This is just a ridiculous bit of musing I did the other day when I was wandering down the beach, lugging half my weight in rocks in a bright pink Victoria’s Secret bag. I’m tempted to justify my behavior by explaining what I was doing, but I’ll just leave you with that bizarre visual. Read more
A file of all the posts I could not/was too lazy to categorize.
I love to shop. Love to shop. For clothing, for shoes, for hats, for accessories – I love it. But here’s the thing. I don’t like to spend money, and going to the mall bums me out. It could be the canned air, or all the people, or the cheaply made merchandise, offered in every size and color for too much money so that for the right price, every girl can look the same this season.
This hat makes the wearer look like an angler fish.
So I do the bulk of my shopping at discount stores, consignment places, tag sales, and Goodwills. I love the hunt, and I love the prices, and I love the fact that I experience no guilt whatsoever after a shopping trip. A trip to the mall will put me in a funk for a few hours, but a good vintage buying jag? That will put me in a good mood for the rest of the day. The act of buying a 50-year-old hat in good condition for less than $3 gives me chills, even if I hate the hat
Here’s another weird thing. While I love to buy and wear clothing, I hate storing it. I ruthlessly clear my closet out twice a year. Haven’t worn it in a year? It’s out of here. Doesn’t fit? Gone. Don’t like it? Well, what the heck is it doing in there anyhow? I can’t stand clutter. I hate it. It hurts my soul. I like to know what’s in my closet. If it’s packed with things I don’t wear, well then, I won’t be able to find anything.
So I don’t know why this idea didn’t occur to me earlier: I’m goin’ on eBay! Read more
I’m sort of annoyed with myself about this. Last night, I spent money I don’t have on this dress.
Why? Because it wasn’t too expensive and the site offered free shipping, sure. But mostly because it recalled the mid-’90s. It looks like a costume from “My So-Called Life,” or something that the lead singer of the Cranberries would have worn.
That’s ridiculous, because I didn’t even like “My So-Called Life” or the Cranberries in the ’90s. In fact, I didn’t really enjoy the mid-’90s at all.
I was in high school, and I was so very, very bad at high school. I was awkward, I was sheltered, and I was just becoming aware that there was a world outside my own small life.
That world was both terrifying and intriguing. It was like Shakespeare’s Green World, a land of fairies, magic and danger As a teen, I had no idea how to get out of my own world and into that one, and I was keenly aware that I was missing out. Things were happening out there. Things I would have enjoyed.
In short, I felt the way our poor neutered cat does when we don’t let him outside.
Yet I’m always drawn back to that era. I love the music. I love the flat hairstyles. I love the slouchy hobo-chic clothes. I love the ugly, ugly shoes. I remember, in 1993, looking at an ad in Vogue Magazine. Featured was an anorexic-looking model wearing a shapeless gray dress and unlaced combat boots. Her only accessory was a plastic barrette, which was sliding out of her limp bob toward the floor. And my 15-year-old self thought, “That is so classic. It will never go out of style.”
Dear God. I just bought a dress that recalls that ad.
Chris Rock had a theory about this. He said that we all have a soft spot for the music (or fashion, or whatever) that emerged when we were first getting laid. That exact explanation doesn’t apply to me. I spent my high school years doing homework, chores, working at a vacuum shop and attending CCD. Still, Rock is onto something. Maybe people are always nostalgic for the era when they first became aware of the world.
Maybe when people try to bring back the fashions and music of their youth , they’re actually looking for a do-over of sorts. Maybe they are trying – as adults – to get a taste of an era they couldn’t quite grasp when they were teenagers.
Maybe, on some level, I believe that this dress is my do-over.
It’s still ridiculous. I have no idea where I’m going to wear the thing. But maybe I’ll at least get some sweet combat boots to wear with it. I always wanted a pair of those.
I don’t usually pray. Not more than the standard, “God, please don’t let me get into an accident,” or “Thank you, God for the insert-whatever-it-is-that-I-am-grateful-for.” I’ll admit to having conversations with a wide array of entities, ghosts and other figments, but certainly I don’t say any formal prayers – not when I’m not in a church, surrounded by a crowd of limply chanting parishioners. Not since whenever it was during childhood that I stopped saying prayers while kneeling beside my bed.
Recently, I volunteered to say a rosary for someone. I’m not really sure why; I just sort of said I’d do it, and then I was surprised at myself. Read more
It’s finally happened.
I’ve turned into my dad.
This evening, during NPR’s new age music programming, I found myself washing, drying and chopping up every bit of the produce we bought at the store today, and then packing it away in neat little plastic containers. I even parceled out the Greek yogurt into containers and taped a Lactaid tablet to the top of each one.
I had to check myself in the mirror to make sure I hadn’t sprouted a beard. This is exactly the sort of anal-retentive behavior my dad used to display. He’d crank up the space-age music (“Bladerunner” theme anyone? John Williams?”) and hack up a cantaloupe.
You’d kind of worry that he was dealing with some “Alien Nation”-related aggression issues.
Dad used to call the Alien Nation aliens "cantaloupe heads." But then again, he also called asparagus "Fraggle tails."
Seriously though, he may have had a point. Not about the aliens. About the produce.
This morning, I packed a lunch for my husband and myself. I wrapped up sandwiches, and diced fruit and folded napkins and nestled them all together in the picnic basket my mom gave us for a wedding present.
I was amazed by how happy the act of making lunch made me.