The World's Worst Shopper

I was born without the shopping gene.  My sisters have it, my mother had it, hell, even B-man has it.  Me?  Nope, I don't have it.  Aren't we supposed to know what we like, what looks good on us and how pieces go together?  Yeah, I don't know any of that.  Plus, I'm claustrophobic (knee high boots and tailored clothes make me crazy) and I have fabric texture issues (wool makes me want to hurt myself). 

This is me at Macy's today on a long lunch break:

I like the shape of that top but I don't do prints
Those skinny pants are cute but they have 'camel toe' written all over them 
Ah, here's a black top that might work...to add to my thousand other black tops
Too bad I don't wear dresses, 'cause I like that one
But if I start wearing dresses, what shoes go with them?
I love that suit...like the others I keep buying but never wear
Cute skirt, but what top do I wear with it?
Love that sweater, but what goes under it?
That jacket looks like I'm trying too hard
Hello muffin top
There are too many choices and now I'm overwhelmed
I could buy stuff then take it back
I wonder if B-man would become my personal shopper
He'll try to sneak in a print, I just know it
I could buy the black top just so I don't feel like a loser
Fuck it, I'm leaving

This shopping scenario is the norm, not the exception.   At least I'm certain, once and for all, that my body fits the apple shape profile because I googled it when I got home.  

Now what?

image from masterthenewnet.com

Ode to Blue Amber by Montale

Rotting Oak

Stinky Man Feet

Fruit Cellar

Welding Solder
 Unfiltered Cigarette Smoke
Cognac

Halloween

image from duftcontor

Happy Birthday to My B-man




Today is my husband's 70th birthday.  For the past 26 years, we have loved each other and gone through multiple dramas together.  Everything about my life is better because of him, and he continues to amaze me with his brains, his humor and his warmth.

Normally, we would plan some adventure for this special occasion, but we're at home all day because concrete is being poured and small details of our landscaping project need to be overseen.  So we'll talk and laugh and eat good food.  Maybe we'll watch a movie.  Maybe we'll take a short walk.  It doesn't really matter because we'll be together.

Happy Birthday, Bobby.  I love you.

picture my own

Landscaping - The Space Between

We're in the middle of re-landscaping our yard.  It will be done in two weeks, and a full crew has been here every day (even Saturdays) for the past two weeks.  We're excited to see the results, but right now, this is our life:

I'm having a hard time wrapping my mind around how everything will come together, but B-man is confident, and he reassures me often that we are simply in a process and the end is in sight. 

He's such a Libra.

Photos my own

Perfume Is Unconditional Love

Today, an old insecurity was touched unexpectedly through something that happened at work.  Now, in spite of my resistance to it, I'm feeling depressed.  I'm having one of those days. 

My  mother was chronically depressed, and I cannot recall my childhood without that fact coloring each memory.  More often than not, I came home from school to find her lying on the bed or sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, lost in sadness.  Or angry at some real or imagined slight that she had run over and over in her mind through the whole day.  By the time we got home, she was furious at everyone and everything, her anger exaggerated because of the time she had spent nurturing it. My bus rides home were shadowed with the fear of the unknown and touched by the hope that as we rounded the final turn and came over the hill, I would see the car was not in the carport, which meant Mom was gone.  And that meant it was safe.  I could come home in peace and breathe easy until she came back.

That memory makes me feel so sad.  How I wish that coming home as a child had been a point of joy in my day instead of one filled with anxiety and insecurity.  My adult life has been spent unlearning the notion that I was difficult to love and her sadness was somehow a result of this unfortunate fact. 

Today, this was triggered again; the feeling of being unneeded, frequently overlooked and less lovable than the others.  My grown up mind knows this isn't true, but every now and then, the vulnerable child that lives under the surface of my competent adult self gets exposed. Something will happen, something small, and I'm on the school bus again facing the unknown.

I came home early today because I just didn't want to be out in the world any more.  I meant to do some work, but my mind wouldn't cooperate.  Instead, I spent time with my perfumes, lifting multiple bottles to my nose and loving this calm, comforting ritual of familiarity.  When life is the most unpredictable, my perfumes remain the same, and I count on them to bring me back to what I know and to who I am.  Just like a child coming home from a hard day of school, perfume waits with its welcoming embrace, ready to soothe my mind and my heart like a mother's love.

Image from cafleurebon.com

Ineke for Anthropologie...Channeling The Gap

Today, after jonesing for Ineke's line of perfumes for Anthropologie, I walk to our newly opened store less than 100 yards from my office.  Assuming they moved so close to me because they were the Next Great Thing (I think everything is a sign from God), I have to check them out.

Irritation #1:  There are no paper strips on which to spray the perfume.  WTF?  I go to the front desk and ask for paper strips and they give me some bogus paper sleeves that carry...who knows what?  A gift card?  Eyeliner?  Thong panties?  So I rip them into strips and realized they smell like ass before anything is sprayed on them. 

Irritation #2: They all smell like wet ass when sprayed on my ripped up paper strips.

Irritation #3:  I have no choice but to try Angel's Trupet and Poet's Jasmine on my skin, as I'm convinced those two perfumes will change my life once they hit my chemistry.

Irritation #4:  Am I in The Gap?  Both perfumes smell cheap for different reasons.  Angel's Trumpet is screechy in that 'notice me because I'm fresh' sort of way, and Poet's Jasmine smells like Swiffer sheets.

Irritation #5: Poet's Jasmine is kind enough to wash off quickly, but Angel's Trumpet sticks to my skin like flies on you-know-what.  I am hoping it will improve over time, but it doesn't.

I forget how many mediocre, cheap smelling new releases keep popping up everywhere.  But I didn't expect that from Ineke. 


Image from fragrantica.com

A Magical Weekend With My Favorite Women

For the second time this year, I spent the weekend with my sisters and nieces in Park City.  We laughed, danced, ate and drank, then gave each other manicures and generally hung out together.  Stepping out of our lives to be with each other in a beautiful setting is simply magical. 



My nieces, twins Alecia and Andrea



Baby Sis and  niece Joni Rose



Big Sis



Andrea and Baby Sis



Glamming it up with manicures all around

 

Baby Sis



Me 



You dance, girl


Images my own