- Really great Brussels sprouts can be devoured at Wildwood BBQ on Park and 18th.
- The blueberry beer isn't bad either.
- School Products on Broadway is way too dangerous for me to go to with a credit card.
- Apparently I can do the full dance break in Beyonce's "Get Me Bodied" in 4" heels
- It takes approximately 12 hours to change my entire body language to adapt to the location I'm in. I walk differently when I'm home in NY.
- A foot of my hair weighs about a pound. (Cut a foot off and my weight is down a little)
Monday, March 30, 2009
Episode 6: Things I Learned This Weekend
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Episode 5: Ruffle Coup
Clothes shopping today was less than exciting. Trying to find things that flatter my figure and are remotely appropriate for me to wear has always been a challenge but this season looks like it will be particularly difficult.
Let us set aside for the moment the fact that the long, "romantic," batik/creatively dyed cotton dresses look like something out of my aunt's vintage late 70s closet. We'll move past the horrific number of tops that deserve a place only in mid-80s movies. I'll even suppress my shudders at the massive amount of yellow and all the neon shades I saw, despite the fact that absolutely none of those colors look remotely attractive on me.
No, darling, we're going to talk about the ruffles. The ruffles that are EVERYWHERE. 70% of the shirts I picked up were layered with pleats and tucks to be more feminine. I even tried one dress with only one row of ruffles around the neckline. That I hung it politely again on the hanger is a sign of being brought up right, not of my respect for the garment. But these ruffles cling to the skirts, shirts, dresses and I shudder, because it's just too much going on for me on the clothing. Ruffles for the sake of ruffles is just a bad idea. And many fabrics just shouldn't be ruffles. I could live with it when it was only a few skirts and some crisp white cotton blouses, but now, they're everywhere.
Even tank tops, that last bastion of pull the shirt over my head and walk out the door don't seem to be safe. Along side with choosing length (regular or tunic), picking between a plethora of straps, none of which look like they'll do their job to begin with, and trying to find a color and size remotely functional with my current wardrobe: now they're layered with lace and ruffles. Regular, cotton tank tops. I shudder to think how many girls whose extra weight, squeezed up and out of the top of their skinny jeans and shorts this summer, will be enhanced by lace around the midriff. Somehow, I just don't find it cute.
And don't get me started on the black jumpsuit under which there is no hope of wearing a bra. I'm not that endowed, but seriously.
5 Reasons to Appreciate that You Are Male:
1) Jeans come with measurements on them. You might have to look a while for your particular measurements but you never need guess what size you are in this store.
2) You don't need to try and wade through juniors, misses and petites in search of something that might fit and look appropriate.
3) You aren't facing the wonderful spring trend of ruffles.
4) No bra straps to coordinate with all of your outfits.
5) You're not expected to dress up in colors mostly appropriate for sorbet every spring.
Let us set aside for the moment the fact that the long, "romantic," batik/creatively dyed cotton dresses look like something out of my aunt's vintage late 70s closet. We'll move past the horrific number of tops that deserve a place only in mid-80s movies. I'll even suppress my shudders at the massive amount of yellow and all the neon shades I saw, despite the fact that absolutely none of those colors look remotely attractive on me.
No, darling, we're going to talk about the ruffles. The ruffles that are EVERYWHERE. 70% of the shirts I picked up were layered with pleats and tucks to be more feminine. I even tried one dress with only one row of ruffles around the neckline. That I hung it politely again on the hanger is a sign of being brought up right, not of my respect for the garment. But these ruffles cling to the skirts, shirts, dresses and I shudder, because it's just too much going on for me on the clothing. Ruffles for the sake of ruffles is just a bad idea. And many fabrics just shouldn't be ruffles. I could live with it when it was only a few skirts and some crisp white cotton blouses, but now, they're everywhere.
Even tank tops, that last bastion of pull the shirt over my head and walk out the door don't seem to be safe. Along side with choosing length (regular or tunic), picking between a plethora of straps, none of which look like they'll do their job to begin with, and trying to find a color and size remotely functional with my current wardrobe: now they're layered with lace and ruffles. Regular, cotton tank tops. I shudder to think how many girls whose extra weight, squeezed up and out of the top of their skinny jeans and shorts this summer, will be enhanced by lace around the midriff. Somehow, I just don't find it cute.
And don't get me started on the black jumpsuit under which there is no hope of wearing a bra. I'm not that endowed, but seriously.
5 Reasons to Appreciate that You Are Male:
1) Jeans come with measurements on them. You might have to look a while for your particular measurements but you never need guess what size you are in this store.
2) You don't need to try and wade through juniors, misses and petites in search of something that might fit and look appropriate.
3) You aren't facing the wonderful spring trend of ruffles.
4) No bra straps to coordinate with all of your outfits.
5) You're not expected to dress up in colors mostly appropriate for sorbet every spring.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Episode 4: A Peek in the Closet 1
Did you know, in my wardrobe, I've only one pair of sweatpants?
The pants are from H&M circa 2005, the Manhattan store, late summer. They are boot cut/bell bottom, fitted at the hips with a drawstring for extra snugness and a cute bow. And they're the color of oatmeal. A number that means nothing too me, outside of randomly being the year of my birth, is appliqued onto one hip.
If you've made it this far into the description, I'm impressed. Relegated now to the pajama/work out clothing drawer, these pants were bought with an actual intent. Headed out to Suffolk County to meet up with a girl friend of mine and two guys we barely knew, I needed something that would fit the scene. Something a little different from my regular clothes, which were far more business casual than this outing called for.
Armed with these sweatpants and a white hoodie, I ventured forth. I berated myself for buying white, who wears a white hoodie and who can keep it clean? Might I just add that it has been one of my favorite articles of clothing for nearly four years and is only on its way out because there are a couple of holes in it?
The boys are long gone (probably for the best, we think at least one of them had "connections"); the girl is still a friend, though it's a bit longer between nights out dancing these days. But that pants are in my bureau. Comfy and slouchy with a tank top and fleece hoodie.
And the fitted thing does so much more for the hips than the 80s-style matching set with an elastic waistband type ever did.
The pants are from H&M circa 2005, the Manhattan store, late summer. They are boot cut/bell bottom, fitted at the hips with a drawstring for extra snugness and a cute bow. And they're the color of oatmeal. A number that means nothing too me, outside of randomly being the year of my birth, is appliqued onto one hip.
If you've made it this far into the description, I'm impressed. Relegated now to the pajama/work out clothing drawer, these pants were bought with an actual intent. Headed out to Suffolk County to meet up with a girl friend of mine and two guys we barely knew, I needed something that would fit the scene. Something a little different from my regular clothes, which were far more business casual than this outing called for.
Armed with these sweatpants and a white hoodie, I ventured forth. I berated myself for buying white, who wears a white hoodie and who can keep it clean? Might I just add that it has been one of my favorite articles of clothing for nearly four years and is only on its way out because there are a couple of holes in it?
The boys are long gone (probably for the best, we think at least one of them had "connections"); the girl is still a friend, though it's a bit longer between nights out dancing these days. But that pants are in my bureau. Comfy and slouchy with a tank top and fleece hoodie.
And the fitted thing does so much more for the hips than the 80s-style matching set with an elastic waistband type ever did.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Episode 3: Age: A Number or a Category....
Apparently it's acceptable these days to ask a lady her age. Is it one of those things they only stop asking once you have a certain number of gray hairs? It's come up a number of times over the past couple of weeks: a lady at work, a couple of kids I know and then there was that most recent one.
It was a guy and of the people who have asked me in the past six months or so, he was the most surprised. And his response "wow, you're really young" was a bright red flag that I must be more than a decade younger than he. It turns out I'm fourteen years younger to be exact. I was a little surprised at the age difference myself, I'd assumed a seven or eight year split and that might have been agreeable for coffee and perhaps dinner. But as I confirmed with Vaa this morning, 14 years is just a little too far apart. I'm open minded but I do put my foot down around the decade difference between a guy's age and mine. I tend to find that after a decade, we're at different life places. Not always, but generally speaking.
But isn't it interesting how a number that no one can seem to figure out on first glance puts us in categories?
I've been written off in stores because I was "obviously too young" to know what I was doing/buying. I thought that would fade once I was post college, but I've been out over five years and apparently I've not quite reached it yet. Some retailers just can't seem to figure out that once you reach 21, the idea of doing what the "older crowd does" loses something and if you write off a young adult, we won't be back.
In my places of work, I'm at least a decade younger than my professional coworkers. They have far more life experience, and experience in the field in general--but I'm more open to new tools and my typing speed boggles many of them.
As a child, I grouped adults into one of three age brackets: young adults, adults my parents' age, adults my grandparents' age. Now I'm what I would consider a young adult (less than a full decade since I legally became one), and the brackets have become all too wonky.
But at least I retain the manners not to say "so...how old are you?" to an adult I barely know.
It was a guy and of the people who have asked me in the past six months or so, he was the most surprised. And his response "wow, you're really young" was a bright red flag that I must be more than a decade younger than he. It turns out I'm fourteen years younger to be exact. I was a little surprised at the age difference myself, I'd assumed a seven or eight year split and that might have been agreeable for coffee and perhaps dinner. But as I confirmed with Vaa this morning, 14 years is just a little too far apart. I'm open minded but I do put my foot down around the decade difference between a guy's age and mine. I tend to find that after a decade, we're at different life places. Not always, but generally speaking.
But isn't it interesting how a number that no one can seem to figure out on first glance puts us in categories?
I've been written off in stores because I was "obviously too young" to know what I was doing/buying. I thought that would fade once I was post college, but I've been out over five years and apparently I've not quite reached it yet. Some retailers just can't seem to figure out that once you reach 21, the idea of doing what the "older crowd does" loses something and if you write off a young adult, we won't be back.
In my places of work, I'm at least a decade younger than my professional coworkers. They have far more life experience, and experience in the field in general--but I'm more open to new tools and my typing speed boggles many of them.
As a child, I grouped adults into one of three age brackets: young adults, adults my parents' age, adults my grandparents' age. Now I'm what I would consider a young adult (less than a full decade since I legally became one), and the brackets have become all too wonky.
But at least I retain the manners not to say "so...how old are you?" to an adult I barely know.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Episode 2: Polish and Peach Jam
I need to polish my pots...
Somehow that sounds vaguely inappropriate, but unfortunately no double entendre is meant. I have matching silver tea and coffee pots and a gold-hued tarnish reminds me that I've not polished them of late.
When I acquired them, I was given a detailed instruction about the care and use of silver tea pots. This particular pattern is SDN9--that was determined by someone far more knowledgeable of silver stamps than I. I have what was probably a grandmother's good silver. Only it wasn't to the taste of the heirs, or perhaps there were no heirs. Having purchased it at an antique market to which I seem to be making an annual visit, I can make up whatever back story I like.
So why do I need a silver tea and coffee pot? Why--for when next I have company. Or perhaps just a day I'm feeling a little more Regency/Victorian Era. Bring the teapot down, rinse carefully, and pour boiling hot water (prepared on the gas stove) over the shell shaped tea strainer. I'll get a package of crumpets out of the ice box (Did you know they can be found in the refrigerated section at the grocery? Check by the English Muffins), and hopefully by then the next jar of Mum's peach jam will have appeared. I ran out yesterday halfway through an English Muffin and was forced to make do with peach butter.
Tea and warm crumpets with lots of butter and jam. And napkins. Trust me, we'll need napkins.
But if that's going to happen, I need to get out the silver polish.
Somehow that sounds vaguely inappropriate, but unfortunately no double entendre is meant. I have matching silver tea and coffee pots and a gold-hued tarnish reminds me that I've not polished them of late.
When I acquired them, I was given a detailed instruction about the care and use of silver tea pots. This particular pattern is SDN9--that was determined by someone far more knowledgeable of silver stamps than I. I have what was probably a grandmother's good silver. Only it wasn't to the taste of the heirs, or perhaps there were no heirs. Having purchased it at an antique market to which I seem to be making an annual visit, I can make up whatever back story I like.
So why do I need a silver tea and coffee pot? Why--for when next I have company. Or perhaps just a day I'm feeling a little more Regency/Victorian Era. Bring the teapot down, rinse carefully, and pour boiling hot water (prepared on the gas stove) over the shell shaped tea strainer. I'll get a package of crumpets out of the ice box (Did you know they can be found in the refrigerated section at the grocery? Check by the English Muffins), and hopefully by then the next jar of Mum's peach jam will have appeared. I ran out yesterday halfway through an English Muffin and was forced to make do with peach butter.
Tea and warm crumpets with lots of butter and jam. And napkins. Trust me, we'll need napkins.
But if that's going to happen, I need to get out the silver polish.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Issue 1: Shamrocks as Harbinger of Spring
A comment C made this morning, on the efficacy of galoshes in inspiring one to skip and splash in puddles, hauled me back in memories to P and I skipping down Ashland after breakfast one morning. P said something about it being a memory I would retain, and obviously it worked--though I have given up those particular brown boots.
Despite the temperature only being 3 degrees this morning and the utter joy of chiseling ice off the windshield yet again before leaving for work, I am starting to have hopes and thoughts of spring. I think it's because of my shamrocks. In the fall my mum brought me a flat of shamrocks she'd split out from hers. Mum has a green thumb like no one else. While I certainly welcomed some shamrocks--10 new plants were a bit much, so I sent out an email at work and most of them went to a new home. Three stayed with me though and were re-potted.
Now they're big, flourishing with three leaf stalks and many little white flowers. Because they lived right by the balcony they got tons of sunshine but also a little chill, which meant some of the leaves took on a purple tinge.
It's still dark by the time I get home most nights so the shamrocks have put themselves to bed, leaves folded down and tucked in. It is only on the weekends and Tuesday mornings that I get to see the plants with leaves fully flared and reaching for the sun. The bright greens and flared leaves creates a welcoming bubble that suggests that even though we may still have a little while longer--spring is coming. We will have grass once more and trees with leaves, rather than their stark spare branches.
Despite the temperature only being 3 degrees this morning and the utter joy of chiseling ice off the windshield yet again before leaving for work, I am starting to have hopes and thoughts of spring. I think it's because of my shamrocks. In the fall my mum brought me a flat of shamrocks she'd split out from hers. Mum has a green thumb like no one else. While I certainly welcomed some shamrocks--10 new plants were a bit much, so I sent out an email at work and most of them went to a new home. Three stayed with me though and were re-potted.
Now they're big, flourishing with three leaf stalks and many little white flowers. Because they lived right by the balcony they got tons of sunshine but also a little chill, which meant some of the leaves took on a purple tinge.
It's still dark by the time I get home most nights so the shamrocks have put themselves to bed, leaves folded down and tucked in. It is only on the weekends and Tuesday mornings that I get to see the plants with leaves fully flared and reaching for the sun. The bright greens and flared leaves creates a welcoming bubble that suggests that even though we may still have a little while longer--spring is coming. We will have grass once more and trees with leaves, rather than their stark spare branches.
Introductorily
Following the termination of a relationship, I recaptured my words, my self really, which had been rather muted for the better part of two years.
I found most joy in writing pieces to a friend often on the road--to ensure that at least once a week he had a bit of an update on my life, and a little touch of sanity in a world that was anything but.
While most of these are new pieces, some may include some reworks.
Get out your can opener, dinner tonight is Canned Sanity.
I found most joy in writing pieces to a friend often on the road--to ensure that at least once a week he had a bit of an update on my life, and a little touch of sanity in a world that was anything but.
While most of these are new pieces, some may include some reworks.
Get out your can opener, dinner tonight is Canned Sanity.
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