|Like The Queen
Whatever happens to strike my fancy, but surely some sort of fiber content.
Wow. My thoughts on the dress are, in this order:
I'm with Filly! Get that girl some food, and then some soap and water to wash whateveritis off her (likely) pretty face!
She looks like a survivor of a nuclear blast! And the dress looks like it didn't survive!
By 8:09 AM, at
In regards to the glasses thing -- I've worn them all my life, but in my teens, 20's and 30's wore contact lenses. And then I find out at the ripe old age of 25 that I need reading glasses. At 25!!! So, I started wearing them with my contacts, and when I wasn't using them, I'd push them on top of my head like sunglasses or a headband. That's one way to keep "track" of them without having to wear the granny chain around them. Now that I no longer care about vanity (mostly), I've stopped with the contacts + reading glasses overkill, and just wear bifocals. It just seems easier that way. I could always go the route of my brother who has had clear lens replacement in both eyes (like cataract surgery but for folks with bad eyesight, not cataracts). That seems a bit extreme to me, though....
When I was 22 I went to get a routine eye exam and was told I needed reading glasses. "That's what happens as you get older" the doctor said.
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Friday, February 24, 2006 Now, dearies - this is why I sometimes boggle at fashion. Beyond such idiocies as cropped pants and ankle length tube dresses, there is such bad copy surrounding the rest of the closet. The caption for this photo in the NYT slide show was not “Cadaver in silk” but “A girly-girl dress from Marni.”
As for losing and finding things - I have always said “She who cleans the house knows where everything is.” That’s also why I am not a complete slob. A little housework brings great reward. The downside of that is ... the little housework - and the OtherOccupant who is not so nice about things like reading and sorting mail, wiping feet before stepping into the house - that sort of thing. Dave Barry said in a column once that the difference between men and women is how they define dirt. A woman calls dirt "dirt" - but a man thinks dirt is a shirt on the floor - thus he has cleaned the house when he picks up his shirt, while you know that the telltale grey color of the kitchen floor is dirt and the shirt on the floor is clutter. And yes! I know many other women who (also) pick up clutter to scrub the floor and then put the clutter back down again. And I have a (male) friend who once told me that it took no more energy to hang the shirt up than to drop it on the floor - whereupon I explained to him the rudiments of such earthly forces as gravity as well as the importance of fresh air to previously worn garments.
Another sort who seems cursed with lost-itis is the daydreamer. Daydreaming is the escape of choice for people who find themselves in unpleasant alien surroundings. It is how abused children make it into adults but it’s also how other different sorts rub along in a world that doesn’t make sense. I am married to that type so the burden of being the neat one has fallen on me far more often than I would have voluntarily sought it. BD inhabited a rich and vivid fantasy world his entire childhood and he still spends a great deal of his life Not Here But Somewhere Else. Thus he also owns many duplicate items to facilitate the journey through Here, Not Somewhere Else. I try very hard not to laugh at him unless I think it will chivvy him out of a flummox, but there is a bit of a crooked smile on my face even now.
The worst thing about getting past the half century mark has been the ease with which I too have slipped into I’m Not Here ‘n You Can’t Make Me Be. My first brush with denial through mental detachment was when I had to start wearing glasses to read. If you were once blessed with perfect vision you will understand my frustration. Seeing clearly through glasses is not the same thing, even if it does make a popular fashion statement. My loved ones who have always worn glasses can’t understand the constant flow of dissatisfaction that pumps through my cranky little heart. And of course, because I can’t see to walk around with the durn things on I’m always having to take them off and since I hate them anyway, I put them ... not just down ... but out of my conscious mind, which is why I own 4 pair of scratched up prescription reading glasses. Because the OTC kind only make things bigger - they don’t make them sharper. Worst of all is the optometrist who says “no you don’t want bifocals. Most people [your age] would be so grateful for eyesight so good” which instantly thrusts me into [your age] category and doesn’t make my dilemma any easier to tolerate. And No. I can’t get a chain and wear them around my neck. They catch on corners and I have no desire for my obituary to say “Strangled by her reading glasses chain - a decorative loop of gold wire, with crushed stones adorning a central emerald cut garnet.”
That short term memory loss that accompanies the riper years requires one to practice evolutionary tactics. I keep extra memory stored in my day timer which I bought because I liked the leather cover, but which, like other narcotic substances, wormed its way into my work day until I feel naked without it. I also accept a certain amount of chaos caused by fragmented brain disks. Like those emails you get from beloved, if misguided friends, that show you how pepl cn reed mst anthg n mttr hw mny gps n errs so lg az th frst n lst ltrs r prsnt - so your life can chug along with a vast great quantity of gaps in your mental processes just so long as you have the outline sketched in.
Ahh well. I am trying to follow my own [good] advice - to be a successful ___ty year old instead of a failed ___ty year old.
Yes. You are right. There is no fiber content in this post, beyond my fashion complaint. That is because I haven’t knit or spin since Tuesday. That is because I have two things to do that I don’t look forward to doing. They are not bad things, or even hard things and they will come and go swiftly over the next 48 hours but they are sitting like scowly gargoyles, spreading black fog across my path. Stupid Virgo personality who will seek out things to worry her if she doesn’t have a real crisis to do so. I know it’s pointless - just an inner tension I have lived with my whole life. Not something I don’t know - just something I don’t like.
I work tomorrow - we are having a drawing for the castle display in the children’s section. It’s tired and worn, but still has a good bit of play left in it. We want it to go to a good home, where it will likely last only a few weeks before either Dad will call it dirt and Mom will call it clutter. It’s clutter to me right now and besides, the cardboard medieval village wants it’s turn to entertain little hands.
Still - every effort will be made to knit or spin or at least write about it this weekend. So Ta. posted by Bess | 6:45 AM