Sunday, December 30, 2007

In Stitches

Yep, I've been away for a while. LOTS of stuff going on, including a six day mission trip to Mexico with no running water or working toilets. More on that later.......

But we got through Christmas ok. Day after, I was actually off, and decided to get some things done. AKA: look for something I sold that can't be located since the dh cleaned the house. Decided on a whim to check the basement, where I never put the purses -- they are all on a shelf in my selling room. Except THIS particular one. Went down the basement stairs -- on my butt. Yep, 14 steep stairs straight down to a concrete floor, and my body decided not to do it upright. Last time I did this, five years ago, almost to the day, I broke my elbow. That's a story for another day, but this time I managed to do it with no major damage. I was worried about my hand, but I just bruised it, and went about my day.

Except I still haven't found that purse.

So I gave up that afternoon, cause I still wasn't feeling great (I'm getting over pneumonia. Yeah, see ABOVE, where I said there is a LOT going on here.) Had to fix the freezer though, cause my 3 yo fridge keeps freezing up, leading to water all over my kitchen floor. Fixing it means I have to thaw out the ice from the floor of the freezer, which involves a lot of hot water, and chipping out the ice.

Except my hand slipped, and went straight into a little pan in the back, and sliced my index finger wide open. The result? I am now the proud owner of stitches on said finger, because although it wasn't that deep, it would not stop bleeding, because it was over the joint. Got to spend the afternoon at Immediate Care, waiting to get stitched, then go straight to work - late - and try to type with my finger all wrapped up, cause he didn't want me to bend it.

So I went in and took a bath tonight, to soothe my mangled nerves (drug seekers all weekend at work), and noticed that one of my stitches has fallen out. So if I tell you I'm coming unglued, it really is pretty accurate. Or that I'm kept in stitches -- that'd be right, too.

And so I decided to show something with gorgeous stitching. Went off to ebay and found this beautiful Vintage 50s embroidered cotton dress, in my favorite ruby red color. Grab it now, from vintage_studio, on the bay.

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Foosball Table 'O Doom

I am on a cleaning spree. Selling, freecycling, or donating tons of stuff, so I can live with the hope of seeing my dining room table again. I've actually made a lot of progress, and can see my ebay room's floor again. Amazing, this purging thing.

And I'm making money for college tuition for the young 'uns, so it's all good.

But today, I was on the lookout for a couple of peignoirs that are going to Germany. They were in the ebay room, so while I was there, decided to move some other stuff to the NEW ebay storage room. Hanging racks, plastic containers, printer paper boxes for my patterns, and a nice set of drawers for some patterns -- it's a great place.

Except it's packed pretty darn full.

So while I was putting this stuff in there, I took the path of least resistance, and tossed the bags on the foosball table. The foosball table which was bought for Christmas three years ago, and probably hasn't been used in at least a year. And as I plunk these bags down, I felt a pang of impending doom. The vintage is taking over, I thought. Thought of my friend Jen, of Mom's Patterns, who has her own foosball table 'o doom. Well, actually, she calls it her foosball table 'o vintage, but same thing. Her foosball table hasn't been seen in at least a year, I'm told.

Maybe the companies should market these foosball tables as storage. Or maybe there should be a 12 step program for vinties, because any vintie will tell you that simply purchasing a foosball table is a huge red flag, and you'd better start admitting your powerlessness over the vintage.

But man, ain't it pretty? Like this FABULOUS vintage 40s peplum suit pattern, from Jen's store. This is the stuff that vintage dreams are made of. Dig that hat on the left -- and the jewelry -- and the little bag. Nothing to play foosball in, but I can wear it to my meeting, when I stand up and say "hi, I'm Lisa, and I'm a vintage-holic."

And yeah, I featured Jen's stuff yesterday too, but she's my bud, it's her pub night, and I heart her, so fuhgetaboutit. Jen's great. Buy her stuff.

Off to the northern regions for the daddio's 80th birthday, so no posts for a few days. Have a great weekend!

Monday, November 05, 2007

Mrs Gold, Calling Mrs Gold

I went on a cruise a few years ago, with my parents and my eldest sister. (I call her ELDEST, cause she's not my BIG sister. She's kinda shrimpy in the height department.)

Sister and I shared a room. Hubby stayed home and took care of sick kids. Yes, I STILL here about that, to this day, that I "got to go away for two weeks while (insert "I'm a hero/martyr/manly man in touch with my feelings type guy" tone)I stayed home and took care of your children.

Get over it.

Sister and I shared a cabin, and won at trivia so much that people stopped showing up. It was pretty hilarious. By the time we got off that ship, I think everyone knew us -- except our cabin steward. My sister's last name is Gould. Gould, as in sounds like a scary thing with a D on the end. My last name, in case you're a little slow on the uptake, is UTTER. Utter, sounds like Butter without the B.

Every day, our cabin steward would greet us, with his very limited English. Good morning, Mrs. GOLD, he would say. Good morning, Mrs. OOTER. It was kind of cute, and we always got a giggle out of it. If you said anything other than a greeting, he got a little lost, so we just stuck to hello. He was always scurrying around anyway.

The last night of the cruise, we tracked him down to give him his tip envelope. Imagine this poor guy's surprise when, after ten days on board, we hand him his envelopes, and he suddenly realizes that Mrs OOTER is actually Mrs GOLD, and vice versa. He looked a little confused, then his eyes got big, and we just started laughing.

It's not like my name never gets messed up anyway. Happens on a daily basis, actually, so it's no biggie.

So, I had a good chortle this week, when I was doing my shipping (sales are good in the hood), and realized that I had sold something to none other than LINDA GOLD. Not Gould. GOLD. That actually made me stop and laugh for a minute, then remininesce about fourteen days with no husband and no children(that alas, ended with a horrible sinus infection and a temp of 103, but hey, ya gotta pay the piper sometimes). Wonder if I'll be selling to an OOTER next week.

And so, in honor of my OLDER sister, Mrs GOLD, here's a cute, cute, cute gold sequined party dress, from my buddy Jen, of Mom's Patterns. Kinda reminds me of the metallic dress I wore all evening on formal night on that same cruise -- and didn't realize till late that it was on backward. But that's another story that will have to wait.

I Believe I Can't Fly


It's pretty well known by those close to me that I do NOT like to fly. I believe that God invented gravity with the specific idea of keeping ME planted firmly on earth. And I thank God every day for that. I really hate flying.

I have vague memories of my first flight, which was at the age of about 5. Basically, I remember running the the airport with my mom, and that's about it. We were going to Florida. I don't remember much else, except that people *dressed* to fly back then. You didn't get on a plane in jeans and a T shirt. Flying was an event, maybe once in a lifetime, and you dressed for events.

I dressed up to fly even into the 80s. I remember flying to a conference in San Diego with a couple of friends. Bought a beautiful white suit for the flight. I loved that suit. My friends thought I was nuts. Didn't see the point in dressing up to fly. I believe they were in jeans.

Now, dressing up for a flight involves making sure that I have my Xanax. Once a white knuckle flyer, I got over it for a while, but now I'm worse than ever. Had a full blown panic attack on a flight back from Seattle a couple of years ago, and haven't travelled sans my Vitamin X since.

Needless to say, I am not looking forward to flying to Texas next month. We're going with our church, on a medical mission trip. My own personal mission will be to not have a heart attack en route. A few years ago, we were flying back from San Diego with the kids. Hubby was sitting a little further up the way with the two younger kids, whilst I sat with the eldest toward the back of the plane. Coming down into Vegas, the plane took a BIG drop, very suddenly. Enough to make some people scream. Yep, I was one of 'em. DD said someone flew out of his seat, into the aisle, up where they were.

I grabbed ds's leg for dear life. He promptly pried it off and informed me that I was never, ever to touch his leg again. Yeah, he was in the wrong line when they gave out empathy. He thought the whole droppping out of the sky thing was great, and voiced his desire to do it again. I glared a hole in his brain and told him that he could be quiet. NOW. Of course, I was sure we'd be on CNN a little later, when the captain announced something about having a rough ride till we got to altitude.

At about that time, I could've used one of those diapers the astronauts use.

Our little family still thinks my fear of flying is funny, but I just take a Xanax, get out my boarding pass, and it's all good. Cause some of us are just meant to travel by land or by sea. And for those of you who prefer other miraculous modes of travel, check out this wild totally rad batwing sweater, straight outta the 80s, from Tribecca Vintage, on ebay. Cause, as Bill Blass always said, "when in doubt, wear red."

Sunday, November 04, 2007

Afternoon Delight -- NOT

I was talking to my co-worker today, and we were discussing the weirdness of our job. Got on the topic of odd calls, and I think she may have me topped. Forever.

Let's set the scene: Lady calls. Calling about her 21yo son. The son is lying flat out on the couch, looking BAD. Mom is understandably concerned. There is wailing in the background, and a man's voice, also sounding quite concerned. She's wondering what to do.

Turns out that she and her hubby were enjoying the movie of the week, whilst the son was enjoying an intimate moment or two with his girlfriend in his room. He comes staggering out in what should be the afterglow, and collapses onto the couch, looking like death. Parents run to his side, and he admits to having taking some crazy over the counter thing called "Stamina." Mom wants to know what "Stamina" has in it. Who knows, but it sure wasn't a healthy dose of common sense.

Now, I ask you -- what 21 year old guy needs something called "Stamina?" I mean, really.

Must've hit him the wrong way, cause now he's lying on the couch all clammy and pale, the dad is taking his blood pressure, and the girlfriend is wailing like the Grim Reaper himself has arrived -- probably trying to figure out whether her baby daddy is gonna croak on her before she can get her clothes back on. And the mother announces that they have already called the girl's parents, to come and pick her up.

Definitely not your normal "Mom, I had a few too many, come pick me up" call. I'm thinking that the girl is probably in a convent now, with a diagnosis of Post-Coital Stress Disorder. The guy? Who knows, but I'm betting that he won't be doing any Cialis commercials anytime soon.

And you have to know my girlfriend to understand just how funny it is that all she can say, over and over again, is "oh my. Oh My. OH MY." Probably said it three dozen times. But what DO you say, when the Afternoon Delight goes bad? You tell me.

So, for those of you who like a little quickie in the afternoon, plan ahead. You want to be dressed for the moment, should your guy's Stamina fail you, grab this uber sexy slip, from Bellajadore, at Main Street Vintage Mall.

Thursday, November 01, 2007

Kookoo-achoo

Flu season is almost upon us. FLU, for your information, does not involve vomiting. The FLU, for which there is a fairly good immunization, is coughing, fever, and a sore throat. A rapidly declining existence that rapidly progresses to miserability. If miserability is a word.

Cause the flu will surely make you miserable.

I, myself, have never taken a flu shot. I probably should, but the kids are homeschooled, and I work around a minimum of people, and we've dodged the bullet so far, so why do it? You watch, I'll probably be sick by this time tomorrow.

As for the stomach "flu" that everyone talks about.....I got home from work at 2am one night. Within ten minutes, the first kid was up, praying to the porcelain god. EXACTLY half an hour later, the next kid was up, but didn't make it to the porcelain god. Whilst I was cleaning up that mess and dealing with two spewers, the third kid started in. That's when I gave up the ghost and yelled for the hubby.

A kid erupted every ten minutes until 6:30a.m. It was the only night in my life as a parent where I never made it to bed. Absolutely miserable.

And at 7a.m., I started vomiting. And continued to do so for the next six hours. I finally gave up the ghost when I was laying in the tub to break a fever, whilst vomiting in the trashcan. THAT'S when hubby called the doc and got me some medicine.

And the whole time, the kids sat and watched Little Rascals videos that my mom and dad had given them. I'm talking watching the Little Rascals for an entire day, while their mother basically prayed that death would take her quickly and be done with it.

And to this day, the kids will, whenever the flu is brought up, say "remember that day when we were all sick, and watched Little Rascals videos all day long?

Yeah. I do.

Saturday, October 27, 2007

Methodists gone wild

My mom was here a month or two ago. Came to town with my dad, for my mother in law's funeral services. Mom stayed in town for over a week afterward, God love her, to watch the young 'uns whilst we went on our (frantically rescheduled) cruise to Alaska.

Mom's pretty great.

Mom had a few days between when Dad left to go home, and when we left for the frozen tundra, so she kinda hung with us. Did the normal stuff, including going to church. Normal for Mom, cause she's a minister's wife, but not so normal in this case, cause she's a Methodist, and we attend a Presbyterian church. Oh well, she got to see how the other side lives.

Ma is used to having to learn the ropes of a new church, cause those crazy Methodists move all the time. You kind of have to learn the rules at the new church each time. what do people wear, dresses or pants? Who sits where? Is it ok to help in the kitchen, or are you infringing on someone's territory? That kinda stuff.

I personally don't care about the rules at our church, especially cause I haven't regularly attended for quite a while, and I'm not a rules person most days anyway. Hubby, on the other hand, attends at least one service every Sunday, and sometimes two, probably to pray for his wayward wife, but what the heck. I work weekends on a pretty regular basis, so it's not like I can go most of the time anyway. (Yeah, it's an excuse, but whatever.)

So Mom and I show up with the dh. We look at the bulletin and have to laugh, cause this week, the Presbyterians are singin' Methodist. First up was "Holy Holy Holy," which we sang all the time growing up, and which my elder sister always swore was about our socks. Mom didn't think she knew the second song, but I read the music and had to laugh -- the melody was "O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing." Doesn't get more Methodist than a Charles Wesley tune. Afterward, Mom thanked our minister for the tunage after services were over. It gave him a laugh.

So Ma survived the Presbyterians. But now she's gonna have some 'splainin to do, cause we just got a DVD in the mail today, hawking the stewardship campaign at church. Interspersed amongst the fine things people said about the church, are clips of a service. A service where my mother is plainly visible, singing "Holy Holy Holy" with the best of the Presbyterians, whilst the choir marches up the aisle.

Our associate pastor jokes that his mom joined a Methodist church after her Presbyterian minister husband retired, and that she was always looking over her shoulder, worried that the Presbyterian Police would come and revoke his pension. So now I guess Ma better be looking for the Methodist Police.

My mother, I'm sure, will say that every good church needs a Good Methodist. And that it probably will be a more successful stewardship campaign, with the Methodists thrown in the mix.

And you know what? She might just be right.

So today, I had to find something that a Fine Young Methodist would wear, when undercover with the Presbys. Came across this cute Vtg 60s 70s Burgundy RUFFLE Secretary Mini Dress S/M, from Feathered Fawn Vintage, on ebay. Not that Ma could carry it off with her red hair, but if everyone is bowed in reverence, who cares?

Friday, October 26, 2007

Bubble, Bubble, Toil and Broncos

DS is at college. Left home in August with the "don't call, don't email, I am fine, I'm not coming home, I'll see you newbs at Thanksgiving" attitude.

He was home two weeks later.

Been home every two weeks or so since. He has only brought his laundry home twice -- and that is because he literally did not have one more thing to wear. The weekend of fall break, he was outside the dorm, talking on his phone when I arrived. He turned around, and I saw he was wearing a pair of khakis, an awful green Tshirt given to him by the school -- probably to identify him as a newbie freshman, cause's it's pretty gaudy. Dress shirt, unbuttoned, OVER the green shirt. Sandals. And socks.

Some fashion plate, my kid.

So he brought home about 1800 lbs of laundry, all of which got washed and folded over the next few days. I don't mind doing it if I have time, cause he's been responsible for his own laundry for several years. I know he knows how to do it. But when left to his own devices, he waits till the last possible pair of boxers before plunging into the laundromat.

So he emails me last night. Said he was down to his last shirt. Did three loads of laundry. Left to go to the bathroom whilst the last one was finishing. And when he came back -- only had one load of laundry.

Yep. They stole his whole wardrobe, lock, stock, and boxers.

He was not a happy camper. I believe that he may've invented some new words in the emails he sent -- especially the second one that mentioned that his Champ Bailey Broncos jersey was amongst the apprehended clothes. Threatening bodily harm to those who have wronged him.

They may want to be afraid.

So now I am faced with the dilemma of how to get his clothes to him. Fortunately, all of his winter clothes are still here, so I guess I'll box 'em up and send them to him, like a third world orphan. Cause that's what us mommies do.

And so, in mourning for Champ Bailey and the Broncos fans who are left wardrobe-less, here's a vintage Broncos shirt, from an ebayer with a really fun name, shirtswithballs, on ebay. Cause it takes a ballsy guy to leave DS naked in the cold.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Excitement, dismay, and heartache


Counting pattern pieces is like therapy. Most of us could use a little therapy, but it can be get your mind off of things, but can also bring out heartache.

Take this vintage 60s Nina Ricci Vogue Paris Original pattern for a mod coat. It is FAB. Reminds me of the blue trenchcoat that Rebecca Romijn was seen in recently. Absolutely fab. I was happy just to look at it. But I've been looking at it for weeks, and all good things must come to an end.

Went to offer it up today, and realized OMG -- there are 56 pattern pieces. 56! I don't think I've ever seen a pattern with that many pieces. I've done jigsaw puzzles with less pieces. Freaked me out. How does one count 56 pieces, without losing count? But it's a fab pattern. Oh well, hubby is watching football tonight, so it's all good. I just was hoping I didn't jump and tear some pieces up when he shouted GO BRONCOS!!!

So I start counting. And ended too soon, because I realized that all of the pattern pieces for that fab coat are MISSING. Gone. Nonexistent.

That made me so sad. I love that coat. I really did have full intention of counting all those pieces, and only about half of them are there. For a cute 60s suit, pictured below. But I still hope to find the coat. Not that I'll look like Rebecca mind you, but ain't it cute?

Saturday, October 20, 2007

Random Acts of ROBBERY

More musings on the Catholic faith later..........

Our house was robbed yesterday. OK, maybe the real definition is burglarized, but hey, someone came in our house and took our stuff, so I am mad, and I can call it whatever I want.

I was sitting in the living room the day before, when I heard a little pop. Dog heard it too, cause he immediately freaked out, started rummaging behind the TV, cause he thought it was a mouse. (He had driven himself nuts the day before when he saw our once yearly rodent race across the floorboards.)

Well, whilst he was rodent rummaging, I realized that the TV was off. What in the world? Tried to turn it back on. Several times. No luck. Tried unplugging, replugging, saying some savory words. Nothing. So I tracked down the Best Buy receipt, called and scheduled a (free in home) service call for our three year old TV, and broke the bad news to the hubby.

He took it better than I figured, for a football nut. Only said a few dozen bad words.

Fast forward. Next afternoon, the dd calls me at work. "Where's the TV?" I was a little irritated, cause I was being interrupted at work, and said "I don't know. What are you talking about?" She couldn't find the TV. The 42 inch behemoth that sits in front of our living room window. Like you can MISS a 42 inch TV. I figured dh had moved it, to make room for another TV to watch football on. Whatever. Forgot all about it.

Went home, threw my stuff down, didn't see the TV, again figured he had moved it. Till I noticed, about an hour later, that my laptop was missing too. WTH? Checked with kids: no go. Checked with hub. "I'll be right there." Called the police, cause someone had invaded our space.

Only took the laptop the TV and dh's iPod, but it could've been worse. DS12 was home, upstairs, the entire time the time they were in the house. Fortunately, he didn't come downstairs. Of course, if they had gone upstairs, it would've been a bloodbath, cause the dogs were up there with him, and my mangy mutts would've been more than happy to take a few bites outta them. Heck, I've lost more than one vintage fur to those dogs. But the dogs were closed up in the bedroom and never heard them.

Oye.

So now, I've got to get a new laptop, and we have to find another TV, and with ds at college, dh will have to learn to load up his own iPod. That, in and of itself, is a challenge for my technologically impaired husband.

So, if you want to go cat-burgling yourself, stay outta my hood, unless you're just dressing the part. In that case, try this vintage 80s Spandex catsuit, from Richtig, on ebay. It'll cut down on wind resistance while you're haulin' ass away from my dogs.

It might also calm your crack dealer down when he finds out the bad news -- the flat screen you went to all that trouble for is just like you -- IT DOESN'T WORK.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Going to Hell in a blister pack


One of the hospitals we answer for at work is Methodist Hospital, in Indianapolis. The Methodists believe in freedom of expression, so we can talk pretty freely to our callers. The Catholic hospital I used to work for, on the other hand, probably had me right on the top of the "needs a rosary said for them" list.

I probably have at least a dozen nuns praying for me nonstop, even now -- seven years after I left there.

The Catholics believe that birth control is a sin. They don't use it (::wink wink::). We weren't allowed to discuss birth control with our callers, EVER. I think sometimes that they got Protestant callers to call in as mystery shoppers, just to make me sweat. I toed that line so close that my boss would come out of her office, shaking her head saying, "you sure do dance all around it, but you never QUITE break the rules, do you?" I just grinned.

Never really envisioned myself dancing around a pack of birth control pills, but whatever rocks your world. I never got written up.

It was so crazy there that that same Irish Catholic boss, who was, I will say, much admired by yours truly, hated to shut her computer down because it said "aborting operation." Oye. She wouldn't let her kids eat at McDonald's because there was some connection between them and Planned Parenthood. Don't ask me what, cause I didn't want to know, but maybe Ronald was secretly handing out prophylactics with the fries. Brings a whole new meaning to the idea of a Happy Meal, now doesn't it?

But here with the Methodists, I started out yesterday with a call about erectile dysfunction, and ended it with someone who had "rainbow colored bugs flying out of every orifice." And started my day today with someone who wanted "help with conception." What she thought I would be able to do about that, I'll never know, but maybe if she'd called the Catholics......

So yeah, those Catholics are probably still praying for me, but so are some Methodists I know, as well as some Presbyterians, and probably a few others that I don't know about. God knows, I can use all the help I can get.

But underneath it all, we're all the same, so let me show you the way with this Henson Kickernik lavender teddy, from The Ornament Gal, on ebay. Cause if I'm gonna burn in hell, I'm gonna look good doing it!

The not so demon child

I was raised a good Methodist. Yeah, the kids went to Lutheran schools for a bit, and we are members at a Presbyterian church, but you know how the song goes, "I'm a Methodist Till I Die."
DD, on the other hand, is a Presbyterian who has an admiration for the Catholic faith. Never mind the fact that she's never actually attended mass, and has no idea what the pope does, she loves those Catholics.

::Disclaimer:: Continuing reading of this entry may be hazardous to your faith. If you are Catholic, that is. And please keep in mind the Utterly whacky way of life at our house. You've been warned.

DD loves to watch shows on TV about ghosties and possessed people. I don't even know the name of the two shows she watches, but she loves to see those Ghostbusters go flying in with their weird equipment, looking for spirits. There's one show where either the house or its occupants are always possessed by something. Reenactments abound, a la America's Most Wanted or Rescue 911. Things will be flying, crazy things are happening, they get the shaman, the minister, and the kitchen sink to bless the place. Nothing happens. Then dd announces "watch -- this is where they bring in the Catholics."

"Cause them Catholics can get them demons out yo soul."

Yep. That's the dd's ghettospeak for her admiration for the Catholics. Seems like all those priests do is show up, and the demons go running -- maybe toward the Protestants, I don't know. But they definitely do like Elvis and leave the building. I don't think I've seen an episode yet where they can survive the father's blessing. So maybe the dd is onto something -- those demons really CAN get them demons out yo soul.

More ponderings on Catholicism tomorrow. Totally tongue in cheek, mind you.

And meantime, while I am praying for forgiveness, I'll be thinking of these wonderful Sterling Silver and Pink Tourmaline earrings, from Tami's Treasures, on Main Street Mall Online. Holy water not included.

Monday, October 08, 2007

Growing up Cat Lady

The DD is a teenager, so of course, the mind is all on boys. Of course, she is still a polygamist, but she's always looking for someone new.

There's a guy at the junior college she attends who reportedly looks like Orlando Bloom. We call him Orlando Bloom. She's never spoken to him, but she passes him every day in the hall. Probably doesn't have a hot accent though, so it would be a disappointment to actually have a conversation with him.

Her obsession with the opposite sex should not surprise anyone, but her outlook might. She said that she has to get her first kiss this year, or she will grow up to be a Cat Lady.

Cat Lady, as in someone who owns a gazillion cats, all of whom roam freely around the house, until Animal Control comes and takes them away - and commits her. And I guess that every Cat Lady missed out on a first kiss at a tender age, cause The Bratty Gurl is sure that that will be her fate. After that, she said, they will make a movie about her.

It will be titled The 80 Year Old Virgin.

Oye. It's not like she doesn't like anyone. She actually has a thing for someone at church, but he's kinda clueless (big surprise, for a teenaged boy), and hasn't figured out what it's all about yet. And it's not like the mother can intervene and say "c'mon dude, get with the program, or she's gonna be living in my basement as a Cat Lady." So she waits. Till a BOY isn't clueless.

She might be waiting a while.

But while she waits, she might just check out this adorable Malcolm Starr circus animal skirt. With all those big cats, it's perfect for the sweet 16 and never been kissed set. From TheFashionEyeOnline.

Sunday, October 07, 2007

Unrequited Love

So yeah, we answer any call that comes in at my job. The answering services say that they hate paging us with some of the whacko stuff that people come up with, but I love the weird ones, cause normally it's a lot of the same stuff: cough, colds, vomiting, that kind of thing. So when someone rattles the cage a little, it keeps things interesting on our end.

Except the real nutjobs. Got a page this week for a guy who was, to paraphrase, having problems completing the job, and had swollen areas in the southern region. Oye. And on the Sabbath too. Why these things come up in the afternoons, I'll never know, but you can pretty much predict that the sex calls and such will happen in the afternoon. Afternoon Delight, I guess.

Called him back, but the dude never answered the phone. Must've figured it out, or found some other hapless victim, but he never called me back, and I didn't return the favor.

And so, for you manly men out there, here's a Ring a Ding Ding Gold Panel Rat Pack Shirt, from Fast Eddie's Retro Rags, on ebay.

Yerrrrrrrrr Outta Here!


I like craigslist. It ranks right up there with freecycle, as far as finding interesting things. I’ve gotten rid of some things through both sites – including a huge oil furnace and a lead sink, both of which had been in our garage, at that point, for over ten years. Listed ‘em and POOF! They were outta there. It was a beautiful thing.

So I keep my eye out on both sites, to see if something fun comes up. Lots of vintage sellers do the same. So imagine the giggle I got when Janet, of
Old and New Yankees Blue fame, posted about an
Umpire Waist Wedding Gown, listed on the a Lincoln Nebraska craigslist.

Seems like those Nebraskans are on to something. When we got married, we got two potpourri pots. I know people who have gotten four toasters, and Lord knows, we all get towels – but at least you always need them. But who in the world would’ve thought that Nebraska would have the foresight to start the newest trend in wedding gifts? Umpires.

What better way to deal with that first fight? There would be no “I’m going home to mother” if everyone received an umpire as a wedding gift. I’ve known several couples would would’ve benefited from their own ruleskeeper. Who needs Dr. Phil? Just hand over the umpire, and he’ll set you straight.

I think it’s a great idea. Though I don’t know that I’d want him there for the first home run. But maybe that’s just me.

So I went looking, to see what cute umpire-ish thing I could find, and what should I come across but this cute little trio of nuns, including an umpire nun. These sisters can hit the ball andsave you from eternal damnation, all at the same time. And they wouldn’t let you get divorced either, so maybe these are real wedding umpires. I must confess, they’re adorable. And who would argue with a nun umpire, anyway? Coming to you from sansav, on ebay.

I rent him out for parties


I love a guy in a tux. Specifically, I love my husband in a tux, cause he looks so darn nice in it. Of course, I realize that most days, he’s in painting clothes that are covered in a number of shades of paint, but it doesn’t matter – the guy looks good in formalwear.

On our Alaska cruise a couple of weeks ago, he wore his tux to formal night. After dinner that night, in the club on deck 12, they had 007 night, complete with revolver shaped ice sculptures and a martini fountain. I never saw the fountain, though I heard tell of it. We were too busy on the dance floor, cause the man also loves to dance, too. He's generally the life of the party. Heck, sometimes he brings the party.

One time, we went to a wedding for someone I worked with. DH and a buddy got into a contest to see who would get the highest stack of empty (beer) cups. About the time his stack hit eye level is when “YMCA” started playing. You know how the song has a trumpet introduction? Well, the dh goes strutting up to the dance floor, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes, and right as the first “Young Man” started in the song, takes his shirt, slams it down in the middle of the floor, drops into the splits, and comes up dancing. To cheers.

Yeah, he’s shy. NOT.

By the end of that wedding, someone else I worked with, but didn’t know very well, came up to me and said “You guys are a lot of fun. I’m getting married in six weeks. If I invite you guys, will you come?” My response?

“Yeah, I rent him out for parties.”

We went to her wedding and had a blast too.

Fast forward several years. I’m dropping my dd off at preschool, and was introduced to a woman who had the same name as the bride in wedding #1. I said “isn’t that funny, because I know someone with that same name,” which, I might add, is not a common name. She said, “oh yeah, my sister in law has the same name, because the two brothers both married Kims.” Then she looked at me really funny and said “were you at their wedding?” I just sighed and said yes. “OMG,” she said, you guys are a blast!”

So yeah, I rent him out for parties. And he will wear a tux, if the occasion calls for it. And he will look mighty fine in it, too. So, in honor of the old guy in the penguin suit, here’s a cute tuxedo inspired yellow plaid vintage dress, coming to you from Capricorn Vintage, on ebay.
Cause sometimes the tux isn't the only thing you have to rent for a party.

Saturday, October 06, 2007

A brain is a terrible thing to waste


Most of you know that my main job is as a nurse, taking calls on an advice line. It can get pretty monotonous in flu season: coughs, colds, vomiting, blah blah blah, but you know, people need help, so there I am. I love it. It can be pretty entertaining at times, too. But sometimes when you answer calls, you just have to wonder what in the world people are thinking. Or if they ARE thinking. Or if they have the CAPABILITY to think. The other day, I got the most stupid call possibly of my lifetime. I may never have another one like this.

Answered live. In the afternoon, which usually means it's a sex call (see Gettin' Jiggy With It..). But this was a "settle the argument" call. I'm used to settling arguments and bets with our callers. I used to get a lot of these when we answered for a hospital near the college in town. Like the time one of the frat boys asked me to settle a bet -- "what is a herpetologist? A person who studies snakes, or a specialist in herpes?" I don't know if there was beer involved in winning, but for the record, it's a person who studies snakes.

Mom and Dad's tuition money, at hard work. Yep.

So here's the basic gist of the call I got the other day. Ring in if you know the right answer before this chick.

“My mom, my sister and I have been having a discussion, and we need you to settle the argument.”

“Sure, what can I help you with?”

"Are the boogers in your nose brain tissue?”

::insert LONG, incredulous pause::

“No.”

“Really? Then what are they?”

“Mucus.”

“What’s mucus?”

::insert long discussion about mucus, sinuses and such::

::pause::

“So you mean that when I blow my nose, it’s not brain matter?”

::insert cartoon style balloon over nurse's head::
Honey, in your case, I doubt it, cause you have to have brain matter to begin with, and if you do, let’s HOPE it’s not flying out your nose.

And so, in honor of those who do or don't have gray matter, here's a fabulous Shaheen skirt, in all matter of gray and white, with some black and charcoal thrown in, for good measure. For the intelligent shopper, from Cats Vintage and Designer Clothing, on ebay.

Friday, October 05, 2007

B-I-N-G-O


Just FYI: this is Customer Service Appreciation Week. We've had balloons, Dairy Queen, raffles, and more. They even gave away little calendars for 2008 -- and the illustration on my birth month is perfect for me. I even emailed the director and thanked him for personalizing it just for me. Cause you know, being the baby, nothing was ever made for me. The baby gets hand me downs. So I'm special.

Special, that is, till we played email bingo today. Yep, we played bingo, via email, at the office. Now, I don't know if you've ever played bingo, but bingo players are serious. Wildly serious. On our cruise a couple of weeks ago, those ladies got downright mean, the more numbers that were pulled. It was crazy. The tension in a bingo hall is something like a 40 year old waiting for the pregnancy test to finish. Serious, serious stuff. So I don't know why I thought email bingo would be different. Heck, they're probably giving away luggage tags or swim wallets, for all I know, but these ladies are nuts.

After the second number, I emailed the "caller" and said "what do you think would happen if I yelled Bingo right now. Really loud? Cause we all know that I can do loud." She emailed back "I'm almost prepared to dare you." The boss emailed back that she was afraid what would happen. Well, I never got the chance, cause three numbers later, someone emailed BINGO and the game was over. Yeah -- five numbers pulled and that chick won a prize. Emails shot back and forth about how Radiology was taking over the afternoon wins, and we have been warned, to which the winner yelled "don't be hatin'".

I, being me, emailed a strike sign that said "Strike! Unfair Labor Practices." Cause our department never wins anything. Mainly cause we're never here when anything goes on, but hey, let's bingo at night for a change. To the point where I had to swipe the boss' cards, cause they didn't give me any -- cause we're never here when anything happens. And hey, the boss is a Jehovah's Witness, so she can't gamble anyway.

Other than the gamble she takes, working with me, that is.

And so, in honor of Customer Service week, and the bingo hall atmosphere -- where sometimes the sounds go like this: "B7, Code Blue, O73, Call the transplant team, be quiet, I only have one number left call the priest on call BINGO" -- here's a cute vintage Bingo shirt coming to you straight from drob50spurs, on ebay. Bingo winnings not included.

Thursday, October 04, 2007

Could this be the magic?


I have a magic butt. Yep, that's right. I have maximized my gluteii.

Most women have this magic too, but maybe they don't know it, so I'm spreading the word. It doesn't happen until one gets married, and exponentiates greatly upon the birth of children.

Case in point, the morning magic butt: I lay in bed for a while after I wake up. I hate mornings, so I delay vertical movement for as long as possible. This means that I delay it until my bladder, sagging a bit from the birth of three children plus some extra luggage, screams for mercy. Not a creature is stirring in the house. The place is like a morgue. Like a morgue, that is, until my magic butt decides to get up, at which point I will be lucky to make it to the bathroom without swimming. At the exact point at which vertical movement begins, someone (and it doesn't matter who) runs into the bathroom, locks the door, and starts showering. Or the husband magically appears out of nowhere with the newspaper, which means that I'm not getting in that bathroom till I'm floating.

Another case in point: the evening magic butt. I am sitting on the couch, watching TV. Maybe I've watched half a football game (ok, well, I'm not WATCHING the football game, but it's on, cause I'm a supportive wife who pretends to watch the game while hubby fumes about the score), and I suddenly decide to get up to answer nature's call. The magic butt strikes again, because the minute I start to get up to go to the bathroom, again, someone flies in there and starts running the bathwater.

And you know, I'm sorry, but when the 13yo ds decides to take a bath, it's a miracle. And I don't interfere with miracles.

But I can't take long baths like the teenaged son, because the magic butt intervenes. This is one that every mother can relate to. The family is calm. Hubby's half asleep in front of the TV. Boys are playing video games, and dd is chatting it up with her friends. What better time to take a nice bath, one would think? Yeah, right.

The minute my naked butt hits that tub, the knocking on the door starts. I have learned, over the course of time, to lock the door, to keep them at bay, but that doesn't stop the high octane knocking. "What are you doing in there? I need to pee. When are you gonna be outta there? Is my brush in there?" The list goes on and on, but let's just say that there isn't so much family togetherness since Christmas morning as when my butt hits the tub.

The bedtime magic butt is different. Say I've been "watching" the game with the husband. Say that the husband has been asleep since the third quarter. Say that I have a good book to read, so I decide that I'm going to go read in bed. I go in, brush my teeth, get jammies on, turn the lamp over the bed on, and magically, when my butt hits the bed, the hubby shows up, crawls in the bed and says "when are you gonna turn that light out? I'm trying to sleep."

Every time. Without fail.

And so, in honor of my magical bootiness, here's a couple of pretties, to show off the magic, from some of my favorite sellers:

This lace 20s confection is droolworthy, and comes to you from Dorothea's Closet. I've loved this one since I first laid eyes on it -- and may've even blogged about it before but tough, you have to look at it, because I love it. No way my magic will fit in it, so someone buy it -- it's luscious! And whilst you are visiting her website, look at that Ceil Chapman on the homepage. It deserves a blog of its own.

The wonderful purple Sarah Whitworth corset dress at the top of the page is from Vintage A-Peel , who has all that's fabulous in vintage on the other side of the big pond. Here's her take on this one, when I asked her to show me something that makes a butt look great: "Great is probably a matter of opinion, whether you're trying to maximise or minimise, but personally I love this dress for celebrating the posterior by decorating it with a big ol' ruffle waterfall!"

And not to be outdone, here's a great 50s bubble dress from
Fast Eddie's Retro Rags. When Kim showed up with her reasons on why this was great, I had to include it. I have a similar one in my store, in green (with no bow), but never thought of it like Kim did: "It has a HUGE butt bow and full circle bubble skirt-- Nothing more flattering to an ass, than to completely hide it!"
That is, unless your ass is magical. Like mine.

Monday, August 27, 2007

I feel pretty, oh so pretty.........

Yep, I've been gone for a while. Life shows up, as they say, and I've been working, working, working. Oh, and sent the eldest off to school, started the next one in the community college here, and generally been running around like a chicken with my head cut off.

But yeah, sometimes I find something that just MUST be shared. We're still in the summer lull: no LOST yet (till February, then don't call me on Wednesday nights), no Dancing with the Stars (though I may have to boycott cause Joey didn't win -- damn those 13yos who voted for Apolo), and Project Runway isn't back yet -- though I think it's starting soon.

Generally, I've been in entertainment withdrawal. Till Saturday night, when dh and I went to a 70s disco party down the street. It's an annual thing, with a different theme every year. This year it was Studio 732, with disco digs, complete with a cage to dance in. DH went as a pimp, complete with platform boots, polyester pants, a disco shirt (repro, but it was the best I could do, and it was great), and gold chains. And yeah, he got in the cage for the first time during "Macho Man." With several video cameras going all around him.

Yep. He's shy.

By the end of the night, he was in the cage with 3 or 4 other women -- all from our church, in various states of tipsy. It was hilarious. One of them chased him around all night, trying to get him to dance with her. End of the night comes and she tries to lay one on him, in front of me and several others. He turned his head and she got him closer to the ear, then said "hey, call me sometime, I love to dance." Heads turned and they were all looking at me.

I just shrugged and said "he goes home with me," while the dh kissed his ring. He is, after all, taking me to Alaska in ten days. How can you NOT love him?

And if you need to FIND Alaska on a map, please do not ask this girl. Cause she, as a US American, has no clue. Just tell her to stand in the corner, look pretty, and for God's sake, don't talk:



But if you really DO want to know where the US is on a map, check out this map dress from Morning Glorious, on ebay. Maybe the US is on your left boob, but at least you'll never forget where it is.

Sunday, July 29, 2007

Rubber babies.........not



We are preparing to send our oldest off to college. What an odd feeling it is, sitting in freshman orientation, realizing that I'm actually old enough to have a child in college. And what a disturbing feeling it is to think that I'm old enough to have a child who would DO some of the things I did in college.

::makes mental note to buy hair color::

Oye. Well, the boy is pretty laid back, and other than a couple of dates with an enigmatic girl named Nikki several years back, hasn't tested the water with the ladies lately. So imagine my surprise when the dd complained that she "didn't see a single hot college guy" when we went to freshman orientation. Of course, she happened to be in a snit that day, and spent most of the time in the car, fuming about being bored, so it's no surprise that she thought the pickins were slim. The hot college guys weren't in the parking lot, of course. They were in orientation, learning the ins and outs of higher learning, aka: the parties are at ISU.

I almost drove off the road when the ds said "well, I saw me some honeys." When I asked him if he had actually spoken to said honeys, he replied "a few," and I almost passed out at the wheel.

The kid never speaks. I guess he's been waiting for some honeys to come along.

So I mentioned in conversation at some point in his "you're going to college, don't get drunk and end up in a coma or I'll fill your iPod with 5,000 country music songs and tell the nurses to play it louder than the ventilator" speech, that he needs to be cautious and wear a raincoat if he decides to do anything crazy with the ladies.

So I thought I'd show off a few condom fashions, just to keep it light. The first one might not be made of condoms, I don't know, but it looks like it, and the other ones definitely are. Cause you always want to carry a spare.

Saturday, July 28, 2007

Children of the Yarn

You know, we all wore things in childhood that we swore would scar us for life. Remember Ralphie, in A Christmas Story? He and his brother had to wear those huge snowsuits. They were so big that his little brothers arms stuck straight out from his body, because he didn't have room to bring them down.

I remember those snowsuits. We HATED those snowsuits. They were VERY warm, but man oh man.......you couldn't move in them. And what do you do in snow? You move: sledding, snowball fights, and snow angels all require movement. My kids never wore those huge snowsuits.

But the knitted outfits shown here, patterns from a 1960's McCalls magazine, are the stuff nightmares are made of. These children are in therapy now, I'm sure. They look like a cross between something from a Stephen King novel and a Freddy Krueger movie. Parents who actually knitted these disasters have some 'splainin to do.

I'll have nightmares tonight, just looking at them. But then again, putting a boy in that little cardigan sweater isn't a whole lot better.

NOT for sale on ebay, unless you did a lot of digging around to find it. After all, everything really can be found on ebay eventually, but if you spent the time required to actually find this godawful thing, call me. I have a good therapist's phone number that I'd love to share with you.

Thursday, July 26, 2007

Doggie Bag

So, dh's play is this weekend. Studying for weeks, driving me nuts, but he's ready to roll. And so is the dog, who is the animal star.

The dog and his trainer, aka the dd, had to go to dress rehearsal tonight. DD had to work, so I put him in the car, and ran over to pick her up, then take her to practice. I pull into the parking lot, honk for her, and look down, only to find the idiot dog vomiting. Straight into my purse. All over my credit cards, wallet, money, and the Starbucks card that I'm charging up for ds to take to school next month.

Oh yeah, it was a really happy moment. I yelled at dd to come fast with towels, and she comes out with three paper towels. That was NOT gonna handle the fountain that came outta this animal, cause it was all over the car, too. Vesuvius, she should've named him, but no, she named him Peekaboo. That's a game I will never play with him, cause he'd probably be vomiting when I look at him.

We call him Boo, which is the mild version of what I shouted at him, or at dd, when I told her to go and get a REAL towel. I dropped them off at church, then went home and tried to clean up the credit cards -- the wallet and purse are history, cause I don't care how desperate I am, I'm not carrying around a purse that was once full of dog vomit.

And it's really hard for me to find a purse. Usually dh or ds finds one for me. DD laments the fact that I won't buy a "cute" purse. It's function I look for, and when that's how you fly, you have to take a man along to find the right one. DS has picked out two for me. The first time I had him help, he was about five. "Mommy, what do you want to get?" I told him what I wanted, and he came back with the perfect purse in about three minutes flat. "Wow, baby, that was fast. Why did you pick that one," I asked.

"It was the color of poop," said the boy.

So yeah, poop, vomit, whatever, that's what my doggie bags are made of. And now I'm gonna have to shop for another one, so of course, I went online. Found this lovely vintage beaded bag with jeweled frame, coming to you from rozjantiques, on ebay. Go grab it now. Since my purses have to be the color of bodily fluids, so this one isn't gonna work.

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Travellin' on...............

I'm ready for a vacation. I had eight days off a week or two ago, but that didn't count. I work part time, and the way I did my schedule, I didn't have to use any vacation time, so by MY definition, it wasn't a vacation, it was just a bunch of days off strung up together.

Our vacations are never boring. Last year, dh and I went to Vegas for the weekend and got evacuated from Hoover Dam, taken down somewhere where the public isn't allowed. A mission trip that we took together several years ago meant that half the missionaries went down - hard - with the flu. Our Panama Canal cruise got waylaid by someone who was deathly ill, so they turned the ship around and went back to Panama to drop him off. Right at the dinner hour. We saw the whole thing from the window by our table.

Add to that that on the same cruise, ds17 ripped his knee out in Aruba, and yeah, we really can be disaster magnets. But we do love to travel.

On our first cruise together -- we won't count the VERY first one, when we were 24 or so, where the hubby and his friends tried to see how much stuff they could put in their room before the staff yelled at them. They ended up with plants from the hallway and all sorts of things, and nothing was ever said. That we remember. But that would require being sober, and I dont' think there was a lot of sobriety on that cruise...........anyway, our first cruise together was supposed to be to Cozumel. However, Hurricane Michelle had different plans for us, and we ended up not going to any of our ports, and went out in the Atlantic to just basically idle.

What the heck did I care? They made my bed. They fed me food that I didn't have to cook. I watched some really good movies --- including Moulin Rouge, which is one of my favorites now. Yeah, there was some rain and wind, but when you're on a huge ship with the man you love, no kids or work, and you're on a string of winning trivia contests, who the heck cares?

So yeah, we're heading off to Alaska in September -- no kids, no work, and hopefully no hurricane -- to belatedly celebrate our 20th anniversary. And as long as they are making my bed and cooking my food, that ship can go wherever it wants. On the 25th, we're going to Paris. You might want to warn the French that we're coming.

And so, in honor of our travel by plane, train, boat, or automobile, here's a cute novelty print travel themed hanky, from pinky-a-gogo, on ebay. I think next time we'll travel by ice cream truck!

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

The Urban Chicken

My dd is a modern Dr Doolittle. Animals just know to come here. I will go out for an hour, and come home to a dog sitting on the back porch, waiting expectantly for the dd to arrive and care for them. One time it was a little Shih Tzu from up the block. I didn't recognize him, but of course the dd did. His name was Amadeus, and when we called his owner, she said "thank God, I was sitting here saying the Hail Mary, hoping he'd come back."

So it should be of no surprise that now the birds know where we are. DD called me at work and said that she'd found a bird in the backyard. It was a pigeon with a broken wing, which she promptly called the Urban Chicken. Cornered it and got him to hop into a cat carrier, and when her brother tried to pet him, she said "don't touch him, you'll get the bird flu." Serious as a judge, she was. Oye.

Well, we have two dogs and two cats, so our house is not exactly a haven for birds, so she decided to take it to work, cause she works at the vet. Apparently, one of the girls there used to work on a chicken farm, so the dd figured if the vet wouldn't know how to fix an urban chicken, the co-worker would. Took it in, dropped it by the door, and told her co-worker, "go look, there's a chicken over there," to which the co-worker responded, "that's no chicken, that's a pigeon." "Nope," says the dd, "that's an Urban Chicken.

Well, they couldn't fix her, but they recommended a bird rescue who could. She called, and arranged for her to bring him up to For the Birds, a bird rescue run by a delightful couple from the UK. We drove up there and found a porch full of fledglings in cages, owls and hawks in large cages in the yard, and a kitchen literally full of birdlings of all sizes -- including some who didn't even have feathers. These people are truly bird angels. So the Urban Chicken was dropped off there, to be delivered later to a pigeon keeper nearby, should he not be able to go back to the wild.

Two weeks later, we come home to a tiny little robin, hopping around on the ground. After consulting with the bird rescue, we left well enough alone, made sure he got fed by his mama for a day or two, then off he flew, to wherever birds fly to. And so, in honor of the bird rescue, here's a wonderful Patriotic Bird Dress, from Dorothea's Closet, on ebay. Perfect for July, and for when the government arrives, to report the first case of bird flu ever gotten from an Urban Chicken.

Friday, June 29, 2007

I beg your pardon.......

I've spent two days this week with my new cleaning lady -- ok, I will call her cleaning "lady" cause it seems weird to call her my cleaning girl, but she's half my age. A sweetie who is a workhorse, and not afraid of a big, big challenge. My house.

I don't think I ever realized how much room our house had, till everything was put away. Mind you, when I say put away, I mean it, because I may not find some things for months. But hey, it's definitely a HUGE, huge improvement. She even cleaned the garage (with me) and the hubby's workshop (NOT with me). She's my new favorite person.

My house isn't always a pit, but I've been working overtime lately - hence the lack of posts here -- and it's truly gotten out of control. I've always said that I don't want a museum house, and have no fear of that, trust me. However, I don't want one that Niecie Nash wants to visit, either -- or those crazy British/Scottish women who walk around your house with gloves on, swabbing all the surfaces.

I'm sure that we have several new life forms here, but I don't want anyone finding them till I get the trademark paperwork done. I'm trying to figure out what to name it -- Utter Chaositum, perhaps?

But hey, there was nothing in our vows about cleaning. So, after twenty years, I beg your pardon, I never promised you a rose garden. Which brings me to this little pretty. One of the loveliest lovelies I've seen, thus far this summer, offered to you by Venus Wears Vintage, on ebay.

Monday, June 11, 2007

Teach your children well

Well, ds17 found out today that he got accepted to the school of his choice, so he is definitely headed off to college come fall. I'm happy for him -- he's happy. "Psyched," as he puts it. This boy never, ever gets psyched about anything. Matter of fact, I tell him all the time that he's only a step or two away from being autistic, but that's how he rolls.

And hubby today started rehearsals for his newest play, "Cheaper by the Dozen," where he plays the father. Other than not envisioning him as the character, an overly tall, rather portly man with a heart condition, of which he is none, I think he's perfect for the part. Heck, the guy loves efficiency -- insists upon it, in fact -- and my hubby borders on OCD, most days. The dad in the play is a homeschooling dad, so I guess that works too.

But no, we do not have 12 children. Matter of fact, the hubby told me, shortly after I found out we were expecting ds17 that he planned to father five children. "Yep," say he, "gonna father me FIIIIIVE children." (He said this as we were having a leisurely day, sleeping in on a weekday -- I remember it well, because once the kids are born, there ARE no leisurely days sleeping in. "Who are you gonna father those children with, dear," I replied. "My wife," says he. "Oh, haven't met her yet, huh?" I said.

After the third one was born, he realized the insanity of his thoughts, and had the final solution that put an end to any hope of having anything cheaper by the dozen, the baker's dozen, or anything more than a multiple of three.

So yeah, I guess he can't relate to the character, as far as sheer numbers are concerned, but he can relate to the homeschool angle, so he's got a start. The poor girl playing his wife has no idea what's coming though. I may have to call her and teach her a thing or two about how to be a wife in the house of Utter chaos. And trust me, there is nothing efficient about it. But after almost 20 years, I'm still psyched about it.

Or is it psycho? I get the two confused.

And so, in honor of teachers at home and not, here's a very pretty pink plaid cotton Edwardian dress, from Dorothea's Closet, on ebay. It'd probably be scandalous for a teacher to wear something this pretty, back in the day, but hey, Ang will teach you a thing or two about beautiful vintage.

Sunday, May 20, 2007

You can dance if you want to

My husband is quite the dancer. I've probably mentioned that I rent him out for parties, cause he's sure to get it rockin. He had two years of ballroom dance lessons when he was a kid, and it shows, cause the man has a groove.

I like to dance, but he puts me to shame. If I was going to dance with him regularly, I would have to become an alcoholic, cause I have to have a glass of wine in me, or it just doesn't work well. Anymore, I don't have to dance with him every time and probably wouldn't even try, so I tend to sit some out and just let him work the crowd. Keeps the ladies happy.

So, we went to a wedding reception last night for a friend of ours. He got married a month or so ago, in Key West. I didn't think the guy danced at all, cause he once turned me down at a Barry Manilow concert (yes, you CAN rock at Barry Manilow!), but he did dance with the new wife. DJ started the music and yep, the Dan Show started, and hubby got his groove goin on. He even got hit on by some Indian guy who none of us know. But oh well, dh loves to dance, so he doesn't care who joins in.

I couldn't get the kids to dance at first. they got bored pretty quickly and wanted to go home. Typical, cause if I catch them lettin' loose at home, they immediately stop. I tell them all the time that they need to let the groove loose, but they just refuse. I tell them that curbing the groove can be dangerous to their social development, but hey, I'm just the mom and they don't listen.

So last night, ds12's best friend was there. That kid WORKED it. He was having dance offs with the dh, and really having a great time. Next thing you know, ds12 was out there, then dd. That's when the groove ripped loose and the wildness started. Ended up that they were begging to stay, and having dance offs of their own. We had a great time, and they talked about it the whole way home.

They can't wait to go to another wedding, so if you know someone close to Indy who's getting married soon, let me know. We'll bring Utter Chaos to you, at no charge. Well, except the cake.

I prefer white cake, please. And 80s dance music -- cause it evokes a lotta memories, and a lotta groove. And yeah, in honor of Sir Dancealot, here's a cute little red square dance dress, from Wildswans Vintage, on the bay.

Thursday, May 17, 2007

Home is where the school is

Yeah, our kids are homeschooled. No, they aren't homeschool "freaks," as the dd calls them. No denim jumpers here. We're so far removed from the "normal" homeschoolers that we should probably be excommunicated. But yeah, they're homeschooled, and they don't seem any the worse for the wear. (I'm a different story.)

They did decide once that they might want to go to school, cause ds (then 11, now 17) wanted to "meet chicks." Never mind homework, he just thought he needed to meet some women. Want to go to school? No problem! Off we went to tour the place. The school had entire solar systems hanging from every ceiling -- and we had our own hanging in the dining room, so the kids felt right at home. Also, this happened to be a school where their friends went, so when ds (then 6) saw his best friend in class, the best friend headed our way, looking very confused, and said "are you here to pick me up?" DS said "no, I'm JOINING here!" To which the person touring us around said "oh nonono, you're only visiting."

The woman had issues.

Things went from bad to worse with the school Nazis, who were obviously anti homeschooling, and seemed angry that my first grader could actually read and do math. When we left, ds12 said "well, I'd say we have pretty much a zero chance of getting into THAT school." I agreed, and it wasn't a bad thing, cause those people were nutty. It was a magnet school, so yes, the older kids did need to have approval to get in. They had to take the younger one if he wanted in, but when they offered, we declined.

When I asked dd later what she thought as we toured the place, she said "Mom, those kids are trapped." Pretty profound stuff, coming from a 10yo.

So yeah, they are trapped here with a perimenopausal mother, but we like each other pretty well, so it's all good. And so, in honor of those whacko public school crazies, here's a wonderful 50s solar system novelty print dress, from marie92001, on ebay.

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

Jethro Tulle


Holy cannoli, did I get a belly laugh tonight. My dh loves to the the Jumble. You know, the puzzle in the newspaper, where you have to unscramble the letters to create a five or six letter word? Drives me nuts, cause he can do it so fast, most days.

Sometimes he gets stuck though, which gives me some satisfaction because, although I rock at crosswords and the like, and can hold my own on sudoku, I am horrible at the jumble. Every once in a while I get it, but most days, I'm awful. It's a rare day when the old guy gets stuck, and he will almost always pull it out in the end.

So not ten minutes ago, the big guy is sitting next to me, doing the Jumble. He turned to me and said "is TULLE a word?" This, of course, gave the wife a giggle. I looked at him and said "you don't sell vintage clothing, do you, dear?" To which he responded, "oh, I forgot. But that reminded me, so forget it, I know what it is."

::scribbles TULLE into his puzzle::

Yep, I had to go there, cause I knew it would be priceless -- "what IS tulle, dear?" To which he looked at me condescendingly over those cheater glasses he wears (5 bucks at Dollar General) and says "It's an embroidered undergarment made from the mid 30s to 1949, marketed in Scandinavia."

OMG I thought I was gonna bust a gut. He looked innocent (that's the look that starts right before the BS does) and said "well, that's what I was always told, so what were YOU told?" "Honey, do you know what a tutu is?" At this point, I got out my shovel, cause he can dig it DEEP when he wants to. His response: "oh yes, the tutu, a ballerina's skirt, named for the French word for tulle, which is tou tou, to make a girl frou frou, or something like that."

I'm drowning in his BS most days, but this one certainly did give me a laugh for the night. If he only knew how much tulle is in our house -- but hey, he thinks on his feet, so I gotta give him credit. If you have a better idea for what tulle REALLY is, let me know, cause I think he did pretty good -- even if he IS totally wrong. But he's cute, so I'll keep him. :-)

And since blue is the big guy's favorite color, I found yet another pretty blue tulle vintage prom dress,from Pinkys Auction House, just to show him what tulle really is.

Friday, May 04, 2007

Howling at the moon to cure what ails you

DD went to prom tonight. Homeschool prom. Decided not to go with a guy, so she took her good friend. They're sophomores this year, so it's a good warm up for junior year, when most kids go, and to test the waters with no pressure. If there's no guy involved, you can just have fun.

And that's what they did. And very little of it had to do with the prom itself. Went and got a cute dress, in turquoise blue. Got the hair done, the nails done, then had the matching bag, shoes and earrings. They looked gorgeous. Beautiful, really.

Dropped 'em off with the only worry being the dress code, because there was discussion about no plunging necklines, and dd's dress showed off the girls rather more than she was comfortable with, and her friend's dress was probably a little more than 3 inches above the knee. No problem though, they went in like Flynn and home I went.

2 hours later, a rather panicked voice saying "come get us NOW." DD wouldn't tell me why, just wanted to go home immediately. Wardrobe malfunction? Male malfunction? She refused to say. Got there to pick 'em up and home we headed. Turned out that it was just like the public schools, with a huge clicque of kids who all knew each other, all had dates, catty gurls who were text messaging each other (yeah, in the middle of PROM), and a dance floor the size of a postage stamp, with 100 bobbing kids on it. They talked to a bunch of people who wouldn't talk back. Basically, they couldn't wait to leave.

Loved the dressing up part, didn't care for the prom.

So, the mother came up with a plan. Rather than end up with a carpy end to the whole night, we went and just did some random stuff. DD threw on a sweatshirt, over her glittery dress, and we went to get gas. The girls went into Shell and paid, whilst everyone stared at the pretty girls paying for gas, looking like they were ready for a red carpet. Then we went to get random stuff at CVS: ice cream, envelopes, candy, condoms, and milk, among other things. (No, they don't need the condoms. I'll probably give them to ds's best friend as a graduation gift. We have a history of giving each other weird gifts, and who knows, they might come in handy, should he ever actually get even remotely close to a girl.) Then we headed to Blockbuster, where we rented a bunch of random DVDs. "Grease" was playing on the TVs in there, so we ended up dancing through the aisles singing every song from the soundtrack whilst people stared at us. Then we took off toward home, barking, shouting and making weird noises at anyone we saw on the street, including three teenagers who almost went down when they heard the barking.

Drove by the infamous Andrew Day's house several times, with dd yelling "Andrew" in a long, pining sob, each time we went buy, then cackling like a crazy woman. It was priceless.

So yeah, I think I will patent my new invention. The cure for teenaged angst. Just take 'em out and do random stuff involving weird things people over 25 would never do. It'll cure 'em, at least for a little while.

And so, in honor of prom is this Blue Tulle 50s Prom Dress, from Vintage R Us, on ebay.

Monday, April 23, 2007

Map where we're goin'

My two teenagers barely speak to each other. They have very little in common, and don't really do much to acknowledge each other (other than the nastygram for her borther dd left in the upstairs bathroom, on "how to share a bathroom with a girl" -- that's for another day).

When they were little, they used to play together all the time. I went in their room one day when they were probably 3 and 4 and there they were, sitting on the bed, intently studying a map that they'd found somewhere. When I asked what they were doing, they informed me, quite seriously, that they were playing "map where we're goin'." Turned out that they had made up a game wehre they imagined a place, looked at the map on how to get there, then narrated the whole trip.

I got to hear how they got to Toys R Us: what the drive was like, what they looked at in the aisles of the store, and what they brought home with them. They went into great detail on what everything looked like, "did you see...", back and forth, on and on. It was adorable.

I've tried to teach each of the kids how to read a map, so they learn to navigate properly. Hubby's version of navigating is studying maps, cause he loves them, then telling me what exit I needed, about half a mile after I passed it. DS17 once was able to navigate me through downtown Chicago, on 4th of July weekend: "turn left, Mom. Go right. Elvis."

What in the world?

Turned out that yep, Elvis was standing on the corner of Michigan and something, in a white fringed jumpsuit. Never mind that he'd been dead for 15 years at that point -- we saw Elvis, and when that happens, you know you aren't in Indianapolis anymore.

Nowadays, they are both driving, and learning how to navigate around town by themselves. They're not doing a bad job, either. Must be all that map reading, at a tender age.

And so, in honor of my darling children, two ships who pass in the bathroom, and their "map where we're goin'" days, here is a great op art skirt, from Vintage Vagabond Wear and Wares.

Sunday, April 22, 2007

Let's (not) Spend the Night Together

Hubby's in Florida this weekend, with two of the kids. He went to visit his parents, who are celebrating their 50th anniversary later this week.

Fifty years is a long time to be sharing a bed.

I'm sleeping great with the old guy away. I don't think I was never meant to share a bed, but haven't been able to talk the hubby out of it, for some reason. Our sleep habits are completely different, requiring me to learn Defensive Sleeping 101 very early on.

I love the guy -- I just can't sleep with him. He is so restless that there are many days that I wake up and the covers are completely upside down from how they started: the sheet is on top, then the blanket, and the bedspread is touching skin. Sometimes the sheet and blanket are on the floor, and we're just under the bedspread. How he does that, I'll never know, but he does.

I stay up a lot later than he does, too, so when I come in to bed, he is sprawled all over the place. I tell him to move over, to which his response is "I'm a big man, honey." And my response is "and I'm a big girl, so move your butt over." He does --- usually taking most of the covers with him.

DH's favorite sleep position involves putting his hands behind his head, like he's looking up at the stars. Well, I'm the one who has SEEN stars, when he brings those hands up, because he has whacked me in the head/eye/ear more times than I can count. I now sleep with my hands up over my head -- in supplication to the Goddess of Sleep that I get through one night without getting clocked. It's also a position that keeps me from getting ahacked in the head/eye/ear by his elbow -- something that happened many a time before I learned how to protect myself.

Just about the time I think it's safe to go into dreamland, he will roll over to face me, bring his knee up, and knee butt me right in the lower back. That HURTS, plus one has to keep one's balance, because with as close to the edge as I usually am, I have actually been kneed right out of the bed a few times -- including once when I was seven months pregnant. The man has no mercy.

Sleeping together isn't so romantic when you need body armor to do it. I've tried to talk him into twin beds like Ricky and Lucy, but he's not buying it. So I told him, if anything happens to him, I am NOT getting remarried. I love the man, but I will never, ever share the covers with anyone again.

DH, being male, said "you mean to tell me that you are never going to have sex again?"

::sigh:: I didn't say THAT.

I'd just find me someone young and grateful, who goes home at the end of the night.

And so, if you want to look great as you practice Defensive Sleeping 101, here's a great 30s bias cut embroidered nightgown from that store that is surely named after me, Old & Beautiful, on Main Street. The slippery satin will help your aerodynamics as you practice Defensive Sleeping 101. Covers not included.

Monday, April 16, 2007

Vintage Terrorist Part II -- Osama bin Lingerie

Well, I'm back at it again -- I'm once again a Vintage Terrorist. Most jobs come with a job description, but not this one. I've kind of had to make it up as I go along.

Some of you may remember my first days as a Vintage Terrorist, when the dd and I got thrown out of the library, with our model and her agent. (If you missed it, it's in the archived posts.) Well, this time I managed to start mayhem without even leaving the house. I'm getting GOOD!

I came across some nice Miss Elaine peignoirs last week. Gorgeous stuff, that Miss Elaine lingerie. But I had four different ones, with four different labels. I've got a small collection of ME (LOL -- that looks funny), and I've always wondered about how to date it. Thanks to my dear friend Michelle, from Dollhouse Vintage, there is a nice Vanity Fair label history on myspace. It's a gorgeous page, as is all of Michelle's work, so please be sure to check it out.

Well, me being me, I decided that it'd be nice to do my part for lingerie history. My second grade report card did, after all, say that I am a curious girl. Mind you, doing my part for lingerie history would NOT involve me wearing it -- actually, me wearing it could be the end of the world as we know it -- and no one would feel fine. What does one do, when one wants to find out about the company? One emails the company.

That's exactly what I did, and after a couple of emails back and forth, I was told that I would NOT be allowed to have that information "because we don't know what you're going to do with it?" WHAT? I guess now I'm Osama bin Lingerie.

And so, in thinking really hard about it for the past few days, I've
come up with the top ten evil things I could or could not have done with Miss Elaine's history, had I actually been given ONE IOTA of information from the lingerie Nazi.

1. I couldn't have passed it on to al Quaeda, cause everyone knows that they wear Formfit Rogers Pucci, and that's why those guys are so difficult to find.
2. I couldn't have used it to get my husband to wear ME, cause the last time he wore my lingerie was at my bridal shower (another story for another day).
3. I could've passed it along to Vince aka Emanuelle (see my Raspberry Beret post, in the archive), however, I have witnessed the fact that Vince is more of a Jockey bikini guy. In red.
4. Guess I could've passed it along to the guy who emailed me when I had my rhumba panty/bra set up a couple of weeks ago, telling me that his "clients" like to see him in frilly girly stuff, and did I think they'd like it? Needless to say, I didn't respond to that one. Even I have my limits.
5. Maybe they didn't want me to have it, cause it has something to do with the numbers on LOST. Hey wait -- maybe the monster is really Miss Elaine! It is, after all, always blowing smoke. Gonna have to ponder that for a while.
6. Maybe I would actually discover the Miss Elaine's label that says "may contain nuts." The one that they NEVER intended to come out of the closet. The one that could lead to the real identity of Miss Elaine: Mr Alejandro.
7. Maybe I would actually find out that the Roswell UFO incident involved aliens who were, indeed, clad in beautifully embroidered peignoirs with the embroidered ME label. Or was it the gold one? Maybe each one has its own extraterrestial meaning -- meaning I should be phoning home soon.
8. With enough research, I'm sure that I would find photos of Curt Cobain wearing ME onstage. Or Courtney Love. I'm actually sure that is a FACT that I could prove, with a bit 'o research.
9. And perhaps, most of all, they are afraid that I will find out the real answer to the great mystery of life: If a man is standing in the forest speaking and there is not a woman there to hear him, is he still wrong? Answer: not if both of them are wearing Miss Elaine. But that's not possible, because when the man emailed the company, asking if they had his size, he was told that they couldn't give that information, because they didn't know what he would do with it.

Rendering the man, and my theory, wrong.

So, ME angered me, and I chose against featuring one of their lovelies, because pretty is as pretty does -- and ME wasn't pretty to me. So, I am featuring a Triumph International swimsuit from my own collection (yes, it's for sale, just email me), because Triumph International makes some darn lovely lingerie of their own, without, once again, turning me into a Vintage Terrorist. I do that well enough on my own.