I just left my Jenny Craig appointment. Yes, I admit it -- I called Jenny. I am happy to announce that after six weeks, I have dropped 9.8 pounds. I am only one pound away from my half-way mark. So, touch me! No, on second thought, you’d better wait another six weeks before you do that.
The fun thing about going into a weight-loss center is you get to stand before someone else who is holding you accountable for every pound you lose or gain. (Surely you knew that when I said “fun” I was being sarcastic, right?) And we all know how tricky scales can be. Plus, they don’t make allowances for your clothes, which I feel is wrong. When you’re dealing with percentages of pounds, even the added weight of your bra’s underwire could tip the scale against your favor. And they won’t let us weigh in the nude -- I asked.
So, I go in there every week, first thing in the morning, wearing no jewelry and as little clothing as I can get away with (and yes, that means no underwire) to tell Evette how my week has been. I know that many people think accountability is one of the keys to weight loss. If you down a bag of Chex Mix while hiding in the pantry and then have to turn around and confess that to someone the next day, you may be less likely to partake of the secret Chex Mix binge. Or if you promise your counselor that you will work out every day of the week, and yet you only get in three days worth of activity (because you know that lifting the remote with one hand while shoveling Pringles in your mouth with the other does not constitute exercise), then you have to look her in the eye and fess up to your failure.
I, however, am a very good liar. So, I don’t really get anything out of that part of the program.
What works for me is the knowledge that every time I go in there, the lobby will be full of other woman who are “on the program.”And everyone is surreptitiously sizing each other up (ha-ha, pun intended). I try and stand up real tall and suck in as much of my excess as I can in the hopes that all who see me will whisper amongst themselves, “What is that stunningly thin woman doing here? Oh, surely she must be the next Jenny Craig celebrity spokesperson!”
Because we all fear that the other women are actually thinking, “Oh, yeah, it’s a damn good thing she called Jenny. Look at the Pringles crumbs still clinging to her chins! Bless her congealed artery-clogged heart...”
So, I am feeling a bit better about myself theses day. However, I have discovered something disturbing about my weight-loss journey this time around. No matter how much weight I lose, or how often I work out, there is an unsettling amount of squishy skin lingering around my tummy. For this, I blame my children. If they hadn’t ballooned to nine pounds while in utero, my poor stomach would not have been forced to stretch itself 30 ways to Sunday to accommodate their Amazon baby bodies. Obviously, I should have continued smoking during my pregnancy to reduce their birth weight. Then I wouldn’t be having this problem.
Oh, relax...I’m kidding. I would never condone pregnancy smoking. Pregnancy drinking, however...
Okay, now you’ve got me all off track.
At various times, both L and Z have commented on how squishy my belly is. I know they are not intending to be mean (though at the ages of two and five, they are certainly capable of such), but it is hard to ignore the blatant honesty of a child. JAO knows a hell of a lot better than to ever make such a comment. Especially since L once told him that he looked like he had a baby in his tummy. Hee, hee...he’s going to hate that I shared that.
So, I’m afraid the only hope for my pathetically non-taunt abdomen is the tummy tuck. Though I am in serious doubt that will ever happen. It is not the fear of pain that would deter me. I love narcotics, as I believe I have mentioned before. It is the fear that I will discover there is simply too much of the squishy stuff to successfully tuck. I don’t want to end up with my belly button in the center of my chest and my boobs up around my neck.
Though, I suppose if they were up that far, they would cover up my chins. So, maybe that would be such a bad thing after all.
Side Note: I was informed by my mother last night that I am no longer to refer to her grandson as the “Spawn of Satan.” I asked her if I could at least call him the “Stepson of Satan.” Apparently, that is not acceptable either. So Z will heretofore be known simply as Z. But you will all secretly know his true evil alter-ego. Just don’t tell my mom.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
62-Year-Old Reading Level
Today, I took L to her potentially new school for testing. I have no idea what they were testing, actually. I would assume it was to find out if she knew all she was supposed to know by age 5-and-a-half. However, I don’t really know what that is. I’m hoping they asked her to quote from the movie “Madagascar,” because then they would think she was a genius.
I believe I have shared with you my penchant for underachievement. So maybe that taints my opinion of today’s educational expectations. But I am constantly amazed at how many parents question each other on what one child is doing in comparison to their own.
I conceded that there are certain developmental goals that we can all agree must be reached by a certain age -- if your kid ain’t walking by the time he is three, you might want to check into that. But, I feel bad for anyone who looks at their non-bi-pedal 13-month-old and laments that every other 13-month-old is already tap-dancing at the Y. Isn’t that awfully young to feel your child is already disappointing you? When, I am sure, there will be so many other times in their life when true disappointment is warranted.
Z will be three in May, and his speech is only now becoming something akin to English. And I know plenty of kids his own age who have been delivering Shakespearean soliloquies for nearly a year. But, I am not worried about my son. His speech will improve with time -- his own time, not mine.
But it is the little things that parents focus on that I find rather ridiculous. Because they are things that all children do eventually. And by the time kids are in high school, it doesn’t matter when they learned it, only that they did, indeed, learn it.
I don’t remember my college application asking me how old I was when I learned to tie my shoes. I’ve never gained or lost a friendship based on when the training wheels came off my bike. And I have never been to a job interview where I heard, “Ah, Ms. Owenby, it says here that you are 36-years-old, but are reading on the level of a 62-year-old! Impressive!”
I don’t care if your kid could spell the word DOG when he was 2-years-old. That will have no bearing on his ability to beat my child out of a job when they are both 25.If, at that time, my son still can’t spell DOG, then I’ll concede that your kid is smarter. But until then, I refuse to put my child up against any other and compare them based on some silly benchmarks in learning that society deems important.
So my advice to you all is to simply relax, people! They’re kids. Let them enjoy that. Because heaven knows, it don’t get much easier from there.
Oh, by the way, L could tie her shoes at the age of 4. That doesn't make her smarter than anyone else. Being able to keep up with me in the movie-quoting game, however -- well, that, my friends, is genius.
I believe I have shared with you my penchant for underachievement. So maybe that taints my opinion of today’s educational expectations. But I am constantly amazed at how many parents question each other on what one child is doing in comparison to their own.
I conceded that there are certain developmental goals that we can all agree must be reached by a certain age -- if your kid ain’t walking by the time he is three, you might want to check into that. But, I feel bad for anyone who looks at their non-bi-pedal 13-month-old and laments that every other 13-month-old is already tap-dancing at the Y. Isn’t that awfully young to feel your child is already disappointing you? When, I am sure, there will be so many other times in their life when true disappointment is warranted.
Z will be three in May, and his speech is only now becoming something akin to English. And I know plenty of kids his own age who have been delivering Shakespearean soliloquies for nearly a year. But, I am not worried about my son. His speech will improve with time -- his own time, not mine.
But it is the little things that parents focus on that I find rather ridiculous. Because they are things that all children do eventually. And by the time kids are in high school, it doesn’t matter when they learned it, only that they did, indeed, learn it.
I don’t remember my college application asking me how old I was when I learned to tie my shoes. I’ve never gained or lost a friendship based on when the training wheels came off my bike. And I have never been to a job interview where I heard, “Ah, Ms. Owenby, it says here that you are 36-years-old, but are reading on the level of a 62-year-old! Impressive!”
I don’t care if your kid could spell the word DOG when he was 2-years-old. That will have no bearing on his ability to beat my child out of a job when they are both 25.If, at that time, my son still can’t spell DOG, then I’ll concede that your kid is smarter. But until then, I refuse to put my child up against any other and compare them based on some silly benchmarks in learning that society deems important.
So my advice to you all is to simply relax, people! They’re kids. Let them enjoy that. Because heaven knows, it don’t get much easier from there.
Oh, by the way, L could tie her shoes at the age of 4. That doesn't make her smarter than anyone else. Being able to keep up with me in the movie-quoting game, however -- well, that, my friends, is genius.
Friday, February 19, 2010
36 Years, 36 Random Things
Today is my 36th birthday. And in honor of such a momentous occasion, I will now bestow upon you 36 strange but true, random facts about myself.
Ready...?
1.) I once stopped dating a guy because I thought his head was too small for his body.
2.) I was in therapy for an eating disorder in my 20’s and sometimes wish I could tap into that mindset again (just a little bit) to get back some of my former willpower. Sure, I should never weigh 100 pounds again, but 125 wouldn’t be so bad.
3.) When I was a child, we had a dog that my parents put to sleep. It was a good two days before I even realized the dog was missing.
4.) When I was young I took piano lessons, ice skating lessons and clogging lessons. I’ve pretty much forgotten the piano, would bust my butt if I stepped out onto the ice, but I can still “Cotton Eye Joe” with the best of ‘em.
5.) I like narcotics. I’m not saying I abuse them or obtain them illegally, I’m just saying I like them.
6.) I love stand-up comedy and often wish I could be a comedian.
7.) I know a lot of impressive, big words, but I can’t spell any of them. If I use them when I write then spell check is a must.
8.) My dream job would be to star in a hit TV sit-com. One with a fun and talented ensemble cast like “Friends” or “Seinfeld.” Oh, and I want it to be filmed in front of a live, studio audience.
9.) If I go into a restaurant and ask for a Coke and the waiter tells me they only have Pepsi, I order sweet tea. And I do it with disdain.
10.) At various times in my life, I have been a joker, a smoker and a midnight toker. Once all in the same night.
11.) My other dream job would be to have my own editorial column in a magazine or newspaper where I could simply ramble on about whatever is on my mind -- in a witty and entertaining way of course.
12.) Doing simple math under pressure is too much for me to handle. If I have to figure up a tip in my head (like at a spa or hair salon), I usually panic and end up giving way too much. I once tipped the person who did my hair nearly 40%.
13.) I once gave up red meat for three months. This was following the realization that I hadn't had red meat in two months prior to the boycott. So, technically, only three of the five red-meat-free-months was a sacrifice. But still.
14.) I believe that studies that claim a glass of wine a day is good for your health. A bottle is made of glass. That’s all I’m sayin.’
15.) People often don’t understand my humor, but I don’t mind. I enjoy the blank stares.
16.) My mother is my hero.
17) I am a night person. That is when I have the most energy and am the most productive. I stay up well into the night and sleep late in the mornings. I hate it when people assume that if you sleep later than 9:00 in the morning you are being lazy. To those people I say, “Hey, I was up at 3 AM doing laundry. What were you doing -- sleeping?” Then I mutter, “Lazy ass” and walk away.
18.) I think that if you sue someone and you lose, then you should have to pay all the legal fees involved for both sides.
19.) My middle name is spelled, “Lea,” but it is pronounced like “Leigh.” My father misspelled it on my birth certificate. His thinking was that since the masculine form was “Lee,” then the feminine form must be “Lea.” Apparently, he also thought we were Spanish.
20.) I hate people who keep wild animals for pets -- such as tigers or lions -- and I have absolutely no sympathy for them when they get mauled or eaten.
21.) I have the entire scripts from "When Harry Met Sally," "Gone With the Wind" and "A Few Good Men" rolling around inside my head. If I so much as hear the suggestion of the line "you can't handle the truth" I can't stop myself from completing the speech. If I don't complete the speech, I will die.
22.) I love drama. And melodrama. And dramatic melodrama.
23.) I can remember dialog from TV shows and movies I have seen only once and yet cannot solve for “X” in the simplest of equations.
24.) I have absolutely no problem whatsoever with the torturing of terrorists and terrorist supporters to get them to talk.
25.) I sucked my thumb until I was in the first grade.
26.) I know way too much random, useless trivia.
27.) I love Chex Mix, but I eat around the pretzels. So, if you are ever served pretzels in my home, chances are they are simply the pretzels I didn’t eat from my last bag of Chex Mix.
28.) I was a nanny for two years in college.
29.) I prefer projects that can be completely within a small timeframe. I am not good at following-through with anything that takes longer than a few hours or days to complete. I suppose this doesn’t bode well for my marriage or my career as a mom.
30.) Sometimes I feel guilty for how often I leave my children or how much they spend the night away from home. But the guilt usually goes away after a few minutes.
31.) I derive most of my energy from other people. If I am by myself for too long, I get depressed. I love big crowds and rooms full of noisy friends.
32.) When I was little, I wanted to be a marine biologist. Now, I can’t even stand to go to Sea World. Or anyplace that allows nature to roam freely.
33.) I view sarcasm as an art form. And I am an artist.
34.) When my older brother and I were little, I could always get him into trouble by accusing him of hurting me even when he didn’t. No matter who started the fight or who did what, he would be the one to get into trouble. I think he’s still pretty pissed about that.
35.) I have never played any sport that would require running around, sweating or hard objects being thrown at me. It is for this reason that I can proudly say I have never broken a bone or dislocated, twisted or strained any part of my body.
36.) I think I could successfully get away with murder provided I had enough time to plan.
Ready...?
1.) I once stopped dating a guy because I thought his head was too small for his body.
2.) I was in therapy for an eating disorder in my 20’s and sometimes wish I could tap into that mindset again (just a little bit) to get back some of my former willpower. Sure, I should never weigh 100 pounds again, but 125 wouldn’t be so bad.
3.) When I was a child, we had a dog that my parents put to sleep. It was a good two days before I even realized the dog was missing.
4.) When I was young I took piano lessons, ice skating lessons and clogging lessons. I’ve pretty much forgotten the piano, would bust my butt if I stepped out onto the ice, but I can still “Cotton Eye Joe” with the best of ‘em.
5.) I like narcotics. I’m not saying I abuse them or obtain them illegally, I’m just saying I like them.
6.) I love stand-up comedy and often wish I could be a comedian.
7.) I know a lot of impressive, big words, but I can’t spell any of them. If I use them when I write then spell check is a must.
8.) My dream job would be to star in a hit TV sit-com. One with a fun and talented ensemble cast like “Friends” or “Seinfeld.” Oh, and I want it to be filmed in front of a live, studio audience.
9.) If I go into a restaurant and ask for a Coke and the waiter tells me they only have Pepsi, I order sweet tea. And I do it with disdain.
10.) At various times in my life, I have been a joker, a smoker and a midnight toker. Once all in the same night.
11.) My other dream job would be to have my own editorial column in a magazine or newspaper where I could simply ramble on about whatever is on my mind -- in a witty and entertaining way of course.
12.) Doing simple math under pressure is too much for me to handle. If I have to figure up a tip in my head (like at a spa or hair salon), I usually panic and end up giving way too much. I once tipped the person who did my hair nearly 40%.
13.) I once gave up red meat for three months. This was following the realization that I hadn't had red meat in two months prior to the boycott. So, technically, only three of the five red-meat-free-months was a sacrifice. But still.
14.) I believe that studies that claim a glass of wine a day is good for your health. A bottle is made of glass. That’s all I’m sayin.’
15.) People often don’t understand my humor, but I don’t mind. I enjoy the blank stares.
16.) My mother is my hero.
17) I am a night person. That is when I have the most energy and am the most productive. I stay up well into the night and sleep late in the mornings. I hate it when people assume that if you sleep later than 9:00 in the morning you are being lazy. To those people I say, “Hey, I was up at 3 AM doing laundry. What were you doing -- sleeping?” Then I mutter, “Lazy ass” and walk away.
18.) I think that if you sue someone and you lose, then you should have to pay all the legal fees involved for both sides.
19.) My middle name is spelled, “Lea,” but it is pronounced like “Leigh.” My father misspelled it on my birth certificate. His thinking was that since the masculine form was “Lee,” then the feminine form must be “Lea.” Apparently, he also thought we were Spanish.
20.) I hate people who keep wild animals for pets -- such as tigers or lions -- and I have absolutely no sympathy for them when they get mauled or eaten.
21.) I have the entire scripts from "When Harry Met Sally," "Gone With the Wind" and "A Few Good Men" rolling around inside my head. If I so much as hear the suggestion of the line "you can't handle the truth" I can't stop myself from completing the speech. If I don't complete the speech, I will die.
22.) I love drama. And melodrama. And dramatic melodrama.
23.) I can remember dialog from TV shows and movies I have seen only once and yet cannot solve for “X” in the simplest of equations.
24.) I have absolutely no problem whatsoever with the torturing of terrorists and terrorist supporters to get them to talk.
25.) I sucked my thumb until I was in the first grade.
26.) I know way too much random, useless trivia.
27.) I love Chex Mix, but I eat around the pretzels. So, if you are ever served pretzels in my home, chances are they are simply the pretzels I didn’t eat from my last bag of Chex Mix.
28.) I was a nanny for two years in college.
29.) I prefer projects that can be completely within a small timeframe. I am not good at following-through with anything that takes longer than a few hours or days to complete. I suppose this doesn’t bode well for my marriage or my career as a mom.
30.) Sometimes I feel guilty for how often I leave my children or how much they spend the night away from home. But the guilt usually goes away after a few minutes.
31.) I derive most of my energy from other people. If I am by myself for too long, I get depressed. I love big crowds and rooms full of noisy friends.
32.) When I was little, I wanted to be a marine biologist. Now, I can’t even stand to go to Sea World. Or anyplace that allows nature to roam freely.
33.) I view sarcasm as an art form. And I am an artist.
34.) When my older brother and I were little, I could always get him into trouble by accusing him of hurting me even when he didn’t. No matter who started the fight or who did what, he would be the one to get into trouble. I think he’s still pretty pissed about that.
35.) I have never played any sport that would require running around, sweating or hard objects being thrown at me. It is for this reason that I can proudly say I have never broken a bone or dislocated, twisted or strained any part of my body.
36.) I think I could successfully get away with murder provided I had enough time to plan.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
My Celebrity Story
This past weekend, I went to Athens to see my friend, Tituss Burgess, in concert. Tituss is an amazingly talented singer and actor who has appeared in several Broadway productions and has been featured at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and on the Tonys. That man can perform! If you are asking, "Who is Tituss Burgess?" do yourself a favor -- go look him up on YouTube and listen to some of his songs. Go ahead...we'll wait...
See what I mean?
At one point during the show, he came down into the audience and pulled one of his friends up on her feet and they danced a bit while he sang. Then he went back up on stage and crossed over to the side of the room where I was. Since I was sitting on the aisle on the second row (and since I am just ego-centered enough to think I, too, desreved a part in the show), it occurred to me that he might do the same thing to me. So, being the diva that I am, I immediately tried to decide how I would act if he did, indeed, single me out. It needed to be subtle -- after all, this was his show, not mine -- but I still wanted to do something fun.
Sure enough, Tituss walked down the steps and out into the audience. He stopped right beside my seat and held out his hand to me. I took his hand, stood up, and did a graceful twirl under his arm and then twirled back to him. I lay my head on his shoulder and was swayed to the music.
In my head, this is how it looked.
In real life, not so much.
I stood up too quickly and wobbled on my 3-and-a-half-inch heels, attempted my twirl, stumbled like a drunken co-ed, and somewhat fell into place beside him. As a quick cover, I faked a swoon and fanned myself as if I were just so overcome by his talent that I found it difficult to remain upright.
I guess that's what I get for attempting to be a diva after two glasses of wine while wearing way-too-high heels. Lesson learned.
Afterward, a bunch of us went to a bar and sat around enjoying all of Tituss's celebrity stories -- like the time Bette Midler asked him how her ass looked in her hot pants or the time Julia Roberts climbed over a few rows of theater seats to ask him what he thought of the show "Equs." And it made me realize that I don't have any good celebrity stories. Well, there was the time I was at the same Applebee's as the Joe Izuzu guy. Oh, and last summer, I was at the Brave's game sitting just a few rows over from Kirstie Alley. (Truthfully, we all had to be a few rows over from Kirstie. She takes up a lot of room.)
Oooooohhhh...that was low.
Anyway, I am very proud of Tituss. And actually, thanks to him, I suppose I do have my good celebrity story.
----------------------------
On a completely unrelated note: I hate when I do stupid things. I hate even more that I feel compelled to tell everyone when I do.
So, I was just filling out a release form for L. to attend a birthday party at a gymnastics center this coming weekend. It’s your standard, “Yes, I acknowledge that my child can break a limb or get a concussion or even die at your facility, but if that happens, I promise not to sue you” kinda form.
Where it asked for “Mother’s Name” I started to write my mother’s name on the line! Then, I realized what I had done and had to cross through her name to write my own. Now the gymnastics place is going to look at this and think, “Well, hell! She doesn’t even know her own freakin’ name!”
Stupid.
See what I mean?
At one point during the show, he came down into the audience and pulled one of his friends up on her feet and they danced a bit while he sang. Then he went back up on stage and crossed over to the side of the room where I was. Since I was sitting on the aisle on the second row (and since I am just ego-centered enough to think I, too, desreved a part in the show), it occurred to me that he might do the same thing to me. So, being the diva that I am, I immediately tried to decide how I would act if he did, indeed, single me out. It needed to be subtle -- after all, this was his show, not mine -- but I still wanted to do something fun.
Sure enough, Tituss walked down the steps and out into the audience. He stopped right beside my seat and held out his hand to me. I took his hand, stood up, and did a graceful twirl under his arm and then twirled back to him. I lay my head on his shoulder and was swayed to the music.
In my head, this is how it looked.
In real life, not so much.
I stood up too quickly and wobbled on my 3-and-a-half-inch heels, attempted my twirl, stumbled like a drunken co-ed, and somewhat fell into place beside him. As a quick cover, I faked a swoon and fanned myself as if I were just so overcome by his talent that I found it difficult to remain upright.
I guess that's what I get for attempting to be a diva after two glasses of wine while wearing way-too-high heels. Lesson learned.
Afterward, a bunch of us went to a bar and sat around enjoying all of Tituss's celebrity stories -- like the time Bette Midler asked him how her ass looked in her hot pants or the time Julia Roberts climbed over a few rows of theater seats to ask him what he thought of the show "Equs." And it made me realize that I don't have any good celebrity stories. Well, there was the time I was at the same Applebee's as the Joe Izuzu guy. Oh, and last summer, I was at the Brave's game sitting just a few rows over from Kirstie Alley. (Truthfully, we all had to be a few rows over from Kirstie. She takes up a lot of room.)
Oooooohhhh...that was low.
Anyway, I am very proud of Tituss. And actually, thanks to him, I suppose I do have my good celebrity story.
----------------------------
On a completely unrelated note: I hate when I do stupid things. I hate even more that I feel compelled to tell everyone when I do.
So, I was just filling out a release form for L. to attend a birthday party at a gymnastics center this coming weekend. It’s your standard, “Yes, I acknowledge that my child can break a limb or get a concussion or even die at your facility, but if that happens, I promise not to sue you” kinda form.
Where it asked for “Mother’s Name” I started to write my mother’s name on the line! Then, I realized what I had done and had to cross through her name to write my own. Now the gymnastics place is going to look at this and think, “Well, hell! She doesn’t even know her own freakin’ name!”
Stupid.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
This Janked-Up Language
I knew that as my children advanced in school, I would be faced with academic questions I would be unable to answer. I did not, however, expect it to begin in preschool.
It’s starting already with the whole learning to read thing. No, I am not having trouble with her preschool books, thank you very much. I'm finding it difficult to explain our janked-up language.
She was sounding out words yesterday and proudly announced, “Kuh-Kuh-cake! Kuh-Kuh-cup! Cake and cup begin with K!” And I had to look into those excited, satisfied-with-herself, little eyes and tell her that, “No, honey, actually those words begin with a C.
And then she asked the dreaded question...“But why?”
Arrgggghh. Truthfully, L, I have no freakin’ idea why.
Why do we have the letter C when we already have K and S? Why do we have the letter Y when we already have I? Why does the word eye not even have an I in it? Why does the word one not begin with a W? Why doesn’t tomb, comb, and bomb all rhyme??
And then there is the issue with past-tese verbs. Sure it sounds cute when a toddler says drinked or sleeped but there comes a time when that has to be corrected.
"Z sleeped for a long time last night."
"No, Z slept for a long time."
"Oh, well I eated all my breakfast this morning."
"No, you ate all your breakfast."
"Yeah, well, I drust myself this morning!"
"No, you dressed yourself!"
And L's just looking at me like I'm the one who needs to be back in preschool.
Seriously, how did any of us ever learn this language in the first place?
One thing I am struggling with the most about this whole mess is that our language is riddled with way to many exceptions to the rules. I before E except after C and when sounding like A as in neighbor and weigh and weekends and holidays and all throughout May and you’ll always be wrong no matter what you say!
During a time in her life when I am trying to establish my rules and enforce them, the idea that rules could have exceptions is not a concept I want her to be familiar with. What if I tell her that she can’t have dessert until after she’s had dinner and she hits me with, “Dessert after dinner expect when you're thinner and when you’re away like at Gran’s or Aunt Kay’s and during Leap Year and Sundays and on every holiday and I’ll always eat cake no matter what you say!”?
Sigh.
And if I am already having trouble explaining school work to her in preschool, what I am going to do when she gets to kindergarten? What am I going to tell her when she asks me what E=MC2 means??
No, seriously...what should I tell her? Because I have absolutely no idea.
It’s starting already with the whole learning to read thing. No, I am not having trouble with her preschool books, thank you very much. I'm finding it difficult to explain our janked-up language.
She was sounding out words yesterday and proudly announced, “Kuh-Kuh-cake! Kuh-Kuh-cup! Cake and cup begin with K!” And I had to look into those excited, satisfied-with-herself, little eyes and tell her that, “No, honey, actually those words begin with a C.
And then she asked the dreaded question...“But why?”
Arrgggghh. Truthfully, L, I have no freakin’ idea why.
Why do we have the letter C when we already have K and S? Why do we have the letter Y when we already have I? Why does the word eye not even have an I in it? Why does the word one not begin with a W? Why doesn’t tomb, comb, and bomb all rhyme??
And then there is the issue with past-tese verbs. Sure it sounds cute when a toddler says drinked or sleeped but there comes a time when that has to be corrected.
"Z sleeped for a long time last night."
"No, Z slept for a long time."
"Oh, well I eated all my breakfast this morning."
"No, you ate all your breakfast."
"Yeah, well, I drust myself this morning!"
"No, you dressed yourself!"
And L's just looking at me like I'm the one who needs to be back in preschool.
Seriously, how did any of us ever learn this language in the first place?
One thing I am struggling with the most about this whole mess is that our language is riddled with way to many exceptions to the rules. I before E except after C and when sounding like A as in neighbor and weigh and weekends and holidays and all throughout May and you’ll always be wrong no matter what you say!
During a time in her life when I am trying to establish my rules and enforce them, the idea that rules could have exceptions is not a concept I want her to be familiar with. What if I tell her that she can’t have dessert until after she’s had dinner and she hits me with, “Dessert after dinner expect when you're thinner and when you’re away like at Gran’s or Aunt Kay’s and during Leap Year and Sundays and on every holiday and I’ll always eat cake no matter what you say!”?
Sigh.
And if I am already having trouble explaining school work to her in preschool, what I am going to do when she gets to kindergarten? What am I going to tell her when she asks me what E=MC2 means??
No, seriously...what should I tell her? Because I have absolutely no idea.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Fashion Woes
I have never been very fashion savvy. Just this past weekend, I filled an entire garbage bag (the big, black, heavy-duty kind) to the bursting point with clothes that have been hanging in my closet for years -- and that I have never worn. Why is it that clothes look good in the store, but never seem to look as good once you get them home? I think the stores are using trick mirrors. That would explain why I looked like Pamela Anderson in a bikini at the store and Rosanne Barr stuffed into a tiny string of spandex at home.
Here are a few posts from the past that also deal with my struggles with fashion over the years...
Rustling Pants Dance
October 20, 2000
I bought some fabulous new black pants at Express the other day. I got all excited about them, as I am wont to do when I buy a new clothing item that I deem fabulous. I ironed them lovingly last night, along with the brand new shirt bought especially to compliment the fabulous new black pants. I wore this new outfit to the office today, feeling happy and confident in my latest wardrobe acquisition.
I continued to feel happy and confident until I got up to go to the break room to get my first cup of coffee. No, it wasn't my reflection in the darkened office window which caused me to be distressed. It was that fact that in this extremely quiet office, my brand-new outfit is very loud! Whatever material these pants are made of produces a sound akin to that made by an overweight person wearing tight corduroys.
The lower portion of the pants are flared (kind of like bell-bottoms, but not as pronounced). The extra material around my ankles swishes together with every step, like a cricket rubbing its hind legs together to produce sound.
I didn't notice it in the store, of course, because of all the hub-bub associated with a mall. And I didn't notice it in my apartment because I didn't put them on until I was ready to walk out the door (to minimize wrinkling), nor did I notice it while walking across the parking lot of the office building because of the street traffic running alongside the complex. It wasn't until I was walking through the half-empty cubicle graveyard that I became aware of the fact that I was wearing an outfit which was, essentially, turning me into a walking one-woman band.
People, these pants are effecting the way I walk. I find that I am taking larger and wider steps. I caught a glimpse of myself in the darkened office window/mirror and was horrified to see that the reflection was that of a lumbering chimp wearing my brand new outfit! So, I have only left my desk twice this entire day. These pants are holding me prisoner in my cube!
I feel that clothing stores should affix warning labels to certain items, alerting the consumer of the possibility that the article of clothing may be the source of an embarrassing sound situation. It is the only responsible thing to do. Until then, however, I would suggest that you exercise caution when purchasing suspect materials. If you find yourself trapped in your cubicle unable to even get up to go to the bathroom lest you disturb the entire office with your rustling pants dance, don't say I didn't warn you.
The White Pants
June 8, 2001
Yesterday at lunch I went in search of some white pants. For the longest time I have avoided the dreaded white pants fad and swore that I would never stoop to own a pair. They went against everything I held sacred as a woman of fashion. My main problem being that white pants are merciless. They show every single flaw. And, in my enlightened fashion state, I have shuddered every time I have encountered a woman who failed to see this. I was determined not to fall victim to this gross miscalculation of just how much fat can be stored inside a huge expanse of white material and not be offensive to anyone unfortunate enough to be standing behind me. But I kept seeing all these thin, cute, young things parading around in their hip, white pants and I thought, "Dammit! I can still wear white pants, can't I?" No, seriously people, I'm asking...can't I?
Well, as of yesterday, I am the owner of some capri length stretch lycra/cotton blend pants from the Gap. So let's hope she still can.
But, why, if I am so opposed to this fashion trend, and ultimately terrified of misjudging just what I can and cannot put on my body, did I buy them -- nay, seek them out like the last of the Pokemon trading cards -- in the first place?
Well, it all started with the cutest light brown sweater tank. You see, I simply had to buy this garment. You know how sometimes you just aren't given a choice? It calls to you from across the store and the minute you put it on you know that you are powerless to put it back on the rack? Well, that's exactly how this sweater ended up in my possession -- and 50 of my hard-earned dollars found themselves in the possession of Rich's.
So, here I am with this fabulous top -- so fabulous, in fact, that I put it on at least once a night just to remind myself of how fabulous it is -- and yet nothing to wear it with.
Sure, I could go with the classic black pants. But too many of my outfits are based on the black pants. And this sweater is way to amazing to wear with jeans. Whenever I have entered a store since the buying of said amazing sweater, I have searched in vain for the perfect pair of pants to wear with this glorious find.
And then, one day while strolling through the mall on one of my many lunch-hour fashion treasure hunts, I saw her -- a woman wearing a light brown sweater/white pants combo. And it looked great! It was then I knew that I would have to sacrafice everything I had believed in fashion-wise for the sake of this light brown sweater tank.
But buying a simple pair of white pants is anything but simple. The very first pair I tried on left me with the horrifying discovery that not all white pants are lined. What in the hell is that? Why in the name of all that is fashionable, would you make white pants that have no lining? Hello? Just what in the heck are the fashion gods expecting us to wear under these things? Any type of underwear is so grossly apparent you might as well be wearing them outside the pants. And any attempt at going comando could only be perceived as a violation of several indecency acts. Either choice will automatically ensure that you wind up in the back of Glamour magazine with a black bar graphically imposed over your eyes and carrying the dreaded label "Don't."
The other version of white pants that I came across in abundance, was of the crack-revealing, blood-circulation-preventing polyester nightmare club pants. There were plenty of white jean choices, but, as I said before, this sweater deserves better than denim.
So, after four pair of non-lined, two pair of insanely tight low-riding-slut-club style and one pair of 100% linen (which is just begging for anything to be spilled on), I finally found a pair of white pants, classicly fit, complete with lining, that offers both the thong or the comando option. So, yea, me. I finally own some white pants. I went home right after work and tried the new white pants on with the fabulous light brown sweater tank -- and I knew I had made the right choice.
I was planning to wear that outfit this weekend. However (and here's the kicker), my back hurts and my uterus is currently trying to claw its way out of my body -- and we all know what that means. So, after all that, I think the black pants it is.
Linen Nightmare
May 11, 2000
Linen -- A Blessing Or A Curse?
You know those people who neurotically fuss with their clothes -- while they are wearing them? The people who, the minute they sit down, smooth out the front of their skirt; who take great care with the process of actually sitting down to minimize the damage done to their garments as they crease the material? The people who, even while they are just standing still, constantly readjust to make sure the fabric hangs correctly and in the most flattering way possible?
I am one of those people.
And, let me tell you, for people like me, linen is a nightmare.
It’s bad enough to worry about cotton or even denim (which can wrinkle, too, by the way), but for a person with obsessive-compulsive tendencies, voluntarily donning an outfit made of linen is a practice in self-hatred.
So, I’m wearing my all-linen outfit today. I never said I liked me.
The skirt is long and straight in a lovely shade of navy blue. The top is a light, summery shell in the breezy shade of white. Both items were purchased at Old Navy -- the linen Mecca.
I delayed actually putting on these items until I was completely ready to walk out the door. (Well, completely minus the clothing, of course.) I did this to avoid any unnecessary wrinkling as I was performing my morning rituals. I learned from the first time I wore this skirt, that the acts of brushing teeth, styling hair, putting on makeup and any other activities which require bending, kneeling or, well, movement, ruined the smooth front of the skirt before I even had the chance to walk out the door.
I had ironed these items with the care of a mother tending to her newborn, and then hung them up just as delicately, pushing aside the other clothes in my closet to give them their due space apart from the other closet inhabitants.
Then, I walked outside, sat down in my car, buckled my seat belt -- and it all went to hell.
Now, I’m sitting in front of my computer lamenting the fact that I must bend at the waist in order to do this and fretting that I won’t be able to get through the rest of the day without having to bend again. I’m not sure it can be done.
So, you may suggest, “Why don’t you just NOT wear linen?”
Yeah, right. And why don’t I just NOT breath while I’m at it.
Here are a few posts from the past that also deal with my struggles with fashion over the years...
Rustling Pants Dance
October 20, 2000
I bought some fabulous new black pants at Express the other day. I got all excited about them, as I am wont to do when I buy a new clothing item that I deem fabulous. I ironed them lovingly last night, along with the brand new shirt bought especially to compliment the fabulous new black pants. I wore this new outfit to the office today, feeling happy and confident in my latest wardrobe acquisition.
I continued to feel happy and confident until I got up to go to the break room to get my first cup of coffee. No, it wasn't my reflection in the darkened office window which caused me to be distressed. It was that fact that in this extremely quiet office, my brand-new outfit is very loud! Whatever material these pants are made of produces a sound akin to that made by an overweight person wearing tight corduroys.
The lower portion of the pants are flared (kind of like bell-bottoms, but not as pronounced). The extra material around my ankles swishes together with every step, like a cricket rubbing its hind legs together to produce sound.
I didn't notice it in the store, of course, because of all the hub-bub associated with a mall. And I didn't notice it in my apartment because I didn't put them on until I was ready to walk out the door (to minimize wrinkling), nor did I notice it while walking across the parking lot of the office building because of the street traffic running alongside the complex. It wasn't until I was walking through the half-empty cubicle graveyard that I became aware of the fact that I was wearing an outfit which was, essentially, turning me into a walking one-woman band.
People, these pants are effecting the way I walk. I find that I am taking larger and wider steps. I caught a glimpse of myself in the darkened office window/mirror and was horrified to see that the reflection was that of a lumbering chimp wearing my brand new outfit! So, I have only left my desk twice this entire day. These pants are holding me prisoner in my cube!
I feel that clothing stores should affix warning labels to certain items, alerting the consumer of the possibility that the article of clothing may be the source of an embarrassing sound situation. It is the only responsible thing to do. Until then, however, I would suggest that you exercise caution when purchasing suspect materials. If you find yourself trapped in your cubicle unable to even get up to go to the bathroom lest you disturb the entire office with your rustling pants dance, don't say I didn't warn you.
The White Pants
June 8, 2001
Yesterday at lunch I went in search of some white pants. For the longest time I have avoided the dreaded white pants fad and swore that I would never stoop to own a pair. They went against everything I held sacred as a woman of fashion. My main problem being that white pants are merciless. They show every single flaw. And, in my enlightened fashion state, I have shuddered every time I have encountered a woman who failed to see this. I was determined not to fall victim to this gross miscalculation of just how much fat can be stored inside a huge expanse of white material and not be offensive to anyone unfortunate enough to be standing behind me. But I kept seeing all these thin, cute, young things parading around in their hip, white pants and I thought, "Dammit! I can still wear white pants, can't I?" No, seriously people, I'm asking...can't I?
Well, as of yesterday, I am the owner of some capri length stretch lycra/cotton blend pants from the Gap. So let's hope she still can.
But, why, if I am so opposed to this fashion trend, and ultimately terrified of misjudging just what I can and cannot put on my body, did I buy them -- nay, seek them out like the last of the Pokemon trading cards -- in the first place?
Well, it all started with the cutest light brown sweater tank. You see, I simply had to buy this garment. You know how sometimes you just aren't given a choice? It calls to you from across the store and the minute you put it on you know that you are powerless to put it back on the rack? Well, that's exactly how this sweater ended up in my possession -- and 50 of my hard-earned dollars found themselves in the possession of Rich's.
So, here I am with this fabulous top -- so fabulous, in fact, that I put it on at least once a night just to remind myself of how fabulous it is -- and yet nothing to wear it with.
Sure, I could go with the classic black pants. But too many of my outfits are based on the black pants. And this sweater is way to amazing to wear with jeans. Whenever I have entered a store since the buying of said amazing sweater, I have searched in vain for the perfect pair of pants to wear with this glorious find.
And then, one day while strolling through the mall on one of my many lunch-hour fashion treasure hunts, I saw her -- a woman wearing a light brown sweater/white pants combo. And it looked great! It was then I knew that I would have to sacrafice everything I had believed in fashion-wise for the sake of this light brown sweater tank.
But buying a simple pair of white pants is anything but simple. The very first pair I tried on left me with the horrifying discovery that not all white pants are lined. What in the hell is that? Why in the name of all that is fashionable, would you make white pants that have no lining? Hello? Just what in the heck are the fashion gods expecting us to wear under these things? Any type of underwear is so grossly apparent you might as well be wearing them outside the pants. And any attempt at going comando could only be perceived as a violation of several indecency acts. Either choice will automatically ensure that you wind up in the back of Glamour magazine with a black bar graphically imposed over your eyes and carrying the dreaded label "Don't."
The other version of white pants that I came across in abundance, was of the crack-revealing, blood-circulation-preventing polyester nightmare club pants. There were plenty of white jean choices, but, as I said before, this sweater deserves better than denim.
So, after four pair of non-lined, two pair of insanely tight low-riding-slut-club style and one pair of 100% linen (which is just begging for anything to be spilled on), I finally found a pair of white pants, classicly fit, complete with lining, that offers both the thong or the comando option. So, yea, me. I finally own some white pants. I went home right after work and tried the new white pants on with the fabulous light brown sweater tank -- and I knew I had made the right choice.
I was planning to wear that outfit this weekend. However (and here's the kicker), my back hurts and my uterus is currently trying to claw its way out of my body -- and we all know what that means. So, after all that, I think the black pants it is.
Linen Nightmare
May 11, 2000
Linen -- A Blessing Or A Curse?
You know those people who neurotically fuss with their clothes -- while they are wearing them? The people who, the minute they sit down, smooth out the front of their skirt; who take great care with the process of actually sitting down to minimize the damage done to their garments as they crease the material? The people who, even while they are just standing still, constantly readjust to make sure the fabric hangs correctly and in the most flattering way possible?
I am one of those people.
And, let me tell you, for people like me, linen is a nightmare.
It’s bad enough to worry about cotton or even denim (which can wrinkle, too, by the way), but for a person with obsessive-compulsive tendencies, voluntarily donning an outfit made of linen is a practice in self-hatred.
So, I’m wearing my all-linen outfit today. I never said I liked me.
The skirt is long and straight in a lovely shade of navy blue. The top is a light, summery shell in the breezy shade of white. Both items were purchased at Old Navy -- the linen Mecca.
I delayed actually putting on these items until I was completely ready to walk out the door. (Well, completely minus the clothing, of course.) I did this to avoid any unnecessary wrinkling as I was performing my morning rituals. I learned from the first time I wore this skirt, that the acts of brushing teeth, styling hair, putting on makeup and any other activities which require bending, kneeling or, well, movement, ruined the smooth front of the skirt before I even had the chance to walk out the door.
I had ironed these items with the care of a mother tending to her newborn, and then hung them up just as delicately, pushing aside the other clothes in my closet to give them their due space apart from the other closet inhabitants.
Then, I walked outside, sat down in my car, buckled my seat belt -- and it all went to hell.
Now, I’m sitting in front of my computer lamenting the fact that I must bend at the waist in order to do this and fretting that I won’t be able to get through the rest of the day without having to bend again. I’m not sure it can be done.
So, you may suggest, “Why don’t you just NOT wear linen?”
Yeah, right. And why don’t I just NOT breath while I’m at it.
Friday, February 5, 2010
The Secret Reader
Today I am going to read at L’s school. Meaning, I’m going to be the Secret Reader and read a book to her class -- not just go there and hang out and catch up on the latest issue of People. I’m excited! I love an audience. Especially a captive one. And while I know I can’t use my typical sarcastic humor on a group of five-year-olds, I still have plenty of preschool humor in my repertoire. I’m pretty sure I’ll be entertaining.
On Wednesday of this week, I went and subbed in her class for a half an hour. Yes, that’s the maximum amount of time I am allowed to be around the children. Judge’s orders.
The teacher was reading a book about football and would frequently stop and ask the class a question. When she read a passage about the crowd cheering, she asked, "Do you cheer when you watch a game? How about your Daddy, does he get all excited and cheer?" To which one little girl replied, "My Daddy usually slaps his hands on his face and screams, "Nooooooo!'"
That made me laugh. Partly because of what she said and partly because of what I was afraid she was going to say. Let’s face it; do we really want our children repeating what they hear their dads say during a football game? Or repeating anything for that matter. Kids aren’t very good at judging what they should share and what they shouldn’t. But, then again, neither am I.
Last week I walked into my bathroom to discover that Z had sprinkled body powder all over the floor and then dumped the container in the toilet (which was also covered in Gold Bond’s Medicated Powder). I took one look at the faux winter wonderland that was my bathroom and swore under my breath, "Oh, s**t." In response, Z happily began to chant, "Oh, s**t! Oh, s**t! Oh, s**t!" until I told him to stop. His teacher hasn’t mentioned his newly discovered swear word yet. But, it’s only a matter of time.
Anyway, back to L’s school..As we were walking out onto the playground another little girl came up to me and said, "Ms. L’s Mommy, I have the hiccups. Will you count to ten while I hold my nose?" And while I found it a strange request, I was happy to oblige. After all, I was eager to show off my excellent counting skills.
The little girl said, "Ready...go!" Then proceeded to take a deep breath and hold it in while pinching her nose closed. So, I begin to count. Then, I started to worry that I was counting too slowly -- since the little girl was, after all, not breathing. But, then I thought, "I don’t want to count too fast or else the hiccups won’t go away." And then, I started to think, "What if there are other adults around here and they see me standing over this child slowly counting to ten while her face turns red and then purple and then blue? I’ll never be asked to be the Secret Reader again!"
But, by that time I had reached the number ten, she let out her breath, thanked me and then happily went on her way. I guess her hiccups were cured.
Okay, I’m off! I’m hoping at least one kid will reveal some personal family secrets. You know, in case I need them for blackmail.
On Wednesday of this week, I went and subbed in her class for a half an hour. Yes, that’s the maximum amount of time I am allowed to be around the children. Judge’s orders.
The teacher was reading a book about football and would frequently stop and ask the class a question. When she read a passage about the crowd cheering, she asked, "Do you cheer when you watch a game? How about your Daddy, does he get all excited and cheer?" To which one little girl replied, "My Daddy usually slaps his hands on his face and screams, "Nooooooo!'"
That made me laugh. Partly because of what she said and partly because of what I was afraid she was going to say. Let’s face it; do we really want our children repeating what they hear their dads say during a football game? Or repeating anything for that matter. Kids aren’t very good at judging what they should share and what they shouldn’t. But, then again, neither am I.
Last week I walked into my bathroom to discover that Z had sprinkled body powder all over the floor and then dumped the container in the toilet (which was also covered in Gold Bond’s Medicated Powder). I took one look at the faux winter wonderland that was my bathroom and swore under my breath, "Oh, s**t." In response, Z happily began to chant, "Oh, s**t! Oh, s**t! Oh, s**t!" until I told him to stop. His teacher hasn’t mentioned his newly discovered swear word yet. But, it’s only a matter of time.
Anyway, back to L’s school..As we were walking out onto the playground another little girl came up to me and said, "Ms. L’s Mommy, I have the hiccups. Will you count to ten while I hold my nose?" And while I found it a strange request, I was happy to oblige. After all, I was eager to show off my excellent counting skills.
The little girl said, "Ready...go!" Then proceeded to take a deep breath and hold it in while pinching her nose closed. So, I begin to count. Then, I started to worry that I was counting too slowly -- since the little girl was, after all, not breathing. But, then I thought, "I don’t want to count too fast or else the hiccups won’t go away." And then, I started to think, "What if there are other adults around here and they see me standing over this child slowly counting to ten while her face turns red and then purple and then blue? I’ll never be asked to be the Secret Reader again!"
But, by that time I had reached the number ten, she let out her breath, thanked me and then happily went on her way. I guess her hiccups were cured.
Okay, I’m off! I’m hoping at least one kid will reveal some personal family secrets. You know, in case I need them for blackmail.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
A Thousand Men in Suits
This morning, my father and I are headed to Joseph A. Banks to exchange the sportcoat we gave him for Christmas. His arms are too long and his tummy is a wee bit too big for the one we got him. I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I shared that info. And, if he does, then maybe it will encourage him to work on that belly of his. Love ya, Dad!
Anyway, the impending trip reminded me of a diary entry I posted in 2001. Again, it is sharing too much information about me, perhaps, but I think you all know how much I love to do that...
A Thousand Men in Suits
September 18, 2001
I discovered last weekend that I am extremely turned-on by men's clothing stores.
Yes, you read that correctly.
On Saturday, The Boyfriend and I went to K&G to find him a new suit (as he is a very important money-handling/business-y guy and must be dressed as such). At first, I was less-than-thrilled with the idea of spending my sunny Saturday afternoon doing this as it was an activity that had nothing to do with me and would not ultimately be beneficial to me (or so I originally thought). But, because I am learning that relationships require a bit of compromise and that it can't always be about me -- yes, I know, I was shocked by this revelation as well -- I agreed to go with The Boyfriend to buy his suit.
And, oh honey, am I glad I did.
A bit of background: For as long as I can remember, my all-time favorite "guy look" has been that of a suit and tie. Some women go for the fireman, or the full-dress Naval uniform, or the long, white doctor's lab coat. But I just can't control myself around a well-tailored suit, crispy button-up shirt and tie -- oh, baby, do I love ties. From the cuff links to the shiny shoes to the little, silk hanky that peeks out of the breast pocket -- I love everything about that look. Think Agent Mulder while on official FBI business or Rob Lowe strolling confidently through "The West Wing." Even as I young girl, I preferred the blonde Simon brother (A.J.) over the dark-haired Simon brother (Rick) because A.J. always wore suites.
And, drum roll please...The Ultimate Sexy Guy Look...suit jacket removed, shirt-sleeves rolled up, top button undone, and tie slightly loosened in that Darren Stephens "I'm home, honey" kind of way.
Oh. My.
So, I entered this massive warehouse-like building and was immediately awash with the strongest sense of male-ness I have ever felt. Okay, so I have felt strong male-ness before but never has it been this strong without the benefit of any physical contact whatsoever. The strong male-ness was an aura, a sensation -- it was an overwhelming feeling of being surrounded by thousands of men in suits.
I had laid my hands on the most beautiful Calvin Klein suit that I then handed over to The Boyfriend to try on. He looked amazing in it, if I do say so myself. So, while The Boyfriend consulted with the tailor, I wandered through the isles of neatly hung suits, pausing occasionally to pull one off the rack and hold it up in lustful amazement. I was in a daze, lightly running my hand over sweaters and shirts, picking up silky ties and letting them slip through my fingers. By the time I made it to the boxers section, I was a bit light-headed.
I told The Boyfriend what the store was doing to me. I wasn't quite sure how to read his response at first, but later he did promise to "model" his new suit for me. Oh, baby.
But, then we left the store and went to Kroger -- which quickly brought me down off of my men's clothing store high. There's just nothing sexy about Kroger.
Anyway, the impending trip reminded me of a diary entry I posted in 2001. Again, it is sharing too much information about me, perhaps, but I think you all know how much I love to do that...
A Thousand Men in Suits
September 18, 2001
I discovered last weekend that I am extremely turned-on by men's clothing stores.
Yes, you read that correctly.
On Saturday, The Boyfriend and I went to K&G to find him a new suit (as he is a very important money-handling/business-y guy and must be dressed as such). At first, I was less-than-thrilled with the idea of spending my sunny Saturday afternoon doing this as it was an activity that had nothing to do with me and would not ultimately be beneficial to me (or so I originally thought). But, because I am learning that relationships require a bit of compromise and that it can't always be about me -- yes, I know, I was shocked by this revelation as well -- I agreed to go with The Boyfriend to buy his suit.
And, oh honey, am I glad I did.
A bit of background: For as long as I can remember, my all-time favorite "guy look" has been that of a suit and tie. Some women go for the fireman, or the full-dress Naval uniform, or the long, white doctor's lab coat. But I just can't control myself around a well-tailored suit, crispy button-up shirt and tie -- oh, baby, do I love ties. From the cuff links to the shiny shoes to the little, silk hanky that peeks out of the breast pocket -- I love everything about that look. Think Agent Mulder while on official FBI business or Rob Lowe strolling confidently through "The West Wing." Even as I young girl, I preferred the blonde Simon brother (A.J.) over the dark-haired Simon brother (Rick) because A.J. always wore suites.
And, drum roll please...The Ultimate Sexy Guy Look...suit jacket removed, shirt-sleeves rolled up, top button undone, and tie slightly loosened in that Darren Stephens "I'm home, honey" kind of way.
Oh. My.
So, I entered this massive warehouse-like building and was immediately awash with the strongest sense of male-ness I have ever felt. Okay, so I have felt strong male-ness before but never has it been this strong without the benefit of any physical contact whatsoever. The strong male-ness was an aura, a sensation -- it was an overwhelming feeling of being surrounded by thousands of men in suits.
I had laid my hands on the most beautiful Calvin Klein suit that I then handed over to The Boyfriend to try on. He looked amazing in it, if I do say so myself. So, while The Boyfriend consulted with the tailor, I wandered through the isles of neatly hung suits, pausing occasionally to pull one off the rack and hold it up in lustful amazement. I was in a daze, lightly running my hand over sweaters and shirts, picking up silky ties and letting them slip through my fingers. By the time I made it to the boxers section, I was a bit light-headed.
I told The Boyfriend what the store was doing to me. I wasn't quite sure how to read his response at first, but later he did promise to "model" his new suit for me. Oh, baby.
But, then we left the store and went to Kroger -- which quickly brought me down off of my men's clothing store high. There's just nothing sexy about Kroger.
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