The pair of boots I just bought under the influence of Nyquil will be a nice surprise for Healthy Me later this week, but wait ’til she gets the bag of springs.
You are the scarf-wearer. You have always been the scarf-wearer.
Establishing my food-critic cred: my slapped-together ten-minute lunch includes a tuna melt (tuna mixed with labneh and scallions, grilled between local-ish American cheese on English muffin bread), red potato salad (also in a dressing of labneh, olive oil, lemon, and scallion), green beans with butter-toasted almonds, and a dish of fresh pineapple spears. These are the joys of preparedness, chickadees.
Establishing my blogger cred: I changed back into pajamas to eat it.
Establishing my willingness to experiment within highly gendered expectations: am wearing new shoes with said pajamas and watching the “Sex and the City” pilot for the first time. For the latter, I credit Emily Nussbaum. For the former, I have no excuse.
The Fella: Your hands are so soft.
Elsa: They’re getting rough. I think I have to buy some fancy-lady lotion.
The Fella: I’ll get you some Zelda Fitzgerald gloves.
Elsa: Did she have crazy*-lady gloves?
Elsa: [way too excited at the prospect] Like, did she have the nervous disorder where she picked at her hands? And she wore gloves to keep from doing it?
The Fella: … no. She had fancy-lady gloves. She drank champagne in them. She smoked cigarettes in them.
Elsa: A lady doesn’t eat, drink, or smoke in gloves, though —despite unschooled suggestions to the contrary — it is perfectly proper to shake hands while wearing gloves. A lady should leave her gloves on rather than delay the handshake.
The Fella: A lady should bang in them.
Elsa: But Zelda mighta drunk champagne in her gloves. Or smoked in ’em.
The Fella: She mighta banged in ’em.
Elsa: Anything one may properly do in gloves, one may properly do in bed. Wait. I mean, I suspect handshake etiquette is the same as banging etiquette. Wait.
The Fella: [waits]
Elsa: [laughing] For example, the senior lady always initiates it with the younger lady! ETIQUETTE JOKE!
The Fella: Uh-huh.
Elsa: And the lady always makes the invitation, not the gentleman, but if he extends it, you’d be rude not to put your hand out for it. ETIQUETTE JOKE!
The Fella: Mm-hmm.
*I’ve been slowing trying to replace casual able-ist slurs in my everyday speech. It isn’t going super-well.
The style question for today: at what point does “keeping current” become “mutton dressed as lamb”?
As I was walking into town today, I crossed paths with a young young young woman who was dressed strikingly like me. No, I suppose it’s more accurate to say I was dressed like her. Her ensemble, which included a scarf and bright green ballet flats, looked a little more intentional than mine, which was whatever I threw on to run down to the farmer’s market: black tank, black knit trousers, a sloppy tissue-weight cardigan knotted at the waist, wide headband to keep my tousled hair out of my face, big shimmery-framed sunglasses.
That’s right: mere days after my fortieth birthday, I accidentally dressed like a hipster girl. The brief stop at the art supply store did nothing to make me forget the fact.
It’s frippery, this time with no photos. As always, if you are currently engaged to me, please do not click through.
I bought shoes.
Ah, what a sentence! Doesn’t it just sing?
No, wait, I can make it better: I bought super-stylish, crazy-handsome shoes that I love.
No, hang on: I bought super-stylish, crazy-handsome shoes that I love and need, for a quarter of the retail price.
I haven’t worn a proper heel since my back was injured two years ago, and lately I’ve been wondering if I ever could again. When I found this smart pair of Dankso Tori 3-inch heels on the shelf at a local surplus-and-salvage shop, beaming out proudly amidst the plastic uppers and leopard-print pleather, it seemed like a perfect chance to find out.
Wish me luck! I’m sure Tori and I will be very happy together.
It’s not you, it’s me. Have I said this before? Well, this time I mean it. I’ve been crazy busy since deciding to start participating in markets to sell my jewellery. Of course, skipping one month of blogging leads to two, which leads to twelve. This is my slow attempt to break the ice and make an appearance or two here this year. So, I guess that’s it. See you in August.
No, wait. August is five months from now and in five months I am turning 40. I suppose I’ve been internalising a lot of what’s been going on with me, except for sharing a year in pictures over at flickr. There you’ll see happy, sad, bored and incredibly lazy, that is until about a month ago when I decided to start the markets. I’ve been beading madly away until my fingers and back hurt, but it’s so unsatisfying. I realised I’m doing it to keep from actually taking a risk with the silver work because I don’t know enough yet. I took a class over two Saturdays that gave me the courage to jump into it, but not enough knowledge to sustain the new habit. I’m so afraid of making a mistake (and with silver prices these days, it would likely be pretty expensive) that all my tools and pieces are sitting to the side while I mind-numbingly put together glass necklaces and bracelets.
I’ve realised this and now I have to rectify it. This weekend I’ll finish with the beads and next week I’ll begin the silver work. Wish me luck and fortunate mistakes.