Baggy Pants are Back!!! Yipee

The Baggy Boyfriend Jean is Back

Trendcentral is one of those must have web sites for the curious mind, http://www.trendcentral.com. TC is a trend tracking site that sends daily broadcasts updating the curious reader on what’s happening in the world of everything. After hooking the reader with a compelling, whacky or just plan interesting trend (like pillows that fight wrinkles), they point you to websites that can further explain or sell you that particular trend. In the case of the amazing wrinkle removing pillow TC points to: http://http://www.copalife.com.

Yesterday I got a news flash from TC highlighting fashion trends for Spring 2009.  And guess what? baggy pants are back. Whew! I am a thick thighed girl and when cigarette leg jeans resurfaced last year I was mildly distressed. Beside the fact that I had invested heavily in the bell bottom look  of 2007-2008, I was not about to change course for a style that doesn’t look good on anyone over fourteen years-old and limits one’s ability to breathe. As the saying goes: to every ying there is a yang.  So whether you wear em’ baggy and belted, soft and slouchy, pleated or cuffed, baggy pants are back and giving the skinny jean a run for her money.

I Married a Sesquipedalian

I married to a Sesquipedalian. For those of you who don’t know what a sesquipedalian is Webster defines it as a person who uses exceedingly long words when a simple more concise word would suffice.

It gets a little nutty around our house. Let’s just say it keeps me on my toes. He’s a regular William Safire, mixing and playing with words. There are times when it makes me incredulous; I think he’s just pulling my leg, throwing out a far-fetched jumble of gobbledygook. I’ve worn a path in the carpet, running to the computer to consult dictionary.com. In most cases, much to my chagrin, I find that that gobbledygook is a word.

He doesn’t mean to be acrimonious, egregious or haughty. He finds words creative, stimulating and naughty. The longer the word the happier he is. ‘Can it be both noun and verb?’ is often the quiz.

I like words too, don’t get me wrong. But my theory has always been they must fit in a song. I often snub Webster and add my own endings like ishes and ises, all depending –on the mood or the crowd I’m in.

Dubious, dubiety, dubitable, dubitation. That’s me, if I could learn all the words it would be a breeze. But until them I’m just a dilettante.

But my husband Mark, he’s not that way.

He reconnoiters each page of the NY Times collecting his words like a kid collecting dimes. He savors each word, one by one, looking for the spectacular that will start the fun. I know when he finds it, his eyes they lift, he swallows and prepares for the perfect gift.

His shoulders shift back; he clears his throat, the word rolls off his tongue like the perfect note.

This week it was— axiomatic. That’s axiomatic.

I made a visit to dictionary.com. It means self evident, obvious, goes with out saying. In a sentence it could be, “It is axiomatic that Mark is a sesquipedalian.”

It’s not like he’s a nerd or dork per se. He’s an intellectual jock who likes words his own way. He’s not a grammar hound or a perfectionist, but when it comes to words he likes to insist the more the vowels the better; he likes constants too, the x and the z are the precious few. They make good endings and they always sound sharp if you say them just right they sound like a harp: Spetsnaz, accusatrix.

His word obsession is entertaining but there are times, however, when its charm begins waning and I just want to say…Cut the crap.

But then I remember, it can be romantic… and it’s not in his nature to be pedantic…after all it’s just…..semantics.

But the good news is, I find his word thing a turn on, it keeps us up nights with the dictionary and the light on.

The Silpat® Party

Yesterday, as a favor to my friend, I went to a Sunday afternoon Silpat® party, (think Tupperware meets Mary Kay). Before I headed out the door I told my husband I would be back in an hour and wouldn’t spend a dime. If you don’t know what a Silpat® is, don’t worry, you will. It’s a hot new gourmet trend, from France (of course), that is sweeping the nation. It is heralded in some circles as the second coming in cookware, (for the record the first coming was the non-stick frying pan).

The party was a hoot with women of all ages oohhhhing and aahhhing about the many possibilities of the latest cooking technology while the sparkling sales women convinced us that our lives would never be the same without a Silpat® in our cupboard, (sipping white wine, we were easy targets). Our hostess, who was promised a special gift and discounts from the Demarle company (parent of Silpat®) if her friends ordered products “today, but no pressure,” worked hard in the kitchen demonstrating the ease at which she could crank out gourmet sweet potato fries, fish sticks, meat-loaf and brownies all on the same Silpat® sheet.

“The Silpat® is so much more than a glorified cookie sheet ladies,” implored the sales woman. “You will never look back on this decision with regret, and all products are guaranteed to retain their non-stick quality for life.” Not bad, considering my ten year old cookie sheets look like they’ve been to Iraq and back. It occurred to me as I was noshing on Silpat® brownies and pouring over the glossy Demarle catalog that I would probably enjoy life more if I could make the perfect cookie, as the literature promised. Times are tough, the stock market is in the tank and unemployment is at a record high…but…the perfect cookie? Now there’s something I could spend some time thinking about: Molasses Sprinkles, Mexican Wedding Cookies, Shortbread Thumbprints, and of course the classic Choclate Chip Walnut cookie. The possibilities were endless I told myself. And with that thought, I opened my wallet and wrote a check for $120, (including shipping and handling), for my Silpat® starter kit, including: one large Silpat® non-stick cooking sheet; one Siltray® baking tray (the Silpat® doesn’t work without it); and one Flexipan® non-stick flexible bakware mold.

I will let you know when I perfect the most expensive but perfect peanut butter cookie.

What is Work? Where is Work?

Today my six year old son made a pronouncement, “I figured out what work is?” My husband and I looked at him with curiosity, since neither one of us is entirely sure what we actually do. “Work is talking on the phone, sending e-mails, texting, making estimates, going to meetings, and having conference calls—sometimes with the phone on mute for five hours.”

Well, I guess you could say that about sums it up.

In the not so olden days, when work was somewhere else other than a laptop on the kitchen table or the screen on an i-phone, it was easier to understand. My dad left the house every morning, dressed in a suit and a cloud of aftershave and didn’t return until 6pm. He went to work—a mysterious place, in a big building, behind a big desk decorated with pictures of me and my siblings in awkward stages of our youth.

Occasionally, on the rare Saturday when Dad needed to tie up some loose ends, we were allowed into the inner-sanctum of his office. With the promise of “it’ll be just a sec.,” my brother and sisters and I fondled paper weights, shot staples at each other and made rubber band slingshots while we waited for dad to finish whatever he was doing. Eventually, tired of flying paperclips landing on his desk Dad sent us to the copier room for some real fun. There we smashed our faces and hands on the Xerox machine photocopying ourselves for hours. It’s no wonder that I ended up in the “photography” business.

If at six years old I was asked what my dad did everyday at his job I would have said, “He wears a dark suit, goes to a big building with a copier machine in it and bosses people around. Sometimes he goes away on an airplane for a few days, which is great because when he’s gone we eat weenie wraps and waffles for dinner. When his friends from work come to our house they like to drink, smoke cigarettes, and stay up really late.”

Now, when either my husband or I say we’re going to work my son isn’t sure where or what that means. It could imply that in pajamas one of us is going into the bathroom to talk to a man about a horse and to send a text. It could also connote going up to the bedroom where the wireless signal is better than it is in the kitchen to crank out an e-mail in bed. Or it could imply a trip to the market with that weird thing in our ear, or it could suggest going into the “den” and closing the door for an eternal conference call. Regardless of which room the “work” takes place, it means a lot of shushing and hand waving indicating that silence is required.

They say, those people who say things, that kids tend to follow their parents lead when it comes to career choices. I can imagine Cameron, our little guy confessing to a school counselor, “When I get big I want to be an e-mailing estimator who takes conference calls in pajamas, sends texts at the park and makes deals with a weird thing in my ear while driving the car to a little league game.

The Boy’s to Blame

This afternoon, my six year old son hit a six year old girl and then proceeded to throw her to the ground. I watched with horror from a distance, wondering if I was witnessing a vaudeville act or a testosterone infused taekwondo move. The scream that erupted from the little girl confirmed that they were not play acting. I was aghast. The little girl’s parents, who I sort of know in a “hi, how are you” sort of way and not in a “hey let’s go have a bottle of wine and get schnockered way,” were dumbfounded.

I ran toward the fracas screaming, “Cameron, Cameron, what are you doing?” I yanked on his arm and pulled him aside. Yelling apologies over my shoulder to the little girl and her parents, “I am so sorry, so so sorry. I’m embarrassed. Please, I am so sorry. He didn’t mean to do that. He’s usually such a sweet boy.”

When I was out of earshot I dug my fingers in my son’s fleshy upper arm, “Listen Mr.,” I said wagging my finger two inches from his face for effect. “Never, ever, ever, beat up a girl. “But mommy, she threw dirt in my eyes and bark dust at my back and called me names.” “Well Mr., I don’t care what she did; there is never a reason to hit anyone, especially a girl. My son looked at me with a puzzled expression. “Why is it worse to hit a girl than a boy?” “Well,” I said walking him toward a park bench for a heart to heart, “when it comes to physical conflicts between a boy and a girl, no matter who starts the fight, the boy will always get blamed. “That’s not fair mommy,” Cameron complained. “She started it. You didn’t see her hit me first. She’s always mean to me. I couldn’t take it any longer.” I looked across the playground as the little girl’s mother consoled and protected her from the evil force standing on the other side of the play structure. All I could think is, “this is my little, sweet, baby. He didn’t mean to hurt your bratty little girl. By the way, she provoked him,” and then I realized that all that background noise and excuses didn’t matter because when it comes to hitting–the boy’s always to blame.