Derivative of Witty

Coming out of the closet.

We live in a 1920 Craftsman Bungalow, and while I love her birdseye maple floors and original woodwork and lathe & plaster walls, I have closet the size of my earlobe.  Therefore, each spring and fall I empty my closet, take items to Goodwill that haven't seen my body at all, bring up the big plastic totes from the basement with the alternate season's goodies inside, and do the switcheroo on my bed.

This actual process is fodder for a much longer post about my neuroses and unhealthy penchant for hoarding, but as I pay my therapist for that and not YOU, I will pick one teensy thing the process reveals  about my twisted brain.

I have reverse body dysmorphic disorder.  In my brain I look way better than I actually do.  I'm reminded of this each time I look at a photo of myself and think "Dang!  Put that cupcake down, already!", but by the time I find myself with another cupcake in my hand, I've forgotten about said photo, and chomp happily, content in my knowledge that I look like Charleze Theron in a bikini. (see aforementioned disorder)

It's a wonderful way to trip though life, and I highly recommend it.  It may help if you never were in a situation where mirrors were present, or allowed anyone to photograph you if the frame is going to be larger than your left eyeball.

So today, with my collection of flirty skirts (labeled 'Fun and Flirty Skirts' on basement Rubbermaid tote - Macy's?  Hello?  Copywriting job anyone?) spread out on the bed, my mind thought, "So cute!  But certain way too big for little old me!" and then I tried them on, and realized that yes, I am the same size I was last fall when I did this all in reverse.

It's not as if I'm a dang lumberjack woman (insert obligatory not-that-there's-anything-wrong-with-that qualification), but I do carry 30 pounds around that I'd rather would just go find something else to do for a bit.  I'm in the 'curvy' category, my titties, they are generous, and I have always, always, had junk in the trunk, even when sporting a size 6.

Despite the Fun and Flirty Skirts that now are either airing out on the line, being washed, or already hung in my thimble of a clothes closet, I feel myself lacking in a couple of dresses that travel well, do not have to be dry cleaned, don't make me think about my extra weight, can be dressed up or down, and...and this one is important...do not have spaghetti straps or a halter top.  I need to wear a bra, people, and though other women in my family have the top-sides that allow them to toss on a strappy shoulder with freedom, this girl needs her undergarments.

So it begins.  The search for the perfect traveling dress.   Wish me luck, and if you'd like to go shopping with me, I'd be ever-grateful.  Just don't take my picture.   

This is rated PG-13, you old hags.

In comments of this post by Mrs. Kennedy, someone tipped that when using Firefox (which I do), you can simply type "slang _______" and fill in the blank with the word that you're wondering about, and it'll take you to the Urban Dictionary.

This particular post references cougars, and so I tried it.  And lo said commenter was accurate, and I walked over to Urban Dictionary to see what the kids had to say.

The #1 definition was submitted by a young cherub by the name of Angie.  Methinks Angie was left for a woman of a certain age - am I wrong?

               

1.	cougar
	An old dried up hag who is looking for a last chance of romance or sexual fling with a horny younger male or one with mommy issues who didn't suck on his mother titties long enough. If you want to date someone more sophisticated and mature why would you date a saggy bitch who acts like a younger women. And about the sexual experience, whatever, any younger girl can give you an awesome blowjob or a good ride.           Any woman who could be your mother!

Word to horny younger males, and also, while we're at it, women of childbearing age:  please be certain to either suck or have your babies suck your titties [sic] long enough, lest he grow to desire a saggy bitch who acts like a younger woman.  We all know he would be better off with a younger girl with a gift for fellatio.

That is all.

In which she published proof of her idiocy.

In third grade I learned that the skin is our largest organ.  Before then, I tripped about blissfully ignorant of all the microbes and dirt and whatnot that were attacking us minute by minute.  Knowledge is a tricky thing, a little bit can be dangerous.

In the third grade, I was 8, just beginning to appreciate the care that would eventually go into my appearance.  By junior high, my pack of girlfriends and I would think of nothing more hip and dreamy than 'laying out', which involved reclining on a lawn chair in full sun exposure, often with the ever-present Snapple, baby oil, and Sun-In.  George Michael would groove from the ghetto blaster plugged into the garage outlet, and we'd imagine all our tanned finery when the weekend was done.  Because nothing is sexier than an undeveloped thirteen-year-old with a second degree burn.  Ha-cha-cha.

For a full decade and a half after that fateful afternoon, I tried everything I could get my hands on - sunless tanners, tanning beds, tan accelerators, after-sun treatments.  I shit you not, until recently I just didn't get that I was a pale, pale girl, as white as mayonnaise, and I'd better embrace my inner condiment and just get the hell on with it.

My skin is basically transparent.  See that?  That's my spleen.  You can see it just past my poorly toned diaphragm.  When a friend opened up a day spa two years ago and installed a Mystic Tan booth, I was among the first to test it.  Have you done this?  SURREAL.  Being the instruction girl that I am, prepping for the experience took much longer than the orange-y goodness lasted.

Steps:

1. Strip Naked.  You can wear panties if you choose to have that super-realistic tan line.  Also available - TanToos; sticker placed on naked pale body and when removed they leave a little heart, or Playboy bunny, or Universal No sign for all who are lucky enough to reach your nether-regions to see.  I did not opt for the TanToo, for reasons I feel can go without saying.
2. Put hair up in shower cap MAKING CERTAIN THAT ALL STRAY HAIRS ARE TUCKED IN.  You must appreciate that this step alone took me fifteen minutes to complete, and still I was pretty damn anxious about things.  Also, now grows the seed of worry for all the other hair gathering places on my body, and wondering why they didn't get their own little guards.
3. Pump a small but not too small but enough of the special anti-tan lotion onto your hands, and rub into your palms and the bottom of your fingers but not the tops of your fingers (except for your cuticles), and make certain not to leave any blobs anywhere or to get it up your arm.
4. Repeat step three for the bottoms of your feet and in between your toes and perhaps just a slight amount on the dry/calloused areas of your naked, shower-capped-shivering body, like your ankles, knees, elbows, whathaveyou. 
5. Have a martini.
6. Wash remnants from #3 and #4 off and start all over again because your drink made things all smoodgy.  Try to figure out how to walk from your little bathmat into the Tan Stall without rubbing off product of #4.
7. Put cotton balls up your nose.  Not even kidding a little bit about this.  If you are the least bit claustrophobic, this is going to be the deal-killer.  Put the cotton balls far enough up so you are certain they'll stay and not cast a Spray Tan Shadow on your upper lip, but not far enough so you won't be able to pry them out.  If your mind works anything like mine, you're already planning your explanation for the ER doctor who will be fishing this half-tan plug out in about 40 minutes.
8. Peel the two gold ovals off of the sticker sheet and place them over your eyes.  Yes, your eyelids.  Yes, I realize now that you are the most vulnerable you've been in your adult life.  Try to push the mental image of yourself out of your mind, and concentrate on the tanned, sexy goddess that will emerge from what most certainly is the Magical Mystic Spray Tan Booth.
9. Step into the booth that is remarkably similar to a big shower, and practice your poses.
   • Pose A: Stand facing the door, arms away from your body, palms facing the back of the booth, head up high, buttocks slightly parted.
   • Pose B: Swivel to the right without picking up your feet, raise right arm above head with palm facing the front of the booth, but not so high that the skin on your shoulder crinkles, face turned to the right,
   • Pose C: Reverse B, swiveling to the left, left arm up and right arm down, et cetera.
   • Pose D: Facing the back of the booth, arms down at your sides, palms toward the front of the booth, knees ever so slightly bent.
10. Practice the poses again.  And again.  Breathe through mouth.  Peek out from under gold eye-stickers.  Realize you have to pee.  Look down and immediately discard the idea of peeing in the booth, as it is NOT your home shower.
11. Push the green flashing button to commence Tanning Mystically. 
12. FORGET ALL POSES IMMEDIATELY AND FLAIL ABOUT IN VAIN ATTEMPT TO GET ALL NAKED FLESH EXPOSED TO SPRAY.  BEGIN TO FEEL LIGHT HEADED AS YOU CANNOT BREATHE THROUGH COTTON-PLUGGED NOSE AND OPENING YOUR MOUTH TASTES BAD, REALLY FUCKING BAD.  BEGIN DROOLING, AND FEEL YOUR SHOWER CAP SLIP.  MENTALLY CALCULATE COST OF TURNING HALF-TAN HEAD OF HAIR BACK TO ORIGINAL COLOR.  OH MY GOD WHY IS IT TAKING SO LONG?
13. When the spray/clicking/spray has ended, leave the booth in a cloud of tan particulate.  Step onto white fluffy towel, depositing a tan footprint.  Then another one.
14. Rub off lotion from #3 and #4, realizing that it alternately blocked the tan entirely and let the full force of the tan through.  Allow niggling 'something isn't right about all this' feeling to grow.
15. Dry the rest of your body on another fluffy towel.  Mentally apologize to watershed.  Attempt to blend runoff from back of knee into calf.  Forget about remainder of anti-tan lotion on hands. 
16. Pop off shower cap, eye stickers, cotton balls.  Take a gander of your glorious tan self in the full length mirror, and scold yourself once again for letting gym membership lapse.
17. Dress, leave the sanctuary of the Mystic Tan room, and prepare for the world.

Over the next four hours, your tan will become tanner.  I went through wave after wave of self-conscious panic, visions of Soul Man racing through my brain.

Two days later, I was tan-freckled all over.  One day and a brisk loofah after than, Mayonnaise.

We're entering another warm-weather season, so pick up your sunglasses.  These white girl legs are itching to hang out with you.

The road...

...I think I'm getting better.

I thought I was better, and I had a bad day.  I really bad day and an even tougher night.  I cried and waled and tore my garments*.  I felt alone.  Not lonely - alone.  Some people I really don't like all that much were vicious and mean to me, and despite my personal pledge to plaster the Game Face on in all things public, it slipped.  Oh, how it slipped.

*OK - so there was no tearing of garments, but only because I really like this Gap thermal T that I'm wearing.

But the point is that instead of taking a pill, or drinking, or sinking into the black hole that is far too comfortable in which to swim, I picked up my telephone and I called a friend who does not judge and who loves me.  And I told her I was having a bad day, and an even tougher night.

And she let me stutter through, and helped me put everything back into perspective.  And right after I hung up with her I got a call from another friend I've known for years but haven't spoken to in months, and we caught up and laughed.

And things aren't so bad right now.

I have a wonderful husband, a healthy and loving family, friends who will wrap their arms around me and make me laugh through my tears.  I am strong, and I feel my old self coming back.  At the end of the day, regardless of how bad, that really is what matters most. 

January, February, and March be damned.

Maria

[note: this is an installment of my x365 participation, which should be re-titled x365-but-actually-more-like-every-once-in-a-while-when-I-have-writer's-block.  Click on the tag below or here to read other installments.]

Your hair is long and feathered and frosted, and when you smoke Salem Ultras on your back stoop the smoke drifts into my open bedroom window.  I have never heard you say a kind word to your children or your husband, and your fake tan is hideous.  I see you daily flicking your butts onto my boulevard, and you're really mean to your little dog.  You are a receptionist at a taxidermy studio, and all of your girlfriends are mirror images of you - 40 pounds overweight and clad in skin-tight, breast-baring, polyester apparel.  I make no apologies for disliking you.

Yes, red.

And the list continues.  This is more fun than I'd hoped.

• Run (at least) a half-marathon
• Be an anonymous large donor at my church
• Spend a summer at a secluded cabin without mirrors (got this idea from a short story I once read, and the author didn't recognize the relaxed, strong woman in the reflection when she returned)
• Perform a marriage ceremony
• Drive to Alaska
• Have red hair

Pip pip what what hi ho spot o' tea

Things for my list:

• Vacation in a small town in England, after having assembled a trousseau, in part, from this place.
• Take a class at a culinary institute
• Get my motorcycle endorsement
• Speak at a high school graduation

...even my emotional baggage is Coach

~ Unknown

Bags, bags, bags.  I love'em.  I can browse for hours in the handbag section of a department store, and a local crafter's market carrying cute little purses will be certain to elicit cries of "Oh!  So cute!" from yours truly.

So, I bring you to the bag chapter of my knitting obsession:

I made this for mom, her birthday is a few days before Mother's Day this year.  It did not turn out as hoped.  Its....bad.  Too short, too wide for a purse.  Fine for a basket, and my dear hound just adores it.

It's destined to be a yarn toter, or a grocery toter, but not a purse toter. 

Mom gets something else.

This lovely is destined for my dear friend, Brenda.  She will love the green stripes and the silly fabric liner.   

The liner is not sewn in yet...be patient.

And now for the great part.  I created this little sweetie straight out of my brain!  No pattern!  This may be not a big deal for those who don't knit or crochet - but I'm just tickled pink with myself.  Took me about 2 hours to knit up and sew together, and another 15 minutes or so to felt.  Thoughts? 

It's for Brenda's daughter's birthday (11!) and I want to line it with a bright blue satin for her.

So there you go - a brief stroll through handbags with Jen.  Stay tuned - next installment will be baby sweaters (couldyoujustdiefromcuteness???)

Facing Reality

For a while now, there has been a suggestion up at one of the blogs I read to make a list of 100 Things to Do Before I Die.

While this isn't a new concept, I've always been able to avoid reading other peoples' lists, but as this is a blog that I click into daily – sometimes a few times a day – this (avoidance) is becoming more problematic.  She'll update her photo, or I'll look for a link I saw, and there it is.  The List.

I have been trying to figure out why these lists make me so uncomfortable, and I think it's because it makes me take stock of what I have (and have not) accomplished, seen, and done in my 34 years.  I feel that I'm a bit behind the curve, and if in a competition to see who has let the hippest, wildest, and funkiest life, I wouldn't really place.  This is all best discussed with my therapist, I'm sure, but feelings of inadequacy boil to the surface when I think of 100 (100!) things that I need to do.  I mean, I haven't born a child (can't go on the list because of…well…we all know my history) or stepped foot in a foreign country other than Canada (what a stereotypical American I am!).  If I make a list of all that I would like to do, it's just…out there…the things that I haven't done.  Is this making any sense?  I know, I'm crazy.

That, coupled with my twitchy need to make certain all things are OFF THE LIST before I sleep at night have prevented me from even reading this woman's list, which in my mind contained things like "build a home in the wilds of Alaska", "go back to Iceland and dye wool for 6 months". 

So this morning I read it.  And I got it.  I mean, really, a lightbulb turned on.

These things can be little things – 'have a family portrait taken' was one.  Easy, right?  I mean, that's totally attainable, not overwhelming, and she's already crossed it off!  That must feel so good!

Also, I was completely floored to realize that I had done some of the things that she wants to do.  I know, right?  I mean, here's this ultra-hip chick, livin'-in-a- foreign-country-for-a-month girl, and one of the things she wants to do is attend Glide Memorial.  I'VE ATTENDED GLIDE MEMORIAL!  This is blowing my mind.

Now I get it.  They don't have to be grand and glorious things.  They can be little tiny things that you just haven't gotten around to doing yet.  Little tiny things.  Easy.

Like:

Plant a Rosebush.

Bake a soufflé

Care for an orchid properly.

Make a pottery bowl by myself from start to finish.

 

Little things.    So I am starting.  My tag will be Living It, and periodically I'll post a few items I've thought of.  Eventually there will be 100, maybe more, but I'm ok with limitless for now.

 

This may seem utterly elementary to many, but I feel like I just crossed a big thing off of my psyche's imaginary list.

1)    "Feel Good About Making a List You Know Will Take Years To Accomplish"

 

Fly Speck

You know you've been on the computer for too long when you try several times to delete the crumb off of your computer screen.