Confusion-fest

My love for fall and all that it implies is well-documented. But the clothing transition always takes me by surprise. After six months of sundresses and sandals, what does one do?

Like, what do I cover my arms with? My legs? What do I put on my feet? When I dress for 45 degrees in the morning, what do I do when the temperature surges to 70 degrees by afternoon? Do I wear layers? And if so, what constitutes layers? Tank top on bottom, collared shirt in middle, sweater on top?

Or do I keep clothes in my car? Maybe go home and do a complete change? Or just not go out at all until the weather is consistent with my wardrobe?

Shoes confound me. When is the first official day that is appropriate to wear my boots? And how do I wear them? With tights? And where are my tights? Just where in the hell are they?

My current conundrum is whether it’s appropriate to light my fall candles if I still have a summer scent I need to burn down. Can I start brewing pumpkin spice in my Keurig? Should I change to my musky fall scented perfume? Should I get lowlights? Get my toenails painted cabernet? Is it time to start throwing soups in the slow cooker? Should I shop for mums and corn stalks? Is it too early to rent “The Exorcist”?

I need all these questions answered.

Upkeep

Have people lost interest in personal grooming since the pandemic? It seems to me that when I look around in church, in the supermarket and in the restaurants, some people just look…haggard. Certain folk seem to not care about presentation anymore.

Ratty stretched out sweatpants in mass? Really?

Garish grown-out highlights?

Old chipped pedicures?

Granted, not everyone is as vain as I. Think how vain I must be, then multiply it by a zillion. I’ve said it before: if I had a hundred-dollar bill left to my name, and I had a choice between the supermarket or the mall, off to Nordstrom I would go. If I’m going out, I’m going out looking hot.

So say people are sacrificing personal grooming because of the economy. Mm-k. Let’s have fun and play hypothetically: if I couldn’t afford upkeep for myself, what would I sacrifice?

Twice a month pedicures plus tip= $120.00

Give up: Air conditioning/heat on the second level of the house=$120.00

Highlights every 8 weeks= $250.00 a month

Give up: Specialty grocery store trips for four Sundays= 250.00 a month

Cosmetics= $200.00 a month

Give up: Planting extra flowers on the side of the garage: = $200.00

Twice a month light spray tan= $120.00

Give up: Fancy drive-through Platinum car wash 2x a month= $120.00

Eyebrow/lip waxing= $80.00

Give up: 10 fall Yankee candles= $80.00

Gym membership= $50.00 a month

Give up: Pizza delivery= $50.00

Native deodorants= $30.00 a month

Give up: Premium gas= $30.00 amassed over a month

Wardrobe refreshes monthly= $200.00

Give up: Grocery shopping.

I’m serious about the last one. When you skip grocery shopping, it’s amazing what you realize you already have. I’ve made some pretty spectacular meals this summer with ingredients already sitting in my pantry.

When it comes down to it, the rumor is true: there IS food at home.

Leftovers

In the world of comedy writing, “clams” are phrases that do not originate from the writer. Rather, they are catchphrases that have circulated on the internet for years, or ones that have been heard a zillion times after originating from a sitcom or a movie. Here are a few clams:

You had me at hello. (Or good-bye, or tacos, or beach house, or whatever phrase some hack deems funny, and never is).

NOT!

Talk to the hand.

That’s what she said.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that…

These phrases are so hackneyed that any writer who uses them should be professionally assassinated, and any writer who is not offended by them should find a new line of work. They exist so far from their original origin that it would be akin to saying Funions are onions, or that Cheetos are cheese.

I avoid them at all cost, and as I write my screenplay that needs to be ready for, oh, OCTOBER (gulp), at the end of every page I look back and make sure there are no stinky clams on the page.

But allow me to indulge in one today as I discuss sample clubs:

I was today years old when I realized that sample clubs are just leftover crap that no one will buy. CEOs deliver them to you in a pretty box and call them a “club.” Let’s take a cosmetic delivery club, for instance. Here must have been the conversation:

Head of Merchandising: So Phil, we have six million samples left. What do you want to do with them? No one wants to buy one small hair oil sample, or one mini-mascara.

CEO: Hm. How about selling them as part of a club?

HoM: How do you mean?

CEO: We’ll package ten to twelve samples into a pretty box, and deliver them to “members” every month. Make it seem like a great deal. We get rid of our crap, they think they’re members of an elite club.

HoM: Brilliant, Philly. I guess that’s why you get paid the big bucks.

(That was another clam)

I fell for this trick four times.

Once was with the aforementioned cosmetic sample club, a failure I managed to turn into a success by keeping the hundreds of samples I received in my travel cosmetic bag. Every time I travel, I use about a dozen of the samples. The pile is shrinking considerably.

The second time was the J. Crew Shoe-of-the-Month club, where I received a new pair of shoes every month for one year. I never knew what the shoes would be, just that they would be “professional.” It was outrageously expensive, but all I wanted for Christmas. I still have some of those shoes, as they were Italian made, and therefore last forever.

The third time was a Healthy Snack Club, where you receive pre-portioned calorie counted snack packs every week with items like dried fruit, nuts, and dark chocolates. I liked this club. When my snack packs would arrive, I could just throw them into my school bag. Then I realized I could make my own snack mix much cheaper.

The last time I fell for this was Stitch Fix, a company that sent me a box of ugly sale clothing once a week, clothing that no one would even buy when it came out new. I was horrified by the cheap merchandise, and quickly shut down my account when in my second box I received boot cut jeans, a peasant blouse, and clunky cowboy style boots.

I had filled out the questionnaire, and I thought they knew me. No personal stylist working for me would ever think I would wear such a get-up.

Did I say that out loud?

Cuteness

(Note: my domain will be undergoing an update in five days, but since I don’t understand the parameters, I need to talk to someone in person. So if my website goes offline at any time, I’m aware of it, and will take care of it as soon as I can).

When the hell did I become “cute?”

There’s little girl “cute.” You know, hair bows and braids and pigtails and pink light-up sandals. There’s kitten and baby bunny “cute,” complete with soft fluff and wide-eyed innocence. And there are other kinds.

“Oh, that outfit is so cute!”

“That is such a cute idea!”

“What a cute picture!”

I honestly can’t think of anymore ways the word “cute” is appropriate. So how the hell did I reach “cute” status?

I’ve been getting it a lot lately, not in the good way (is there a good way?) and I’m wracking my brain to try and figure out what I’m doing that is so “cute.” It’s not exactly what I’m going for.

I’m not a “cute” professor. I’m rather terrifying, actually, or so I’ve been told.

I’m not a “cute” mom. See above.

I don’t dress “cute.” My style is modern, classic, sophisticated. I never ever wear pink, or bows, or ruffles, or anything that pre or post-dates me.

I don’t speak “cute.” I’m articulate. I don’t use youthful slang, or that annoying soft baby voice that young girls get away with.

I don’t write “cute.” I don’t like Chicken Soup for the Soul books, or romance novels. I’m edgy, and racy. I’d be more likely to write porn than a love poem.

I don’t act “cute.” How does one even act cute? Girls in their early twenties can still get away with that, so I’ll leave it to them.

I don’t work “cute.” Let’s leave it at that. Cute has no place in the workplace.

It is not men calling me “cute.” Men know I’m more than “cute.” It’s mostly twenty-something girls. I guess I remind them of their moms, so I don’t fault them, but they have to stop.

I’m not cute. Maybe one day. But not yet.

But just as I sometimes refer to men and women in their eighties as “cute,” they see me the same. To them I am a cute older lady managing to navigate the world that now belongs to them.

I get it. But it ain’t so cute.

On Influence

I did not make it to the beach on Friday, but I did enjoy a long boat ride down the river with my son. True to my word to make it to the beach this weekend, I cancelled my consultation appointment on Sunday, packed my water, a chair and a book, and high-tailed it to a remote beach for a beach morning.

I’m talking morning. 8:30 a.m. It was a beautiful placid morning near the water, just me and some little white crabs that kept peering at me with their buggy eyes and raised claws. I took a few dips in the (still cold? Or newly cold?) water, and felt at peace as the ocean and I rediscovered each other.

It was tranquil. Until it wasn’t.

I heard their cackling before I saw them, and of course they sat near me, despite the empty, completely desolate beach. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:

I could be sunbathing, or parking, or eating, or walking, on a Siberian archipelago, and some fucking nimrod on a phone would plunk herself right down next to me and talk at full volume. It never fails.

WHERE DO I HAVE TO GO TO GET SOME PEACE AND QUIET? AND WHAT TIME SHOULD I BE THERE? OBVIOUSLY 8:30 A.M. ON A SUNDAY IS NOT EARLY ENOUGH!

But I digress.

So these two, er, well-endowed young women set up their blanket about twenty yards from me and proceeded to set up what looked like an Instagram photo shoot. As they gyrated and cavorted for almost two hours in the water and in the sand, I peered at them like they were one of those old 3D posters that if you squinted long enough, you’d finally be able to spot the spaceship in the middle.

In this case I was not looking for a spaceship, but reason. Sense. Rationale. Logic. And I came up empty-handed.

This is not a castigation of female social media influencers. What do I care? If they enjoy it, more power to them. I am simply making the observation that I’m old.

Not geriatric old. More like “I refuse to learn any more new technology” old.

What I don’t get about young girls:

Their need to cackle and scream at full volume.

The improbability of high waisted pants making a comeback despite the fact that they weren’t even flattering in the ‘70’s.

Their application of horrid-smelling fruity lotions.

Their insistence on wearing pajamas to attend college classes.

Their refusal to date anyone under 6’0.

Their confidence that brandishing their gorgeous bums on social media will result in…what? A husband? Fame? Likes?

One day social media will come crashing down and where will all of these young people be?

Oi.

Whimsy

When I feel like I’m not enjoying a season enough, I turn to Bella Grace for advice. Just one quick browse of their seasonal suggestions, and I remember what I’m supposed to be doing: feeling gratitude for life. So here on this hot and humid summer Friday is a Bella Grace list of 25 ways to enjoy the whimsical nature of summer. Enjoy!

If it is sunny today, then take 10 minutes to bask in the glow of gratitude. Bring nothing but a thankful heart with you outside.  If you can free up your schedule, then invite a friend over for lemonade and scones. Make it fancy with striped straws and lace napkins.

If you haven’t called home lately, then do so and tell the person who answers a favorite summer memory they were a part of.

If you are hungry, then go to an ethnic restaurant you’ve never tried before. Invite a friend to dine with you and pretend you are food critics. Tip well out of sheer kindness.

If you want to dip into your boho style, then go to a local string of vintage/antique shops and put together an outfit worthy of your unconventional elegance.

If you are feeling ordinary, then recognize what an extraordinary privilege it is to be so! Go to the magazine racks and imagine if your face were on every cover. Buy big sunglasses to avoid the imaginary paparazzi, and go dwell in your extraordinary ordinary day.

If you feel like you’re missing your youth, then go to the library and rent all of the favorite books you read as a child. Curl up with your old teddy and read the stories aloud in the characters’ voices.

If you are near a cemetery, then take some time to honor the lives that have passed before you. Walk slowly, and read the names of those who walked this journey and have now moved on to the next. Imagine what their lives were like.

If you are feeling adventurous, then get in your car with no phone, no map, and no agenda of when to be back. Get lost on purpose; turn by turn, just drive.

If you need some love, then take the afternoon to go to a local humane society. Take your time meeting new furry babies. Snuggle and surround yourself with purring perfection and puppy kisses. If you have some spare change, then donate!

If you have a new notebook and favorite pen, then make it a dedicated space for lists. Make one page a list of favorite people. Make another page a list of the places where you want to travel. Try to compose a list of the sounds that make your heart beat faster. Fill the rest of the pages as inspired list ideas come to you.

If you have a significant other, then spend a day together where everything is their choice. Be as selflessly, arduously in love as you can be. Get lost in the bliss of not needing to make a decision and delighting in the company of only the two of you. Schedule another day in the future that is all about you. If you are single, then be bold in loving yourself! Make confidence your mate, and take yourself on a well-earned date for one. t If you are feeling nostalgic, then go on a photo treasure hunt. Seek out pictures of past loves, long-ago friends, and lost family. Allow yourself to slip back into the memory captured in front of you, and reminisce at the beauty of that moment.

If you’re in a bad mood, then create a loud-song-only playlist. Sing along until your throat hurts. Turn up the volume until your ears ring. Soothe your soul with listless lyrics that feed your feisty spirit.

If you’re missing cooler weather, then celebrate winter for the day. Watch holiday movies. Make frozen hot chocolate. Crank up the air conditioning and make a fire in the fireplace. Wrap up in cozy blankets and get your comfort on.

If you have vacation days to spare, then call a few friends and plan an impromptu trip. Pack a bag and go! Meet somewhere between your destinations and make it the place to be. Rent a room at a bed-and-breakfast, book massages and mani/pedis. Grab the newest bestseller and recharge together!

If you feel like learning, then explore the museums in your city. Take a weekend to tour two or three of the leading art, science, and history hot spots around you. Take notes. Take pictures. Immerse yourself in the culture of which you are a part.

If you have a sweet tooth, then find a new local bakery to visit. Order the most delectable thing on the menu. Didn’t you know summer-sweet calories don’t count?

If you are blessed with a thunderstorm, then embrace every moment of it! Turn off all the lights in your house and burn candles. Cuddle under a blanket made of only the softest material, and sink into a new novel that you read cover-to-cover.

If you’re feeling restless, then have a get-up-and-go day. Pack a backpack with water, snacks, a book, and sunscreen. Leave the moment you wake up and don’t come home until well after the stars have come out. Track your day hour to hour and see just how much you can accomplish when you’re on the go.

If you feel the sea calling you, then answer your inner mermaid and find the water. Whether a river, pond, lake, ocean, or puddle, put on a cute suit and own your inner magic.

If you are sad summer is ending, then be in denial. Watch a marathon of summer movie titles. Go to the beach one more time. Build a sandcastle. Grill summer squash and carve a watermelon into thick, ripe slices. Refuse to say goodbye to the sunshine and watch it boldly as it slips down the horizon line.

Hair Disaster

Sorry there was no post on Wednesday. I had a hair emergency. I won’t go into much detail, because I intend to use the experience as a sitcom episode.

I’ve had a string of bad luck with hairdressers in the last two years, but last Friday took the cake. All she had to do was follow what was in the computer, and use the chemical combinations in my profile. This odd woman had unkempt rust-colored hair and turned out to be the owner of not only that salon, but of another one with the same name down the road. I mention this only to further character motivation.

Considering the way I left the salon that day, I have narrowed it down to a few possibilities:

One: She was trying to ruin my life.

Two: She was on drugs.

Three: She didn’t use the right numbers on the computer.

Four: She deliberately screwed up.

Let’s take them one-by-one:

One: She was trying to ruin my life. How do I know why? Jealousy? Bitterness? To get some kicks on a Friday afternoon? Being a natural conspiracy theorist, of course this is my first choice.

Two: She was on drugs. She acted strangely. Nervous, hands shaking, strange ambling stories about, well, nothing. Did I make her nervous? If yes, why?

Three: She couldn’t read the computer. The owner of two salons can’t read her own computer? Unlikely.

Four: She deliberately screwed up. I was only in her chair for ninety minutes. The normal amount of time for me is three hours, minimum. I remember her telling me that, “I am fast and efficient.” Yeah, right. The way she worked wasn’t “fast and efficient.” It was, “I want you out of my chair as quickly as possible.”

I hated it when it was done, so what did I do? I wrote a big check to the salon and handed her a tip, of course, figuring I would get used to it. I didn’t. I called Monday morning and left a nice message, asking if I could come in and get it fixed, but guess what?

No phone call. And we’re back to #1.

I found a lovely young girl in a local salon who fixed it immediately, and made me ME again. I considered cancelling the check I wrote, but I decided against it. One of my favorite quotes:

Revenge is a dish best eaten cold.

Enjoy the weekend.

Sorry Not Sorry

Until last Thursday, I had never seen the movie “Love Story.” I didn’t love it, but I didn’t hate it either. The dialogue was contrived and old-fashioned, but the simplistic wholesome quality of it eventually won me over.

Ollie won me over. What woman doesn’t want a man like Ollie? To fight for her, defend her against doctors, corporations and rich fathers, to stay by her side through disinheritance, societal stereotypes, borderline poverty, illness?

Ollie never wavered. Jenny was a lucky girl.

My favorite part of the movie was something rarely mentioned in reviews of the movie. Reviewers focus on the love story itself, but I loved how when he was rich, Ollie’s path to law school was straightforward:

My Daddy will pay.

Once his father cuts him off for marrying beneath his station, Ollie had to find a new way to become a lawyer.

He did it by working. Odd jobs, cutting expenses, scholarships. Before we knew it, Ollie made Law Review, then partner.

Sometimes the obstacle is the way.

Anyway, good flick. Here’s a cute video since I’m feeling love-buggish. Not the best version, but the sexiest. I know Ella and Doris do it better, but this girl does black dress and red lipstick best. Sorry.

But love means never having to say you’re sorry.

Too Much

(I’ve gone and done it again. My apologies, I scheduled incorrectly again)

More “If It Looks Expensive, Then You Paid Too Much”

I once bought a book that had a bookmark perforated on the inside cover that you could punch out and use to mark your place. Another book came with a figurine. Yet another had colored journal pages on the inside that you could rip out neatly to write down your thoughts.

That means I paid too much for the book.

Here are some more:

You ever go to a fancy resort and order takeout, and the takeout bag comes with plastic silverware rolled around napkins nicer than the ones you use on holidays? Then you paid too much.

You ever order room service and it comes with cute to-die-for mini jellies, ketchups, mayos, and mustards? Then you paid too much.

You ever buy a cookbook, and it comes with a netted bag of serving spoons or utensils? Then you paid too much.

You ever buy a netted bag of serving spoons or utensils, and it comes with a cookbook? Then you paid too much.

You ever go to a specialty food store and they give you your purchases in a thick, handled brown bag? Then you paid too much.

You ever buy a candle and it come with a smaller candle, a diffuser and a tea light? Then you paid too much.

You ever buy any item and it comes with a full year subscription to a magazine? Then you paid too much.

You ever buy a nice pair of shoes and it come with polish and a polishing cloth? Then you paid too much.

You ever buy a razor and it comes with shaving cream?

You get the idea. I could go on forever. Last one:

You ever go to the Apple store and you buy anything and it comes in a heavy cardboard box with a charger?

We’re all paying too much.

Jewelry Girl

Oh, to be a Jewelry Girl.

You know her. Maybe you are her. Maybe when you get ready for the day, you go to your expansive closet and open your jewelry case. Not jewelry box, but jewelry case, an actual piece of furniture with ten drawers, a padded velvet interior, and copper hooks.

You pull open your drawers and ask yourself: gold or silver today?

You decide the silver will look better with your tan, and you begin to patiently layer your necklaces by using the mirror at the top of your jewelry case. You step closer for a better look, and nod in approval. Next you go for rings, which are lovingly and gently encased in their velvet drawer, then consider your bangles and earrings. Your look is sophisticated and never overdone, and at the end of the day your jewelry goes back into its case, waiting for its next opportunity to shine. Meanwhile, the pieces you didn’t wear that day tingle in expectation that maybe tomorrow will be their day.

I’ve love to to be a Jewelry Girl, but certain personal circumstances prevent it.

There’s too much variety. How does one choose from the thousands of pieces online and in stores? How can anyone actually not like a piece of jewelry? Like if you get jewelry for a holiday, do you say, “This just isn’t me”? How do I know what is me, and what isn’t?

I’m too clumsy. I tend to get myself caught on, well, the planet. I get my sleeves caught on flatware, my pockets caught on drawers, my feet caught on hampers. Necklaces and bracelets and earrings are risky when attached to my body.

I lose it. Last month an expensive pearl stud fell out of my earlobe. It’s in the house somewhere. A month before that, I misplaced my beloved one-of-a-kind silver stacking ring I bought in Scottsdale. It’s in the house somewhere. Last summer I lost a rose gold hoop earring, a pair of earrings which was the last gift I received from my late husband. It is not in the house somewhere, but in a parking lot elsewhere.

I’m impatient and also going blind. I barely have enough patience and eyesight to put on one necklace much less a bevy of pieces.

I have recently fallen in love with a jewelry brand, a brand that is endorsed by my favorite actress. Something about their pieces does something to me. It’s like Andrew Wyeth’s art- I’m drawn to it, but I lack the words to explain how. I have begun secretly to stockpile pieces by this jewelry designer, which has its own display in Nordstom. My goal is to have an entire jewelry box filled with it. The prices range from reasonable to outrageously expensive, and so far I have invested in a bracelet and most recently, a necklace.

The necklace is on a very sturdy silver chain, and the bracelet is a silver cuff which is simply unloseable. I’m not taking any chances.