This afternoon I stumbled from day three of yet another agonizing three-day meeting to find that while I had been locked away in the depths of a hotel meeting room, lulled to a stupor by the soothing glow of PowerPoint, the outside world had moved on without me.
The street in front of my house is no longer a muddy trough, it has honest to goodness black top on it now.
Everyone in the blogosphere appears to have left for BlogHer except for me, because I am poor, and the boy bloggers, because of that whole lacking-a-uterus thing.
DemiGoddess the Elder has acquired her very own case number with the city police, although not because she did anything naughty. Some bad, bad boys stole her bike from the park, and she, all by herself, filed a police report. And then she found her bike in some nearby bushes a short time later.
And then there’s the baseball.
Like Ozzie Guillen, I am speechless. There are simply no words. And even if there were, I wouldn’t write them or say them out loud because I am a deeply superstitious Goddess and have no doubt that if I did speak or write the words I would jinx the whole thing. And until the matter of this pesky little half game gets resolved, you'll get nothing out of me on the subject.
But oh.
Oh my goodness…
Showing posts with label Working Mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Working Mom. Show all posts
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Friday, April 28, 2006
I (Heart) Corporate America
I know I need to develop a thicker skin. I’ve been aware of that for a while, actually.
For three days, I sat in roomful of opinionated, overweight white guys, listening to their arguments go around and around for hours, and leaving each day feeling like a bus had run me over and then backed over me and run me over again, just to make sure it had made its point.
After lunch on Wednesday the Marketing Deity himself took a moment to tell me how great it was that I could be there, because most people on my “level” never have an opportunity to see firsthand the important discussions that take place in these meetings.
(Yes! Thank you Marketing Deity! I am so very grateful that you allow a lowly maggot like me to be locked up in a hotel meeting room with these people for three days! Your generosity, it knows no bounds!)
Since Wednesday, his comment has gnawed at me. Since Wednesday, I have been irritated with myself for allowing his comment, which I'm sure neither he nor his staggeringly large ego even remember making, to gnaw at me.
This morning, back into my regular routine and once again in the company of my posse of co-workers, I was enthusiastically reassured that I am not overly sensitive. The man is sorely lacking in the people skills department. And they were happy to provide me with detailed examples in support of this fact.
What a relief to be around people who speak my language again.
(But I’m still going to work on that thicker skin thing.)
For three days, I sat in roomful of opinionated, overweight white guys, listening to their arguments go around and around for hours, and leaving each day feeling like a bus had run me over and then backed over me and run me over again, just to make sure it had made its point.
After lunch on Wednesday the Marketing Deity himself took a moment to tell me how great it was that I could be there, because most people on my “level” never have an opportunity to see firsthand the important discussions that take place in these meetings.
(Yes! Thank you Marketing Deity! I am so very grateful that you allow a lowly maggot like me to be locked up in a hotel meeting room with these people for three days! Your generosity, it knows no bounds!)
Since Wednesday, his comment has gnawed at me. Since Wednesday, I have been irritated with myself for allowing his comment, which I'm sure neither he nor his staggeringly large ego even remember making, to gnaw at me.
This morning, back into my regular routine and once again in the company of my posse of co-workers, I was enthusiastically reassured that I am not overly sensitive. The man is sorely lacking in the people skills department. And they were happy to provide me with detailed examples in support of this fact.
What a relief to be around people who speak my language again.
(But I’m still going to work on that thicker skin thing.)
Monday, April 24, 2006
All Hope For The Future is Riding On Hashbrowns
The DemiGoddesses are taking standardized tests at school today and tomorrow. They love these test days because they get to point out to me that all the teachers reminded them to bring several sharpened #2 pencils and to eat a good, BIG breakfast on both test days.
“We must have eggs! And bacon! And hashbrowns!” they cheerfully reported, not actually saying but clearly implying that I will get up early and I will cook, or they will both do badly and their tragically (and entirely preventable) low test scores will keep them way, way out of the honors program and will not only dash any hope of scholarship money but also certainly make acceptance to decent colleges out of the question. Their resulting lifetimes of poverty and dismal dead-end jobs will be all. My. Fault.
Oh, the humanity.
In spite of their very clear instructions, I decided to nix the hashbrowns (they take too long and the carb overload would have only made them too sleepy to think). And since every egg in the house had been hard-boiled and dyed for Easter, their test day power meal turned out to consist of leftover Easter eggs and turkey bacon, along with a quick fruit salad that I threw together with bananas, peach yogurt and mixed berries. Because blueberries are brain food, of course.
It wasn’t exactly a breakfast bonanza, but it was a step up from their usual Eggo waffles, and I think I did pretty well considering that my electric skillet is still buried somewhere in the sunroom. (How much more efficient cooking becomes when there are no doors on any of the cabinets!)
The truth is that it was all for show, anyway. The Demis always do well on these tests, and I am really not one bit worried about their scores.
Besides which, getting up early this morning turned out to be easy due to the anxious dreams I had all night about being late for the agonizing three-day-meetings and forgetting to wake the children in time for their pre-standardized-test hashbrowns.
“We must have eggs! And bacon! And hashbrowns!” they cheerfully reported, not actually saying but clearly implying that I will get up early and I will cook, or they will both do badly and their tragically (and entirely preventable) low test scores will keep them way, way out of the honors program and will not only dash any hope of scholarship money but also certainly make acceptance to decent colleges out of the question. Their resulting lifetimes of poverty and dismal dead-end jobs will be all. My. Fault.
Oh, the humanity.
In spite of their very clear instructions, I decided to nix the hashbrowns (they take too long and the carb overload would have only made them too sleepy to think). And since every egg in the house had been hard-boiled and dyed for Easter, their test day power meal turned out to consist of leftover Easter eggs and turkey bacon, along with a quick fruit salad that I threw together with bananas, peach yogurt and mixed berries. Because blueberries are brain food, of course.
It wasn’t exactly a breakfast bonanza, but it was a step up from their usual Eggo waffles, and I think I did pretty well considering that my electric skillet is still buried somewhere in the sunroom. (How much more efficient cooking becomes when there are no doors on any of the cabinets!)
The truth is that it was all for show, anyway. The Demis always do well on these tests, and I am really not one bit worried about their scores.
Besides which, getting up early this morning turned out to be easy due to the anxious dreams I had all night about being late for the agonizing three-day-meetings and forgetting to wake the children in time for their pre-standardized-test hashbrowns.
Friday, April 21, 2006
In Which I Wallow in Self Pity
The latest agonizing three-day meeting is scheduled to begin next Tuesday. These quarterly meetings are a *BIG DEAL* at my place of employment, and are attended by many vendors, agency reps and important clients from all over the country. Because my job requires me to spend all three days of this meeting seated at a table at the front of a giant hotel meeting room alongside the highest level executives at my corporation (which, by the way, is the only time I am ever seated within three floors of the highest level executives at my corporation), I like to try to dress a little more professionally than normal on those days.
This presents a little bit of a problem.
My office is pro-casual, and at home I’m all about jeans and T-shirts, so there’s never been a lot of professional wear in my closet. Then, three years ago I lost 35 pounds, and around that same time my financial situation went deep, deep into the toilet.
While I managed to gradually restock my everyday wardrobe with size-smaller clothes through a few fortuitous trips to the thrift store and my stint at Old Navy (subtract my employee discount from the clearance price and, yeah, I think I can squeeze $1.79 out of the grocery budget and splurge on this pair of khakis—the children can put water instead of milk on their Cheerios for a couple of days…), to this day, my closet still contains a number of dressier shirts and jackets that I refer to as “my fat clothes.” They don’t fit. They’re unflattering. But they stayed in the closet because it was either them or nothing at all.
My high-school social studies teacher taught me that economics is about using limited resources to satisfy unlimited wants. Although I could debate whether being required by the city to pay them to remove the Dutch elm-diseased tree in my back yard qualifies as a “want,” I have come to understand the concept of prioritizing when funds are limited. So even now that my finances have improved somewhat, the “fat clothes” remain in the closet because the Demigoddesses both needed glasses, Demi the Elder needed braces, the car needed two new distributor caps in two years and, oh yeah, I still don’t know how much the work on my leaky house is going to end up costing me.
But yesterday I decided that enough is enough. After three years, my old clothes have finally reached an acceptable level of depreciation, and I cannot face another agonizing three-day meeting wearing ill-fitting, outdated clothing. So I went to the mall.
Scouring through the clearance racks in four different stores, I came up with two shirts, a beaded cardigan and two jackets, all of which had been marked down at least twice. In all, my new wardrobe cost the extravagant sum of $80.
The guilt set in immediately.
All evening long I silently berated myself for spending such an outrageous amount of money on frivolities in the same month when I paid taxes, had a new master cylinder put on the car, and still have to buy knobs and hinges for all the kitchen cabinets. Just a few days ago, I warned the Demis not to ask me for a single cent—not even lunch money—until the end of the month. And then I went and lost my mind and wantonly flung money all over the mall. What was I thinking?
So I tried all the new clothes on again and gave them one more good look in the mirror. One of the jackets really didn’t fit quite right. And I wasn’t completely in love with the color of one shirt. And the beads on the cardigan? They would probably fall off before too long anyway.
So. Back to the mall with me. I’m keeping one shirt and one jacket and returning the rest. I feel so very reasonable and mature, and I know it’s the right thing to do, but God DAMN it sucks to be a grownup sometimes.
This presents a little bit of a problem.
My office is pro-casual, and at home I’m all about jeans and T-shirts, so there’s never been a lot of professional wear in my closet. Then, three years ago I lost 35 pounds, and around that same time my financial situation went deep, deep into the toilet.
While I managed to gradually restock my everyday wardrobe with size-smaller clothes through a few fortuitous trips to the thrift store and my stint at Old Navy (subtract my employee discount from the clearance price and, yeah, I think I can squeeze $1.79 out of the grocery budget and splurge on this pair of khakis—the children can put water instead of milk on their Cheerios for a couple of days…), to this day, my closet still contains a number of dressier shirts and jackets that I refer to as “my fat clothes.” They don’t fit. They’re unflattering. But they stayed in the closet because it was either them or nothing at all.
My high-school social studies teacher taught me that economics is about using limited resources to satisfy unlimited wants. Although I could debate whether being required by the city to pay them to remove the Dutch elm-diseased tree in my back yard qualifies as a “want,” I have come to understand the concept of prioritizing when funds are limited. So even now that my finances have improved somewhat, the “fat clothes” remain in the closet because the Demigoddesses both needed glasses, Demi the Elder needed braces, the car needed two new distributor caps in two years and, oh yeah, I still don’t know how much the work on my leaky house is going to end up costing me.
But yesterday I decided that enough is enough. After three years, my old clothes have finally reached an acceptable level of depreciation, and I cannot face another agonizing three-day meeting wearing ill-fitting, outdated clothing. So I went to the mall.
Scouring through the clearance racks in four different stores, I came up with two shirts, a beaded cardigan and two jackets, all of which had been marked down at least twice. In all, my new wardrobe cost the extravagant sum of $80.
The guilt set in immediately.
All evening long I silently berated myself for spending such an outrageous amount of money on frivolities in the same month when I paid taxes, had a new master cylinder put on the car, and still have to buy knobs and hinges for all the kitchen cabinets. Just a few days ago, I warned the Demis not to ask me for a single cent—not even lunch money—until the end of the month. And then I went and lost my mind and wantonly flung money all over the mall. What was I thinking?
So I tried all the new clothes on again and gave them one more good look in the mirror. One of the jackets really didn’t fit quite right. And I wasn’t completely in love with the color of one shirt. And the beads on the cardigan? They would probably fall off before too long anyway.
So. Back to the mall with me. I’m keeping one shirt and one jacket and returning the rest. I feel so very reasonable and mature, and I know it’s the right thing to do, but God DAMN it sucks to be a grownup sometimes.
Monday, February 13, 2006
I Ain’t Seen the Sunshine Since I Don’t Know When
I was sick as a dawg all last week, but my presence was nevertheless required in three long days of off-site work meetings. These quarterly meetings are painful enough when a person is healthy, but sitting at a table full of executives while trying to conceal a lap full of used tissues, washing down all manner of over-the-counter cold remedies with cup after cup of tea with honey and trying to stifle coughing fits, well, that took the agony to an all new level.
My parenting performance was lackluster at best—most nights I got home late, threw something onto a plate, called it “dinner,” and then went directly to bed and passed out. Thank God my poor children are remarkably self sufficient. And also very forgiving.
My disease has now moved from the “please kill me now because I cannot endure another nanosecond of this misery” phase to the “it sounds much worse than it feels” stage, which has turned out to have one surprising benefit.
With the singular exception of Patsy Cline, whom I adore, I am not a fan of country music. When My Ho suggested that we bring the Demis to see “Walk The Line” a few months ago, I was hesitant. Based on the little I knew about Johnny Cash and the fact that he always credited his wife, June, with saving him from alcohol and drugs, the last thing I wanted my girls seeing was some romanticized version of a codependent woman's relationship with a self-destructive drunk.
But June redeemed herself in my eyes by repeatedly slamming the door in ole’ Johnny’s face until he was good and ready to clean up his sorry act. Afterwards, My Ho thought I’d like a taste of the real deal and bought me a copy of “Johnny Cash at San Quentin,” and it’s been on heavy rotation at my house ever since. I especially love to sing along with “Folsom Prison Blues” while I’m doing the dishes. The appropriateness of that should be obvious.
One of my favorite parts of the album is during the end medley, when June’s attempt to take on Folsom Prison Blues herself ends with her laughing because she can’t sing the lowest notes. Normally, I can’t do them either, but on Saturday, in my temporarily phlegm-induced bass voice, I was right there with Johnny:
“…When I hear that whistle blowin', I hang my head and cry…”
My parenting performance was lackluster at best—most nights I got home late, threw something onto a plate, called it “dinner,” and then went directly to bed and passed out. Thank God my poor children are remarkably self sufficient. And also very forgiving.
My disease has now moved from the “please kill me now because I cannot endure another nanosecond of this misery” phase to the “it sounds much worse than it feels” stage, which has turned out to have one surprising benefit.
With the singular exception of Patsy Cline, whom I adore, I am not a fan of country music. When My Ho suggested that we bring the Demis to see “Walk The Line” a few months ago, I was hesitant. Based on the little I knew about Johnny Cash and the fact that he always credited his wife, June, with saving him from alcohol and drugs, the last thing I wanted my girls seeing was some romanticized version of a codependent woman's relationship with a self-destructive drunk.
But June redeemed herself in my eyes by repeatedly slamming the door in ole’ Johnny’s face until he was good and ready to clean up his sorry act. Afterwards, My Ho thought I’d like a taste of the real deal and bought me a copy of “Johnny Cash at San Quentin,” and it’s been on heavy rotation at my house ever since. I especially love to sing along with “Folsom Prison Blues” while I’m doing the dishes. The appropriateness of that should be obvious.
One of my favorite parts of the album is during the end medley, when June’s attempt to take on Folsom Prison Blues herself ends with her laughing because she can’t sing the lowest notes. Normally, I can’t do them either, but on Saturday, in my temporarily phlegm-induced bass voice, I was right there with Johnny:
“…When I hear that whistle blowin', I hang my head and cry…”
Monday, January 30, 2006
A Glimpse of My Monday
One phone call from Demigoddess the Younger, who forgot to bring her swimsuit for gym class to school this morning. When I said I wouldn't be able to take an hour out of my day to bring it to her at the junior high, she was most eloquently incensed.
Two phone calls from the contractor who started work on my house this morning. The second was to tell me that the needed repairs may be more extensive than he first anticipated, and that insurance may or may not cover all of them. He’ll let me know.
Three e-mails from my lawyer regarding ongoing wrangling with my ex, including a stipulation for me to read and comment on.
Four of the seven PowerPoint presentations for various executives that I have been assigned to make presentable by Thursday morning.
Five phone calls and two desk visits from our CEO’s tech-clueless assistant who would like for me to teach her how to use PowerPoint on this, the head of our company’s first venture into PowerPoint presentations.
One phone call from the school nurse’s office asking me to come fetch Demigoddess the Elder, who was apparently in the throes of an immobilizing stomach ache, followed by a trip to the junior high, to my house, and back to work again.
And all of that?
Was before noon.
Favorite Quote of the Day:
"I can't help you today. I'll tell you that one time nicely. The second time, there will be bludgeoning."
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Life, the Universe, and “Project Jay”
Part of the reason for the piranhas is that lately my job has required that I actually work, and has not left a lot of time for my usual soul-restoring activities like blogging and shopping for handbags on eBay.
I can’t help but attribute the present state of things to the Kate Spade Georgetown Carlyle bag that I scored last week. Although I acquired it for an astonishingly good price, it wasn’t exactly in the budget, so there’s been anxiety and there’s been guilt, and karmic forces must be causing my high-end accessory remorse to draw this work craziness to me. Fortunately, the handbag is exceptionally delicious, so it and Wednesday night’s Lost/Project Runway lineup continue to make my life worth living.
The only thing is, after last night’s Lost episode, all through Project Runway I kept hearing Claire’s voice in my head screeching for her baby. Of course, in Australian, that sounds more like “Moy Buy-Bee! Somebody saaaaave Moy Buy-Beeeeee!” She may be a tiny, helpless blonde who has survived a plane crash and childbirth in the jungle and yet manages to look perpetually angelic, but enough with the high-pitched hysteria, already.
And speaking of universal justice, the ever-abrasive, model-stealing Zulema got hers in the end, didn’t she? I also found it highly gratifying to see Santino finally humbled into submission (An also-ran behind Austin Scarlett! Oh, the humanity!).
But I’m thinking that Mr. Jay McCarroll has drunk just a smidge too much of his own Kool Aid since last season’s Project Runway win. Karma may be a bee-yatch, but the new Jay-Who’s-Getting-His-Very-Own-Special seems to have become a even bigger one…
I can’t help but attribute the present state of things to the Kate Spade Georgetown Carlyle bag that I scored last week. Although I acquired it for an astonishingly good price, it wasn’t exactly in the budget, so there’s been anxiety and there’s been guilt, and karmic forces must be causing my high-end accessory remorse to draw this work craziness to me. Fortunately, the handbag is exceptionally delicious, so it and Wednesday night’s Lost/Project Runway lineup continue to make my life worth living.
The only thing is, after last night’s Lost episode, all through Project Runway I kept hearing Claire’s voice in my head screeching for her baby. Of course, in Australian, that sounds more like “Moy Buy-Bee! Somebody saaaaave Moy Buy-Beeeeee!” She may be a tiny, helpless blonde who has survived a plane crash and childbirth in the jungle and yet manages to look perpetually angelic, but enough with the high-pitched hysteria, already.
And speaking of universal justice, the ever-abrasive, model-stealing Zulema got hers in the end, didn’t she? I also found it highly gratifying to see Santino finally humbled into submission (An also-ran behind Austin Scarlett! Oh, the humanity!).
But I’m thinking that Mr. Jay McCarroll has drunk just a smidge too much of his own Kool Aid since last season’s Project Runway win. Karma may be a bee-yatch, but the new Jay-Who’s-Getting-His-Very-Own-Special seems to have become a even bigger one…
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Some Days
Some days, the details are like a hungry school of piranhas.
The names and the dates and the deadlines, the phone calls and the e-mails, the bills and the laundry and the dishes and the orthodontist’s appointments... each and every one of them rips away a little chunk of me until there’s not much left but tired, tired bones.
Not all the time. But some days.
The names and the dates and the deadlines, the phone calls and the e-mails, the bills and the laundry and the dishes and the orthodontist’s appointments... each and every one of them rips away a little chunk of me until there’s not much left but tired, tired bones.
Not all the time. But some days.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
A-Quiver With Anticipation
The Top Model finale is tonight, followed by Lost, and the new Project Runway begins on Bravo after that. I plan to spend so much time sitting on my ass this evening that I may just finish knitting all those alpaca-wool mittens I’m making for Christmas gifts by tomorrow.
(The mittens are an attempt to convert an unfortunate e-Bay incident into gifts of good cheer for pretty much EVERY PERSON I KNOW, but that’s a post for another day.)
Of course, the quivering could also be an aftereffect of my job having kicked the ever loving crap out of me over the last couple of days.
Either way, I have a serious appointment with my couch tonight. And there will very likely be alcoholic beverages.
(The mittens are an attempt to convert an unfortunate e-Bay incident into gifts of good cheer for pretty much EVERY PERSON I KNOW, but that’s a post for another day.)
Of course, the quivering could also be an aftereffect of my job having kicked the ever loving crap out of me over the last couple of days.
Either way, I have a serious appointment with my couch tonight. And there will very likely be alcoholic beverages.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
The Magic is Gone, But I Don't Think I Miss It
I used to loooooove Christmas.
I was one of those people who’d get up at 5 a.m on the day after Thanksgiving to stand in line outside Toys R Us, poised for a foot race against all the other lunatics who were there to snatch up a $5 Furby. I’d shop all morning, and then go home, pop Bing Crosby’s White Christmas CD into the stereo, and start hauling out the decorations. I baked, I wrapped, and oh, boy, did I shop. One month of Christmas, it just wasn't enough.
But this year, ever since I first saw Beyonce’s Wal-Mart commercial at the beginning of November (Ooh! It's a bootylicious Christmas!), I’ve felt a tiny bit nauseous. The holiday “cheer” that crammed every corner at Target in the days after Halloween looks desperately fabricated. Thanksgiving was a week ago, and as yet, there has not been a single "Mele Kalikimaka" at my house.
Maybe it’s because the Demigoddesses are of an age when they no longer believe in Santa, or even pretend to believe, as I suspect they did for my benefit for a number of years. Maybe Bing has grown tiresome. Or perhaps the past couple of Christmases have changed my perspective on the whole thing.
This year I don’t have to work a second part-time job at Old Navy in order to be able to afford a few decent gifts. I don’t have to use the ugly fake tree that a generous acquaintance gave us in 2003, when she learned I didn’t have money to buy our usual fresh one. I don't have to read the Demigoddesses all the Christmas stories from the Little House on the Prairie books in order to keep their expectations low (Isn't it GREAT that YOUR only gifts won't be a peppermint stick and a penny?).
I could jump back on the holiday bandwagon. I could go back to working myself into a frenzy trying to arrange and manufacture and purchase the perfect Christmas, and thereby become some kind of holiday hero. But it seems that I don’t really want to any more.
I suppose it’s like that thing Cuba Gooding Jr. said in Jerry Maguire. I’ve been to the puppet show, and I’ve seen the strings.
And I'm not sure how I feel about that.
I was one of those people who’d get up at 5 a.m on the day after Thanksgiving to stand in line outside Toys R Us, poised for a foot race against all the other lunatics who were there to snatch up a $5 Furby. I’d shop all morning, and then go home, pop Bing Crosby’s White Christmas CD into the stereo, and start hauling out the decorations. I baked, I wrapped, and oh, boy, did I shop. One month of Christmas, it just wasn't enough.
But this year, ever since I first saw Beyonce’s Wal-Mart commercial at the beginning of November (Ooh! It's a bootylicious Christmas!), I’ve felt a tiny bit nauseous. The holiday “cheer” that crammed every corner at Target in the days after Halloween looks desperately fabricated. Thanksgiving was a week ago, and as yet, there has not been a single "Mele Kalikimaka" at my house.
Maybe it’s because the Demigoddesses are of an age when they no longer believe in Santa, or even pretend to believe, as I suspect they did for my benefit for a number of years. Maybe Bing has grown tiresome. Or perhaps the past couple of Christmases have changed my perspective on the whole thing.
This year I don’t have to work a second part-time job at Old Navy in order to be able to afford a few decent gifts. I don’t have to use the ugly fake tree that a generous acquaintance gave us in 2003, when she learned I didn’t have money to buy our usual fresh one. I don't have to read the Demigoddesses all the Christmas stories from the Little House on the Prairie books in order to keep their expectations low (Isn't it GREAT that YOUR only gifts won't be a peppermint stick and a penny?).
I could jump back on the holiday bandwagon. I could go back to working myself into a frenzy trying to arrange and manufacture and purchase the perfect Christmas, and thereby become some kind of holiday hero. But it seems that I don’t really want to any more.
I suppose it’s like that thing Cuba Gooding Jr. said in Jerry Maguire. I’ve been to the puppet show, and I’ve seen the strings.
And I'm not sure how I feel about that.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Well, That Sucked
I'm referring, of course, to the agonizing three-day meeting, and not to my birthday, which was lovely.
I warned My Ho ahead of time that Wednesday was going to be “Self-Absorbed Girlfriend Day.” He was nothing but charming as he followed me on a lengthy and thorough tour of Marshall Field’s handbag department. He was very helpful in The Gap and Banana Republic and Eddie Bauer and New York & Co. He sniffed and smelled and nodded most patiently throughout Bath & Body Works.
Various friends and family members provided a divine showering with gifts—gift cards, a book on writing, some tea, the new Liz Phair CD, and, from My Ho, a ridiculously luxurious feather bed, just like the one from our hotel room in Seattle.
And as if that weren’t enough joy for a Goddess on her birthday, at dinner with my family, I ordered an alcoholic beverage and was carded. Carded! And the waitress was all shocked and flustered when she saw the actual age on my ID. (True, the weight on my driver’s license is a total fabrication, but the birthdate is REAL.)
I have never been much of a greeting card person. I never saw the point in spending $4.00 on every birthday and every holiday, to have Hallmark express in mass-produced card form the sentiments that I'm too much of a chicken to say myself (or worse, to say things I don't really even MEAN) to everyone I've ever known in my life, simply because it's expected. If you have something to SAY, I preached, save a tree and write the person a note in your own words! That is so much more meaningful!
Wednesday proved me right about that. No fewer than four of the people I love most in the world gifted me with personal birthday missives—one long, one short, one electronic, and one written in orange marker. Never mind all the stuff, those letters were the best gift of all.
But of course, it couldn't go on forever. Wednesday’s wealth of loveliness made the final agonizing day of the agonizing three-day meeting seem even more, well, agonizing.
And so, on to today’s Friday Haiku:
Brain damage? Or just
a PowerPoint hangover?
It’s too soon to tell.
I warned My Ho ahead of time that Wednesday was going to be “Self-Absorbed Girlfriend Day.” He was nothing but charming as he followed me on a lengthy and thorough tour of Marshall Field’s handbag department. He was very helpful in The Gap and Banana Republic and Eddie Bauer and New York & Co. He sniffed and smelled and nodded most patiently throughout Bath & Body Works.
Various friends and family members provided a divine showering with gifts—gift cards, a book on writing, some tea, the new Liz Phair CD, and, from My Ho, a ridiculously luxurious feather bed, just like the one from our hotel room in Seattle.
And as if that weren’t enough joy for a Goddess on her birthday, at dinner with my family, I ordered an alcoholic beverage and was carded. Carded! And the waitress was all shocked and flustered when she saw the actual age on my ID. (True, the weight on my driver’s license is a total fabrication, but the birthdate is REAL.)
I have never been much of a greeting card person. I never saw the point in spending $4.00 on every birthday and every holiday, to have Hallmark express in mass-produced card form the sentiments that I'm too much of a chicken to say myself (or worse, to say things I don't really even MEAN) to everyone I've ever known in my life, simply because it's expected. If you have something to SAY, I preached, save a tree and write the person a note in your own words! That is so much more meaningful!
Wednesday proved me right about that. No fewer than four of the people I love most in the world gifted me with personal birthday missives—one long, one short, one electronic, and one written in orange marker. Never mind all the stuff, those letters were the best gift of all.
But of course, it couldn't go on forever. Wednesday’s wealth of loveliness made the final agonizing day of the agonizing three-day meeting seem even more, well, agonizing.
And so, on to today’s Friday Haiku:
Brain damage? Or just
a PowerPoint hangover?
It’s too soon to tell.
Monday, November 07, 2005
Please Don't Leave Me
It's time again for the agonizing three-day meeting. From tomorrow through Thursday, I will be in the immediate physical presence of the powers that be from my place of employment, and will, therefore, have to actually be, you know, working.
And not blogging.
Or even reading blogs.
I'm starting to have the shakes already.
On Friday, if I haven't suffered too much brain damage, my Goddess self will return with more eloquence and wit... except that I will be bringing it to you as a Goddess who is one year older, since my birthday is Wednesday.
During my brief absence, feel free to occupy yourselves with shopping for luxurious and expensive gifts to shower me with.
And not blogging.
Or even reading blogs.
I'm starting to have the shakes already.
On Friday, if I haven't suffered too much brain damage, my Goddess self will return with more eloquence and wit... except that I will be bringing it to you as a Goddess who is one year older, since my birthday is Wednesday.
During my brief absence, feel free to occupy yourselves with shopping for luxurious and expensive gifts to shower me with.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
I’ve Done My Time In Fast Food Hell
The Arby’s restaurant where I worked during my high school and college years is now a great big greasy hole in the ground. It was recently demolished to make way for some kind of development in the business district of one of the first-ring Minneapolis suburbs.
I worked part-time at that restaurant for five years all together. I can still tell you how many ounces of “meat” went on a regular size roast beef sandwich, and I could probably still build a chicken club sandwich with my eyes closed. Sometimes I have nightmares that I still work there, and usually, in those nightmares, I’m pissed.
My current place of employment is the corporate headquarters of one of the larger fast food chains (which will remain nameless… don’t wanna get Dooced). The corporate office building has a training restaurant where new restaurant managers come to learn the ropes. Corporate employees are sometimes invited to help out in exchange for free food, and when they got around to asking if I would be interested, I declined politely. On the inside I was thinking, it’ll be a COLD DAY IN HELL before I start serving up French fries again.
A lot of life-changing shit went down during my fast food tenure. I met my ex during the breakfast shift at Arby’s. He was the cook, and grilled up croissant sandwiches while I stayed in the back and assembled the day’s salads. We didn’t start dating until a few years later, long after he quit working there. But even so, a word of advice to all you unattached gals: Don’t marry a guy you met in a fast food restaurant. Trust me on this one.
I had moved up from salad girl to night manager when my mom’s brother was diagnosed with cancer. I was working the night he died, and a few days later, I couldn’t go to the wake because nobody would cover my shift that night. Mom still hasn’t forgiven me for that one.
Then my relationship with my mother was strained to the breaking point by my out-of-wedlock, still-in-college and most-definitely-unplanned pregnancy. Long months of spectacularly fun drama ensued, much of which went down, you guessed it, at Arby’s. Allow me to amend my advice for you gals: Don’t accidentally get pregnant by and then marry a guy you met in a fast food restaurant. Seriously.
Shortly after Demigoddess the Elder was born, I took a job with a magazine publisher—a job with a desk and a computer and not one single heat lamp or meat slicer anywhere—and my days of peddling fast food were over. Well, mostly.
I guess I still do peddle fast food indirectly, but at least I don’t come home from work smelling like “roast beef” any more.
Last week, when I saw that big ‘ole hole where the Arby’s used to be, it seemed like I should feel sad, or pensive, or something. But in reality, it was more like the way I felt after cleaning out all the closets in my house during the year after my divorce. Something more like unfettered. Unencumbered.
Released.
I worked part-time at that restaurant for five years all together. I can still tell you how many ounces of “meat” went on a regular size roast beef sandwich, and I could probably still build a chicken club sandwich with my eyes closed. Sometimes I have nightmares that I still work there, and usually, in those nightmares, I’m pissed.
My current place of employment is the corporate headquarters of one of the larger fast food chains (which will remain nameless… don’t wanna get Dooced). The corporate office building has a training restaurant where new restaurant managers come to learn the ropes. Corporate employees are sometimes invited to help out in exchange for free food, and when they got around to asking if I would be interested, I declined politely. On the inside I was thinking, it’ll be a COLD DAY IN HELL before I start serving up French fries again.
A lot of life-changing shit went down during my fast food tenure. I met my ex during the breakfast shift at Arby’s. He was the cook, and grilled up croissant sandwiches while I stayed in the back and assembled the day’s salads. We didn’t start dating until a few years later, long after he quit working there. But even so, a word of advice to all you unattached gals: Don’t marry a guy you met in a fast food restaurant. Trust me on this one.
I had moved up from salad girl to night manager when my mom’s brother was diagnosed with cancer. I was working the night he died, and a few days later, I couldn’t go to the wake because nobody would cover my shift that night. Mom still hasn’t forgiven me for that one.
Then my relationship with my mother was strained to the breaking point by my out-of-wedlock, still-in-college and most-definitely-unplanned pregnancy. Long months of spectacularly fun drama ensued, much of which went down, you guessed it, at Arby’s. Allow me to amend my advice for you gals: Don’t accidentally get pregnant by and then marry a guy you met in a fast food restaurant. Seriously.
Shortly after Demigoddess the Elder was born, I took a job with a magazine publisher—a job with a desk and a computer and not one single heat lamp or meat slicer anywhere—and my days of peddling fast food were over. Well, mostly.
I guess I still do peddle fast food indirectly, but at least I don’t come home from work smelling like “roast beef” any more.
Last week, when I saw that big ‘ole hole where the Arby’s used to be, it seemed like I should feel sad, or pensive, or something. But in reality, it was more like the way I felt after cleaning out all the closets in my house during the year after my divorce. Something more like unfettered. Unencumbered.
Released.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
My Ass is Killing Me
There is a pretty little lake a couple of miles from where I work, and I often walk around it over my lunch hour. It’s ringed by lots of cottonwood, oak, and maple trees, which are now in full fall color, and there is a charming little waterfall at one end of the lake. I almost always see several woolly caterpillars creeping along the path, ducks and geese bobbing near the shoreline, and today there was even some kind of a white heron or crane or something. Whatever it was, it was darn pretty.
A sign on the walking path says it’s two miles around this little lake, and it usually takes me about thirty minutes to walk the whole thing.
Most days.
Today I got back to my car, all energized and grateful for a sunny day, for brilliantly colored trees, for the crisp smell of autumn and the simple pleasure of crunching through fallen leaves. My good cheer quickly faded, however, as I realized that somewhere along the way I had dropped my car key.
It was not in the parking lot or anywhere near the car.
So, my choices were to a) give up and walk the two miles back to work, and then figure out a way to get the spare set of car keys from home, or b) walk around the lake again and hope I would find the lost key.
Pride has led to many a downfall, it’s true. Hoping in vain to avoid involving anyone else in my predicament, I walked all the damn way around that damn lake a second time.
Of course, I did not find the key.
So then I hoofed my sorry ass, which was good and draggin' by this point, another couple of miles back to work, making my nice little two-mile lunch hour walk into something more like six miles and two hours.
My Ho was kind enough not to laugh when I called him. He will be bringing my spare keys later.
I am SO not doing Pilates tonight.
A sign on the walking path says it’s two miles around this little lake, and it usually takes me about thirty minutes to walk the whole thing.
Most days.
Today I got back to my car, all energized and grateful for a sunny day, for brilliantly colored trees, for the crisp smell of autumn and the simple pleasure of crunching through fallen leaves. My good cheer quickly faded, however, as I realized that somewhere along the way I had dropped my car key.
It was not in the parking lot or anywhere near the car.
So, my choices were to a) give up and walk the two miles back to work, and then figure out a way to get the spare set of car keys from home, or b) walk around the lake again and hope I would find the lost key.
Pride has led to many a downfall, it’s true. Hoping in vain to avoid involving anyone else in my predicament, I walked all the damn way around that damn lake a second time.
Of course, I did not find the key.
So then I hoofed my sorry ass, which was good and draggin' by this point, another couple of miles back to work, making my nice little two-mile lunch hour walk into something more like six miles and two hours.
My Ho was kind enough not to laugh when I called him. He will be bringing my spare keys later.
I am SO not doing Pilates tonight.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Confessions of a Junkie
I’ve heard recovering alcoholics say that one of the manifestations of their disease is that they are constantly, obsessively aware of alcohol. They know the locations of every bar and liquor store in town, and can tell you which ones are the closest to any given point in the city. At parties, they notice who is drinking, what they’re drinking, and how much. And what really drives them crazy is when they see a person slooooowly nurse a drink, and then set it down half-finished… and forget about it. Even alcoholics who have been sober for a number of years cannot understand how it is possible for a person to do that.
I am not an alcoholic. I sincerely believe that there aspects of addiction that one can never understand without having been there firsthand. But I have found that I have a very similar obsessive awareness when it comes to food.
Whenever I leave the house to run an errand, I often find running through my mind an inventory of the restaurants or drive-through windows or bakeries that are on the way to or from that particular destination. It just happens. I had a food junkie recovery of sorts a few years ago, and so I don’t actually stop at them very often any more, but still, it happens.
One time, in the early days of that food junkie recovery, I went to heat up my carefully planned, calories-counted lunch in the office microwave, and found that someone had placed a tray of doughnuts on top of it. I stood there for a long time, staring at those doughnuts. Then I prayed to God to get me away from the one with the frosting and the sprinkles, because I knew I was about to fall off the wagon and, left to my own devices, would be powerless to stop myself. It worked.
I still notice how many times people have gone through the potluck line. And if I should see a person set down a half-finished piece of cake and forget about it? You guessed it. Crazy.
Right this minute, around the corner from my desk, is a spread of cookies that the winner of last weekend’s football pool brought in this morning. I haven’t eaten any personally, but I can tell you that there are four kinds—peanut butter with chocolate, M&M’s cookies, toffee, and frosted pumpkin with raisins. I can’t see them as I’m typing, but I can give you a pretty close guess as to how many of each kind there were this morning, and how many there are right now, because I just passed them on the way back to my desk from a meeting and did a quick mental count without even realizing I was doing it.
Today, for the first time in the seven years since I started my current job, it occurred to me to wonder if the fact that I work at the corporate headquarters of a large-ish fast-food chain is some kind of demented self torture. The floor I work on is plastered with promotional posters for all manner of diet-busting deep-fried, greasy and/or sugary delights.
Although, to be fair, office doughnuts and cookies would happen no matter where I worked. And, like alcoholism, my food obsession will probably never disappear completely. For today, I left the cookies alone. And that’s something.
I am not an alcoholic. I sincerely believe that there aspects of addiction that one can never understand without having been there firsthand. But I have found that I have a very similar obsessive awareness when it comes to food.
Whenever I leave the house to run an errand, I often find running through my mind an inventory of the restaurants or drive-through windows or bakeries that are on the way to or from that particular destination. It just happens. I had a food junkie recovery of sorts a few years ago, and so I don’t actually stop at them very often any more, but still, it happens.
One time, in the early days of that food junkie recovery, I went to heat up my carefully planned, calories-counted lunch in the office microwave, and found that someone had placed a tray of doughnuts on top of it. I stood there for a long time, staring at those doughnuts. Then I prayed to God to get me away from the one with the frosting and the sprinkles, because I knew I was about to fall off the wagon and, left to my own devices, would be powerless to stop myself. It worked.
I still notice how many times people have gone through the potluck line. And if I should see a person set down a half-finished piece of cake and forget about it? You guessed it. Crazy.
Right this minute, around the corner from my desk, is a spread of cookies that the winner of last weekend’s football pool brought in this morning. I haven’t eaten any personally, but I can tell you that there are four kinds—peanut butter with chocolate, M&M’s cookies, toffee, and frosted pumpkin with raisins. I can’t see them as I’m typing, but I can give you a pretty close guess as to how many of each kind there were this morning, and how many there are right now, because I just passed them on the way back to my desk from a meeting and did a quick mental count without even realizing I was doing it.
Today, for the first time in the seven years since I started my current job, it occurred to me to wonder if the fact that I work at the corporate headquarters of a large-ish fast-food chain is some kind of demented self torture. The floor I work on is plastered with promotional posters for all manner of diet-busting deep-fried, greasy and/or sugary delights.
Although, to be fair, office doughnuts and cookies would happen no matter where I worked. And, like alcoholism, my food obsession will probably never disappear completely. For today, I left the cookies alone. And that’s something.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Another Haiku for Friday
With a little planning, and a little luck, a person can squeeze an amazing number of errands into a single lunch hour.
From work to home, to the bank, to the mall, and finally, on the way back to work, the drive-thru, where I picked up the inspiraton for today's Friday Haiku:
Wendy’s Frostys are
so good, but so very hard
to eat while driving.
From work to home, to the bank, to the mall, and finally, on the way back to work, the drive-thru, where I picked up the inspiraton for today's Friday Haiku:
Wendy’s Frostys are
so good, but so very hard
to eat while driving.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Bliss
It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining, the birds are singing.
This morning, the Demigoddesses cheerfully left for the bus on time. When they kissed me goodbye they were clean, they were well fed, they were wearing shoes. They each had their homework and their housekeys.
As I sipped the last of my morning tea before leaving for work, I took a moment to compose a grateful little haiku about the source of my peace and serenity:
Sweet late school start day,
such luxury are your two
extra hours of sleep.
This morning, the Demigoddesses cheerfully left for the bus on time. When they kissed me goodbye they were clean, they were well fed, they were wearing shoes. They each had their homework and their housekeys.
As I sipped the last of my morning tea before leaving for work, I took a moment to compose a grateful little haiku about the source of my peace and serenity:
Sweet late school start day,
such luxury are your two
extra hours of sleep.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Praise the Lord and Pass the Clicker
I do not miss my Old Navy part-time job. I do not miss it for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that my weeknights are once again MINE to do with as I please.
Well, mine after I do the dinner dishes and a couple of loads of laundry, and on nights when the Demigoddesses don’t have Girl Scouts or some other school function that they need to be delivered to and fetched from. But I digress.
What “once again mine” really means is that I am now free to devote my evenings to accumulating as much brain damage as possible by way of lots and lots of stupor-inducing television. And, starting tonight, I will finally have something to watch other than CRAPPY ASS BASEBALL. (Because all the yelling at the television and all the agonized weeping, it harshes my stupor.)
In addition to the Battle of the Network Reality Stars finale, tonight also brings the newest round of America’s Next Top Model AND the season premier of Lost.
Lost is not a reality show, and therefore will be a small detour from my usual reality TV madness, but it comes highly recommended by the same very wise and trusted friend who highly recommended My Ho… and he turned out to be a fairly large and fairly positive detour from my usual boyfriend madness. Plus, the other night I caught part of a show that recapped most of last season’s Lost happenings, and, ooh! Creepy and intriguing! So I’m ging to try very hard to get over the fact that I can't think of Matthew Fox as anyone but Charlie from Party of Five, and give it a try.
Goodness, how I long for Tivo.
Well, mine after I do the dinner dishes and a couple of loads of laundry, and on nights when the Demigoddesses don’t have Girl Scouts or some other school function that they need to be delivered to and fetched from. But I digress.
What “once again mine” really means is that I am now free to devote my evenings to accumulating as much brain damage as possible by way of lots and lots of stupor-inducing television. And, starting tonight, I will finally have something to watch other than CRAPPY ASS BASEBALL. (Because all the yelling at the television and all the agonized weeping, it harshes my stupor.)
In addition to the Battle of the Network Reality Stars finale, tonight also brings the newest round of America’s Next Top Model AND the season premier of Lost.
Lost is not a reality show, and therefore will be a small detour from my usual reality TV madness, but it comes highly recommended by the same very wise and trusted friend who highly recommended My Ho… and he turned out to be a fairly large and fairly positive detour from my usual boyfriend madness. Plus, the other night I caught part of a show that recapped most of last season’s Lost happenings, and, ooh! Creepy and intriguing! So I’m ging to try very hard to get over the fact that I can't think of Matthew Fox as anyone but Charlie from Party of Five, and give it a try.
Goodness, how I long for Tivo.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
I SO Deserve a Raise
Last weekend on PBS I caught a little bit of one of those motivational speakers they sometimes show during pledge week. This one featured a woman speaking to an auditorium full of people on the subject of improving their time management skills.
She said that when we are working and the phone rings, if we stop to answer it, deal with whatever issue the caller has, and then go back to work, the whole process takes an average of about 11 minutes (I can’t remember the exact number, but it was something like that).
She also said that, when the phone rings while we are working, if we let the call go to voicemail, finish what we’re doing before listening to the caller’s message, and then call the person back to deal with whatever issue they were calling about, the whole process takes an average of 8 minutes.
So all this time I have been ignoring the ringing phone on my desk, I thought it was out of laziness and a borderline anti-social personality. But now it seems that I have been being an INCREDIBLY EFFICIENT employee all along!
Yay for ME!
She said that when we are working and the phone rings, if we stop to answer it, deal with whatever issue the caller has, and then go back to work, the whole process takes an average of about 11 minutes (I can’t remember the exact number, but it was something like that).
She also said that, when the phone rings while we are working, if we let the call go to voicemail, finish what we’re doing before listening to the caller’s message, and then call the person back to deal with whatever issue they were calling about, the whole process takes an average of 8 minutes.
So all this time I have been ignoring the ringing phone on my desk, I thought it was out of laziness and a borderline anti-social personality. But now it seems that I have been being an INCREDIBLY EFFICIENT employee all along!
Yay for ME!
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Kate Spade: Demon Temptress
I have horribly ugly feet. All three of my sisters do, too. Although my sister Meghan is willing to endure intense physical pain in return for being fashionable, I, being the sensible oldest sister, am not. This means that my options when it comes to footwear are sorely limited. I long to wear sassy, strappy, pointy-toed high heels, but I’m forced by nature and genetics (thanks, Dad) to stick with shoes that are more about concealment than personal style.
Sadly, I still love shoes. Love them. I’m quite sure that I’d have a Carrie Bradshaw-esque shoe fetish if only I had been born with size six feet, tiny toes, and dainty ankles. But circumstances being what they are, my accessory affection has been forced to find another object, and that object, it seems, is purses.
The problem, of course, is that (being a discriminating Goddess) the purses I pine for are ridiculously expensive. Even if I had the money, I’d have a hard time (also being the sensible oldest sister) shelling out $1,500 for a Prada handbag, no matter how exquisite the craftsmanship, or how buttery the leather. And don’t even get me started on the Birkin bag. Until I told him so, my Ho had no idea that there was such a purse in the world that could cost thousands of dollars and have Oprah herself on a waiting list. A purse that could have it’s very own episode of "Sex and the City." The holy grail of handbags.
My part-time retail job brings me face-to-face with lots of purses. Some are horrifying, most are totally forgettable. But the store where I work happens to be located in one of the more affluent suburbs of Minneapolis, so occasionally someone comes through my checkout line with a bag that causes a painful longing in my soul.
Last week brought one such handbag to my register. I could only see the back of it—a wicker basket bag, rectangular, with a flat black leather top and leather strap handles—but I could see that it was beautiful. I was in love at first sight. I complimented the customer on it, and even though I was dying to know where it had come from, I resisted the urge to ask. I didn’t want to seem gauche and uncouth as I rang up her two-for-$15 rib-knit tanks.
That bag stayed in my mind all weekend, until a little online research revealed that it was none other than a Kate Spade Venice Basket. A bargain compared to the Birkin, but still well out of my price range. And, lucky for my budget, from her 2002 collection, which means I can’t just pop over to Nordstrom’s and pick one up, anyway. Not that I didn’t find some other tempting lovelies online.
How in the name of all that is good and just in the world can a purse cost $395? It’s just cruel to tease me with such beauty, and then hold it out of my reach. These days, I’m still getting a novel thrill from being able to pay my bills and have money left over for groceries each month (hoo!). Demigoddess the Elder needs braces, my refrigerator keeps creating puddles on the kitchen floor, and I haven’t even seen a bill from my lawyer yet. Even at Ebay prices, a Kate Spade bag is not in the same Federal Reserve district as my budget.
And yet, they haunt me, those bags. They whisper to me in my dreams… “You work hard,” they softly sing, “You deserve it. And you will be so very happy, so fulfilled as a human being, if only you had one of us in your life every day. $395 is not so much money. The children will find food somewhere…”
Sadly, I still love shoes. Love them. I’m quite sure that I’d have a Carrie Bradshaw-esque shoe fetish if only I had been born with size six feet, tiny toes, and dainty ankles. But circumstances being what they are, my accessory affection has been forced to find another object, and that object, it seems, is purses.
The problem, of course, is that (being a discriminating Goddess) the purses I pine for are ridiculously expensive. Even if I had the money, I’d have a hard time (also being the sensible oldest sister) shelling out $1,500 for a Prada handbag, no matter how exquisite the craftsmanship, or how buttery the leather. And don’t even get me started on the Birkin bag. Until I told him so, my Ho had no idea that there was such a purse in the world that could cost thousands of dollars and have Oprah herself on a waiting list. A purse that could have it’s very own episode of "Sex and the City." The holy grail of handbags.
My part-time retail job brings me face-to-face with lots of purses. Some are horrifying, most are totally forgettable. But the store where I work happens to be located in one of the more affluent suburbs of Minneapolis, so occasionally someone comes through my checkout line with a bag that causes a painful longing in my soul.
Last week brought one such handbag to my register. I could only see the back of it—a wicker basket bag, rectangular, with a flat black leather top and leather strap handles—but I could see that it was beautiful. I was in love at first sight. I complimented the customer on it, and even though I was dying to know where it had come from, I resisted the urge to ask. I didn’t want to seem gauche and uncouth as I rang up her two-for-$15 rib-knit tanks.
That bag stayed in my mind all weekend, until a little online research revealed that it was none other than a Kate Spade Venice Basket. A bargain compared to the Birkin, but still well out of my price range. And, lucky for my budget, from her 2002 collection, which means I can’t just pop over to Nordstrom’s and pick one up, anyway. Not that I didn’t find some other tempting lovelies online.
How in the name of all that is good and just in the world can a purse cost $395? It’s just cruel to tease me with such beauty, and then hold it out of my reach. These days, I’m still getting a novel thrill from being able to pay my bills and have money left over for groceries each month (hoo!). Demigoddess the Elder needs braces, my refrigerator keeps creating puddles on the kitchen floor, and I haven’t even seen a bill from my lawyer yet. Even at Ebay prices, a Kate Spade bag is not in the same Federal Reserve district as my budget.
And yet, they haunt me, those bags. They whisper to me in my dreams… “You work hard,” they softly sing, “You deserve it. And you will be so very happy, so fulfilled as a human being, if only you had one of us in your life every day. $395 is not so much money. The children will find food somewhere…”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
