As the weather begins to warm and trees bud we know with certainty that summer is on the way. There would be no more fitting time to address the issue of size. The size I am talking about is the size of your clothes. Let's face it America's waist lines have grown by epic proportions over the past twenty years. We all know it is our convenience society and processed food, but that not withstanding it is time to really think about how you are dressing your body.
I made my early Sunday morning run to Wal-Mart today when I saw her. You know her, it doesn't matter if you are in California, Missouri or New York City. Everyone knows Sally McSqeeze a lot Sausage Girl. This is the woman or girl who buys her clothes based on the size on the tag on the inside that no one can see. What we do see, well it isn't what we want to see. My Sally of today was dressed in black. Black is a nice slimming color, I wear it often. She, however was wearing pants at least two sizes too small causing a nice sausage appearance in her mid section. She had her breasts pushed up and nearly out of her much too tight black top. The worst part was the pants had very narrow legs which were accented by very high healed shoes. Sally McSqeeze looked as if she might topple right over. I am going to give her extra credit for confidence but an F for tolerable fashion.
I am a child of the 1980's, I have made my fair share of fashion mistakes, oversized sweatshirts, jelly shoes, bows and ribbons, lace to name a few. I am not immune to the fashion mistake. It is out of concern really that I write this blog because summer is on it's way and all the Sally McSqeeze a lots are going to be wearing less and harnessing more.
I have never understood the woman who announces to the world the size of her pants. "I wear a size six." To which I have always wanted to respond, "really?, which leg?" I know it seems cruel, it isn't. I have never been one of the long and lean girls. I know the fashion dilemma faced by a body that doesn't seem to fit the days fashion. After four children and 30 years of battling weight gain I have come to the conclusion I will never wear a halter top or two piece swim suit and that is okay.
I offer this advice, girls, unless you really do have legs that go from here to tomorrow, please don't buy and wear short shorts two sizes too small. Frankly I don't think it matters what size you are, don't buy and wear "booty shorts" unless you are a professional streetwalker or wearing them in the privacy of your own home. Almost everyone has a little cellulite and frankly we have enough and don't want to see yours.
I could go on and on about tank tops, halters, low cut dresses, short skirts - the whole gamut of sexy clothing that is the norm in America today. Sexy dressing is good, no it is great. When you dress sexy it makes you feel like a million dollars. The one thing you need to take into consideration is what is sexy on one person who actually is a size six and what is sexy on another who is actually a size 16 are often two very different things.
Don't be a Sally McSqeeze alot Sausage girl. Be who you are and be beautiful for who you are, not who you think you should be. Some of the best fashion ideas I have ever gotten are from African American women who are 40+. I am not a big lover of the manicured nails that seem popular with this group but other than that, they take fashion and accessorizing to a whole new level. I love the hats and the jewelry and how they can coordinate everything so well. Where ever you get your inspiration please don't let it be from the Sally McSqueeze a lots.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Olympia Gold and Lemon Drops
As I was driving through town today a childhood memory came back to me and made me laugh at the insanity of it. By sharing it on my blog perhaps I will make you laugh but more likely I will make you understand why I am the way I am a little bit more.
I sat in traffic with my daughter and niece on our way to one of those fancy stores that sells prom and wedding dresses. My oldest is now 17 and we are getting ready for the all so important senior prom. We were off to find a dress.
So I sat at a red light and reached down to pick up my can of diet Pepsi to take a drink and the can itself sparked the memory. When I was a child there was never a time that my parents were not drinking from a can while they negotiated Mesa Arizona traffic. Mom's drink of choice was Olympia Gold, which if you don't know, was a popular beer in the 1970's. My father's choice, the trademark red and white can of Budweiser. My memories of being about eight years old sitting in the backseat of my Mom's Cadillac came flooding back. It was Arizona and it was hot but I don't remember air conditioning in cars then so we rode with all the windows down. Mom's bleach blond hair would be whipping in the wind in front of me and she would have that long More cigarette lit and that gold can of Olympia Gold in between her legs as she drove. Once in while she would flick her ashes out the open window and they would inevitably blow right in my window and into my eye. I would always say, "Mom, your ash flew in my eye again." to which my Mother would reply, "Oh, you will be alright, here have a lemon drop." A lemon drop would be handed to me and I would put in my mouth and everything was okay.
Thus began my belief that in life lemon drops could make everything okay. I think my mother must of had quite a store of lemon drops in the car because it didn't matter what the problem was the answer was always a lemon drop. On long car rides if you complained about being hungry you got a lemon drop. If you had to go to the bathroom - another lemon drop came your way. Maybe your brother smacked you in the head, whoop, here came the lemon drop.
I did try the lemon drop trick on a family vacation once, it did work to a certain extent but there was no Olympia Gold so I think the real magic just didn't happen. Considering I wasn't half baked in my own intoxication I could still hear the complaints and pleas from disgruntled children. I gave up on the lemon drops to solved all of the issues of the car because the alternative of trying the mix just doesn't seem like a prudent choice and I don't like beer anyway.
This my no means should suggest that I think drinking and driving is okay. It was wrong but no sense in judging the dead and since both my parents are gone it is not only safe to tell this story and is necessary to look back at it with humor not horror.
I sat in traffic with my daughter and niece on our way to one of those fancy stores that sells prom and wedding dresses. My oldest is now 17 and we are getting ready for the all so important senior prom. We were off to find a dress.
So I sat at a red light and reached down to pick up my can of diet Pepsi to take a drink and the can itself sparked the memory. When I was a child there was never a time that my parents were not drinking from a can while they negotiated Mesa Arizona traffic. Mom's drink of choice was Olympia Gold, which if you don't know, was a popular beer in the 1970's. My father's choice, the trademark red and white can of Budweiser. My memories of being about eight years old sitting in the backseat of my Mom's Cadillac came flooding back. It was Arizona and it was hot but I don't remember air conditioning in cars then so we rode with all the windows down. Mom's bleach blond hair would be whipping in the wind in front of me and she would have that long More cigarette lit and that gold can of Olympia Gold in between her legs as she drove. Once in while she would flick her ashes out the open window and they would inevitably blow right in my window and into my eye. I would always say, "Mom, your ash flew in my eye again." to which my Mother would reply, "Oh, you will be alright, here have a lemon drop." A lemon drop would be handed to me and I would put in my mouth and everything was okay.
Thus began my belief that in life lemon drops could make everything okay. I think my mother must of had quite a store of lemon drops in the car because it didn't matter what the problem was the answer was always a lemon drop. On long car rides if you complained about being hungry you got a lemon drop. If you had to go to the bathroom - another lemon drop came your way. Maybe your brother smacked you in the head, whoop, here came the lemon drop.
I did try the lemon drop trick on a family vacation once, it did work to a certain extent but there was no Olympia Gold so I think the real magic just didn't happen. Considering I wasn't half baked in my own intoxication I could still hear the complaints and pleas from disgruntled children. I gave up on the lemon drops to solved all of the issues of the car because the alternative of trying the mix just doesn't seem like a prudent choice and I don't like beer anyway.
This my no means should suggest that I think drinking and driving is okay. It was wrong but no sense in judging the dead and since both my parents are gone it is not only safe to tell this story and is necessary to look back at it with humor not horror.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
I don't want to go to your kids birthday party
Every week at my house there are invitations to birthday parties for kids I have never seen or met. By virtue of sharing a class with one of my sons, we have the pleasure of being invited to many many parties.
When I was a kid a birthday was somewhat of a special day of celebration within our family. If we were lucky maybe a Grandparent would come. After a normal family dinner, Mom would break out the birthday cake she made that day - in our oven. Mom and Dad would give us a couple of gifts and we would all sing happy birthday. That was it, finished, birthday done. None of us ended up on the therapist couch because of it.
Fast forward 20 years and here we are as parents. The celebration of the birth of our child now has to include everyone who has ever come in contact with Little Johnny. We begin to budget for the blow out at the local skating rink, bowling alley, speciality party spot, movies, or in some cases party hall, months ahead of time. Pre-printed invitations are made, cakes equivalent to wedding confections are ordered and it looks like Christmas morning at the gift table. In the infamous shortened phrases of our teenagers -- WTF.
This may sound harsh, but if I have never met you I don't want to come to Peggy Ann's 9th birthday party at the Partyrama Playground of Fantasy for Little Girls. It is Saturday afternoon and I have four children, loads of laundry, grocery shopping and a house to clean. I cannot and frankly will not stop in the middle to deliver one of my children to your extravaganza. It isn't that I'm harsh but I'm a realist. If I were to allow my boys to attend every party to which they were invited I would spend more time in the toy isle at Target than any other place during the week attempting to pick out a gift for a child I have never met, then running all over town to deliver said children to whatever great play place you have rented for this celebration.
Seriously folks, I'm glad you have kids, I am glad you love your kids but is throwing over the top parties for kids you have never met really going to my Little Johnny feel more loved? Could this whole birthday party thing be a symptom of what is wrong with our generation and how this economic train got off the tracks? I hate to bring politics into sweet children's parties but the reality of our need to show the world how successful we are by vicarious displays through our children's social network is appalling.
Am I the only "mean" Mommy left in the world. An island on to myself, I am not attempting to live through my children but live for raising my children. At times I think I am the only parent who realizes that these little people are going to be adults some day and it is my job to make them face the harshness of what is real. In the real world, things do not stop at the exact moment of your birth so the entire world can play homage to you. Seriously, most people don't care it is your birthday when you grow up.
I'm not saying I don't celebrate my kids birthdays, or that I don't ever have parties for them but I believe less is more and milestones are worth a nod. I never invite the whole class from school and we don't rent out halls for celebrations.
Lets stop renting ponies and bounce arounds. How about a family meal with your kids to talk about their day, movie night, game night or a special day out at the park. These things, when done for no reason at all are bound to have more of an impact that super party extravaganza. Of course I suppose all the super Mom's out there are already doing all that as well. I guess I'm just too much of a realist for all this Super Momdom. The bottom line is, I don't want to go to your kids birthday party and I'm probably not going to. If you don't know my name, chances are, my kids are going to skip the grand celebration you have planned to make yourself feel better for barely knowing your kids name.
When I was a kid a birthday was somewhat of a special day of celebration within our family. If we were lucky maybe a Grandparent would come. After a normal family dinner, Mom would break out the birthday cake she made that day - in our oven. Mom and Dad would give us a couple of gifts and we would all sing happy birthday. That was it, finished, birthday done. None of us ended up on the therapist couch because of it.
Fast forward 20 years and here we are as parents. The celebration of the birth of our child now has to include everyone who has ever come in contact with Little Johnny. We begin to budget for the blow out at the local skating rink, bowling alley, speciality party spot, movies, or in some cases party hall, months ahead of time. Pre-printed invitations are made, cakes equivalent to wedding confections are ordered and it looks like Christmas morning at the gift table. In the infamous shortened phrases of our teenagers -- WTF.
This may sound harsh, but if I have never met you I don't want to come to Peggy Ann's 9th birthday party at the Partyrama Playground of Fantasy for Little Girls. It is Saturday afternoon and I have four children, loads of laundry, grocery shopping and a house to clean. I cannot and frankly will not stop in the middle to deliver one of my children to your extravaganza. It isn't that I'm harsh but I'm a realist. If I were to allow my boys to attend every party to which they were invited I would spend more time in the toy isle at Target than any other place during the week attempting to pick out a gift for a child I have never met, then running all over town to deliver said children to whatever great play place you have rented for this celebration.
Seriously folks, I'm glad you have kids, I am glad you love your kids but is throwing over the top parties for kids you have never met really going to my Little Johnny feel more loved? Could this whole birthday party thing be a symptom of what is wrong with our generation and how this economic train got off the tracks? I hate to bring politics into sweet children's parties but the reality of our need to show the world how successful we are by vicarious displays through our children's social network is appalling.
Am I the only "mean" Mommy left in the world. An island on to myself, I am not attempting to live through my children but live for raising my children. At times I think I am the only parent who realizes that these little people are going to be adults some day and it is my job to make them face the harshness of what is real. In the real world, things do not stop at the exact moment of your birth so the entire world can play homage to you. Seriously, most people don't care it is your birthday when you grow up.
I'm not saying I don't celebrate my kids birthdays, or that I don't ever have parties for them but I believe less is more and milestones are worth a nod. I never invite the whole class from school and we don't rent out halls for celebrations.
Lets stop renting ponies and bounce arounds. How about a family meal with your kids to talk about their day, movie night, game night or a special day out at the park. These things, when done for no reason at all are bound to have more of an impact that super party extravaganza. Of course I suppose all the super Mom's out there are already doing all that as well. I guess I'm just too much of a realist for all this Super Momdom. The bottom line is, I don't want to go to your kids birthday party and I'm probably not going to. If you don't know my name, chances are, my kids are going to skip the grand celebration you have planned to make yourself feel better for barely knowing your kids name.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
The sun was shining today for the first time all week and the temperatures had finally risen to above permafrost so it seemed like a wonderful day to take a stroll in downtown Harrisonburg for lunch. Being that I had had a minimal breakfast I was hungry and looking forward to a nice meal outside the office. After all, I usually eat at my desk.
I took a walk down Water Street and came upon an old diner called The Water Street Cafe. As I was alone on lunch today it looked like a perfect place to eat solo while reading the paper. I pushed open the old wood and glass door and I knew I should probably turn and go. It was 12:30 and for a downtown luncheon spot the customers were sparse. As a matter of fact it appeared as if there was only one other diner and the restaurant had the strange aroma of grease and oldness. Old people, old building or just old, I'm not sure. I was however, committed, I had been spotted.
I took a seat facing the door as not to make eye contact with the one other diner and was quickly greeted by the 65-year-old waitress who immediately wanted to know if I wanted breakfast or dinner. A quick look at my watch revealed that it was in fact 12:30 which by my calculations meant lunch time but I answered dinner, as it seemed appropriate. She brought me the "Thursday dinner menu" and I knew I had made a wrong turn. Four entrees were featured. Country Ham, Three piece chicken (which I suspect consisted of a wing, a thigh and a drum stick.), turkey or chopped steak with mushroom gravy. None of this appealed to me but as I have said, I was committed. Chopped steak - well that is just really hamburger so how can you mess that up right? I like mushroom gravy, or so I thought. So I ordered.It was about three minutes later that the lone patron of the restaurant spoke to me from across the room. The man, rather rumpled, about 60 years old wearing what appeared to be weathered and perhaps somewhat unlaundered clothes asked me if I worked at the jewelry store. I replied that I did not and turned my attention elsewhere, anywhere else. The conversation about how I looked like the girl from the jewelry store continued from across the room until Mr. Rumpled came to the table and asked if he could sit and talk for a minute. "You are such a pretty lady and I sure would like to talk with you for a few minutes." I thought to myself, "Laura, God puts people in front of you in many different ways, it would not hurt you to talk to this man."I obliged him. As he sat near me I realized my intuition about the unwashed clothing was correct from the smell and I just kept smiling hoping to find some wisdom in what this man was saying to me. The one way conversation with him talking and me smiling went on for what seemed like an eternity. We or more aptly he, covered King Solomon, The Mormon Church, polygamy, pretty young college girls, how he came to be homeless and move into the salvation army, his 9th grade education and my obvious virtue. Now, bear in mind my virtue is not obvious but he said it was.
My food finally arrived and when the round hamburger patty covered in a white jelly like goo was placed in front of me I realized there was no way out of this very bad decision. One bite was all I could eat as the musty old man continued to talk about pretty women and homelessness. Finally my lunch hour was over. My appetite not satisfied and no words of wisdom found in the creepy old man. I let him leave the restaurant before I took my own leave as I did not want to walk down Water Street with him making strange one sided conversation in my effort not to be rude.
As I paid my bill the waitress said "well honey, you didn't eat a thing, do you want me to wrap that up for you?" To which I replied, "No, I wasn't as hungry as I thought and I'm out of time." Tomorrow I think I will pack a sandwich and eat at the table outside the office, so as not to risk an inedible lunch with a homeless man again.
I took a walk down Water Street and came upon an old diner called The Water Street Cafe. As I was alone on lunch today it looked like a perfect place to eat solo while reading the paper. I pushed open the old wood and glass door and I knew I should probably turn and go. It was 12:30 and for a downtown luncheon spot the customers were sparse. As a matter of fact it appeared as if there was only one other diner and the restaurant had the strange aroma of grease and oldness. Old people, old building or just old, I'm not sure. I was however, committed, I had been spotted.
I took a seat facing the door as not to make eye contact with the one other diner and was quickly greeted by the 65-year-old waitress who immediately wanted to know if I wanted breakfast or dinner. A quick look at my watch revealed that it was in fact 12:30 which by my calculations meant lunch time but I answered dinner, as it seemed appropriate. She brought me the "Thursday dinner menu" and I knew I had made a wrong turn. Four entrees were featured. Country Ham, Three piece chicken (which I suspect consisted of a wing, a thigh and a drum stick.), turkey or chopped steak with mushroom gravy. None of this appealed to me but as I have said, I was committed. Chopped steak - well that is just really hamburger so how can you mess that up right? I like mushroom gravy, or so I thought. So I ordered.It was about three minutes later that the lone patron of the restaurant spoke to me from across the room. The man, rather rumpled, about 60 years old wearing what appeared to be weathered and perhaps somewhat unlaundered clothes asked me if I worked at the jewelry store. I replied that I did not and turned my attention elsewhere, anywhere else. The conversation about how I looked like the girl from the jewelry store continued from across the room until Mr. Rumpled came to the table and asked if he could sit and talk for a minute. "You are such a pretty lady and I sure would like to talk with you for a few minutes." I thought to myself, "Laura, God puts people in front of you in many different ways, it would not hurt you to talk to this man."I obliged him. As he sat near me I realized my intuition about the unwashed clothing was correct from the smell and I just kept smiling hoping to find some wisdom in what this man was saying to me. The one way conversation with him talking and me smiling went on for what seemed like an eternity. We or more aptly he, covered King Solomon, The Mormon Church, polygamy, pretty young college girls, how he came to be homeless and move into the salvation army, his 9th grade education and my obvious virtue. Now, bear in mind my virtue is not obvious but he said it was.
My food finally arrived and when the round hamburger patty covered in a white jelly like goo was placed in front of me I realized there was no way out of this very bad decision. One bite was all I could eat as the musty old man continued to talk about pretty women and homelessness. Finally my lunch hour was over. My appetite not satisfied and no words of wisdom found in the creepy old man. I let him leave the restaurant before I took my own leave as I did not want to walk down Water Street with him making strange one sided conversation in my effort not to be rude.
As I paid my bill the waitress said "well honey, you didn't eat a thing, do you want me to wrap that up for you?" To which I replied, "No, I wasn't as hungry as I thought and I'm out of time." Tomorrow I think I will pack a sandwich and eat at the table outside the office, so as not to risk an inedible lunch with a homeless man again.
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