« November 2004 | Main | January 2005 »
And then maybe someone can explain this ad to me. From Google:
" Replenish your beauty
products & contribute to tsunami
disaster relief: MK consultant, aff
www.beautyateveryage.com
Illinois”
Because I checked the Web site—all about the makeup, nothing about the disaster. Which means either I missed it, or that this is someone’s particularly callous attempt at marketing.
Dear Lane Bryant,
I don't care if you mark them down to $0.99--I'm not going to buy a horizontally striped sweater. I'm not even going to try them on. Something that makes me look bulkier AND wider--oh, can I please?
No.
And, really, either you should start marketing more aggressively to the size 28 and size 14 crowds, or stop buying so much stuff in those sizes. They're cluttering up the clearance rack. 100 pairs of pants, and only 2 pairs in my size? Oh, that 10 minutes was well spent.
Also--there's no way those pants were an 18. Not on this planet.
Thanks for the tanktops,
ChgoRed
Sometime this weekend, the Chicago River iced over. It's a sight that always reminds me of this poem.
Ask Me, by William Stafford
Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt: ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.
I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.
Christmas night, 1989.
I am home from college on Christmas break, only not home right now. I’m spending the evening with David, a quiet, strange, different boy who went to high school with me. Later, we will drive up unlit mountain roads, and through neighborhoods that dazzle with their lights. But for now we are at his place, the tiny apartment he and his mom share, in an old downtown building that used to be a hotel. They just have the two rooms, so we sit on the bed and talk while his mom takes a spot at the kitchen table. For no reason he picks up his guitar and begins to sing, “We got a family car…” I hate to, but I correct him--”We got a fast car…” Whatever, he smiles.
Christmas night, 2004.
The Boyfriend and I have spent the day in lethargy. Sleeping, reading, watching TV--whatever doesn’t take too much energy. And it’s delightful. I’ve already baked a cake and a chicken, called all my family, opened my share of the presents. Coming on evening, we’re watching one of those nostalgia shows the Boyfriend loves to yell at. 1988, this volume--"Headbangers Ball", Doc Martens, Less Than Zero, etc.
And from nowhere, Tracy Chapman, singing.
“We got a fast car…”
Sometimes, the years compress like cards in a deck, and it’s hard to believe there was any time between them at all.
Worth reading, if for no other reason than the gorgeous and eternal language of the King James version. I wouldn't want to hear this story told any other way.
Blessings to you and yours this lovely night.
ChgoRed
8And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. 9And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. 10And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. 11For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. 12And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. 13And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, 14Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
15And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.
16And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. 17And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child. 18And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds. 19But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart. 20And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them.
1. After reading my post about this past weekend, The Boyfriend declared it "Sweet, almost too sweet..." and claimed that I make him look far too nice in my blog. Not that he minds, of course; he likes it. But he does wonder if it's starting to hurt his curmudgeon image.
So in the interests of balance, a scene from this morning. He was half-awake; I was very awake and talking rather animatedly about, well, stuff.
Me: I've settled on my Valentines designs, and I already have some ideas about next year's Christmas cards.
Him: Next year's cards? Sheesh. I'm going back to sleep now.
Me: OK--so it's a little early. They're just ideas.
Him: You make me long for a nuclear war.
Me: What?
Him: You heard me.
Me: Fine. But after nuclear war comes nuclear winter, and then...nuclear Christmas.
Him: I can just see you--the commandant of the Christmas Concentration Camp.
Me: "I said MORE TINSEL!"
Him: Exactly.
See? Grumpy as all get out.
2. When Mimi Smartypants says, "the high temperature today was six degrees. Six! That is not enough degrees!" she is so right. For our friends in warmer climes, six degrees is so cold that when you're in it, you don't want to breathe too deeply. Because it hurts.
It's even cold enough to make you rethink your apartment choices...especially if you have a lovely vintage apartment with lovely original windows. Lovely, original, drafty windows. And high ceilings with lots of airspace to heat. Like we do.
We set the thermostat at 72, which sounds like "too warm and too expensive" to most people. Then you discover that it's only 72 right around the heating registers. Everywhere else in the house is about 66, unless you're by the windows, where it's about 50, and where you definitely want to be wearing shoes. And you'd be right about the expensive part. Last month's gas bill: $130.
I'm guessing our next apartment will be very very modern.
3. Christmas dinner: Baked chicken with lemon and rosemary; roasted green beans; red potatoes with parsley; either salad or some mushroom-onion dish; white wine. Dessert--Chocolate and vanilla swirly loaf cake with ganache on top, assuming Martha's recipe doesn't flop. If it does, people will just have to fight over the half-carton of sorbet left in the freezer.
Or maybe we'll have pie.
4. We're opening our gifts Christmas Eve, right after The Boy gets home from work. As I explained this morning, this plan will allow him to sleep as late as he wants on Christmas Day. Could there be a better gift for a retail employee who just worked a closing shift? I think not.
Him: So I can sleep till noon.
Me: Yep.
Him: Can I get that in writing?
Here you go, babe. You can sleep as late as you want on Christmas Day. Just try to get up before any guests arrive.
It would be hard to beat the AP's caption, which claims that "he later went mountain biking." (In this outfit? The mind reels.)
Give it your best shot. (Click to enlarge.)
So the sun has temporarily turned its back on us? No kidding.
Two hits to my blog yesterday.
12:45 PM: "Jokes to calm a girl down text messages"
Try something that starts, "Two chicks walk into a bar..." Girls just love those.
5:33 PM: "Trying to stop a girl to break with you poems"
Er..."Baby, please don't go"? More effective if she's already planned a trip to New Orleans, of course.
Seriously--when you're looking for sad, you can't go wrong when you go Russian. "All the things of my life I loved not in arriving, but in leaving; not in giving but in taking away." Or something like that. Marina Tsvetaeva.
Here's hoping these hits weren't from the same person. Because if they are--dude, what did you do?
Because...
...he makes the funniest, most charming scowls you ever saw.
...he never fails to be my champion, even if it's over something minor like a shoe store that doesn't carry my size.
...I can't wait for him to get home at night.
...he will delight in burnt crusty cheese, fresh bread, or warm cookies.
...if you're nice, he'll let you touch his new haircut.
...he still wants to change the world.
...I would sit through "Lord of the Rings" just to make him happy.
...he was so great with my mother at Thanksgiving.
...if you've ever seen him dance, you'll want him to do it again and again.
...he carries out his duties as #1 Cookie Taster with bravery and aplomb.
...when I was deep into cookie-baking mode, he started a flour fight because it was exactly what I needed.
...he lets me scritch him under the chin.
...if your world is turning to crap, he will make you hot cocoa and listen while you talk it out.
...dinner is just not as much fun without him.
...he listens.
...he taught me to play Scrabble, dominoes, Pokeno, and mah-jongg.
...I never thought I'd be this lucky.
All my love, sweetheart. Happy thirtysomething.
