made with me in mind. That I am stuck in reality a bit too much. Matt normally rolls his eyes at these laments. But that day, he smiled and said, "Well, you haven't been very old this weekend. You've seemed a lot younger. I bet you don't even know how much fiber you've had today."
I smiled because it was true. I had had precious little fiber, except for that from a smattering of banana peppers, eaten greedily from the jar. And I did feel younger. Like a younger version of myself. Then I bristled a bit--had he meant that I'm normally an old, heinous bitch?
We got to the mall and did a cursory look around. Matt got bored and wanted to go to a comic book store a bit down the road. I said ok, even though I was really done with the mall myself. Faced with not much to do, I found myself ducking into the humongous Forever 21 store. Now, let me just say, I have said my share of negative things about F21. I felt their clothes were cheap, poorly constructed, and made much, much too small, especially when I was a size 14/16 gal. If anything, they pissed me off because they didn't have anything to fit my frame at that point in my life (they have since added plus sized offerings, I'm told). I hadn't really given them much of a chance. But lately, I've seen ladies finding some cute, serviceable maxi dresses there, dresses that would be perfect for days spent with my kiddos, bathing suit on underneath. I began my search for the cheap, elusive maxi dress.
I'll just tell you now that I didn't find it. I tried one on (this is the closest approximation I could find online) that I absolutely, bar-none adored, but alas, I'm about 6 inches too short to really rock the look. So that was a fail, a sad, weeping fail that I spent a good chunk of our dinner talking about. But I did find so, so much more. I ended up walking out with a flowy camisole, a floaty vest type thing (neither of which I readily found online, but really, that whole website is a clusterfuck and I'm not very patient), a fedora, some turquoise earrings, a necklace with a matroyshka on it, and a pair of espadrilles. Yeah, none of this is representative of a classic piece, something I'm going to come back to forever. Who gives? It is fun--full of summer and and fun and perfect for an easygoing time with the husband and kids. I have started wondering where F21 has been all my life.
And while I was in the dressing room with my 14 articles of clothing, just having a grand time, I listened a bit to all that was going on around me. My fellow dressing room denizens were teenage girls, not so much older than my daughter at home. They were excited, they were happy with the clothes, with a day out with friends, with their bodies and their place in life. Their mothers, however, seemed old, standing there in the harsh light, wearing oversized t-shirts and khaki shorts. And they were oh so tired. And negative. And I was saddened for them and for myself, knowing that in ways, I am much closer to that than I am to the girls giddily zipping up dresses and matching up outfits.
I won't say that I have changed because of this past weekend. My kids came home to a clean kitchen, and I would have gotten a nice start on the laundry, had our machine not decided to overflow and flood our entire laundry room. And then, well, I woke up with a start at 3:00 this morning, went to the couch and tossed and turned for an hour and a half before I finally threw in the towel and read, finally falling asleep at 5:30 and waking again at 6:00. I ate my old lady cereal, and for lunch, I enjoyed a low-fat chicken salad sandwich that I made, and really, there is no more old lady food than chicken salad. But, in ways, I feel a little farther from that old lady line, a little closer to the line where I sleep like a baby and where my neck is free from the knots and bumps that usually reside there. And I think I know better now about how important it is to stay far, far from that line with the downturned mouth, the grumpiness, the multi-tasking need to get it all done. And maybe I have Forever 21 to thank for it.
Monday, June 6, 2011
My Kingdom for an Effective Strapless Bra
I had a very, very full weekend, one that found me out a lot and wearing a strapless bra every day (and interestingly, an airy, floaty dress that probably looked wretched on me). It was then that I realized how much I freaking abhor strapless bras, even this one that I bought duo's of last summer and that I thought would still work this year. Yeah, it kinda works, but it is not comfortable to wear for, say, three days of activity. And when I got up this morning and got out my Liberty of London halter-y (it is not actually a halter, just has a high neck and no shoulders...so it is a? I don't know. It is cute though, I'll tell you that) and realized I just couldn't do it with a regular bra, even though I am covering up with a cardi in office, I gave myself a momentary pity party. One more day of boob squishing. One more day of hiking this thing up every little bit. I resigned myself to it though, because it is hot, and the LoL top was the only thing I could think of putting myself into to any success. Then, I'm putting the bra on, thinking that I will set the convertible strap to halter (or to stun!), and the whole thing just breaks in my hands. Thanks, Victoria's Secret. Awesome. My $50 bra that I bought at the end of last year, EXPRESSLY for the purpose of having a convertible bra at the ready for early summer awesomeness was now in incapable of becoming a halter or anything else convertible. And the strapless-ness is not too great either because the little hook that broke has a remaining piece of metal that is stuck in its holder and keeps stabbing me. I ended up securing it with fashion tape and ignoring the pain. Wanting to be bra-strap free will make you do things like that.
So here's my question for you guys: what kind of strapless do you recommend? I would like to order one online because really, who knows when I'll actually make it to a mall to purchase one and be able to give this the time and care that such a delicate situation calls for. Plus, my options for bras are severely limited by living in the middle of nowhere (thus the fact that this other one came from VS which I really, really do not like). Any ideas? I really want something that is durable because this bra is going to take a licking from me, even if I buy a couple. And let's remember that I have humongo knockers to contend with.
Thank you in advance!
So here's my question for you guys: what kind of strapless do you recommend? I would like to order one online because really, who knows when I'll actually make it to a mall to purchase one and be able to give this the time and care that such a delicate situation calls for. Plus, my options for bras are severely limited by living in the middle of nowhere (thus the fact that this other one came from VS which I really, really do not like). Any ideas? I really want something that is durable because this bra is going to take a licking from me, even if I buy a couple. And let's remember that I have humongo knockers to contend with.
Thank you in advance!
Friday, June 3, 2011
When Something You Love Doesn't Love You Back
I actually wrote about this topic a long, long time ago (three whole years, which I guess wasn't that long ago, but since it was on the other side of the country, it feels like a different life) on my old blog, and well, I used the same exact title back then. This was not intentional. I'm just not that creative, despite what the years and years of Odyssey of the Mind competitions would have you think. You can go read that post if you want, but I'll summarize it for all you efficient little workerbees out there: Back then, when I was a size 14/16, I loved cardigans. But cardigans made me look like my dad in a pouffy wig. I was sad. But then I was like, "Well, screw it, I'm a gonna do what I want to do! And I'm going to be freaking happy about it because I live in CA and have access to delicious Thai noodles all the damn time!" And I made peace with looking like my father, ordered a few J. Crew Jackie's and called it a day.
Now that I'm a size 4/6/8/10 (depending on which blind paraplegic hobo is doing the sizing at my favorite stores this week), I can definitely rock a cardigan. And it is a good thing too, since when I cleaned out my closet on Memorial Day weekend, I had 16. And that is just for summer, ya'll, and disregarded the ones containing any wool and/or fall/winter coloring. So, as you can see, as my body has changed, I have embraced the cardigan much, much more. Probably a bit too much, truth be told.
But of course, with the old bod changing, so does the the list of things that I used to wear that now make me look horrible. So now, the thing that I love that doesn't love me back is the fluffy, airy, lovely summer dress/skirt. Allow me to give you some examples. Let's see. This makes me look like someone's hippie second grade teacher who has subsisted on a diet of Nestea, ramen and saltine crackers her entire life (and yes, I own it, took the tags off, and wore it on Tuesday). A cute maxi dress that I bought last week makes me look like a Greek goddess who is four months up the stick with a centaur. And a blue Calvin Klein dress that I bought and adore, yes, makes my boobs look AH-MAZ-ING, makes the rest of me look like I could give birth to a burrito at any
moment. Oh, and then there is this:
I bought this dress last year when it was part of the Liberty of London installation at Target. I knew before I went to Target the first time to load up on LoL crap that I wanted this dress. I love the peacock-y print (it looks really awesome in person), and I like the style of it. And truth be told, I rocked it last year. However, I got it out of my closet this morning, put it on, and realized that a year makes a big difference in the way I am carrying my weight. Although I am roughly the same weight now that I was last summer (having managed to lose the 15 or so pounds that I put on around the holidays-grumble, grumble grump), I think I could take this dress up about 3 or 4 inches in the back. I mean, it still works since it is meant to be floaty, but I am really, really tempted to secure it with an office clip. And, let's just be honest, I already would have done that if I didn't have a cramp-y back already today and wouldn't be able to stand the extra issue of having my office chair poke the clip all day.
To make matters worse, I walked out of my room this morning and was playing with my kids. We were asking each other questions about the day, and just about every question got the answer of "YOUR MOM" or "YOUR MOM wants to go on the Bays Mountain field trip next week!" Yeah, it is important to have a level of maturity around your kids, you know? Anyway, I said something to Gabby and she goes, "Well, you look like a big peacock today!" And while I' sure she was just being funny, of course, I was like, "BIG?!?!! I LOOK BIG?!?!?! WTF, WORLD? HAND ME MY CELERY AND LAXATIVE SMOOTHIE!" (Just kidding--healthy weight loss, ya'll. THE MORE YOU KNOW!!!!)
The truth is, I have a very hourglass-y shape. You would think this would be amazing and I would be like Sofia Vergara. HA! Matt wishes! But the thing is, it is not awesome. Not in the least. If I am not wearing something a bit form fitting, I am on a one-way train to Frumpsville. I need structure, I need pencil skirts and sheath dresses, and lined trousers and creased denim and all of that. But here's the thing: you can't wear something form fitting all the time. Especially when you are Queen O'PMS and are retaining more water than the Titanic right about now. And ya'll, it is SUMMER. In Virginia. The last thing I want is to look sexy sexy, yet give myself a heatstroke.
And there's another dimension too: for some reason, Matt adores these things on me. Always has. I don't know why. When most men are turned on by really short stuff, Matt really prefers the look. He was all "WOWZA" this morning, and I thought, "Seriously?" Although when we were on our way to work this morning, he cranked up Elton John's Rocket Man and declared it his "jay-um" so, you know, consider the source.
So, I can't quit you oh airy skirts and dresses. I will be rocking them all summer, and really, I don't give a damn about what anyone says. Here's the other thing--these things are damn fun to wear. I mean, you can TWIRL in them. And when you can twirl in something, you automatically feel a bit better about yourself, despite what you may look like.
What do you love that doesn't love you back? Anything? Please share, and we'll all hold hands and sigh together.
Now that I'm a size 4/6/8/10 (depending on which blind paraplegic hobo is doing the sizing at my favorite stores this week), I can definitely rock a cardigan. And it is a good thing too, since when I cleaned out my closet on Memorial Day weekend, I had 16. And that is just for summer, ya'll, and disregarded the ones containing any wool and/or fall/winter coloring. So, as you can see, as my body has changed, I have embraced the cardigan much, much more. Probably a bit too much, truth be told.
But of course, with the old bod changing, so does the the list of things that I used to wear that now make me look horrible. So now, the thing that I love that doesn't love me back is the fluffy, airy, lovely summer dress/skirt. Allow me to give you some examples. Let's see. This makes me look like someone's hippie second grade teacher who has subsisted on a diet of Nestea, ramen and saltine crackers her entire life (and yes, I own it, took the tags off, and wore it on Tuesday). A cute maxi dress that I bought last week makes me look like a Greek goddess who is four months up the stick with a centaur. And a blue Calvin Klein dress that I bought and adore, yes, makes my boobs look AH-MAZ-ING, makes the rest of me look like I could give birth to a burrito at any
moment. Oh, and then there is this:I bought this dress last year when it was part of the Liberty of London installation at Target. I knew before I went to Target the first time to load up on LoL crap that I wanted this dress. I love the peacock-y print (it looks really awesome in person), and I like the style of it. And truth be told, I rocked it last year. However, I got it out of my closet this morning, put it on, and realized that a year makes a big difference in the way I am carrying my weight. Although I am roughly the same weight now that I was last summer (having managed to lose the 15 or so pounds that I put on around the holidays-grumble, grumble grump), I think I could take this dress up about 3 or 4 inches in the back. I mean, it still works since it is meant to be floaty, but I am really, really tempted to secure it with an office clip. And, let's just be honest, I already would have done that if I didn't have a cramp-y back already today and wouldn't be able to stand the extra issue of having my office chair poke the clip all day.
To make matters worse, I walked out of my room this morning and was playing with my kids. We were asking each other questions about the day, and just about every question got the answer of "YOUR MOM" or "YOUR MOM wants to go on the Bays Mountain field trip next week!" Yeah, it is important to have a level of maturity around your kids, you know? Anyway, I said something to Gabby and she goes, "Well, you look like a big peacock today!" And while I' sure she was just being funny, of course, I was like, "BIG?!?!! I LOOK BIG?!?!?! WTF, WORLD? HAND ME MY CELERY AND LAXATIVE SMOOTHIE!" (Just kidding--healthy weight loss, ya'll. THE MORE YOU KNOW!!!!)
The truth is, I have a very hourglass-y shape. You would think this would be amazing and I would be like Sofia Vergara. HA! Matt wishes! But the thing is, it is not awesome. Not in the least. If I am not wearing something a bit form fitting, I am on a one-way train to Frumpsville. I need structure, I need pencil skirts and sheath dresses, and lined trousers and creased denim and all of that. But here's the thing: you can't wear something form fitting all the time. Especially when you are Queen O'PMS and are retaining more water than the Titanic right about now. And ya'll, it is SUMMER. In Virginia. The last thing I want is to look sexy sexy, yet give myself a heatstroke.
And there's another dimension too: for some reason, Matt adores these things on me. Always has. I don't know why. When most men are turned on by really short stuff, Matt really prefers the look. He was all "WOWZA" this morning, and I thought, "Seriously?" Although when we were on our way to work this morning, he cranked up Elton John's Rocket Man and declared it his "jay-um" so, you know, consider the source.
So, I can't quit you oh airy skirts and dresses. I will be rocking them all summer, and really, I don't give a damn about what anyone says. Here's the other thing--these things are damn fun to wear. I mean, you can TWIRL in them. And when you can twirl in something, you automatically feel a bit better about yourself, despite what you may look like.
What do you love that doesn't love you back? Anything? Please share, and we'll all hold hands and sigh together.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Lifetime Movieness: A Crime of Passion
Menstrual cycles are not something that I talk about a whole lot. Well, ok, none. Ladies at my work--well, that's a different story. They will tell you just about anything that you could ever even conceive of asking about their monthly friends, no matter how gross or strange or odd. And of course, I just stand in the corner of the office bathroom, like the kid at camp whose boobs haven't come in yet, and hope that they do not notice that I'm not contributing to the conversation at all.
However, I will tell you that every month or so, I become the biggest stereotypical girly girl that has ever been spawned. Not that I'm some big genderless blob the rest of the time (I think you know that since I spend a good deal of time being all OMG LIPGLOSS!), but during this short time period (usually 1-2 days), I'm a big oozing well of estrogen. Got a romantic comedy starring Katherine Heigl you've been dying to see? LET'S GO. I will not make one snarky comment, and we can do an over/under on whether I will cry or not. Want to eat an entire Vermonster and talk about how fat we are? AWESOME. I've got my lucky spoon! Want to sit on the couch and watch an entire season of Grey's Anatomy/Sex and the City? SURE. Yeah, I've watched about two of each of those shows in my life, and yes, my eyes hurt from all the rolling, but on that day, I will do it, and once again, I'll probably cry. Or hulk smash something. But that's just the estrogen talking!
This happened to me last night. I found myself footloose and fancy free at 8:00, as Alice had passed out because she didn't take a nap earlier in the day, Sam and Matt were playing a rather animated game of Risk, and Gabby was in her room plotting sixth grade domination. And I'm sitting on the couch, thinking about how much I would enjoy a plate of brownies topped with a full pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream and wearing a leopard print snuggie and a pair of cropped yoga pants from Old Navy. I'm getting ready to turn on the Cardinals/Giants game when I think, "You know, I would much rather watch this Lifetime movie on LMN called 'A Crime of Passion' starring none other than Tracey Gold." And so that's what I did.
Now, I may have seen bits and pieces of A Crime of Passion before, or it could be because A Crime of Passion is a big ole stereotype of a Lifetime movie in itself. Basically, here's the plot: Widowed doctor meets stripper with a heart of gold (heretofore known as SWAHOG). Widowed doctor's daughter, a failing pre-med student (Tracey Gold) does not approve. Widowed doctor marries SWAHOG in Vegas. Widowed doctor realizes strippers do not automatically turn into Lil' Suzy Housewife the moment someone puts a ring on their (dirty) fingers. Widowed doctor asks for a divorce. Widowed doctor is murdered whilst clutching his coin collection. Daughter (Tracey Gold) is suspected of his murder. BUT YOU KNOW IT WAS THE STRIPPER! My lord in heaven, ya'll! SHE WAS A STRIPPER! Being a stripper at any time in one's life means that your hobbies will always be having abortions, getting your nails done, and KILLING DOCTORS. No matter what element your heart is made of.
Now, the plot is pretty stupid, I'll give you that. But there are a couple of things that make this movie totally fucking awesome. First is this: let's imagine for a bit that you are a 50 year old man. A red-blooded American 50 year old man, not some foppish dandy who spends his time following Kate Middleton's sartorial choices and eating vegetables. You're laying in your big old four poster bed, reading at night. And your new bride, who worked a pole for 10 years, so you know, has some moves, comes out in the black meshy thing and starts gyrating on a bed pole. Something tells me you'd put down the book and enjoy the show for a bit and probably do some things that are illegal in the state of VA. You know? I mean, you're the guy that married the STRIPPER. Might as well reap the benefits of that choice. But not this guy. He sits there and has the AUDACITY to look exasperated. Like, "WTF, YO? You're the woman I married, not someone who I want to have sex with?!?! Now go put in a casserole, darn my socks and make yourself useful."
That's when I knew that when he died, I wouldn't be a bit sad.
And he does. SWAHOG is (rightfully) embarassed by the whole ignoring the sexy dance event, and runs back off to the strip club where she erases her sorrow by making out in the parking lot with her golf instructor. IT'S ALWAYS THE GOLF INSTRUCTOR, AMIRITE? And OF COURSE one of Mr. This-Book-of-Tax-Codes-is-Way-More-Interesting-Than-Blow-Jobs's country club crones just happens to be driving by at that moment (probably because he got lost on the way back from the Stereotypical Old White Man Emporium) and reports her, so SWAHOG is given the boot. Thus the whole shit tornado that eventually ends in murder is birthed.
And all he would have had to do to avoid this is to watch his sexy wife do a striptease. THE HORROR.
The other awesomely awesome thing about this movie is the fashion. Holy high waisted jeans, Batman!!! But more importantly, rather, the way fashion is used to show that whole Madonna/Whore dichotomy that we women, try as we might, can never fully extricate ourselves from. Tracey Gold is a 1st year med student in the movie, and her wardrobe consists of marled sweaters, sensible shoes, and these godawful highwaisted, wide leg, stonewashed jeans that I'm pretty sure were marketed only to fathers as the poor man's chastity belt. Holy lord. They were horrible. And Tracey is a perfectly lovely girl--there was no need for that. By the same token, SWAHOG is given a wardrobe, and I'm pretty sure the wardrobe person took one look at it and goes, "Well, she's a stripper, so let's uh...just cut about 2 inches off of every hem! For authenticity!!!" As she continues down her path of destruction, it just gets worse and worse. By the end of the movie, she's basically just wearing a corset with a lacy bra sticking out of the top in every scene. Going to the DMV? I used to be a stripper, ya'll!!! Funeral? BOOBS AHOY. Career day? Did you forget what I used to do for a living? Here's a nipple to remind you.
So on the scale of Lifetime movies, 1 being those horrible inspirational schlock fests they show at Christmas and always feature a sad-eyed child with dirt on its face, and 5 being The Two Mr. Kissels, this is a solid 3.5 or 4. Watch and be amazed the next time your estrogen is soaring.
However, I will tell you that every month or so, I become the biggest stereotypical girly girl that has ever been spawned. Not that I'm some big genderless blob the rest of the time (I think you know that since I spend a good deal of time being all OMG LIPGLOSS!), but during this short time period (usually 1-2 days), I'm a big oozing well of estrogen. Got a romantic comedy starring Katherine Heigl you've been dying to see? LET'S GO. I will not make one snarky comment, and we can do an over/under on whether I will cry or not. Want to eat an entire Vermonster and talk about how fat we are? AWESOME. I've got my lucky spoon! Want to sit on the couch and watch an entire season of Grey's Anatomy/Sex and the City? SURE. Yeah, I've watched about two of each of those shows in my life, and yes, my eyes hurt from all the rolling, but on that day, I will do it, and once again, I'll probably cry. Or hulk smash something. But that's just the estrogen talking!
This happened to me last night. I found myself footloose and fancy free at 8:00, as Alice had passed out because she didn't take a nap earlier in the day, Sam and Matt were playing a rather animated game of Risk, and Gabby was in her room plotting sixth grade domination. And I'm sitting on the couch, thinking about how much I would enjoy a plate of brownies topped with a full pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream and wearing a leopard print snuggie and a pair of cropped yoga pants from Old Navy. I'm getting ready to turn on the Cardinals/Giants game when I think, "You know, I would much rather watch this Lifetime movie on LMN called 'A Crime of Passion' starring none other than Tracey Gold." And so that's what I did.
Now, I may have seen bits and pieces of A Crime of Passion before, or it could be because A Crime of Passion is a big ole stereotype of a Lifetime movie in itself. Basically, here's the plot: Widowed doctor meets stripper with a heart of gold (heretofore known as SWAHOG). Widowed doctor's daughter, a failing pre-med student (Tracey Gold) does not approve. Widowed doctor marries SWAHOG in Vegas. Widowed doctor realizes strippers do not automatically turn into Lil' Suzy Housewife the moment someone puts a ring on their (dirty) fingers. Widowed doctor asks for a divorce. Widowed doctor is murdered whilst clutching his coin collection. Daughter (Tracey Gold) is suspected of his murder. BUT YOU KNOW IT WAS THE STRIPPER! My lord in heaven, ya'll! SHE WAS A STRIPPER! Being a stripper at any time in one's life means that your hobbies will always be having abortions, getting your nails done, and KILLING DOCTORS. No matter what element your heart is made of.
Now, the plot is pretty stupid, I'll give you that. But there are a couple of things that make this movie totally fucking awesome. First is this: let's imagine for a bit that you are a 50 year old man. A red-blooded American 50 year old man, not some foppish dandy who spends his time following Kate Middleton's sartorial choices and eating vegetables. You're laying in your big old four poster bed, reading at night. And your new bride, who worked a pole for 10 years, so you know, has some moves, comes out in the black meshy thing and starts gyrating on a bed pole. Something tells me you'd put down the book and enjoy the show for a bit and probably do some things that are illegal in the state of VA. You know? I mean, you're the guy that married the STRIPPER. Might as well reap the benefits of that choice. But not this guy. He sits there and has the AUDACITY to look exasperated. Like, "WTF, YO? You're the woman I married, not someone who I want to have sex with?!?! Now go put in a casserole, darn my socks and make yourself useful."
That's when I knew that when he died, I wouldn't be a bit sad.
And he does. SWAHOG is (rightfully) embarassed by the whole ignoring the sexy dance event, and runs back off to the strip club where she erases her sorrow by making out in the parking lot with her golf instructor. IT'S ALWAYS THE GOLF INSTRUCTOR, AMIRITE? And OF COURSE one of Mr. This-Book-of-Tax-Codes-is-Way-More-Interesting-Than-Blow-Jobs's country club crones just happens to be driving by at that moment (probably because he got lost on the way back from the Stereotypical Old White Man Emporium) and reports her, so SWAHOG is given the boot. Thus the whole shit tornado that eventually ends in murder is birthed.
And all he would have had to do to avoid this is to watch his sexy wife do a striptease. THE HORROR.
The other awesomely awesome thing about this movie is the fashion. Holy high waisted jeans, Batman!!! But more importantly, rather, the way fashion is used to show that whole Madonna/Whore dichotomy that we women, try as we might, can never fully extricate ourselves from. Tracey Gold is a 1st year med student in the movie, and her wardrobe consists of marled sweaters, sensible shoes, and these godawful highwaisted, wide leg, stonewashed jeans that I'm pretty sure were marketed only to fathers as the poor man's chastity belt. Holy lord. They were horrible. And Tracey is a perfectly lovely girl--there was no need for that. By the same token, SWAHOG is given a wardrobe, and I'm pretty sure the wardrobe person took one look at it and goes, "Well, she's a stripper, so let's uh...just cut about 2 inches off of every hem! For authenticity!!!" As she continues down her path of destruction, it just gets worse and worse. By the end of the movie, she's basically just wearing a corset with a lacy bra sticking out of the top in every scene. Going to the DMV? I used to be a stripper, ya'll!!! Funeral? BOOBS AHOY. Career day? Did you forget what I used to do for a living? Here's a nipple to remind you.
So on the scale of Lifetime movies, 1 being those horrible inspirational schlock fests they show at Christmas and always feature a sad-eyed child with dirt on its face, and 5 being The Two Mr. Kissels, this is a solid 3.5 or 4. Watch and be amazed the next time your estrogen is soaring.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
SAHMishness
I am very, very lucky to have a flexible job and one that respects its employees and their family demands. I'll say that first of all. With everything that I struggle to maintain (schooling, family, housecleaning, trying to make sure Alice isn't out roaming the neighborhood looking for dogs), I am truly blessed, and I recognize that and that a lot of women don't have that. They have to work, and sometimes for some not very understanding employers. So when I talk about struggling with being a SAHM, please know that I'm not sharing some smug, white lady problems.
Because of my understanding employer, and well, because it is summer and all of the courses we offer are now online (as opposed to hybrid, which is what we offer during the Fall/Spring semesters), I have been cleared to start working in office three days a week. Technically, that is what I'm supposed to do all year round, armed with my laptop. However, because of other demands on my time, as well as the fact that I can just get more done while sitting in an office, this does not often happen.
Last week was my first week with the new schedule. On Wednesday morning, I woke up early, got the kids dressed, put on a pair of shorts and a striped top and prepared. When Alice woke up, I fixed her a nice breakfast and then took her to the park. FAIL. Even though it was bright, sunny, and nearly painfully hot, I had forgotten about the hard rain we had had the night before. The park was surrounded by a lake. We walked around with Alice pointing at the "war-dee", rode the merry-go-round a couple of times and then I promised to take her to the lake in town to see the ducks. However, when we got there, we didn't see one damn duck (despite the fact that when I am there running, about 50 of them try to nip at me on a daily basis. I figure my legs look too much like white bread), only a big goose who was paddling in the middle of the lake. Yet again, FAIL. Alice and I walked about half a mile (and yes, I had forgotten her stroller in the other car) before she discovered the wooden walkway leading to the bathrooms and walked up and down it three times. We left when a recent parollee started yelling at his pregnant girlfriend over a lunch from Burger King at an adjacent picnic table.
I get home, fix Alice her pesto pasta lunch, strip her down and let her eat it herself, armed with a big, adult spoon cause I'm cool like that. And I'm watching her, and she's having a really fantastic time but I'm thinking that a real SAHM would have known the park would be flooded and the ducks gone. Because she would have been there all along, not venturing out for the first time in a good while, trying on the SAHM status like a cape. And that ole working mom guilt flooded me and I felt pretty icky for a solid half hour or so. My house is disorganized, there is a constant flood of unwashed dishes in the vicinity of our sink, my poor little tomato and banana pepper plants (the only garden I managed this year) are vastly in need of some love and some Miracle Gro. I put Alice down for her nap and moped on the couch with an old Law and Order: SVU rerun.
Yesterday, I had planned to to actually send Alice up to my MIL's despite having the day off. Matt had also taken the day off, and we were planning on reorganizing our garage. However, we had just started taking some outgrown kids stuff out there when Matt started puking. And, like clockwork, the phone rang, and the nurse summoned me to the school to pick up Gabby, who was suffering the same fate. I decided it was a sign for me to keep Al with me and SAHM it again. We stayed home with our "patients" and made a day of improptu dance parties, chicken soup preparation and cupcake icing. At the end of the day, Alice had had to have two baths, and was laying across her Dora couch, clutching a stuffed dog and looking dazed and happy.
And it was then that I knew. No matter where I have spent my time over the past little bit, no matter where noon each day finds me, Alice and I are linked. And we are happy together. Giddily so, in fact. We understand each other--each one of my children and I share a distinct and lovely understanding. Alice and I are two that play hard, almost to the point of exhaustion, and then throw ourselves in a heap and sleep that way. Seeing her there, laid out on her couch like three week's wash, I was happy with being a working mom, part-time, full-time or otherwise. I was happy with my decision and my family and all of it. And, as I'm sure any mom (working or SAH) can attest, having that moment guilt-free was pretty sublime.
Because of my understanding employer, and well, because it is summer and all of the courses we offer are now online (as opposed to hybrid, which is what we offer during the Fall/Spring semesters), I have been cleared to start working in office three days a week. Technically, that is what I'm supposed to do all year round, armed with my laptop. However, because of other demands on my time, as well as the fact that I can just get more done while sitting in an office, this does not often happen.
Last week was my first week with the new schedule. On Wednesday morning, I woke up early, got the kids dressed, put on a pair of shorts and a striped top and prepared. When Alice woke up, I fixed her a nice breakfast and then took her to the park. FAIL. Even though it was bright, sunny, and nearly painfully hot, I had forgotten about the hard rain we had had the night before. The park was surrounded by a lake. We walked around with Alice pointing at the "war-dee", rode the merry-go-round a couple of times and then I promised to take her to the lake in town to see the ducks. However, when we got there, we didn't see one damn duck (despite the fact that when I am there running, about 50 of them try to nip at me on a daily basis. I figure my legs look too much like white bread), only a big goose who was paddling in the middle of the lake. Yet again, FAIL. Alice and I walked about half a mile (and yes, I had forgotten her stroller in the other car) before she discovered the wooden walkway leading to the bathrooms and walked up and down it three times. We left when a recent parollee started yelling at his pregnant girlfriend over a lunch from Burger King at an adjacent picnic table.
I get home, fix Alice her pesto pasta lunch, strip her down and let her eat it herself, armed with a big, adult spoon cause I'm cool like that. And I'm watching her, and she's having a really fantastic time but I'm thinking that a real SAHM would have known the park would be flooded and the ducks gone. Because she would have been there all along, not venturing out for the first time in a good while, trying on the SAHM status like a cape. And that ole working mom guilt flooded me and I felt pretty icky for a solid half hour or so. My house is disorganized, there is a constant flood of unwashed dishes in the vicinity of our sink, my poor little tomato and banana pepper plants (the only garden I managed this year) are vastly in need of some love and some Miracle Gro. I put Alice down for her nap and moped on the couch with an old Law and Order: SVU rerun.
Yesterday, I had planned to to actually send Alice up to my MIL's despite having the day off. Matt had also taken the day off, and we were planning on reorganizing our garage. However, we had just started taking some outgrown kids stuff out there when Matt started puking. And, like clockwork, the phone rang, and the nurse summoned me to the school to pick up Gabby, who was suffering the same fate. I decided it was a sign for me to keep Al with me and SAHM it again. We stayed home with our "patients" and made a day of improptu dance parties, chicken soup preparation and cupcake icing. At the end of the day, Alice had had to have two baths, and was laying across her Dora couch, clutching a stuffed dog and looking dazed and happy.
And it was then that I knew. No matter where I have spent my time over the past little bit, no matter where noon each day finds me, Alice and I are linked. And we are happy together. Giddily so, in fact. We understand each other--each one of my children and I share a distinct and lovely understanding. Alice and I are two that play hard, almost to the point of exhaustion, and then throw ourselves in a heap and sleep that way. Seeing her there, laid out on her couch like three week's wash, I was happy with being a working mom, part-time, full-time or otherwise. I was happy with my decision and my family and all of it. And, as I'm sure any mom (working or SAH) can attest, having that moment guilt-free was pretty sublime.
Giveaways on Other People's Blogs: Mary Kay
I am blogging about this giveaway to get another entry into a contest. It is not my giveaway--I think we've established that I will never have my shit together enough to actually give you a reward for reading this crap. Sorry. Check your expectations at the door, my little croquembouches.
When I was a kid, my mom sold Mary Kay cosmetics. She kept them in this huge metal credenza in this extra office in her building, a place where she also kept a lot of old client files, a mini-fridge, and a really awesome old Commodore 64. I don't have to tell you that this was the most awesome room that has very been put together EVER. I spent a good deal of my childhood in that room with a pair of roller skates on my feet, retrieving files when asked, typing weird documents on the computer made up mostly of pixelated hearts, and trying on lipstick.
My favorite lipstick of the bunch was an incredibly bright fuschia. My mom only had a couple of tubes, mostly because she probably knew that no one, other than perhaps Baby Jane and daydreamy young girls, would buy that shit. It was so bright--I can't find anything comparable on Sephora now, and believe me, I've looked. I would pull it out of its box and stare at it and think about how wonderful it would be to wear it. At that point in my life, I knew a lot about what I would be like when I grew up: I would always hate chicken salad (note: not true), I would never wear earrings (again, not true) and that I would wear Mary Kay matte fuschia lipstick every day.
My mom made sure to send me a summer arts day camp every year, probably because she got sick of hearing those roller skates coming down the hall every day for 8 hours a day, three months of the year. We would go for six weeks during the summer, all leading up to a huge play production at the end. Every year, a new director would be brought in from some exotic place (Knoxville! Asheville! Roanoke!) and we would have a great time with the play. One year, we did a Broadway melody type thing, where each group performed a few songs from various musicals. My group did Bye Bye Birdie, Oklahoma, and South Pacific. Because there were so many kids and so many costumes, a few of them were left to the parents to come up with. I remember mom got me a pair of Hawaiian pink shorts and bright green top at Belk's for South Pacific--I thought it was an amazing outfit. Mostly because the shorts were the same color as the lipstick I adored.
So I asked mom if I could have the lipstick. For art! To match my shorts in my big number! She said ok. I took it with me to the performance, carefully placed amongst my other belongings. I put it on as we were getting ready, as South Pacific was our first number. And then, because I was afraid it wore off, I put it on again. And well, because it felt good, I put it on one more time before arriving on stage.
When the curtains opened, I stood in the middle of the stage in my new shorts and top. I started singing about washing some man right out of my hair. I thought I rocked it. However, now when I look back at the video my parents lovingly made with their 14 pound camcorder, you can't hear my lovely voice. All you can hear, all you can think is LIPS. BRIGHT LIPS. HONEY, GET ME SOME RAY BANS CAUSE THOSE LIPS ARE BRIGHT.
So, enter this contest. And get some lipstick. I'm sure Mary Kay no longer has as bright a lipstick as they did during the very early 90's, but you know, you can try.
When I was a kid, my mom sold Mary Kay cosmetics. She kept them in this huge metal credenza in this extra office in her building, a place where she also kept a lot of old client files, a mini-fridge, and a really awesome old Commodore 64. I don't have to tell you that this was the most awesome room that has very been put together EVER. I spent a good deal of my childhood in that room with a pair of roller skates on my feet, retrieving files when asked, typing weird documents on the computer made up mostly of pixelated hearts, and trying on lipstick.
My favorite lipstick of the bunch was an incredibly bright fuschia. My mom only had a couple of tubes, mostly because she probably knew that no one, other than perhaps Baby Jane and daydreamy young girls, would buy that shit. It was so bright--I can't find anything comparable on Sephora now, and believe me, I've looked. I would pull it out of its box and stare at it and think about how wonderful it would be to wear it. At that point in my life, I knew a lot about what I would be like when I grew up: I would always hate chicken salad (note: not true), I would never wear earrings (again, not true) and that I would wear Mary Kay matte fuschia lipstick every day.
My mom made sure to send me a summer arts day camp every year, probably because she got sick of hearing those roller skates coming down the hall every day for 8 hours a day, three months of the year. We would go for six weeks during the summer, all leading up to a huge play production at the end. Every year, a new director would be brought in from some exotic place (Knoxville! Asheville! Roanoke!) and we would have a great time with the play. One year, we did a Broadway melody type thing, where each group performed a few songs from various musicals. My group did Bye Bye Birdie, Oklahoma, and South Pacific. Because there were so many kids and so many costumes, a few of them were left to the parents to come up with. I remember mom got me a pair of Hawaiian pink shorts and bright green top at Belk's for South Pacific--I thought it was an amazing outfit. Mostly because the shorts were the same color as the lipstick I adored.
So I asked mom if I could have the lipstick. For art! To match my shorts in my big number! She said ok. I took it with me to the performance, carefully placed amongst my other belongings. I put it on as we were getting ready, as South Pacific was our first number. And then, because I was afraid it wore off, I put it on again. And well, because it felt good, I put it on one more time before arriving on stage.
When the curtains opened, I stood in the middle of the stage in my new shorts and top. I started singing about washing some man right out of my hair. I thought I rocked it. However, now when I look back at the video my parents lovingly made with their 14 pound camcorder, you can't hear my lovely voice. All you can hear, all you can think is LIPS. BRIGHT LIPS. HONEY, GET ME SOME RAY BANS CAUSE THOSE LIPS ARE BRIGHT.
So, enter this contest. And get some lipstick. I'm sure Mary Kay no longer has as bright a lipstick as they did during the very early 90's, but you know, you can try.
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