First bit of advice.

Stop breathing weird in the next room. I can hear it and it's irritating.

Now for the first reader question, from kbfenner, who I love, because she reads both of my blogs. Which means she is also very smart. She writes:

Wow--I was starting to think this was the Monthly Digress. Too much ShopTarting....tsk tsk.

My question is what the heck do y'all wear under those flimsy silk spaghetti strap tanks you love to show photos of? The magazines all show models with flat chests and visible ribs, so that's no help....just curious, b/c I look like a linebacker in spaghetti straps...

Dearest kb,

Short answer: The right strapless bra.

Longer answer: I can't tell you what strapless bra to wear. At the moment, I favor one by Jezebel that appears to have been discontinued. This happens to me a lot. I used to like one by WonderBra, but my size was deemed no longer important by the powers that be. And I have stock in that company. That hurt. But I digress.

Then I had a long relationship with a bra by OnGossamer and I still don't know what happened, but one day I woke up and the magic was gone. I fell out of love, just like that. Well, not just like that. As you may be aware, bosoms change over time, which means the bra you love for years will not be The One forever. Serial monogamy is the way to go. Which means you need a new bra. And, trust me, there is a strapless bra somewhere in the world for almost everyone. I liked this one by Le Mystère when I was pregnant, but not after. Go figure. Go to Bits of Lace in Charleston and make sure you get someone with experience to help. Try to ignore any personality quirks; my experience is that the best fitters often have the strangest personalities. If you don't find The One, go to Nordstrom. Or Neiman Marcus. Or anywhere you can get a good fitting and a sympathetic ear. Try to find a salesperson that is similarly-breasted, if possible. Have a glass of wine or beer before you shop so you won't be shy or tempted by something uncomfortable. Have a liquor drink if you like. I recommend a Vodka Gimlet.

The right strapless bra should be comfortable and fit perfectly. Do not settle for less, even if you hate to shop. The long-term rewards are worth it. You need two: One in black and one as close to your natural skin color as possible. In fact, my only issue with the Jezebel I've been rocking is that it's too light. I've been considering trying to dye it a shade or two darker, but now that it's been discontinued, I'm scared to mess with it. Oh well, you can't have everything. Actually, you can and I need to follow my own advice.

If you can't get to a good store, order a bunch of them in different sizes (Think you're a 38B? You might be a 36C or even a 34D. Really.) Try them on in the privacy of your home and return what doesn't work. I am willing to personally fit anyone who wants it and I have mad skillzz, but you have to come to me. You don't have to buy me dinner, but an herbal tea would be nice.

Addendum to long answer: Girl, you do not look like a linebacker. I've seen you in Yoga clothes and you're lovely. Not that linebackers aren't lovely. They, too should rock camisoles should they desire. Like bras, camisoles come in many sizes and styles. In the South Carolina heat, it's a good idea to explore. As the now-proud owner of funny-shaped, well-loved bosoms, I pick and choose my camis. Rule Number One: They must cover my SBC*. Rule Number Two: There really is no other rule. Fashion rules are obsolete.

A few years ago, TF and I took the big kids to Disney World. I was pregnant, so spent most of my time eating and mocking people who drink at Disney World. One evening, at the Polynesian Resort Luau, TF looked at a table of sunburned guys in polos and khakis and their female companions. They were drinking umbrella drinks. With fruit.

"You know what's going to start happening over there?" he asked. "A little bit of this."

And he tucked his thumbs into his arm pits - arms out like he was doing the Chicken Dance, elbows above the shoulders - and pretended to hitch up his strapless bra. Or tube top. And that is why we need strapless bras that fit - because you never know when you might go somewhere really hot and drink one too many exactly the right number of umbrella drinks. You don't want to be that chick and you don't want to die in the sweltering heat because you couldn't go cami, now do you?

Namasté, y'all!

PS I have a few more questions to answer and this is fun, so bring it, y'all! I have opinions and I want to share!

* Strapless Bra of Choice.

Do you ever get nervous?

Like, when things are going really well? Do you ever lie awake at night, wondering what you forgot to do? Well, I do. I need an assistant, an assistant brain. Wouldn't that be nice? I'm often afraid I missed something. I also have the age-old teenager fear of looking like a dork. I'm pretty sure this fear is unfounded, because I already look like one. But what if I look like more of one?

My other website is doing well, which is good. Right? I'm going to start appearing on local television as The Shop Tart. Or so they say. What if I'm so awful they regret asking me and I don't end up doing it? What if they think I'm fine and I see it and realize I look like a moron? What if people hate it? What if people don't care? Ahhhhhh... What if I look fat? What if I look too thin, like those un-retouched photos of Madonna? What if I am fat? What if I am too thin? Looks aside, what if I sound stupid? What if nobody cares?

As a general rule, I'm pretty confident, but whenever new things happen, I get kind of squirrelly. Over many years, I've learned to move slow. My heart wants to jump into things, but I know I'm one of those people who learn by doing, which means moving really, really slow. I talked about this the other day with Till, a genius when it comes to hair with an excellent sense of humor (ie He laughs really hard at my jokes. Love. Him.) I spend as much time at the salon as possible, because I never get to see him otherwise. Stylists really are like therapists, like a best friend that you pay, so they can't dump you for being irritating. He's a slow and steady type of guy, too. I was lamenting the fact that I hadn't been able to jump in with both feet when developing my other blog, mainly because I'd be making more money by now and could buy cool stuff. There's a guy in my town (incidentally, the one who still owes me money) and I have moments when I envy him. He does exactly what he wants on a new project, money and details-be-d*mned. Till wisely explained the crash-and-burn risk of jumping the gun. *Sigh* The logical side of me sees the crash-and-burn to come; the wannabe-me wishes I had the same courage. Or not, because I'm not real keen on the idea of bankruptcy, owing money all over town or having people hate me. But he fools plenty of people, including yours truly, albeit briefly. Why can't I do that? Okay, okay, I know why. But still...

Enough of the wah-wah-wah. On Wednesday, my sister and I are going on a whirlwind tour of Charlotte, including trips to Ikea, the mall, Capitol*, PF Chang's and another restaurant or two, an overnight stay in new hotel Aloft** and an Ani Difranco show at the Neighborhood Theatre. Whoooooo-hoooooo! So, now I'm worried again. I really don't have the look for an Ani show these days. Would it be lame for me to wear my nose-ring, which I haven't worn in years? Is that trying too hard? The hole is still there, because I periodically stick earrings in it to freak out my kids. Do I own any t-shirts not meant for sleeping? Is it lame to go to American Apparel specifically to buy a casual t-shirt to wear to the show? Or three so I can pretend to layer at random? Will I feel like a freak dressed in multiple t-shirts at dinner beforehand? I don't have many flats. I'm guessing the Jimmy Choo pythons would be out of place. I really wish I'd scored some of the Lanvin flats in the Coplon's sale. Those would work. Where are my combat boots? Would Ani approve of this persistent omphaloskepsis? I think I used to wear overalls to Ani shows. Where are my overalls? Wait, omphaloskeptics can't wear overalls. Gah! I need a stylist.

Namasté, y'all!

* A boutique where I plan to spend a portion of the millions I'll eventually earn on my slow-and-steady project.

** Never fear: I'm still a Westin girl all the way. Aloft is the Westin's younger, funkier sister, like it has pool tables and stuff.

Put on some lipstick. Or brush your hair. Or something.

I took the kids to the mall Monday for our annual visit - the one where I convince myself that the mall would be a welcome distraction from the tedium of winter break. I also needed to return a pair of pants to Gymboree. I never buy clothes for my kids. I depend on my mom's embarrassment threshold, which is much, much lower than mine. My own bad behavior doesn't even embarrass me so having a child dressed like a street urchin doesn't faze me in the least. My mother tries to dress my children appropriately. I've learned not to waste the money; no matter what I buy, they'll wear the same soccer kits, grimy sweatshirts and well-loved t-shirts over and over. A month or so ago she brought the kids some cute duds from Gymboree. The Tank, after some wrestling, conceded his were pretty cool. O, the big kid, was polite yet firm. The khakis were not for him. Are there any actual fifth graders out there still willing to wear clothing with a Gymboree label? I guess it would be mean of me to call them dorks so, um, I won't*.

I tried to return the pants and found that such a thing wasn't really possible. I had the receipt and asked them to credit the $12.99 plus tax back to my mom's credit card. I, of course, did not have my mom's card. I wish I did. It probably has way more room on it than mine. But I digress. I didn't want to deal with a store credit given the high chance of my losing the credit before my return a year from now. Store policy wouldn't allow them to get the number over the phone from my mom. The full number wasn't on the receipt, just a portion of it. I get the policy, I do, but who would get mad if someone credited their card? But I digress again. I decided to let my mom deal with it and we left.

We had lunch, we rode the carousel and I almost vomited. Fun times. With full stomachs and brighter dispositions, the children and I agreed we might be able to choose some underpants in exchange for the hated baby khakis. Gymboree underpants rock. They are soft and have cool pictures and y'all know how desperate I am to talk the Tank into underpants**. I quickly found three pair, just his size, that more or less covered the credit. I waited in line.

And I waited some more. The woman in front of me had a few questions and she saw no reason the sole employee shouldn't answer all of them. Right that minute. She had a large stack of clothes, a credit card and what I believe was an unhealthy obsession with matching children's clothing.

"Do you have this in 18 to 24 months and size 6?"

"Well can you check in the back?"

"We already have everything from the Cupcake line. Do you have any more of these?"

"How about these?"

"Do you have anything else in the Craptastic line? How about the Silly Twit line?"

"Can you check in the back?"

"Can you check in the back again?"

I was this close to checking her in the back. What kind of mother knows the name of each individual line of clothing at Gymboree? I didn't even know they had names. What kind of person holds the sole employee hostage in a desperate attempt to secure matching outfits for her oblivious children? I'll tell you what kind of person. The kind who spends so much time thinking about how her babies look she's left with no time to put on lipstick, brush her hair or even pick out a decent looking track suit. The kind of person who is either oblivious or doesn't care that the next person in line has a five minute transaction and three antsy children. The kind of person who has "let herself go."

Don't jump down my throat. I'm not asking you to starve yourself, spend a fortune on clothes or spend hours at the gym each day***. I do think we should try to look decent for our spouses, our friends and ourselves. Don't go hating on Heidi Klum either - she speaks the truth. You may not be a super model, but you can come pretty close to your pre-baby body and you should try, as much for your health as your looks. And if you do keep an extra pound or seven, stop hating and buy yourself some decent clothes. And put on some lipstick. And brush your hair. Children are effortlessly cute, so spend as much money as you like on their clothes, but recognize the frivolity. I have no objection to frivolity - it's the cornerstone of my existance - I just want you to stand up straight and smile.

According to my childless-as-of-yet-but-brilliant-nonetheless friend Kristy, you should set a good example for your children by having high expectations. Demand a birthday cake for yourself, with candles. Insist on presents. Buy that cocktail dress before you even consider any cr*p from the Cupcake line at Gymboree (whatever the h*ll that is). Kristy explained that by not taking care of yourself, you teach your children to feel affection for people with low expectations. Next thing you know, they're bringing home dirty hippies with zero ambition and little to no energy to seek out birth control. Soon enough, you'll be housing your adult child, the aforementioned dirty hippy and their child, who will be adorable, really, but a bit of a burden if you're honest. Don't you want the house to yourself eventually? You paid for it. Shouldn't it be yours? The dirty hippy will not contribute to the rent. Or the housecleaning. So put on some lipstick already. How about this one? I found it at Pout recently and I think it rocks.

Namasté and Happy New Year, y'all!


* I lied. DORKS! Those are baby clothes!

** Didn't work. "I said 'Nooooo, thanks!' Dey not for me. I wanna' diaper." That's a direct quote. Hmph.

*** If you do, however, I salute you. And bet you are hot. Nothing wrong with that, sister!

My friend Angela is brilliant.

Do you ever kick yourself for not thinking of something first? Not literally, of course. My friend Angela happened to mention the other day that she was sipping her regular afternoon iced coffee while we were talking on the phone. Every morning, I have a cup of coffee or three six. The final cup usually gets ignored until it gets cold. So I heat it up in the microwave. But I forget about it, so I have to heat it up again. When I first got this microwave, I thought that problem was solved, because it beeps periodically until you open the door. Much like people who set their clocks ahead to combat lateness, I've outsmarted the system. I open the door after it beeps the first time, without removing the coffee. Then I close the door, planning to return in just a second for my coffee. Thirty minutes later, in search of my now cold coffee, I find it, right there in the damn microwave where I left it. Angela is smarter than that. Rather than let her leftover coffee fester, she freezes it in ice cube trays. In the afternoon, she adds milk. Voilà! Undiluted iced latté!

By the way, the rumors are true. All us lazy*ss stay at home mothers do is yak on the phone and drink coffee all day. While painting our toenails. While the kids are parked in front of a movie. True, all true. I know, as an avid reader of my blog (you are, aren't you?), you thought I did fun stuff all day long. You probably think I drink all day long. I know my mother thinks I do, because she recently told me to lay off the booze. Incidentally, she still hasn't offered to keep my kids, even though they would be in serious danger if I drank as much as she thinks I do. In truth, those three glasses of wine I claim are somewhat of an exaggeration. Except those times when the three glasses are actually a hair more. That's denial. But I digress.

I don't write about the boring times*. Who wants to hear about the time I woke up, made breakfast, had a boring semi-fight with my husband, went to the gym, went some other places and did boring stuff, went home and paid the babysitter, sat around doing nothing while Baby J napped, picked up the big kids from school, supervised homework, made dinner, ate it, cleaned it up, took a shower, blogged in bed while watching "The L Word**" and went to sleep? Or the time I talked on the phone to my friend, experienced mild jealousy over her iced coffee technique and decided to try it myself. Which I did, by the way. I froze the coffee this morning. I'll let you know how it comes out. I know you are on the edge of your seat!

I once met someone who only knew me through reading my blog. It was surreal and kind of difficult. I didn't feel entertaining enough. I also felt like an uptight nerd, as she regaled me with her own tales of partying with her kids. I found myself wanting to lecture her. And I also felt guilty, like I was encouraging irresponsible parenting. Public Service Announcement: The children come first. You should always behave responsibly. Really! Although it's okay to exaggerate on your blog for effect. You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming.

Speaking of rock star parenting, my husband and I are looking forward to the (sold out!) Slow Foods Benefit dinner at Terra tonight. I plan to drink too much, eat too much and cuss, all while wearing a skirt that's a little too short and a see through shirt. Whooooo! And the kids can just sit in the car, so we can save on babysitting. Guess what? That was a joke. We do have a babysitter and my poor husband is stuck, as always, being my designated driver. Now I just have to figure out how to get out of the house without the kids seeing my bordering-on-hookerish outfit. Anyone have a trench coat I can borrow?

Namasté, y'all!

* You might disagree. But I try not to be boring, so give a blogger a break, m'kay?

** Well, that's kind of exciting, if you're into the idea of straight housewives having secret lesbian tendencies. Whatever. I just like a good, stylish soap opera. I liked "Footballer$ Wives," too. Doesn't make me a coke whore. Or the wife of a hot, European soccer player. I wish.

Yay, AnnaBelle! Yay, Pretty Dresses!

I'm at the beach and writing from the lovely Latté Litchfield today. My husband thinks I'm at the gym. Ladies, do not let yourselves go just because you're on vacation. Plus, the gym is a perfect excuse to ditch your husband with all the kids. If I told the truth, that I was going to shop and drink adult beverages, he'd make me take them with me.

AnnaBelle, fabulous designer and owner of LaRoque, has a big spread in the paper today. I have two of her dresses and a skirt and love them. Even though I bought off the rack, they fit like they were made for me. I go in there planning to "just look" or maybe buy one of the Hardest Working Bras in town from Kristy, owner of Tullulah. But it seems like every time AnnaBelle manages to talk me into trying one of those dresses on, I can't bring myself to leave it there. You should never walk away from a dress that fits that well. It would be like leaving a puppy at the pound that wouldn't quit giving you that puppy look. She picks the best fabric, including some Liberty prints. Do you remember those? My mother had a Liberty Print blouse with a Peter Pan collar that I loved. It had seafood on it. Well, it wasn't actual seafood, just the uncooked crustaceans that eventually become seafood. It was really cute, I swear, and that fabric felt so light and cool. I might have to get just one little shirt made with a Liberty print fabric, or maybe two, but definitely not more than three.

And having Tullulah in the same building is a bonus. Usually, I have to take things home on approval to see if I have an appropriate undergarment, but Kristy is right there with the best bras in town. Woo! And both of those ladies are a riot. If you hang around long enough, you'll hear some wicked funny stories. Or you can wait for the chick lit novel I plan to write about them. I'll be embellishing the stories a lot, though, so don't go thinking they're (all) true.

Namasté, y'all!

Politics and fashion are like apples and oranges.

The other night, I ran into someone I've known since high school, which was a long, long time ago. I happened to be wearing my black Bass Weejuns. My friend not only noticed I was wearing them, but claimed that he always associated them with me. I was flattered, even though some of you may think they are less than cool. I happen to think they're pretty fashion-y. I've been wearing them, in different sizes, since the second grade. Several years ago, they were discontinued, at great cost to my personal style. I have to find them on EBay now which is a total pain. I explained all this and more in a letter to Bass; they haven't responded and I hate them. None of that, however, is my point. My point is that I like being remembered for my clothing choices, because I don't have a message. I'm sort of a fun little piece of fluff.

Politicians, on the other hand, have a higher purpose. I won't say I don't care what they wear, because I do, but not in the way you might think a harmless piece of fluff like myself would. I don't want to have any recollection of what they wore, because I don't want to be distracted from what they said. I want their clothes to be as unremarkable as possible. I've made less than kind jokes in the past about a lot of women in Washington wearing what appear to be black or navy Ann Taylor suits from the early nineties. Frankly, I think that's just fine; nothing could be less memorable.

Not surprisingly, female politicians catch more flack for their clothing choices than men. Of course we all heard about John Edwards' four hundred dollar haircut, but that's the exception, not the rule. Men have a nice uniform, for every occasion. They rarely violate the code. I did notice, at a recent debate, that Senator Edwards chose a pale blue, flowered tie. Why? To go with his frou -frou haircut? The fact that I remember the tie at all proves that it was just too flashy.

Women don't have uniforms, yet. There have been attempts in the past, like the recently revived blouse with the attached scarfy-thing at the neck. It failed as a uniform and seems to have been revived as a retro fashion statement. I guess the black or navy Ann Taylor suit from the nineties comes close, but it's not very well cut, is it? I'm not sure if we women could ever settle on a uniform. After all, different body types call for different clothes, n'est-ce pas? I think Senator Clinton comes as close to giving us a prototype for a woman's business uniform as possible. I have no recollection of most of what she's worn. I think the way she dresses is perfect, neither in nor out of fashion, neither too flashy nor too staid. I'm thrilled to see that she doesn't waste time reading magazines about clothes. It chaps my you-know-what that people even mention the clothes of politicians. If she wants to show a teeny, tiny bit of cleavage every now and then, can you blame her? She is a beautiful woman after all, which is hardly her fault. And she doesn't even have to spend four hundred dollars on her hair.

Namasté, y'all!

Hoooo-wheeeeee!! Happy New Year!!

Happy New Year, y'all! I know you don't really care about how we celebrated, but you should know that we had a rocking good time. Some great friends had a party. All the things I liked were there: ping pong, sparkling wine, good food that you could eat with your fingers, and kids that we didn't have to see too much of. We took our big kids and left sweet Baby J at home with his friend, Mrs. Babysitter. The kids played in the yard and weren't really supervised until it was time to set off fireworks, which is how it should be.

Now, I know what you really wanted to know: What Was Ms. Annie of the Daily Digress Wearing? Ever since the Morrissey show, I have had this burning need to re-rock the New Romantic style. So...I wore my skinny black jeans, a black silk, ruffled blouse (Rebecca Taylor, bought at Van Jean during one of their awesome sales!), and three things that made the outfit, all given to me by people I love. It's important to feel the love on New Year's Eve, so here it is:

1. An aquamarine and diamond ring my Nana gave me for high school graduation. I went to visit her right after I graduated and I noticed that she was wearing this over-the-top glamorous ring. It was out of character for her to wear something so flashy in the daytime (she was from Chah-leston), but I didn't say anything. I didn't want to compliment her, because if you tell old people you like something, they might give it to you, then you have to feel guilty. When I was leaving, she said,

"Oh! I almost forgot! This ring is your graduation present."

And she took it off and gave it to me. Just like that! Lest you think she noticed me staring at it, please know that she was completely blind. Cool, huh? Not that she was blind, but that she knew my taste so well.

2. A black, raw silk-ish jacket my friend K found recently at Goodwill. It wasn't her size, but she was so shocked to find an actual vintage thing in a thrift store for four dollars that she had to buy it. And thought of me. Hooray! Consignment shops and EBay have really ruined the fun of searching for cool vintage stuff. Hmph.

3. A pair of super high heeled shoes that my husband gave me for Christmas. They're gray and black herringbone with turquoise and pearl medallion-thingies on the toes. I love, love, love them, because I never would have bought them for myself. I would have wanted them, but talked myself out of getting something that didn't match at least ten outfits. I lurrrrve these shoes. And my husband. And my kids. And my friends. And family. And life. Mwah!

Namasté, y'all!

Don't Mess With Bill.

Well, yesterday afternoon was a real roller coaster ride. My husband and I somehow got invited to a dinner honoring Dick Riley. Oh, ahem, the other special guest just happened to be...wait for it...here it comes...BILL EFFIN' CLINTON! That's right, yo! And I do love Bill Clinton. I spent the whole day about five minutes (in 30 second increments) thinking about what I should wear.

It's not easy for a housewife. I have jeans and I have party clothes. I do not have "business attire." I do not do any sort of business and I know very little about tires, so I don't have much use for stuff like that. Plus, it's not really my style, which might be one of the reasons I don't have a job. As I pondered what to wear, I perused an article in the State paper about the dinner. For about thirty seconds, I was relieved, because the paper said the dinner was black-tie, which is easier for me. I have lots of cute party dresses and cocktail skirts. I suspected that was too easy, though, because I hadn't heard from anyone else that it would be black-tie. And it wasn't; it was a misprint and I'm sure they printed a correction today, albeit too late for the few people I saw in black-tie.

Speaking of overdressing, I understand and forgive the folks who read the article in the paper and came dressed. In fact, I think the State owes them an apology, because that can be embarrassing. What I do not understand is the woman who shows up in a prom dress. There's one at every party, whether it's an oyster roast, a cocktail party or a political dinner. Ladies, do not wear your prom dress anywhere other than a prom. Frankly, I wish I hadn't even worn mine to my actual prom; it was hideous and I wish someone had told me. There is no excuse whatsoever for wearing a prom dress after the age of eighteen.

Anyhow, after my brief respite, I re-commenced trying to pick an outfit. I tried to do tasteful, I really did, but I gave up. I went as a crazy housewife, more celebrity gawker than politico. I wore a short, brown tweed skirt, a dark blouse with a wide collar and Victorian people all over it, my YSL platform boots and my daytime brown fishnets. I think I looked pretty cool. And I painted my nails bright red while the baby was at the drop-in nursery. I also wore my favorite Christian Dior lipstick, this perfect brick red color that I save for special occasions, because it's been discontinued. I felt very proud that I was able to fix my hair with the baby digging his fingers into my fishnets.

Now for the boring stuff, my limited observations on Bill's speech. These thoughts probably aren't original, but I don't really pay attention to the news, so forgive me. Also, I didn't take many notes, because I was a little bit tipsy and a lot distracted by the dashing former president. I'm only human, right? Here are my notes (in italics), more or less.

How sexy is it when he talks about his wife? However--did he make it cool for independent women to accept cheating?

This bugs me a little, like maybe it's unsophisticated to expect fidelity. Which I absolutely do, by the way. I've told A that if he does it and doesn't get caught, goody for him, but if I find out, I will make him wish he never met me. Seriously. No big violent moves, just lots of petty irritations. And I get the house. And some other random stuff, like his CDs, which I don't want, but would take out of spite.

I tried this w/game once but alcohol + my brain=incomprehensible notes

Yup, I can't take decent notes at a football game, either. I know about as much about sports as I do about politics.



I have to pee, jealous that E. peed before speech

Why does my sister think of everything?

Dick=child centered/performance oriented

That sounds not so nice, but it was something nice Bill said about Dick Riley.

"most of my life not politics. it's my foundation" - ??? - for potential 1st ladies - but maybe they would say same

At first I thought this was uncool, because candidates wives do make politics their lives, but then I realize that they would say the same thing he did. And it would be equally untrue.

Title? sister's brain>my brain

That is not a good title. "Don't Mess With Bill" is better, but not by much.

love hill. but she's no bill in terms of inspiring people

Which is why her campaign should use him more. Or not. Because everyone pales in comparison to that guy.

"The only thing that matters is whether people are better off when u quit than when u started. The rest is all smoke and mirrors."

Word, Bill. Word.

looks down at beginning (when he's mentioning names) - but looks up talks freely about ideas/stats - passion for change

And this is probably why I love him. When he's thanking everyone at the beginning, he reads from his notes. When he starts talking about actual stuff, you feel like he's chatting with you. But you don't get to talk. And he's one hundred feet away and using a microphone. Oh well, you know what I mean.

Who cares why he gets all fired up as long as life gets better? education (??) → student loan reforms → everybody wins (HHES) no default

M'k. This was after my second glass of wine, so I'm not sure what I meant. I think the "who cares" is telling. I think he said "everybody wins" in reference to his student loan reforms and this reminded me of the school I went to for many, many years (HHES). They had a motto, "Everybody Wins." That's nice, but it doesn't make the students sound outstanding in any way, n'est-ce pas? I mean, how can anybody win if there's no loser? Huh? Answer me that! But I digress.

ideology=u have answer already and are impervious to the evidence

I think I just liked the way that sounded, so I wrote it down. Yup.

Hill. reminds me of pres. of Smith @ my sister's grad. - smart but not cool - sincere

I have no idea why I wrote this. I've always thought that, but I don't know why I was thinking it at that moment. Her voice sounds like those New England women's colleges' presidents' voices*. She seems so sincere in her desire to change things. And I don't want a cool president, I want a smart one.

Well, that's it. Now you know how simple I really am. And you know what else? This has to be said. I think the new convention center is fab. We really needed it, although I could have done without the accompanying Ruth's Chris. But they have got to do something about the appetizer situation. They had this:


But it was in the middle of a big round table and couldn't be reached discreetly. I'm tacky, but not tacky enough to be seen reaching for cheese balls and cramming them in my mouth while the former president talks. As you can see from the photo, I did manage to break off a chunk of the cheese ball before he started. You can also see my sister's Hillary button. That was not a table decoration, just her special touch. So I was left with this:


which was on the table when we sat down. And which was all gone before we got our actual food, because I kept nibbling on it during the speech, in between taking those brilliant notes. I might have done better with a little bit of protein to go with the wine.

Namasté, y'all!

*That was a lot of apostrophes. I bet I messed at least one of them up. That sentence sounds much better out loud.

Vacation Shopping (AKA Free Money!)

Last night, I had the pleasure of having dinner with a bunch of young and fabulous ladies, my sister's friends. My sister's in town and, because I'm her sister and hostess, I get to tag along with the cool kids. One of the cool kids was Frenchie, of the amazing Frenchie Skirts. I want a Frenchie Skirt real bad, but it's not the sort of thing you can buy on impulse, which is my preferred method of shopping for expensive things. One of these days, I'll have to get mad at my husband, feel sorry for myself and make an appointment to have a skirt made. And follow through before I forgive him. I hear it's addictive once you start, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Anyhow, last night Frenchie had on the most fabulous top (and shoes and coat, but let's stick with the top.) I think it would look nice on me, but she didn't offer to give it to me. Oh well. It turns out that she bought it on vacation, in a pinch. I love buying stuff on vacation or in a pinch! I'm not proud of this, but I've fantasized about having a black Prada dress overnighted from Neiman Marcus in the event of my husband's sudden demise*. Anyhow, the lovely Miss Frenchie was stuck in L.A., having worn all of the outfits she brought. Her flight was cancelled and she had to stay an extra day. Like any savvy traveler, she had packed only enough fabulousness to get her through the trip. And her hostess was having a party that night! Hello? Emergency! Frenchie had to have something to wear and she had to have something fast! She headed over to Rodeo Drive, bought a BCBG top (their fancy line, not that stuff you get in the mall) and Donald Pliner shoes. I emailed her for clarification, because I got well into a bottle of Prosecco at dinner. She very kindly retold the story** and closed with, "Will never be able to afford either again but...fun while it lasts."

And that, my friends, is the essence of vacation or in a pinch shopping. Frenchie's income didn't drastically change that day, so her budget was the same. But! She. Had. No. Choice! It wasn't her fault the flight was canceled. And she could hardly hide out in her room, completely nude, while her hostess had a party. The only thing to do was buy something to wear and not be too difficult about it. It would have been very poor form to do anything else. When put that way, you have to realize that Frenchie was a martyr. And did I mention that her hostess was a priest at All Saint's Episcopal in Beverly Hills? What would Jesus do? He would buy an outfit, without any thought about his personal finances. He would be selfless, just like Frenchie. And it really is a fabulous top. Maybe she'll let me borrow it...

The mathematical formula for vacation and/or in a pinch shopping is simple. Multiply by two. Multiply by four if you're lucky like Frenchie and experience both at once. And if it's still not enough, add a random number of your choice and whip out your credit card (or your parents' card...or your boyfriend's...) So, maybe I should order a Frenchie skirt by phone next time I'm out of town and suddenly have to go to high tea...

Namasté, y'all!

* Yeah, I kind of know that isn't funny considering his near death experience the other day, but he lived and all he has is a scratch on his finger. Whatevah!

** I love a good shopping story!!

In Which My Husband and I Spend Our First Night Away from the Baby, With Another Man (Alternate Title: The Sanest Days Are Mad)

My husband has a BMW. We've invested so much money in it that it should be worth a lot by now, right? And we're about to make some more improvements, because it died just as we reached Greenville, South Carolina last night for the Morrissey show.

About ten minutes before we arrived in Greenville, that scary little light came on, the one that warns you your car is about to overheat, leaving you stranded in the middle of the road with smoke coming out from under the hood. We made it just off the highway and almost into the city before the car died. I leapt out of the car, grabbing my bag of course, and scooted across four lanes of traffic to get to the sidewalk. My outfit, which looked totally awesome for a concert, made me look like a drunk hooker running from her pimp.

Especially given that I was tottering across four lanes of traffic, trying to get away from an old guy in a BMW. And yelling. I was yelling at my husband because, in an effort to go down with the ship, he was calling the auto club on his cell phone, standing beside the car in the middle of the highway. Brilliant. As luck would have it, we were meeting our friends George and Blan at the concert and they just happened to pull up right behind us. I stood on the side of the road looking scraggly while they pushed the car into a parking lot. I am only sorry that I no longer smoke, because that would have made the scene better.

The auto club couldn't send a tow truck until morning and we had no ride home. You know what that meant...we got to stay in a hotel and everyone got to drink, because the designated driver had been rendered obsolete. Wheeeeeeeeee! There were a few non-rock starish details to attend to, like calling my dad and convincing him to go relieve our babysitter and spend the night with the kids. Baby J was a tough sell, because we've never left him overnight and he still won't say no to a midnight snack. But, what can you do? I love situations that are completely beyond my control, because no one can get mad at you for having fun.

Nervous husband in tow, we parked Blan's car and tottered* to the show. As we were walking, I saw a familiar sight. At first I thought it was a mirage, but, no! It was a Westin Hotel! My absolute favorite campground! I just love the Heavenly Bed. And the Heavenly Shower. And the Heavenly Television and Room Service. We stumbled into the hotel, less than thirty minutes before the start of the show, and were thrilled to find out that we could get a great rate on a room. The rate was not so great, however, that we could afford a second room for our friend George, who had already warned us about his snoring, but that didn't matter. A simple night out to see a concert had turned into a glamorous adventure. And this particular Westin was built in the 1920's, which totally matched my jacket. I couldn't have been more pleased.

The show was excellent. My favorite part was in the lobby, when I was using the box office phone book to get the number to leave a message asking the parking lot owners not to tow our soon to be towed car. A dashing, young man with a fabulous British accent came up to me and said, "Would you like to see the show for free? You're beautiful." Yes, folks, for an old, married mama like myself, this sort of thing does more for the ego than a million compliments from my husband, bless his heart. And it totally confirmed that I had picked the right outfit. And that my hair looked pretty good.

We sat in a box, one of those opera hall type boxes, which made it a more grownup sort of night, as did the bar in the lobby. I liked the box, because it was so clean that I could take my shoes off and dance. We could see everyone, including the fans who ran up on the stage to try to touch Morrissey and the bouncers who tackled them. I had forgotten how much I loved Morrissey, too. During Old Lang Syne, he rested in some kind of shoulder stand with his legs in full Lotus while the band played and y'all know I love me some Yoga, so that was hot.

After the show, we went to a bar (yay!) By then, my husband had given up and was pretty relaxed. In the bathroom of the bar, I found this notice:

So, if you are seeking employment as a professional waiter or as a waiters position, let me know. And do not worry if you have very little knowledge of international beers and liquors, because they had those, but not any more. Now they just have Bud and Bud Light.

After the bar, we tottered* back to the hotel, ready to crash. But not before my husband and George went across the street to a restaurant to get beer and bubbly, which I drank out of the bottle after jumping on the Heavenly Bed in my husband's tennis clothes, which he conveniently had in his car. I fell asleep to the sounds of Sports Center and George's snoring. My husband, for once, didn't snore. It was a perfect night.

The next morning, while husband supervised the towing of the car and George slept, I sat in the hotel restaurant, reading the New York Times and taking advantage of the all you can eat breakfast buffet. I had an omelet (asparagus, broccoli, peppers and cheese), bacon, sausage, cheese blinis, fruit and about four shiny pitchers of coffee. I grabbed a bunch of those tiny jelly and syrup jars for the kids. As it turned out, there were no rental cars available, so my husband had his assistant drive up to get us. Our heroes, the staff of the Westin, comped our breakfast out of pity. We had to wait a couple of hours, so I kept hitting the breakfast buffet. I skipped lunch.

Speaking of lunch, I had my brother take lunch to the kids at school. I didn't want to ask my dad, who had gotten very little sleep, or my mom, who was spending the morning entertaining the winsome, but high maintenance, Baby J. I'm very proud of my baby brother, who managed to come up with a well balanced lunch: peanut butter and jelly, apples, Cape Cod chips and V8. So...the big kids were fine, Baby J was pleased with all of the attention and didn't seem to care that we were gone and Morrissey was superb. Best! Night! Ever!

Namasté, y'all!

* I tottered. My three dates walked. I was feeling pretty glamorous, with three dates and all. Granted, two of the dates were married, one of them to me, but I take what I can get.

How to Scare Your Husband

The other day, I made my husband come home for forty five minutes in between work and tennis because I was losing my mind. Baby J is adorable beyond our wildest dreams, but not so much when I need to help the big boys with homework or cook dinner. He likes to wedge himself in between my legs and the cabinets, then complain loudly because it hurts. Fun times. Fortunately, this latest fiasco led to my beginning an active search for a lovely young woman to come help out in the afternoons. I can't wait. Ooh! Maybe I can even get a Manny! Or is the manny trend over?

Anyhow, as my husband was leaving the house with He Who Must Be Obeyed, one of the nice ladies from Van Jean was walking up the driveway with a package. For me! Hooray! Van Jean is one of my absolute favorite stores (okay, probably my favorite, but I have to be fair), but it isn't exactly for thrifty shoppers. In my defense, I'm usually pretty thrifty and I wait for sales and troll EBay, but there are times when you just have to get what you want. My husband was terrified that I had become such a gracious patron of Van Jean that they delivered right to my doorstep. Not exactly. A week ago, I went there with a skirt I already own to find a shirt to match. Those ladies were so nice and patient. I tried on about twenty shirts, pretty close to closing time, and they didn't bat an eye, at least not so I could see them. And they know I'm not the type to spend much; I usually try on twenty things and buy nothing. Not this time. There was one shirt I loved; it went with the skirt, but would also look great with jeans. Alas, it was not my size. Lovely ladies of Van Jean to the rescue! As they offered to order the smaller size, I forgot any reservations I had about the price. Poof!

When the shirt arrived, they realized they didn't have my phone number. So they called Kristy at Tullulah, who didn't have my number. And they called Kicks. No luck there either. They all had my address, but no phone number, and we're unlisted. They decided the easiest thing to do was just show up at my house. I felt like a movie star. Except for the messy kitchen. I know this story was less than interesting, but it shows, once again, that shopping local business pays. Or, um, helps you spend. Or something.

I was going to wear the shirt to a wedding last weekend, but it didn't arrive in time. The shirt is perfect for the upcoming Morrissey show, I think, and a benefit we're going to on Thursday. There will be real rock stars at the benefit and the shirt has kind of a New Romantic thing going on. I realized rocking the New Romantic style dates me, but maybe I'll start a new trend. I'll be wearing it with skinny black jeans and heels, by the way, not the aforementioned skirt. That look will have to wait.

The shirt is French, so I took a picture of it in front of the only French piece of furniture we own, a cool secretaire with lots of hidden compartments from my mother in law (who is an actual French person).

Namasté, y'all!

I Don't Care What You Look Like

And I don't think you should care what I look like, although feel free to tell me if you think I'm looking particularly foxy. I have yet to experience a major breakdown over someone else's appearance (over my own, I have. Back in the day, a single zit could send me into a downward spiral faster than you can say Clearasil.) I've been told by more seasoned parents than I that I don't know how bad it can get. Maybe they're right. But maybe not.

My parents and I don't always agree on what looks good. Apparently, my Doc Martens made me look like a lesbian. I'm not quite clear on why, especially because, several years later, when the cute girls started wearing them, they were suddenly...cute. And I don't really see anything wrong with looking like a lesbian (if a pair of shoes can do that, which I sincerely doubt), although I guess it could be seen as deceptive. Somehow, I don't think Mom was thinking about all those poor disappointed lesbians. Or maybe she was, because when I stopped shaving my legs for a brief time, she seemed concerned again that I was trying to fool lesbians. If I caused any difficulty for lesbians, I do apologize. Sorry, lesbians! I like you and I never meant to hurt or deceive you!

My nose ring was met with similar anger. And I use the word anger, because that's what it was. From my parents' reaction, you would have thought I had gotten a tattoo of a naked bum smack in the middle of my forehead, a hairy naked bum. I got my nose pierced because I thought it looked cute. Period. I was always willing to take it out for work, without being asked, even. It was never a political statement. It was just a fashion statement. It was no different from the fashion choices my mom (Talbot's) and my dad (pleated pants) make every day. I wouldn't make those choices for myself, but I couldn't care less what they wear. And I don't care what my kids wear, as long as it sort of fits and is more or less appropriate for the weather.

Clothes should make us feel good. On the first day of pre-school, O. wore a carefully planned outfit. At the time, he was in the habit of rocking my sister's t-ball shirts from the early eighties (so Old School - that kid has always had serious style.) That day, he wore a red polyester t-ball shirt, red polyester gym shorts that he had insisted on buying, to go with the shirt, red socks, pulled up like thigh-highs and red shoes. He looked awesome and felt like a bad-ass. I was so proud.

For an entire year, O. wore shorts to kindergarten. At first, I objected, until I remembered that we live in South Carolina. If it ever was cold enough here for there to be a risk of frost-bite, the kids wouldn't have school any way. The only time we'd leave the house would be to buy milk, bread and eggs for the impending blizzard (we like to eat French Toast during blizzards). And I knew that the only reason I cared was that I was worried what the other parents and teachers would think of me as a mother. And I know I'm doing just fine. Any time your answer to a "why" question starts with, "Other people..." it's probably the wrong answer.

The other day, my mother in law visited my sister in law, V.* She was only there for fifteen minutes, but that didn't stop her from driving V. a little crazy. Our mother in law, with tears in her eyes and a choked voice, begged V. to get her seven year old son a haircut. "Other people" apparently think terrible thoughts about my nephew because of his hair. Although it's beside the point, I think he looks pretty cool, like a British rocker. But these "other people" do not agree. I'm not sure what they think about him, perhaps that he's a drug user, a pimp or a little boy with parents who don't care if he gets a haircut. According to our mother in law, he is a handsome boy, but no one will ever know, because his hair makes him look ugly. Wow.

My mother still makes comments about my looks, although she tries to be kinder. I think she really believes she's doing me a favor, but it hurts my feelings. Telling someone they have spinach in their teeth is doing them a favor; telling them their eyeshadow looks bad is mean. Mom would claim that I shouldn't be hurt, that I shouldn't care what other people think. On this point, I agree, but it's a fact of life that we usually do care what the people close to us think. It's not that I need everyone to approve of my fashion choices, but it hurts to think that someone you love could love you less because of something so inconsequential.

My mother's brother is getting married on Saturday (his third wedding, but he's remarrying his second wife, but that's another story!) and I know I'll wear the wrong thing. Somehow, I always manage to be dressed wrong around my mom's family, so I've given up and just wear what I like. There are a bunch of unwritten rules in her family about what's appropriate, and I really need someone to write them out for me. Several months ago, I was with her family, including two cousins who have babies a little bit younger than Baby J. At some point, I had to breastfeed Baby J, which I did fairly discreetly; after three children and years of breastfeeding, I'm pretty good at it. I was rather proud of myself for being so smooth, until I saw my cousins whip out tents. They had these tents velcroed around their necks, so their babies could eat in peace out of the public eye. At least, I think they were eating; I guess there's no way to know for sure what was going on under there.

So, my uncle's (third) wedding (to his second wife - oh wait, did I already say that? Oops!) is coming up and I don't know what to wear. The wedding is on a farm. The ceremony will be by a lake and, following that, we'll walk up a hill on a dirt road to some sort of building with concrete floors. As you can imagine, this scenario presents me with shoe challenges. The only clothes I own that go with dirt road, hill walking shoes are sweatpants and jeans. And those aren't even my party jeans, which I wear with heels. Despite my pleas for suggestions, mom is no help. Maybe I should call my cousins, who seem to be more in the know. As it stands, I'm planning on wearing a brown tweed, pleated mini skirt, a deep teal silk blouse (by Mayle, bought on sale - yes!) and my brown Yves St. Laurent platform boots (also bought on sale, several years ago, for 90% off!) All I need to complete the outfit is a pair of magenta fishnets. I'm going to look great, according to me.

By the way, I don't rock the nose ring any more, but I've kept the hole open. When I'm in a nursing home, I plan to wear it. It should help me weed out the people who are more interested in the way I look than they are in me. Too bad for them, because I have good jokes.

Namasté, y'all!

*V. and I are married to brothers, although one time, after a few glasses of wine, V. told someone at a party that our husbands were married. That earned us a few funny looks.

Most Auspicious Event!

Today is my luckiest day ever. Well, maybe not ever, but it is a very lucky day.

On Friday, I was at the awesome M Boutique where, years ago, I first heard Cool from Gwen Stefani's album Love.Angel.Music.Baby. That song puts me in a great mood, as does the rest of the album - great music to shop to, by the way. I wasn't looking for anything in particular but (surprise!) found a pair of jeans I loved. Unfortunately, they were a size too big. The super stylish and super nice owner, Emily, was there and I asked her to call me if they got returned in my size. She was pretty sure they wouldn't be, because her friend bought them. Oh, well. Wait, do you really think this is the end?

I'm so predictable. Once I couldn't have them, I had to have them. They became the jeans that would change my life. I searched all over. I found them online, but not in my size. Then, I found them in my size, but they were more expensive, plus I would have to pay shipping, which I couldn't bring myself to do, because I'm cheap. And I really prefer to shop local stores. But, given that these jeans would change my life, just as other jeans before them had done, I had to have them. Judging from past history, I feel sure I would have caved and bought them, overpriced or not, but something better was in store. Prepare to be amazed. You will be filled with wonder at the synchronicity at work in the Universe. And you will understand fully that the jeans were made for me and me, alone (well, me and all of the other people who bought them).

On my way to pick up the big kids from school, I had a few minutes to spare and, on a whim, decided to go to M one more time, looking for a miracle. Lo and behold, there they were, in my size, on the counter...being returned. Do you have chills? I did. She was returning them because she just had a baby and didn't want to deal with having them hemmed. It took me four seconds to get over the fact that I wear the same size jeans as someone who just had a baby (she looked really good - that helped!) I tried them on, even though I already knew we were meant to be a couple. It took me another four seconds to resolve the moral dilemma of whether to tell the new mother that there was a drop-in nursery not five minutes from one of the best and quickest tailors in town. It was easy, because she didn't have her baby with her, so she must have child care already.

Thus, the jeans are mine, all mine, and we are destined to have a long and rocking relationship; I can feel it. And it's my lucky day, so I need to go buy a lottery ticket or two. I bet I can have them hemmed in time to wear them for the Gamecocks on Thursday night, so I'm pretty sure we know who'll win that one (Go ahead and place your bets. So what if Kentucky's ranked eighth in the nation?) And tonight's Bunco night, so look out, ladies, I'm on a roll!

Namasté, y'all!

Drinkin' and Bloggin' Part Deux:

Important Note: I've noticed that Blogger puts the time of your post as when you started it, not when you last worked on it. Just so no one thinks they need to call CPS, please understand that I started this early in the day and recommenced after a trip to the Hunter Gatherer. So, yeah, that's all. Carry on.

Most people nest during the last few months or weeks of pregnancy. Not me. I spend that last bit of time in denial about all the new stuff that will come with the new baby. I get the nesting and de-cluttering urge around the time the baby gets more independent, around his (nope, not being sexist, it's just that we only seem to produce boys) first birthday. Around his second birthday, I start thinking about a decorating scheme (ha!) and furniture for his room, because that's about the time that we get the uncontrollable urge for him to sleep somewhere other than our bed. I actually don't bother thinking of a decorating scheme (that I'll never get around to executing anyway), because the boys have developed their own style - a kind of Pokemon-baseball card- Lego-costume clothes-plastic toy-tiny car theme with art stuff-notebooks-random coins and stickers accents. And other sports stuff. And socks. And games and puzzles, the more pieces the better.

Anyhooooo...I don't like clutter. Unless it's mine, of course. I have clothes that I've owned for forever. For example, one of my favorite sweaters is a J. Crew turtleneck that my mom bought me, along with several other things that are long gone, right before my first year of boarding school. Uninspired hicks that we were (and are!), I'm pretty sure we chose J. Crew and L. L. Bean because those are the places we associated with New England boarding school types. We probably got our information from the Preppy Handbook. Hey, we did our best, so let it go. And the sweater is still cool. It's a (now) snug-fitting, olive green, cable knit, lambswool turtle neck. And I still love it - looks good with skinny jeans, wide leg jeans, any style skirt, yadda yadda yadda. So I can't let it go.

And I have a St. John long dress and matching jacket, that I have never worn, left over from my days in the Junior League. I was doing my required volunteer shift in the Second Look and a pile of clothes form a really old, dead Junior Leaguer with great taste and a lot of money to go with it came in. I snagged the St. John set right away, even though I sported a nose ring at the time, knowing I would wear it some day. I haven't worn it yet, but I bet it'll look great when I wear it to one of my grand children's weddings. I just hope they make a nice, stylish wheelchair or walker by then.

I've learned to hang on to clothes the hard way. When I was pregnant with my first child, I gave away piles and piles of clothes, some of them vintage, that I thought I would never possibly fit into again. After three children, I'm about the same size, although not quite the same shape (yeah, maybe I'm bragging a little, but I work hard, so bite me. I have very little to be proud of, so I grasp at what I have.) I remember sitting on the floor of my apartment (Hubby and I weren't quite living together then. We were married, but barely; the distant click of the shotgun could still be heard.) I was sniffling and stuffing seemingly impossibly small clothes into a bag destined for the Salvation Army. Huh. Now that I think about it, it was AmVets, because they pick up at your house and I've always been lazy. The point is, they're gone now and I wish they weren't. In particular, I miss a perfect pair of brown Levi's cords, obtained from an old room mate, and a turquoise, Chinese brocade dress, immortalized in a photo of me and some of my college friends on someone else's Facebook page:


I bought that dress in a thrift store for five dollars, before thrift became Vintage, and it looked like something Donna Reed would wear, but the fabric was awesome. In fact, if more people saved their clothes (MOM!), I could have saved $130 today, instead of buying a totally awesome dress from this local lady. Sorry, regret got the best of me and I was rambling...

My point is (wait? Do I have to have a point when I'm BUI*?) that I never throw way clothes, because you never know. But I do throw away toys, or give them away if they're worth giving. Today, in a de-cluttering frenzy, O and X and I did the Great Toy Purge of August 2007. My husband took Baby J on some kind of adventure and the big boys and I went into the Kids' Lounge with plastic bags and divided things into three categories: Keep, Give Away or Throw Away.

The Keep things went back, in an organized way of course, to the Kids' Lounge, and included things that they still played with or thought Baby J would enjoy soon enough. Which means that we kept Candy Land and Chutes and Ladders, which are the most boring games ever. The Give Away pile consisted of things that were fun, in working condition and totally replaceable. You see, I don't want to keep everything Baby J might play with, because if we did, we'd be forced to get more and more elaborate for his birthday and Christmas presents. As the oldest child, I do not think it's okay that the youngest, by virtue of being the youngest, should get the battery powered Cadillac Escalade, just because there is nothing left to give him. The Throw Away pile was made up of things that were totally destroyed and fast food giveaways.

And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, I completely Jump the Shark. In addition to a couple bags of the boys' toys, I had a couple bags of my clothes, all ready to be dropped off at the thrift store. And the painters were still here. Some of the toys were pretty cool, including a Dora the Explorer matching game, totally intact. Some of the clothes were pretty cool, but too big (hey, I've had three kids - my sizes are all over the map!) or too absolutely-not-me (everyone makes mistakes!) I thought some of the guys painting might like the toys or the clothes (for their wives, not themselves, of course! Not that I would judge if they wanted the clothes for themselves, but none of them were small enough to fit them, okay?) I worked myself into a tizzy trying to figure out if they would be insulted if I offered the stuff to them. I hid in my closet (a walk-in, okay, so not as weird as it sounds) and called my husband to ask his opinion. He said, "Are you kidding? This is the kind of thing I call to ask you about." True. And my response is usually along the lines of "Be genuine and don't over think it." And think about what you would want if you were in the other person's place.

Well, as you might imagine, I would want to be offered the clothes. And even the toys. So I offered The Boss the bags. I told him we had done some de-cluttering and had some things that his guys, their wives or their kids might want, if they had any wives and kids, that is. So, did I do the right thing? Or not? Eh. I did my best, so there it is.

Namasté, y'all!

*Blogging Under the Influence. Did this really need a footnote? I guess I'm not giving you enough credit, 'cause I'm tipsy, so I assume everyone's as slow as I am.