Here' s a little proof that my (re)indoctrination into the Outfitting of East Texas Womanhood is near complete. I almost bought lime green pants for my birthday.
LIME. GREEN. PANTS!
Before I get too wound up, I should explain. I LOVE Texas women; glad to be one of 'em. We're cool chicks, for sure. We're big-hearted and spunky. We know how to get things done. We have, um, a certain flair for the dramatic. But that's where things also go a little wonky because -- yes, it's true -- we wear some crazy, crazy things with way too many accessories and let that visual buffet pass for style.
Even worse, we regard as truly tasteful a whole category of clothing that walks the wonky line. These aren't the openly gaudy clothes (which, really, I find admirable for their honesty if nothing else. Their wearers want to be noticed, so they make it impossible for people to look elsewhere). No, no. These are the matchy-matchy kind of clothes that employ very specific color combinations, cuts or embellishments like expiration dates. They announce to the world when they were purchased and for what purpose. They aren't timeless. They do not blend. They do not transition. And, somehow, in East Texas, they are THE LOOK. Oh, how I have struggled to maintain sanity and some semblance of belonging in the face of THE LOOK!
When we first moved to this city, it was late spring. I felt vaguely out of place but couldn't put my finger on why. I thought it was my poor sense of direction. Then we started church shopping and therein my true "otherness" was revealed.
I would dress myself up every Sunday, recycling my best pencil skirt with a different black top and the same, seasonless pair of strappy black sandals. Oh, did I think I looked chic! But no compliments, ever, here in the Social Niceities Capital of North America. After about the third congregation, it hit me: No other women were wearing black sweaters. Certainly not SOLID black. (Sharp inhale!) I was OUT OF SEASON. Out of date! (Ack! Most definitely out of state!)
As anyone can tell ya', true East Texas women sport beachy prints and sherbet-colored cardigans and impractically colored sandals in the summertime. They carry straw handbags or appliqued ones that coordinate with everything else they're wearing. They THEME ACCORDING TO SEASON. Black is blah and simply will not do in the time of pool parties (which spur many toward turquoise tones) or, depending upon one's Protestant denomination, margaritas (think: citris shades!).*
*A corollary for 2006: When paired with white pants and, lately, chunky white beads, black does become an acceptable summer color. Sleeves should be cap or absent, however, and a measure of lace, ribbon or crochet is preferable.
A couple years later, as I've now observed several cycles in the ebb and flow of body-adorning textiles, I believe our local customs have some practical basis. Varying color palette by season may simply be a calendar-marking mechanism necessitated by the (blankety blank) heat. As it seems to be summertime 3/4 of the year, how else might we know it's fall but that our sandals are brown, not pink, and our capri pants now include autumnal shades?
Back then, however, I was just confounded by the clothes. Where, oh, where, were the other women buying these clothes? Leaving aside my qualms over actually paying for them, I didn't know where to find something with grosgain ribbon trim or an all-over motif of embroidered flip-flops. Then I discovered Stein Mart -- my town's go-to source for all things trendy and frou frou and a bit overdone (oh so THE LOOK!). It was like touching the Rosetta stone.
...I'm serious here! This isn't ONLY about bold prints and eyelash fringe and tangerine boucle blazers. Stein Mart is much more. A bridge between cultures. A point of revelation! The key to speaking a distant language. Here is a retail center that consistently stocks enough of my I-hope-classy-but-possibly-just-drab preferences (brown/ white/ khaki/ black/ blue/ no prints) that it welcomes me inside. Then it dangles so many shiny and sparkly objects NOT of my own style that I am distracted... weakened... bewitched... and finally compelled to grab an armful & try on for size. Oh, I don't often buy. But I do try. And I try. And, by repeated exposure, I've been reacclimated to the wide world of color and pattern my compatriots so perfer.
Mostly, this change is a good thing. Over time, I've added some shades of party punch and after-dinner mints to my closet. Picked up a few pair of clearance sandals in colors that limit their usage. Collected handbags that can't be carried year-round. I've worn all these things and lost any self-consciousness about them. I think they add something nice and feminine to the classics.
Now, I sometimes still do picture myself as the plain brown wren in a family of plumed pheasants. But I believe that has more to do with my extended female relatives than with me. Can I help it if they are all singularly gifted in the Ways of THE LOOK? I'm doing pretty well for an ordinary person, and while it's possible I may have hung at the back of their pack before my 8-year hiatus out of state, I have permanently moved on and there is NO WAY now that I can keep pace with their polished, practiced, professional-grade Texas dressing.
And that (oh, yes! finally!) brings me to the pants. All growing things can be trained, you see. Shaped by environment and circumstance to bend a certain way. I've been reshaping myself, bit by little bit, since I came home in 2001. Like a crooked tree, I bent one way first in life, and now I've bent another. But every living thing eventually hits the limits of adaptation. Earlier this month, when I found myself in my beloved Stein Mart, holding a $12 pair of Papagallo lime green capri pants, I knew I had finally reached the end of mine.
They were cute pants. Just 12 bucks, did I mention? Ah, and a name brand, too. I could almost see myself wearing them with an embroidered V-neck tee and floral slides; they would be just right for a summertime girl's night out or... but no. They were truly lime green in color. I know me, and I know I'm not the kind of girl who wears lime green pants.
Not in a house; not with a mouse. Not in a box; not with a fox. I do not wear the lime green pants! I do not give lime green a chance. I do not find this shade my friend. I cannot wear it to fit in. I love when my clothes have some Texas flair. But I've drawn the line -- and I hold it RIGHT THERE.
...Can I get an Amen on that?
Just a girl, asking for grace, to survive her happily-ever-after.
8.29.2006
8.27.2006
I am not alone in my indignation.
Oh... Oh, my! How touching!
It was with great delight that I Googled on Friday (sorry for the verb form, Anglican; I know how you dislike that) -- for it was then I could truly grasp the world's response to recent events. The populace has spoken, and Earth loves Pluto! We feel for our far-flung little friend, and we are in arms -- up, up, and in arms, I tell ya! -- over its shabby treatment.
You know what this means? I'm not some kooky dreamer, ranting from the piney woods about the International Astronomical Union vote on Thursday (well, I'm not ONLY that). I am a single voice lending my pipes to an intercontinental choir!
LOTS of people have been wound about Pluto. (And/ or it's been a slow news week.) The headlines are fab -- examples to come! -- and the leads are far catchier than those hard news stories usually receive. I am SO excited, suddenly, to engage in a current event! It's almost like pleasure reading!
Just take this example, by Robert Nolin of the South Florida Sun-Sentinel:
Yes, and as I alluded, some crack copy editors have offered the reading populace a slew of witty headlines (I'm only linking to the better articles, or those longer than a graf or 2):
Adieu, poor Pluto, sent to the doghouse
Behind the 8 balls: Evicted Pluto long seen as a world apart from other planets
Is 8 Enough?
The Little Planet That Couldn't
Pluto, Take Heart: Less is More
Shock to the (Solar) System
Scientists Rock Pluto's World
What fun that publications are editorializing with (finally!) some slant I like! OK, sure, most are using the really opinionated headlines for editorials, but I see some yellow dog journalism here right after my own heart! And, I note: Only real sticks-in-the-mud can't make fun copy out of this story.
Even non-real-news sources are in on the act, and they're arguably having the most fun of all. To wit, this snippet from Animated-News.com:
It was with great delight that I Googled on Friday (sorry for the verb form, Anglican; I know how you dislike that) -- for it was then I could truly grasp the world's response to recent events. The populace has spoken, and Earth loves Pluto! We feel for our far-flung little friend, and we are in arms -- up, up, and in arms, I tell ya! -- over its shabby treatment.
You know what this means? I'm not some kooky dreamer, ranting from the piney woods about the International Astronomical Union vote on Thursday (well, I'm not ONLY that). I am a single voice lending my pipes to an intercontinental choir!
LOTS of people have been wound about Pluto. (And/ or it's been a slow news week.) The headlines are fab -- examples to come! -- and the leads are far catchier than those hard news stories usually receive. I am SO excited, suddenly, to engage in a current event! It's almost like pleasure reading!
Just take this example, by Robert Nolin of the South Florida Sun-Sentinel:
FORT LAUDERDALE, Fla. - Life has been anything but a ray of sunshine for poor Pluto, that pipsqueak on the periphery of the solar system.
It was named for the Roman god of the underworld, whose name in turn was hijacked by a lop-eared cartoon dog. It's a relative newcomer to the brotherhood of planets, having been discovered only 76 years ago, and at 4.6 billion miles, it's the farthest planet from the sun.
On Thursday, it suffered further indignity.
(full story here)
Yes, and as I alluded, some crack copy editors have offered the reading populace a slew of witty headlines (I'm only linking to the better articles, or those longer than a graf or 2):
Adieu, poor Pluto, sent to the doghouse
Behind the 8 balls: Evicted Pluto long seen as a world apart from other planets
Is 8 Enough?
The Little Planet That Couldn't
Pluto, Take Heart: Less is More
Shock to the (Solar) System
Scientists Rock Pluto's World
What fun that publications are editorializing with (finally!) some slant I like! OK, sure, most are using the really opinionated headlines for editorials, but I see some yellow dog journalism here right after my own heart! And, I note: Only real sticks-in-the-mud can't make fun copy out of this story.
Even non-real-news sources are in on the act, and they're arguably having the most fun of all. To wit, this snippet from Animated-News.com:
"Despite Planetary Downgrade, Pluto Is Still Disney's 'Dog Star'"
BURBANK, CALIF -- In reaction to news today that Pluto was demoted to the status of "dwarf planet," the Seven Dwarfs issued their own short statement:
"Although we think it's DOPEY that Pluto has been downgraded to a dwarf planet, which has made some people GRUMPY and others just SLEEPY, we are not BASHFUL in saying we would be HAPPY if Disney's Pluto would join us as an 8th dwarf. We think this is just what the DOC ordered and is nothing to SNEEZE at."As Mickey Mouse's faithful companion, Pluto made his debut in 1930 -- the same year that scientists discovered what they believed was a ninth planet.
Said a white-gloved, yellow-shoed source close to Disney's top dog, "I think the whole thing is goofy. Pluto has never been interested in astronomy before, other than maybe an occasional howl at the moon."
8.25.2006
It's a Shame About Pluto
I read earlier in the week that the High Poo-Bas of Intergalactic Studies (OK... some group of scientists who have a completely benign name I've now forgotten) were going to vote on the status of Pluto. Up for decision: Does the lil' one on the end really deserve to be a planet?
Well, the vote is in -- and it's a sad, sad day in Muddville, folks, because poor Pluto has been struck out.
As of Thursday, we have only 8 planets.
Sigh....
Look, it's a nice, round number -- I concede that. Cleanly divisible by two if the planets ever need to employ The Buddy System. And, hey, we've still got Uranus. (Insert joke here.) It's just sad. I mean: Who wants to be labeled a "dwarf" and put on the cosmic B-list? I feel bad for Pluto! The poor guy was already living in the low-rent district of the solar system. What's next? Deportation to another galaxy?
It's bad enough, this treatment of Pluto. But what about the rest of us? Woe to all now-grown children who once made styrofoam and coathanger mobiles of the planets! How will we UNLEARN what we went to such trouble to commit to memory in the first place?
I say: SO WHATif Pluto is on the puny side and not exactly made of "planetary stuff?" Hello, Charlotte's Web! Wilbur was small, too. And, hey, do astronomers not watch sports flicks? Becuase if they did, they'd know the underdog always turns out to be the MVP!
SO WHAT if Pluto's personal space is a bit messy, that he can't quite muster the muscle to clear space debris? He has a medical condition! He's size challenged! Unlike millions of American teenagers, at least he has an excuse!
SO WHAT if Pluto's orbit is "irregular?" Are we not taught, in today's world, to value diversity?! I personally liked learning that for years at a stretch, Pluto's orbit takes it closer to the sun than Neptune. I LIKE that slightly out-of-the-box, planned deviant behavior in my celestial bodies.
Those scientist types? ...Apparently not so much.
Hey, they make their points. They have logic and a bully pulpit on their side. But I have passion for this topic. Passion, baby! Again, I cry: What mass degredation is next? Are we going to kick Q out of the alphabet because no one uses it much?
Perhaps I shouldn't take this so hard. I read that the widow of the man who first discovered Pluto is handling the news quite well, thanks, and believes her husband would have come around, too. I quote:
I'm proud of that spunky Patricia and her ability to put things in perspective. I'll try to follow her lead -- though not, perhaps, before I file a complaint at InterplanetaryPoo-Bas.com. I feel I need to do it... for Pluto! For Clyde! For moldy sytrofoam models in closets and basements and attics everywhere!
Power to the Laypeople! Up with Small Semi-Planets! Bigger isn't Always Better!
Feel free to deviate your own, usual orbit this weekend, in solidarity with rebel Pluto and me. We appreciate your support.
Well, the vote is in -- and it's a sad, sad day in Muddville, folks, because poor Pluto has been struck out.
As of Thursday, we have only 8 planets.
Sigh....
Look, it's a nice, round number -- I concede that. Cleanly divisible by two if the planets ever need to employ The Buddy System. And, hey, we've still got Uranus. (Insert joke here.) It's just sad. I mean: Who wants to be labeled a "dwarf" and put on the cosmic B-list? I feel bad for Pluto! The poor guy was already living in the low-rent district of the solar system. What's next? Deportation to another galaxy?
It's bad enough, this treatment of Pluto. But what about the rest of us? Woe to all now-grown children who once made styrofoam and coathanger mobiles of the planets! How will we UNLEARN what we went to such trouble to commit to memory in the first place?
I say: SO WHATif Pluto is on the puny side and not exactly made of "planetary stuff?" Hello, Charlotte's Web! Wilbur was small, too. And, hey, do astronomers not watch sports flicks? Becuase if they did, they'd know the underdog always turns out to be the MVP!
SO WHAT if Pluto's personal space is a bit messy, that he can't quite muster the muscle to clear space debris? He has a medical condition! He's size challenged! Unlike millions of American teenagers, at least he has an excuse!
SO WHAT if Pluto's orbit is "irregular?" Are we not taught, in today's world, to value diversity?! I personally liked learning that for years at a stretch, Pluto's orbit takes it closer to the sun than Neptune. I LIKE that slightly out-of-the-box, planned deviant behavior in my celestial bodies.
Those scientist types? ...Apparently not so much.
Hey, they make their points. They have logic and a bully pulpit on their side. But I have passion for this topic. Passion, baby! Again, I cry: What mass degredation is next? Are we going to kick Q out of the alphabet because no one uses it much?
Perhaps I shouldn't take this so hard. I read that the widow of the man who first discovered Pluto is handling the news quite well, thanks, and believes her husband would have come around, too. I quote:
Meanwhile, the widow of Clyde Tombaugh said he would have understood why his discovery was demoted to non-planet status, because he was a good scientist.
“Clyde said, 'Well, it's there. You can do what you want with it',” Patricia Tombaugh, 94, said from her home in Las Cruces, New Mexico.
Her husband, who discovered Pluto while working at the Lowell Observatory in Arizona, was disappointed and frustrated when scientists began questioning its status.
But, she said: “Clyde would have said, 'Science is a progressive thing and if you're going to be a scientist and put your neck out, you're apt to have it bitten upon'.”
(full story here)I'm proud of that spunky Patricia and her ability to put things in perspective. I'll try to follow her lead -- though not, perhaps, before I file a complaint at InterplanetaryPoo-Bas.com. I feel I need to do it... for Pluto! For Clyde! For moldy sytrofoam models in closets and basements and attics everywhere!
Power to the Laypeople! Up with Small Semi-Planets! Bigger isn't Always Better!
Feel free to deviate your own, usual orbit this weekend, in solidarity with rebel Pluto and me. We appreciate your support.
8.16.2006
Kitchen Chat
So I made really good cookies today. REALLY good cookies!
...Maybe the best cookies I have ever made.
They were baked on one of those silicon mats that goes over the aluminum cookie sheet (only I think my cookie sheet is some high-tech, withstand-the-heat-of-the-sun compound that has very little aluminum in it, thus explaining the carpal tunnel-crushing WEIGHT of it --- and I digress).
While I secretly thought the silicon mat might be an indulgent, yuppy-type toy I really did not need but was convinced to buy because A.) it came in cute colors, and B.) it could keep "gunk" buildup off my new, space-aged cookie sheet -- I was wrong. The thing actually makes GREAT cookies! GREAT, I tell ya!
Where have I been? I need to cook more! To innovate. To take notes next time I watch Alton Brown! ...Or just to use the oven more than twice a week.
Oh, Resolutions, thou knowest me well! Go easy, dear good and gentle friend, when next we part -- as always we do. But, pray thee, serveth my family fine foods until then.
...Maybe the best cookies I have ever made.
They were baked on one of those silicon mats that goes over the aluminum cookie sheet (only I think my cookie sheet is some high-tech, withstand-the-heat-of-the-sun compound that has very little aluminum in it, thus explaining the carpal tunnel-crushing WEIGHT of it --- and I digress).
While I secretly thought the silicon mat might be an indulgent, yuppy-type toy I really did not need but was convinced to buy because A.) it came in cute colors, and B.) it could keep "gunk" buildup off my new, space-aged cookie sheet -- I was wrong. The thing actually makes GREAT cookies! GREAT, I tell ya!
Where have I been? I need to cook more! To innovate. To take notes next time I watch Alton Brown! ...Or just to use the oven more than twice a week.
Oh, Resolutions, thou knowest me well! Go easy, dear good and gentle friend, when next we part -- as always we do. But, pray thee, serveth my family fine foods until then.
8.15.2006
On Ancient History and Opposable Thumbs
At lunch today, little man Miles & I were talking about Little Golden books, which have been around a long, long time. The impetus was a "David & Goliath" book on our table, published in 1974. (This is not, as in, "first published." This ACTUAL book was published that year. It is 32 years old. And I got it when I was a child. Which makes me older than the book. Eek!)
I was trying to explain just how old a 32-year book is, to a 4-year-old. Miles asked if it was as old as our house. I said no.
Me: "The book is about my age, and our house is older than me."
Miles: "Oh, yeah, and then older than me, especially. So our house -- I mean, it must be REALLY old!"
Me: "Well, it's pretty old..." (It was built in 1960.)
Miles: "Yeah, from like dinosaur times!"
Sure, 'cause if it's 30 years older than mom, we've reached the Paleolithic.
In my head, I said, "Um, like, NO!" in my most insulted teenage girl voice. But what actually came out was more like: "Well, no, hon... it's hard to think about how long ago dinosaurs lived, but trust me: It was much longer ago. It was longer than you or I could count, backward or forward. It was before even the first house was built. No houses even existed...."
And on I riffed, and he interjected, and we chatted , for a few minutes. Then we commenced chewing. (It was lunchtime, remember?) And then, after a small silence, Miles brought it all home. Natural history and aging storybooks and time elasping and everything being relative... I guess it all boils down to this.
M: "REALLY!" (Slaps his head like an "I could've had a V8" commerical.) "Of course!" (Wildly guestures with same hand, palm out.) "Dinosaurs couldn't read! I mean, c'mon.... how were they gonna pick up the books?"
I was trying to explain just how old a 32-year book is, to a 4-year-old. Miles asked if it was as old as our house. I said no.
Me: "The book is about my age, and our house is older than me."
Miles: "Oh, yeah, and then older than me, especially. So our house -- I mean, it must be REALLY old!"
Me: "Well, it's pretty old..." (It was built in 1960.)
Miles: "Yeah, from like dinosaur times!"
Sure, 'cause if it's 30 years older than mom, we've reached the Paleolithic.
In my head, I said, "Um, like, NO!" in my most insulted teenage girl voice. But what actually came out was more like: "Well, no, hon... it's hard to think about how long ago dinosaurs lived, but trust me: It was much longer ago. It was longer than you or I could count, backward or forward. It was before even the first house was built. No houses even existed...."
And on I riffed, and he interjected, and we chatted , for a few minutes. Then we commenced chewing. (It was lunchtime, remember?) And then, after a small silence, Miles brought it all home. Natural history and aging storybooks and time elasping and everything being relative... I guess it all boils down to this.
M: "REALLY!" (Slaps his head like an "I could've had a V8" commerical.) "Of course!" (Wildly guestures with same hand, palm out.) "Dinosaurs couldn't read! I mean, c'mon.... how were they gonna pick up the books?"
8.07.2006
Easy Bake Oven
I don't care how many people say it: It isn't just the humidity. It's the actual heat.
...The mind-numbing, never-ceasing, ever-lovin' 98-degrees-at-10-pm HEAT in this sticky armpit we call East Texas.
(Possibly I'm a little grouchy right now. Don't say you weren't warned.)
I have been meaning to rant about the heat for several weeks now, but I've been so sweaty my fingers slide off the keyboard. This is only half a joke.
Really... truthfully: We've had trouble sleeping here. And we have an air conditioner. It runs for about $10 worth of cool per day (give or take some cents), and still we cannot rest in the pervasive, enveloping heat at 11:30 at night.
Also, I work in the house of heat. (Quick disclaimer wherein I say I KNOW other people have it much worse! I don't roof houses or pave highways for 8 hours a day... I know! I get that I've got it good. But the grouch must go on, my friends, so enough of that "perspective" and "maturity" stuff.) It is HOT in my office. Pretty much all of the time I am in my office. Which is pretty much all of the time.
Jeremy brought me a floor fan and a new vent cover, even some special low-wattage halogen light bulbs -- but neither one of us would say these efforts have fully solved the problem. He is with me on this: It is UNPLEASANT inside this tiny, not-very-ventilated space. Every occasion to rise brings with it the unmistakable sound of my sticky flesh unpeeling from my leather desk chair. I'm a Band-Aid off coming off its backing every time I must answer the fax. And even this is an improvement.
I started the summer wearing capri pants and sleeved shirts to work -- not aiming high, mind you, just attire I'm not ashamed of. Come to find out: It was simply not worth the suffering to look presentable for the 15 minutes a day I was out of the house. Now I barely rise above gym shorts & tanks. I find it's much easier to remove damp clothes that don't go past the knees or cover the elbows.
I've been thinking about the best metaphor for my working enviroment this summer, and I believe I've got it! I toil away in a grown-up version of the Easy Bake Oven.
Remember the Easy Bake? With only rudimentary technology (really, the whole thing was a light box MacGyver could have rigged in 45 seconds with an aluminum can, a broken lamp and some eletrician's tape), the Easy Bake delivered ACTUAL, COOKED snacks in a not-unheard-of amount of time. I remember being so suprised!, so impressed!, that a little plastic oven like that could create real food. I mixed and I baked and I mixed and I baked all my included treats on Day One. I just marveled at the innerworkings of the thing. Ah, the power of the lightbulb.
And this is where I've been thinking.... If a single 60-watt bulb can make brownies for two, then 3 halogens, one CPU and an ambient temp of 86 degrees totally explain why I'm a melted puddle by 2 p.m. I am literally BAKING myself every day!
I've tried turning the lights out, and that works for a while. You heard about the vent improvment and one of my two fans. I've experimented with and given up on iced drinks (condensation runs into all my papers). I still sometimes toy with the thermostat -- and you can do that ugly end-of-month math. Really, there is no alternative but to bake, bake, bake.
And, so, until fall, here I'll be. Drop me a line! Share the misery! I'll be busy avoiding my lamp, dressing light and hydrating (basting?) with regular water bottles. I figure that's the best I can do because, really, the what-to-wear-to-work situation can't get much more lax. With a desk window that looks onto the street, I'm pretty sure the entire neighborhood does not want to see me "officing" in swimwear. But, HEY! An idea! If only those halogens came in tanning lights....
...The mind-numbing, never-ceasing, ever-lovin' 98-degrees-at-10-pm HEAT in this sticky armpit we call East Texas.
(Possibly I'm a little grouchy right now. Don't say you weren't warned.)
I have been meaning to rant about the heat for several weeks now, but I've been so sweaty my fingers slide off the keyboard. This is only half a joke.
Really... truthfully: We've had trouble sleeping here. And we have an air conditioner. It runs for about $10 worth of cool per day (give or take some cents), and still we cannot rest in the pervasive, enveloping heat at 11:30 at night.
Also, I work in the house of heat. (Quick disclaimer wherein I say I KNOW other people have it much worse! I don't roof houses or pave highways for 8 hours a day... I know! I get that I've got it good. But the grouch must go on, my friends, so enough of that "perspective" and "maturity" stuff.) It is HOT in my office. Pretty much all of the time I am in my office. Which is pretty much all of the time.
Jeremy brought me a floor fan and a new vent cover, even some special low-wattage halogen light bulbs -- but neither one of us would say these efforts have fully solved the problem. He is with me on this: It is UNPLEASANT inside this tiny, not-very-ventilated space. Every occasion to rise brings with it the unmistakable sound of my sticky flesh unpeeling from my leather desk chair. I'm a Band-Aid off coming off its backing every time I must answer the fax. And even this is an improvement.
I started the summer wearing capri pants and sleeved shirts to work -- not aiming high, mind you, just attire I'm not ashamed of. Come to find out: It was simply not worth the suffering to look presentable for the 15 minutes a day I was out of the house. Now I barely rise above gym shorts & tanks. I find it's much easier to remove damp clothes that don't go past the knees or cover the elbows.
I've been thinking about the best metaphor for my working enviroment this summer, and I believe I've got it! I toil away in a grown-up version of the Easy Bake Oven.
Remember the Easy Bake? With only rudimentary technology (really, the whole thing was a light box MacGyver could have rigged in 45 seconds with an aluminum can, a broken lamp and some eletrician's tape), the Easy Bake delivered ACTUAL, COOKED snacks in a not-unheard-of amount of time. I remember being so suprised!, so impressed!, that a little plastic oven like that could create real food. I mixed and I baked and I mixed and I baked all my included treats on Day One. I just marveled at the innerworkings of the thing. Ah, the power of the lightbulb.
And this is where I've been thinking.... If a single 60-watt bulb can make brownies for two, then 3 halogens, one CPU and an ambient temp of 86 degrees totally explain why I'm a melted puddle by 2 p.m. I am literally BAKING myself every day!
I've tried turning the lights out, and that works for a while. You heard about the vent improvment and one of my two fans. I've experimented with and given up on iced drinks (condensation runs into all my papers). I still sometimes toy with the thermostat -- and you can do that ugly end-of-month math. Really, there is no alternative but to bake, bake, bake.
And, so, until fall, here I'll be. Drop me a line! Share the misery! I'll be busy avoiding my lamp, dressing light and hydrating (basting?) with regular water bottles. I figure that's the best I can do because, really, the what-to-wear-to-work situation can't get much more lax. With a desk window that looks onto the street, I'm pretty sure the entire neighborhood does not want to see me "officing" in swimwear. But, HEY! An idea! If only those halogens came in tanning lights....
8.01.2006
Dark Night
I've been playing Marbles online for 49 minutes. As I would quickly point out to son Miles, it's not play time. It's sleepy time.
But I'm not sleepy.
I just can't sleep.
I can't seem to write, either, so I'm stuck playing games and surfing (is it even called that anymore? I am hopelessly behind the real geeks) until I calm down.
I have 4 draft posts that I could polish. But I'm not so much in a "Walk Humbly" frame of mind just now. In fact, I feel the need to interrupt the regular flow of thoughts here because I'm feeling much more "fruitility" than humility right now.
I looked at the baby clothes at JC Penney this weekend.
I didn't mean to! Honest! I was just walking from the big boys' department (where I found the shortest wait-to-pay line) to the shoe department (nearest where I parked my car... as I can never recall the layout of exterior doors to interior departments). Miles was with me, and I was in a hurry. I paused for only the briefest moment in front of the Carter's display.
I wanted to touch them.
All those sweet, small, unblemished outfits for sleeping and sitting and waiting on the growth. All that 100% cotton possibility....
I wanted so badly to reach out and touch the clothes. But I knew I shouldn't. No hot stoves, and no baby clothes. Learned responses, those are. Both acts of self-preservation.
I hate that something as freakin' ridiculous as 0-12 month rompers can make me this sad. Still. So sad.
I am so very sad.
And my heart can't feel its way back right now.
But I'm not sleepy.
I just can't sleep.
I can't seem to write, either, so I'm stuck playing games and surfing (is it even called that anymore? I am hopelessly behind the real geeks) until I calm down.
I have 4 draft posts that I could polish. But I'm not so much in a "Walk Humbly" frame of mind just now. In fact, I feel the need to interrupt the regular flow of thoughts here because I'm feeling much more "fruitility" than humility right now.
I looked at the baby clothes at JC Penney this weekend.
I didn't mean to! Honest! I was just walking from the big boys' department (where I found the shortest wait-to-pay line) to the shoe department (nearest where I parked my car... as I can never recall the layout of exterior doors to interior departments). Miles was with me, and I was in a hurry. I paused for only the briefest moment in front of the Carter's display.
I wanted to touch them.
All those sweet, small, unblemished outfits for sleeping and sitting and waiting on the growth. All that 100% cotton possibility....
I wanted so badly to reach out and touch the clothes. But I knew I shouldn't. No hot stoves, and no baby clothes. Learned responses, those are. Both acts of self-preservation.
I hate that something as freakin' ridiculous as 0-12 month rompers can make me this sad. Still. So sad.
I am so very sad.
And my heart can't feel its way back right now.
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