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?

Where the hell is my cell?

YOU GUYS. My cell phone is missing and it's crippling. Kinda like the TWENTY TO THIRTY INCHES OF SNOW that has just begun to fall on the DC area. When snow is measured in feet instead of inches, all bets are off. And they've been talking about it since Monday and STILL people are fighting over the last shovel at Home Depot. Seriously, people; you were warned. You had time. You want a shovel? I'll sell you one of ours for $50. Text me.

OH WAIT! You can't text me because I can't find my damn cell phone.

Maybe you've seen it. It looks like this:

...and yes, I know that all the Cool Kids have touch-screen phones instead of real QWERTY keys, but I like my li'l keyboard. And I like the music and photos I have on my itty-bitty two-gig memory chip that would blow away if I sneezed on it.

Here's the worst thing. I am pretty sure it's in my house. I got back from the grocery store last Saturday and never left the house until I went to church on Sunday, and on the way out the door then I remember thinking, Huh, don't have my cell phone but oh well, God'll know how to reach me there.

I keep looking and looking and looking again, mostly in the same places, as if I expect it to miraculously be there even though it wasn't the first three five eleven times I looked. I tried calling it, but the battery has long since drained.  Plus, it was on vibrate anyway.

My Facebook friends offered some helpful suggestions. "Look in your coat pockets," someone offered. Well, thanks Sherlock, I could do that again, I suppose, even though it was the FIRST place I looked. Another said when she lost hers, she discovered it under the fridge (and no, I don't know how that happens either), and yet another said it was wedged under her kid's car seat, which I could see. In fact, I would look there if my car seat-sized kid had been with me at the grocery store, but he wasn't, and I remember getting a text after I got home anyway.

Luckily, I have a work-issued Blackberry, so I'm not completely disconnected. Company policy does prohibit use of the "SMS" feature, so texting's out... but I can get email, and voice calls.  Also, if you leave me a voice message on my lost cell, I have it set to email me a transcript of the message (thanks, Google Voice!). The only thing is, the Blackberry's on T-Mobile and my personal cell's on Verizon, which is a much better network locally.

Wow, did you read that? How complicated is all of that tech-stuff anyway? When I was a kid, "call me" meant walk over to the wall where your one and only house phone is mounted, stick your finger in the rotary dial and literally DIAL my number, which you either will have memorized or written down on a note by the phone or you'll have to look it up in the phone book, or just dial "0" and ask the "operator" to connect you, because there was no such thing as "speed dial"... and then when the call went through, I would run to my kitchen wall and answer the literally RINGING phone (not vibrating - ringing, like a bell!) that looked like this (thanks to this blog for the photo):

...and I would stand there, tethered to the wall by a few feet of curly cord, and talk within earshot of my mother. Phones were for talking. They were not for "texting" or faxing or photographing or listening to music. But the best thing about the phone on the wall was that you could not LOSE it because it was HUGE and YELLOW and STUCK TO THE WALL with wires and screws and there was ONLY ONE and we SHARED IT and THAT'S ALL WE KNEW so WE LIKED IT.

Anyone who was born after 1985 is reading this and going... wall?... dial?.... share?... operator?... what kind of book?? 

I know. Shut up. I was born in the 1960s. It was a simpler time. Phones could not be misplaced, and "text" was still a noun. Someone needs to document all of this ancient history so that our descendants can know how difficult different it was in prehistoric times the 1980s.

Anyway. For better or worse, I've become accustomed to being connected, accessible, within reach. That's what most of us do now. It is our new reality. And yes, if you're good at math, you've figured out that I carry around two cell phones with me and now I "only" have one. I know. It's crazy.

I should have plenty of time to look in my coat pockets AGAIN this weekend during the epic, crippling, paralyzing, disruptive blizzard, whose first flakes continue to fall. And I truly don't even care if I find my phone in some ridiculous place, like in my shower stall or between the washer and dryer or under the stack of clothes that's been sitting on the ironing board for a couple of years months.  Because if I find it there, that means my cell and I have been reunited. And that will feel soooo good.