Skinny little B*tch

I made my weekly pilgrimage to my shopping shrine, Savers. Loaded up on books and toys for the kid, then started looking for clothing for myself. Grabbed some pants that had some possibilities, as well as some nice sun dresses, then went to the dressing room to try everything on.

There, hanging on the hook to greet me were five super cute jeans: models of Joie, Von Dutch, the Gap, and a few others. All adorable. All for a size waist 29.

Now, whoever picked these items had a great eye, but I guess they didn’t have a small enough ass, because the pants were there, waiting for their clothing destiny. Knowing better, but hoping for divine intervention, I tried on the Von Dutch jeans. They didn’t even make it past my thigh.

Someone else is going to get these great jeans, I fumed, taking off the jeans. That lucky, skinny little bitch.

Yes, that bitch is lucky. I know from experience: that bitch used to be me.

Up until the point that I was 24, I was built like a rail, with no hips and very little chest action. Plus, I could eat whatever the hell I wanted with no consequences, thanks to the luck of the genetic pool.

I could also buy whatever I wanted. Clothes shopping was relatively painless. If I liked it, and it was in my size, more often than not it fit.

But now, at middle age and post baby, I have curves. I’m not overweight, I just have curves! And I can’t eat whatever I want any more. And clothes shopping is hard!

Appreciate your luck while you have it, because you never know when it’ll run out!

Sugar(ing) low

I bought a sugaring kit from drugstore.com a few weeks ago. Sugaring, for those who aren’t familiar, is similar to waxing but uses, yes, liquid sugar (honey) instead of beeswax to rip hair out from the root. The upside is that sugar, unlike wax, dissolves in water, so any drips or errant globs can be rinsed off easily.

I had a slight mishap tonight when sugaring my eyebrows. While I don’t have a bad unibrow, I do wax between them to get a little more separation and to “open up my eyes.” (Sounds straight out of a beauty mag, but I swear it works.) I guess I smeared the sugar a little too far, and when I ripped off the fabric strip, it took more brow than I’d planned. It’s not AWFUL, but I am an eighth of an inch short of brow on the right side. I may have to pencil it in a little until the hair grows back.

Of course, until I can get myself to Target to buy a brown pencil to match my brows, I will have to use a black pencil (all I have) and a light touch. Eep.

I can’t help but think of my beloved grandma, who had plucked out her eyebrows as a young woman (as was the style of the day) and had to draw them in every morning as she put on her powder and rouge. “Sarah, don’t ever overpluck your eyebrows,” she warned me solemnly when I was about 8. “Because eventually the hairs’ll stop growing back, and when you’re an old woman like me, you’ll wish you had them.” This scared the bejeezus out of me, and I steadfastly refused to pluck or wax until I was almost 25.

A wise woman, my grandma.

Show me some Love

Yesterday I went to Love, a little boutique on South 1st, to see my friend Andy play a gig — the shop puts on this weekly concert called Love on the Lawn, where three singer-songwriter types do a round-robin show outside in the front yard. It was, heh, loverly.

During the 20-minute break, Andy’s girlfriend, Shelley, and I went into the shop to use the restroom and poke around, and it is not nearly as expensive as I assumed it would be. (I think I had Love confused with Kick Pleat, the shop next door, some of whose wares are featured in Lucky magazine. They are always, always astronomically expensive. I’m talking, like, a $450 dress. Gorge, yes, but who can afford it?)

At Love, I found a ruffled gold shrug for $54 and a red-and-taupe plaid skirt for $40. I also spied a great pair of Simple flip-flops with a nubby footbed for $28! And Shelley bought a thank-you gift for a friend (some candles and such) for less than $30, and she tried on a great little white blazer with a peplum waist that wasn’t too much, even though I can’t remember its exact cost right now. I didn’t buy anything, of course (am saving my pennies for a house), but I sure wanted to. I am still pining for the skirt. It sure was cute and would slip effortlessly into my existing wardrobe, which is always a plus. I am thinking that when I get paid from the consignment shop by my office (on the 10th), I might blow it at Love, down payment for a house be damned!

Bonus points to the proprietor, an adorable blonde woman, who recognized my pendent as a moonstone. She herself was wearing one. While I dig moonstones for their iridescence and their reference to Wilkie Collins (father of the modern mystery novel), she has another reason: “It keeps me balanced,” she explained. Righteous!

Porn

To stave off a boring drive, I bought the kid a special edition My Little Pony from Target. It was on sale for under $3, and her teacher mentioned that she’d liked the book at school, so I figured, what the heck.
The pony package was met with squeals of delight.
“Oh, thank you Mama! What’s its name?”
I squinted at the wrapping. “I think…its name is Lavender Locket.”
“Oh, Lavender Locket,” the kid cooed at her newest possession, “I loooooove you.”

Ian gives me a look. “Lavender Locket?”
“Yeah, so what?”
“Don’t you think that sounds…” his voice drops to a whisper. “like a stripper’s name?”
“Does it?”
Ian snorts. “They should call it My Little Porny and just be done with it.”

Googling the Past

Every now and then, whenever I’m in a bit of a funk, I start thinking about the past. This of course, is not really helpful, but I do it anyway because as Bono says, I get stuck in a moment, and I can’t get out. More often then not, thinking about the past leads me to think about past choices, past relationships, and before I know it, I’m goggling names of ex-interests.

“Hey, I googled High School Boyfriend last night,” I tell Ian in the morning. “Did you know that he’s won the Nobel Peace Prize? Just think! I could have been Mrs. Nobel Peace Prize!”

At lunch I call Ian again. “Hey I googled College Fling. He’s just climbed Mount Everest for the fifth time! What do you think, do you think I would have been happier with College Fling?”
Ian’s immediate response. “You hate the cold.”
“But what about Nobel Peace Prize?”
“You hate planes. You’d be a wreck on the flight to Sweden.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right.”
I hang up the phone, disappointed. It’s true–I hate to fly and I’m not much of an outdoor person. But one persistent thought remains.

“Why didn’t it work out with High School or Fling?” I ask Ian plaintively, after dinner. Ian is patient. “Because honey, neither of them would put up with playing the Google game with you.”

When he’s right, he’s right. Ian is the perfect match for me.

Poor guy.

Sugar Low

I think I’m fighting a case of burn out. Instead of billing clients, I went to back to bed and slept until noon. So tomorrow, I’m going to try some minor goals to see if that improves my work energy:
- get out of bed as soon as I wake up. Immediately. No drifting back for ‘five more minutes’
- take a shower as soon as I wake up. Hopefully that will jolt me awake.
- no web surfing

Bwa ha ha ha! Let’s see if I can do that last one.

Straight, naked teeth

After almost three years of imprisonment in a plastic and metal orthodontic jail, I am now gloriously, exuberantly brace-free! Yes, I got my braces off yesterday — after two hours of prying, scraping, buffing, polishing, and drooling — and I feel like a new woman today. Slept like a log. Am eating Rolos as though there’s going to be a shortage. Can’t believe the slippery, slim teeth in my mouth are actually MINE. Am smiling as though I’ve fallen in love … which I HAVE: with my fabulously straight (and naked) teeth!

Taking a call

Tip: If you don’t want to talk to someone who is calling you, don’t answer the phone.

It sounds simple, really, but it’s amazing how many people can’t do it.

For instance, at the coffee shop just now, the guy next me is deep in conversation with his partner. His cell phone rings. He frowns and looks at it. “Oh, I don’t want to take this call.” He answers anyway, and then takes ten minutes to tell the other person that he can’t talk and it’s a bad time.

So why did he answer the phone?

I think we do it because we’ve got a pavlovian response to the ring. But in the age of caller id and voicemail, let it roll over. If you can’t talk, both you and the caller are better off with voicemail.

Return of the footless tights

I was in the Nordstrom juniors department this weekend (a bargain-hunter’s paradise if you can get over the trauma of having to buy larges in everything) when I stumbled upon a rack of footless tights.

I know that these are back in style, and I admit that I do own a pair of black ones that look super-cute with a baby-doll dress and ballet flats. However, I was not prepared to find WHITE FOOTLESS TIGHTS WITH LACE CUFFS on the rack. Seriously, when did we transport back to 1988? Because that’s the last time I was in the market for white footless tights with lace cuffs. And I remember very clearly that The Limited carried them, and they cost $18, which seemed exorbitant at the time, and not just because I baby-sat for a mere $2 an hour. (By contrast, the Nordstrom tights were $10, which, when adjusted for inflation, would’ve cost around $6.50 in 1988 dollars.)

And yes, I admit I was tempted to buy the stupid white lace tights, but would that mean that I am clinging desperately to my youth? Would I turn into one of those people who never changes their hairstyle from the cut they had in high school? Who still thinks that Camaros are cool? Who laments the demise of L.A. Gear sneakers? I don’t want to be that person. And I guess eventually, I will HAVE to delve back into my fashion past to stay current with my fashion future. It all comes back around.

I just never guessed it would happen so soon.

New Baby Smell

My coworker, Kate, had a baby several weeks ago. She just brought her little girl into the office for a visit, and I held her for a long time, singing songs from “The Little Mermaid” and coaxing smiles out of her. (I have found, through many, many years of baby-sitting, that kids LURVE “The Little Mermaid.” Puts ‘em into a relaxed mood pronto.)

I don’t have kids of my own, but I do have an adorable niece and the aforementioned baby-sitting experience, and I must say, even though this little girl was sweet and wide-eyed and soft and yummy-smelling, it was SUCH a relief to hand her back to her mom. Will I ever feel differently? That someday, I’ll be ready to spawn? I have no illusions about how much work parenthood is or how completely it turns your life upside-down. I relish the fact that I go home every night to a clean, quiet house, that I am not socking part of my salary into a college fund, that if anybody throws up on my favorite shirt, it’s going to be me.

But I do marvel at all the promise in a new baby. Think of all the things that little girl will see in her lifetime! Of all the changes she’ll go through! All the goofy clothing trends she’ll indulge in! All of the eye-rolls she’ll give her mom, and the birthday cake she’ll eat, and the driving lessons she’ll take. It’s enough to overwhelm a person, even one as far away from having kids as I am. There’s something magical and wonderful and hopeful about a new baby. Even I can see it — from afar, of course.