For those of you who keep track of moon phases, which may or may not be many people, there was a full moon on Wednesday. For me, a full moon means no yoga – it’s tradition to not practice on full or new moon days – which translates to extra sleep. For some, however, it means that the Wolfman is transforming and we’re all going to die. This is the only possible explanation for the craziness in my neighbourhood of late. First – and this is very disturbing – my neighbour informed me, and then I later saw on the news, there has been a serial arsonist in my neighbourhood, conjectured to be a resident who has, apparently, been on a rampage, setting cars and garages on fire. WELL THEN. Where am I living? This isn’t East LA. Given my lifelong fear of fire, this is not sitting well with me. Soon I’m going to be sitting up late at night, at the window, with one eye peeking out behind the drapes and one hand on my (theoretical) shotgun. Get off my lawn, motherfuckers.
Tuesday afternoon I went to my once-a-week restorative yoga class. This is, for those of you who aren’t familiar, a gentle-stretch-and-relaxation class that I find helps with my regular, somewhat rigorous, six-day-a-week yoga practice. This class generally consists of me and a whole lot of much older women, and I almost always relax to the point that I fall asleep, only to jerk awake with my feet up the wall, hoping I wasn’t snoring or drooling. Anyway, I finished my class and in my blissful, zen-like state, decided to just “pop in” to the post office to “quickly pick up” some stamps. BIG MISTAKE. It was madness in the post office, madness. There were people sending off packages everywhere, who needed many different shipping methods and insurance and whatnot, and I certainly do not begrudge anyone that. It is the season for sending packages, and it is only the end of November. But. I would have been fine to wait ten minutes in line while the only two employees in the store figured things out. I am a stay at home mom and I still had forty minutes until I had to pick up the kids; it’s not like my schedule is packed here, people. I just spent 75 minutes in a semi-nap state. I have time on my hands and I assume that senior citizens do too, which is why I was a little disturbed when an old lady physically pushed me aside, budged in front of me when the man at the counter called for the next customer, saying that she only needed to buy stamps. Hi. Me too? I was a little startled, and then I started laughing with the sixty-ish man behind me, who was my witness in this ridiculous little power play. I mean, what am I going to do, shove the old lady out of the way, saying that NO FUCK YOU OLD LADY I NEED SOME STAMPS. STAND DOWN. Of course not! I turned to the man and told him to please not push me aside, I would be super fast with my stamps. He tipped his old man hat to me, and we shared a laugh. Good times and new friends in the post office.
I’m going to go out on a limb here and go against the common classification of the elderly: in my experience – which is vast, since I live in a neighbourhood made up with a significant majority of seniors – the characterization of elderly men as being “grumpy old men” and elderly women as being “sweet old ladies” is incorrect. I have never been hit in the backs of my legs by a grocery cart pushed by an old man while standing in line for groceries. On the other hand, I have had impromptu duets with old men in the liquor store. Old men hold the door open for me, say nice things about my boys, and are generally easy-going and friendly. Old women are very frequently pushy, crabby, and mean. The post office incident is just one more nail in the coffin of the “sweet old lady” stereotype in my mind. I don’t even want to talk about the old lady who was ringing the “ring for service” bell like she was a toddler who just realized that pressing the little button on the pretty silver bell makes a jingly noise, but angry.
Yesterday I went to the liquor store, having discovered that I am down to my last bottle of wine. We can’t have that. I like to buy my wine at the Superstore liquor store because they always have deals if you buy in large quantities, as I am wont to do. I was carrying my case of Shiraz to the cash register when I noticed a whole rack devoted to no-name wine. And by no-name, I mean those yellow labels that Superstore is famous for. The labels read “red wine” and “white wine” with nothing else. I was actually a bit taken aback by this, and asked the cashier if anyone actually purchased no-name Superstore brand wine. He answered yes, and that the wine was “actually really good”. I looked at this young man, with his giant stretched earlobes that contained cork-looking circles in the manner of a Masai warrior, and was silenced. I could no more imagine Superstore brand wine as being “really good” as I could imagine those giant stretched earlobes to be an attractive and fun idea. I could imagine hobos enjoying that wine, perhaps, or maybe the spoiled bastard who has been setting people’s cars on fire for fun. I can totally understand how Sipowitz and Kelly and Martinez go batshit on their perps, because – om shanti and zen-states notwithstanding – I would too. “You’re going to Riker’s, you little bastard. You’re going to be in with all the whores and the junkies.”
After my wine purchases, I was meeting a woman at Starbucks to talk about our school council and fundraising ideas. I was paying for my seriously overpriced peppermint tea when a man came up to me and asked if I was Jennifer. No, I’m Nicole. He told me he is on a blind date and was looking for Jennifer. OH BUT IF I HAD SAID YES. There are a lot of Jennifers out there, sir. What if my name was Jennifer? The hilarity that would have ensued would have been comparable to a Three’s Company episode. In any event, Jennifer did show up and it was very clear that she was not into him at all. Part of this could have been the fact that he was very eager and enthusiastic, to the point of making everyone uncomfortable. I tried to eavesdrop as best I could but I was discussing fundraising ideas and trying my best not to seem like a full-moon lunatic.
Monthly Archives: November 2012
FEEL THE ENERGY
Every month, I realize anew that my complete lack of energy for a week, followed by super-strength-energizer-bunny energy is actually related to my, how shall I put this, lady cycles. And yet every month I find myself wondering what is wrong with me, and why am I so tired? Last week everything was a massive effort: yoga was slow going, walking the dog was exhausting, making the beds was the wooooooorst. I could barely heat up pasta sauce and boil noodles without collapsing on the kitchen floor; then yesterday I woke up with the “I’m going to clean the house!” feeling, and found myself scrubbing that same kitchen floor, moving all the appliances and polishing the granite, and washing down all the cupboards with a homemade solution of hot water, vinegar, and dish soap. Later I grocery shopped, played Just Dance with the boys – earning myself four stars on A-Ha’s Take On Me, just saying – created a recipe for and made tomato coconut soup, and took the dog on a brisk, long walk. Anyone want some waffles? Guys? Waffles? I enjoy these energy bursts but a little less variance would be nice.
It was a lovely weekend, complete with my husband’s office Christmas party on Friday and a potluck party on Saturday, where I developed an obsession with eggplant, specifically with vegan eggplant rollatini. My friend gave me his recipe and now I’m going to attempt to recreate it. Maybe I’ll make it for Christmas Eve dinner, so I can have something to eat while my husband and children eat steak. Christmas Eve we spend at home, traditionally watching Elf and moving Jake’s bed into Mark’s room so they can have a “sleepover”. Lately I’ve been thinking that we should have a Christmas Eve food tradition. On Christmas Day we go to my parents, where my mom makes a turkey and I gorge on variations of yam and sweet potato dishes and chocolate Yule log – the best dessert ever – but Christmas Eve…well, Marilyn said it best. We asked the boys what they wanted for a special Christmas Eve dinner and they unanimously requested barbecued steak. In December. But my husband agreed to suck it up, bundle up and barbecue, so I think having a vegan eggplant rollatini for myself and for anyone else who might try it (i.e., no one) might be just the ticket. Festive meals in the Boyhouse – steak and eggplant.
The other day I was listening happily to my 70s soft-pop station and singing along. I was making dinner at the time and had my hands full, so when Baby Ima Want You came on, I called into the living room to get one of the boys to turn it up. “I love this song!” I said. “I DON’T.” Jake said emphatically. “This is a VEGETARIAN SONG. Meat-eaters like songs that are more rocking.” Out of the mouths of babes, I say. Not that I don’t enjoy some good rocking tunes myself, but it seems he is onto something. We have been classifying music as vegetarian and carnivore ever since.
I am feeling very festive today: it’s less than a month until Christmas, and last night we turned on our outdoor lights, the excitement hangover of which has caused me to hum Christmas songs all morning. Have yourself a merry little Christmas, I sang while blow-drying my hair this morning, and when I turned off the dryer I discovered the boys were also singing Christmas songs, but the kind where they were celebrating the snow turning red from dead Santa, along with Batman being stinky and Robin laying eggs. We have also been celebrating the return of the fireplace channel on TV. Nothing says festive excitement like watching the crackling logs of the fireplace channel, interspersed with the thrill of seeing the plaid-shirted guy put another log on, or poke the fire. Squee! At least once a night, at least one of the boys makes a comment about Santa coming down chimneys and becoming consumed by the fires therein.
Speaking of being burned, I was putting something into the oven and I accidentally touched the upper rack and burned the back of my hand. Then, two days later, I did the exact same thing in the exact same place. This tiny burn hurts so much it is making me extraordinarily sympathetic to actual burn victims. The thoughts in my head go something like this: wahhh, my hand hurts so much! Shut up, you baby. Think about people who have burns all over their bodies! Think of that! But my hand hurts! Wah!
So bored! Send entertainment!
Here we are now. Entertain us.
Jake is now in Day Two of a cold. I kept him home yesterday in hopes that it would be a quick recovery, only to have him wake up this morning, worse. Backfire! I’m not complaining too much; my kids are rarely sick and rarely miss school. Even with swollen, watery eyes and a constantly dripping nose, Jake is still a chipper little guy who is currently wearing a Jedi robe and slaying invisible Sith with an invisible light saber. But I’m getting the teensiest bit of cabin fever. I had to cancel a few appointments yesterday, and one of those appointments had a 24 hour cancellation policy, which I obviously violated, leading to a fee. I tried to talk my way out of it, but realized the futility of doing so with the nineteen year old receptionist. She suggested I bring proof of my child’s sickness to get the fee waived, and I had an image of myself bringing in a giant bag of used tissues. Here you go! I could say, Three boxes of used tissues.
The upside of being confined indoors with a drippy seven-year-old is getting the mail. Actually, I seem to recall getting the mail was a highlight of my day when the kids were small. Oooh! Stamps for Mark’s collection! Oooh! A magazine! Oooh! Flyers! We got a Bed Bath and Beyond flyer and I don’t know about you, but I cannot even say the words Bed Bath and Beyond without getting all Old School and thinking about a “pretty nice little Saturday. We’re going to go to Home Depot, pick out some flooring. Maybe even go to Bed Bath and Beyond, but I don’t know. I don’t know if we’ll have enough TIME.”
So Jake and I spent some time looking through the festive edition of the Bed Bath and Beyond (don’t know if we’ll have enough TIME) flyer, and I found a steal of a deal. For only $299, you too could have your very Mixed Drink Maker! I like how you could choose the “I Feel Lucky” button and get some kind of cray-cray mixed drink! Party time!
48 different cocktail recipes! Something tells me you could totally save the $299 and just randomly mix drinks yourself, but where is the fun in that? I’m so curious as to how this thing works, that I am almost willing to actually go to Bed Bath and Beyond (but I don’t have enough TIME) and look at this for myself.
I never have enough TIME to go to Bed Bath and Beyond, because it is the most overwhelming store in the world, that simultaneously sickens me and also makes me wonder if I need a sno cone machine.
Speaking of things that simultaneously sicken and arouse covetous feelings, this Jezebel article about anthropologie is very amusing. Don’t get me wrong; I am not a hater of anthropologie, although I know that it is a trendy thing to loathe these days. I like a lot of things from that store – I like their kitchy teatowels and their cupcake aprons and I even like their owl shaped cookie jars, although I would never, ever spend $100 on one – but some of their items are truly ridiculous. It makes me think that someone over at anthropologie is just creating things as a dare to see what they can get away with. Do you think someone will pay $3000 for this if we call it a Holiday Hovey House? FUCK YEAH. We’re fucking anthropologie! People will buy anything if we put it on our website.
And while you’re at it, put some of those motherfucking floral grandma crops on there for $138. Bitches be wild for that shit.
Do me a favour, anyone that covets those pants – check out the Sears catalogue. You can get that style of pants for a third of the price, with a lovely elastic waistband included.
And now I’m off to pick up my non-sick child from school. Having Jake home has reminded me how much simpler life is with two children at home. “I miss Mark!” Jake said yesterday as we sat snuggled on the couch, watching six episodes of Phineas and Ferb. “It’s like I don’t even HAVE a brother. Just a mom. And that’s sad.” Why, thank you, Jake! Last night the boys proceeded to amuse me immensely by comparing themselves to Phineas and Ferb. “I’m like Ferb,” Mark said “And Jake is like Phineas because he talks so much!” I hated to break it to them, but everyone talks all the time in this house. No one is like Ferb.
Busy Bee
It was “Dress as Your Twin” day at school – a day where kids get “spirit points” for their “colour squad” if they dress the same as someone else, and my kids took it to the extreme, dressing in the exact same outfit, down to the socks and underwear. Extra points for that? I am volunteering in Jake’s class this afternoon; apparently I will be cutting things out and gluing them to other things, which is certainly not my forte. I hope I don’t need to use a glue gun. The last time I volunteered for such an in-class activity, it was when Mark was in kindergarten and I accidentally stabbed myself in the hand with the scissors while cutting out doors on milk-carton birdhouses. I was, apparently, not modelling good scissor behaviour.
I thought it would be sort of fun to help out in Jake’s class, but evidently I am the only one. Jake is not exactly thrilled by this invasion of his personal space, so it’s good that his teacher phoned last night and asked if I would do the work in the library, not the classroom, as it is too crowded. The other day I was bringing a backordered book to his classroom, and his entire class was so! excited! to see me! but Jake continued to just do his work like I wasn’t even there, responding to my greeting with a talk-to-the-hand type nod of his head. Later he chastised me a little: “I’m supposed to be doing work, not getting distracted.” Okay. This is the same child with whom I fist-bump when saying goodbye in the school lineup. I’m not sure what is going to happen when he’s a teenager.
I have a very busy weekend ahead of me, socially. Normally my weekends consist of a whole lot of nothing, but I actually have two events this weekend. One is my husband’s office Christmas party, and so I will wear a nice dress and heels and everything! I really love office Christmas parties, even the super boring ones, because I get to wear a dress! And eat food that is not prepared by me! And engage in small talk! I am the motherfucking queen of small talk. I can small talk with everyone from your elderly aunt to inanimate objects. BRING IT ON, PEOPLE, and how about all this snow?
The second event is a vegetarian potluck at one the home of one of my beautiful yoga friend’s. I am tasked with dessert. My husband not-so-secretly wants to sneak in hamburgers. Speaking of which, I received a copy of Rachael Ray’s new cookbook for review. I accepted because cookbooks make me squee, but I’m realizing now that Rachael Ray’s recipes are not exactly vegetarian-friendly. There is bacon in everything, including the cupcakes, which seems very, very strange to me.
I have been doing a lot of volunteering at the school, and so when Jake received forms for swim lessons I quickly stuffed them into their envelope without checking off the “Yes! I can volunteer!” box. NO I CANNOT. I refuse to stand in the wet, gross, germy change room with hysterical children, trying to locate someone’s sodden socks. I loathe the school swim lessons anyway: the way the kids never, ever pass a level, the waivers I have to sign indicating no liability if my child drowns or gets hit by a car walking to the pool or succumbs to death and/or dismemberment in running-on-the-deck related ways, the way the lessons are always in the dead of winter and the children all seem to be hacking up a lung or wiping their runny noses in the pool. No, I will not volunteer to supervise in the change room. I just hope to escape dismemberment myself from today’s volunteer activity.
Men of Years Past, or Childhood Memories
It’s the most wonderful time…of the year. Not only is it the holiday season (well, almost the holiday season, I was singing Santa Baby in a slutty voice to myself this morning, so it totally counts) but it is also the Sexiest Man Alive season, as I alluded to in my last post. Mark Wahlberg with no shirt on? Hello nurse.
I love the SMA awards (like the AMA awards, but sexier) not just because it is a thrill to see Patrick Duffy and Tom Brokaw make the list, against all odds I would think, but also because there is something about a magazine devoted to so many “hunks” (remember when people actually used the word “hunk”? Actually I think my mom still does; “That Sam Elliott is a hunk.”) that gets my friends’ creative juices flowing. Maybe that’s not the only kind of juices that are flowing. Eeee. I just squeamed myself out. Sorry, everyone.
In any case, for amusing commentary on the state of manly sex appeal, visit Hannah, Nan, and Beck. Last year I wrote a list of the ten sexiest men, not including my husband, of course. He would be top of the list, but you know what they say about writers who boast about their hunka-hunka-burning-loves, they are lame and boring. Once I was having a purely theoretical discussion with some male co-workers about their “lists” – and in the context of this post I need not describe what such a list entails, readers will have to come to their own conclusions – and one co-worked informed us all rather righteously that there was one person on his list and that was his wife. It kind of killed the mood, to be honest. And so I will say right now for good form that my husband obviously on the top of my list, he’s super sexy and awesome and he looks like a cross between Jim Cuddy and Kyle McLaughlin, but in a good way, and he wears the hell out of a business suit. Blah blah blah back to my SMA list.
I like my men dark, with strong jawlines, and a certain air of success and confidence about them. But it wasn’t always that way.
Nicole’s List of Men Whom She Used To Crush On
1982 – Almanzo Wilder
I developed a huge crush on Almanzo as I spent my free time curled up with the Little House books, probably with my “Bookworm!” or my “I Heart Books!” bookmark by my side. Oh! How apt it was that his nickname was Manly, as he courageously battled minus forty temperatures and rising blizzards to save the entire town of DeSmet from starvation! Oh, how my seven-year-old heart beat when Almanzo touched Laura’s mitten tip on the way home from church (when he was 25 and she was 15…but whatevs…). Oh, the thrill when they exchanged name cards and went for buggy rides. Remember when he surprised her by visiting on Christmas Eve, bearing gifts of a breastpin and oranges, and he asked, huskily, “Can’t you thank a fellow better than that.” THEN THEY KISSED. Old-timey romance; I’d rather not think about how after they got married they got diptheria, had crop failures and crippling debt, AND their house burned down. Just look at this for photographic proof of pioneer sexiness. Just don’t think about the one-bath-a-week thing.
1984 – Corey Hart
I was in the Corey Hart fan club. I had posters and records that I would play over and over. You can never surrender! I’m pretty sure I have a xeroxed letter from him somewhere in my possession. Sorry, younger self, I don’t really see the appeal here.
1985 – Gilbert Blythe
I know, he was on the list last year. Every year at Christmas time I wish I had a VCR and the old cassette that I had recorded the CBC version of Anne of Green Gables on. I wish I could still see those old Canadian Tire commercials. I loved the books, and I just loved Gilbert. I do still see the appeal, for a ten-year-old bookworm girl.
1986 – Judd Nelson
I watched The Breakfast Club a few years after it was released, and developed an enormous crush on Judd Nelson. Bender! This was the start to a long, unfortunate period in which I was very attracted to the Bad Boy. No good can come of this, younger Nicole! These are the guys that will end up dead or incarcerated! Or at very best will be employed in dead-end jobs, still smoking dope at age 40. Yet, it still is very cute when Molly Ringwald gives him her diamond earring. EXCEPT NOW YOUR EARRINGS DON’T MATCH, DUMBASS.
1987 – Lou Diamond Phillips
Remember La Bamba? And the Young Guns movies? Yeah.
1988 – John Cusack
Good taste, younger Nicole! He’s still on the list! “I’m an athlete so I rarely drink…what I’m saying is that you can trust your daughter with me for the next six to eight hours.” God, I love that movie still. And who can resist this? Even my mom, when she watched this with me in the mid-nineties, got all uppity that Lloyd stood there with his boombox, unanswered. “Go to him! Doesn’t she go to him?” Word, Mom. What’s up with the sweatpants, though? Oh, right. Athlete.
1989 – Tom Hooper
If you are not a Canadian girl in her late-thirties to early forties, then you may not remember The Grapes of Wrath – the band from Kelowna, not the book. Oooh, how I longed to run my hands through his curls. Where is he now? I have no idea.
1990 – Jim Morrison
I almost stopped the list at 1989 because of my deep shame and embarrassment at admitting that I had an enormous crush on a dead guy. Not only that, but a dead guy who was crazy, wore leather pants, and drank himself to death at age 27. But in the interest of veracity and full disclosure, I will close with the Lizard King himself.
And now that I have divulged my deep, dark, secret (or not so secret, really) crushes of my formative years, it’s your turn, dear reader. Who did you crush on, back in the day when it was still all about VCR’s and records and writing notes in class? Tell Nicole everything. xoxo
Moustaches, Sexy Men, and Early Morning Photographs
I have been a bit MIA this week because it was the school’s book fair and the annual general meeting of the School Council, of which I am the chair, and those two events, along with all the usual housewifely stuff, made for a very busy week. This is my fourth year of running the book fair and I was silently resolving that this would be the last, especially as I answered the same questions over and over: no, that’s not really a cake pop/iPod/chocolate bar, it’s a pen/eraser/calculator, the posters are $5, yes, $5 for each poster. But then at the end of the fair a boy came in especially to thank me for running the fair and also for being so nice. Another girl in Jake’s class told me that Jake was lucky to have a mom who was so nice and never mad, which is not exactly true, but I don’t mind perpetuating that perception. Then some teachers told me how much my efforts were appreciated…and then I silently resolved to do one more fair. But we all know how that’s going to go, don’t we? I’m going to be running these fairs until the end of time, or at least until my kids leave the school. Every time I think I’m out they pull me back in.
There are always a vast number of novelty items at these fairs, but I have to say I was a bit surprised to unpack a box with erasers shaped like moustaches. I thought that was strange, and wondered if it was some kind of Movember thing; the moustaches ended up being the hottest ticket item there. Do you have any more moustache erasers? the children would ask desperately, and then their spines would crumple a bit at the news No, they are all gone. Apparently, at our school, the children harbour a deep desire to be more like Magnum PI.
Look at that gold medallion, all nestled in his chest hair.
Speaking of raw manly sex appeal, there was another event just as exciting, and much less exhausting – for me at least – happening this week, a little so-called magazine called People releasing the winner for the title of Sexiest Man Alive. I wasted half an hour of my life this morning going through the website, where in addition to naming Channing Tatum, a fellow who is not attractive to me, but apparently is to the People editors, the Sexiest Man Alive, there are fifty one men who are included in a list entitled The United States of Sexy. I will let that title just sit with you, dear reader, for a moment.
In any case, the United States of Sexy matches each state with a supposedly sexy gentleman from that state, although the rules around the definition of “from” seem to be fairly fluid. You will never guess who is representative of Montana. You may try, but you will never, ever guess. It’s Patrick Duffy. Patrick Duffy. Bobby Ewing, in other words. Bobby Ewing, who peaked in 1986 when he was revealed to not be dead at all, but only dream dead, is the Sexiest Man in Montana. What the hell is going on in Montana? I refuse to believe that I am living in a world where Patrick Duffy is the Sexiest Man in any state, unless every other man in that state has died. I am just not that cynical. It cannot be and I will not believe it.
I also have a hard time believing that Richard Gere is among the top ten Sexiest Men. It’s horrifying. Not only was he part of the most disgusting, unsettling, and distressing “feel-good” movie ever (I am looking at you, Pretty Woman), but he is also really unattractive. How does he keep making these lists? The only thing I can think of – as I commented on my friend Hannah’s hilarious reaction to the list – is that he has photos of one of the editors of People magazine fucking, or possibly receiving a blowjob from, a hooker, and so is using it for blackmail purposes to stay on the Sexiest Men Alive list. There is no other possible explanation, unless there are a number of people who are not me who really do find Richard Gere attractive, but I refuse to believe that. Again, I am not that cynical.
There are a number of men who, in my “I’m everywoman” opinion, are very deserving of a sex-ay mention. For example:
Now THAT’S what I’m talking about. Eric Dane on fatherly duty? To be honest, the fatherly thing doesn’t really work for me. It humanizes the men I’m trying to objectify but still, I defy anyone to look at this picture and not appreciate Mother Nature and her artistry:
God bless Mother Nature. She’s a single woman too.
Can you feel it, baby? Yeah, I do too. I have much, much more to say about the Sexiest Man Alive, other than the Who’s that guy? general puzzlement which is my frequent response, me being fairly un-hip to the scene and all. However, I have loads of housewifely duties that have been sorely neglected this week which I should probably attend to toute de suite.
Before I sign off, dear reader, I will tell you of an experiment I performed this week. Several years back it was a thing for bloggers to take a photo of themselves first thing in the morning, and then another after shower, makeup, coffee, etc., a before-and-after of sorts. Since I am nothing if not timely, I decided I would participate. Or maybe I was trying to revive the game amongst the whole new crop of bloggers that is currently buzzing up the internet. In any case:
Other than the lighting being better and my hair being less crazy, the only real difference is that I look much, much more diabolical in my after picture, which is in opposition to the schoolchildren’s perception of me as being “so nice”. Bwhahaha. Beware, children, of my evil forehead wrinkle!
Fun with the Sears Catalogue
This was the view out my back door last week:
It has been cold and snowy forever, I think. In reality it has been more like three and a half weeks, but it feels like forever. At least the sun came out yesterday, which makes me feel less like stabbing people who complained about the summer heat, and more like taking the kids sledding.
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I am someone who is hyper-organized when it comes to winter gear. All outerwear is tried on, and necessary items purchased, by the first week of September at the very latest. This is normally a very good thing: I am ready for when the weather drops twenty degrees overnight, I am not scrambling to find matching mittens, I know that my kids will fit into their designated snowpants. But recently it backfired: the children’s feet had a sudden growth spurt in late September, and it was difficult for them to get their giant flipper feet in and out of their boots. Rather than search the mall and become frustrated at the lack of sizes, choices, and temperature ratings, I always order winter boots online from Sears.
I went to pick up my order on the weekend, and there was a lovely cross-section of Sears shoppers at the catalogue office: a young couple buying a bedroom suite, a woman talking excitedly about the arrival of a new grandchild and the need to purchase a crib, a crotchety old man, and me. The old man at first endeared himself to me by referring to me as “young lady” but then made things uncomfortable by lighting into the lady at the counter about an $0.81 discrepancy on his bill.
It was minus 24 with windchill last Friday, and yet I allowed myself to be peer pressured into walking my dog with my much hardier friends. I felt somehow that I deserved some sort of medal for trudging through the heavy snow in the cold. Or maybe I just need a better coat. The one I have right now is very warm and huge; wearing it is like being wrapped in a comforter, as shown in this (old) picture:
but yet it isn’t quite long enough. I was mentioning this to my friend, who suggested that perhaps I have reached the stage of womanhood of wearing ankle length, pastel coloured puffy coats, with ruched sleeves. It occured to me then, not for the first time, that clothing really goes in stages of life, and I am sliding down the slippery slope from “fashionable” to “practical and I don’t care what I look like.” The next step after that is wearing caftan-type nighties and matching velour housecoats.
Although maybe not. I’m more of a pajama girl, anyway.
It’s funny, though. I was thinking about my teen and university years, when I would wear miniskirts and crop sweaters year-round, with light jackets and no scarves. Now I’m wearing the down-filled equivalent of a burkha. I saw a young girl walk by my house last week, in the bitter cold, with an open jacket, a skirt and BARE LEGS. I had to hold myself back from running outside and bundling her up. I see girls like this and I say things – out loud, and directly to said girls – like “Oh dear, you look cold. Don’t you have some mittens?” In other words, I have turned into my own grandma. I sure hope the next step isn’t wearing these:
The first sweater is advertised as a “face-framing” sweater for ultimate face-framing flattery. The other two are called “fooler” sweaters, and I would like to know why. Wait. I just answered my own question – it is due to the “double cross-over collar” which “fools” people into thinking that you are wearing two “shirts”. I got a little crazy with the quotation marks there, but can you blame me? That poor blonde woman is staring at me with angst, probably because she is modelling a sweater with cardinals on it.
I’m pretty sure I’ll never wear one of those sweaters – they don’t come in black – but I can’t be sure I won’t be rocking the nursing home in one of these:
That model is WAY too young for a leopard-print tunic blouse. I can see myself wearing this, with my bleeding lipstick and my super artificial red hair, my open-toed pumps, and these slacks:
There are a lot of pluses to being in the “slacks” stage of life, the biggest one being elastic waist bands. Although that’s kind of a moot point for anyone who is often found to be wearing yoga pants. The only difference between these slacks and yoga pants, really, is the fabric. Another plus to these slacks is that you would never have “whale tail”. Of course, I’m not sure thongs would be the undergarment of choice once the slacks stage of life has been reached. I’m guessing the appropriate panty would be more like this one:
Or this one, for less fancy occasions:
Those are touted as “anti-static panties” which I find very, very amusing for very, very inappropriate reasons.