Top 10 Benefits of a Tall Husband

OK, so here’s the deal.  I have always been attracted to tall, dark, handsome men.  It also helps if they are smart, witty and laugh at my jokes.   Let me clarify, when I say tall, dark and handsome I’m talkin’ 6’2”+, darker brown to black hair, brown eyes and skin that doesn’t turn red at the mere mention of “sunshine.”  I think my attraction…ok, ok, let’s call it obsession, dates back to sixth grade when I had a painful crush on my dreamy 6’6” English teacher.  Every romantic interest since then has looked eerily like Mr. Sanders. Eventually I ended up marrying his younger double who happens to now run a shirt company specifically for tall, lean men, www.longshotapparel.com.

I am, for the record, blond, fair skinned (I char at the mention of sunshine) shortish (5’5”tall) with “athletic thighs,” that’s code for speed skater legs.  Naturally, when I decided it was time to get married I searched for someone who was tall, dark, and handsome with skinny, long legs.  Low and behold I found him.  We now have a super tall eight year old that wears skinny jeans (hallelujah) and eats anything I cook.  Oh happy day!

The top ten benefits of being married to a tall man, in my opinion are…..

1. I am a rare and delicate flower next to him.
2. He never asks to borrow my clothes.
3. Nefarious muggers leave us alone, no matter what neighborhood we’re in.
4. He can reach the top shelf in the kitchen where we store the rarely used Christmas China and the stuff we don’t want the kids to see.
5. He carries a huge umbrella so when it’s raining I can tuck under his arm and stay dry.
6. Besides watching basketball on television eating is his favorite sport, which is mine too.
7. When Armageddon hits he will be able to carry my rare and delicate body across the hot desert to safety.
8. In a crowded venue he can anticipate oncoming danger long before his shorter brethren.
9. He spawns big kids who eat anything and everything I cook with enthusiasm.
10. Big hands, big feet, you know what they say…

Threadbare is the New Black

When I was pregnant with my son I wore some god awful clothes.  I only know this because I have pictures to prove it.  I wasn’t myself.  In fact I don’t know who that blond, pregnant lady in the cantaloupe sized flower print Capri pants is in the photo staring back at me.  I see the resemblance but anyone who knows me understands that I would never be caught dead in such a fashion disaster.  Perhaps that woman in the picture is an imposter?  And yet, as I scan through the box of photos I realize that it is me—and I am wearing the same pair of loud pants in nearly every photo. It’s not that I made the mistake once, that would be forgivable, but I wore those hideous wallpaper print pants nearly everyday in my third trimester—I had two identical pair.  If the photos weren’t “keepsake” images that document my son’s early life in the belly I would gladly run them through the shredder.  My only scrap of redemption is the fact that the week following my son’s birth I wadded up those hideous shower curtain pants and tossed them in the trash.  Trust me—they were not suitable hand-me-downs for anyone.  I wouldn’t let another blisfully blind pregnant woman make the same mistake.

 As I cringe upon reflection I do remember how exhausting it was to find clothes that fit during that time.  Perhaps I had just given up all style sense in lieu of something that was comfortable. In all the pictures of that time I appear to be oblivious to my fashion faux pas.  I look blissfully happy, regardless of the bad outfits.  Imagine that?

Fast forward to today, I sit here typing in a pair of patched up hippie jeans with worn out knees and thighs.  I have patched these holes with brightly colored 60s inspired patches that say “love,” and “peace” and of course I have a  smiley face.  It’s just a matter of time before someone mistakes me for an old hippie.  I have been wearing these jeans consistently at least 4 days a week for over a year now.  They are threadbare.  Surprisingly, it feels good to have worn, and I mean really worn, something to the point that its life as a piece of clothing is nearly over.  May you rest in peace come September 1st.  I am certain that the future for these well loved, well worn and well traveled pants lies at the bottom of a recycling bin.  Like my pregnancy pants they are not hand-me-downable anymore.

Though I am wearing less than desirable clothes these days I am certain that I will look back on my TGAAD year with fond memories—the year I focused on what I was doing and not what I was wearing.   But unfortunately for me we have been digitally documenting our son’s 8th year with rabid enthusiasm, hard evidence of the bad fashion decisions I have been sporting this year.  One day I will look back at these images of my son, sitting on my patched up, well worn lap and wonder…what the hell was I thinking.

Is a Tatoo Ever Just a Tatoo?

Last week I had the honor of being a critic at the Seattle Central Community College photography portfolio review. I came away absolutely overcome and somewhat intimidated by the creativity, energy and unstoppable confidence the students had. It is wonderful to see creative people transcending their mediums and becoming adept in all forms of artwork whether that is photography, film or design. Technology has changed the business for the better and these students are taking full advantage of that fact.

Some of the most astounding creativity, the part I wasn’t there to officially critique but naturally did given my interest in sociology and design, was in the tattoos and piercings I saw on display. All but two of the young women I met with were either pierced or tattooed or both. Not just a little nose ring here or a dainty butterfly there. I’m talkin’ full on graphic novels from shoulder to wrist; chest tattoos covering cleavage and clavicle, elaborate license plates aka: trampstamps peeking out of low cut jeans, eye brow piercings, tongue piercings, nose, lip, cheek, you name it, I saw it and it was tatted and pierced. Let me restate once more, these were lovely young women with gorgeous skin, nice figures and beautiful hair. The same girls, who in my day babysat for extra money, ate Sunday dinner with grandma and wrote thank you notes with smiley faces—regular, girl next door girls with modern day fairy-tales and cheap jewels adorning their nubile bodies.

At first I had a hard time focusing on the work in the portfolios, I was distracted by the colorful narratives decorating forearms, knuckles and neck napes. A woman talked enthusiastically about her work and all I could see was the jewel above her lip moving in sync with her expressions. “That must hurt,” was all I could think. “How does it stay in place I wondered? Is there a back to it, like an earring? What happens if it gets infected?” I worried. “And if she gets bored with the piercing or suddenly finds it inappropriate will it haunt her with an unsightly gaping hole?” These were the things I pondered while this woman—this talented woman was presenting the work she had labored over for two years.I tried to focus. I told myself I was dated, old; a fuddy-duddy but I couldn’t take my eyes off the jewel bobbing above her lip.

Another woman, a Natalie Portman look-a-like had a goolish story sleeve on one arm. It made me wonder if the other arm, the one without the tattoos, got cold sometimes. “What will happen,” I projected, “when her arms get flabby and the stretched out sleeve starts to pill? Clearly there will be a cosmetic remedy for that? Maybe a business idea for me?” Finally I focused. I forced myself look at the work. I was impressed again and again. Eventually I lost sight of the tattoos and the piercings and began to see the work for what it was…fresh, pure, skilled and original, not unlike what I saw on lips, chests, calves and wrists.

Later that evening when I got home I dug the business cards out of my purse that I had collected from the group of hungry budding photographers. I wrote notes on each card to remind me about who did what and what I liked about each of their portfolios. I chicken scratched details of what each person looked like so I could put a face to the work. Naturally I noted who had what tattoo and who had what piercing—clear markers to help me identify each one.

This got me thinking….what are tattoos and piercings all about anyway? Is it a generation’s attempt to create their individual identity? Is it a form of promoting a storyline like people do on Facebook and twitter? Has this culture of ours become so generic in our Gap and Old Navy fashion that we can no longer make a statement with our clothes and instead we are moved to stand out on the canvas of the skin? Or are tattoos just modern day war paint signifying the battle of a homogenous conformity? Or simply this generation’s attempt at anti conformists conforming? I asked my fifteen year old stepson what he thought tattooing and body piercing was all about. I ran a couple of my sociological theories up the flag pole with him. He shrugged and said “you’re over thinking it, sometimes a tattoo is just a tattoo. It’s like art, you buy a painting you like and you hang it on a wall. It’s no more complicated than that.”

But I don’t agree. Like shopping, when shopping is never really about shopping, piercing and tatooing are never as simple as just hanging a piece of art on the surface of your skin; it’s so much more than that. If there is one thing I have learned from The Great American Apparel Diet it is that presenting oneself in the sea of people is vastly more complicated than getting dressed in the morning or buying a new ensemble in a store. Self expression, regardless of your medium, is an attempt to prove you matter in a larger world. Tatooing and piercing, I am conviced, is just one other form of doing that. These artists are once again trancending their medium and expressing themselves in anyway they know how–there is real beauty in that.

When Shopping Would Have Saved Me Money!

Last week was weird for me.  I turned 47 which wasn’t particularly monumental other than I am one year closer to 50 and I am not buying any clothing “presents” for myself these days.  While the birthday went off without a hitch, for some reason I felt unsettled.  I finally decided that it was my hair.  I told myself I needed something new-ish, fresh-ish, young-ish.  Now, a little background– I have only had one haircut style in my adult life.  I wear it short and sometimes shorter, blond and sometimes blonder. As you can imagine going for something “new” can be the difference between a half inch and an additional foil or two. 

Earlier in the month I met a spunky, modern girl at the reception desk at one of my client’s offices.   Hovering on the young end of her twenties, she had great hair, an age appropriate earring in her nose and a cute tattoo, the kind she will hate when she is 47.  Compelled by her flawless youth I asked, “Hey, where’d you get your hair done.”  Flattered and excited to be giving a woman like me fashion advice she told me  “my guy downstairs is amaaaaaazing.”  After a little TMI she scrawled his name down on a business card and handed it over to me.  Last week, in my moment of needing something “different,” I dug her lipstick soiled guy’s card out of the depths of my handbag and called him.  I booked a 2.5 hour appointment for haircut and color.   Certainly, I told myself, he could do something Fresh-ish!  

Can you say hair debacle!  Yikes.  He told me “I’m not sure I like you in short hair” (that should have been a sign).  He said he wanted me to “grow it out.” I won’t drag you through the details of my afternoon with the long-hair-loving stylist, other than the fact that it cost over $200 smackers and I came away with a beige poof job.   The guy used a round brush on my hair…need I say more?

When I got home my husband, who never notices when I get my hair cut, asked me if I was going to coin my new look  “Carol Brady Returns.”  Later that night at writing group my fellow writers told me, “That’s the worst haircut you’ve ever had.”   

Upon waking the next day I made a phone call and scheduled the “fixer cut”.  It was time to go to the renowned Super Swank Salon that I had been avoiding for years, (though it came highly recommended).  It is one of those places that  people name drop, it was so cool that it was so uncool in my mind I had refused to go.  But now, the only thing that could remedy my situation was something upber cool.  

I entered the swank, shiny, chic Salon—pronounced “Say-lawn,” complete with espresso bar and cocktails, and was immediately comforted by the modern haircuts all around.  I had to ask myself, “why haven’t I been here?” I checked my coat, grabbed a sparkling something or other and met with my short-haired, funky, stylist.  I was in good hands.  An hour later and another 100 bucks sunk I had a very short but very cute hair cut.  The only problem was….she cut off $100 worth of color (from the day before) and now I looked like a speckled bird.   My super chic stylist offered to color it but at that point I wasn’t about to “pay more.”  Plus it just felt wrong coloring my hair two times in two days.  The last thing I needed was for my hair to fall out.  

I feel like I need to say this,I am not high maintenance.  I am the kind of girl who wears her hair super short so she can get ready super fast.  Really.

At home my husband laughed at my hair.  He said, “now you look like an exotic bird from that Planet Earth video”.  If he knew how much I had paid at that point I am certain his attitude would have been different. 

The next day, at the end of the day and certain that the hair was not getting better, I made yet another call to a non discript,  local hair dresser a few blocks away from my house and two doors down from Safeway.  I told her in a panic “I am on my third day of a bad hair fiasco that needs fixing right away.”  She calmly made an appointment and assured me that it wasn’t the first hair mistake of the day she’d fixed (good to know that hair disasters are alive and well all over the place).  $100 dollars and another two hours later  I had my hair the way I wanted it.  Short and blond, sans speckles. 

So why am I telling you this story?  My hair story?  Because if I had been buying clothes I would have filled my car with new items, gone home, tried them on and then returned most of them.  I would have tried on different styles, studied myself in the mirror and then made some decisions.  No dobut I would have wasted a lot of time making a few trips to the store, to buy and return.  But in the end I probably would have spent $200 instead of $400.  I would have clothes in my closet and not hair on the floor.  Now, I’m not saying I wish I could shop, but last week it would have saved me some money and several hours in the salon chair.  Sept. 1st cannot get here soon enough!

To shoe or not to shoe while on the diet?

I have had mixed responses on my attempt to enroll friends and family into The Great American Apparel Diet.   I think I have signed up at least ten women so far, (no men yet, perhaps their egos aren’t tied to the clothes they buy?). 

Anyway, some participants think the shoe and accessories exception is a loophole,  “the accessories thing?” they ask, “ that’s like saying I’m going on the wagon but I can still drink champagne.”

Here’s my thinking around shoes and accessory exception.  Many people buy for many different reasons.  I want to see if the shoe and or accessory angle becomes a new focus for some people (think Amelda Marcos or Isadora Duncan).  Others may find that when they say “no buying for a year,” it means simply no buying. 

Those of you who have scoffed at the “shoe and accesory loophole,” will thank me when you need a fix. 

You officially have 14 days to stock up on anything you might need for the winter.   By the way, the over the knee boot is in…if you really need a pant fix you can always go with that.

Where are your manners?

I have recently received some strange social invitations that have had me longing for the practical and old fashioned wisdom of Emily Post. 

I was standing there at the market knocking on watermelons to check for ripeness when a woman I am friendly with approached me.  “Hey, what are you guys doing tonight?  We have tickets to Cowboy Junkies and Sun Volt at the Zoo Tunes.  Do you want to go?” 

 What an invitation I thought.  I had been meaning to buy tickets for that very same show earlier in the season but didn’t get around to it until they were completely sold out—they went fast. 

 “Sure we’d love to go.”  I responded, thinking she was offering tickets for my husband and I or at the very least offering to sell us her spare tickets. 

 “Well, she said, you’ll have to scalp some tickets but I am sure you can get some at the entrance.” 

 Hmmm.  I felt like I had just been let in on a bad joke.  I don’t want to scalp tickets for anything.  I am a 40—something year-old woman and the idea of getting a babysitter lined up “just in case” I can covertly scam a few tickets to a concert doesn’t sound like fun to me.  I politely declined, “no, on second thought we’re busy tonight.” 

 I think she could have said something like this instead.  “Hey, we’re going to the zoo concert tonight.  I know it’s kind of a risk, but if you and Mark (my husband) want to try and go I think you might be able to scalp tickets.  We’d love to see you there.” 

 About a week later another friend asked my husband and I, “Hey do you guys like theater? We have two tickets to the 5th Ave. theater tomorrow.”   My husband and I both responded at the same time, “Yes,” I said.  “No,” he said.   “I’ll take them I said, I would love to see the play.  I’ll invite one of my friends if he doesn’t want to go.”  Now in my mind I was doing them a favor, taking the two tickets that might not otherwise be used, off their hands. 

 “O.K.,” she said awkwardly, “well we were hoping that we could do dinner first.”   It was then that I realized that they wanted us to attend the play “with” them.  I suddenly realized that they didn’t want just one of us they wanted the two of us or the plan was a no go.  It was uncomfortable and weird but I squirmed my way out of the invitation and I am hopeful that they found another heterosexual couple to share the tickets with. 

 Now why didn’t this woman say, “My husband and I are going to the theater and we have two extra tickets.  Would two like to attend and join us for dinner beforehand?”

 It was the third invite that really stumped me.  A good friend of mine called to say she had an extra ticket to a concert  because her husband was traveling and couldn’t make the show.  She asked if I would like to attend with her.  I jumped at the chance.  Following the concert she asked that if I could pay her for the ticket.  Huh?  I was shocked and surprised.  I thought I was going as her guest.  Weird!

 What has happened to good old fashioned communication, to etiquette, to manners?  I think what we need is a little Emily to the rescue!

Recessions Make Strange Bedfellows

I was staring down at the clumps of cat hair and runaway legos that my old Hoover kept spitting up when it occurred to me that what I really needed in order to clean my own house was a fancy schmancy vacuum—I had my eyes on the Dyson 25 model retailing for 500 smackers, exactly the same amount we spent per month on our cleaning lady before we decided to “scale back” and clean the house ourselves.

The original idea for the “do it yourself” model was to save money, a wise strategy since I’m not making much dough these days in my “real” job, (very lucrative in days gone by).  So, given our new, self-imposed, “fallen-on-hard-times” household spending strategy, forking out half a grand on a vacuum seemed downright schizophrenic.  What was I thinking?

Later that night I mentioned my vacuum lust to my husband Mark.  Known to foam at the mouth at the mere mention of technology, his eyes lit up.  “You know, a capital investment in the latest vacuum innovation would save us time, money and back pain.” But, even with his convincing logic and my desire for the fashionable and efficient yellow and black Dyson, I couldn’t justify the cost (one of us needed to be strong). 

Thus I began my Dyson25 search online (which will be referred to here as D25).  The search ended up being a lot easier than I had anticipated.  Within minutes of plugging the word “Dyson” into Craig’s List I found two new D25s priced at $330 and $370. 

The first person I contacted was advertising a “lightly used,” D25 for $330.  I called the number listed and left an enthusiastic message with a heavily accented voice mail.  They must have sold it because I never heard back.

The other posting advertised a brand new D25, in box, (that’s “NIB” for those of you who don’t speak fluent E-Bay) for $370 cash.  The NIB D25 was owned by a guy named Guy.  I asked him via text, “why are you getting rid of it?” He responded via voice mail, in a cloudy dope smoker tone, “I got in a three-wheel accident and I won’t be vacuuming for a while.”  My mind went immediately to Tom Cruise in Born on the 4th of July, replete with wheelchair, catheter and do-rag.   The least I could do for the guy was to take the D25 off his hands.  

I offered him via text $330 for the vacuum.  He responded that his floor was $370 and he had another buyer.  I wished him luck and went back to my old Hoover.    

 Five days later, on our way to church, I got a text from Guy. 

 “Other deal fell through; I will sell you Dyson for $340 cash today.”

“I’ll take it.”  I texted back.

“Meet tonight, Shell station in Sumner, 7pm.

For those of you who are not from Seattle, Sumner is so far south it may as well be Portland Oregon.  With gas and road snacks I’d probably be better off buying my D25 at Best Buy and saving myself the hassle.     

 “Sumner is too far to go for a $340 D25.”   I texted back.

“Can you do Jet Chevrolet, South Federal Way instead, 7:00pm?”  (Still a 30 mile schlep but given the fact that the guy was disabled I acquiesced.)

“Yes.  See you then.”

 When we returned from church I called Paige our effervescent, overachieving, APP high school babysitter to see if she could watch our six year old prodigy while we made the trek to South Federal Way that evening.  She enthusiastically took me up on opportunity.   

 At 6:15pm my husband and I, headed south on I-5 in our Toyota Prius to rescue our D25 and to save some money.  After 45 minutes in weekend traffic we finally came upon Jet Chevrolet, a beacon in the vast arterial littered with fast food joints and big box retailers. Excited to get the deal over with, we pulled up to the front of the deserted dealership in our foreign, gas saving car to conspicuously wait for our dealer to hand off the goods.   

Sseconds after of turning off the ignition we were descended upon by seven hungry man-wolves looking to sell some cars from their newly bankrupt supplier.  “We’re just waiting for a friend,” Mark said sheepishly when one of the guys tapped on the window. 

 At 7:10, I texted Guy asking him where he was.  “Be there in 5,” he texted back.  “Look for red Toyota Forerunner.”  A few minutes later Mark saw in the rearview mirror a red SUV pulling into the back of the car lot, “that’s him.”   We followed him as he sped down the gravel road behind the dealership. At my insistence Mark honked the horn to let him know we were there. “He doesn’t know it’s us,” I said to Mark.  “No, he knows we’re here,” he snapped nervously. Finally, after what felt like a Law and Order chase scene Guy stopped his car abruptly, blinding us with gravel and dust. 

Within seconds a wiry fortyish man who looked like he had smoked too many cigarettes in his time, jumped out of the car, all four limbs surprisingly intact.   He had longish, salt and pepper hair that stopped at his shoulder and a tooth or two missing. He was dressed in jeans, and a sweatshirt with a hood.  “You Sally?” he asked.  “That’s me!” I said, a little too enthusiastically, clapping my hands and smiling. I could see through the tinted window that he had a long haired female passenger in the car and lots of electronics in boxes shoved against the back window.   

“I have your Dyson.”  He said, pulling a long rectangular box out of the back of his car.

“Can I take a look inside?” asked Mark. 

“You open it and it’s yours.” He cautioned. 

“Well, we need to make sure it does in fact have a vacuum inside,” explained Mark defensively. 

“What do you think I’d do, lie to ya?” 

 Mark reflexively opened the box relieved to find a brand new Dyson with the tags still on it.  On the outside of the box was a UPC code from a major retail chain. 

“It looks like it’s in good shape,” said Mark. 

“Brand new, just like I said,” growled Guy. 

“Well that’s one hot Dyson,” I said.  With that I handed him the $340 cash. 

Turning away I asked, “Why are you selling it again?”

“I got a new vacuum, a Sebo X4.”   

“Ah ha, I see.” 

 Mark and I put our brand new Dyson, including warranty, in the back of our car and followed Guy out of the lot.  At the stop light we pulled up behind him. “Should I write down his license plate?” I asked Mark.   “It wouldn’t hurt.”  As soon as I found a pen Guy floored the engine and sped away, burning some rubber for effect.  I couldn’t help but feel that he was trying to get away from us.  I would be lying if I told you we weren’t a little anxious to get away from him too. 

 When we got home we tried out our new vacuum, put our prodigy to bed and had a light dinner. 

 A few days later I retold the story to a friend of mine.  I said, “It was so dark, I felt like we were in a drug deal.”  And he said, “Sally, I think you were.” 

 Recessions make strange bedfellows.

Phone Love

I recently broke up with Blackberry.  We were together for five long, mostly beautiful years.  It’s not that he wasn’t good to me; in fact he was generous, reliable and trustworthy.  You know—Canadian.  In the end, however, I came to the conclusion that BB, (that was my nickname for him), was too serious and kind of boring.  I thought I could do better.  I guess I just didn’t appreciate what I had.  And truth be told the last year we were together I wasn’t entirely faithful.   Don’t get me wrong, I kept my clothes on, but my eyes and heart were wandering.  I watched as other women cavorted around town, hand and hand with i-phone the new wunderkid from Silicon Valley.  Sexy, youthful women laughing, taking pictures and texting.  My old, staid, BB stood by proudly as I stared longingly at the happy healthy people holding hands.  I can’t imagine he didn’t see the breakup coming.

So now, I’m dating again.  O.K. well dating is probably a little misleading.   I am in a “new relationship” with i-phone—we live together.   I fell hard and just like that (snapping fingers) I kicked BB out of my life and I let i-phone move in with all his apps.  I didn’t even look at his references or demand a demo.   I was told by a reliable source that our relationship would be a snap, a plug and play kinda deal, I should have known better. 

As you can imagine our relationship started out a little rocky, after all we hardly knew each other.   I am on a PC and he never lets me forget it.  I suppose I should have looked into that little fact before I decided to let him move in. 

But he’s sexy.  You know in that “I’m a savant from Stanford” sort of way.  That snarky “I’m smarter and more attractive, so you better keep up,” kind of way?   It can get a little intimidating.  But, like most creative types he’s sensitive to the touch, a nartist really, (that’s part artist, part narcissist).  It’s all about him—every time I go to make a call or send an e-mail he presents me with all kinds of complicated options, “hey try this,”  “what about this?”  All I want to do is make a simple call or send a text but when I touch his shiny screen he quivers and suddenly we’re somewhere else.  He doesn’t know it but I’ve had to call the experts on more than one occasion. 

Between you and me, all the funky new moves he wants me to learn make me a little nervous. I’m not entirely sure I’m up to the challenge.  You know teaching and old dog new tricks. He keeps telling me I need to work on my touch and my voice control.  Just yesterday he said that he’d like to employ the mega pixel camera into our love life.  Next he’s going to be trying to convince me that we need the compass in our bedroom.   BB wasn’t demanding at all, he just liked me to hold on tight and keep him warm.  i-phone?  He’s a live wire.  But I guess I asked for it. 

 My friends tell me not to worry.  They assure me that one day it will hit me smack dab in the face and I will be in love.  I too am hopeful that our relationship will blossom into something very deep and meaningful; otherwise I may be crawling back on my knees and begging BB to take me back.

Me, a size 2? Who Knew?

O.K. what’s this vanity sizing thing all about—I am sure some marketing director out there is claiming it does something for a girl’s ego, “Women feel thinner when they wear a size smaller.”  All it does for me is make me feel manipulated.  I recently bought a pair of size six cropped pants at Banana Republic.  First of all I am not a size six nor have I ever been, who do they think they’re kidding?   Anyway, I bought the size six because they were the ones that fit. Later, following an ice cream cone and a coffee, (because that’s what people who are a size 6 can do), I went home and put my new pants on.  Two hours later my size 6 pants had transformed into a BR size 12.  The waist and derriere stretched so much I looked like a rapper with the waistband at my crotch. 

The next day I tossed the incredible growing crop pants into our high tech, save the earth, washing machine, put the setting on extra hot and prayed for a shrinking miracle.  Sure enough when I got them out of the dryer they were back to their natural state–a BR size 6 (aka, real world size 8 or 10).  Relieved, I put them on.  Two hours later, however, I was dropping trow—again.   

Though I was frustrated that I had spent over $70 on pants that only fit well for about an hour, I continued to wear them a few more times.  I told myself that no one would notice that my pants were falling down. Finally, the last time I wore the pants my husband, who hardly notices anything about my wardrobe unless I am wearing a low cut something or other, said, “Those pants are awful, they’re practically falling down.”  At that point I vowed never to wear them again. 

A week later, annoyed about my new cropped pants that were supposed to take me through the summer in style, I decided that the most responsible thing to do was to return them, kindly report the product defect and get my money back.  When I went into the store to discuss the matter the cute little sales guy behind the counter informed me that “Banana doesn’t take returns once a product had been washed,” and… “Our pants stretch.  In the future you should buy your pants a few sizes smaller.”  Does that mean I am really a 5’5, 140 pound size 2?  I asked?   “Maybe, you never know,” he said shrugging his shoulders.

Cleaning House in the White Collar Ghetto

I am slightly, just slightly embarrassed to say that I don’t really know how to clean my house.  Oh no, poor me, right?  I sound like a big, spoiled brat but it’s more complicated than that.  Ever since the recession hit I have been looking for ways to cut corners. The $500 monthly cleaning expense seemed like the most obvious and prudent solution (who can’t clean their own house?)  Last week, in an effort to be financially responsible I laid off our cleaning lady of eight years.  It was a serious and sad breakup.  I had been preparing for d-day, rehearsing my “your job has been made redundant” speech in the full length mirror.  She handled it well, said she had actually been expecting it.  Once it was over I felt relieved.  

For nearly twenty years now I have employed a cleaning person.  Some years she/he came once a week and others every other week.  In the back of my mind I often felt a little, oh I don’t know, lame, because I couldn’t or wouldn’t do it myself.   But I justified the expense thinking that I would be more successful in my own career without the stress of a messy and, god forbid, dirty house.   The household duties, scrubbing the bathroom, cleaning the baseboards and folding the laundry are best when left to the experts I told myself.  

So here I am today, pondering how to clean the hardwood floors throughout the house.  Is it simply water with a splash of white vinegar?  Special hardwood cleaning fluid?  Organic soap?  Lemon fresh polish?  A swiffer picker upper?  A $500 dollar Dyson?   A Roomba?  Ayy yi yi.   And that’s just the floors.  After that there is the dilemma of cleaning the floor to ceiling glass shower, how does one attack that and with what sort of substance? Will I need gloves and a face mask?   

I made a trip to the grocery store this week hoping to get inspired by the cleaning options available to me—the fledgling domestic mother.  I have never seen so many “new and improved,” “better than ever,” “save your soul,” products, it was downright overwhelming.  Finally I landed on something I simply could not pass up, The Evriholder Slipper Genie Microfiber Cleaning Slippers.  Slippers that are actually mops?  Now that’s my kind of house cleaning solution—passive floor mopping at its best.   I know what I am getting the kids for Christmas.

It’s only been a week and I miss my cleaning woman already.  She came with all her stuff, including her vacuum cleaner, cob web getter, stainless steel hoo hah, lemon fresh something or other and most importantly, her years of experience.  Perhaps the $500 a month wasn’t so bad after all.