Some nights are just meant to be bad.
My sister is having a bridal shower for me this Saturday, and I realized the other day that I don't really have anything suitable to wear. I have some skirts and dresses, but the bulk of them are summery, and the others are black. I like black; I look good in it, but it's not really very wedding shower bride-like.
Besides, as spring prepares to reveal itself, I want to wear clothes in varying colors and sleeve-lengths. I am so tired of brown and black sweaters.
So last night, I set out to buy a dress for the shower. I'd seen a dress I liked in black at one store, so I stopped somewhere else to see if I could find something similar in a better color. The first place had nothing that looked good on me, and the second place had no better selection. I tried on a blouse, but as usual, the button-down top failed not-flat-chested me. My choice was either walking around with the front of my shirt gaping open or wearing a shirt that was way too big.
I really wish clothing manufacturers would take chest size (and waist-to-hip ratio) into account when making tops and dresses. I'm tired of wearing things that are made for girls who are shaped like boys.
At this point, I should have just gone home. It was obviously not in the cards for me to find anything new to wear to the shower, and I have a skirt and top at home that are fine. But I'd been shopping long enough -- and seen enough of the colorful spring selections -- that I was even more determined to buy something that wasn't black.
So I did something unthinkable. I went to the mall.
Straight off, I found the perfect skirt. I couldn't believe my luck. It was flouncy enough for a bridal shower but not too summery for a February event. It was perfect. But, of course, the store had no tops to match the skirt that fit me (buttons, again, and a large petite selection, which doesn't work for me, since I'm 5'9" and appropriately proportioned as such). I was tempted to buy the skirt and look for a top somewhere else, but the colors were tough to match, so I left without it and kept looking.
And looking.
And looking.
The only other promising thing I found was a skirt in the same colors as the first one, yet again with no tops to match it. And this time, they didn't even have matching tops that didn't fit; they really had nothing that matched.
What is up with these stores?
The highlight of my experience in this place, however, was the dressing room. First off, it took a full five minutes to find someone to unlock one for me. Then while I was in there, an employee came around to open a room for another customer, knocked on the door of the room I was in, and although I called out to her, then reached out to hold the door shut, still protesting that the room was, in fact, occupied, unlocked and opened the door while I was changing.
The bonus came a few minutes later, when some children who had been waiting nearby for their mom while she was in a dressing room began discussing the incident, and one whispered, "I saw the lady's underwear."
I guess I should just be happy that he didn't say, "I saw the lady's underwear and big fat thighs."
I went home annoyed and empty-handed -- oh, except for one item I got on clearance.
It's a black sweater.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Friday, February 16, 2007
Show Me That Smile Again
Last night as I got ready for bed, I was hit with a fierce stomach ache.
I tried to ignore it and go to sleep anyway, but the pain was terrible, and lying flat made it worse, so I went into the living room and turned on the TV, figuring that if I had to be awake, I might as well be entertained for awhile.
I hit the jackpot. Nick at Nite was having a marathon of my absolute favorite TV show from the 80s, Growing Pains. It was exactly the comfort I needed.
When I was a kid, the Seavers were my TV dream family. What could be better -- the journalist mom, the psychiatrist dad, the wild boy, the brainy girl and the kid who loved to eat. I wanted to live in their house (15 Robinhood Lane, thank you very much) and be friends with their friends (who didn't love Boner?). I wanted to have wacky adventures like the ones they had.
Even now, I think I would have fit in pretty well.
Growing Pains was my favorite show back then. I loved it. New episodes were appointment viewing, and when reruns started playing in syndication, I would watch them every weekday afternoon at 4. It was a welcome respite from my tumultuous middle school life. Whatever adolescent drama I was suffering, I could find escape on Growing Pains.
The episodes airing last night were the very early ones, and when I turned on the TV, I was instantly taken back to 1986, to my parents' basement, with its tree wallpaper, barn board and furniture with scratchy upholstery. I could almost see my sister, Jennifer, age 13, swooning over Mike Seaver.
Jen had a fierce crush on the dashing Kirk Cameron back in those days. She had his pictures -- ripped out of Superteen, Tiger Beat and other 80s teen staples -- all over her bedroom wall. She had pictures of other teen heart throbs as well, but I think Kirk was her favorite. She once wrote him a fan letter and enclosed a cookie recipe for his mom, who she had read liked to bake.
Surprisingly, she failed to win his affections.
I had a celebrity crush on that show, too, and I'm not ashamed to say it. Kirk Cameron -- dreamy though he was -- was too old for me, so I went for his TV brother, Jeremy Miller.
It's true. I had it bad for Ben Seaver.
I still don't know why I liked him so much. Maybe I wanted to follow the lead of my big sister and her TV crush. Maybe I liked that Ben was always eating; I remember one scene in which he was putting Nestle Quik into a glass of milk, not being satisfied with the chocolate content, so instead pouring the milk into the Quik box and drinking it that way -- I think I might have actually tried that once. Maybe I figured a fake TV boyfriend would never let me down, unlike my second grade crush Kurt (who, inexplicably, failed to be impressed when I told him I'd lost a tooth) or my fourth grade crush Dana (who bit me). Or maybe I really thought he was cute. Who knows?
Whatever the reason, I was crazy in love.
I am a little embarrassed to admit, my Jeremy Miller crush lasted well into the late years of the series. Sure, he was in that dorky teenage phase, but I was too, so really, we were perfect for each other. My affections weren't even swayed during the Leonardo DiCaprio episodes, so it must have been true love.
Alas, things never worked out between ole Jeremy and me. My crush ended pretty much when the series did. But watching last night reminded me of the good old days, when Ben Seaver was my one and only, and when just 30 minutes could mean the difference between the end of the world and a happy new beginning.
And what do you know -- after just one episode, my stomach ache was gone.
I tried to ignore it and go to sleep anyway, but the pain was terrible, and lying flat made it worse, so I went into the living room and turned on the TV, figuring that if I had to be awake, I might as well be entertained for awhile.
I hit the jackpot. Nick at Nite was having a marathon of my absolute favorite TV show from the 80s, Growing Pains. It was exactly the comfort I needed.
When I was a kid, the Seavers were my TV dream family. What could be better -- the journalist mom, the psychiatrist dad, the wild boy, the brainy girl and the kid who loved to eat. I wanted to live in their house (15 Robinhood Lane, thank you very much) and be friends with their friends (who didn't love Boner?). I wanted to have wacky adventures like the ones they had.
Even now, I think I would have fit in pretty well.
Growing Pains was my favorite show back then. I loved it. New episodes were appointment viewing, and when reruns started playing in syndication, I would watch them every weekday afternoon at 4. It was a welcome respite from my tumultuous middle school life. Whatever adolescent drama I was suffering, I could find escape on Growing Pains.
The episodes airing last night were the very early ones, and when I turned on the TV, I was instantly taken back to 1986, to my parents' basement, with its tree wallpaper, barn board and furniture with scratchy upholstery. I could almost see my sister, Jennifer, age 13, swooning over Mike Seaver.
Jen had a fierce crush on the dashing Kirk Cameron back in those days. She had his pictures -- ripped out of Superteen, Tiger Beat and other 80s teen staples -- all over her bedroom wall. She had pictures of other teen heart throbs as well, but I think Kirk was her favorite. She once wrote him a fan letter and enclosed a cookie recipe for his mom, who she had read liked to bake.
Surprisingly, she failed to win his affections.
I had a celebrity crush on that show, too, and I'm not ashamed to say it. Kirk Cameron -- dreamy though he was -- was too old for me, so I went for his TV brother, Jeremy Miller.
It's true. I had it bad for Ben Seaver.
I still don't know why I liked him so much. Maybe I wanted to follow the lead of my big sister and her TV crush. Maybe I liked that Ben was always eating; I remember one scene in which he was putting Nestle Quik into a glass of milk, not being satisfied with the chocolate content, so instead pouring the milk into the Quik box and drinking it that way -- I think I might have actually tried that once. Maybe I figured a fake TV boyfriend would never let me down, unlike my second grade crush Kurt (who, inexplicably, failed to be impressed when I told him I'd lost a tooth) or my fourth grade crush Dana (who bit me). Or maybe I really thought he was cute. Who knows?
Whatever the reason, I was crazy in love.
I am a little embarrassed to admit, my Jeremy Miller crush lasted well into the late years of the series. Sure, he was in that dorky teenage phase, but I was too, so really, we were perfect for each other. My affections weren't even swayed during the Leonardo DiCaprio episodes, so it must have been true love.
Alas, things never worked out between ole Jeremy and me. My crush ended pretty much when the series did. But watching last night reminded me of the good old days, when Ben Seaver was my one and only, and when just 30 minutes could mean the difference between the end of the world and a happy new beginning.
And what do you know -- after just one episode, my stomach ache was gone.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
You'd Think That People Would Have Had Enough of Silly Love Songs
I'm pretty indifferent about Valentine's Day.
When I was a kid, I loved it. In elementary school, we all made little paper envelopes that hung around the classroom and exchanged those fold-over cards taped together with heart stickers. It was a nice break from education, and sometimes, we got candy. And I could usually look forward to some little gift from my parents, chocolates or jewelry or some such trinket.
In later, single, years, I became one of those anti-Valentine's Day people, partly because I was bitter, and partly because I failed to see the romance in buying the same bouquet of roses and box of candy for someone on the same day, year after year, simply because the calendar says one should.
Nowadays, the bitterness is gone. I'm getting married, in 67 days, to the man of my dreams; I have no reason to complain about my love life. But I still don't see what's so romantic about getting flowers and candy on February 14. In fact, I think it is one of the most unromantic things in the world -- in my opinion, a gift like that says, "I got you this because there was a big display in the store, not because I think you will like it." Luckily, my fiance has similar feelings about the whole thing, and last year, we both had other things to do on Valentine's Day, so we didn't even see each other. He did make me some chocolate-covered strawberries, which I will admit is more Valentine-y than I am used to, but I appreciated the work he put into it, and I always appreciate good chocolate.
This year, I had all but forgotten V-Day until a few nights ago, when my beloved asked me what I wanted to do to celebrate. I was shocked.
"I thought we didn't do Valentine's Day," I said, puzzled.
"I know, but I thought we could do a little something," he replied, and he seemed genuinely sad when I told him that I had a meeting to attend tonight.
I suppose it would be nice to somehow commemorate the occasion. With the wedding coming up so soon (and most of the hard work done), we are in high romance mode these days. This is our first -- and last -- Valentine's Day as an engaged couple; that ought to mean something, right?
When I started writing this entry, I wasn't so sure that it did. I felt like the fact that we are engaged almost makes the day obsolete. I don't need a day to remind me that we are in love. Putting our wedding invitations in the mailbox yesterday meant more to me than any bouquet of flowers or heart-shaped candy box ever could.
And maybe that's the key here. Maybe the whole point of today is that it is no different from yesterday, no different from tomorrow.
So this Valentine's Day, I do plan to celebrate. I am celebrating the thrill I get every time my sweetheart walks into the room, the smile he gives me when he says "I love you." I'm celebrating the little things we do for each other, the things that make us laugh, the kisses, the hugs. I am celebrating those things today, because I celebrate these things every day.
And because of that, I hope I am always indifferent to Valentine's Day.
When I was a kid, I loved it. In elementary school, we all made little paper envelopes that hung around the classroom and exchanged those fold-over cards taped together with heart stickers. It was a nice break from education, and sometimes, we got candy. And I could usually look forward to some little gift from my parents, chocolates or jewelry or some such trinket.
In later, single, years, I became one of those anti-Valentine's Day people, partly because I was bitter, and partly because I failed to see the romance in buying the same bouquet of roses and box of candy for someone on the same day, year after year, simply because the calendar says one should.
Nowadays, the bitterness is gone. I'm getting married, in 67 days, to the man of my dreams; I have no reason to complain about my love life. But I still don't see what's so romantic about getting flowers and candy on February 14. In fact, I think it is one of the most unromantic things in the world -- in my opinion, a gift like that says, "I got you this because there was a big display in the store, not because I think you will like it." Luckily, my fiance has similar feelings about the whole thing, and last year, we both had other things to do on Valentine's Day, so we didn't even see each other. He did make me some chocolate-covered strawberries, which I will admit is more Valentine-y than I am used to, but I appreciated the work he put into it, and I always appreciate good chocolate.
This year, I had all but forgotten V-Day until a few nights ago, when my beloved asked me what I wanted to do to celebrate. I was shocked.
"I thought we didn't do Valentine's Day," I said, puzzled.
"I know, but I thought we could do a little something," he replied, and he seemed genuinely sad when I told him that I had a meeting to attend tonight.
I suppose it would be nice to somehow commemorate the occasion. With the wedding coming up so soon (and most of the hard work done), we are in high romance mode these days. This is our first -- and last -- Valentine's Day as an engaged couple; that ought to mean something, right?
When I started writing this entry, I wasn't so sure that it did. I felt like the fact that we are engaged almost makes the day obsolete. I don't need a day to remind me that we are in love. Putting our wedding invitations in the mailbox yesterday meant more to me than any bouquet of flowers or heart-shaped candy box ever could.
And maybe that's the key here. Maybe the whole point of today is that it is no different from yesterday, no different from tomorrow.
So this Valentine's Day, I do plan to celebrate. I am celebrating the thrill I get every time my sweetheart walks into the room, the smile he gives me when he says "I love you." I'm celebrating the little things we do for each other, the things that make us laugh, the kisses, the hugs. I am celebrating those things today, because I celebrate these things every day.
And because of that, I hope I am always indifferent to Valentine's Day.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
An Open Letter To Puxsutawaney Phil
Dear Punxsutawney Phil,
For many years, I have trusted your weather predictions, and this year, I was thrilled to learn that you had predicted an early spring. The news was very welcome, as the month of February began with a cruel vengeance.
Sure, it's below zero now, I thought to myself, but that groundhog knows what he's talking about.
But, Phil (may I call you Phil?), as of today, February has only gotten worse, and I am wondering when this early spring you have predicted is scheduled to show. At this very moment, snow is coming down and blowing all over the place. We've only had a few days all month in which the temperature went above 20, and just last week, we got dumped on with snow.
It makes me wonder if I can really trust you. Furthermore, it makes me wonder if you haven't just gotten sick of people booing you when you predict six more weeks of winter. I know it must be tough to endure the negative publicity, but Phil, you've got a job to do.
Don't give in to the pressure, Phil. Don't predict an early spring just because you know people will cheer. We count on you to tell us the truth, good or bad; do not let us down again.
Sincerely,
Erika
For many years, I have trusted your weather predictions, and this year, I was thrilled to learn that you had predicted an early spring. The news was very welcome, as the month of February began with a cruel vengeance.
Sure, it's below zero now, I thought to myself, but that groundhog knows what he's talking about.
But, Phil (may I call you Phil?), as of today, February has only gotten worse, and I am wondering when this early spring you have predicted is scheduled to show. At this very moment, snow is coming down and blowing all over the place. We've only had a few days all month in which the temperature went above 20, and just last week, we got dumped on with snow.
It makes me wonder if I can really trust you. Furthermore, it makes me wonder if you haven't just gotten sick of people booing you when you predict six more weeks of winter. I know it must be tough to endure the negative publicity, but Phil, you've got a job to do.
Don't give in to the pressure, Phil. Don't predict an early spring just because you know people will cheer. We count on you to tell us the truth, good or bad; do not let us down again.
Sincerely,
Erika
Monday, February 05, 2007
The Stupid Bowl
Another Super Bowl has ended. The final score is in the history books. Indianapolis Colts: some score. Chicago Bears: some score that was lower than whatever the Colts' score was.
Believe it or not, the Bears' loss upsets me greatly. Not because I care about football (which I don't), or because the Bears are my hometown team (which they are) or because I actually watched the entire game (which I did, believe it or not -- second time in history, folks). I didn't even have any money riding on this game.
But I was emotionally invested. Very greatly so. And that's all because of one thing: a cookie.
My fiance and I spent the evening at a Super Bowl party, as many folks do, and as I have already mentioned several times in blog entries, the only way I'm going to go somewhere to watch a sporting event is if I'll be fed, and fed well. I was lured to this party by the promise of homemade guacamole.
When we arrived at the party, there was no guacamole anywhere in sight. The host informed us that the avocadoes he had bought were not yet ready to use, so homemade guac wasn't possible.
I demanded that my fiance drive me straight home but was immediately assured that pizza would arrive shortly. Well, pizza sounded pretty good, and there was some homemade salsa on the table, so I was mollified for the moment.
And then I saw it. A big cookie. A big, beautiful chocolate chip cookie, decorated with orange and blue icing. It seemed to be calling out to me, begging to be eaten.
Suddenly a night watching the big game didn't sound so bad.
Eventually, the pizza arrived, and the game started, and everyone settled in to watch. I didn't understand what was going on, so I couldn't really yell at the TV like everyone else was doing. (I'm not really a yell-at-the-TV person anyway; I barely talk to people who are in the same room with me half the time). Generally speaking, though, it wasn't so bad.
But all the time, I was thinking of that cookie. That beautiful, delicious-looking cookie, just sitting on the table, waiting to be eaten. At halftime or so, someone asked when we'd be cutting the cookie, and the host broke the news to us.
"That's a celebration cookie," he said. "We don't cut into it till the Bears win."
I couldn't believe my ears. At this point, the Bears were trailing, and during the second half of the game, it only got worse. Could it be that that big, beautiful cookie would not fulfill its destiny of deliciousness on Super Bowl Sunday?
Well, we all know now that the Bears went home crying while the Colts celebrated their Super Bowl Victory. (Side note: In a football game between actual bears and actual colts, I wonder which team would win. I think bears would be pretty good at the tackling part, but colts might be better kickers).
After the game, someone else asked about the cookie again, and the host threw it disgustedly on the coffee table, telling everyone, "fine, eat it if you want." No one went for it; I'm not sure if this was in grief or out of respect for the distraught host or perhaps just because they were waiting for him to bring a knife, but I never got to taste the cookie. My fiance had an errand to run, and we left pretty quickly. I briefly considered taking just one big bite out of the cookie before we headed out the door, but I thought that might be bad manners.
So now, like everyone who rooted for the Bears yesterday, I am left with a yearning that yesterday could have turned out differently. Perhaps this was life's way of telling me, "you can't enjoy the perks of the game unless you learn to enjoy the game as well." If that is so, I'll be the first in line next year to cheer the Bears to victory, because as God is my witness, I'll never leave a Super Bowl party hungry again.
Believe it or not, the Bears' loss upsets me greatly. Not because I care about football (which I don't), or because the Bears are my hometown team (which they are) or because I actually watched the entire game (which I did, believe it or not -- second time in history, folks). I didn't even have any money riding on this game.
But I was emotionally invested. Very greatly so. And that's all because of one thing: a cookie.
My fiance and I spent the evening at a Super Bowl party, as many folks do, and as I have already mentioned several times in blog entries, the only way I'm going to go somewhere to watch a sporting event is if I'll be fed, and fed well. I was lured to this party by the promise of homemade guacamole.
When we arrived at the party, there was no guacamole anywhere in sight. The host informed us that the avocadoes he had bought were not yet ready to use, so homemade guac wasn't possible.
I demanded that my fiance drive me straight home but was immediately assured that pizza would arrive shortly. Well, pizza sounded pretty good, and there was some homemade salsa on the table, so I was mollified for the moment.
And then I saw it. A big cookie. A big, beautiful chocolate chip cookie, decorated with orange and blue icing. It seemed to be calling out to me, begging to be eaten.
Suddenly a night watching the big game didn't sound so bad.
Eventually, the pizza arrived, and the game started, and everyone settled in to watch. I didn't understand what was going on, so I couldn't really yell at the TV like everyone else was doing. (I'm not really a yell-at-the-TV person anyway; I barely talk to people who are in the same room with me half the time). Generally speaking, though, it wasn't so bad.
But all the time, I was thinking of that cookie. That beautiful, delicious-looking cookie, just sitting on the table, waiting to be eaten. At halftime or so, someone asked when we'd be cutting the cookie, and the host broke the news to us.
"That's a celebration cookie," he said. "We don't cut into it till the Bears win."
I couldn't believe my ears. At this point, the Bears were trailing, and during the second half of the game, it only got worse. Could it be that that big, beautiful cookie would not fulfill its destiny of deliciousness on Super Bowl Sunday?
Well, we all know now that the Bears went home crying while the Colts celebrated their Super Bowl Victory. (Side note: In a football game between actual bears and actual colts, I wonder which team would win. I think bears would be pretty good at the tackling part, but colts might be better kickers).
After the game, someone else asked about the cookie again, and the host threw it disgustedly on the coffee table, telling everyone, "fine, eat it if you want." No one went for it; I'm not sure if this was in grief or out of respect for the distraught host or perhaps just because they were waiting for him to bring a knife, but I never got to taste the cookie. My fiance had an errand to run, and we left pretty quickly. I briefly considered taking just one big bite out of the cookie before we headed out the door, but I thought that might be bad manners.
So now, like everyone who rooted for the Bears yesterday, I am left with a yearning that yesterday could have turned out differently. Perhaps this was life's way of telling me, "you can't enjoy the perks of the game unless you learn to enjoy the game as well." If that is so, I'll be the first in line next year to cheer the Bears to victory, because as God is my witness, I'll never leave a Super Bowl party hungry again.
Friday, February 02, 2007
In The Midst of Sub-Zero Temps, The Promise of Deliverance
Each year on this day, the eyes of the nation -- and, indeed, the world -- turn to a small Pennsylvania town, as people seek to answer the burning question, how long will this cold winter last?
For the first time in eight years, the world's foremost weather authority, groundhog Punxsutawney Phil, gave us all an answer we can be happy about. He failed to see his shadow, thereby predicting an early spring. Had he seen it, that would have meant six more weeks of winter, according to German small-mammal folklore.
Since 1886, weather-predicting groundhogs have only failed to see a shadow 15 times, so this outcome is quite exciting, especially to those of us living in the thick of winter right now. Lately, I don't even turn on the weather forecast, because I know it will only be bad news. I don't mind the snow, because at least that's pretty, but I could certainly do without the single-digit temperatures, particularly when combined with wind chills that take us into the negatives. I haven't felt my feet in about four days.
But today, Phil gave me hope for the future. Hope that I may soon be able to stop wearing a hat inside the house, that I may someday be able to put non-sweater shirts back into my clothing rotation, that I may actually spend an entire day without shivering.
It's a nice thought.
Then again, the only thing Phil guaranteed with his prediction of an early spring was that we would have fewer than six more weeks of winter. He didn't give specifics, and based on the nearly-as-reliable predictions of my local weatherman, I think the next five weeks could be tough.
So just in case, I think I'll go out and buy a new sweater.
For the first time in eight years, the world's foremost weather authority, groundhog Punxsutawney Phil, gave us all an answer we can be happy about. He failed to see his shadow, thereby predicting an early spring. Had he seen it, that would have meant six more weeks of winter, according to German small-mammal folklore.
Since 1886, weather-predicting groundhogs have only failed to see a shadow 15 times, so this outcome is quite exciting, especially to those of us living in the thick of winter right now. Lately, I don't even turn on the weather forecast, because I know it will only be bad news. I don't mind the snow, because at least that's pretty, but I could certainly do without the single-digit temperatures, particularly when combined with wind chills that take us into the negatives. I haven't felt my feet in about four days.
But today, Phil gave me hope for the future. Hope that I may soon be able to stop wearing a hat inside the house, that I may someday be able to put non-sweater shirts back into my clothing rotation, that I may actually spend an entire day without shivering.
It's a nice thought.
Then again, the only thing Phil guaranteed with his prediction of an early spring was that we would have fewer than six more weeks of winter. He didn't give specifics, and based on the nearly-as-reliable predictions of my local weatherman, I think the next five weeks could be tough.
So just in case, I think I'll go out and buy a new sweater.
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