Sunday, February 21, 2010
EMPTY NEST!
Visit my new blog, Letters from the Padded Room at:
www.lettersfromthepaddedroom.wordpress.com
Thank you for your support, encouragement, and kind words!
Thursday, February 11, 2010
A Quick Note About the Baptist Missionaries in Haiti....
I believe that the missionaries currently being held by the government of Haiti on child trafficking charges had the best of intentions. I believe they knew they didn't have the proper documentation to remove those children from the country. I think that the parents who willingly gave their children to the missionaries believed that they were giving up their children to people who would give them better lives.
Laura Silsby, the leader of the missionary group, has been repeatedly saying to the news media that she "has faith that God will lead them to a positive outcome." I assume she believes that God will act to have the group exonerated of all charges and returned to the United States. What other positive outcome could there be, right?
This reminds me of a lesson that I have to teach myself over and over again. What we believe is a positive outcome in our lives isn't necessarily in the best interest of God's kingdom or other people. What if the best way to serve God is ministering to the souls in the jails of Haiti? Certainly, I would never wish for an innocent person to be sentenced to a life in prison. However, what constitutes a "positive outcome" is very subjective, especially in spiritual matters.
This helps me to remember that what I think is in my best interest may not be. God's idea of a positive turn of events in my life doesn't necessarily look or feel positive, especially in the moment. It may be the act of working through the worst of circumstances that gives birth to something wonderful. I've seen that truth work itself through my marriage, my friendships, my financial life and my attitude with my children. No matter how badly we want something, we just aren't capable of seeing far enough into the future to know whether or not it is in our best interest. I don't have faith that God will produce what I consider a positive outcome. I put faith in the fact that He will always do what's best for me - even when it doesn't feel good or look pretty, even if it takes years to see results or causes heartache along the way.
I hope that the missionaries are able to come back to the United States and face an investigation into what truly transpired. In the meantime, I think this is a good reminder that we pray that God's will always be done. Then, right after that, I'm going to cross my fingers and beg to win the Powerball. It couldn't hurt.
"And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."
Romans 8:28
Laura Silsby, the leader of the missionary group, has been repeatedly saying to the news media that she "has faith that God will lead them to a positive outcome." I assume she believes that God will act to have the group exonerated of all charges and returned to the United States. What other positive outcome could there be, right?
This reminds me of a lesson that I have to teach myself over and over again. What we believe is a positive outcome in our lives isn't necessarily in the best interest of God's kingdom or other people. What if the best way to serve God is ministering to the souls in the jails of Haiti? Certainly, I would never wish for an innocent person to be sentenced to a life in prison. However, what constitutes a "positive outcome" is very subjective, especially in spiritual matters.
This helps me to remember that what I think is in my best interest may not be. God's idea of a positive turn of events in my life doesn't necessarily look or feel positive, especially in the moment. It may be the act of working through the worst of circumstances that gives birth to something wonderful. I've seen that truth work itself through my marriage, my friendships, my financial life and my attitude with my children. No matter how badly we want something, we just aren't capable of seeing far enough into the future to know whether or not it is in our best interest. I don't have faith that God will produce what I consider a positive outcome. I put faith in the fact that He will always do what's best for me - even when it doesn't feel good or look pretty, even if it takes years to see results or causes heartache along the way.
I hope that the missionaries are able to come back to the United States and face an investigation into what truly transpired. In the meantime, I think this is a good reminder that we pray that God's will always be done. Then, right after that, I'm going to cross my fingers and beg to win the Powerball. It couldn't hurt.
"And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."
Romans 8:28
Friday, January 29, 2010
The Party is Over!
The pity party is over. It doesn't endear me to my husband or make me look thinner, so I'm not going to spend any more time dwelling on the fact that I sent 443 incoherent words to published authors. I'm not going to feel bad that I didn't contemplate my creation for ten minutes before submitting it to a writing competition that won't take place again until 2012. I'm totally over it.
I tell my girls all the time that every mistake we make gives us a chance to learn something. I'm quick to point out each and every one of their mistakes so that they can learn a lot. I've even started recording them on a notepad so we can study them together after they stop crying (or bleeding, depending on the circumstances). It's that sort of dedication that produces self-confident, intelligent children. But I digress.
What I discovered is that I need to improve my writing skills. I need to study grammar and comic timing and working with word count limitations. Since I can't afford the time and financial commitment of earning a degree in English or Journalism, I'm just going to have to do it myself.
So, off I went to the local library and started checking out books.
My favorite is "You Can Write a Column!" which I snatched up because it sounded so enthusiastic. Who needs friends and loved ones to encourage you when there's a guidebook? Monica McCabe Cardoza believes that if I read her book and follow her action plan, I can be published. Who am I to disagree? Apparently, I'm only 10 chapters away from worldwide syndication!
Every 'expert' has a different point of view. Some blogs, books and articles will tell you that you'll never get published, others map out a strategy that is guaranteed to be a sure fire success. There are millions of websites that ask for submissions and hundreds of vague competitions you can enter. I have no idea where to start. Nearly everyone recommends sending query letters to local publications, but what would I send? Right now I have 8 unfinished columns ranging from packing a lunch to the Home Shopping Network. I doubt there's an editor sitting at a computer somewhere thinking, "Why hasn't anything on an exploded juice box come across my desk lately?"
Many publications ask you to include the rate of pay you expect to earn for the piece. How on earth do I calculate that? I can't base my rate on what I currently earn. I get paid $0 per hour with no benefits, unless chronic numbness of the brain is considered a perk. On top of the crummy paycheck, I'm stealing from my employer. Typing on the clock while there are untold numbers of shirts to be ironed is strictly against company policy. I should pay back my husband twenty dollars every time he comes home to find a completed article and minute rice for dinner.
Through all my research, I've found some people suggest to write what you know, while others tell you to write to your specific audience.
If I choose to write about what I know, then I'm limited to articles describing the smell coming from the garbage disposal, the pros and cons of removing the crusts from a ham sandwich, and the difficulties of cleaning cat puke from a wool rug. I don't think that is sustainable nor marketable.
If I write for my audience, then I'm going to need your help. Maybe all seven of you can get together at a Starbucks and come up with a list for me. I have no idea who you are, and frankly, I don't know why you're here. I think an explanation is in order.
Seriously though, I sincerely appreciate all of you who took the time to make me smile when I was feeling bad this week. I treasure all of your kind words, although I need to remind you that lying is a sin, even when the lie is an anonymous comment on a blogging site. Commandments aside, I appreciate your support. I can't tell you exactly why I keep posting or why I like to draw attention to it when I'm so critical. For some reason, whether I post something good or bad, it brings me an incredible amount of joy to know someone out there can relate.
I write this for every husband who's ever wondered what his wife did all day.
I write this for all the women out there who'd rather wear their husband's briefs than start a new load of laundry.
I write this for the person who warmed up yesterday's coffee and forgot their appointment with the dentist.
I write this for the mom who raided her daughter's piggy bank for latte money this morning.
I write this for anyone who's ever maxed out their credit card while stocking up on half-priced pantyhose.
I write this for every parent who has ever drawn a blank when asked, "What year was your
oldest child born?"
I write this for myself, who is guilty of all of the above and much worse.
I know I'm not alone. As long as there is a pile of dog poop to step in, a child with a mysterious rash, or a lint trap to be cleaned - I will write about it and share it with you. If you've laughed at even one of my columns, take a moment to email it to someone you hate, forward it to a local publication, or denounce it in a musical YouTube rant. That's the greatest compliment I can get. Thank you.
(c) 2010, Kelsey Robbins
I tell my girls all the time that every mistake we make gives us a chance to learn something. I'm quick to point out each and every one of their mistakes so that they can learn a lot. I've even started recording them on a notepad so we can study them together after they stop crying (or bleeding, depending on the circumstances). It's that sort of dedication that produces self-confident, intelligent children. But I digress.
What I discovered is that I need to improve my writing skills. I need to study grammar and comic timing and working with word count limitations. Since I can't afford the time and financial commitment of earning a degree in English or Journalism, I'm just going to have to do it myself.
So, off I went to the local library and started checking out books.
My favorite is "You Can Write a Column!" which I snatched up because it sounded so enthusiastic. Who needs friends and loved ones to encourage you when there's a guidebook? Monica McCabe Cardoza believes that if I read her book and follow her action plan, I can be published. Who am I to disagree? Apparently, I'm only 10 chapters away from worldwide syndication!
Every 'expert' has a different point of view. Some blogs, books and articles will tell you that you'll never get published, others map out a strategy that is guaranteed to be a sure fire success. There are millions of websites that ask for submissions and hundreds of vague competitions you can enter. I have no idea where to start. Nearly everyone recommends sending query letters to local publications, but what would I send? Right now I have 8 unfinished columns ranging from packing a lunch to the Home Shopping Network. I doubt there's an editor sitting at a computer somewhere thinking, "Why hasn't anything on an exploded juice box come across my desk lately?"
Many publications ask you to include the rate of pay you expect to earn for the piece. How on earth do I calculate that? I can't base my rate on what I currently earn. I get paid $0 per hour with no benefits, unless chronic numbness of the brain is considered a perk. On top of the crummy paycheck, I'm stealing from my employer. Typing on the clock while there are untold numbers of shirts to be ironed is strictly against company policy. I should pay back my husband twenty dollars every time he comes home to find a completed article and minute rice for dinner.
Through all my research, I've found some people suggest to write what you know, while others tell you to write to your specific audience.
If I choose to write about what I know, then I'm limited to articles describing the smell coming from the garbage disposal, the pros and cons of removing the crusts from a ham sandwich, and the difficulties of cleaning cat puke from a wool rug. I don't think that is sustainable nor marketable.
If I write for my audience, then I'm going to need your help. Maybe all seven of you can get together at a Starbucks and come up with a list for me. I have no idea who you are, and frankly, I don't know why you're here. I think an explanation is in order.
Seriously though, I sincerely appreciate all of you who took the time to make me smile when I was feeling bad this week. I treasure all of your kind words, although I need to remind you that lying is a sin, even when the lie is an anonymous comment on a blogging site. Commandments aside, I appreciate your support. I can't tell you exactly why I keep posting or why I like to draw attention to it when I'm so critical. For some reason, whether I post something good or bad, it brings me an incredible amount of joy to know someone out there can relate.
I write this for every husband who's ever wondered what his wife did all day.
I write this for all the women out there who'd rather wear their husband's briefs than start a new load of laundry.
I write this for the person who warmed up yesterday's coffee and forgot their appointment with the dentist.
I write this for the mom who raided her daughter's piggy bank for latte money this morning.
I write this for anyone who's ever maxed out their credit card while stocking up on half-priced pantyhose.
I write this for every parent who has ever drawn a blank when asked, "What year was your
oldest child born?"
I write this for myself, who is guilty of all of the above and much worse.
I know I'm not alone. As long as there is a pile of dog poop to step in, a child with a mysterious rash, or a lint trap to be cleaned - I will write about it and share it with you. If you've laughed at even one of my columns, take a moment to email it to someone you hate, forward it to a local publication, or denounce it in a musical YouTube rant. That's the greatest compliment I can get. Thank you.
(c) 2010, Kelsey Robbins
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Regrets
I printed out my column for my Mom to read. She looked over it and didn’t crack a single smile. I said, “Isn’t it funny?” and she said, “Maybe I just have to read it one more time. You use too many big words.”
I emailed it to my Dad, and he said, ‘I thought it was nice... everyone has a different sense of humor.”
My in-laws have no comment.
Then, because I can’t quit picking a scab, I went to the website for the competition and saw a link to the panel of judges. These aren’t just educated people who like to read. These are big time published authors, syndicated humor columnists from The Washington Post and Good Housekeeping, editors, and infamous bloggers with readership in the hundreds of thousands.
I feel like the biggest idiot in the world - and I’m completely horrified that all these people are going to be forced to read what leaked from my neurotic brain.
You may choose to come here but those poor judges are bound by contracts.
You know, you sit down to write something and you can see it in your mind, but putting it in writing (in 450 words or less) in a way that other people can see that same image is really hard. I think I had a few good one-liners but it doesn’t make sense. I don’t know. I’ve been crying over it ever since. I should have written it and then put it away for a few days – I had the time to do it. Donovan told me I should step away and decide if I was still happy with it after 48 hours and then send it in. But I get so excited and impulsive. I had to submit it, post it and email everyone I know about it.
The only good news is that I installed a “counter” on my blog. In the last 8 days I’ve had over 170 page views. You people are masochists.
The icing on this crapcake is that I let myself believe for more than five minutes that I could win it, even though I told all of you that winning wasn’t the important part.
I was already planning bake sales and bank robberies to come up with enough cash to afford the flight to Dayton. I was going to wear a suit, drink strong coffee, take notes and steal other writer's ideas. I was going to walk around in sassy heels saying, "Why yes! I am the woman who won. Did you know there were over 2000 entries?" I wanted to feel grown up for a few days. I wanted to be successful at something other than lifting stubborn stains. I wanted to head to Ohio and not call home to ask what the kids ate for lunch.
Stupid, stupid, stupid housewife!!!! I'm not even sure that I technically graduated from high school and I wanted to do something that requires an education. If you ever want to scare your kids into the admissions office, just show them this blog.
((c)Kelsey's not copyrighting her nonsense anymore) 2010, Kelsey Robbins
I emailed it to my Dad, and he said, ‘I thought it was nice... everyone has a different sense of humor.”
My in-laws have no comment.
Then, because I can’t quit picking a scab, I went to the website for the competition and saw a link to the panel of judges. These aren’t just educated people who like to read. These are big time published authors, syndicated humor columnists from The Washington Post and Good Housekeeping, editors, and infamous bloggers with readership in the hundreds of thousands.
I feel like the biggest idiot in the world - and I’m completely horrified that all these people are going to be forced to read what leaked from my neurotic brain.
You may choose to come here but those poor judges are bound by contracts.
You know, you sit down to write something and you can see it in your mind, but putting it in writing (in 450 words or less) in a way that other people can see that same image is really hard. I think I had a few good one-liners but it doesn’t make sense. I don’t know. I’ve been crying over it ever since. I should have written it and then put it away for a few days – I had the time to do it. Donovan told me I should step away and decide if I was still happy with it after 48 hours and then send it in. But I get so excited and impulsive. I had to submit it, post it and email everyone I know about it.
The only good news is that I installed a “counter” on my blog. In the last 8 days I’ve had over 170 page views. You people are masochists.
The icing on this crapcake is that I let myself believe for more than five minutes that I could win it, even though I told all of you that winning wasn’t the important part.
I was already planning bake sales and bank robberies to come up with enough cash to afford the flight to Dayton. I was going to wear a suit, drink strong coffee, take notes and steal other writer's ideas. I was going to walk around in sassy heels saying, "Why yes! I am the woman who won. Did you know there were over 2000 entries?" I wanted to feel grown up for a few days. I wanted to be successful at something other than lifting stubborn stains. I wanted to head to Ohio and not call home to ask what the kids ate for lunch.
Stupid, stupid, stupid housewife!!!! I'm not even sure that I technically graduated from high school and I wanted to do something that requires an education. If you ever want to scare your kids into the admissions office, just show them this blog.
((c)Kelsey's not copyrighting her nonsense anymore) 2010, Kelsey Robbins
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Stupid Questions - My gift to Erma
It's done! I present to you (after plenty of chocolate and no small amount of tears) my submission to the 2010 Erma Bombeck Writing Competition!!!! A week early!!!!
*****
Stupid Questions
I’ve been told there’s no such thing as a stupid question, but that’s a lie because I was asked one this morning.
“Mom! Do we have anything to eat?”
“No, sweetie. While you were sleeping a gang of squirrels snuck in through the dog door and ravaged the pantry. You’ll have to go over to Grandma’s.”
Pointless questions are resistant to penicillin and as irritating as hemorrhoids, making them impossible to ignore. I must be easily susceptible because I’ve fielded hundreds of mindless inquiries. I’ve heard it all, from “what’s that smell?” to “where’d that pee come from?” Some questions are best ignored or spritzed with bleach.
“Are you busy?”
“When are you going to wake up?”
“Is something burning?”
I noticed that the volume of stupid questions increased when I married and has grown exponentially with every conception thereafter. Accosting me with something completely irrelevant is not only an urgent need, but highly contagious. I once found myself explaining to a four year-old why lizards didn’t speak English at the exact moment her sister wondered aloud if muffins could have babies. I believe an ulcer burst.
I’m not immune to asking a stupid question or two; after all, we’re products of our environment. “Does anyone know where the goldfish is?” was particularly ludicrous since there are only two places in the house that contain more than a gallon of water and I hadn’t checked the toilet yet. Last week I opened up the door to the laundry room and couldn’t stop myself from shouting, “Whose bright idea was it to put ham in the dryer?!”
I didn’t expect a tiny voice from down the hall to holler back, “It was Dad’s!”
Unfortunately, the only cure for a dumb question is an equally dense response. A teacher I had in high school once told the class that if we asked a stupid question, we’d get a stupid answer. That seemed reasonable. If it worked on teenagers, I thought, why wouldn’t it work on the preschool set? I got my answer when the pastor called after Sunday school to inform me that the correct comeback to “Why can’t I vacuum the grass?” is not “because it makes Jesus cry.” I also learned that there are no commandments prohibiting me from drinking mouthwash until I pass out.
As long as there’s a woman alive to ask, “Do I look fat in this?” stupid questions will exist. There’s no vaccination to quell the outbreak, no preventative measures short of intermittent hearing loss. Just paste on a smile and ask, “Is there room at the asylum for one more?”
(c) 2010, Kelsey Robbins
*****
Stupid Questions
I’ve been told there’s no such thing as a stupid question, but that’s a lie because I was asked one this morning.
“Mom! Do we have anything to eat?”
“No, sweetie. While you were sleeping a gang of squirrels snuck in through the dog door and ravaged the pantry. You’ll have to go over to Grandma’s.”
Pointless questions are resistant to penicillin and as irritating as hemorrhoids, making them impossible to ignore. I must be easily susceptible because I’ve fielded hundreds of mindless inquiries. I’ve heard it all, from “what’s that smell?” to “where’d that pee come from?” Some questions are best ignored or spritzed with bleach.
“Are you busy?”
“When are you going to wake up?”
“Is something burning?”
I noticed that the volume of stupid questions increased when I married and has grown exponentially with every conception thereafter. Accosting me with something completely irrelevant is not only an urgent need, but highly contagious. I once found myself explaining to a four year-old why lizards didn’t speak English at the exact moment her sister wondered aloud if muffins could have babies. I believe an ulcer burst.
I’m not immune to asking a stupid question or two; after all, we’re products of our environment. “Does anyone know where the goldfish is?” was particularly ludicrous since there are only two places in the house that contain more than a gallon of water and I hadn’t checked the toilet yet. Last week I opened up the door to the laundry room and couldn’t stop myself from shouting, “Whose bright idea was it to put ham in the dryer?!”
I didn’t expect a tiny voice from down the hall to holler back, “It was Dad’s!”
Unfortunately, the only cure for a dumb question is an equally dense response. A teacher I had in high school once told the class that if we asked a stupid question, we’d get a stupid answer. That seemed reasonable. If it worked on teenagers, I thought, why wouldn’t it work on the preschool set? I got my answer when the pastor called after Sunday school to inform me that the correct comeback to “Why can’t I vacuum the grass?” is not “because it makes Jesus cry.” I also learned that there are no commandments prohibiting me from drinking mouthwash until I pass out.
As long as there’s a woman alive to ask, “Do I look fat in this?” stupid questions will exist. There’s no vaccination to quell the outbreak, no preventative measures short of intermittent hearing loss. Just paste on a smile and ask, “Is there room at the asylum for one more?”
(c) 2010, Kelsey Robbins
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Exciting Things Happening in the Nest!
Any guesses as to what's got me so excited?!?
Nope, I am not pregnant. I've damaged the human race enough as it is.
There is no new life ready to burst forth and eat my brain but I have secured my new blog address at wordpress! How exciting!!
I labored for a few days with a thesaurus and booze, but I couldn't come up with anything. I had just pushed Donovan to his limit when he back-talked something to the effect of, "ought to be locked up in a padded room..."
Genius! It was just the inspiration that I needed.
"Letters from the Padded Room" will debut in February. I'm having fun editing and re-working my old posts. I'm deleting a few of the depressing ones and splitting up some of the long ones. I've copied and pasted them into Word, where each and every one of my grammar and spelling errors have been glaring at me and spreading rumors (all of which are false, except the one about the hyphen, but I'll explain later.)
I have a lot of enthusiasm for this project. Sure, I've only been writing for about 6 months, but that is far longer than I've stuck with most things. I don't even think I was pregnant for 9 months.
I'm also entering the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition. If you don't know who Erma was, pour yourself a bottle of wine and crack open "At Wit's End", "Motherhood: The Second Oldest Profession" or "I lost Everything in the Post-Natal Depression". Brilliant, funny domestic humor columnist who was syndicated in over 900 newspapers and the author of several best sellers. Do you see a Julie & Julia connection here? I don't.
Anyways...
Every year a conference is held at the University of Dayton for aspiring humor writers. Every two years, the conference runs a writing competition and four winners receive free registration to the conference ($380!). Just the collection of audio recordings from last year's seminars are over $150! This is way out of my leaugue.
As awesome as it would be to win, my dream isn't to be a finalist. My goal is to create something I'm proud of and do it with a deadline (I didn't realize competition began December 1st - I just noticed it was open a few days ago). I want to finish something that I started. I want the opportunity to be judged by writing professors and people who don't know me.
But most of all, I want to win the bet I made with my husband. If whatever I write is funny enough to make him pee involuntarily, I get $20 and an order of General Tsao's chicken with fried rice.
So - here's the breakdown.
450 words or less
Must be funny
Cannot be previously published on a website (Sorry, Psycho Hermaphrodite Chicken Attack)
Must capture the essence of Erma Bombeck
Must be submitted by midnight on January 31st.
Wish me luck!!!!
Nope, I am not pregnant. I've damaged the human race enough as it is.
There is no new life ready to burst forth and eat my brain but I have secured my new blog address at wordpress! How exciting!!
I labored for a few days with a thesaurus and booze, but I couldn't come up with anything. I had just pushed Donovan to his limit when he back-talked something to the effect of, "ought to be locked up in a padded room..."
Genius! It was just the inspiration that I needed.
"Letters from the Padded Room" will debut in February. I'm having fun editing and re-working my old posts. I'm deleting a few of the depressing ones and splitting up some of the long ones. I've copied and pasted them into Word, where each and every one of my grammar and spelling errors have been glaring at me and spreading rumors (all of which are false, except the one about the hyphen, but I'll explain later.)
I have a lot of enthusiasm for this project. Sure, I've only been writing for about 6 months, but that is far longer than I've stuck with most things. I don't even think I was pregnant for 9 months.
I'm also entering the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition. If you don't know who Erma was, pour yourself a bottle of wine and crack open "At Wit's End", "Motherhood: The Second Oldest Profession" or "I lost Everything in the Post-Natal Depression". Brilliant, funny domestic humor columnist who was syndicated in over 900 newspapers and the author of several best sellers. Do you see a Julie & Julia connection here? I don't.
Anyways...
Every year a conference is held at the University of Dayton for aspiring humor writers. Every two years, the conference runs a writing competition and four winners receive free registration to the conference ($380!). Just the collection of audio recordings from last year's seminars are over $150! This is way out of my leaugue.
As awesome as it would be to win, my dream isn't to be a finalist. My goal is to create something I'm proud of and do it with a deadline (I didn't realize competition began December 1st - I just noticed it was open a few days ago). I want to finish something that I started. I want the opportunity to be judged by writing professors and people who don't know me.
But most of all, I want to win the bet I made with my husband. If whatever I write is funny enough to make him pee involuntarily, I get $20 and an order of General Tsao's chicken with fried rice.
So - here's the breakdown.
450 words or less
Must be funny
Cannot be previously published on a website (Sorry, Psycho Hermaphrodite Chicken Attack)
Must capture the essence of Erma Bombeck
Must be submitted by midnight on January 31st.
Wish me luck!!!!
Monday, January 18, 2010
Confessions of a Blogaholic
Donovan was considering castration the other night, but the cost was prohibitive, so we watched Confessions of a Shopaholic instead. Frankly, I don't remember submitting a screenplay of my life to any Hollywood directors, but I must have, because that movie was an exact replica of my entire existence.
For starters, the main character resides in metropolitan New York, has a quirky roommate and is a published journalist. But the similarity doesn't end there. She also has thick, luxurious hair, perfect skin and a kickin' wardrobe. Crazy, right? I've put a lawyer on retainer so I can sue for my portion of the rights.
Wait a second.
What I meant to say is that what I have in common with the main character is her obsession with fashion, sales, and her resulting credit card debt.
Darn. The other stuff was waaaay more fun.
Actually, I should put my entire interest in fashion and shopping in the past tense. I used to be drawn to the mall like Tiger Woods to a cocktail waitress. I used to be able to lug a 20 pound purse, apply liquid eyeliner, weigh the merits of the inner pocket on a handbag, gab on the phone and suck on a venti sugar free latte all at the same time. Sadly, now all I can do is count on one hand how many times I've been to Macy's in the past two years while watching The People's Court.
It's not that the money has run out (I'm lying). It's just that dressing provocatively doesn't fit my lifestyle anymore. I spent a long time trying not to look like a stay at home mother of two. I'd dash from store to store every weekend snapping up bargains on clothes that would only be appropriate if worn to the Blue Banana after 2:00am and accessorized with slurred speech. My husband used to cringe every time I'd dump out the contents of a bag. I'm convinced he thought I was moonlighting as a sexy decoy on The Maury Show.
But somewhere along the line I lost the thrill of the hunt and my American Express. Constantly taping daring necklines to my decollete was giving me rashes and girdle panties were interfering with my kidney function, so I traded in my sequined silk tanks and tailored skirts for high waisted jeans and cotton tees. If you don't have kids yet and you can't possibly imagine you'll let yourself go, just wait. The descent into comfortable sweaters happens gradually over time. Already gone from heels to flats? I welcome you.
Now if I want to add flair to an outift I wrap a scarf around my neck like an apathetic art student. If I'm going out I put on some outrageous, migraine inducing earrings. And I gave myself one glorious, golden fashion rule: If I can bend over without my underwear being sucked into a crevice faster than a Kleenex in a vacuum, it's a winner. I've never gone wrong.
In repentence, I've given everything from the "old me" away.
Gone is the leopard print trench.
Gone are the pointy-toe knee high boots.
Gone is the black bubble mini skirt.
It's okay, though. My Fruit of the Loom's are right where they are meant to be and I'm not cracking any ribs in Spanx. My husband seems pleased with my inclination toward modesty, as well.
But every once in awhile I think he wouldn't mind a wardrobe malfunction.
(c) 2010, Kelsey Robbins
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
