It's late on a Saturday evening and the spouse is engrossed in watching John Wayne for the umpteenth time this month draw his gun on the bad guy. He can't eat spaghetti twice in the same week, but he can watch the same movie over and over and never blink an eye.
"Hey, honey" I say, after Wayne fired the first shot. "Want to run into Springfield with me for awhile?"
"To get something to eat?" he asks without taking his eye off the TV.
"No, I want to go look at shoes."
"SHOES?" It's eight o'clock, Lee, are you out of your mind? Why would you want to go look for shoes at this time of night?"
"I just need to go shoe shopping!" I answered a little hurt. Will this man EVER understand me?
"No. The answer is no!" he says as the bad guy falls to the dirt.
"Fine!" I say, I'll call Nancy.
"Good," he says."Bring me back something to eat."
Okay, I'm in trouble. I have a new compulsion, or maybe I should say an old one sneaked back on me. I'm obsessed with shoes, high heels, to be exact. Most men will never understand what shoes mean to a woman. There are tons of articles out there on why women love shoes and what it all means. It's not just some passing fad or faze. It's a real issue and one that even the shrinks have spent time on trying to decipher. Like the saying you are what you eat, most women think we are what is on our feet.
Back in my twenties I had a passion for shoes. Pointed toes, and the higher the heel the better. I walked, ran, and lived in heels. I didn't have a lot of money back then and credit cards were for rich people so most all of my shoes came from a thrift store outside of Seattle that sold used designer shoes and clothing. I don't think I ever paid more than two dollars for a pair of name brand heels, only what I saved by the pair, I made up for in volume. I must have had thirty pair of heels in my small closet that was practically empty of any clothes to mention, because of course, I couldn't afford any clothes. If I had a snazzy pair of shoes on, I didn't much care what else was on my body. Even then I had a sense of only caring about what I liked and felt good in and not what anyone else thought. Back then it was definitely faux pas (we called it plain tacky) to wear heels with no hose or with jeans, but the goofy looks I got never bothered me.
I can't remember now when and why I stopped with the heels. To be honest, it probably had something to do with gaining a bazillion pounds. After all, you can only ask so much of a five inch stiletto. What I learned this summer, however, was that wearing heels is kind of like falling off a horse and having the nerve to get back on. I just got tired of trying to up my wardrobe and not finding any flat shoes that made it look right.
I started off with a lower heel and I thought I would DIE, my feet killed me. Blisters, leg aches, etc., but I persevered. After a few weeks I got to the point where I could walk again without too much pain so I moved up to a three inch heel and the suffering began all over again. Worse than that, I couldn't walk without holding on to something to help balance myself. At work, people actually thought I was exhausted the way I leaned on the copier. Little did they know I was hanging on to keep from falling off my shoes.
One night, I had to run to the supermarket and asked my husband to go with me. I caught him in a good mood because he agreed to ride along (he hates going to the supermarket). Little did he know I had an alternative motive. I had just bought a pair of three and a half inch heels and hadn't had the guts to try to wear them yet, I thought I would take them for a test drive to the grocery store. As we started out the front door I said, "I have a new pair of shoes on, and they're a little high, let me hang on to you to get to the car." I can remember a time when that would have made him feel good, but instead he turned, looked me straight in the eye and said "Well, for crying-out-loud, Lee, why in the heck don't you just change shoes?"
It's late Saturday evening and I am back from shoe shopping, which went great. I found a bargain on a pair of green heels to match a green blouse I love. I came in pretty excited.
"Hi honey! Guess what? I bought a pair of Franco Sarto's!"
The spouse flips the remote control to a hunting program and without looking up says "Great, be sure you put mayonnaise on mine."
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Will men ever understand women and shoes?
We put a man on the moon, can't we do something about the foodchain?
Before I go any further let me just remind you that I was born and raised in the city. A big city on the west coast. I was probably seven or eight years old before I learned that milk came from a cow instead of a carton and after I found that piece of information out I gave up drinking milk forever, thereafter.
I tell you this so you will understand that my experience with nature and animals came to me later in life after I married the all American country boy and small game hunter. And yes, I had Biology in high school and we studied the food chain but for gosh sake reading about it in a textbook and seeing it in person is a little different.
A few weeks ago a mama redbird decided to build her nest in the grapevine wreath by our front door. Of course, being a mother myself, we immediately bonded. I watched her work endlessly as she put her nest together with just the right materials and thought to myself what a clever decorator she was when she finished the nest off with a couple of dark feathers sticking up in the back. I named her Maddy after our granddaughter and she quickly became part of our family.
While we sat on our deck in the evenings she sat above us on her nest as if this had always been her home. One afternoon my friend Nancy and I were visiting in the yard and when we stepped up on the deck we found a baby bird (deceased) lying on the deck. I just freaked out screaming for my husband, "Oh my gawd! Come quick something terrible has happened!" The spouse of course thinks something terrible HAS happened and when he finds my hysteria is only over the body of a not completely formed baby bird, he is not too happy with me. Nancy is saddened by this event but being a savvy country girl herself (she taught me that you say you are bleeding like a stuck pig and not a stuffed pig) just tried to calm me down. After I had said "This just makes me sick!" for the 20th time both Nancy and the spouse left me standing there.
Later my husband tries to explain to me that there may have been something wrong with the baby and the mama instinctively did away with it. "It's nature's way," he says. I want desperately to climb on a stool and look in the nest when Maddy is gone to check on the status of her other eggs or children but the spouse says I have to leave it alone, so I do. I think that whatever is in there will be safe. After all, what could possibly harm mother and nest so close to our door?
Late yesterday evening we had a rain storm to end all rain storms. Wind, hail, but mostly just blowing rain like I have never seen before. Maddy is on her nest and I am so thankful she is out of the elements. After the storm I am sitting in a living room chair looking out the storm door when I see Maddy flying back and forth frantically and in a split second something dropped on the deck with a loud KERPLUNK. It all happened so fast. I ran to the door to find the fattest black snake I'd seen in years curled up and Maddy still flapping her wings. Now, I tell you the truth when I say I am not afraid of snakes. I don't do spiders or mice, but long ago when I was younger and quicker my husband taught me how to kill a snake by picking it up by the tail and popping its head on the ground. One of a few things I think he is proud that he taught me. But last night I KNEW the minute I saw that snake what he had done and I couldn't bare to go near him.
I put the old "Oh my gawd, come quick!" into gear and the spouse came and killed the snake. Maddy flew away. I ranted, I cried, I paced back and forth on the deck and chanted "It's not fair! It's not fair!" I was physically ill. My husband sent me inside to calm down. I actually prayed that Maddy would come back, but it began to get dark and I knew she was gone. They were all gone. My husband reminds me again that its nature's way and the way the food chain works.
Well, I don't like it. If we can put a man on the moon surely to goodness we can train snakes to do something besides rob nests of baby birds. The spouse says Maddy will build again somewhere else and probably soon and try to raise another batch of babies. I can only hope she finds somewhere safer than next to my front door.
Fast food is just a part of daily life
I don't cook. I only go to the super market because the four things I cannot live without, Peanut Butter Panic ice cream, Diet Dr. Pepper, paper towels, and bathroom tissue, cannot be purchased at any of the drive-thru fast food chains I visit on a daily basis.
I am kind of devastated that fast food is getting such a bum rap right now, even when I know most of what is being pitched is true. Fast food is not good for our health, but I console my guilt by chanting everything in moderation, and I have tried to cut back, no super duper size anything (well maybe just the fries) but I can't cut it out.It's not just about the food, but about the convenience, especially after working all day (I don't know what my excuse is for the morning drive-thru for my coffee and yogurt). It's about not having to do dishes because we just toss everything when we are done eating. I especially love that part, since I break out in hives when I go near my kitchen.
I really never thought of how bad my fast food habit was until I was balancing my check book recently and 90 out of 120 checks or debits for the month were to carry outs or drive-thrus. You are probably asking how I can afford this, but keep in mind I don't grocery shop, so instead of spending $300 a month on groceries I spend it on good stuff. Years ago my husband wouldn't touch fast food of any kind. He has really come a long way in 35 years, when the choice is starve or eat a burger, I guess anyone would relent after awhile.
I have made a lot of friends at the places I stop at on a regular basis. They don't know me by name but by what I order. I pulled up to the speaker to order at one of my favorite stops the other morning and the young woman recognized my voice immediately when I ordered a large coffee with two creams, she came back with "will you have your usual parfait with that?" I know that one of the kids there has enlisted in the Navy and will soon be leaving, his brother just re-enlisted and is going to Korea, and a lot of the workers tell me about how tired they are and they may have had to leave a sick child at home that day and I listen and try to say something encouraging.
The only problem I have with fast food is I think if I ever got one order that was right when I got it home I would faint. I used to check my order before pulling off, but now it's kind of a game to see what we really have when I get home and open the sack.
I hope the fast food industry carries through with their plans on providing healthier choices, especially for the next generation coming up. But if I have to choose between apple slices and a fried apple pie, I'm going to stick with the pie.
Getting healthy is about to kill me
Have you noticed the covers on the women's weekly magazines lately? I'm talking about the ones with photos of gals that have lost 70-150 pounds. The captions usually read something like Eat Your Way to Better Health. The rest of the page is covered with blow ups of chocolate brownies and mile high lemon meringue pies, and how to whip up a fancy Italian dish using lard and white flour. We are definitely getting mixed messages about what it takes to get healthy.
That's why I stopped reading and listening to the experts and started doing my own thing. After you hit 60, diet and exercise aren't so much about fitting into a pair of jeans you wore 20 years ago. It's more like trying to live until your next birthday, making the seat belt rest across your body instead of around your neck, and sleeping without acid reflux.The first of this year my buddy (who wishes to remain anonymous) and I decided we were going to get healthy even if it killed us. So far it almost has. I mention this here only because everything is easier with a buddy . . . even enduring agony.
Since January the first day of every single month I have started a new diet or exercise program. It usually lasts about three days and then I am back to my old habits, fast food breakfast, lunch and dinner, and driving my car to my desk so I don't have to walk. But last month I finally found something that motivated me to get serious . . . fear. One of my friends and coworkers (the same age as I am) went in for routine tests because she didn't have any energy and came out with four bypasses. Yep, that got my attention.
I have cut back on my eating (it has helped tremendously that I now know chocolate is good for me) and I am exercising in moderation. At the same time I have tried to cut back on any medication I take including OTC drugs. I stopped my sinus meds (I now have a sinus headache 24/7), prescription arthritis med (I am so stiff I can hardly get out of a chair), and my osteoporosis med (I think I hear my bones cracking in the middle of the night), but I feel great . . . well not really great . . . but the pain is bearable.
The drawback to reducing my food intake has resulted in feeling like I am starved to death all the time. People are getting tired of asking how I am and my reply is short "starved". I am parking my car as far away from every door as I can get to force myself to walk, but I have Yellow Cab's number programmed into my cell phone just in case. I am exercising every night before bed. One night I tried to cheat and didn't exercise. I couldn't stand the guilt so I got up and started swinging those legs on the Gazelle. My spouse came tearing out of the bedroom when he heard a loud thud.
"Lee! What in the heck are you doing? It's 1:00 in the morning!"
I didn't get a lick of empathy from him when I said I had fallen asleep while exercising and fell off the Gazelle.
If I don't get anything else out of my new lifestyle I have solved one problem. I always wanted to be the one to compose what my headstone reads. I think I have settled on Here lies Lee Weeks, she lived hard, had fun and died healthy.
Back-to-school hype brings back some good and some not so good memories
I shut down the computer and turned around in my chair. As usual, my husband was flipping through TV channels faster than a speeding bullet. Waving the smoke from the remote away from my face I said, "I can't believe the back-to-school hype on the Internet."
"Like?" he asked, as he watched some guy pitching camouflage clothing during a commercial.
"Well, you should see the things they are pitching to parents to buy for their kids. Cell phones in colors to match their kid's clothing, laptops, iPods, stuff like that."
"That's a far cry from what we had or needed when I went to school," he said.
I sat there thinking the same thing. My school supplies consisted of a package of number two pencils and a Big Chief tablet. The school furnished everything else. I would get four of five plaid seersucker dresses in different colors in the same style, because once we found something that fit me we stayed with it.
But when it came to shoes, we had a fight on our hands. My dad insisted on these gawd-awful shoes that looked like something OSHA requires now, if you work in a factory, only mine didn't have steel toes. I know that part of my childhood stuck with me because I haven't owned a sensible pair of shoes since.
When my train of thought broke I looked to see that my husband had turned off the TV.
"So," I asked, "What was it like when you were in school?"
He looked pretty serious for a second. "I went to a school in a one room log school house with a bell tower on top. The building was so run down that poles propped it up on one side to keep it from falling over. It was our school during the week and our church on Sundays."
"Wait just a minute!" I said. "Didn't I see this on a Little House on the Prairie episode?"
"Go ahead and make fun. You wouldn't know what it was like, for sure," he said. "We had about fifteen kids in grades one through six and we all just grew up in that school room with each other. We didn't have families moving in and out, it was just all people we knew, a lot of brothers and sisters. All our subjects were in one book and we shared books. The teacher had a big can of crayons and we all shared those. You could tell which kids were better off because their overalls were worn in places but not patched. Lunch was a sweet tator and cold homemade biscuit with a sausage patty. It was the same thing everyday, but it always tasted good."
"Did you have a lunch box?" I asked, remembering all the latest fad boxes I always had.
"Shoot no! If you were lucky you had a sack and you kept that sack and used it over and over again. But most of the time we just wrapped our lunches in used newspaper."
When he said that, I felt a twinge of guilt at the times my friends and I popped bags just to make noise. As I looked up again I saw something cross my husband's face.
"What?" I asked.
"I was just remembering Elvin Harris. None of the kids ever had any money but one time one of the boys found a nickel and he Lorded that nickel over us for days. Then one day I shot and killed a snowbird with my slingshot and this kid tells Elvin Harris that he will give him the nickel if he will bite the bird's head off. Elvin was a big ole kid, really nice and really backwards. Anyway, Elvin bit the head off and then this other kid started to finagle on the bet and wasn't going to give Elvin the nickel. Elvin was going to let him get away with it, but man I came unglued. I wasn't a very big kid myself, but before it was over I made sure Elvin had his nickel."
"Well, I sure can't top that story," I said. "Did you ever wish you had things a little better in school?"
"No, I never even thought about it. We were all in the same boat so we didn't know any different. How about you, were you happy in school?" he asked.
"I loved elementary school," I replied. "But, if I knew then what I know now. I honestly think I could have talked my dad out of having to wear those sensible shoes. Who knows how much smarter I'd be today if I could have worn black patent Mary Janes."
"Editor's Note: This column first appeared in the 2002 fall issue of Today's Woman. The column won first place for Best Nostalgia Article in 2003 from the Missouri Writer's Guild.
No woman should ever have to clean without a swiffer
Along with CNN and Diet Dr. Pepper, I am now hooked on Swiffers. If you live a sheltered life or don't clean your own house you may not know about Swiffer products, house cleaning gadgets that make cleaning fun and easy. I kid you not!
I remember when my grandmother cleaned her entire house with a can of Ajax, a couple of clean rags and a galvanized bucket full of hot water and Spic and Span. When the sponge mop came along it was like a breakthrough in rocket science. Then, before no wax flooring was invented, we thought we had died and gone to heaven when someone discovered you could actually clean and wax your floor out of the same bottle. The clean and wax products were a little over the top for our mothers who had just adjusted to the sponge mop. Their skepticism came from never being able to actually see where the dirt went, therefore, to them, all the wax was doing was covering up the dirt. My generation's take on all of this was who cares where the dirt is, the floor is shiny.
I love house cleaning gadgets, so when I saw the commercial and how much fun dusting (which I hate with a passion) could be with a Swiffer Duster, I couldn't wait to get one. It is the most amazing duster I have ever used. No more dust mud from dusting with a damp cloth, the Swiffer does TV screens, mini blinds, and allows you to dust around all those little figurines without missing a beat. You can even dust your husband and the remote in his hand while he watches TV and he will never suspect a thing. If you visit the Swiffer website you can play a demo that will show you how to fluff your duster properly. How could house cleaning possibly get any easier?
Try the Swiffer Carpet Flick.The first time I saw the carpet flick advertised I thought to myself there's no way that thing can work that good. Anyone that knows me can vouch that I am every advertiser's dream, because once I see something I have to try it like right now. In less than three hours I was using my own carpet flick and it worked like a charm. No more fussing about crumbs around the recliner. I just flick those suckers up in nothing flat. However, using the carpet flick is like eating potato chips. Once you start you can't stop until you have flicked the entire house, the deck, and the stepping stones leading to the deck. Its use is addictive to say the least.
I'd like to say here that I am not on the Swiffer payroll. My enthusiasm for the product is genuine. I simply don't know how I ever cleaned without Swiffers. Now if the company would just come out with a fun gadget that husbands could use to pick up their socks, life would be almost perfect.
Vacation is in the eye of the beholder
Okay, here's my idea of the perfect vacation. Four days, three nights, in a five star hotel, top floor. Has to be a corner suite to give you two views, one of the water (I don't care if it's ocean, river, or lake) to enjoy during the day, and a view of the city lights to enjoy at night.
Pack only the necessities. Four long, oversized T-shirts in various colors and four pairs of matching sweat socks. Laptop, cell phone, two cases of diet Dr. Pepper, a walkman with enough 60s CDs to play 24/7, and the latest anti conservative political best seller. I might rent every movie on DVD that Richard Gere ever made and take those along, too. If I could afford the above, I could afford to have a Gazelle delivered (the exercise machine, not to be confused with the four legged kind), because I would have to have some type of daily exercise besides typing, reading, and calling room service. So, there's my dream vacation.
What brought all this on, thinking about my dream vacation, was an e-mail from my friend Carole a few weeks back when she was in the middle of a mini-vacation that she had been looking forward to for weeks. Carole e-mailed, "We kayaked about seven miles on the Missouri River today, hiked through a cave, and swam around a sand bar, then biked seven miles home. Also, hiked to the top of a bluff and walked around town." Now stop me if I'm wrong, but didn't we see this episode on Survivor?
My problem is my husband doesn't share my idea of a good vacation, and never has. Years ago I had to fight both spouse and son to even take a vacation. If you have never spent three days in St. Louis with two miserable males bored out of their gourd you haven't lived. The spouse couldn't wait to get back to his own remote, pick-up and birddog and the son couldn't wait to get back to his Nintendo and friends. My husband kept muttering something about getting even. I ignored them both. I had a great time. Didn't have to cook, make beds, or clean the bathroom for three whole days! While the men watched TV, I sat at the little desk in the hotel room and wrote friends and family using every piece of stationery in the drawer, along with the ten postcards for a dollar I bought in the lobby. Boy, I thought we were vacationing big time. Beat every single card and letter I wrote back home.
Thinking about all of this, I just asked my better half what his dream vacation would be. He didn't even have to think twice. He said "I'd like to visit Mount Rainier again. It's so beautiful and peaceful there." "Mt. Rainier? Mt. Rainier! My gosh, Mt. Rainier is an active volcano encased in over 35 square miles of snow and ice!" I gasped. "Why would you want to go somewhere and freeze to death in an altitude where you can hardly breathe?" I said. "I don't think I could ever enjoy a vacation like that."
I don't like the look that just came across my husband's face.
Husbands and the new fashions, they just don't get it!
I think the reason most of my same age friends and I love the latest fashion trend of soft, flowing, comfortable ladies wear is because we come from the torch your lingerie generation. We were the first generation to toss our girdles and burn our bras (not to be confused with anti-war protests or demonstrations of the same). Our quest was to feel free and liberated while dressing appropriately. Unfortunately, I don't think we ever accomplished the latter in the 60s. I'm not sure our daughters will ever fully appreciate or understand the sacrifices we made and the criticisms we absorbed to pave the way for today's fashions. We need to take some credit . . . because we deserve it.
This season the clothes that use to be under garments have been slightly tweaked and are now outer garments. They are fun to wear, easy to maintain, and feminine. In the past if it was feminine it usually wasn't fun to wear and easy to maintain. We have come a long way from the shirt waist and Diane von Furstenberg wrap dresses, for sure.
But wait Houston, we have a problem! Somehow, our husbands got left out of the what is fashionable today loop. And what is even worse . . . they are having a hard time telling the difference between under garments and outer garments.
I haven't changed all that much from when I was ten years old and my mother bought all my little plaid seersucker dresses in the same style but different colors. Once I find something that fits and feels good I want a dozen of whatever it is. That's why I loaded up on camisoles), one of every color the store had in stock, and oversized shirts to wear over them. I am in hog heaven to say the least. Or maybe I should say I was in hog heaven. The first morning of my new wardrobe I put on a black cami with a black pair of slacks and wore a white shirt unbuttoned of course. I'm feeling pretty good and think the new duds make me look more like I am 59 than 62(hey, three years means a lot at our age).
On the way to the car my spouse says matter of factly, "Don't forget to button your shirt,"
"Well, you're not suppose to button your shirt with this outfit," I replied in the same tone.
"Wait a minute," he says with an aghast look on his face. "You mean you're going to work like that?"
"Like what? This is the new style!" I said, as my fashion balloon began to deflate.
"Didn't you use to have a slip like that years ago?" he asked.
Okay that did it! I snapped up my shirt to the neck and got in the car. As soon as I hit I-44 I called my friend Nancy on my cell to relay the disaster I had just experienced. Here's what a good friend can do for you.
Nancy had a tale of her own. Seems like not long ago she was decked out in a new natural color linen cropped outfit with accessories fit to kill. When she returned home from Springfield and as she walked through the den her husband looked up from the paper and said "Hi hon, I like your pajamas!" Well, misery does love company because I was feeling much better after hearing Nancy's story.
The next time my spouse and I were in a department store, after much coaxing, I got him to take a run (and I do mean run) through the women's wear department (on his way to sporting goods) so he could see first hand what the new fashion look is all about. I'd like to say here that he said "Well, alright I see what you mean now." But, I can't lie. He never stopped shaking his head as he walked toward the turkey callers. That's when it hit me. Maybe if I can find a camisole in camouflage . . . this new look just might grow on him.
Nah . . . I doubt it.
You're only as old as you think you are
Wikipedia defines middle age as a non-specific stage in life when one is neither old nor young but somewhere in between. I have decided that I want to classify myself as being middle age. Technically, if I live to be 120 I really am just now middle age (give or take a year or two). Please don't misunderstand me, I don't have a hang up about age or getting older, but I do have a hang up with people who keep reminding me that I am getting older. For some reason folks have been pretty rough on me the past couple of weeks, and it's beginning to wear a little thin.
Being a California girl I have been attached to the sun and a tan all my life. I did the tanning bed thing for a jillion years and never took too seriously the danger warnings, but just to be on the safe side about a year ago I gave up the ultra violet light and went to a tan in a bottle (thus explaining my nicotine color legs and jaundice skin tone for anyone that might have noticed). A couple of weeks ago a strange little spot showed up on my forearm. I don't mind telling you that it concerned me a tiny bit until I found out what it was. My friend Mary Ann (a fellow sun lover) was sitting at her computer when I walked up and said "Look at this thing on my arm. What do you think this is?" Mary Ann's eyes hardly left her computer screen before she announced "It's an age spot." My reply came quick "An age spot! You've got to be kidding me! Well, obviously it has the wrong person!" I huffed, and, with that I turned on my heels and stomped off.
I knew the freckles on my hands were joining forces (soon there will be just one big freckle) which may be a slight sign of age, but an age spot on my arm, that's something else, entirely. I read these little things multiply like rabbits once they get started, so I was pretty bummed out about Mary Ann's diagnosis.
Last night we stopped at a fast food place and after placing our order I drove forward to pay. The young lady at the window stared at me for a minute (I think she was about 12 years old) and then said "Oh, I didn't give you a senior citizen discount, let me put that on for you." As we pulled out my spouse said "What was all that about, anyway?" I said (with a straight face), "Well, when we pulled up to the window, she saw your white hair and decided we were eligible for the senior discount."
"There's a lot of little clichés like you're only as old as you feel or you're only as old as you act but after a 12 hour work day sometimes I feel like I must be 90 and when the teen-agers at the mall are all congregated and immovable I might act like I am my real age. So, all of that aside, I think, you're only as old as you think you are. I think I am middle age. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
Puleeze . . . don't tell me what not to wear
I hate reality shows. I may be narrow minded, set in my ways, or much to sensitive for my own good, but if one of my friends or family ever nominated me for TLC's What Not to Wear they would cease being a friend or relative of mine at that very moment.
I don't think I have ever worn a thing in my life simply because it was "in style." I may buy something that is a new fad, but not just for the sake of it being a fad. It has to be something I really like. When I find something I really like it's mine for life. Three things that I will never part with are palazzo pants, black eyeliner and big, big, hair. Of course most of my fashion statement comes out of the 60s and it's just part of who I am.
Take Palazzo pants. I've been wearing them for 25 years (not the same pair). You can gain or lose fifty pounds in palazzo pants and no one will ever know the difference. Besides, they are so me, wider at the bottom than at the top. That's why I wear the big hair, to balance things out. Then you even it all out with the heavy eye makeup which draws the attention away from the big hair and floppy pants. See, I know about this stuff. I could have my own show.
So, Stacy and Clinton from What Not to Wear would really have a coronary if they visited my closet. One side of the closet consists of six pairs of black palazzo pants. The WNTW team would not approve of my color coordinates. Hanging on the other side of my closet you will find a jillion black tops to match the pants. This is what I have to say about black. It is a color for all seasons, and it goes with anything. Especially more black.
As bad as I hate it, I have to confess, I do watch What Not to Wear. I sit there week after week and watch Stacy and Clinton, these two fashion icons, ruin people by changing them into something they "should be" instead of the person they are. They break people down and supposedly build them back up. They've thrown enough clothes in the trash to warm every unclothed body in all of the third world countries put together. You probably have gathered by now that I am not a Stacy and Clinton fan.
However, I do like Nick (the hairstylist) and Carmindy (the makeup artist). Only because they have sweet personalities. Never trust a hairstylist that smiles while holding a pair of scissors in his hand. If nick was styling a person with a half inch Mohegan he'd have to trim a fourth of an inch off to get rid of the "dead ends." And Carmindy, God love her cute little self, thinks playing up the eyes is dusting the lids with pale rose shadow and dotting between the lashes to make them look longer. I've never seen her do much with wrinkles around the eyes and that's really what would interest me. Not that you can see my crow's feet because of course I cover them up with black eyeliner. Carmindy is young. She'll learn.
The kicker on WNTW, just in case you are not familiar with the program is, how should I say this, "the victim" has to give up everything in their closet in exchange for a $5000 credit card to buy a new wardrobe. I am waiting for the right person to just flatly tell this duo who dress in haute couture (while they encourage everyone else to buy off the rack) to take a hike. Five thousand dollars would not replace the clothes in my closet, each item is there because "I" like it.
In regards to style in general, my clothes, makeup, and hair have pretty much looked the same for forty years. The only drawback to this is ever now and then I try to visualize what I will look like in twenty more years, perhaps a resident of the local nursing home, cruising down the aisle in my wheelchair with palazzo pants flapping in the wind, big, big, hair, and heavy eye makeup. To counteract this thought I usually try to visualize what the current generation with their body piercing and tattoos are going to look like in the same scenario. That pretty much takes away any concerns I might have for how I'll look.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Why would anyone want to slow down?
Every Friday night my mother says to me, "Now honey, can't you just slow down and rest for one day this weekend?" This coming from my 80+ year old mother who for the past six years has spent eight hours a day and sometimes more, seven days a week, at the nursing home caring for my dad. When my dad naps she goes to the grocery store, the laundromat, or runs home to vacuum the house.
But, to answer her question, no I can't. If my mind is resting my body is going and if my body is resting my mind is going.
I pretty much fit the mold for a Type A personality. So, I have a pretty hard time thinking about slowing down in my life. While some of my same age friends are counting the days until they can get out of the rat race, I live in fear that I won't accomplish all I want to in life or if I shut my eyes for longer than four hours a night I might miss something really important.
Of course, I know I am not the one who controls how much longer I have on this earth, but I am kind of living each day on fast forward, hoping to get it all in. If I thought I didn't make a difference in someone's life each day, I would consider my day wasted.
Most of the time I only function in two modes, constant motion and crash. This doesn't mean that I don't get tired or complain when I am running on tilt, but I am loving every minute of it. My family and friends know to just shut my whining out, because I'll get over it.
There are a few Type A traits that I don't have, for sure, like above average mental and physical alertness, and I don't think I am ever hostile but I have a terrible quick temper. I like to throw things when I get mad.
At any rate, I have a hard time understanding why other people want to slow down, I want to keep on keeping on. I write about this now, because in a few weeks I will be 63 years old, and already people ask me how much longer I'm going to work. Right now, the answer is, for as long as I can . . . and then I'll think of something else to do.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Sunday morning
I haven't posted for a couple of weeks. Life has been a little hectic. Fall classes started at the university where I work and our enrollment is up over 100 students from where we were this time last fall, so we all have felt a few growing pains the past two weeks, but good pains at that.
The days are getting shorter. Last week when I left early for the office I found it was still dark outside. The plus to that is driving into the city as the sun comes up. I always feel so inspired when I see the horizon with all it's indescribable colors. In the fall, by the time I reach our campus, I have usually spotted a couple of hotair balloons floating against those colors and it's a picture that a camera could never truly catch and one that only a city girl can truly appreciate.
I am the proud owner of a new laptop since I last posted. This morning I am sitting on my deck watching the rabbits run through the grass, the squirrels run across the phone wires, and the cows grazing in a nearby pasture. Aside from a slight breeze, you could hear a pin drop, it is so quiet.
We live on a dead end road on the very edge of our small town (population around 1200) on a hill that we share with only three other families, one of those being my parents. We have about three acres with a lot of beautiful old trees, a creek that you have to cross to get to our house, and everything from the above mentioned animals to wild turkeys that visit us in our front yard from time to time. As much as I love the city, and as run down as I feel our house is getting, I wouldn't trade our place for any choice property anywhere else. We have lived on this hill for almost 34 years.
From this vantage point I watched my youngest son ride down the road on his first tricycle, then first bicycle, and finally back out of the drive-way in his car the day he left for college. It is from this same spot that I now watch my son's children play when they visit. That gives me such a warm feeling, probably a feeling that only a mother and grandmother can appreciate.
Nothing much has changed on this hill in all these years except for the change of neighbors and the trees are taller . . . well, and I might be a few years older. It's still a special place to be, and I am surely enjoying it this Sunday morning.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Lunch with the cousins
My family is small. Everyone on my dad's side is gone or estranged from the immediate family, and there aren't many relatives left on my mom's side. Not too long ago my mom lost both her sister and brother in just a matter of a few months.
In the beginning there were six of us cousins. Four from my Aunt Dot, Linda, Debbie, Bill, and Ted, and one, Jerry, from my Uncle Elmer. For the past twenty years the only time we have been together is either at a wedding or a funeral.
We lost Linda to cancer several years ago. Linda and I were the closest in age and the closest period for many years. We married brothers years ago right out of high school (our first marriages) so our lives were pretty involved since we had the same in-laws, etc. We left Missouri with our husbands and moved to Washington State, and it was nice that we always had each other, being cousins and sister-in-laws. Linda was also close to my first three children. After the divorces from the brothers we kind of lost track of each other, and never regained the closeness we once had. We actually had been through a lot together, kind of helped each other grow up a little along the way. I am thankful that I at least had the chance to visit with her a couple of times before she passed away. Linda was also the center of her brothers and sister and her passing left a terrible empty place for all of them.
I am an only child, so without any siblings family get togethers are pretty slim pickings. This morning my cousin Ted e-mailed me and said that he, Bill, and Debbie were meeting for lunch and asked me to join them if I could get away. We only had a little over an hour but we had such a great time talking about our folks, our kids (my two oldest are the same age as Bill and Ted and they used to play together when they were little). Today, I learned that Debbie's son is moving to Kansas not far from where my youngest son and his family live, it's such a small world. I had a great time (I certainly enjoyed being in the presence of three other Democrats!) and I hope we can do this again, Maybe Jerry can join us next time.
So, thanks cuzes for thinking me!
Thursday, July 20, 2006
A word or two on praying, our mission as Christians, and a little personal background
I think the Lord gives every Christian a mission. I'm not real good at witnessing and telling people how they can be saved. This comes in part because I believe each time a person tried to witness to me in earlier years it just drove me further away from God and the church. But I feel I am good at being a prayer warrior and I think that praying for people is the mission the Lord has assigned to me.
I have kept a lengthy, active, daily prayer list for years. Including my church prayer list I pray for 150 to 200 people a day. Even when I was not really saved, I prayed on a regular basis for my family (especially my children) and friends and peace and for those who were in need. Some will disagree, but I know the Lord heard and answered my prayers for others many times. He did not punish me for not being a Christian at the time, and my prayers were answered.
I grew up attending many different churches and continued with that pattern through most of my early adult life. I can remember asking Jesus to come into my heart during several Vacation Bible Schools (each of a different faith) when I was very young. I almost converted to Catholicism during my teen years, much to my (Episcopalian) grandmother's horror at the time.
What brought me to the Southern Baptist was a neighbor and good friend, Mrs. Alexander. Mrs. Alexander encouraged me to send my youngest son to church with her each Sunday when he was still so small his little short legs couldn't make the steps on the church bus. I would lift him on and someone would help get him off when the bus brought Mrs. A and Glove back home.
Whenever there was a special program at church I would attend with them, and then I started volunteering each summer to help with Vacation Bible School and from there I began building a true relationship with the Lord and with a group of friends that would become and still remain like family. I nearly drowned the preacher when I was baptized, but it was of course a blessed day in my life.
After becoming a Christian I struggled a little with my prayer life. Mostly because I tried to pray the "right" way. One day during a Sunday School lesson I shared this with the (then) preacher's wife. She shared that she believed we all can pray in a different manner. There doesn't have to be a right or wrong way to pray if it is sincere (although scripture will guide us on how to pray). She said that she herself prayed for different things and different people on different days of the week, but on a regular basis. This inspired me to go back to my old way of praying for everyone by name on a daily basis. It immediately felt right to me.
A few months back I ran across a blog that I can't find now. I just remember that when I read the post I was angry at the blogger because he in essence was saying that people who pray like I pray are not praying at all that it's just a bunch of words and names with no meaning. In other words it's not the right way to pray. So maybe that blogger's mission is to make us stop and think about the way we pray.
I know the Lord leads me in my praying. That's all I need to know about prayer for now.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
War, no one wins, everyone loses
So, here we are watching the Middle East come to what many have predicted and most have feared for so long. I wish I were articulate enough to write about what is happening, but I'm not. I can only write about what I feel in my heart.
Setting who and what is right aside, as I watched the news coverage today and read on CNN's website the personal e-mails from those affected directly from the crisis both here in the United States and those who are right in the middle of the attacks, I know that regardless of how this crisis ends there will be no winners, only losers.
I watched as people fled Lebanon into Syria with only the belongings they could carry, leaving everything else behind, to get their families to safety. Children carrying bundles that were bigger than they were.
In the middle of all of this a short news take on the G8 leaders and a shot of them all standing together for photographers . . . smiling.
I have no answers . . . only questions.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
I just discovered Steinbeck
I have several rather detailed posts about the books I have read and what books interest me (mostly anything between a front and back cover) but this week I discovered an author I hadn't read before and now I think I will have to go through all his books.
I picked up a used copy of John Steinbeck's Cannery Row and I just fell in love with the characters and their era and especially how they handled the poverty that they lived in. I can't imagine how I have missed Steinbeck in all my reading but the Pulitzer and Nobel Prize author writes in a simple form and everything (at least in Cannery Row) is character driven.
I am now halfway through another of Steinbeck's books, Tortilla Flat. Both of these books are such fast reads, but very entertaining for literature.
Of course Steinbeck is best known for The Grapes of Wrath, Of Mice and Men and East of Eden. I believe movies were made of all of those and I probably started watching The Grapes of Wrath a dozen times over the years and it was just to depressing to sit through. Don't ask me to explain how I can read about the depression and hang on every word but can't bare to watch a movie about it. Sometimes I am a complicated person.
Anyway, I'm on to Steinbeck now, so I will move through his books for awhile. If they are all as good as the first two I have tackled, I am going to love my new discovery.
