Where Are Clinton and Stacy When You Need Them?

Today, people, I went shopping. Today was my designated shopping day. I donned an easy to doff dress and slip-on shoes, and went forth into buying battle, prepared to try on as many dresses as it took to find THE dress.

I may not have mentioned this, but I have an upcoming high school reunion, and as you may or may not know, it is all about the dress. Or it becomes all about the dress.

At first, it is about the excitement. Who will I see? How will they look? What have they been up to? And then YIKES! the realization hits: Who will see me? How will I look? And most importantly, how can I find a dress that makes me look like I have not been doing what I have been doing for the last 25 years, i.e., slowly losing the battle with my genetic material.

A month ago, I thought I'd found the perfect dress, and I felt so smug. I was relaxed. I wouldn't have to go through that last-minute dress panic. And then I read the invitation: "Semi-formal." Hmmm. Well, semi-formal means cocktail dress or dressy separates, but just how dressy? A semi-formal affair, in Oakdale, at a place called the "Almond Pavilion" ...anything could happen. My dress, while flattering, is jersey, which is definitely a non-semi-formal material.

There is a fine balance between looking fabulous and trying too hard. There is also a fine balance, especially at my age, between semi-formal and Mother of the Bride. The choices available in the stores are either strapless or dowdy. Anything cute is too small or too revealing. Anything with upper arm coverage is the dress equivalent of a bathing suit with a skirt.

Velvet and sequins are obviously out. Velvet is out of season and sequins are trying too hard. Of course, someone who still has the body they had in high school (which was great to start with) by means natural or otherwise, will wear sequins, and everyone who rejected the sequins will curse her choice. Someone is going to wear the perfect thing, and then no matter what I choose, I'll smack myself in the head wishing I'd found it first.

Silk charmeuse is beautiful, eternally sexy, and shows every curve. Especially the ones you don't want to show. It's as comfy as a nightgown and looks like one. It is also one of those unfortunate fabrics, like linen and rayon, that reverberates when you walk. (Take note.) Powerful undergarments must be worn. Or no undergarments at all over a drum-tight body. I have neither powerful undergarments (nor the desire to wear them), nor do I have the flat stomach and stairmaster butt that I once (so briefly) had. But the dress of my dreams is made of gunmetal gray, heavy silk and feels like pajamas. It's ruched here and boosted there; part siren, part bombshell. (Sigh.) *I realized later while re-reading this that it sounds like more an air-raid than a reunion dress!

It also comes with its own theme song, confetti and a banner overhead: "CONGRATULATIONS! YOU LOOK FABULOUS!".

You can see the potential pit-falls of shopping for such a magic dress. But today, today was worse than merely full of pits to fall in. It was the pits. July is a great time for bargain shopping-- if you're looking for mis-matched bathing suits or cheap cotton separates in the reject colors from Spring. But it is the WORST time to shop for THE dress.

Today was also my first trip out into a mall since this whole economic slowdown. Let me tell you, it was bleak out there. The rubber has met the road. I could have driven a car between the racks in some of those stores, they were so sparsely stocked. The teenage salespeople were so bored out of their minds they'd actually keep talking as the few shoppers slipped in like ant scouts looking for sugar. A few, god bless them, actually made eye contact and welcomed us to the store.

With the closing of the Mervyn's chain, there were dark corners in the mall that didn't exist before. Some mall official had tried to stuff a few benches and fake potted plants in the corners, but there was no lighting yet, so it just looked sad and dark. I mentioned how quiet it seemed to a girl at one of the counters, and she said, "Oh, I think everyone's at the fair." Meaning the county fair. If the people who go to the county fair are the only mall customers left, we are really in trouble.

But back to my problem. So I tried one mall (the closest one, 45 minutes away) but they had no dresses. I went to the other mall in the same town, which I described above. In desperation, I came home, fortified myself with a tomato sandwich and went forth again, to the local outlet mall. I tried on three dresses, all casual, just to try on something. I went through every shop, even though I knew some of them wouldn't have a thing.

This is not fun shopping, this is work shopping. This is goal-oriented, thankless, pavement-pounding shopping. This is the search for the wearable holy grail. And it's taking place all over the country as women attempt to dress for the summer's remaining reunions and weddings.

All I can say is, good luck girls! And if one of you finds my dress, you know where to find me. I'll be waiting here under the banner.

Peachy Keen

Summer is glorious, isn't it? I know we're finally there when I can have these luscious peaches for breakfast, and fat, juicy slices of heirloom tomatoes on my sandwich at lunch.

Pupsicles

Last week when it was so hot, I froze some cut up vegetables in a bowl of ice. The next day, I put them out for the dogs to try out. At first they were a little hesitant, but as soon as Tugboat figured out there was food involved, he pretty much monopolized the snow-cone.

This week I let them bob for fruits and veggies in the kiddie pool.

At the Risk of Spoiling the Surprise...

I thought these fly-fishing flies were so lovely that I wanted to show them to you. I bought them as a his and hers set for a recently married couple I know. Shhhhh. Don't tell. I'm giving them their present tomorrow.

I Have Issues

I have issues. Oh, yes I do. And while I've curbed my catalog habit and have cut my magazine subscriptions down to one or two (currently Family Fun, which I'm going to cancel, and Photoshopuser, which comes with my NAPP membership), I still have magazines. I like to buy the latest Bust, and ReadyMade if I see something that interests me. And I like to refer to them often for inspiration and amusement.

BEFORE:

So, following the Assess, De-junk, Renew philosophy of organization

(Jeezus Mary and Josephine, is that guy outside done weed-whacking YET?!)

...following the methodology of Assess, De-junk, Renew, I took stock of my stacks, measured my mags and decided a trip to IKEA was in order, for a narrow shelf that would fit in the space between my window seat and my existing bookshelf. I've tried to purchase matching bookshelves each time so that when we move, they can be reconfigured to fit the necessary space. Billy and I go way back. Billy Birch, to be more precise. I was a little dismayed to find that the new birch shelf did not match the old birch shelves when I got it home, but I am hoping they will all darken to the same tone over time.

A little bit of assembly, another trip to Cost Plus for the cute folding magazine holders (made of 100% recycled paper) and voila, an organized magazine space and a cozy, well-lit reading nook. Next step is to get up there and attach the reading light and fasten all of these shelves to the wall so that they don't crush me if there is ever an earthquake.

AFTER:



The folders that you see on the second shelf up from the bottom are where I keep clippings from magazines. It keeps me from saving a whole magazine for one article. When I'm feeling like I need some clothes, or something for the house, I flip through the clippings and reacquaint myself with the things I like. If I can't figure out what it was I liked in the first place, I throw the page away. It's a rotating scrapbook of style and ideas.

I was also casually looking for a cheap wine rack to hold all of my rolled paper goods (wrapping paper, posters, paper samples, etc.) but I didn't find what I was looking for, so I made this one out of the box that the shelves came in. Bonus! It's not pretty, but it's in a hidden spot and it keeps things from falling on the fax machine.


(I collect vintage train cases, btw, so if anyone has one or finds one at a yard sale that looks like the ones you see here, send me a picture and I'll pay postage to get it here. I like squarish cases, leather and funky, 60s florals a big plus. Beach colors are good, but I like 'em all.)

Oops, I Did It Again

After languishing (on vacation and otherwise) for two months, having finished my first, triumphant though slightly surreal sprint triathlon, I finally decided that the best way to get my motivation back was to sign up for another one.

In retrospect, I was somehow able to minimize the sleeplessness, race day jitters, and the overwhelming feeling that I did not know what the heck I was doing, and maximize the memories of that great big grin I wore from the time I got out of the water to the time I finished the run. So yes, I'm doing it again, determined this time to do it just a little bit better and faster than before. Please, please make the water just a tad warmer. Just a tad.

(And if anyone in California or Seattle knows of someone who has a 54cm (cm? mm?) women's road bike for sale that won't break my bank, you can find me on facebook!)

Just Visiting

Way down at the bottom of my blogroll, there was a link called "Tiny Baby". Trevor James Millimaci was a baby whose site I came across one day while bloghopping through random sites. He was very, very tiny when he was born, with many complications. I think his mom started the blog because it was all she could think of to do with her time, since he was stuck there in the hospital, connected to feeders and machines and tubes, and she was home, without him.

I was once a premature baby too, so I took interest in this little guy.

Week after week, I'd tentatively pop in, hoping things were looking up, and that he'd eventually go home. And he did. I rooted for him each time he'd gain a pound. His mom posted pictures of him with his big sisters as he grew and grew, and started to look more like a little guy and less like a very, very premature baby.

He had big round eyes and a surprised o of a mouth. He wore fuzzy blue outfits and a cow Halloween costume. He had a Christmas. He smiled. A lot. And he started to talk. And then, some time in late June, when I'd let my visits to the site lapse for many months, Trevor James Millimaci died.

It seemed like he was home free. He was so much bigger and stronger, and he had people that loved him, and I'm sure they hoped and hoped he was out of the woods. But parts of him weren't strong enough.

I was just going to delete the link and not say anything. I didn't know him, didn't know them, at all. But as I scrolled through the pictures that preceded the image of the flowers in the cemetery, I saw his smile, just like any other little baby's, and the hopeful posts of childhood milestones finally, heroically reached, and I couldn't let him just disappear without saying something. In this peculiar internet world, we can't help but make human connections. I cared about what happened to him.

Rest in Peace, beautiful Trevor James Millimaci. If there is a heaven, you are in it, and all the things that little boys love are there.