Whatever happens to strike my fancy, but surely some sort of fiber content.
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| Like The Queen Whatever happens to strike my fancy, but surely some sort of fiber content. |
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0 Comments:Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom] Monday, May 05, 2003 Sunday was like the day after Christmas - zonked feeling but still in the holiday spirit. I pulled out all the festival purchases and looked at them, sampled a few, stored them all, tallied up the financial damage, figured out how much to transfer from savings to checking ... the usual post-festival stuff. Most of it can be stored out of sight - all except the fleece which still has that organic fragrance - not something I want to transfer to my lily of the valley scented stuff. I bought this potpourri about 5 years ago and the odor was so strong I put it in my cedar chest and even after I threw the stuff away about 2 years ago, everything stored in the chest still comes out smelling like synthetic LoV. Rode to Fredericksburg with BigDarling, who needed some new clothes. Got plenty of knitting on my Regia sock - in fact, only 35 rows on the foot to do and the toe decreases and I can wear matching socks at last! I was still floating after Saturday’s sensory jolt - and sleepy too - so while he was in the dressing room I would put my head down on a rack, or against a wall and just let the feelings of MS&W wash over me again. Sitting slumped in a chair, with my head against the wall, I thought how cute this role reversal might look, with Wife waiting patiently while Husband tries on clothes. Truth is, though, I can’t imagine taking BigDarling clothes shopping with me. Even seeing other women’s husbands in the clothing section of stores gives me the creeps. I feel invaded. For me buying clothes is SeriousShopping and definitely not the sort of thing you want someone with opinions sharing. Or worse - someone without opinions - someone who doesn’t understand the MysteriesOfFeminineBeauty. After all, men are just supposed to think we are perfectly heavenly and come complete with all the pieces in place - gifts of glory to enchant their lives. I don’t want any man to know my secrets. And when I say things like this, there’s a voice in my head that asks me “well, why not?” What prompts me to be so secretive and solitary about shopping. It’s a perfectly normal activity. I don’t put on makeup when someone else is in the room either - at least, I don’t hardly. I could never do that in high school. All the girls would cluster around the mirror and primp and pose and I would lurk back against the wall. I didn’t think I was less pretty than they, nor was I going to forgo the very same behavior. But I had to do it alone. And perhaps that comes from a deep seated urge to present the finished product. Weird, for a gal who loves process and shuns completion. But when it comes to personal appearance - I want to do it once - present it finished - and then forget about it. So I lug all my touch up make up and a hairbrush around all day and never use them. In fact, when I am in that self-improvement mode one of the first things on my BeMoreCool list is to check hair and makeup after lunch. I do it for maybe 10 days and then it’s back to “did that this morning” behavior and I think perhaps at the end of the day I look tired. So - does that come from magazine ads? Where all the people are static, but perfect? Captured in perfection for all time. Hmmm. What is the underlying motive? What am I looking for in life? What deeply buried flaw of character wants me to emulate a magazine photograph, where the moldel has been airbrushed into perfection and the clothes are scotch taped together in back? GAAAAAA what is wrong with my brain.?!? Ahem. Yes Well This meandering thought process just means I haven’t much to say. When we finished shopping we had about an hour to linger downtown along the river, at some sort of arts celebration. Then we drove out to the edge of town where BigDarling was being honored for his work with the Salvation Army at Christmas time. He’s the bicycle man. Every day for the 2 weeks before Christmas he drives 100 miles to their staging ground and puts bicycles together and does other heavy big-guy lifting sorts of things. Mostly, though, he puts together toys that come unassembled. He began doing this a few years ago and it’s redefined Christmas for him. He has always been tense at holiday time anyway, particularly now when there are no more small ones around to be thrilled in the wee gray hours of the 25th. It has been an empty blue time for him. But now he comes home bursting and bustling and glad - with funny stories and that sense that he has someone to give to who really needs his gifts. And what more could a body want at holiday time, but glad bursting smiles and that sense of beeing valuable? The evening was the crystal blue of May. It’s warm enough to leave doors open, but the dogs are fishing in the marsh and come up completely covered with black marsh mud. If the door is open they will bound in to tell you all about their successes - then flop down on the rugs. So I am always having to chase them out and shut the doors. Celty, the Golding spindle is ... it is a Stradivarius of spindles. It spins forever. It’s light. It’s beautiful. It is going with me on vacation. posted by Bess | 8:06 AM |
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