I try my hardest to stay away from anything involving the Kardashian family. (If you ever see me hesitate, for even a second or two, to flip the channel past Kris Jenner's new talk show, you have my permission to confiscate my remote and send me to my room.) I find the fact that they are famous to be a sure sign of the impending apocalypse and I want no part in a world that wants anything to do with any of them.
There are countless reasons to support my disdain of all things Kardashian (North West, really?) but I'll just single out the latest - a $30,000 Hermes diaper bag. Yeah, that's right. Someone on this planet actually is stuffing dirty baby clothes into a vessel that cost more than my parents' first house.
My little Kardashian rant (I've been known to have them on a regular basis) serves to get me into my actual point - I've never been able to understand people who spend a lot of money on a purse. It seems like such a utilitarian purchase. You need something to hold your wallet, cellphone, coupons, etc. That much is clear. But as long as Target and TJ Maxx stock a bunch of cute bags that don't set you back more than a week's worth of lattes, I don't see any reason to drop a car payment or two on something that, sooner or later, is going to suffer an open lipstick tube or melted Milky Way.
So, if I'm such a stone-throwing realist, why am I now carrying a Coach bag over my shoulder?
It all started with a Girls' Day Out. After dropping old clothes off at Clothes Mentor (see, I do recycle and reuse), we headed to the nearest Factory Outlet Mall. My daughter, who doesn't share my contempt for designer bags, knew there was a Coach store on the premises and felt like treating herself.
When we walked in, we were handed a coupon informing us that we could take an additional thirty percent off the cost of anything in the already heavily discounted store. Within minutes, my daughter was holding five or six bags gleefully calculating the savings on each. Chastising me for not having anything in my hands, she insisted I "try on" a few. I humored her for awhile but had no intention of walking out of there with anything more than the satisfaction of knowing I was a more savvy shopper than the hordes of intoxicated customers eagerly paying for their armful of over-priced bags.
That's when I saw it. A black bag with relatively unobnoxious Coach lettering on it (why aren't all these manufacturers paying us to advertise their products instead of the other way around???) and a cute little pink flower hanging from its fully adjustable strap. It had hot pink lining, pockets for everything and a magnetic snap that didn't look like it would break anytime soon. It also had the cheapest price tag of anything I'd seen in the store - $198 with half off and the additional thirty percent on top of that. Very functional, very practical, likely to last longer than anything I'd bought at Target, highly approved by my resident personal shopper, and weighing in at a not too horrendous $66.50.
I wonder if this is how it started for Kim Kardashian?
Monday, August 26, 2013
Thursday, August 22, 2013
I Want My Blankie!
I don't consider myself a materialistic person. My car is almost ten years old, I have shoes that are even older, and I don't own a piece of jewelry any self-respecting burglar would want to steal. If I get a little crazy about any of my possessions, it has to have something beyond monetary value. It has to have sentimental value. I guess that was why I was more upset that one of my Italian ceramic salad servers fell on the floor and shattered then I was when our son dented our car. Or why I went into a prolonged funk when I realized I had accidentally deleted a special photo of my husband, brother-in-law (seen once every two or three years), and son making music in the basement. It's all about the memories attached to an object.And I don't take it very well when one of those objects bites the dust.
The latest loss happened the other night. This time it was a comforter, a $6 garage sale purchase that quickly became our go-to picnic blanket. We shuttled it back and forth between our family room and the back of my car for years. We played games on it, we ate Chinese food on it, we cuddled under it. We took it to the beach, to concerts, to the park. In twenty years we put so much mileage on that tufted piece of material that the cars and trucks that decorated it had to have their tires replaced. In short, it was well-loved and full of memories.
And now it's gone, thrown out by one of our daughter's careless ex-boyfriends. I'd been asking her about it for months but by the time she got around to asking her ex about it, he sheepishly admitted that he thought it had been junked the last time his family cleaned out the garage. It never ceases to amaze me how someone can randomly make a decision about an item's value without consulting the owner. How easy it would have been for him to call first or drop it off on our doorstep instead of pitching it without consideration of the years of memories wrapped up in that dusty, old blanket.
I know I still have the memories. I know I shouldn't take the loss of a stupid blanket so seriously. I know I can find another comfortable garage sale bargain.
But it won't make me smile every time I look at it.
The latest loss happened the other night. This time it was a comforter, a $6 garage sale purchase that quickly became our go-to picnic blanket. We shuttled it back and forth between our family room and the back of my car for years. We played games on it, we ate Chinese food on it, we cuddled under it. We took it to the beach, to concerts, to the park. In twenty years we put so much mileage on that tufted piece of material that the cars and trucks that decorated it had to have their tires replaced. In short, it was well-loved and full of memories.
And now it's gone, thrown out by one of our daughter's careless ex-boyfriends. I'd been asking her about it for months but by the time she got around to asking her ex about it, he sheepishly admitted that he thought it had been junked the last time his family cleaned out the garage. It never ceases to amaze me how someone can randomly make a decision about an item's value without consulting the owner. How easy it would have been for him to call first or drop it off on our doorstep instead of pitching it without consideration of the years of memories wrapped up in that dusty, old blanket.
I know I still have the memories. I know I shouldn't take the loss of a stupid blanket so seriously. I know I can find another comfortable garage sale bargain.
But it won't make me smile every time I look at it.
Friday, August 16, 2013
Walking the Walk
After a month of sticking to my daily morning walk routine (okay, I did miss a day here and there - what, are you a detective or something?), I have come to a few conclusions. One: No matter how nice a two mile area you live in, you're going to get bored seeing the same real estate over and over again. Two: Certain songs on my MP3 player (sorry, not cool enough to have an iPod) do not inspire additional exercise (Beach Boys, yes; Les Miz, no). And three: I don't like dogs as much as I thought I did.
Since this is the longest I've ever gone with (almost) daily exercise, I thought I would have seen a little more progress by now. I don't own a scale (except the one that measures flour in my kitchen and I'm sure not standing on that thing) but my clothes don't seem any looser and the tape measure doesn't squeeze any tighter. On the plus side, I do have more energy and I am getting to know my neighbors better. But, despite numerous crunches, weight and flexibility training, and a continued effort to eat healthier, my mid-region doesn't appear to look any different. Maybe things are getting tighter inside (those planks are getting easier) but I'm starting to get a little impatient about the outside. I wasn't foolish enough to think I'd be able to rock a bikini by now but I guess I was hoping to see a little less of my long-time friend, Mr. Muffin Top.
So, now what? (Did I hear someone say, give up? Oh, that was me.) No. Maybe I just have to start pumping up the volume a little. Maybe it's time for me to move up to the ten pound weights. Maybe I have to banish white flour and sugar from my diet entirely. (Like that's going to happen.) Or maybe I need to switch it up and ditch the walk every once in awhile for a nice, long bike ride. I could hit the beautiful trail that stretches along the local river down into town. I'd see some new scenery and get those legs really moving.
I just have to remember not to go anywhere near that Sugar Monkey cupcake shop. Those white chocolate raspberry concoctions are killers.
Since this is the longest I've ever gone with (almost) daily exercise, I thought I would have seen a little more progress by now. I don't own a scale (except the one that measures flour in my kitchen and I'm sure not standing on that thing) but my clothes don't seem any looser and the tape measure doesn't squeeze any tighter. On the plus side, I do have more energy and I am getting to know my neighbors better. But, despite numerous crunches, weight and flexibility training, and a continued effort to eat healthier, my mid-region doesn't appear to look any different. Maybe things are getting tighter inside (those planks are getting easier) but I'm starting to get a little impatient about the outside. I wasn't foolish enough to think I'd be able to rock a bikini by now but I guess I was hoping to see a little less of my long-time friend, Mr. Muffin Top.
So, now what? (Did I hear someone say, give up? Oh, that was me.) No. Maybe I just have to start pumping up the volume a little. Maybe it's time for me to move up to the ten pound weights. Maybe I have to banish white flour and sugar from my diet entirely. (Like that's going to happen.) Or maybe I need to switch it up and ditch the walk every once in awhile for a nice, long bike ride. I could hit the beautiful trail that stretches along the local river down into town. I'd see some new scenery and get those legs really moving.
I just have to remember not to go anywhere near that Sugar Monkey cupcake shop. Those white chocolate raspberry concoctions are killers.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Happy Feet
We were supposed to go out to dinner. My better half was out of town and my daughter and I had a date at a local seafood restaurant. I had the Groupon ready to go when I got the call from my firstborn telling me that her stomach was on the fritz and she didn't think it was up to a big dinner. Feeling a little rejected (not to mention bummed out about having to cook), I sucked it up and told her not to worry, we'd do it another day.
That's when she offered me an alternative. After a rough day at work, she was craving a little pampering and wondered if I might like to join her at the nail salon where we could indulge ourselves in a couple of pedicures.
My love/hate relationship with pedicures is well-known in my family. I love the idea of making my feet look pretty but I feel funny having strangers coming at my sensitive toes with sharp, metal objects while they jump to conclusions about my lack of personal hygiene. I don't know how anyone else feels but the first time they used one of those callous scrapers on me, I thought I would die of embarrassment. (Does anyone else have shavings that resemble something under a woodworker's bench? Of course they don't.)
So, I had two choices. I could make myself a sandwich and wait for Project Runway to entertain me or I could go spend a little time with my daughter even if it meant risking a barrage of whispered commentaries directed at the sorry state of my feet.
As you might guess, I opted for the latter. As soon as I got in that fabulous massage chair and dipped my toes in that toasty foot bath, most of my apprehensions disappeared. The girl working on me looked like she was still in middle school but she tackled my tootsies like a pro. Both my daughter and I decided to go for the spa pedicure (what's another $7?) which included a sugar scrub and a hot (and I do mean hot) parafin soak. As for the dreaded callous scraper - my teenage friend said I didn't even need it!
Forty-five minutes later, after solving the problems of the world while enjoying a relaxing back massage, we walked out with the prettiest, softest, happiest feet in town. We headed home, found some leftovers in the fridge, and tossed off a few catty comments on the latest Project Runway dramas. . .I mean, fashions.
Reconnecting with my kid, sharing a guilty pleasure, AND getting a bit of pampering? I'd give up a seafood dinner for that any day.
That's when she offered me an alternative. After a rough day at work, she was craving a little pampering and wondered if I might like to join her at the nail salon where we could indulge ourselves in a couple of pedicures.
My love/hate relationship with pedicures is well-known in my family. I love the idea of making my feet look pretty but I feel funny having strangers coming at my sensitive toes with sharp, metal objects while they jump to conclusions about my lack of personal hygiene. I don't know how anyone else feels but the first time they used one of those callous scrapers on me, I thought I would die of embarrassment. (Does anyone else have shavings that resemble something under a woodworker's bench? Of course they don't.)
So, I had two choices. I could make myself a sandwich and wait for Project Runway to entertain me or I could go spend a little time with my daughter even if it meant risking a barrage of whispered commentaries directed at the sorry state of my feet.
As you might guess, I opted for the latter. As soon as I got in that fabulous massage chair and dipped my toes in that toasty foot bath, most of my apprehensions disappeared. The girl working on me looked like she was still in middle school but she tackled my tootsies like a pro. Both my daughter and I decided to go for the spa pedicure (what's another $7?) which included a sugar scrub and a hot (and I do mean hot) parafin soak. As for the dreaded callous scraper - my teenage friend said I didn't even need it!
Forty-five minutes later, after solving the problems of the world while enjoying a relaxing back massage, we walked out with the prettiest, softest, happiest feet in town. We headed home, found some leftovers in the fridge, and tossed off a few catty comments on the latest Project Runway dramas. . .I mean, fashions.
Reconnecting with my kid, sharing a guilty pleasure, AND getting a bit of pampering? I'd give up a seafood dinner for that any day.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Taming the Green Monster
It's been a while since I've taken a good look at the Ten Commandments but I seem to remember there's something in there about not coveting your neighbor's goods. I'm happy to say I don't usually have a problem with that; I'm lucky enough to have some pretty nice stuff. What I do occasionally have a problem with is envying someone else's good fortune and I don't think I've stumbled on any kind of loophole in the commandment with that one.
This week, that ugly, green monster raised its head when someone I love very much had something wonderful happen to her. She and her family got an invitation to an exclusive event that I would have loved to have attended. As much as she wanted to include me, she couldn't. When she called to apologize, I did my best to let her off the hook. We had a long conversation that included a lot of joking around; you know, stuff like, "Go, have a good time. We'll just PhotoShop me in the pictures later" but I can't help thinking that my feeble attempts at sarcasm and humor might have only made her feel worse.
When we got off the phone, I started to analyze our conversation and this time I knew I should be the one doing all the apologizing. I have had so much good fortune in my life. I have an amazing house, a couple of cars in the driveway and have been lucky enough to travel the world. My friend, though blessed with a loving family and everything she really needs, has had it a little tougher. She's had more financial struggles and dealt with more health issues. And it's not fair. She's the most giving, loving person I know and should have nothing but the best in her life.
So, when she posts her pictures, I'm not going to feel sorry for myself. I'm not going to allow myself to feel one tiny, little bit of resentment or jealousy. I'm going to be happy for her; really, truly happy for her because no one deserves it more.
But I can still be jealous of her husband, can't I?
This week, that ugly, green monster raised its head when someone I love very much had something wonderful happen to her. She and her family got an invitation to an exclusive event that I would have loved to have attended. As much as she wanted to include me, she couldn't. When she called to apologize, I did my best to let her off the hook. We had a long conversation that included a lot of joking around; you know, stuff like, "Go, have a good time. We'll just PhotoShop me in the pictures later" but I can't help thinking that my feeble attempts at sarcasm and humor might have only made her feel worse.
When we got off the phone, I started to analyze our conversation and this time I knew I should be the one doing all the apologizing. I have had so much good fortune in my life. I have an amazing house, a couple of cars in the driveway and have been lucky enough to travel the world. My friend, though blessed with a loving family and everything she really needs, has had it a little tougher. She's had more financial struggles and dealt with more health issues. And it's not fair. She's the most giving, loving person I know and should have nothing but the best in her life.
So, when she posts her pictures, I'm not going to feel sorry for myself. I'm not going to allow myself to feel one tiny, little bit of resentment or jealousy. I'm going to be happy for her; really, truly happy for her because no one deserves it more.
But I can still be jealous of her husband, can't I?
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