I Haven’t Changed.

I’ve been MIA for a couple of days because I’m pounding out words like a psychotic trained monkey. I know this is supposed to be a Thanksgiving post and all, but what I am most thankful for is currently a state away from me. No, you romantic thinkers, not my 2001 minivan. Although I am infinitely grateful that she hasn’t dumped me on the side of the interstate in at least a year. It’s what’s in the minivan that I’m grateful for. And kind of missing.

But don’t cry for me, Argentina. They’ll be back later tonight, and I’ll be doing my Snoopy happy-dance. In the meantime, I have for you a Black Friday post. Read it here.

Click the link and the zombie in the middle lives again.

I haven’t changed a bit, and I doubt I’ll be invited back. I’ll let you know.

A Day of Miracles

Happy 15th birthday to the Girl-child. 15. There’s a miracle right there. I know what you’re thinking. How can someone as young as me have a 15 year old kid? And if you weren’t thinking that, let me remind you that this is my blog, so play along. That’s better. I am awfully young. For the record, I was only seven when a fairy dropped the kid under a cabbage leaf and all that. For the record.

Anyway, we spent a whole day together to celebrate her birthday. That’s minor miracle right there. I have a teenager who doesn’t mind being seen with me. Most of the time. So we went to the mall. I’ll jump right in here and explain that neither of us are mall-rats by nature. But she was running low on fragrance, and I had a get stuff for free coupon! Off to Bath and Body Works we went.

Miracle #1: I found a fragrance that did not make me smell like a middle-aged streetwalker. If you have ever read this post, then you know how strongly I object to being labelled middle-aged. Here’s the sad part. Girl-child liked it, too. No teen one wants to share a scent with their mom anymore than they’d want to wear her polyester pant suits. I granted Girl-child full custody. After all, I spend a lot of time at the zoo where fragrance is frowned (and often sneezed) upon, so I couldn’t wear it much anyway. ***

Miracle #2 I bought new clothes. No, really. Like new-new clothes. It’s the first time in 10 years or so that I have actually bought clothes anywhere other than a thrift store. Unless you count my collection of Severus Snape t-shirts, and I don’t. Because Severus isn’t clothing. He’s family. I digress. New clothes! On sale!  A pair of capris, some shorts, a new shirt that, for the record, does not contain the image of a certain Slytherin headmaster.

Miracle #3 Pants and shorts were in a single-digit size. Could be vanity sizing, could be I don’t care. Single digit, friends. That’s all this girl needs. I can ride this particular high for a week. Maybe longer.

Miracle #4 Girl-child let me pick the music. Sort of. We I bought a stack of CDs at the used bookstore for under $1 apiece. And my companion let me listen to some of them in the car. Without gagging up a hairball or leaping out of the moving vehicle. That’s huge. Granted, none of it was Simon and Garfunkel. She has a generous, but she has her limits.

Miracle #5 I got out of Hot Topic without getting into a brawl. Oh, wait. I haven’t told you that story, have I? I keep promising sj that I’ll blog about that one someday. When it’s not quite so fresh and humiliating. When I can find the funny in it.

*** Update*** The second time I tried the smelly stuff, it made me smell like a mildewed sandbox. Not such a sacrifice to let Girl-child have it. It actually smells great on her.

Notes From the Fashionista

Okay, that title might be a bit of a stretch. I have barely enough fashion sense to match my socks. But that doesn’t mean that I have nothing to teach you.

I have lost a bit of weight in recent months, and have finally achieved my goal of being snake-bait.  I’ve had to hit the stores recently in search of some awesome new jeans. I normally find trying on clothes to be depressing and demoralizing. But with my smaller form, I have to admit my hunts this weekend was kind of fun. Especially enjoyable was rejecting garments because they were too big. I could get used to that. Self-esteem at an all-time high, I did something really nuts. For the first time ever in my life, I tried on a pair of skinny jeans.

I love the idea of skinny jeans. I want a pair of pants that can make me look like I eat like a bird and work out religiously without having to actually do anything. Skinny jeans could be the answer to my vanity and lack of self-control. You better believe I tried them on!

They fit. I guess. Here’s the lesson I took away from it. Skinny jeans are designed to make skinny people look skinnier and the rest of us look like Easter eggs on stilts.

They were comfortable, no doubt. Stretchy denim that forms itself unobtrusively to my curves like a big hug. What’s not to like? Oh, yeah. That roll of flab that’s now hanging over my belt. Pretty. Yes, squeezing into tight pants can make our legs look twig-like, but they are low-rise, and those 10 displaced pounds have to go somewhere. They’re denim, not magic. And I hate say it, but wearing a large, untucked shirt with them is fooling no one.

It’s logical to assume that tight jeans would really highlight the curves. And in places they do. But there are limits to what mere cloth can do. I am very, very sorry to have to be the one to say it. In order for a caboose to look totally awesome in a pair of skinnies, it needs to have some muscle tone to start with.The fabric is fairly unforgiving. It clings to muscle, and squashes flab.

Skinny jeans are the sports-bra for the rear. Those who aren’t in good shape are asking for a bad case of uni-bum, that frightful condition where ample hips are squished so tightly into a pair of pants that they bag in the seat, giving the impression that their owners have no tushy at all. It is an epidemic in malls everywhere. You know it. You’ve seen it, the person in front of you whose legs appear to be attached directly to their torso. Uncool.

And what is the lesson here? Just this. Skinny jeans are for actual skinny people. No exceptions. Ever. Ever, ever. ‘Nuff  said.