TMT = TMI
Too Much Togetherness = Too Much Information
Several years ago, we built our dream home.
Many people warned me that building a house is a dangerous test of a marriage. But to my delight (and surprise) my husband and I turned out to be terrific team. Together we bought a beautiful piece of property and designed the house (with significant help from an architect; we’re not insane). My husband served as General Contractor, and he knows so much about everything that I was often overwhelmed with awe I served as Director of Taste. I also carried lots of stuff.
And our dream house got built. Miracle house, really. Especially when you consider that after five years of building it, it got struck by lightning ten days before we were to move in. But that’s for another story, when I can see the humor in it. Check back in twelve years.
In the planning process, we attended lots of open-houses in ritzy neighborhoods. I had a camera in my purse, and we stole plenty of great ideas. We have parquet floors, a chandelier that descends on a motor for dusting, a double staircase, and a stove big enough to feed the Duggars.
And we also have a fancy master bath. It has all the great stuff we saw in all the master baths in all those snooty houses. And now I see the major flaw. Two flaws really. Two sinks.
I thought that his-and-hers sinks would simply mean that he would have his side, and I would have mine. But my husband thinks it means that we can use the bathroom together. I don’t want to brush my teeth with my husband. I want to brush my teeth by myself. I want to do everything in the bathroom by myself.
Bathroom sights are not pretty. And bathroom sounds are worse. I don’t want to hear him hocking up his morning phlegm. That’s just gross. It’s not that I never have phlegm myself; but I don’t wish to share it. And besides, I have very feminine phlegm.
What I also don’t want to share is my mirror time. I spend a lot of time with my makeup mirror. And it’s not that I don’t look adorable putting on my mascara. I don’t want my husband to see that I really only use seven products out of all the stuff that I have on multiple shelves. If he sees how much stuff I don’t use, he may think I don’t need it, and he may ask if he could maybe have part of a shelf for his deodorant or something. And, well…no. He can’t.
And while I am on the subject of bathroom design flaws, here’s another: the “toilet room”.
Just because the toilet has its own little door does not mean you can use it while I am getting ready for bed. And even though it has its own exhaust switch, that doesn’t mean it has become a soundproof chamber. You aren’t covering up any sounds, just creating another one that I call “Defecation with Fan.”
Don’t get me wrong. I deeply love my husband and I love being married. I just want to be single in the bathroom.
Orphan Envy
Image via Wikipedia
When I was eight, I was in a play.
The local Girl’s Club (like the “Y” without the yucky boys) offered afterschool classes, and I signed up for Drama. Good thing they didn’t call it Acting. I suck at Acting but Drama is my life.
The drama class put on a play (I think the same one every year) about orphans and dolls. I think it was called “Orphans and Dolls”. A beautiful rich girl has outgrown all her lovely dolls and they are very lonely in her attic. The dolls somehow (I’m sure it was very realistic) convince the girl to give her dolls to an orphanage. The poor orphans get dolls, the dolls get attention, and the girl is happy for having been so generous. It’s a good play for an all-girls organization. There isn’t a single boy in it.
How I wanted to be a Doll. Orphans were okay, especially like in a Shirley Temple movie when she cried and suffered and still had fabulous curls. But the Dolls got to wear makeup and frilly dresses. Makeup was already my main ambition in life.
My problem was that I didn’t look like a Doll. I looked like an Orphan. I was the city’s skinniest eight-year-old. The thickest part of me was my knees. I had thin, straight hair cut off above the ears – at the barbershop (no hairdresser for me, since I had hardly any hair to dress.) I had pale skin and thick eyebrows, and was too tall for my age. When I see photos of the immigrants on Ellis Island, all the children look like me. But I wanted to be a Doll.
On audition day, the whole class got up on the little stage in the Drama room. We sang two songs, “Oh You Beautiful Doll”, the Dolls’ number, and “Side By Side”, the Orphan song. Then the teacher, Mrs. Barbara, divided us into two groups. One by one, I watched her direct all the tiny, rosy-cheeked, curly haired little girls to the front of the stage. The Dolls. Everybody left was an Orphan.
Well, if I had to be an Orphan, I was determined to be the ultimate Orphan. I had a great source for orphan clothes, as I wore hand-me-downs not only from my sisters, but from the neighbors – and many of them came down to me in such sorry shape that even my frugal mother wouldn’t let me wear them. I would add some patches (or more patches) to one of the worst rejects, and I would certainly look more hopeless than all the other Orphans.
Only my mother wouldn’t let me. Apparently she had too much pride to let me look that bad, even in a play. I wonder now what she was thinking. Could she have been some precursor of political correctness, where she didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings who might truly be an orphan? Was she afraid that I already looked too pathetic in my natural state?
My mother was insistent. Orphans didn’t wear rags. They usually wore some type of uniform. But I already wore a uniform to school every day – a navy blue jumper with a white blouse. It wasn’t acting if I couldn’t wear a costume.
So my mother made some creative changes. She had me put the jumper on first, and over it, my sister’s blouse with the sailor collar. Too big for me, the blouse hung long over my jumper. That’s a middy blouse, my mother explained. Then she gave me black tights (my sister’s – I wasn’t allowed to wear black) and my Sunday shoes. Now you look like a proper Orphan, said my mother.
I’d rather have worn the rags, but I did kind of like the long blouse. To this day, I find myself attracted to long, loose tops over dark skirts and black stockings.
The night of the play, the dressing room (well, hallway) was filled with rouged and lipsticked Dolls. Some of them even had mascara and eyeshadow. The lead role, the girl who owned the dolls, was – by some weird coincidence – the teacher’s daughter. She had a dance solo. Mrs. Barbara Junior had full makeup and shiny hairspray—and tap shoes. They were patent leather with big bows. They were very clicky. They were magnificent shoes.
I found the rest of the orphans in the back of the hallway. Every one of them wore rags – with patches and tears. Two of them were barefoot. One girl – what a stroke of genius – had her arm in a sling! And there I was, the Coco Chanel of the Orphan world.
I went on stage, mortified that my costume was all wrong. But I played my part as dramatically as I could, which meant nodding my head emphatically, since I didn’t have any lines.
After the play, I sought out my mother in the folding-chaired audience. She was chatting with a woman whose daughter was the tiniest and cutest of the Dolls. My mother waved me over, but the little girl wore so many crinolines, I had to stand back about three feet. The woman leaned past the ruffles as best she could, and said loudly that I had the most authentic costume of all the girls. “Absolutely authentic,” she said.
I’m sure my mother put her up to it.
Gullible’s Travails
I am a marketer’s dream.
Cream that evaporates my wrinkles. Absolutely.
Conditioner that makes my hair thick. Yes, I believe.
Teeth Whiteners, Lip Plumpers, Toe Straighteners (don’t ask; I need them), Nail Growers. Oh, please, let me try some. Here’s my money.
And now I’ve hit the pinnacle. Or maybe not. Maybe there is even more gullibility in me still. Here’s my money.
I just bought what I swore (just last month) was the stupidest fashion item I had ever seen. Till I bought it, of course.
I bought jeans with whiskering. That’s right. That’s what they call it: Whiskering. Creases have been dyed into the crotch and thighs. Giving you that “years of too-tight” look.
When I saw them in the store, I was both amused and appalled. Why would I want jeans that look like my thighs are screaming to bust out?
But…they are the cut of the season. I wanted those skinny crops that are kind of an Audrey Hepburn look. No more wide-legged crops, that are more of a high-water Katharine Hepburn look.
The skinny look – skinny all the way to the shins – is just perfect for a platform sandal. And I love my platform sandals. They lengthen my legs and make me look very slim. I tend to fall off of them once in a while on uneven pavement, but I look quite svelte on the way down.
Right shape, right fit – but I would never ever go for the whiskers. Never.
But they were on sale.
In the August issue, Lucky Magazine said of whiskered jeans: “You’ll look crazy cute on date night.”
Well, that clinched it. Here’s my money.
I am a marketer’s dream.
I definitely want to look crazy cute on date night.
Did I mention that I’m sixty?
Drive-Thru Confessions
Guilt Relief In Thirty Seconds:
1.
We have cats. Cats puke. Sometimes when I walk into a room and see that one of our cats has thrown up, I turn around and give my husband time to find it instead.
2.
My toaster oven does not cook very evenly. When I make toast, one slice is nicely toasted, but not the other. I usually give my husband the other.
3.
When I buy something new, I don’t wear it right away. I put it in a drawer for a couple of weeks. When I finally do wear it, if my husband asks, “Is that new?” – I say “No, I’ve had this for a while.”
4.
I like to write (in my head) during a long drive. When I get a good idea, and I need some alone-time to think it out, I watch for a new BMW, or Ford, or …well, any car, really, and I say to my husband, “What do you think about that model?” And while he goes on about cars, I have at least a good half-hour with my thoughts.
All done, thank you. I feel better.
- Image by garyowen via Flickr
Just Browsing
No gray hair for me. I’ve taken care of that issue for years. I’m a nice golden brown color, and I’m staying that way for the next ten years at least.
But what is up with my EYEBROWS?
My eyebrows have always looked like this:
Not my real eye.
They have an okay shape, as long as I do some serious and frequent hedge-trimming.
But now they are going gray. White really. And that’s not as easy to fix as the top of my head, given the proximity to my precious eyeballs. I color them in with the smudgy tip from my eyeliner, but I think they are winning.
I have considerable artistic ability – as you can see by the expert sketch above – so I’ll continue to apply my color remedy.
What I don’t understand is the strays. If my eyebrows are getting white, you would think that the extraneous eyebrows that grow all over my lids would get white too. BUT NOooo……! I’ve got white eyebrows and black weeds.
(annotated for your convenience)
I pluck out the unruly guys. Every evening I pluck. Every morning I have another. How fast does eyebrow hair grow? I think I could be the Rapunzel of eyebrows.
The women’s magazines warn you not to overpluck your brows, because you damage the follicles and they won’t grow back. Well, I’ve been trying to damage my rogue follicles for TWENTY-FIVE YEARS. They are not only healthy; I think they are procreating.
I am wondering if my eyebrow hairs are perhaps experiencing some age-related regret. All their little lives, they wished they were eyelashes, so they are migrating down there — sort of a ciliary bucketlist.
Size Creep
Two years ago I lost 12 lbs. The incentive was my 40th high school reunion. I was really skinny in high school, and although I will never be skinny again, I wanted to look young. Specifically, I wanted to looked younger than a few select classmates. Preferably, younger than all my classmates.
I wasn’t exactly successful, but 12 lbs was okay. I bought a slinky dress in the same size I wore 15 years ago to my 25th reunion. Not bad. It was softly lit in the banquet room, which also helped. It helped everyone else too, but I like to think it helped me especially.
So I was rummaging through my closet the other day, and I came upon some old clothes. The same size 10 that I am now so proud of wearing. I don’t have to explain why I have some clothes in my closet that are fifteen years old. You know you do too.
I found this skirt.
I loved this skirt. I love the sheer chiffon material, the border at the bottom, the sarong shape with the tied waist. I bought it for a classy Sunday afternoon wedding, and I wore it with a sexy little tank top. Don’t worry, I had a cardigan in case the weather was cool.
I loved this skirt. So I put it on. Or rather, tried to. Holy Mackerel. Not only couldn’t I button the waist; I couldn’t get it to slide down over my hips. It just sat around my waist like the inner tube I used to float on at the Lake.
But it’s a size 10! Like I wear now!
Then it dawned on me – what should have dawned on me two years ago when I first lost the weight. Although I am now a size ten, I am also 16 lbs heavier than I was the last time I wore a size ten. It’s not because I’m so ‘toned’ from all the yoga. I’ve been scammed. The clothing manufacturers have re-sized everything to make you feel better.
I googled it, and found I was right. It’s called vanity sizing. The clothing industry claims it’s not just for vanity. It’s to keep a “medium” the size that the average woman needs. And average women are bigger, so average sizes are bigger.
And it’s not just women’s sizes. Men’s Dockers pants in a size 36″ waist are really 39.5″ at the waist.
So we can all feel good buying the same size while we get big in the middle.
But I’m looking on the bright side. If I can maintain my current weight, then fifteen years from now, at my 57th reunion, I’ll be a size six. That’s what I wore when I graduated high school. I’m skinny again!
The Conspiracy
Image by disgustipado via Flickr
I have a theory for everything. Some of my theories are what my family calls “out there”, but I have one theory that has abundant evidence supporting it.
I believe that when a boy reaches a certain age, (probably when he discovers his best friend/body part), his father sits him down for a serious and confidential discussion.
It goes like this:
Pretty soon girls will come into your life. And eventually you will marry.
When you get married, your wife’s expectations will be very high. So you need to know the secret of lowering her expectations- a secret passed down from father to son for generations.
When your wife asks you to do something, you don’t argue. You say ‘Sure, Honey’. But then you @#$%# it up so badly she will never ask you again.
Here are some examples:
Laundry: Red shirt in with the whites
Vacuuming: Suck up the cat toys
Cooking: Two words – smoke detector
Cleaning the Toilet: gritty cleanser on the seat
Changing diapers – you don’t need any hints on this. You will mess this up. Don’t show any improvement.
If you are okay with looking completely incompetent, you can even go all the way to loading the dishwasher and watering the plants.
Son, just lower the expectations. Screw it up and you are off the hook. For ever.
There are a few chores that do not apply:
Taking out the garbage. This is a man’s job. Folklore has it that in the nineteenth century a man tried to get out of this duty by dropping the garbage. But it was a horrible mess, and his wife made him pick it up. So just do it. However, I don’t mean, ‘just do it’ – like literally – let your wife ask you at least three times.
Mowing the lawn. This is a man’s job. It entails equipment, and that’s fun.
Barbecue – this entails fire and lighter fluid, and that’s fun.
Car maintenance – you get to buy tools.
That’s it, son. Follow this advice and you will get through marriage relatively painlessly.
Oh, one more thing – NEVER EVER say, ‘What did you do to your hair?‘
A Presidential – but nonpolitical – Milestone
Image via Wikipedia
Disclaimer: As the title indicates, this is not a political post. There is no agenda. This essay is, as always, just about me and my vanity.
Barack Obama’s election to the Presidency was historic in all the ways that have been celebrated, discussed, and debated for the last few years.
But his election also set a personal milestone for me too – although I didn’t realize it until a few weeks ago.
I am older than the President of the United States!
And not just a little bit – as the pundits discussed the President’s fiftieth birthday, I was stricken with the fact that I am a decade older than the President of the United States.
I mean, THAT”S OLD!
In my childhood, presidents were wiser, older. Think Eisenhower. Wasn’t he about eighty?
Image via Wikipedia
And young presidents, like my beloved Jack Kennedy – well, he wasn’t young to me. I was twelve when he was killed. And Johnson aged before my eyes in the mid-sixties.
Presidents were old. And you believed in them because of all their vast experience.
But now I have crested that moment when suddenly I am on the other side of the age mountain, and there is no going back. I don’t think there will ever again be a president older than I.
Gradually, but steadily, my life is being overtaken by youth.
First was that all-important person, my hairdresser. I didn’t mind; I told myself that a younger woman will be hipper, and that will be good for me.
Then it was my doctor. Okay, I thought, just out of med school means he is up to date on all the latest scientific knowledge, and that will be good for me.
Then there was the police. Here certainly youth is a good thing – ensuring that our cops have the strength and reflexes to respond to dangerous situations. Like the young trooper dude who helped me break into my house when I locked myself out.
Then it was my boss. I’ve tried to look on the bright side here too. My young boss still has young kids; she’ll understand the difficult balance between work life and home life.
So I’ve given it my best shot to be philosophic about the whole thing.
But the truth is: I’m annoyed.
Government and work and medical care –and my hair – are going to be decided by people less experienced than myself. More and more over the years, more and more pieces of my life will be ruled by WHIPPERSNAPPERS. No, let me change ‘whippersnappers’ – because that makes me sound even older. My life will be ruled by PUNKS.
God, I hope they are wise punks.
Ingredient List
Image via Wikipedia
My husband loves junk food. But he hates to spend money on junk food. So he buys the cheapest candy and cookies he can find.
It’s my opinion (and therefore superior) that, if you are going to eat chocolate (or a cookie, or whatever) – if you are going to have all those empty calories, they should be the most delicious calories you can find. Nothing but Belgian truffles for me.
But my husband continues to bring home stuff he picked up at the dollar store – cookies that are made of who knows what. The ingredient list includes stuff that no one has ever heard of, and which I suspect are just made-up synonyms for plastic. And he eats it.
So the other day we stopped at the store for a couple of things, and I picked up a container of salt. It was just generic salt.
My husband asked me to put it back.
He said, “I’m uncomfortable with no-name salt. Let’s buy the name brand.”‘
So here is my question. What did he think was in the SALT?
Did he suspect that they scraped it up from the side of the road at the end of winter?
I’m Sticking With It
I’ve heard it said that when you find a style that suits you, you should stick with it.
I’m not sure who said that – it was definitely not one of my mother’s pearls – but if I had to wager a guess, I’d say:
Liza Minnelli
Over the years I have developed a fondness for cardigan sweaters. I love a cardigan sweater over a cami. I love it with jeans, slacks, crops, skirts, shorts. I’d probably even go for harem pants, if I could add a cardigan.
Cardigans are figure-flattering, no matter what. Having a skinny day? Button in at the middle, and give yourself a teeny waist. Chubby today? Leave it open and the two sides will give you a nice vertical line–very slimming with that one stripe of camisole down the middle. I prefer a white cami, just about always, although a pop of color is sometimes nice. Like off-white.
So the other day my husband and I stopped at TJ Maxx so he could buy some new underwear. He’s responsible for his own laundry, so I have no idea why he needs six pairs every month or so, but that’s his business.
Anyway, while he was contemplating whether he wanted to try those new bermuda-brief things, I wandered over to the sweater department. They had a whole new shipment of cardigans, and the price was excellent. I was especially drawn to the pale gray-green and the orchid. These colors would really work with my wardrobe, so I bought both.
So now I have an almost complete cardigan collection.
It’s almost complete, because I’m thinking about going back for the ecru that would fit nicely into this mix… and I could always use a paler blue. Or a darker green.
I have some print cardigans too – argyle, paisley. floral. Because they add significant variety to my wardrobe.
notquiteold 