Towels

My dad came from a large family.  When the family got together for Christmas at my grandma's house, it would be 40-50 people.  Kids exchanged names for gift-giving.  Teens and adults exchanged names. But Grandma's plan was to get a bunch of the same thing for everybody.  One year she bought gobs of mittens and let all the kids choose a color.  For several years, the adult-gift was towels.  She bought lots of towels.  Everybody could pick.  Somehow Gary and I ended up with oddball colors that would never go with the color of our bathroom or with our other towels. 

Our current towel stash still has some towels that we each bought when we went away to college.  That would not be a big deal if I were in my 20s.  But I am not. 

Our current towel stash still has some towels that we received as wedding gifts, towels that were seldom used because they were in odd colors. 

Our current towel stash has some nearly new towels (again, in colors that don't match) because of distributing the contents of deceased parents' homes. 

This week I pulled towels out of the bathroom for the laundry, but washed only some before needing fresh towels for showers.  Somehow, a pair of color-coordinated towels ended up in the bathroom.  The towels matched each other and matched the color-scheme of the bathroom.  It looked nice.  It makes me want to go out and buy color-coordinated towels -- just for pretties -- just for fun. 


And yet, I can't do it quite yet.  I don't like the color of our bathrooms.  (The previous owners choose a Packer-theme for the bathrooms.)  When we paint and maybe even replace the flooring, then I will waste money on something that looks nice, just for the sake of enjoying the calm of having something coordinated and pretty.  That's going to be a big step in embracing beauty and fighting over-frugality.  But who knows how long until a bathroom color-remodel can be tackled?

Old Navy

I have a pair of jeans.
I would like another pair of jeans.

I am tall.  My legs are so freaky long that it's hard to buy pants.  I haven't had to buy pants for quite a while because I had been wearing dress-up clothes for work and church.  Every few months I've been doing some online shopping, trying to find a pair of jeans. 

Why is it so difficult to find jeans without spandex?!
Why doesn't anybody make plain old sturdy jeans, cotton jeans?
Jeans that you could wear in the garden or in the woods or on a hike?

Because of the ridiculous shoe heights that are popular right now, apparently the jeans are extra long right now.  My daughter told me that Old Navy sells really long jeans.

I hate shopping.
I hate clothes shopping even more than other shopping.
But I bit the bullet and stopped at Old Navy yesterday.

The background music was loud.  It was awful.  It had songs with the f-word.

The store was over-crowded with customers and not enough staff.

The clothing was in disarray.  It took forever to find something to try on: jeans in size 4, size 16, size 12, size 14, and size 8 were all in one stack.  It made me wonder if some trouble-makers had come in and surreptitiously spent hours rearranging the jeans to make all the stacks completely chaotic.

I finally resigned myself to buying jeans with spandex.  When the gal rang up my bill, it came to $31.68.  I didn't have a ten or the correct change, so I handed the clerk $42.  She was confused and handed back $1.  "It's only thirty-ONE sixty-eight."  Right.  I tried to explain about the 68 cents.  She argued with me.  She did not understand.  I finally told her, "Just type $42 into the cash register.  It will tell you how much change I should get, and then maybe you'll understand."  She then figured out the $10-bill easily enough, but she had trouble figuring out how to make the 32 cents. 

Left the store.
Noticed a men's clothing store next door -- a store that specializes in work clothes.
Went in.
Sure enough, they carry a few women's jeans.

Dang it -- they're all spandex too.

Decided to start trying on men's jeans. 
Because men's jeans come in durable COTTON.
Bought a pair.
They will need to have tucks in the waist.  But if that's what it takes to get real jeans instead of silly little fashion jeans, then okay.

Went back to Old Navy to return the spandex jeans.  Stood in a long line for the cash registers again.

Two twenty-something girls were in front of me, killing time on their phones, laughing and joking together while they waited.  One of them came across a video on her phone that she wanted to show her pal.  Held it up between the two of them.  It so happens that everybody in line behind them could see clearly too.  It was a porn video. 

I ought not say I will never set foot in an Old Navy again.  Something may force me to shop there one day.  But right now I can't imagine what level of desperation it would take for me to shop there again.  It was a cruddy two hours.

And some people think shopping is FUN.

Pearls

I love pearls.  I often wear my "pearl" necklaces to work.  When my sibs and I went through my mom's stuff, I wanted one of her pearl necklaces.  (Hers may be cultured pearls, or they may be mere white beads.  I don't have a clue.)

I have been surprised by how many people compliment my pearls:  "Those are so pretty.  You don't usually see people with pearls nowadays, but I think they're so classy."

Yes.  Pearls are not bling.  But they're pretty.



Besides, comments about my pearls always remind me of the scene in Anne where Anne and Diana are standing by the shore after the event at White Sands:  "I'm quite content to be Anne of Green Gables, with my string of pearl beads. I know Matthew gave me as much love with them as ever went with Madame the Pink Lady's jewels."

Not Trendy

This evening I noticed something beautiful in the sky.  Venus and Jupiter are very close together.  The computer tells me that this is the closest the two planets will be over the space of a few decades.  The astronomers are saying that this series of three conjunctions (over the space of 14 months) is quite similar to what the star of Bethlehem may have been.

When Maggie and I were first looking up "Sky and Telescope" to see what they said about this lovely sight, I started singing, "... and Jupiter aligns with Mars, then peace will guide the planets ..."  Poor Maggie.  "WHAT are you singing, Mom?!"  So I belted it out: "This is the dawning of the age of Aquarius ..."  Yeah.  Like I said -- poor Maggie.

Singing the song reminded me.  Once upon a time, in grade school, I won some contest at the Y.  The prize was a 45 of my choice.  (For you youngsters, a "45" is a record.  The kind that got played on a old-fashioned turn-table.  The little ones, with one song on each side.  It would be comparable to your winning a $3 iTune giftcard.)  They asked all three winners for what songs they'd like.  The other two girls immediately came up with song titles.  At that point, I didn't listen to pop music yet.  So I chose "Age of Aquarius."  It was something I knew.  The adults didn't know what to do: "That's old.  I don't think that's available any more.  Is it still on the charts?  Can you tell us a second choice?  I don't think we'll be able to find that song."



When my hair was initially cut short, here not too long ago, several people complimented me with how "trendy" I looked.  I was offended.  I didn't respond in a nasty way, but yes, that kind of praise bothered me.  If they liked my hair and I didn't, I could accept their compliment.  If they said my haircut suited me, I could disagree but appreciate their well-intended words.  But trendy?  Yuck.  I don't like trendy.  I don't want to be trendy.

"The Age of Aquarius."  I was already out-of-sync and decidedly behind-the-times when I was just a little kid.

Definitely untrendy.
And proud of it.  Darn tootin'.

Report on Hair Length

7 months ... and it is no longer "boy hair"

"It Hurts When You Brush My Hair"

I hereby publicly apologize to my daughters when I told them emphatically, "NO, it does NOT."

When your scalp is not used to being brushed,
when your hair is not very long,
those bristles may indeed hurt a person's head.

On the one hand, I'm glad to know this.  Hee hee hee -- it means I have hair long enough to need brushing --  y'know, just so that it doesn't stand up in spikes and make look all punk-rock.

On the other hand, as I hauled out the brush and began to smooth down the spikes, my first thought was, "Oh man!  The girls were right.  This does hurt." 

Oh, the heartlessness of mothers...

Nanna's Hat

Matthias is crazy about this hat.  Some friends at church saw his joyful face on Sunday: "Oh, look how happy he is to see his grandma."

No.  Not really.  He was just happy to see my hat. 

Yes, he likes me, and he will smile and laugh and be happy when he looks me in the eye.  But if he looks me straight in the hat-brim instead, then watch out world! because sparkles will be dancing from baby boy's eyes.

And for those who are wondering how the hair-growth is coming, this is the 3-month picture.  The last bare-headed picture I posted was at 7-weeks growth, so it's come a long ways.  I still don't like it, but I'm no longer mortified by my hair.

And yes, I'm vain.

Cooties

But it was misdiagnosed.

Itching began last Wednesday.  Rash started Thursday and kept getting worse.  Doctor visit on Friday with a diagnosis of mites (from cuddling the cat on Tuesday and Wednesday) or chiggers (from sitting in the grass on Tuesday) or scabies (huh?).  This [substitute] doctor didn't test because these problems are all treated with the same Rx-cream and the same washing regimen.

Followed instructions carefully.
Refrained from hugging and touching anybody at the rehearsal dinner.  I told them I had cooties and to stay away for their own protection.
Wore long sleeves and long skirt and high neckline for the wedding, continuing to be careful to not-hug or at least to avoid any skin contact. 
Rash continued to get worse.
Continued to wash, re-wash, and again re-wash sheets, towels, clothes, etc.
Itching kept me up at night.
Rash continued to spread.
Sores became oozy and weepy.

Returned to doctor.  This time it was past office-hours and we went to FastCare.  This doctor diagnosed a bad case of poison ivy.  She prescribed steroids and an astringent wash for the sores.  In two hours I could already see significant improvement!  I slept comfortably last night.  Sores are healing nicely and no longer spreading.

The chigger diagnosis not only delayed treatment for the poison ivy; the medicine for it also worsened the rash and spread the urushiol oil.  It's sad that I could've felt this good for the wedding if the rash had been correctly diagnosed the first time. But at least it's on the mend now.

Hair Growth

7 weeks after the surgeons shaved it bare

17 days after surgery

It's growing.  Slowly.

I was mistaken for a man (by a friend!) last week.  And someone told me on Sunday that he much preferred the "babushka look" to the ... uh ... the "other." 

Yes!  Me too!

It's nice that Alia no longer seems afraid of me with my "boy hair."

Gary has encouraged me to take weekly pictures of the hair growth.  Because I have been frustrated by the changes in my hair as I age, he figured that evening out a huge bald patch on my scalp would be the perfect time to see what my hair did at different lengths.  When I came home from the hospital, Rachel cut my longer hair to match the fuzz over the surgery site.  When I'm in public, I usually wear a scarf or a baseball cap. 

The fact that I'm blogging about this probably betrays way more vanity in me than I want to own up to.

The scar site on my scalp doesn't show any more.  I think (I hope!) that my hair is long enough now to protect the scar from sunburn.  But I'm still being careful during midday; Pam warned me to watch out for sun on the scar tissue.

I do not think my hair will be long enough by the time of the wedding [just one month!] to go bare-headed yet.  Andrew asked Gary to keep his beard, even though it's summer, so that Gary would "look like Dad" in the wedding pictures.  Well, that lady ain't gonna "look like Mom."  But what are you going to do?!  LOL.

Tying Scarves

Melody linked to a you-tube about tying scarves.  I need to learn a few of these because I am inept with scarves.  I think many of my scarves are way too small to use these tricks, but the instruction helps me think in new ways.

Now, can I remember even ONE of these for when I'm dressing in the morning?  Or will I have to run to the computer and hunt through blogposts for the video-link?  Oh, you know how it is -- if I have to struggle that much to tie a scarf, I'll be going scarfless.

Decorating Opinions?

Unlike me, some of you have, well, y'know, taste.  And some of you enjoy looking at decorating magazines.  So I'd like to ask for input.

If these are my [ahem] outdated kitchen cabinets,
and if I have no intention of updating them,
and if I'd like a lighter kitchen,

would it work to paint the cupboard doors?

1:  What's trendy is irrelevant.  If I accomplish this project within five years, I'll be patting myself on the back for speediness.

2:  If the cupboard doors were white or some other near-white color and the cupboards themselves remained dark, would the outline of the dark wood look super-tacky, or elegant, or some blah-in-between?

Unripe Avocado

Again?  We cut into an avocado, expecting to add deliciousness to a sandwich, and it wasn't ripe enough.  Let's get real -- it wasn't ripe at all.  When it happened last month, I chafed at putting a whole avocado into the garbage.  So when it happened again this month, I didn't want to waste another one. Time to start a google-hunt.

I decided to try an avocado hair mask.

Because the fruit wasn't ripe, I let it sit for several days.  I don't have the foggiest idea why it didn't mold.  But it didn't.  At least, not this time.  The cut edges dried.  The middle under the dried edges continued to ripen somewhat.  Eventually, I followed online instructions to mash/puree the avocado with olive oil, smoosh it through my hair, cover it with a shower cap, heat it with a blow-dryer for a couple of minutes, and then let it sit for an hour.  I washed my hair.  The next morning I rinsed it thoroughly again with plain water and let it dry.

And today I have sproingy-boingy soft curls instead of slight waves.  Nice!

Interior Decorating

I admit it up-front: I don't have a sense for decorating.  I would like a prettier house, but I don't want it enough to figure out what to do and then make it happen.

So on a slow day at work I was flipping through Midwest Living.  I was amazed by some of the nifty, cool, stylish, up-to-date ideas for decorating.  My jaw actually dropped.  And I still can't figure it out.

So it's stylish to have a beat-up old table?  People spend lots of money buying furniture and decorative items that are "distressed." There are methods to paint a decent piece of furniture to make it appear "distressed."   Why can this look fabulous in somebody else's house?  If I had something like that in my house, it would not tout STYLE.  It would look unkempt.

For a delectably romantic table setting, one suggestion was to use a length of burlap as a tablecloth.  Burlap.  As in, the burlap that we used in the 60's to make banners for church.  Or the burlap we would use for sack-races in grade school. 

One magazine article will tell you how a house needs COLOR .  White or eggshell walls?  Out out out.  And yet, another article will extol the virtues of various whites all throughout the house.

One photo display showed an old wooden ladder propped up in a dining room, the rungs serving as a way to display the woman's collection of antique dish towels.  And I'm thinking, "Oh, that I had enough space in the house to even understand how it's possible to have a display like that!"

These homes are put together intentionally and carefully.  People shop and shop and shop for Just The Right Item to fit the theme of the house.


Me?

I have books.
And piles of Stuff We're In The Middle Of.
And kiddos' drawings on the refrigerator.
And evidence of projects: a bag of grass seed to plant, a blender and a toaster and a mixer on the counter at all times instead of in an "appliance garage," newspaper on the table, schoolbooks on the coffee table, a sewing project scattered across the basement, etc.

Maybe we could pretend my house was decorated with a theme of Practicality and Self Reliance?  Sure.  That's it.  Totally.  It was all planned!

Haircut

Same ol' long hair pulled back in a ponytail/bun.

I like the back!

I think the bangs are too short. 

 (And boy, it's weird how my profile makes me look so much like my mom but also like a cousin on my dad's side.)

The front of the new haircut. 

I haven't cried yet.  That's a good sign, right?  Considering what I was anticipating?  Yup.

Consternation over Hair

Do you scan the bookshelves of people you're getting to know?  When you're visiting a friend, do you check out the front of the refrigerator door?  If there's a scheduling calendar or a to-do list prominently displayed, do you notice it?  

What we see tells us a lot about who that person is.  



So, I've lost a lot of hair over the past year or two.  A lot.   My ponytail looks thin like a rat tail.  My bun is tiny and flat.  My hair looks scraggly when it's down.  I need a haircut.  Not 6" trimmed off.  But a completely different haircut.  A haircut that works with old-lady hair.

And I don't want one!    [waaaaahhhh!]

Everybody says, "It's just hair."  
Everybody says, "You can always grow it back."
Everybody says, "It will be fine."

But my boring hairstyle that I've had for 20+ years says something about who I am.  It reveals who I am just like my refrigerator door and the contents of my bookshelves.

Okay, so gazillions of American women change their hairstyle and their hair color every few months or every couple of years.  That's great.  But it's not me.  So I'm, like, having this identity crisis over the upcoming appointment for the haircut, fully anticipating a week or more of mourning.

And everybody thinks I'm silly. 
    
 

Make-Up

Not like I wear make-up very often.  But I did want to look a little special for Gary's Christmas party at work on Saturday.  I might've spent a whole minute-and-a-half applying make-up that day.  Maybe even two minutes!

So Sunday afternoon my eyes started itching.  By bedtime they were beginning to be goopy.  This morning I headed off to work looking as if I'd been crying for hours.  After many trips to the bathroom to wash my eyes today, the redness has subsided and the itchiness is nearly gone.

Good-bye make-up.

I can't wear earrings anymore.
Pretty shoes are impossible.
My hair is thinning.
And now make-up is off-limits too.
I guess it's time for any remnants of vanity to be destroyed, eh?
Time to embrace the aging frumpiness....

Proper-Fitting Bras

Heads-up to guys: This is a girls' topic.

About a decade ago, the doctor sent me for tests.  She was quite sure I didn't have cancer, but needed to eliminate that as a possibility before looking into more reasonable explanations for the pain I was experiencing.   The mammogram technician told me that she sees many women who are having problems with their undergarments.  She suggested trying an alternative-type undergarment, and that has been my only option for years.  It doesn't make a person look attractive, but it seemed the best choice given the circumstances.

Recently, a friend pointed out Breakout Bras and their advice on sizing and finding a proper fit.  Hey!  This is fantastic!  Nobody ever told me this before!

Y'know how They always told you to measure your rib cage and then add 4-5" to find your band size?  No!  That's wrong.  That's how I ended up with poor fit, pain, and straps that kept slipping off my shoulders.  Breakout Bras says to measure your rib cage, and then start shopping for the size that reflects that measurement.  And it works.  Awesome!

Looking Professional

There's some standard of what it is to "look professional."  Although I am aware of it, I don't value it.  There is a dress code at work, and I haven't gotten in trouble for looking unprofessional.  I don't have the manicure.  I don't have the spiffy suitcoats.  I don't have the right shoes.  I don't have the make-up.  I don't have the right haircut with the blond highlights.  But I am clean and I abide by the dress code.  And so far that's fine.

I am disgusted by the articles in the "Home" section of the newspaper about staging a house that's for sale.  I realize that the sellers may have to do it.  But I'm disgusted with a society when our decision-making is so heavily influenced by such things.

So when I hear about staging for job interviews, I am likewise disgusted.  I realize that the person applying for the job has to play the game.  But c'mon, really, do we think that having the Right Kind of folder or Right Kind of briefcase or Right Kind of car should give one person an edge in being hired?

Cookie cutters.

We say we value creativity and individuality and open-mindedness and problem-solving.

We lie.

We value rubber stamps and cookie cutters.

Signed,
The square peg who doesn't want
sandpaper to fix me so that I'll fit
the round hole

Hosiery for Tall Girls

"One size fits all."  HA.  Big fat lie.  HA.

I have discovered two possibilities for those of the lanky-leg problem.

First, there's a problem with "knee-highs" that come up to mid-calf, nowhere close to your knees.  I tried the smallest size of "thigh-highs."  I don't know what's wrong with my legs; thigh-highs in my size simply do not work.  My thighs may be too fat; they may be too thin; the band at the top always ends up scootched down by my knees.  So, if I buy the size intended for a scrawny girl of 5'0", the thigh-highs will fit me as just-above-the-knee socks.  And that works fine for skirts that hit well below the knee.

One problem solved.

Second, there's a problem with panty-hose that you take out of the package, and you could swear that this pair of stockings was manufactured for a 6-yr-old.  C'mon, they're stretchy.  But not that stretchy.  I recently bought a package of Leggs Queen-Plus hose.  According to the package I'm too skinny to wear these.  But my rule-of-thumb is to buy a pair of hose for somebody who weighs 50% more than I do, and then the stockings might actually fit.  When I pulled this pair of Leggs Queen-Plus out of the package, they were the most freakin'-long hose I'd ever seen in my life.  It was awesome!  It gave me hope!  I have no idea how a 5'2" and 240# woman would ever ever ever get into these hose, regardless of the claims on the package's sizing chart.  I think the Queen Plus was made for someone 110-160# who's got a 32-36" inseam. 

Second problem solved ... assuming the hose I bought were actually what they were supposed to be, and not some lucky fluke of a mistake that made its way past quality control into my home. 

Polished Shoes

After a shoe-shopping ordeal before starting my job, I finally ordered a humongous box of shoes from Zappo's and found a pair that fit, didn't cause too much pain, would accommodate my orthoses, and met the dress-code for the job. I've worn those shoes about 180 times by now.

I finally polished them.

For being boat-sized Mary Janes, they are actually kind of cute. They were charcoal-grey, almost black, but had some pretty little white stitching on them to make them look more charming. I knew they needed to be polished, but how can you blacken and buff your shoes without wiping out that little white accent? (If any of you know how, it's too late for me now, at least with this pair of shoes. But maybe you could tell me for when I have to buy a replacement pair someday.)

Well, at least they're shiny and clean-looking again.
More boring-looking, to be sure. But shiny.