Brand New Tags-On. I Swear.

Ah, I am so naïve.

So I did another closet purge, right? Purged my closet of dresses that are perhaps too young for me, and, er, too hoochie-momma for someone my age? It felt good, coming to terms with my closet.

I mean, just where in the hell am I going to wear a magenta ruched mini-dress? A navy blue backless caped mini? A leopard print mini?

Exactly. To a costume party only, if I wanted to go as a woman who refuses to act her age. I could go as Madonna. Susan Sarandon. Cher!

Not to denigrate these fabulous women, I love them all. They can dress however they want, they get artists’ exemptions. Not me. I’m immature enough as it is, so I believe firmly in dressing appropriately for a woman my age.

So OUT DAMN POLE-DANCING CLOTHES, I said, using my best Lady Macbeth impression. But now what to do with them? Some of them still have tags on them, since they were bought in moments of rash impulsivity. Many of them were only worn once, with little chance of ever being worn again.

But they’re soooooo beautiful. Some beautiful young person with no cellulite should be able to rock them.

Then I remembered the commercial for Poshmark. That cute girl, who tells us in her delicate little voice that it’s sooooooo easy to sell clothes on the app.

Yeah, right.

I don’t care about the money. Let me just say that going in. I just want these beautiful dresses to be worn by someone equally as beautiful. If you are reading this, I swear to God email me and give me your address. I will send the whole lot to you, then you can do the heavy lifting.

The only heavy lifting I like is in the gym.

Poshmark is not easy. Maybe someone who is good with social media would have fun with it, but it was not easy for me.

I discovered pretty quickly that Poshmark is a dating app for clothes. No one trusts anyone else. If you say it’s brand-new, tags on, all you will get are people messaging you, trying to make you prove your dress is who you say it is.

Then there are the scammers. They want your private information, they are in the hospital and need money, they want the dress for their daughter who is sick in Bolivia, blah, blah, blah.

I gave up pretty quickly. My Poshmarket closet is still up, so take a look if you want: @moves66

We are going to have a yard sale in the spring, and I am going to display the dresses front-and-center, on decorative racks. See if I can sell them that way.

Unless you want ‘em. Email me. And see everyone in November.

Maybe.

Eagles Vs. Dallas

(Wednesday will be my last post until November 7th).

I write this post on Sunday morning. My original post scheduled for today has been scrapped, as have my original Sunday plans. Because to quote Mrs. Dilber from The Christmas Carol?

These changes are indeed “in keeping with the situation.”

By the time you read this, it will be all over. Eagles vs. Dallas tonight, and the Eagles are undefeated. I prayed in church this morning for peace on Earth and goodwill towards men. For I am mother to three devout Eagles’ fans who patently, permanently and passionately despise Dallas. It is a hatred that burns with flash, flare and flame, never to be extinguished.

And it moves through our home like a incandescent conflagration, as it did when I was growing up. Then it was three older brothers who stoked the flames of their hatred for everything that is Dallas football.

Now it is three sons.

I don’t want to be home. I want to flee, far, far away. But I have to be home. Because mothers must be present in their children’s times of need. Such as now.

My household is pulsating with frenetic energy and tension. Whereas I usually leave the island for the day to go shopping, to wander around museums and bookshops, to catch a movie, or even to meet clients for Sunday coffee, today I feel the need to be here.

I don’t want to be here. Believe me, I want to be anywhere but here. But I must be here. For I am my sons’ emotional support animal.

So I am brewing coffee and preparing a roast chicken, hoping the comforting smells remind them of their humanity. I have hung my Eagles’ flag out front, hoping my solidarity will impress upon them that I am indeed their birth mother. I am wearing my green oversize cashmere turtleneck, a comfy garment that complements my eyes.

I need the positive boost.

They need my positivity. When a woman grows a baby in her womb, her DNA and theirs will always be inextricably linked. That’s why when our kids are happy, or sad, or conflicted, so are we.

So I have no choice but to be involved in this time with them. To stick close to home. The family group text has started, with lots of capital letters and exclamation points. Loud online betting has commenced, and jerseys are out. Spirits are high, because all boys are coasting on the endorphins from the Phillies’ wins.

So by the time you are reading this, the die will have been cast.

Pray for me.

A Sweet Ride

I was discussing my soon-to-be expiring Audi lease with my son.

“I don’t know if I like it enough to keep it,” I said.

“I agree,” he answered, clomping through the house like a Clydesdale. “It wasn’t you, Mom.”

Interesting. Bear in mind that people in my life have said this about every car I’ve ever driven. I’ll go backwards, before the Audi:

Middle child, looking at every angle of my Chevrolet Equinox parked in driveway, on my first day home with it: (Shaking his head) “It’s o.k. I guess, but it’s not really you, is it?”

I mean, I thought it was.

All boys in my trail-rated Jeep Wrangler, as they watch me wave to other Jeep drivers: “Mom, stop. You are not cool enough for this Jeep.”

I knew that the day I bought it.

All three boys, as I shepherded them from athletic youth activity to athletic youth activity in our family Chevrolet Tahoe: “Can dad drive us in this truck next time?”

Point noted. Dad is cooler.

All three boys as babies/toddlers, as I shepherded them from errands to play dates to supermarket to t-ball in our family Chevrolet Tahoe: “Grrhdhpsdopspaf, phlooooppp, sjdkfjiw.”

Baby babbling noted. Too much truck for me, I get it.

Youngest child as a baby, watching me get into my Mazda Miata convertible: “Ew, Mom.”

The Miata lasted less than a year.

A student watching me park my cabernet-colored Jeep Cherokee in the faculty parking lot, then accosting me in the hallway: “Mrs. Oves, I don’t see you in that truck. At all.”

How can you not see me? I was right THERE.

My late husband, a day after I announced I was pregnant with twins as he watched me squeeze my way into my Mazda RX-7 sports car: “You’re not going to fit into this car much longer. We’ll have to get you something for your girth.”

Gee, thanks. I never felt cooler in my life than when I was driving that car with my Alanis Morrisette CD blasting.

My late husband when we were still dating, as he drove me back in my Chevrolet Tracker from the dealership, since I could not drive stick:  “I just don’t get how someone buys a vehicle without knowing it is stick shift, and then refuses to learn. How did you intend to get to work?”

I obviously hadn’t thought that far ahead.

My calm older brother on the phone, after I told him I had totaled his Dodge Charger while he was doing a military tour of duty overseas: “That’s a shame, Mary, that car was you.”

So maybe that was the last time a car was me. So what’s left?

I’m thinking a cement mixer. A VW bus. An Airstream.

Anyway, my close and personal friend Dave Ramsey, who personally counsels me on everything financial, wants me to let the dealership buy off the lease so I can just buy a clunker. The thought of my having that extra money every month makes him giddy with glee.

Part of me doesn’t want to give up the Audi symbol that reflects onto the ground when I open my driver’s door at night. Or the encapsulating “thunk” whenever someone closes the door. The safety, the lines, the sheer vanity of the Audi.

Can I give that up?

But there’s something about driving a clunker that appeals to me, besides the obvious benefit of no car payment. Terrestrial radio. No computer system that tries to override my brain. Nicked and scratched, inside and out, well-loved and imperfect.

Anyway, at the age of 56, that describes me perfectly. Some mileage, some wear-and-tear, but in the long run?

Just a sweet ride.

Can I get some answers?

(*Let me just say that of course I support whatever tactics any woman utilizes that makes her feel beautiful. I judge no one. After all, I don’t want anyone judging me for getting highlights, or a spray tan. That being said, please read on)…

Who is telling women who get Botox and extreme face lifts that they look good?

One night when I was at work, a tall emaciated blonde on the arm of a dark-haired older man walked past me, and I couldn’t help but feel enormously sorry for her. This is amusing considering the fact that not only was she wealthy, but obviously the whole point of her frozen monkey-like countenance was to show everyone in the room that she (or I guess he) could afford the plastic surgery. She couldn’t possibly have thought she looked good. And she was so young.

Who is telling these women with frozen misshapen faces and blowfish lips that they look good? Social media? Rich men? The plastic surgeons? They all have to stop lying to these poor women.

Other questions I have:

Why do all sweaters cost $300? They’re not even cashmere. Even high-quality sweaters used to cost, like, $79.99. Every single sweater I like costs $300. That’s a car payment. Have I missed something?

Why does the media so badly want me to eat an avocado a day, and also get the Shingles vaccine? What’s in it for them? If my health was a priority to conglomerates, supermarkets wouldn’t still sell sliced salami.

How can Supercuts advertise and brag about the fact that they have “no waits”? I have dozens of stories of my twins’ meltdowns while waiting for their turns at Supercuts. The only thing that kept them in control was the promise of going next door for pizza and Gamestop.

I guess that’s it for now.

Going Mobile?

Thank God the sun is back out. What with this stormy weather all I’ve wanted to do is watch AMC Fright Fest, read decorating magazines, light pumpkin candles and drink tea. I’m leaving for Ohio in two weeks, ya’ll, so I not only have a pretty imposing writing deadline to meet, but a boat to store for the season, and a house to ready for Halloween.

So time to be productive.

One good thing about the snuggly weather is that I did manage to finish the Jeffrey Dahmer series on Netflix. Good stuff. But it pains me that there is still no park or memorial built on the site of the apartment building to honor the victims.

But this morning I thought about it. If such atrocities occurred in my town, would I want a sign reminding people of the sexual and violent nature of the events? Hard to say. But I still think a patch of grass with a sign inscribed with their names would be nice. They don’t have to mention Dahmer, or the crimes. Just the names.

But I digress.

I am going to post blogs for two more weeks, and then I will try and post while I’m in Ohio. But I feel a change coming on. My website and domain name will remain the same, but I think it’s time for a format change, and for me to do what I’ve always said I would do:

Be a platform for widows. A place where they can receive advice, help and support. So Chrysalis Collective may be going on the road in the near future, with me along for the ride.

I think I’ve done everything I can do here. I have more readers than ever, so thank you if you’re still reading. But it’s time to be of use where it matters, I think.

I’ll keep you updated. Have a great weekend.

Monk Mode

One day I will write about October of 2022.

The Yin-Yang. The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. The Wonder of It. About how events from the last five years finally converged into one loud noise called October 2022, thus changing the trajectory of my life.

But I’m still swirling around in it. You can’t write about the speed of the wind if you’re swirling around in a tornado.

So. I have just emerged from a self-imposed six-month long Monk Mode. If you aren’t familiar with it: Monk Mode = A Challenge + a Detox.

Here are the rules:

A definite start and stop date. My Monk Mode lasted from mid-April to October 1st.

A commitment to do certain amounts of certain kinds of work: The work I did this summer required me to be charming, gracious, cooperative, outgoing, patient, accepting, and unwaveringly generous. I rarely manifest all of these qualities simultaneously for such an extended amount of time.

A commitment to abstain from certain distractions or vices: I abstained from gossip. Complaining. Dating, socializing, drinking, phone usage, unhealthy eating, travel and unnecessary spending.

Definite rules for both commitments:

I would fast while at work, keeping my metabolism within my control and my brain sharp.

I would not sit down, building my endurance and lengthening my muscles.

I would not be late, call out of work for any reason, or ask for time off.

I would do more than was expected of me.

I would read two books a week.

I would write a minimum of two hours a day.

I would meditate and exercise every morning.

I would avoid sugar, carbs and unnecessary calories.

I did well. While I can’t give specific details since I’ll be writing it up as an essay for a magazine, here are my successes:

I was only late once due to a traffic detour, and once I had to leave an hour early.

(While I tried my best to avoid gossip and controversy, it tends to follow me wherever I go. I got through it).

I lost weight, my blood pressure went down, my endurance and vitality went through the roof, especially in the gym and doing my cardio.

And on Sundays, my day off, I let all rules relax. After church, anything went. Buy impractical baby blue platform clogs from Free People? Yep. Gin and tonics at 10:00 a.m. with wings, on the patio? Hell yah. Take five naps while binge-watching old movies? Indeed.

I vowed to leave Monk Mode the same way I started it: with joy in my heart. And I’m proud to say that at 8:30 p.m. on Saturday night, October 1, 2022, as I walked to my car with a big smile on my face, I knew I had accomplished my goal.

What a fantastic summer. And I still have October to look forward to. Chef’s kiss.