|Like The Queen
Whatever happens to strike my fancy, but surely some sort of fiber content.
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Tuesday, March 23, 2004 It is 19 degrees outside this morning. I am heartily tired of cold mornings. I know it shan't be long before I get heartily tired of hot days and nights, but this is late March and my curmudgeoness is directed at drafts that chill my ankles if I don't put on socks when I get up.
One reason I don't like this sort of weather is that we heat with wood - and the stove tender is myself. BD neither feeds himself nor the fire when I'm at work. "I wasn't hungry," he'll say when I frustratingly answer his "Gosh I'm STARVED! What's for dinner?" greeting with mutterings about being an adult and having a kitchen full of food. I rarely get home before 6 and if the house has been allowed to grow cold, it might not warm up even if we do build a fire - which you can be sure, we will. This is one of those issues in a marriage that eventually get settled, after you've been married long enough and since we have only lived together 32.5 years, well, see, you can't expect us to have actually worked it out yet.
The other reason I don't like this time of year is that I am sicksicksicksicksick of my winter clothes, which all seem to be the color of mud. How the rich warm brown of October can turn into the drab bleak mud of March is a mystery, but happen it does. Stores are full of the cutest little kicky short skirts and elbow length knit tops, fluttery georgette hemlines, cap-sleeved jackets in bright rayon/linen blends. I have three new dresses hanging in my closet, bulging out from between those brown jackets, their crisply pressed collars getting bunched and skewed while pleats form in their skirts as they're crushed against woolen trousers. I can not wait to toss my hair, exposing the new dangly earrings swinging against my throat - bare of scarves and turtlenecks and other heat retaining fabric. Maybe Friday - I hope.
There is one more thing about March that puts the stress on the old smiley face - GirlScoutCookies. I used to sell stuff as a kid - that door-to-door selling so horrible for the shy, and even the not-so-shy. I hated wandering around the neighborhood asking people if they wanted to buy boxes of donuts - fer gosh sake! We lived 4 blocks from a grocery store and a bakery. If they had wanted any durn donuts they whould have bought them when they went grocery shopping. I guess it harkens back to Hollywood's depression era Little Rascals ideas of what was cute and enterprising in children - but grownups seemed to expect us to go out and raise funds for our activities and traipse around the neighborhood I had to do. We lived in a settled neighborhood in transition. 99% of the homeowners were elderly or at least over 50 with no kids at home, and ours was one of the very first families with children to move in after someone shifted to true senior living. Most of them were not in a kid mindset and certainly they didn't want donuts offered from grubby hands to support what? A Majorette corps? What?!?
I usually ended up using my allowance to buy the minimum order and throwing the crushed boxes away before I got home - sick from gobbling down sugar puffs of barely cooked dough. Lot of birds fed their babies on donut crumbs in my little corner of Richmond.
And when the kids come around now, I always buy a box from them - I know, I know, encouraging more of this rather creepy practice of adult driven huckstering. Maybe that's bad - but I know that the kid coming in asking me to buy her cookies/wrappingpaper/christmascard/whatever has a mom in the back seat, who may not, but who just might, make her feel like a worm for not successfully saying the right thing to make that weird old lady in the library buy a box of fundraising. I guess I'm buying cookies from me, when I hand over my $3.50. The youthful me who trudged around our neighborhood, little sisters in tow, with those bloomin' donuts, and found out everyone in a 10 block radius of our house had diabetes. The girl who had to give up her allowance every spring. The girl who had to give up her Saturdays for a month each March. Yeah. That's why I perpetuate this crummy practice.
But March ends next week, on a lovely HappyBirthdayBD Wednesday smack in the middle of a week's vacation. By then, surely it will be time for fluttery dresses and dangly earings. posted by Bess | 7:50 AM