Some Pig

Letter From A Broad: Act Your Age, Even If You're Eternal Edition

Dear Middle-Aged Mom,

I don't know and I don't care how smokin' hot that "True Blood" guy is, or whether you're on "Team Jacob" or "Team Edward."  What I do know is that you, as a grown woman with young children, are far too old to be rockin' that t-shirt with the slogan, "I Kissed a Vampire And I Liked It" on the front.  For the love of Vlad, please, dress your age.

Sincerely,

Some Pig

P.S. That baseball cap with the team logo picked out in rhinestones is pretty idiotic-looking on you as well.  However, we're going to take this one step at a time.

P.P.S.  2008 called.  They want their fad back.

Slow Learner

This week marks my fifteenth start of school as a teacher - never mind the sixteen-plus first days I experienced as a student.  As I do every year, I picked out my first day outfit with care, wanting to strike the right balance between professional and comfortable.  And for the first time in many years, I gave into temptation and wore new shoes on the first day of school.  They are so cute!  White leather slides with black piping!  They were absolutely adorable with my black culottes and white shirt with black floral patterning! 

Of course, since I haven't ever worn them before, they left a few blisters and raw spots behind as part of the breaking-in process.

Then, because I am quick on the uptake, today I wore my other new shoes, a pair of lovely brown leather 3" wedge sandals - even though I knew we were having a fire drill during period 2.  What I didn't know was that the grounds crew would be out mowing the field during said fire drill.  You can add grass stains and sore arches to the aforementioned blisters and raw spots. 

Now that we're heading into the third day of school, I am finally coming to my senses.  Tomorrow's outfit?  Will be accessorized with my nice, comfy flipflops.  And bandaids. 

 

Fashionably Late

Well, at last, it's happened. Hair like mine finally makes the media style sections - but not exactly the way one might wish. Apparently the style mavens have conferred, and they all agree:  They'd rather have a third eye, or be covered with big, visible warts, than have my kind of curly hair.  Look, I knew that already - way back when, in my very (very very very) late 20's, I had an Italian hairdresser who flat-out refused to deal with my hair unless I agreed to wear it straight and long.  "You're single!" she'd bark, "I don't care what you want!  Men want long, straight hair, and that's what you're having!"  It's hard to argue with that kind of certainty, and being single and childless, I had the spare time to devote to taming my locks.  But to have the world of fa-SHAWN, as Crazylainetrain calls it, just ... reject me and my kind like that, wholesale... well, it can make a girl feel unloved.   But then I thought, just who the hell is telling me my hair is ugly, anyway?!?  The same people who brought us acid-washed denim and high-rise jeans???  So lest I be tempted to take up the way of the flatiron and formaldehyde again, let's take a little gander at just what the fashion world has given us to emulate recently, mmmkay?

1.  Chloe Sevigny

You can't open a style rag out there and not run into a picture of this chick looking like she just got done Dumpster diving in the Salvation Army's reject bins, accompanied by text of various fashion arbiters raving about her "fabulous" sense of "indie" style.  Whaaa??  For the love of Sears, girlfriend is wearing Pinky Tuscadero's jacket and a pair of Hammer pants and she's being lionized for this?!?!    I don't get it.  If Kathy Griffith or Joan Rivers wore that same getup, they'd be laughed out of the Nordstrom's faster than you could say, stop!  Hammer time!  And what makes her style "indie" anyway?  A total disregard for any sense of dignity?  A proclivity for dressing like someone woke you up at midnight with a gun to your head and forced you to get dressed in the dark?

The only common element these outfits have is that I wouldn't feel bad grabbing them to mop up cat puke - especially since that sweaterdress number on the far right is the exact same color as cat puke.  And I'm guessing her dad has finally figured out why he has to keep buying the same beige cardie over and over again.  Okay, fashion world, I got it:  Unflattering prints + schlumpadinka knits + too much bare leg action = fashionable.  I'll work on it.

 2. Amy Winehouse

Among all the tales of "Amy Winehouse, Tragic Ending," and "Amy Winehouse, Little Girl Lost," there were a number of stories about "Amy Winehouse, Fashion Icon."  Really.  I Googled "Amy Winehouse," and the images that came up were so sad and pathetic, I don't even have the heart to post one, never mind try to emulate the look.  Too soon?  Too soon.

3.  Rompers

I shit you not. Rompers. For grown women.  Presented as being a good idea.  Because nothing says, "I am grown up and mature and should be taken seriously" like wearing something you last sported when you were preverbal and ate strained peas willingly.  How do these look loathesome?  Let me count the ways:  First, unless you are as rail-thin as the Contessa de Celery here, your rompers are going to puff out attractively riiiight around the midsection area, leaving everyone to wonder if that's all you or are you smuggling a small dwarf across the border.  Next, those damn shorts are so short, if you don't get a bikini wax, well - okay, we are rapidly straying into TMI area here.  And then there's the nightmare top half of this ensemble, which looks like something on the clearance rack at Fashion Bug.  Let me just put it this way:  Rompers should be limited only to those wearers who still can be picked up when they fall down and who get to have an Elmo bandaid on their boo-boos.  In short, you can wear a romper if you look like this:

But not this:

*shudder*

Well, dear readers, I rest my case:  The fashion world can kiss my ... big, frizzy, "pterodactyl nest" of a head.  And like it. 

Turns Out Dad Was Right All Along

Many (many, many) moons ago, I remember having a number of... interesting discussions with my dad about what Crazylainetrain calls fa-SHAWN.  Now keep in mind, Yours Truly's salad days were in the mid-80's (and yes, that's the NINETEEN-eighties, smartypants), so the ensembles I chose to rock were truly stylin':  Big, blousy pants with huge pockets that pegged at the ankles.  Pinstriped jeans with a white tuxedo-style shirt.  Big dangly earrings.  Ruffly, bright, fluorescent - well, anything really.  I was particularly fond of one shirt I owned made of a gauzy white cottony fabric that had a big tiger face printed in gray and black on one side of the shirt.  After carefully assembling my duds, I would trot into the kitchen to display my fashion prowess, only to have Dear Ole Dad burst into barely-contained snorts of laughter.

"Whut?!?!" I'd grump defensively, knowing perfectly well what he was laughing at.

"What are you WEARING???"  He'd respond, face purpling with hysteria. 

And then I'd roll my eyes and heave a huge, put-upon sigh because, JEEZ, Dad, don'cha know what looks good????  At that point, my dad would launch into his I-liked-it-when-girls-dressed-like-girls soliloquy that always included something called a "shirtwaist dress."  Which, DUH, shirts aren't dresses!  But then he'd end with, "...and besides, it doesn't matter to boys anyway."

"Whaddya mean?" I'd huff, with another roll of the eye to keep the muscles loose.

"Women dress up for other women," he'd continue. "Half the time men don't even notice what women wear.  The only people who notice what women wear are other women." [NB:  This was definitely in the pre-Will and Grace era, mind you.]  Then, to prove his point, he'd yell to my mom, "Sandra!  What did you wear last Tuesday?"  From the deepest recesses of the house, she'd rattle off what she had worn almost down to the underpants.  "See?"  he responded, "I couldn't tell you what *I* wore yesterday, and your mother remembers everything she ever wore."  (He was exaggerating, but only by a bit.)

Fast forward all those moons to my classroom yesterday.  One of my little charges (and by "little" I mean, "much taller than I am") came to school gussied up in a dressy top, all the better to show off her newly-acquired vacation tan.  The girl in question happens to be born to wear clothes; willowy and tall and just beautiful.  The shirt in question was close-fitting through the bodice with open sleeves that cascaded down the sides.  The whole thing fit her like a dream. 

Shortly after I began class, I noticed her engrossed in conversation with the two young gentlemen behind her.  I oh-so-nonchalantly meandered over so I could, ahem, refocus their energies. 

"You guys need to settle down to work," I began, but the young lady interrupted.  "Mrs. S, they just said my shirt makes me look like a flying squirrel."

"It does!" protested one of the two fine lads.  "Look at the sleeves! They look like a flying squirrel!!!"  Sure enough, the sleeves were tacked to the bodice of the shirt so that the ruffles wouldn't get in the way.

"Are you kidding?"  I answered.  "Is that really the first thing that comes to mind about those sleeves?  Squirrels???"

"Yes," said Fine Young Lad #1 with finality.

"Your shirt does NOT make you look like a flying squirrel," I said to the young lady, "and the best way to take your mind off the shirt is by doing your work." Then I left Fine Young Lads 1 and 2 snickering about squirrels to check on my other malingerers scholars.

So, who knew?  After all these years, I owe my dad an apology.  He's been right all along.

GOOP. This Post Is Gonna Write Itself.

India attended the same preschool where Celeste goes now.  Because it's a preschool and not a day care, it attracts more of the stay-at-home mom set than the one- or two-working-parents crowd; because it's a Montessori school, the clientele tends toward the hypervigiliant (myself included).  Warren and I rely heavily on the before and after school care to get through our day, which meant that at the end of our first Montessori school year, I hadn't met many of the other parents until the closing day picnic.

Well.

I spent most of that morning just ogling the other mothers.  They were perfectly slim, perfectly groomed, and perfectly dressed in expensive-yet-casual designer jeans and Tory Burch flats or designer jeans and pointy stillettoes.  They all greeted one another with cries of gladness, saying, "How was Cabo?" or, "I saw you in ____________ (name of chic restaurant here)!"  before discussing how much they loved Jaxon's and Mylissah's teachers this year and comparing the end-of-year gifts they were bestowing upon same.  (True fact:  One family gave their kid's teacher a Coach bag.   A COACH BAG.  Really.  I consider myself lucky to get a card.)  Then they exchanged big, big air kisses before agreeing to get together for coffee sometime soon.  And that is when I officially dubbed them the Pilates and Lattes Moms - but only in my head, because when it comes right down to it, I'm kinda wussy like that.

Now, I thought that was the ne plus ultra of annoying maternal superficiality until Kate and Lydia hooked me up with Gwyneth's website.  Did everyone else in the world know about this already, and I was the only one in the dark?  For starters, it's called GOOP.  Whuck???  GOOP is something my kids usually have on their shirtfronts, not a name that shouts "lifestyle blog."  Second, the home page consists of a series of large icons with a single verb below each one.  Third, one of the icons is a butterfly.  Fourth, the verb under the butterfly is "Be."  Oh sweet Mary and all the saints, please spare me from celebrimoms who think they're being all metaphorical when they're really just channeling Mariah Carey.  Well, okay, Caroline, you've been known to leap to judgement a time or three; why not check out what Gwynnie has to say before you make up your mind?  So I clicked on "GET" (which icon is a silhouette of what is apparently a nana sweater on a hanger), and got hit in the eyeballs with THESE classic words:

"Many of the absolute best beauty products I’ve found come from regular French pharmacies. I always stock up on these items when I’m in France or ask friends to bring some back when they’re passing through."

At that point I said "Great gloriosky," because that is what my mother, Sandra J., would say, and as I get older I find that Sandra J. comes out of my mouth more and more frequently.  Because don't we ALL have lives where we and our friends frequently find ourselves just "passing through" France??   Look, I've done some travelling in my lifetime, but not to the extent where I have ever considered myself to be just "passing through" anyplace overseas.  Once in awhile the Dearly Beloved gets to go to Europe to do.... business'ish things (what, I'm supposed to be Peter Drucker over here?  what the hell do I know from business?) and my reaction is still ZOMG!!!1  YOORUP!!!!  And I would never, but never charge Warren with the task of purchasing me stuff from a French pharmacy, because he first would look at me strangely and then buy me the French equivalent of Band-Aids and dental floss, because, hey - that's what HE goes to the pharmacy to buy.  And we all know about Warren and his idea of what constitutes a gift. 

Well, at that I lost all hope for GOOP.  Clearly, this entire blog is meant to highlight, showcase, and underscore just how tastefully privileged and superior Gwyneth is to us poor slobs, and/or how completely out of touch she is with reality.  I vote for the latter after reading this little gem:

This week we showcase some beautifully made, very original lines of children's clothing that we have recently discovered and are adoring.

We?  Really??  *I* certainly don't remember discovering any original lines of children's clothing that I am apparently in a continuous state of adoring.  And why the present imperfect 'are adoring' construction?  What's wrong with 'adore'?  Better yet, what's wrong with saying "that I adore," instead of implying that the two of us are sitting around having a conversation about darling little girls' pajamas that cost $82?  More to the point, why the hell is ANYONE adoring darling little girls' pajamas that cost $82 and thinking that this is just the kind of thing that Jane Q. Public can rush right out to buy???  I got news for you, sistah, if J.Q.P. is anything like me, she's not buying her kids anything that doesn't come from an outlet, a consignment store, or a sale.  Why?  Because my kids still have an unfortunate tendency to use their sleeves as combo table napkins/kleenex/spill rags, and I'll be dipped if I'm going to have them doing that on a bespoke organic combed-cotton tshirt.  They can take the end-of-season-sale Lands End jobbies that have been seeing them through thus far and like it.

So to recap, we don't have any newly-discovered exclusive duds we're adoring, my kids would rather die a thousand deaths than eat the linguini con vongole recipe Mario Batali so kindly shared, and I don't think I'm living my best life in my most authentic truth.  As far as GOOP goes, I'm a FLOP.  Anyone want to come up with a cute meaning for either acronym?  Post your contenders in the comments; the winner will get a dramatic reading of Gwyneth's most recent words of wisdom courtesy of yours truly.  Have fun!

Oh Yes I DID

Have I mentioned it's been a long week?  And that I'm on a diet?  And that I was grumpy and snappish this morning with the nearest and dearest people  in my life?  And that it's April?  (What that has to do with anything, I don't know, but IT DOES DAMMIT.)  Clearly, Steps Had To Be Taken.  So I took 'em.  And I got these:

I have been looking at these for a long, long time.  In case you don't know or don't remember, my feet are basically factory seconds that were poorly refurbished and stuck on the ends of my legs way back when.  Then I up and wore high, high heels for the first five or so years of my teaching career, which was a genius move, since I already knew my feet were crap.  But I can't STAND ugly shoes - can't stand 'em.  Which is why I have to pay big bucks to find soft, comfortable, orthotically supportive shoes that do not look like they were designed to be as fugly as humanly possible.  But then there's the cheapitudeness issue, so I have a hard time justifying the $100-plus it costs to buy those puppies.  But!  The goddess of pretty footwear smiled upon me today!  Because lo and behold, I went to look at these little beauties on Zappos and they were on sale!!!! Not only that, but THEY HAD MY SIZE!!!!!  It would have been a sin and a shame NOT to buy them!  A crime against humanity!  A dereliction of duty!!  So I bought 'em.  And all is right with the world again.

What Not To Wear

Today after I got dressed for work, I got the once-over from India - and nothing escapes her eagle eye.

She started frowning as she surveyed my face.  "Mommy, what's that gray stuff around your eyes?" she asked. 

"That's eye shadow, honey," I started, but she quickly interrupted me.

"No, Mommy, I mean that gray stuff here," she clarified, tapping the skin under my eyes.  "You have gray things under your eyes."  She stood back and studied me intently.  "You should get rid of those," she said in tones of finality.  "They make you look old."

Great.  Not only did I give birth to Stacey and Clinton, but apparently, the part of my wardrobe I should discard?  Is my FACE.

***

I related this story to my workmates later in the day.  My coworker Angela tried to make me feel better by saying, "But that's because you've had a cold, and you've been taking NyQuil, and..."

"Angela," I interrupted her gently, "I have bags under my eyes because I'm old."

Out of the mouths of babes... comes the news bulletin that you ain't no spring chicken anymore, apparently.

Consider Me Decked

As you might guess from our clientele, you don't have to be crazy to work in a middle school, but it sure helps.  Those of us who work in the middle grades know, we are truly stuck in the middle.  Betwixt and between.  Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered.  Neither flesh nor fowl nor good red herring.  Since the students we work with regularly ping-pong back and forth between young childhood to early adulthood and back, often within half an hour's time, the teachers who work in middle schools run the gamut from elementary education types who put smiley faces on everything, to refugee high school teachers like me, who regard the younger grades with emotions ranging from barely disguised dislike to outright horror.  [Sidebar:  Why am I still teaching in middle school?  Because I LOVE eighth grade.  LOVE it.  Seriously.  They're like high school kids without the hostility and resentment.  They still talk to adults (as long as they're not blood relations), and they still are willing to do (some) work.  I ADORE eighth grade.  At least, as far as a professional placement, that is.  I'll let you know how I like it personally in about seven years.] 

As a result, the teaching staff includes people who never miss an opportunity to celebrate a holiday, and people like me who will fix you with a cold, hard stare if you so much as intimate that perhaps it would be nice if I had a pumpkin-themed bulletin board for Halloween.  Because, do I *look* like I teach elementary school??? 

In keeping with the crazy-around-the-edges vibe of middle school, then, I decided that for once, I would throw in my lot with the festive-holiday-celebrations crowd.  However, being the snarky and cynical person you know and love, I had to do so with my tongue firmly in cheek.  Hence, this sartorial choice:

Is that or is that not the holiday sweater to end all holiday sweaters??? Let's take a closer look, shall we?

    

Really, it has everything:  Flocked snow!  Beaded snowflakes!  Snowmen!  Sequins!  Christmas trees!  Ice skates!  Metallic thread outlines!  All it needs is twinkle lights and Johnny Mathis singing Winter Wonderland, and it would be, officially, The Most Heinous Sweater In All the World.

The best part about this sweater is its origin.  I borrowed it from a friend who bought it at -- wait for it -- Costco.

Yep.

Costco.

'Cuz nothing says "fine couture" like buying your fashionable accoutrements in the same place where you buy your toilet paper.  In bulk. 

What's even better than the very fact of this sweater's existence, however, is the reaction it got.  People thought I was SERIOUS, yo!  They thought that I MEANT TO WEAR THIS SWEATER BECAUSE I LIKED IT!  I got a lot of compliments on my sweater from people who GENUINELY THOUGHT THIS SWEATER WAS AN ATTRACTIVE PIECE OF CLOTHING!  Really!  I still can't get over it!  Okay, so clearly these people don't know me from a hole in the wall, but still - how is it possible for anyone to look at this sweater and not a) be instantly blinded by its atrocity; or b) fall over laughing at its tackiness?  I'm still shaking my head about that.  Anyway, feel free to comment on the superfabulosity that is this sweater.  I'm ready for ya.

Generous To A Fault

Warren and I are, professionally speaking, both just cogs in the machine.  And we know it.  He does... whatever it is he does for a middling-sized retail entity, and I spend six hours a day preventing America's Hope for the Future from vandalizing the bathrooms and getting knocked up before they fully realize their potential.  The difference is, Warren works for the for-profit world, and I live off the fat of the land (or at least their income tax revenues).  So while we both may be too busy working for The Man to be able to stick to him, Warren gets to enjoy a few more perks than I do.  Such as getting a signing bonus that enabled him to pay off his student loans for grad school.  And going to conferences in pleasant places of the world, at the time of year during which they are most pleasant.  For the past few years, Warren has had the opportunity to go visit Las Vegas at various points of the year when it is neither hot enough to melt titanium out there nor very nice here.  (I, on the other hand, got to go to a conference just this past week.  It was held in the renovated basement of the old high school.  I got a sandwich AND a diet soda with my conference fee, and I didn't even have to pay extra for it!  That, my friends, is living it up!)

Anyhoo, whenever Warren hies off to places afar it makes for some hard slogging at this end of the rope.  Ordinarily, I have to run around like a chicken with its head cut off OR one with its head up its @ss, but during business trips the pace doubles, so that I'm running around like the chicken who had its head cut off and THEN firmly embedded in its nether regions.  So when he went out to Nevada last spring, I told him in no uncertain terms that I wanted some kind of remuneration for all my extra effort.  "I want a gift," I said in my out-loud voice,"and I want a good present, too, not just a t-shirt."

Now here I have to interrupt myself to explain that Warren, while he has many stellar qualities, is a horrible gift-giver.  Once we were clearly on the road to matrimony, he heaved an enormous sigh of relief and turned over all gift procurement and distribution responsibilities to yours truly.  Also, being the relentlessly levelheaded sort, he defines "gift" as "something you need and can use every day."  By his lights, the best possible gift in the world is a pair of wool socks.  I, on the other hand, define "gift" as, "something you desperately want and dream of having that you cannot possibly justify getting for yourself."  The best possible gift in my book is small, sparkly, and comes in carat weight.  Needless to say, what we have here is a failure to communicate.  Furthermore, my nearest and dearest kinfolk are ALL in Warren's camp.  When we affianced, he came to his first Christmas at my parents' house.  After a morning spent opening packages of winter underwear and suchlike, he told me, "I like your family.  Their gifts are so practical."  Words that make a girl's heart go pitty-pat, no?

So Warren went off to Las Vegas, and I spent four days doing double-duty parenting, along with my usual full-time job and other commitments (Woman With Kids, how do you do it?!?).  Throughout the four days, I wondered:  What kind of delightful bauble or tasteful trinket would he grace me with upon his return?  When he walked in the door after dinner that night, we all greeted him with cries of gladness, followed by my cry of, "Whadja bring me, dear?"  With a huge smile, he whipped out a small plastic bag with three parcels wrapped in tissue paper in it, one parcel for each of us.  We unwrapped them to find:

Yep.  This is what my husband got me for "jewelry".  Or actually, this is what he got for the girls AND me; I just decided to swipe the girls' friendship bracelets for the day and wear them with my LOVELY real-faux-semi-precious-rocklike-bead bracelet.  My husband bought me a present at the CHECKOUT COUNTER OF THE AIRPORT CONVENIENCE STORE, PEOPLE.  And his argument defending that incidence of poor decision-making?  "I was busy.  I didn't know what you'd like, and I didn't have time to go shopping."

Now, those of you with oft-traveling spouses can correct me if I'm wrong (except that I'm NOT wrong), but I believe that small remembrances for one's spouse after a significant absence are immune from the "don't look a gift horse in the mouth" rule.  Why?  Because a present given to the person who has just shouldered his or her own share of the household management AND yours as well isn't a gift, it's a consolation prize.  It's the absentee partner's way of acknowledging that yes, I just got a free pass to spend x number of days away from home, along with the clean towels and fresh bed linens and adult conversation at dinnertime that such a trip includes, and yes, I realize that I got to go have grown-up time with grown-up people and without dishes, temper tantrums and endless recitations of Clifford the Big Red Dog Meets the IRS Auditors and I am really really sorry you couldn't go too, but look!  I got you this really really nice luxury item that you will love and adore and cherish every time you look at it.  THAT'S what a business trip gift is about.

"What?" Warren said, miffed, after my reaction registered as being less than ebullient. "You said you wanted jewelry."  Yeah.  And beaded friendship bracelets are to jewelry as Kim Kardashian is to Sophia Loren.  But that's okay.  I am nothing if not resilient and resourceful.  Next time he goes out of town on business, I'll just buy myself my own damn hi-honey-I'm-home gift, and it's going to be a doozy.  I bet he'll damn well make time to get me a gift on his own behalf after that!

The Big Reveal, Or, Transformations, Parts II and III

I forgot I promised to show you what India's new room looks like!  Without further ado, I bring you the rest of the transformation process:

 

All this stuff wound up being moved out into the hall for the duration ...

... which made us look like we were auditioning for the next season of Hoarders.