Home Is Where the Unreasonable Ideal Is

I'm pretty addicted to HGTV.

In fact, I should have had this post up hours ago, but,
you know...back to back episodes of "Love It or List It."

I learn a lot from watching home buying/selling/renovating shows. The most important thing, of course, is that other people have shit for taste.

You can't simply lay a salad bar sneeze guard on its side
and call it a sink.

Yes, yes, taste and style are highly subjective, and the fashions of the day cannot be totally disregarded.

Is that a chandelier, or did Hobby Lobby and Home Depot
have a torrid but ill-considered affair?

The thing is, when you watch hours and hours of HGTV each week, as I do (and as do some of you, don't you dare deny it), you become familiar with current design trends. Clearly, the American Dream consists of millions of people all wanting to express their individuality by investing in the same decor as everyone else. Just as we do with fashion, cars, hair, and music. God Bless America.

Better to be free to conform than a slave
to nonconformity. I think. 'Murica.

Anyway. I've noticed that a lot of people seem to be quite infatuated with design trends that I'm absolutely not interested in. In which I'm absolutely not interested. Whatever.

As I write this, I'm uncertain whether my next home will be a rental or a purchase. I know I'm selling my current house in a red-hot seller's market, but I also know that I have an uncanny knack for failing to capitalize on the zeitgeist, so I could end up taking a bath on the sale and moving into some mediocre apartment while saving up to buy a maybe-someday-home.

However, since I could also get lucky and wind up with a meaty profit from the sale of my house, it behooves me to have a good idea of what I should look for when purchasing another.

Basically, I'm HGTV's worst nightmare.

Here's a short list of things I DO NOT WANT in a future home.

Granite countertops/stainless steel appliances: I've said it before, I'll say it again: These are the Harvest Gold and Avocado Green of the 21st century. In the future (and not very far in the future, I'll wager), new homeowners will wonder why the previous generation was so obsessed with expensive, smudge-prone appliances and fragile, high-maintenance countertops. And they'll be as quick to tear them out of their "vintage" houses as folks are now to remove the Boomerang-patterned Formica of an earlier era.

Cathedral ceilings: I live in Texas, people. My electric bill in the summer months is outrageous, and that's with modest eight-foot ceilings. I don't give a damn about having a dramatic 20-foot-tall foyer. It just gives more hiding places to the spiders that will gather in the high reaches because there's no way I'm going to bother to clean that damn high. Having to pay to cool worthless air space and harboring armies of arachnids in my crown molding? Screw that.

A jetted bathtub: I don't take baths. The last bath I took was in 1991, which is the last time I lived in a home without a functioning shower. I'm not a fan of being immersed in water unless there's a beach nearby. I'm a six-hour drive from the nearest beach. Let me shower and get on with my day.

An open-concept floor plan: I know; everyone wants open concept. Me, I like the concept of rooms. I like cozy spaces and little nooks and hallways that take you away from the rest of the house. I definitely think a floor plan can be too closed-off and segmented. But I'm perfectly OK with not being in everyone else's sight line at all times. It's a house, not a commune, you know?

A big yard: The idea of privacy and separation from neighbors is appealing. My biggest nightmare is one of those zero-lot-line houses that charge you a premium for being three feet away from your nearest neighbor/busy street. On the other hand, I've been a homeowner long enough to know that I don't enjoy yard work. I dislike the pressure to maintain a manicured appearance for the sake of my neighbors. Gardening to me is enjoyable but frustrating because everything I plant tends to wither and die. If I had the resources to completely outsource my lawn care and/or xeriscape the shit out of my property, then I'd be all about acreage. Otherwise, give me something small and low-maintenance, please.

"Turnkey": Believe me, the thought of a house where I have to do nothing to make it up-to-date and functional is really nice. But I just don't believe a truly turnkey house exists. Am I going to find a home that's perfect for me? As-is, without a single tweak? Actually, that would be kind of depressing. If I find a "turnkey" house that expresses my exact aesthetic and attitude, what does that say about my aesthetic and attitude? I'd much rather find a flawed house whose potential speaks to me than one that appeases my shallowest desires. In house-hunting, as in love, what the heart wants isn't always the turnkey solution.

So I'll keep dreaming of a dream house, and maybe I'll find it, maybe I won't. Still...if you know of a house in the Dallas area with cozy little rooms and Formica countertops, maybe let me know, OK?

Stylin' Milwaukee Style

Note: I started writing this post six months ago, as you'll see when you read the first two sentences. I don't know why I never finished it. Aliens, maybe. Aliens are always a possibility. Anyway, I ran across it just now and thought it was kind of fun. And I'm out of Prozac and don't really feeling like writing something new that isn't about the futility of being and whatnot. So enjoy. - CB 

Today my beautiful, smart, kind-hearten niece graduated from high school. In addition, my own Precocious Daughter just finished middle school and will be a freshman come August. So my big sis and I got together and did some hardcore reminiscing about our own childhood. I pulled out the old yearbooks, and we just went to town on the nostalgia.

Bitch, please. In our day, you stretched the
phone cord as far into the corner as it would go
so no one else could hear your conversations.

PDaughter was with us and got a huge kick out of fashion circa 1978-1980. Also, the fact that most of the male teachers had sideburns and facial hair resembling Paul Rudd in Anchorman.

Admit it: If you're over 40, you found him totally hot.

Anyway, after watching all the Class of '14 grads cross the stage in their au courant finery, I couldn't help but think about what was fashionable in the late 1970s - early 1980s, when I attended Gustav A. Fritsche Junior High School in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. If you happen to be of that vintage, maybe these styles will ring a bell. Or maybe they were very Southside-specific. I don't know. Junior high/middle school was a unique bubble, and I didn't really know or care about anything outside of my own world.

I think probably that mindset hasn't changed in the ensuing decades. And that's OK. As my sis and I proved tonight, the memories you carry with you from your preteen-early teen years are permanent, critical, and always worth revisiting. Your mileage will vary based on your age and geographic location, but for me, here's what junior high/middle school looked like.

Oshkosh B'Gosh Corduroy Overalls. You had to have these. Either your parents bought them for you, or you saved up your money and bought them at The Gap or Wooden Nickel. They were either gray, brown, or blue, and you wore them over a white or plaid button-down shirt. They were so ubiquitous that they weren't even considered trendy; you just wore them, even if you were a total outsider nerd (like me).

These are Levi's rather than Oshkosh,
but same idea, although
you would have been laughed
out of school for not wearing Oskosh.

Satin Baseball Jackets. I never had one, but my sis did, because she was cool and I wasn't. But these were way, way popular. To this day I have no idea why; possibly disco was involved.

This was before Members Only jackets
became de rigueur, if you can dig that.

Feathered hair. Basically, the goal was to look like Shaun Cassidy, whether you admitted it or not. I could never, ever get my hair to do this. Which explains a lot. But I've totally gotten over it. Really.

I was always a Parker Stevenson
girl, myself.

G.A.S.S shoes. From Kinney, of course. You wore these (or at least knockoffs) if you were cool, you didn't if you weren't. Period.

With thick brown shoelaces, not pictured.

Gum and a comb. If you didn't have these in the pockets of your Oshkosh B'Gosh overalls or Levi's jeans (also required fashion), you were hopeless. Oh, and the comb needed to have a big handle with puffy stickers on it. Duh.

Or, if you were black, this.

Sheepskin vests. Part of the whole Urban Cowboy craze. They were ugly and stupid, but you had to own one. My mom made mine, although I never admitted it (because I stupidly thought hand-sewn clothing wasn't awesome).

Whatever.

The last one has no picture. Some kids would carve band names into their arms, typically with an unbent paper clip or a pair of scissors. Hard rock bands' names were favored - your AC/DCs and the like. Some of these kids were more or less perpetually stoned (yes, in junior high, because that's the hood I grew up in), and correct spelling wasn't at the forefront of their thoughts. I'm hoping that most of these carvings were superficial enough to fade away over time; otherwise I'm wondering what these now middle-age adults feel about having "Black Sabath" or "Led Zeplin" permanently writ on their skin. By the way, today we call this "cutting" and it would be cause for intervention by concerned professionals. Back then it was just another way for teachers to easily spot the students whose test papers could be marked with a failing grade and move on. Such were the times.

Fashion is kind of dumb. Nostalgia is not always so awesome. But remembering the past is the only way to progress from it, as every generations, with varying success.

How to Buy Shoes If You're Crazy

I just bought these shoes.

Well, this one, and another one just like it, only reversed.

They are darling. They are wonderful. I'm wearing them for the first time today.

I literally am wearing them for the first time today.

I didn't try them on before I bought them.

Which is a strategy that sometimes turns out badly.

I mean, this dress probably looked great on the hanger.

Here's the thing with me and shoes. I love shoes. I love owning cute shoes, I love wearing cute shoes. I loathe shoe shopping.

It's not just that this is how it feels to me.
It's that I would actually prefer this.

I just don't find it enjoyable to go into the shoe department, critically appraise every pair, try them on, discover that they cost way more than I want to pay, and either put them back regretfully or buy them despite the fact that I'm spending a significant chunk of a Texas summer electric bill on them.

So over the years I've developed a strategy for buying shoes. I go to the sale and/or clearance rack of the shoe department, find the cutest pair of shoes there, latch on to my size (if it's available), and get out of Dodge.

Smash. Grab. Go.

I can do this for two reasons. First, my foot is a perfect size 8 medium width. If it says size 8, it'll fit. I have yet to return a pair of shoes in size 8 because they were the wrong size. It's my best parlor trick: Shoes fit me.

I'm stupdendous.

Second, I only wear high heels, so I don't have to worry about whether the shoes are comfortable. Of course they're not comfortable. They're high heels.

Although common sense does need to kick in at some point.

So if I find inexpensive size 8s that look cute, I buy them. And believe me, I examine them closely to make sure they're cute. I know what I like and don't like, and life is too short to wear ugly shoes.

OMFG.

But there is one other thing you should know about me. I lack certain spatial abilities. Simply put, I have a hard time gauging, for example, how far away landmarks are on the road, how much stuff can fit into a suitcase, how big one thing is in relation to another.

How high a shoe's heels are. Yeah, that's another one, I guess.

Here are my darling shoes again:

Sooooo cute.

The heels are 4 1/2 inches high.

That's slightly taller than an iPod Touch. About the same height as a South African baby pineapple.

How cute are those???

More to the point, it's at least a half-inch taller than the highest heels I've ever worn in my life.

I typically wear 3- to 4- inch heels. And really, more like three inches for everyday wear. That gives me the lift my short, squatty frame needs while not hampering my ability to get around. I'm pretty good at getting around on heels. I've been known to take long walks in the woods in heels.

Actually, in pumps. But now I must have these.

I'm not used to 4 1/2 inches' worth of heel. As I discovered this morning when I put on my new shoes and almost went face-forward onto the bedroom floor.

Not as cute as it sounds.

These things are towering. My feet are at an angle that would make you shift into low gear if they were a mountain road. My calf muscles are filing a complaint with the Department of Labor as we speak for having to work under such difficult conditions.

And they're hard to walk in. I feel the way Precocious Daughter looks when she puts on a pair of my (normal) heels and totters around the living room. I had to navigate a parking lot covered with less-than-perfect asphalt, and it was like getting around Mt. Kilimanjaro in heels. I imagine.

Damn, I think my feet are going to hurt tonight.

On the other hand, my ass looks great.

Hey...who wants to go shoe shopping?

A Short Short SHORT Post

Precocious Daughter and I were shopping at Target the other day when we saw this in the juniors' clothing section:

Shown just about actual size.

To clarify, neither PDaughter nor I actually shop in the juniors' department. She's still in kiddo sizes (despite her budding figure that makes me very, very nervous on a daily basis), and I haven't been that size or shape since...well, ever. When puberty hit, my peasant lineage came through with a vengeance. There was no way I was ever going to have the slim-hipped, flat-bootied roller-disco body that was in all the ads for Jordache and Chic jeans circa 1980. I had curves, so I went straight to misses' sizes, where I've stayed to this day.

For the record, I'm fine with curves.
Remember that.

Anyway, PDaughter and I both stopped in our tracks when we saw these shorts.

Here they are again. They haven't gotten any longer.

I totally admit, my first thought on seeing these was, "What kind of mother would let her daughter wear those?" My second thought was, "My daughter is never, ever going to go out in public in those." And my third thought was, "Damn, I wish I could wear those."

The thing is, almost nobody can wear shorts like these. Including 9 out of 10 people who actually wear them. This is the tenth person:

Male readers: She's not into you. Trust me.

These are the other nine:

Note: No matter which type of body my child ends up with - and it matters not one bit which she ends up with, as long as she's happy and healthy - she is never going out in public in those shorts. Not while she's living under my roof, not after she moves out and makes her own decisions, not as long as I can somehow contact her from beyond the grave. As a mother, I won't let someone I love desecrate the temple of her body by making it look that slutty and/or hideous.

I said I wished I could wear them. I didn't say I would.

I've seen young women wearing shorts like these over leggings or tights so that their ass cheeks weren't blushing for all the world to see. That fashion choice doesn't really placate me. I think the only way I'd let PDaughter rock that look was if she were wearing them over an entirely separate pair of pants. Preferably made of heavy canvas and embroidered with the Lord's Prayer. And covered by a knee-length shirt.

Oh, dear. I think my hair just
spontaneously went up in a bun.

By the way, the shorts I photographed were a size 3. They were available up to size 17. Now, I'm not saying that there aren't beautiful women out there with hot, toned bodies that just happen to be a size 17. I'm sure there are. I'm also pretty sure they're not the ones buying these shorts.

Based purely on unscientific observations, you understand.

Thankfully, PDaughter's reaction to the Target short-short-shorts was almost as goggle-eyed as mine. She's still a little kid at heart, with a healthy dose of modesty thanks to her own peasant lineage. That could change when the hormones start pouring in. She might decide that shorts with an inseam that can be measured in millimeters is just the thing she wants to wear. Along with piercings, black eyeliner, and whatever's on sale at Hot Topic that week. Of course, for her own good, I'll say hell no.

Or better yet, I'll say sure...but only if I get to wear them, too. Out in public, at her side, preferably to a PTA meeting.

Or the skating rink.
(True story: I owned those exact skates.)

Sometimes I really, really, really love being a mom.

All My Dicks

Of course, we all know there was a great disturbance in the Force last week, because the buttmunches at ABC canceled "All My Children." That's just crazy.


Like, Billy Clyde Tuggle crazy, yo.

Even though I hadn't watched but a few episodes in recent years (stupid mortgage company wanting its damn money every month), I've been a huge AMC fan since the early 1980s. I loved me some Greg and Jenny, and Jesse and Angie, and Tad and Dixie, and Leo and Greenleigh, and Erica and damn near everybody.


And there's an oh-so-special place in my heart
for Janet from Another Planet.

I'm not going to launch into a long appreciation of AMC. But I had to give it a mention, just because I loved watching it so much for so long. I've been reading a lot about the history of Pine Valley for nostalgia's sake, and looking at pictures. Soap opera fashion is so awesomely over-the-top and ridiculous (these people took out the trash in outfits nicer than anything I owned), and of course watching the styles change over the years is a hoot.


In 1982, Tad Martin with hair wings was HOT.

Looking at pictures of Susan Lucci as Erica Kane is a trip through late 20th century fashion all by itself.

Found this at http://charleslord.blogspot.com/2009/08/inspiration-erica-kane.html.
I like his style.

And when you look at pictures of Erica Kane, you inevitably get to see pictures of her with her 597 husbands and paramours. Love me some Adam Chandler! And Mike Roy - he was amazing. Oh, and Travis Montgomery...

HOLY CRAP, ERICA KANE WAS MARRIED TO TEXAS GOVERNOR RICK PERRY!!!

Tell me you don't see that. I dare you.

This is deeply disturbing. And Gov. Perry must be pissed that AMC got canceled before he had a chance to cameo in the "Erica Kane Meets Rick Perry and Thinks He's Travis Montgomery Come Back from the Dead" storyline. Which would have been awesome. And helped his Presidential campaign immeasurably, I'm sure. He could have been husband/paramour #598.

Oh, AMC, I'll miss you. And Governor Perry, remember: We can't miss you if you won't go away. Think about it.

Excavations & Discoveries, Part 1

As you may know, I threw shit out this weekend. Specifically, I cleared out my sewing room and bedroom closet. I took plenty of pictures of the three-day Crapapalooza. I thought you'd enjoy seeing my squalor, plus I unearthed a lot of cool things along the way.

Let me start my story with this: I am a slob. I'm habiutally messy and disorganized. It's a sickness: I'm allergic to keeping things neat, and I think that deserves some kind of federal aid or grant. It's not just my personal space, either. Anyone who has ever worked with me will tell you that even when I'm being paid money, I can't keep my shit organized. OCD I am not.

Even though my Beloved Spouse cleaned out my sewing room just about a year ago, I had let it return to its previous state of messedupitude. It was looking pretty dystopian. On top of that, I was still clinging to my huge collection of vintage clothes, which took up an enormous amount of space.

OK, stop. A few words of explanation here on the topic of me and vintage clothes. Shortly after Precocious Daughter was born, I became obsessed with vintage fashion. I started to collect pieces primarily from the 50s, 60s, and 70s, and to wear them with a passion. The important point here is that I wore them. I loved wearing vintage (I still do, but I've modulated my obsession and I keep it to a few occasional pieces). I only bought pieces for my collection - my huge collection - that fit me. And back then - deep, deep breath - I wore a modern size 4.


Not quite, but damn I was wasp-waisted.

 I worked those clothes. Day dresses from the 50s, 60s designer sheaths, clingy polyester from the 70s - I rocked them all. I loved the way they looked, the way they made me feel, their uniqueness and craftsmanship.


Who wouldn't want to feel like this?

Let's cut to the chase. I'm no size 4 anymore. In the first place, there were certain extenuating circumstances in my life at that time that made me, for a brief couple of years, much skinnier than I had ever been before. Loved the look, but if a shrink wanted to postulate that I used vintage dress-up as camouflage for a lot of harsh and stressful realities, I wouldn't waste my breath arguing. In the second place, as I ate too much, drank too much, and crept toward middle age, I piled on some poundage. C'est la vie, which is French for "pass the marshmallows."

I stopped wearing my fab vintage duds as I outgrew them and replaced them with ordinary 21st century working-mom clothes. I sold a few pieces here and there, but the bulk (get it? bulk!) of my collection has been lovingly packed away for quite a while now. Still, I never gave up my wonderful clothes. How could I? They represented nostalgia, beauty, fun, and of course skinniness. And one day, surely, I would be able to fit in them again. After I somehow miraculously got back down to the weight I never should have been at to begin with.


Let me tell you how freaking good this
mental image is for one's self-esteem.

But I finally - make that FIIIIINALLY - realized that those boxes of vintage clothes in my sewing room were like a big old wall between the person I was and the person I wanted to be. And I was stuck on the wrong side of it, too hemmed in by reminders of what was to get on with what needed to be.

I have a packet of flower seeds in my kitchen that's been there for several years. I meant to start a pretty flower patch in a certain corner of my yard, but the packet got overlooked, or forgotten, or whatever, and the seeds never got planted. There's no way they'd sprout now if I planted them - they're too far past their prime - but they still sit there. Representing the little flower patch I would have, should have, could have been enjoying. There is no flower patch. I never bought new seeds, because my brain kept telling me, "You don't need new seeds. You already have seeds. You just have to plant them. Someday."

I'm pretty damn tired of waiting for someday. I don't want to be someday's bitch. I really need the space my vintage collection has been occupying. Not just the space in my sewing room, but the space in my head. So this time, there was no "clean it out except." Or "get rid of these but not these." I dragged it all out - the vintage stuff, the modern clothes that I haven't worn in a year or more, an entire box of awesome size 4s and 6s that I had actually had the gall to label "skinny pants" as if that were somehow motivating - and said goodbye.

In this task I was helped enormously by Precocious Daughter. She not only kept on me mercilessly until every last stitch of clothing had been sorted between donations and possible vintage/consignment-shop sales, but she reminded me just how far and fast my life has gone since she's been in it. And how much I look forward to our future.

I just realized that I've written quite a long post and haven't actually gotten to the "cleaning out" part. Looks like we've got us a multi-part post here. I'll get to the cool pictures next time, I promise. Including the explanation of the picture I posted on my Facebook page yesterday. Keep the guesses coming!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to find that packet of seeds and throw the damn thing away. I'll be back!

I Do Not Support This!

A gentleman of my acquaintance on the West Coast wants to know if I can find him an armadillo purse. He says it's not for him, but hey, West Coast amiright? (That's just to piss him off. Actually it's a good thing he doesn't live in the East, because he leans so far to the right he'd end up capsizing Maine.)

In any event, there really is such a thing as an armadillo purse, and it really is exactly what it sounds like: A purse fashioned from a whole dead armadillo. I suppose if you're not from Texas you may not have seen many armadillos. They're adorable armor-plated critters:

Awww! Unfortunately, when you live in an urban part of the state, they're relatively uncommon, and when they are seen they tend to look more like this:

Poor 'dillo!  Not even your protective shell can save you from a Ford F350 in a hurry.

At some point in the past - I'm going to guess the 30s and 40s, when people loved to kill animals for fashion - armadillo purses became a popular novelty accessory. They looked something like this:

You see it correctly: That's the poor armadillo's head and pointy little feet incorporated right into the design.  Because someone thought, "There's a interesting, exotic-looking animal. Let's kill it and then commemorate the killing in the most tasteless way possible." And yes, those are fake rubies where its eyes would be. 

Who wouldn't want to sport one of these around town? Especially if it came with a fully three-dimensional head:

Or was dyed chic black:

 Or was made to look as if it were eating its own tail?

Because that's not tasteless at all.

Reminder - armadillo:

Aramdillo purse:

Maybe I could send my friend one of these instead:

Cute, responsible, and just $14.95. Some of those "antique" armadillo purses go for hundreds of dollars! Who would pay that? Besides being tacky and a sad trophy to vanity, I'll bet they smell gross inside. Ever smelled an armadillo? It's not exactly lavender sachet.

Or maybe I could point him to other animal-based handbags. In the Philippines, you can purchase one of these:

In Australia, you can get a crocodile bag ("for the ladies," as the website says - sorry, guys, you'll have to find some other reptile to skin and wear):

Then there's this:

I think this was Photoshopped so the blogger could make a point about our relationship with animals. If it wasn't, I don't want to know.

No, I don't want a purse made out of a frog, or a croc, or a kitten, or even a cow, when it comes right down to it. I'll take my cheap faux-leather bag and be glad it wasn't once somebody's littermate. And as for my friend on the West Coast: I'll keep my eye out for an authentic armadillo purse, if you'll consider trading for one made out of Republicanhide.