Order Today!
My email and snail mail are full of birthday cards – all from vendors trying to get me to shop for my birthday. Which isn’t difficult to do, but I do appreciate the discounts.
Most appropriate for my birthday is a catalog I received for the first time this week. I’m not sure how I got on the Harriet Carter list, but I am blaming my husband. He just enrolled in Medicare. So – oh boy – here’s another crotchety old couple who need crotchety old stuff.
Yes, there exists all kinds of stuff to help me into old age.
Although I was just agonizing over whether platform spike heels would be too agonizing, Harriet thinks this would probably be more appropriate:
bunion regulator
I admit that I do have a smallish bunion (let me insist please that it is not age-related). Perhaps a bunion regulator might work with just the right stiletto.
For a lot of folks my age, the aches and pains are a little higher than the big toe. So Harriet Carter has also suggested that I think about a more comfortable chair cushion, like this one:
sciatica cushion
I’m thinking I could put this in my nice mid-life-crisis convertible. I could still feel young (right?) while making my oldish ass a bit more comfy.
And with the new puffy scarves that are so chic right now, no one will even know that underneath, my old neck is cozily supported:
neck air cushion
Talk about good timing! I just posted about stray eyebrow hairs. I see from Harriet Carter that it is only a short time away before they have strayed all the way down to my upper lip. I never realized that old ladies with mustaches are just victims of VERY stray eyebrow hairs. But Harriet has a fix:
hair remover
According to the description, this ‘painless’ spring action fits discreetly in your purse. That’s a relief – if a hair sprouts out at work, I can just whip out my spring and zap it.
Most important in the world of the crotchety is bathroom assistance. And Harriet has plenty of it.
I offer these practical products without comment. They truly speak for themselves:
hygiene refresher
toilet tissue aid
toilet footrest
I figure I will need all three by the end of the year.
I’ll need a bathroom tote too.
Corporal Mysteries
This is not a “Whatever happened to Max Klinger?” type of Corporal Mystery.
Corporal Maxwell Klinger – M*A*S*H
No, this is Corporal in the sense of “What the heck is going on with my body?”
“The” body resource of my college years.
As I come within a week of turning sixty-two, it has occurred to me that in many ways my body is still an enigma to me.
Some of my questions go way back to childhood. You’d think I would have figured myself out by now.
My nose, for instance:
Why am I sometimes only congested on one side? If I have a cold, don’t I have a cold on both sides of my nose? Only sometimes I don’t. Right clear. Left clogged. Are viruses directional?
And then there is (excuse me, but I feel I must discuss this) – Flatulence. Gas is a mystery that I have wondered about since I was nine (but not constantly, of course):
If gas is lighter than air – if I fart, and lose that gas, do I actually weigh more than before I farted?
I keep saying that one of these days I am going to remember to weigh myself after a good rip, but I only have delicate rips. I think I should enlist my husband for this scientific experiment.
Not his feet – or mine. (But unfortunately close to mine.)
As I got a little older, my feet began to puzzle me.
Why do my feet feel so good when I try on new shoes at the store – only to kill me after I buy those shoes? Are my feet just pretending to be happy because they like to try stuff on?
And then there’s my stomach.
Why does my stomach not like the same food that my mouth likes? I’m talking about Pizza. I LOVE pizza. My taste buds are committed to pizza. So why is my stomach committed to heartburn?
Instead of understanding the workings of my body, growing older has only added to the confusion.
My eyebrows are thinning. I’ve got bare spots. So if I have places where the hairs won’t grow – why oh why do eyebrow hairs keep coming out in places very far afield from my actual brow area? Can’t those runaway strays start falling out too – at least at the same pace as the ones who were behaving themselves?
Not me… but I seem to be headed there….
Since I’ve already been gross enough to discuss farting, let me spend a few seconds on peeing.
I think I learned in Biology class in 1967 that your metabolism slows when you sleep. So that you can sleep many hours in a row and rejuvenate your body. You’d think old kidneys would be even slower. But no. Old kidneys just speed up. I have to pee more at night than when the sun is shining.
This reverse metabolism may also be responsible for the weird phenomenon of overnight weight loss. I seem to lose two pounds during the night, only to put it back on during the day. And although it is obvious that I am eating during the day, I am also walking around – sometimes even zumba-ing around. At night, the only exercise I get is the multiple trips to the bathroom. Why does this burn so many calories? Would I be thinner if I gave up Zumba and took up Napping?
And finally – on the subject of thinness –
I’ve worked hard this year to eat healthier and exercise more. And it’s really paid off. I now weigh less than I weighed on my wedding day, more than twenty-one years ago.
But even though I am slimmer, my ass is larger.
Yeah, yeah.. I know; it’s part of being over sixty.
But here’s what I don’t get:
If it’s natural that my butt gets bigger as I age, why can’t my breasts grow too? – at least a little?
Come on boobies… my behind is leaving you behind.
Zumba Butt
Peau De Quoi?
I am more than willing to try anything that will make me look younger. I will stand in line. I will pay pretty big bucks.
But – although I am often a beauty-fool – there is a little tiny piece of my brain (located right near the place that makes me wash the plastic forks) that refuses to completely flush my money away.
I won’t – for example – pay $20.00 for this:
Eyebrow Stencils
Or $19.50 to hydrate my thirsty skin:
Evian Water Spray
Yeah, I won’t spring for a spritz of French water to fake a perspiration glow, although I admit that I pay an obscene price for French skin cream. Years ago, I used to go to Paris on business, and those French ladies had very nice skin. And I’m part French (French-Canadian, but it counts because my maiden name has a very cute accent aigu).
Skin is important. I have some everywhere.
As a teenager, I was a Noxzema girl. I can’t for the life of me now figure out what was so appealing about smelling like Vicks VapoRub. But it was medicated. That must mean it really works, right?
Noxzema
Since those mentholated years, I’ve skin-tested about every soap and moisturizer ever introduced. Most are interchangeable, although once in a while I’m surprised by astoundingly colorful hives.
So I’ve gone on sprees from ‘Oil of Olay’ (which come from the Olay plant I guess; or perhaps an Olay fish) to ‘Oil of Crisco’ (it helps you float) to ‘Oil of Expensivo’ – the last of which is my current favorite – pricey French stuff, which I use with an appetizer of vitamin C oil. But well worth the mucho francs (or beaucoup dinero or something – I’m only half French) because I have forty-five year old skin on my sixty-one-year-old skull.
But then there’s the rest of my skin.
I’ve got quite a lot of it in other places, and it would be nice if it matched my youngish face. But due to the significant acreage, I can’t use my French stuff (that comes in 1.3 oz tubes). I need shit that I can slather on. The kind that goes for $4.99 for the economy size. The kind that comes in a plastic bottle that can double as a weapon, or break your toe, if you happen to drop it. (Don’t ask – let’s just say it makes your hands slippery.)
But this means that I have a Parisienne face and a Walmart body.
Until now.
I’ve just learned of a new product and will keep my skin silky smooth:
Unbelievable! Jeans infused with moisturizer! What a breakthrough!
And you have a choice of three lotions: Aloe Vera, Olive Extract, or a special secret formula called Smooth Legs. (I suspect that last one may contain Oil of Crisco.)
I have a little issue though. Paying $149.09 (not sure what the $.09 is for, but I price products for a living, and so I’m sure it’s really vital) is a bit more than my $4.99 cream (and I sometimes have a coupon). And I would need to wear these jeans every day, because I can’t be dry and scratchy six out of seven the other days.
So I need seven pairs.
And then of course there’s the little problem of the secret stuff wearing off. The moisturizer wears out after fifteen wears, and quicker if you wash them – which they recommend you do “sparingly”.
But hey, no problemo! They sell a spray to re-infuse your moist-jeans, in the three original flavors formulas.
So I’m all set on the bottom half of my body.
For the top half, I figure I can moist-spray all my clothes. Voila! (That’s real French!)
Of course, I can just buy the moist-spray (which they haven’t told anyone what it costs yet), and forget the $149.09 jeans.
Oh Wait! (Eureka! – that’s Greek, I think, for Merde Alors!). I can just slather on the el cheapo stuff from the six pound bottle, and put my clothes on OVER IT!
It Lingers Still
Ah, Christmas is so wonderful. You just want it to go on and on.
And it does.
Picking up after Christmas can take you right into February.
Four years ago, I convinced my husband that we should buy an artificial pre-lit tree. He loves real trees. He was not enthused. But I convinced him that we would buy the prettiest one we could find, and it would be so much easier to put up and take down. I even let him pick out the biggest one in the store, as my husband is a firm believer in Big Stuff.
Ha ha on me.
This tree is so big that I strained my shoulder putting it back in the attic the first year. When I went to the doctor to make sure I hadn’t torn my rotator cuff, the doctor asked me why my husband wasn’t carrying such a heavy thing. Well, he was. He had the other end. Our “easy” tree goes into two boxes, and it takes two people to carry each box. And obviously, it takes two people who are stronger than me.
But then again, the artificial tree is easier to put up than a real tree – once we get it down from the attic. Of course we have to bring up from the cellar the biggest ladder we have in order to decorate the top third. I’ve thought about leaving the top third undecorated, but we already have to leave the bottom third undecorated, due to our fur children. So that would just leave a decorated swath in the middle, which looks strangely like the jangling coin scarf that belly dancers wear. Hence the ladder.
But the best part of an artificial tree is the lack of shedding.
Ha ha on me.
This tree – which cost more than 10 years’ worth of real trees – is so realistic, it drops needles as prolifically as the aforementioned ten.
And these needles are strangely eternal.
They stubbornly refused to be vacuumed.
It is now the third week of January, and AFTER I finished today’s housecleaning, my living room still looked like this:
Do you remember Rich Hall, from “Not Necessarily The News”? He coined the term Sniglet, for words that are not in the dictionary, but should be. (My favorite was McMmonia – which describes the olfactory phenomenon of McDonald’s having just washed the floor every time you go in.)
Anyway, there’s an old Sniglet for my artificial tree’s artificial needles’ stubbornness.
Carperpetuation.
That’s when you pick up what your vacuum wouldn’t – but then you put it back down to give your vacuum one more chance.
But my vacuum won’t take the free throw.
It’s almost as if the vacuum repels the needles. Like negative energy, these needles go the other way when the vacuum gets close. Or when the vacuum goes over these little bastards, they pretend they are being sucked in, but then they jump out somewhere else on the floor.
I am beginning to think the vacuum is a naturalist. It lives on a diet composed of 97% cat hair and 3% garden dirt. It does not want artificial junk.
At least when we had a real tree, vacuuming the needles made the house smell really nice.
Right into February.
Dear John:
It’s over.
I’m so sorry. I thought it would last forever.
And it almost did. Eight years.
Eight years is nearly forever in the fashion world.
I thought it was Love. But it was merely Infatuation.
You saw me through my big career phase, my semi-retirement phase, and for the last several years, my littler career phase. You’ve taken me through boring meetings and fascinating vacations, cruise nights and county fairs, Sunday brunches and family holidays.
I owe you so much. You deserve better.
It’s my fault. Not yours.
I’ve been tempted. And I’ve given in.
To long slinky tops.
Bye, Bye Cardigans.
Yes. It’s true.
For years I have collected my beloved cardigan sweaters in every possible color and weight.
These are just the solids. The argyles and florals didn’t fit in the photo.
And they were perfect.
Until I strayed.
Two months ago I was buying my third black cardigan. I really needed this one because it had snaps instead of buttons.
But hanging near the black snappy cardigan was a long v-neck sweater in a warm gray. It lured me with its soft color and the magic seductive word…”Sale”. And I tried it on. And succumbed.
I’ve always loved my cardigans because they are so forgiving. But now that I am slim, I loved the clingy, revealing, unforgiving sexiness of the long grey pullover.
Sexiness. Yes, I said it.
I have the rest of my life to be old. I only have a short time left to be sexy.
So I bought the snapped cardi. But I also bought the slinky gray.
And the first time I wore it, my husband said “Hubba Hubba.” He’s always liked the way I looked, but my cardigans never evoked a “Hubba Hubba.”
So I bought a black one. And a red one. And I wore the gray one on Christmas Eve. And then the red one on Christmas Day.
And then I shopped for a few more.
I used to avoid stripes like they were as evil as green eyeshadow. But stripes are sexy. And I am now addicted to sexy. Sixty is sexy. And almost sixty-two is the very end of sexy. I am desperate. So I bought one. Then a few more. Today I bought two more.
I’m sorry, cardigans, to be unfaithful.
New and slinky.
But I have to let you go.
I have so much shopping to do.
I Love It Now
Sometimes we make up our mind early about stuff – and those opinions stick with us forever.
Some of the things I loved as I kid I still love:
– Clothes so soft they make you hug yourself.
– Warm beach sand squishing through your toes.
– Tuna sandwiches with a side of potato chips.
And some things that I hated I still hate :
– Mushrooms. I was probably no more than two the first time I spit one out, and I’ve been spitting them out now for sixty years.
– Plaid. My mother loved plaid. I hated it. I still hate it. Plaid is for boys. Most especially brown plaid.
– Clowns – who were invented by adults to scare the crap out of their children, all while pretending they actually loved their kids.
Yes, most Loves and Hates can last a lifetime.
But sometimes your opinion can change.
Come to think of it, though, I can’t right now name a single thing that I loved as a child that I don’t still love. So perhaps Love lasts forever. I still want peanut butter. And yellow rubber boots.
So maybe only Hate can change.
Despite how much you hated something as a kid, you may find that over time (or sometimes even suddenly) you have a love for that previously detested thing.
For instance – as a kid I hated Elvis. I thought he was dumb in every way. I didn’t like his looks or his songs. His movies were corny. But (despite that fact that his movies are still awful), I found as I got older that his voice soothed me, and I see a vulnerability in the face in which I had previously seen such artificiality.
This is the face I choose to remember.
Vegetables. When I was a little girl, my mother would put ten peas on my plate, and not allow me to get up from the table until I had eaten them. Sometimes I sat at the table for a very long time. I would eat NO veggies at all. Except for corn-on-the-cob, which some people call a grain, but is essentially a butter delivery vehicle.
But now, vegetables somehow taste wonderful: peppers and onions and spinach and zucchini and green beans and broccoli and peas (yes, even more than ten) and asparagus and artichokes and beets and oh-my-god butternut squash and – I can’t believe I am even writing this – brussels sprouts.
But the most astonishing turnaround from Loathing to Love is this:
Bedtime.
How I detested going to bed. My sisters were older than I, and got to stay up later, which was entirely unfair since I was so much more alert at nine PM than they were. And I knew what I was missing out on. All the best TV shows started at nine. My bedroom was near the living room and I could hear “The Danny Thomas Show” and “Hawaiian Eye” – which had Troy Donahue, for crying out loud.
And I did cry out loud. I cried and begged and pleaded to stay up late. Especially on Wednesdays.
Wednesday was “The Dick Van Dyke Show”. I could hear my sisters laughing. I could hear my mother laughing. And I could hear my father HOWLING. How I wanted to see what was making Daddy howl! It is no comfort to me that years later I got to see Dick Van Dyke in syndication until I knew every episode by heart. What I wanted was to be in the living room at 9PM.
But how things change.
Is there anything sweeter than bedtime?
Tucking yourself into that cozy bed, under that nice big quilt – and letting the dark quiet envelop you?
Just thinking about it – I can hardly wait .. and I am writing this at 2:05.
Each year I get to go to bed a little earlier. What sweet comfort.
I figure in two years I’ll be having dinner at 4:30 so I can be in bed by 6:00.
The Evil Trickster
After twenty-two years of loyal service, our precious scale died just before Christmas. It stayed the loving companion to the end – expiring with the sweetest gesture a scale has ever delivered. With its last dying breath, it said I weighed 87 pounds.
My husband buried it in the cellar – because he can’t throw anything away, and someday he might fix it, or it may miraculously recover.
We went to Bed, Bath & Beyond for a new scale. Bed, Bath & Beyond has a lot of Bed and Bath, but a plethora of Beyond. It was difficult to rein in my husband from the mixed nuts to concentrate on the scales.
There were twenty-one models to choose from. In one display. Around the corner were six more, just in case you needed more choice. Prices ranged from $19.99 to $99.99.
They had analog and digital, stainless steel, glass, and wood. They had body composition analyzers and weight tracking units. One played music too. I’m not sure what song, but probably not “Sixteen Tons.”
I wanted the weight tracker. It stored information for two people, named A and B. This would be very convenient because our blood pressure machine calls us A and B. (I’m B, but not because I’m less important or anything).
My husband thought $99 was too much for a scale. But I didn’t want the cheap ones with the needle that never stops wiggling. We settled on $39.99.
So we took the four possible selections off the shelf and tried them out. One was not a good test, since it didn’t have a battery. One had a tiny readout that you cannot read unless you crouch way down. One said that my husband had gained 18 pounds, and I then refused to give it a try. The last had a nice big readout – in a bright blue face. And it was pebbled glass, and so it would not be slippery. I guess this was in case you want to use it in the bathtub.
So we took it home. Once we opened the box we saw that the battery was corroded. I think this should have been a warning that the scale was evil. But in our naiveté, we just went back out and bought a new battery.
We set it up in the dressing room, right where our old scale was. But the room is carpeted. Our old scale didn’t seem to mind the carpeting, but the new scale refused to cooperate. So we moved it to the bath, where the scale reluctantly turned itself on and gave us each a weight, which was within an acceptable range of what we thought we weighed. It did not memorize these weights or call us A and B. But my husband assured me that we would still be able to determine whose weight was whose, since my weight would only show up when I got on the scale, and his weight would only show up when he got on the scale. Yes, he’s logical.
Our old scale had a button you could use to set it to zero. So you could tweak it just a little. Now I am not a cheater, but it is reassuring to know that you can make sure the scale is at “-00” and not at “+00”, since you certainly wouldn’t want to add that plus thing to your starting point.
But our new scale has no set-zero adjustment. You just have to trust that it is being fair.
And I don’t think it is.
I think our scale is malicious. Or at a minimum, it has a nasty sense of humor .
Things started out okay. It gave me the same weight for four days – the same to the tenth of a pound, or 1.6 ounces. I thought that was a little unusual. Because I think my weight might vary by 1.6 ounces once in while. But now I see that the scale was just trying to lull me into complacency.
And then it hatched its scheme. Its scheme to make me crazy. I can eat pecan pie in front of the TV all day and lose 1.4 pounds. Or I can go to Zumba and eat yogurt and carrot sticks, and the mischievous scale tells me I have gained 2.6 pounds.
Once I got suspicious I started weighing myself at night. This was a mistake, because I found it hard to sleep after being told I had gained 3.1 pounds during the day.
My husband says it’s normal to weigh more at night. But that means that sleeping makes you lose weight. I don’t think a nap is a good substitute for aerobics.
I have tried to catch it in the act. I get on and off the scale repeatedly and it won’t vary. But if I give it some time, it acts up. Just yesterday I lost 0.8 pounds in the shower. I was a little dirty, but perhaps not 12.8 ounces worth.
I got dressed and weighed myself again. I had 2.7 pounds worth of clothes. Then I got undressed and held my clothes. I had 3.1 pounds worth of clothes. Maybe clothes are heavier when you carry them than when you wear them. Maybe because you flex your muscles holding them in one pile.
Last night I got up at 3AM to pee. (If you are younger than me and snickering right now…. just you wait). Anyway, the scale was beckoning me, taunting me. I got on. I couldn’t help it. But I forgot I wasn’t wearing my glasses and so I only saw a vague blue glow. But I think it told me I weighed my husband’s weight.
This morning I told my husband I want a new scale. He says he likes this one. He loses 0.2 pounds every day.
I’m Going Small
In 2012, my New Year’s Resolutions were BIG! I never realized how successful I could be just through visualization (and a creative definition of success).
So this year I thought I would tackle even bigger challenges – by selecting those teeny tiny adorably quirky habits (some – like a person I am related to by marrying him – might call… faults) that I never seem to make progress on.
My 2013 Resolutions
I’m Going SMALL.
1. I will not trim my own bangs. My hairdresser has pleaded with me to just stop by between haircuts for a little trim on the bangs. But you know, I look in the mirror and they are a hair too long (hairdresser humor) and the scissors are right here in the drawer…
I have a little trouble controlling myself around scissors. From about the time I was five years old. You can verify this with my mother.
With my unfortunate trim compulsion, I recognize that I should set realistic goals.
So I will already amend goal #1: I will not trim my own bangs more than once a week.
2. While hair-trimming is a long-standing but minor obsession, I have a new one in need of reining in (slightly). Resolved: I will not check my iPhone at a restaurant. Although I hate when other people do this, I am more discreet than those rude folk. I can check Facebook from under the table, and I am sure that my dinner companions just think I am saying Grace. My husband also hates this habit. But then again, he thinks I am saying Grace. That, or that I have bladder issues.
As an indication of my good intentions, I went to the ladies’ room on December 31 and did not take my purse. (I did take a quick glance at FB, however, when he was in the mens’ room. But it was still 2012. And he was peeing, for God’s sake. I can take a peek while he takes a leak.)
3. I will not repeat myself. My husband is slightly hard of hearing (plus he never pays attention, but we’ll save that for some other time) and so to everything I say, he says “What?” – and I say it again. After twenty-one years of marriage, this is such a habit that I find myself repeating everything I say – to everyone. “It looks like we will exceed budget by two percent. Yes, I think we will exceed budget by two percent.” “Excuse me, does this cardigan come in black? I like this cardigan – does it come in black?” And lately, I am finding that most people (except one) seem slightly annoyed by my echo. So I resolve that – except for that person I am related to by marriage – I will not repeat myself. Because, you know, some people seemed slightly annoyed.
4. I will not eat the pan drippings while cleaning up from dinner. Have you noticed that the grease in the bottom of the skillet is more delicious than the hamburger? Pans can be awkward to lick, but a big spoon can make it appear that you are scrubbing. I receive half my daily caloric intake from the bottom of the pan. But I resolve to quit. I believe a workable strategy would be to squirt the dish soap right into the skillet as soon as I have removed the hamburger. But I think instead I will have my husband do the dishes. That will work too.
5. I will take the few extra seconds it requires to make legible notes. I have very passable – even vaguely talented – drawing skills. You’d think my handwriting would be decent, if not elegant. But the truth is that I can never be bothered to take the time. This results in my husband showing up at the wrong hour or returning the wrong telephone call. Just a few weeks ago, I left him a note saying that I was going to my mother’s. He called my mother about two hours later wondering if she knew where I was. I sometimes need to rewrite post-its to my boss six times to get one that I can actually stick on her door. But what is really inexcusable is that I cannot read the brilliant blog ideas I write to myself.
huh?
6. I will use up all my makeup, lotion, hair goop, and perfume before I buy another. Because once I have a new whatever, I have no interest any more in the old whatever. It may have been the very best blush I ever had, and my absolute all-time favorite, but if I buy another that is not exactly the same shade, consistency, packaging, I need to immediately try the new one, and it becomes my new favorite, and I never look back. This is sort of like the boyfriends I had in high school.
But I can’t just throw the old whatever away. That would be wasteful. I have six foundations all with 12% left in the container. Blush compacts with just enough blush left around the corners to keep me rosy for the next 4.7 years. And a concealer is a terrible thing to waste. Those little wands alone could paint all the trim in my bathroom.
On the other hand, throwing away the old milk once in a while might be a good idea.
My 2012 Resolution Report Card
You know how they say the first step to achieving your goals is putting them down in writing?
On January 1, 2012, I published my 2012 New Year resolutions.
So how did I do?
I DID GREAT!!!!!
Here’s the original post, followed by my Report Card:
****
I’M GOING BIG
Every year for the last umpteen years, I make New Year’s Resolutions.
I keep them modest, so that they are achievable. Pick up my shoes. Walk on my treadmill twice a week. Save a few dollars.
But even with very small goals, I don’t have much success.
So this year – as long as I haven’t got a prayer of keeping my New Year’s Resolutions anyway – I’m going big!
1. I’m going to run in the Boston Marathon. Why not? I’ll train by doing my 2.5 miles on the treadmill one click faster – 3.3 miles per hour instead of 3.2. If I maintain that pace, I will finish in 7.93939 hours. I figure I can slow down on the hills though. No need to go crazy. I’ll plan on 11.93939 hours. I just hope I can find a place to park the car in Boston. And that someone will give me a lift back after I finish.
2. I’m going blond. I’ve been blond before. But upkeep can be a problem with dark roots. Not any more. My roots are white anyway, so maintenance should be a breeze. So I’m going platinum. And long.
3. I’m going to wear sexy underwear. Sure, I like my big-girl cotton panties. And they’re so very comfortable. But it’s time to go to the lingerie department instead of hanes.com, and buy lacy skimpy underthings. I read that once you are over fifty, you should only wear thongs on your feet. But what the hell. I’m going to buy bright purple and wear them under my white jeans. So that you’ll know.
4. I’m going to be star. I can be a pop star with a hit record. Katy Perry did it, and she can’t sing. Or I can be a Hollywood star, with leading roles in lots of movies. Adam Sandler did it – and he can’t act. Or I can go on “Dancing With the Stars”. I’m every bit as much of a not-a-star as all the other not-a-stars who’ve been contestants thus far. And with my long platinum hair and my purple thong underwear, I’m a shoe-in for the mirrored ball trophy.
5. I’m going to wear a lot more makeup. I’ve always loved makeup, and worn quite a bit. But all my products result in a very subtle effect. Pinkish blush, nude lipstick, a touch of mascara. For 2012 – I’m heading in the Tammy Faye direction. I’m going to wear false eyelashes. With sparkles. And I’ll have the full lips I’ve always wanted, because I’ll just draw a big mouth outside the lines of my real one. Time for some drama. I’ve already started. I bought black eyeliner instead of my usual brown. Okay, I bought it by mistake, but the best changes are often accidents.
6. I’m going to be best friends with James Taylor. I’m halfway there already, because I love him very much. I just have to introduce myself and he’ll love me back. I have a very nice husband and JT has a very nice wife, so we’ll just be platonic friends. The four of us can go on vacation together. I never go on vacation, but this year we’ll all go to Tahiti. On a sailboat. James will pay.
7. I’m going to pick up my shoes.
Me 2012: Running the Boston Marathon, with blond hair, false eyelashes, lots of blush, and my purple panties peeking through. I can hardly wait.
Nancy’s 2012 Report Card:
1. The Boston Marathon. I did not run the Boston Marathon. However, I can now do a full hour of Zumba without having to sit down and put my head between my knees. And even more impressive, just this week I went shopping – in high heels. Same thing as the marathon, in my opinion. Grade B+
2. Blond. Yup. And long too (long for me, anyway). I did it and I like it.
Grade: A+
3. Sexy Underwear. Here are my sexy panties.
I bought them in August. You may say, “But Nancy, isn’t the tag still attached?” Well, to you I say, “Yes it is – But“:
a) They are still my sexy panties
b) I might wear them tomorrow
c) Skimpy panties are not necessarily all they are cracked up to be. (a little underpants humor)
Grade: A-
4. Stardom. The ratings are falling on “Dancing With The Stars.” But I now have 535 blog followers. Any minute now they will be asking for my autograph in the Blogging Hall Of Fame. Grade B++
5. More makeup. Well, duh. Eyelashes. Grade: A
Falsies.
6. Sweet Baby James. We weren’t able to coordinate our schedules to travel together yet. But James Taylor is my now my friend – my Facebook Friend. He writes to me. And he is teaching me guitar. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7BqISqpMRo8. In this lesson, he is showing me how to do my nails so they will not break when I strum the strings. I KNEW we had a lot in common. Grade: B+
7. Picking up my shoes. Not Quite Yet. Grade: D-
Practicing on the toilet bowl brush. If my lessons with JT continue this well, I am definitely buying a guitar.
I Hope He Kept The Receipt
My husband and I are having the BEST disagreement EVER!
My sweet and exasperating husband has a tendency to go a little overboard sometimes. Which drives me crazy when it is dicing vegetables or watering the plants. When it is buying me presents – well – I can tolerate it.
This year he outdid himself. I wanted a bunch of new containers for the pantry. Out here in the boondocks, food just keeps better if we use nice airtight containers for stuff like flour, sugar, cereal, nuts, etc. So I mentioned (oh, maybe about 30 times – you can’t be too subtle with the male-type people) that I wanted new containers in various sizes.
And he bought me a whole bunch of them. And guess what – he put an additional gift for me inside each one. Let me tell you – it was SO much better than Cracker Jacks prizes. I got candles and hand lotion and Christmas ornaments and chocolate and – wait for it – cashmere socks!
I have cold feet. I wear socks to bed. “You might as well wear the best,” he said.
He spent too much on these things, but that isn’t what we are arguing about.
I also wanted a sweater and I even wrote down the store, the SKU, the color, the size. I did everything but give him gas money. He told me last week that the store didn’t have any in my size left. But he was fibbing. And I got the sweater that I wanted.
But that isn’t what we are arguing about.
I also wanted a new bathrobe, and he agreed that my old one had become somewhat pathetic. I told him to go to a cheap store, because I don’t like to pay a lot for a bathrobe, and he did. So I got an extremely inexpensive but comfy bathrobe to wear with my cashmere socks.
But that isn’t what we are arguing about.
He wanted to surprise me. And he wants me to show off my new slimmer figure with sexier clothes.
So he bought me these:
Waxed Denim Leggings
I am not kidding. These are the exact ones he bought. In case you aren’t familiar with waxed denim, it is exactly that – denim with a wax coating to make them tight and shiny. They look rather like soft, aged leather.
I have one little issue though – that at this point in my life I also look rather like soft, aged leather.
Now my husband has always seen me through a very kind filter. Fat, skinny, old, young (well, not too young, we met when I was almost forty). He thinks I am pretty. I can forgive him a lot of sins because he thinks so.
And he’s proud of me. He wants me to show off, and he wants to show me off.
But leggings? The label on these leggings describes the fit like this: “As tight as possible.”
And they are. We had a lot of fun Christmas Eve getting them on and off.
But I need to return them. I can’t wear them in public.
I’m pretty sure I look ridiculous. He’s very sure I look hot.
And so we are arguing.
I”M SIXTY-ONE, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!
Isn’t he wonderful?
Oh, one more thing: He couldn’t make up his mind between the black leggings and the wine leggings. So he bought both.
notquiteold 