Soup Is Not A Finger Food

Duu Yuu Muumuu?

In follow-up to yesterday's post, a friend sent me a commiserating message. She, too, was bemoaning how her clothes don't fit like they used to. She joked that she had been shopping for muumuus. "Where does one shop for muumuus?" I asked, because how the heck would I know?, and she helpfully responded with this link from the Vermont Country Store. Because friends don't let friends... oh wait, that's not really appropriate here. We're enabling, not preventing.

After perusing the website, I would agree that the VCS is definitely the go-to purveyor of muumuus. They boast an extensive selection: 58 (fifty-eight!) different varieties of muumuus, caftans, loungers, "patio dresses" (?) and "floats" (??), in sizes small through 3X.

I know what you're thinking. "Why so many varieties?" Well, because how boring would it be if they were all black and brown? SNNNZZZ! But more than that, you're probably wondering what I am, which is small? They make small muumuus? Isn't that an oxymoron? Like jumbo shrimp?

Well, whatever the reason, it appears that muumuus are in great demand, and the VCS is responding to its savvy muumuu consumers' demands! As a value-added service to my seven readers, I present but a small selection, annotated with my snarky comments:

 
Behold, the square-neck crinkled cotton float (what's a float?) in slimming solid colors. Because you wouldn't want anyone to think you're trying to hide anything in there.

 
Here we have the Long and Loose (hey, who're you calling loose?) Batik Muumuu: Unrestricting Fit with Flair. Flair is defined as "a uniquely attractive quality", and are you also thinking that this might be another oxymoron?

This is Our Cotton Gauze Muumuu: The coolest of all garments. And D minor...is the saddest of all keys, I find. People weep instantly when they hear it, and I don't know why.

 
The Water Garden muumuu cools and refreshes. So does a douche. Or a Miller Lite. (But in a different way, of course.)

This cool, crisp chambray patio dress is "faniced up with embroidery." Because nothing says "fancy" like embroidery, and nothing can be "fancied up" quite like a patio dress. Which appears to be very much the same as a muumuu.

And, finally:

The Polka-Dot Party Lounger Shows Off Your Fun Side! Oh, my. First of all, "party lounger" is yet another oxymoron. And second, I thought muumuus were designed to hide all of your sides!

Please, don't misunderstand.  I've nothing against the venerable muumuu or anyone who wears one. If that's what works for you, then great. But because mentally I am in 7th grade, the descriptions made me giggle. I mean, when you look at them all, it's pretty much all the same basic dress, just in different colors with slight variations in styling and trim. And if you're looking to buy one, you probably don't need to be "sold" on one versus the other.  You have outgrown all your "skinny clothes" so want a muumuu. You like red, and embroidery. (Fancy!) You need a size L, you put it into your cart and click "checkout." Done.

Wanna read more about muumuus on Wikipedia? Of course you do. You might learn something.

Fashion Don't

Yesterday morning, while attempting to dress for work, I changed my clothes three times.  Have you ever had a day like that? Other than when you were a teenager, I mean. As an adult. Recently. Where nothing felt right, no combination worked, stuff just didn't fit...

Am I the only one?

*insert sound of crickets chirping*

FINE, maybe I am. Stop rolling your eyes already. But I’m going to tell you what I’m dealing with here because blogs are for sharing.

There’s a perfect storm of contributing factors to my wardrobe malaise. For starters, things just don’t fit like they used to. I’m inclined to attribute this to my advancing age (I was, after all, born in the ‘60s), but more likely, it’s due in equal parts to French fries and wine. Neither of which I’m inclined to forego.  I need to dig out the warranty to see if "having my off switch recalibrated" is covered.

So, there’s my complete lack of willpower.  Next, we have my disinclination to do anything that remotely resembles exercise. Oh sure, I’ll park in the far lot and walk to the Metro station, and I’ll help shovel feet of snow off of our driveway, but let’s just say that my treadmill is collecting plenty of dust these days. As are my sneakers.

Those things account for the fact that the things I own don’t fit. But they don’t account for the fact that apparently, I have bad taste.

Why didn’t you people tell me??

The last time I changed was literally right before I walked out the door. I was holding my coat, ready to put it on, and decided NO! I cannot wear this! I quickly changed my top to something I hoped would go better with the pants I was wearing.  It was only later, in the office, as I changed into my work shoes that I discovered I'd forgotten to change my socks. So there I was at work, slipping my red-sock-clad feet into black clogs and hoping my pants would cover them so that no one asked me how come the red socks with the pink top?

As is my compulsion habit, I posted my quandary on Facebook.

A friend posted in response:

Like is it bad enough that I would snicker all bitchy like if I saw you on the street?

 
And I thought to myself no, no, you probably wouldn’t snicker all bitchy like. But you might have some other thoughts. You might be wondering, is this what happens to women on the far side of 40? The Frumpies?

Next, you might promise yourself that I Will Not Allow This Happen To Me.  To that I say, Good luck and Godspeed to you, Sunshine.

But if you were sincerely full of care and concern for what is obviously a Very Big Problem?

You’d nominate me for What Not To Wear. I would totally subject myself to Stacey and Clinton’s ridicule in exchange for a two-day shopping spree and a  $5,000 new wardrobe.

FIVE GRAND! I wouldn’t even know how to spend that kind of money on my clothes!

Obviously.

Shut up.

 

Back in business

PEEZER FOUND MY CELL PHONE!!!

I knew it would show up sometime. It's been almost four weeks since I apparently set it down on the rocking chair in his bedroom, possibly to pick up some of the stuff on his floor or maybe to dig in his closet for something, then absentmindedly wandered away or became distracted (oooh, shiny!), never to think again about the phone for almost 24 hours afterwards.

But this morning, while I was making his oatmeal for breakfast, he wandered into the kitchen, holding out the missing communication device.

"Look what I found in my room," he said.

I had pretty much given up on looking for it. In fact, last week I reactivated my old cell phone, the one I had before my QWERTY keyboard-equipped Env2. My kids were all but mortified that their mother was sporting a KRZR2, because gah mom it's soooo four years ago. But you know what, I was mostly content with this phone. It was a Perfectly Fine Phone. I could place and receive calls, store addresses, send text messages (though each one takes MINUTES to peck out), and even snap low-resolution photos.  I only got the newer one because it cost me nothing and it had the keyboard, all the better to txt with. And we all know that these kids nowadays, they prefer texting to talking.

So, I'm back in business now.  I will call to deactivate the KRZR2 and reactivate the ENV2 and guess what, in October I'm due for ANOTHER free phone (thanks, Verizon!).

But I think I'll keep the ENV2 - and the KRZR2 - just in case. Because my track record speaks for itself, don't you think?

Thanks Peezer! (insert gratuitous cute kid photo here:)

Olympic Fever

Like many, I am truly enjoying watching the Winter Olympics on TV. I admire humans who push their bodies to the limit and defy the laws of gravity and physics. I imagine the exhiliration they must feel at achieving such pinnacles, of knowing their names will be forever etched in the Olympic history books.  I sense the pride the athletes' parents must feel in their hearts, that the time and energy they spent nuturing their child's talent has resulted in such an honor.

Now, don't misunderstand: I'M NO ATHLETE.  (If you've been reading for a while, you might remember this story about how I used to dread Field Day.) Besides, even if I were athletically inclined, I'm done being cold. I am totally over winter after this year's double blizzards.

Despite all of this, I found myself fantasizing yesterday, for a brief moment, about bobsledding.

I mean, it looks fun, right? You hop in, tuck, and sail down the icy ramp, much like a frozen water slide. I'm sure the adrenaline rush must be similar to that induced by amusement park rides.

Seriously, I thought to myself. Push, sit, ride. How hard could it be?

Then I watched it on TV.

First of all - and let's just get this out of the way right here - the spandex suit is a real deal-breaker for me. I just don't look good in stretchy, clingy fabric. Unless it has those hidden panels inside that "instantly slim and trim" my middle (by which I mean the area between my neck and my ankles), like the Land's End Momsuit control swimsuit, I'm afraid that just wouldn't work for me. (Or for anyone watching.)

Second? I would absolutely have to be the one in the front of the sled. I'm not a very good passenger; I like having control. I haz mad driving skillz.

Third, I didn't realize until yesterday that the guy in the back has to tuck his head down for the entire ride, presumably to improve aerodynamics so they can gain valuable fractions of a second. But that would totally make me carsick. And that's just not any fun at all.

Lastly? It seems they crash from time to time.

 
Here I was picturing a gentle, if swift, ride down a curvy, icy incline. But apparently, the g-forces and gravity and velocity and physics conspire to make bobsledding a rather dangerous undertaking!

As with all sports, the pros make it look easy. My hat's off to them all.

And so, as quickly as it occurred to me, I was forced to abandon my brief dream of achieving bobsled mediocrity notoriety greatness. I guess I'll continue to confine my winter sliding to the tubing hill at the ski slope. It's just my speed.

But if they ever have an opening on the women's curling team?

I am soooo there. Because I could totally do that. I mean, how hard could it be?

On cake and misnamed holidays

Instead of being in school, thousands of school children are sitting at home today, on a holiday we've come to know as Presidents' Day, when in fact, the Federal law designates this holiday as Washington's Birthday. Check this out, from www.opm.gov:
 
This holiday is designated as "Washington’s Birthday" in section 6103(a) of title 5 of the United States Code, which is the law that specifies holidays for Federal employees. Though other institutions such as state and local governments and private businesses may use other names, it is our policy to always refer to holidays by the names designated in the law.
 
What? And all this time I've been thinking that we were supposed to be at home, quietly and reverently contemplating the anniversaries of the birth of two of our country's Founding Fathers: George Washington and Abraham Lincoln.  I'm sure George and Abe would have wanted the Metro trains to run on a modified (read: fewer trains) schedule and those scary, panic-inducing changing-direction highway lanes we have around here to be something other than what we all expect on a Monday morning.
 
Well, whatever. The point is, it was a school holiday long before they canceled the Whole Entire World during last week's Snowpocalypse, and people, I pledge that that will be my one and only reference to the weather today.
 
All this talk about birthdays makes me think of cake! Cake is a funny thing, isn't it?  I mean, you can't not have a birthday without a cake. This would be in violation of some cosmic law. To do so would tempt the fates, and not in a good way.  No, you gotta have cake. That's just the way it is, forever and ever, Amen.
 
Yet, it is my observation that while people are in love with the idea of cake, they don't so much enjoy eating it.  Cake is ceremonial.  When someone starts cutting the cake, everyone demurs. "Oh, just a tiny slice for me, please," Mary says. "Smaller than THAT for me," chimes Beth.  That accidentally huge corner piece with all the icing? It immediately gets passed around the room to the largest man present. As if his size requires him to eat more.
 
This reminds me of one of my favorite scenes from the movie, "Office Space." Having suffered through any number of office birthday parties, it always makes me cringe:

You can't have a wedding without a cake. But honestly, I don't remember too much about the cake at my own wedding. I think it was a marble cake, and there was white frosting with some flowers. It was both pretty and yummy. I also know it was of modest size, and when it went to the kitchen to be cut and served, many guests may have received a piece of sheet cake instead. (Because how would you have known the difference?) After the ceremonial cake cutting, I don't think I ate anything more of it than the bites we exchanged.  (And no, we did not smear it into each other's faces. Why, oh why, has that become a wedding tradition?)
 
This year, I made a really cool cake for Peezer's birthday party. The theme was medieval, so the easiest cake to make was a shield:
 


 
The kids all loved looking at it, they couldn't wait to eat it - but not one kid at the party took more than two bites of their piece of cake.  I threw most of it away.
 
And yet, cake can trigger memories.
 
I remember that every year, my Grandma Losch would ask me what kind of cake she should make me for my birthday. I always chose a red velvet cake, and hers was the best. Oh, and my Aunt Doll (Grandma Losch's daughter, my mom's sister) makes this thing called Grandma Cake, but it probably should be called "rot your teeth and bust yer gut cake" - it's made with brown sugar and butter measured in POUNDS, not fractions of a cup. She always had it when I visited her house, and I enjoyed sharing cake and milk with my Uncle Bill. I have the recipe somewhere and will share it one day soon.
 
Now it's your turn. What are your cake memories? Or your memories of Washington's birthday, Lincoln's Birthday, or Presidents' Day?  Leave 'em in the comments, please.