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.

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!

Tales from a White Collar Recession or is it a Depression?

A recession is when your neighbor loses his job. A depression is when you lose your job.   (Anonymous Economist)

Last week a friend of mine was laid off from her high paying management job.  It sucks. With three kids in tow and a husband who is an entrepreneur it will be hard for her to make up for that loss. Firing the cleaning lady, laying off the nanny and eating mac and cheese isn’t going to cover the missing six figure income. 

Another friend of mine, in her mid-fifties, just got laid off from the world’s largest software company.  She is the lead bread winner in her family and has made a lot of dough in the past.   Her husband has been Mr. Mom most of their married life due to a serious, ongoing but manageable illness.  She has two teenagers, one in a swank private school and the other heading off to college shortly.  It sucks.

Houses are popping up for sale in our coveted white collar neighborhood like pimples on a teenager.  It leaves me to wonder “is everyone getting laid off?”   It rattles my nerves to hear the stories about well educated, well heeled friends, and friends of friends who have been given “pink slips.”  They are people like me who thought that somehow they would be sheltered from the economic downturn.   

The talking heads on the networks and cable stations are advising people to “retrench,” and “hunker down.”  Let me remind you…these are war terms.   With mortgage payments equaling 50% of a household income…people may have to retrench or hunker down in a different neighborhood.   

I know Obama and his peeps are saying this is a recession but when I see my hard working neighbors putting their houses up for sale because someone lost a job it makes me wonder if it isn’t a little worse than we’re being told.   

Good article if you’re wondering if this is a recession or a depression.

Consider a Career Shift? Lice Knowing You

A few weekends ago I had the pleasure of going on an all-girl’s weekend with a group of friends sans children.  The social coordinator of the trip has a marvelous house on a remote island in the San Juan’s.  It was lovely and the weather, which can be iffy in early spring, cooperated beautifully.  The company could not have been better and the food and libations were nothing short of gourmet.  Let’s just say the only thing any of us suffered that weekend was a hang over and a few extra pounds.  That was until late Sunday afternoon on the drive home.  

I was in the front seat driving when one of the women in the backseat of the car took a call from her husband.  He gave her the report: their youngest child, she has three under the age of eight, had lice….again.  This wasn’t the first time the subject of head lice had come up that weekend.  We had spent at least an hour discussing the topic over gin and tonics the previous evening; my friend in the back seat’s three little darlings had had it no fewer than three times.  

As I write this I am hesitant to say, knock on wood, that our family, (three boys aged 6 to 17) has not yet suffered from the Seattle School lice epidemic.  That said all of this lice knowledge is new to me.  

Apparently there is a whole arduous regime that needs to be followed in order to rid one’s head and house from the nasty mites.  And there is quite a stigma that goes along with it. “When we found out we had it, we felt like leapers,” said one mom while throwing back the last of her gin and tonic.   “No one wants to play with a child who has lice.”  

Another mom in the group told the story of going to see a hairdresser in the neighborhood who would only see her little boys “covertly.”   The stylist and business owner demanded that my friend come in after hours and through the back door, lest her customers find out that she had been harboring and helping lice victims.  

After my friend in the backseat hung up with her husband she was distraught; it was as if all the Kum Ba Yahing, from the girl’s weekend had suddenly vanished like a glass slipper.  Nit picking, sheet washing, and itchy children filled her brain before we hit King County.  

One of our friends, an experienced and organized mom who had her own lice infestation story to tell, was riding shotgun next to me.  She suggested, with a practical tone, that our friend call in the professionals. “I have heard they will come to your house,but it’s not cheap.”  “Well, hell,” lice mother responded.  ”At this point I will pay anything!”

A few days later I ran into my friend in the neighborhood, she was surprisingly yippity skippity—hardly the image of a woman who had been slaving over a comb and picking out nits (or is it nats?).  “We did it, we called in the professionals,” she said proudly, with a bright smile stretching from one ear to the other.  “It cost $500 but it was worth it!” 

Who knew?

Apparently there is a business, yes a certified business called Lice Knowing You .   I have heard some crazy business ideas floating around lately but this one really takes the cake.  Talk about filling a niche.  The online brochure states: As the premier (are there others? I wonder) head lice removal company in the Seattle area, we arrive discreetly (thanks for that) with all the necessary items (hmmm. what might that be?) to make head lice removal as quick and painless as possible.  During the removal process, Lice Knowing You will provide free consultation on taking care of your home to ensure that the head lice will be gone for good. .….All of our consultants are trained in the most up to date methods of head lice removal.  Our bilingual staff speaks Spanish, French, Japanese and of course English. Our staff consists of teachers (special ed and general ed), medical professionals and counselors.

God bless her…see what women can do!   What a relief!

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.