MEN: Be warned, this blog post contains content that may not be suitable for you. Feel free to return to your Giants victory celebration. It may be safer for your tender souls.
Ladies, I know you’ll get what I’m saying here.
Yesterday, I shopped. Til I dropped. Y’all know by now I’m not much of a shopper. I put it off and put it off until I can’t put it off any more. I don’t like crowds. I don’t like spending money. I don’t really like all the dickering, though I’m pretty good at it. I am THE fashion disaster of all fashion disasters. Some say I am the reason there is an army of fashion police combing the streets.
But despite all these dangers for myself and others, I could delay no longer. I need new technology for work. My shelf in the pantry is looking pretty bare. The seasons have changed, and I need warmer clothes.
The Geeks at Best Buy got me rolling seamlessly into a purchase of a new Toshiba Netbook. At the sake of sounding old and codgerly, I couldn’t help but recall how my first computer took two trips into the house—hulking monitor, behemoth CPU, keyboard, box of cords. And this didn’t even count that cutting-edge dot matrix printer that could actually do ‘alternate fonts’.
Now, for a third of what I paid back then for that set up, I have a computer with about 100 times the memory, 50 times the speed, internet capability, and that practically fits in the palm of my hand.
It, an external DVD drive and all the cords, fit in a case barely the size of a hardback novel. Crazy.
The weirdest shopping experience today was in Target. I have discovered a couple things with the changing of the weather. First, I am still living with my parents. While I didn’t have a hard date in mind, I apparently did not intend on being here beyond the shorts-and-tank-top phase of summer, since I left all my warmer attire in my storage unit. Second, upon going to said storage unit, I discovered I have lost A LOT of weight since I last wore cool weather clothes. Nothing fits.
In Target, out of sheer habit, fueled by the voice of Big Fatty Girl who somehow mistakenly thinks she’s still part of my existence, I was drawn directly to the boulder-sized bra section. As in times past, this was a chore that lacked any kind of joie de vivre whatsoever. I hastily grabbed several freak-show sized bras and went to try them on.
Now, one would think that a woman as smart a myself would have figured this one out on the first try. But no, FOUR BRAS LATER, it finally dawned on me: these bras are too big. Why this flummoxed me so, I don’t quite know. Dazed, confused, and dreading another round of finding things on racks, I dragged myself back out to the floor to find something that would fit. Turns out, I am now an owner of breasts that fit in bras in the ‘normal size’ section of the store. It was sort of like Christmas and the 4th of July all in one. There were so many! Colors, sizes, textures, holy cow. And match sets.
Match sets of underwear. I’ve seen them before. I’ve just never bought them. Form and function over frivolity has always been my notion in the undergarment department. And seriously, most of my life, I’ve been a big-to-huge girl. And a single parent. The “Dear Lord Let This Bra Hold The Girls Up All Day and Through the Kids' Christmas Pageant Tonight” kind of undergarments don’t generally come in feminine match sets.
This day, I looked at them. I touched them. I pondered. Ultimately, I decided to purchase a bra and panty set. For me. With no guilt. No regrets.
It was so fun, I grabbed a few more sets. And then found a manager to give me a discount. Yep. Not only do I own ‘normal,’ matching intimates, I own them at 15% off the retail price.
I feel like Wonder Woman. If you see me coming, you might want to look out. I may be matching. And in these moments when I like myself so well, there's just no telling what this woman might do!
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Ghosts of Shingletown Past
I went to Wal-Mart yesterday. I’ll admit it. I do try to stay out of there—shop local, all that. However, one of the things I’ve learned this year is that Wal-Mart’s pharmacy is darn hard to beat on prescription drugs—especially some of the ridiculously expensive ones I’ve been burning through lately.
I promised myself I would just be in-and-out.
As I entered on the grocery side, I was already bracing myself for impact as I headed toward the pharmacy. Wal-Mart is one of those places that generally contains entirely too many people for me—especially the inconsiderate, the ignorant, and the otherwise not-so-bright. And I’ll admit, it’s a “me” thing. I just don’t have the patience for it.
So, as I plunged deeper into the store, I sought to find the straightest path to the pharmacy and get the heck out. I was stopped short in my tracks at the make-up aisle, as I saw a woman, with the same lovely frosted and permed hair, the same mischief in her eyes, and most shockingly, the same look as if she was about to fire off a ridiculously funny—and highly inappropriate—missive, as Carol Ann Dinning.
The way this woman looked brought to mind a day when I was 18 or so, and Carol Ann must have been about 37ish (going on 29, of course). Carol Ann was prattling on enthusiastically about how much weight she’d lost, how great her jeans looked, and what that meant in terms of ‘trouble’ for her husband that night. I really loved her spunk. It was a look from the time that will always be my frame of reference for Carol Ann—radiant, beautiful, smart, funny, and so full of life. It was as if she was the whole genesis of life itself; a force of nature, a woman with her own zip code—not for her physical size, but merely as the most apt way to contain all her moxy.
I deposited that nice memory and got back to the reality of getting to the pharmacy and getting on with the day. Seated in the pharmacy waiting area, I heard this laugh. No, actually, it was more a cackle. As I turned my head to see who was letting out such a distinctive noise, I thought, “that sounds just like Crazy Carol…”
At the moment that thought was registering with me, my eyes cast upon a woman, about five-foot even, with short, feathery, highlighted hair peeking out from under a fedora-like hat, arm clutched around a handbag that looked expertly hand-constructed, and cerulean blue eyes that bespoke a brand of waggery all their own. Had I not known that she had passed on a half-dozen years ago, I would most surely have thought that the woman before me was the same woman who used to call me “Bratinella”, the same woman who loved my dad at a time in his life when he was heartbroken, and fairly unlovable.
I don’t really know the significance of these déjà vu sightings. As has been said a lot lately, maybe it’s just a “mountain thing”. Maybe it’s just precious memories. Maybe it’s just life’s way of re-gifting to us treasures of the past.
I promised myself I would just be in-and-out.
As I entered on the grocery side, I was already bracing myself for impact as I headed toward the pharmacy. Wal-Mart is one of those places that generally contains entirely too many people for me—especially the inconsiderate, the ignorant, and the otherwise not-so-bright. And I’ll admit, it’s a “me” thing. I just don’t have the patience for it.
So, as I plunged deeper into the store, I sought to find the straightest path to the pharmacy and get the heck out. I was stopped short in my tracks at the make-up aisle, as I saw a woman, with the same lovely frosted and permed hair, the same mischief in her eyes, and most shockingly, the same look as if she was about to fire off a ridiculously funny—and highly inappropriate—missive, as Carol Ann Dinning.
The way this woman looked brought to mind a day when I was 18 or so, and Carol Ann must have been about 37ish (going on 29, of course). Carol Ann was prattling on enthusiastically about how much weight she’d lost, how great her jeans looked, and what that meant in terms of ‘trouble’ for her husband that night. I really loved her spunk. It was a look from the time that will always be my frame of reference for Carol Ann—radiant, beautiful, smart, funny, and so full of life. It was as if she was the whole genesis of life itself; a force of nature, a woman with her own zip code—not for her physical size, but merely as the most apt way to contain all her moxy.
I deposited that nice memory and got back to the reality of getting to the pharmacy and getting on with the day. Seated in the pharmacy waiting area, I heard this laugh. No, actually, it was more a cackle. As I turned my head to see who was letting out such a distinctive noise, I thought, “that sounds just like Crazy Carol…”
At the moment that thought was registering with me, my eyes cast upon a woman, about five-foot even, with short, feathery, highlighted hair peeking out from under a fedora-like hat, arm clutched around a handbag that looked expertly hand-constructed, and cerulean blue eyes that bespoke a brand of waggery all their own. Had I not known that she had passed on a half-dozen years ago, I would most surely have thought that the woman before me was the same woman who used to call me “Bratinella”, the same woman who loved my dad at a time in his life when he was heartbroken, and fairly unlovable.
I don’t really know the significance of these déjà vu sightings. As has been said a lot lately, maybe it’s just a “mountain thing”. Maybe it’s just precious memories. Maybe it’s just life’s way of re-gifting to us treasures of the past.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Just Out and About...
I had to go to the doctor this morning. Not a big deal. For those of you who know me well, you’ll understand that running a fever was a far lesser concern than getting halfway to my destination and realizing that I didn’t have my Droid. The doctor hooked me up with a prescription for some antibiotics, and a plethora of encouragement about how everything’s still normal, and still on track. However, miracle worker that he is, he could do NOTHING about the fact that I went nearly two hours without taking or making phone calls, texting, facebooking, web surfing, stock checking, map routing, hot spotting, listening to my Booty Shaking music station, or taking random photos. How was it that I functioned before this nifty little device danced into my life? I can’t recall.
The component I was missing the most this morning was the camera. After the doctor’s visit, I stopped at Trader Joe’s. While there, I noticed Brussels sprouts. They were still on the stalk. For some reason in my mind, I had always thought they grew underground, or low-lying. I was intrigued by the revelation. Their stalks look similar to a broccoli stalk. It sort of made me think of giants and bean stalks, like maybe on the days bean stalks weren’t available, little ol’ Jack could have used the Brussels sprouts as a trellis to the terrible giant.
Curious as I was, I did not leave the store with any of the stalks. I have never acquired a taste for them, and have yet to find a way to prepare them that can overcome the issues I have with their taste and their texture. But I really wanted a picture. I was bummed I didn’t have the camera. I think I’ll try to go back in a couple days, since I need to return for the dried unsulfured, unsweetened Mangos they were out of as well.
On my way home, I had another “I wish I had my camera!” encounter. A dark-skinned gentleman, wearing a blazing orange, white, and black Giants jersey, rode through the intersection at Lake Boulevard and Market Street on a cruiser-type bicycle. A lavender bicycle, with purple and white streamers on the handlebars, and several shades of violet cutouts in the spokes, no less. The cacophony of color was dazzling. The grin on his face was priceless.
And my dear Droid was at home.
The component I was missing the most this morning was the camera. After the doctor’s visit, I stopped at Trader Joe’s. While there, I noticed Brussels sprouts. They were still on the stalk. For some reason in my mind, I had always thought they grew underground, or low-lying. I was intrigued by the revelation. Their stalks look similar to a broccoli stalk. It sort of made me think of giants and bean stalks, like maybe on the days bean stalks weren’t available, little ol’ Jack could have used the Brussels sprouts as a trellis to the terrible giant.
Curious as I was, I did not leave the store with any of the stalks. I have never acquired a taste for them, and have yet to find a way to prepare them that can overcome the issues I have with their taste and their texture. But I really wanted a picture. I was bummed I didn’t have the camera. I think I’ll try to go back in a couple days, since I need to return for the dried unsulfured, unsweetened Mangos they were out of as well.
On my way home, I had another “I wish I had my camera!” encounter. A dark-skinned gentleman, wearing a blazing orange, white, and black Giants jersey, rode through the intersection at Lake Boulevard and Market Street on a cruiser-type bicycle. A lavender bicycle, with purple and white streamers on the handlebars, and several shades of violet cutouts in the spokes, no less. The cacophony of color was dazzling. The grin on his face was priceless.
And my dear Droid was at home.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Waking the Dead
Everyone in my house is still laughing about this…
So, for whatever reason—meds, stress, pain—last night was not an entirely good night in the sleep realm. I slept some, but not that pure, recuperative kind. I got up this morning to try and start the day, and just couldn’t. Back to bed I went.
I slept for a few more hours, before I awoke to bickering. Doesn’t matter who or why, just that it wasn’t over anyone’s life or limb, and it was at a volume that I couldn’t sleep through.
Then, almost as suddenly as I’d been roused, there were a few brief moments of celebration as I realized that I had somehow become the only human in the house. I contemplated running a bath, reading a book, but ultimately, too weary for much else, went back to bed.
Just about the time I had drifted off, DamnDogs started barking and yapping, which sent BigDyingDog into mournful howls. I went and got the dogs all quieted down and crawled back into bed.
I slept for about half an hour before the doorbell rang. I tried to just ignore it. Anyone who’s anyone around here just walks in or uses the garage door. Because of their persistence, I finally got up and answered the beckoning.
Upon opening the door, I was face-to-face with what appeared to be mother and son proselytizers. Before I could even say hello, the young boy, probably about six or so, began backing away from the door, bug-eyed and screaming, “Mama you just told me there was no such thing as zombies!!!!!”
Still a bit bleary-eyed, I just watched as the confused woman attempted to stay engaged with me, and chase after her son, who was already scampering back down the driveway. Finally, after issuing a hasty good-bye, she ran after the terrified young boy. Shrugging, I closed the door and headed for the bathroom.
As I looked in the mirror, I began to laugh as I realized the source of the young boy’s terror. I had no scarf on, and my head was sporting a strange array of small patches of hair. There was a bruise near my eye that I acquired some time in the night. My eyes were so bloodshot, there was barely any white visible. Small dried streams of blood framed my face from where my ears had apparently bled while I was asleep.
At that moment, my brother stuck his head in the door and said, “Who was that running down the street?”
As I explained the situation to him, he put his arm around me and spoke to me through our reflections in the mirror, “I’m not gonna lie, if I didn’t know you, looking like this, you’d scare the Jesus out of me, too!”
So, for whatever reason—meds, stress, pain—last night was not an entirely good night in the sleep realm. I slept some, but not that pure, recuperative kind. I got up this morning to try and start the day, and just couldn’t. Back to bed I went.
I slept for a few more hours, before I awoke to bickering. Doesn’t matter who or why, just that it wasn’t over anyone’s life or limb, and it was at a volume that I couldn’t sleep through.
Then, almost as suddenly as I’d been roused, there were a few brief moments of celebration as I realized that I had somehow become the only human in the house. I contemplated running a bath, reading a book, but ultimately, too weary for much else, went back to bed.
Just about the time I had drifted off, DamnDogs started barking and yapping, which sent BigDyingDog into mournful howls. I went and got the dogs all quieted down and crawled back into bed.
I slept for about half an hour before the doorbell rang. I tried to just ignore it. Anyone who’s anyone around here just walks in or uses the garage door. Because of their persistence, I finally got up and answered the beckoning.
Upon opening the door, I was face-to-face with what appeared to be mother and son proselytizers. Before I could even say hello, the young boy, probably about six or so, began backing away from the door, bug-eyed and screaming, “Mama you just told me there was no such thing as zombies!!!!!”
Still a bit bleary-eyed, I just watched as the confused woman attempted to stay engaged with me, and chase after her son, who was already scampering back down the driveway. Finally, after issuing a hasty good-bye, she ran after the terrified young boy. Shrugging, I closed the door and headed for the bathroom.
As I looked in the mirror, I began to laugh as I realized the source of the young boy’s terror. I had no scarf on, and my head was sporting a strange array of small patches of hair. There was a bruise near my eye that I acquired some time in the night. My eyes were so bloodshot, there was barely any white visible. Small dried streams of blood framed my face from where my ears had apparently bled while I was asleep.
At that moment, my brother stuck his head in the door and said, “Who was that running down the street?”
As I explained the situation to him, he put his arm around me and spoke to me through our reflections in the mirror, “I’m not gonna lie, if I didn’t know you, looking like this, you’d scare the Jesus out of me, too!”
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