Okay, just because it's too wrong not to share:
Last post: SPRING IS COMING.
Forecast for tonight: 3-7 inches of SNOW (YES, the FLUFFY, WET, COLD, WINTER-ESQUE white stuff) for tomorrow.
Number of people registered to run the "Shamrock Shuffle" 8K in downtown Chicago tomorrow morning: 35,000
Number of idiots running in the snow and slush, thinking they were going to be running in shorts and tanks: 10,000
Number of smartypants home in bed (just my guess): 25,000
Me? Snug as a bug in a rug. Screw spring. I'm sleeping in :)
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Spring is Coming!!!!
And here, my best signs that Spring is actually coming to Chicago:
1. The boiler located underneath my unit does not run from 1:00 a.m. to 4:00 a.m. (interittently turning off every three minutes or so, then back on) all night long.
2. The Lake is no longer covered by icebergs, as far as the eye can see.
3. I can't leave my Diet Coke outside the back door for 5 minutes and have something that is ice cold. Dammit.
4. I actually have to use moisturizer on my arms, because there's a chance someone will see them and run, screaming at my dry skin. (No risk when it's cold as we Nannok of the North ourselves all winter here.)
5. The running gear bag no longer contains YakTrax, which are designed to grip the snow like chains on a tire. Dont' get me wrong, it doesn't mean I've put them away. But they're no longer "in the bag".
6. There's a serious increase in the postings on Craigslist's "Missed Connections" site, as people leave their homes and start looking for a lil lovin. It's spring. People have hope. Also, there has been a slight increase in the amount of men viewing my profile on Match.com. Note that hope doesn't necessarily mean ACTION.
7. David Letterman got married. Seems more like a "hell freezing over" moment, but hey, I'll take it as a sign of spring.
8. All the dog poo that people left in the snow during the winter is now lying on the ground, melting. It's lovely.
9. At least once a week, I wake up, and open all the windows without checking the temperature. Thirty minutes later, I'm a shivering mess. But at least I'm awake!!!
10. People are grilling. Really, is there any better sign than grilling? I think not!!!!
1. The boiler located underneath my unit does not run from 1:00 a.m. to 4:00 a.m. (interittently turning off every three minutes or so, then back on) all night long.
2. The Lake is no longer covered by icebergs, as far as the eye can see.
3. I can't leave my Diet Coke outside the back door for 5 minutes and have something that is ice cold. Dammit.
4. I actually have to use moisturizer on my arms, because there's a chance someone will see them and run, screaming at my dry skin. (No risk when it's cold as we Nannok of the North ourselves all winter here.)
5. The running gear bag no longer contains YakTrax, which are designed to grip the snow like chains on a tire. Dont' get me wrong, it doesn't mean I've put them away. But they're no longer "in the bag".
6. There's a serious increase in the postings on Craigslist's "Missed Connections" site, as people leave their homes and start looking for a lil lovin. It's spring. People have hope. Also, there has been a slight increase in the amount of men viewing my profile on Match.com. Note that hope doesn't necessarily mean ACTION.
7. David Letterman got married. Seems more like a "hell freezing over" moment, but hey, I'll take it as a sign of spring.
8. All the dog poo that people left in the snow during the winter is now lying on the ground, melting. It's lovely.
9. At least once a week, I wake up, and open all the windows without checking the temperature. Thirty minutes later, I'm a shivering mess. But at least I'm awake!!!
10. People are grilling. Really, is there any better sign than grilling? I think not!!!!
Sunday, March 22, 2009
How the Single Girls Roll
I was thinking today about the difference between single midwestern girls, and the common perception of "Single in the City". Between what Hollywood, and advertisers, and, heck, even all of our married friends, think of our "glamorous" life, and what it really looks like.
I'm not sure, when Hollywood drafts up its idea of how we roll, it really has a good idea. Do I want to look like Kate Walsh, kiss Dr. McDreamy, and drive a ruby-red Cadillac? Oh, sure, maybe...but my life is just a tad more...well...real?
Take today. I picked up my friend up this afternoon for some serious errand running. We headed North, into the afternoon rush, and first hit Costco (yes, even I sometimes tempt the fates of Crazy and Death and North Shore Jewish Women by walking into a big-box store in Skokie on a Sunday.)
Now, in Carrie Bradshaw's world, I would have run into a handsome 40-something trying to decide between the latest Smartphone, while sporting just-perfect denim and a fine leather shoe. I would NOT have been wearing running shoes, and I most certainly would have had on some lip gloss. (Um, yeah. It's Sunday. You can guess how I looked.)
Instead, I found myself chatting up a customer at the Verizon counter, trying to find out the difference between DVR-R and DVR+R for my friend Val. That friendly customer? He told me first, not to leave my purse on the cart, because he was a cop (And no, contrary to popular opinion, music does NOT cue and the lights dim when this happens. I do, however, find myself giggling like a ten year old. It's pretty embarrassing, especially since I have on gym shoes and no lip gloss.)
After overlooking the fact that he was in sweatpants in a public place, he was actually very helpful. He went on to recommend storage solutions, (portable hard drives?), read the instructions on the DVRs, and generally chat us up. It was lovely. Mostly because he outweighed me and didn't have a ring on his finger. But it wasn't quite what Carrie goes through on a Sunday, right?
I also have a hard time imagining the conversation we had in the Toilet Paper section. Yes, you read that correctly.
Me: "What are you doing?" I asked as I approached my friend.
Friend: Muttering, punching numbers into her phone. "$18.99 divided by 15,000 sheets equals .001 cents per sheet."
Me: "But that's for the Scott stuff. It's not very nice to your ass."
Friend: "Okay, so the Charmin is how much?"
Me: "$19.99 less the $2.50 coupon, is $17.50. And there's 30 rolls with 1500 sheets per roll. So it's $17.50 divided by 7500."
Friend: "That's .002 cents per sheet."
Me: "Well, the Charmin is more expensive, but personally, I find that I use more of the cheap stuff because - well, it doesn't quite get the same coverage."
Friend, looking at me like she didn't need to know this information. "I think you use what you use, you know?"
Me: "Yeah, but really, doesn't your ass deserve the very best?"
She bought the Charmin.
But really, that wasn't the best part of the day. Next, we went to Lowe's (my friend and I). She purchased a 52" ceiling fan (which her brother is going to install next week). Then we looked for the appropriate lightbulbs (a process nearly as difficult as calculating the per sheet price of toilet paper); and then she bought the storm door that she had measured for, and we had pre-selected a few weeks back.
She also smartly picked out the thermostat that she needed (a programmable 5/2 day one) AND selected the energy-saving dimmer switch to go along with the fan.
And THEN, we loaded it all into my big ole Santa Fe. Even the 82" door!!! Two city chics. Loading up the Santa Fe. And since there weren't any magically appearing Men-Elves to help us get it into her unit, when we arrived at her condo, we hauled it up the two flights of stairs. Because we're damn good.
Now, I know Beyoncee sings about All the Single Ladies, and Shonda Rhimes writes great characters for Grey's (sometimes). And there are some great women writers out there. But this, my friends - this is what we single ladies do here. In Cincinnati today, my mom probably bent over 1,000 times (and no, she wasn't praying to the Hindu God of anything, she was just weeding her yard.
So yes, we still need brothers and friends or the occasional installer to put that door into its place. But we're the ones running that show. We measure. We haul. We lift, and we (often) drop. But we do take care of ourselves, and each other, more than you might think.
So the next time your friendly neighborhood single girl shows up for a party, or dinner, give her a little bit of credit - because she's probably running a pretty big show on her own - and, probably doing it pretty well.
Because that's how we real single girls roll.
I'm not sure, when Hollywood drafts up its idea of how we roll, it really has a good idea. Do I want to look like Kate Walsh, kiss Dr. McDreamy, and drive a ruby-red Cadillac? Oh, sure, maybe...but my life is just a tad more...well...real?
Take today. I picked up my friend up this afternoon for some serious errand running. We headed North, into the afternoon rush, and first hit Costco (yes, even I sometimes tempt the fates of Crazy and Death and North Shore Jewish Women by walking into a big-box store in Skokie on a Sunday.)
Now, in Carrie Bradshaw's world, I would have run into a handsome 40-something trying to decide between the latest Smartphone, while sporting just-perfect denim and a fine leather shoe. I would NOT have been wearing running shoes, and I most certainly would have had on some lip gloss. (Um, yeah. It's Sunday. You can guess how I looked.)
Instead, I found myself chatting up a customer at the Verizon counter, trying to find out the difference between DVR-R and DVR+R for my friend Val. That friendly customer? He told me first, not to leave my purse on the cart, because he was a cop (And no, contrary to popular opinion, music does NOT cue and the lights dim when this happens. I do, however, find myself giggling like a ten year old. It's pretty embarrassing, especially since I have on gym shoes and no lip gloss.)
After overlooking the fact that he was in sweatpants in a public place, he was actually very helpful. He went on to recommend storage solutions, (portable hard drives?), read the instructions on the DVRs, and generally chat us up. It was lovely. Mostly because he outweighed me and didn't have a ring on his finger. But it wasn't quite what Carrie goes through on a Sunday, right?
I also have a hard time imagining the conversation we had in the Toilet Paper section. Yes, you read that correctly.
Me: "What are you doing?" I asked as I approached my friend.
Friend: Muttering, punching numbers into her phone. "$18.99 divided by 15,000 sheets equals .001 cents per sheet."
Me: "But that's for the Scott stuff. It's not very nice to your ass."
Friend: "Okay, so the Charmin is how much?"
Me: "$19.99 less the $2.50 coupon, is $17.50. And there's 30 rolls with 1500 sheets per roll. So it's $17.50 divided by 7500."
Friend: "That's .002 cents per sheet."
Me: "Well, the Charmin is more expensive, but personally, I find that I use more of the cheap stuff because - well, it doesn't quite get the same coverage."
Friend, looking at me like she didn't need to know this information. "I think you use what you use, you know?"
Me: "Yeah, but really, doesn't your ass deserve the very best?"
She bought the Charmin.
But really, that wasn't the best part of the day. Next, we went to Lowe's (my friend and I). She purchased a 52" ceiling fan (which her brother is going to install next week). Then we looked for the appropriate lightbulbs (a process nearly as difficult as calculating the per sheet price of toilet paper); and then she bought the storm door that she had measured for, and we had pre-selected a few weeks back.
She also smartly picked out the thermostat that she needed (a programmable 5/2 day one) AND selected the energy-saving dimmer switch to go along with the fan.
And THEN, we loaded it all into my big ole Santa Fe. Even the 82" door!!! Two city chics. Loading up the Santa Fe. And since there weren't any magically appearing Men-Elves to help us get it into her unit, when we arrived at her condo, we hauled it up the two flights of stairs. Because we're damn good.
Now, I know Beyoncee sings about All the Single Ladies, and Shonda Rhimes writes great characters for Grey's (sometimes). And there are some great women writers out there. But this, my friends - this is what we single ladies do here. In Cincinnati today, my mom probably bent over 1,000 times (and no, she wasn't praying to the Hindu God of anything, she was just weeding her yard.
So yes, we still need brothers and friends or the occasional installer to put that door into its place. But we're the ones running that show. We measure. We haul. We lift, and we (often) drop. But we do take care of ourselves, and each other, more than you might think.
So the next time your friendly neighborhood single girl shows up for a party, or dinner, give her a little bit of credit - because she's probably running a pretty big show on her own - and, probably doing it pretty well.
Because that's how we real single girls roll.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
No, Really, It's NOT About Me!
Anyone who's grown up and wandered into the great outside world knows that there are a LOT of people who can scare you out there.
A few years back, I had the misfortune to date one of them. Sort of. He wasn't scary in the "get me a restraining order" sense - but other ways. Big ego. Total lack of accountability. Smart enough to get away with things, but not forever.
Recently, I worked for someone who exhibited some of the same tendencies. Notoriously, and unapologetically, late to every important meeting (because they were, say, getting their hair done); the need to be constantly complemented "no really, YOU'RE the best dresser ever!" (as I noted that really, she needed three more inches on those pants to compensate for the shelf on the backside).
And I think, over time, I've learned how to deal with these folks.
RUN. RUN LIKE THE WIND.
No, it's not quite that bad, but almost. Generally speaking, I refer to them as narcissists. When Psycho Boy was really done messing with my head, I spent some quality time at the local Borders, going through the American Psychological Association's DSM-IV (which lists out all the ways in which one can be certified crazy). And I found, frighteningly, that he met most of the criteria. Since then, I've been on the lookout for other dudes who fit that criteria, and I do run (well, you know me, waddle) when I see them coming.
So imagine my surprise today when I saw this article on Slate talking about whether the narcissists are to blame for the current state of Wall Street (and, frankly, Main Street). The point made is that many people claim we all became Mini-Psycho Boys (of the material variety) in the past few years, buying up everything we could, centering the world around our consumerism, etc. etc.
I'll spare you the long read, and tell you the conclusion, however, which made me feel better. We're NOT all narcissists. To really be one of those, you'd need a striking lack of empathy; a desire to make yourself much more important than you really are; and a belief that normal rules just don't apply to you.
(And I know what you're thinking - my driving DOES NOT make me a narcissist, really).
So see, don't you feel better? This economy, it's not all your fault! It's not all my fault! At least, not because you have a diagnosable pschological disorder. Now your credit card debt, that's another story :)
A few years back, I had the misfortune to date one of them. Sort of. He wasn't scary in the "get me a restraining order" sense - but other ways. Big ego. Total lack of accountability. Smart enough to get away with things, but not forever.
Recently, I worked for someone who exhibited some of the same tendencies. Notoriously, and unapologetically, late to every important meeting (because they were, say, getting their hair done); the need to be constantly complemented "no really, YOU'RE the best dresser ever!" (as I noted that really, she needed three more inches on those pants to compensate for the shelf on the backside).
And I think, over time, I've learned how to deal with these folks.
RUN. RUN LIKE THE WIND.
No, it's not quite that bad, but almost. Generally speaking, I refer to them as narcissists. When Psycho Boy was really done messing with my head, I spent some quality time at the local Borders, going through the American Psychological Association's DSM-IV (which lists out all the ways in which one can be certified crazy). And I found, frighteningly, that he met most of the criteria. Since then, I've been on the lookout for other dudes who fit that criteria, and I do run (well, you know me, waddle) when I see them coming.
So imagine my surprise today when I saw this article on Slate talking about whether the narcissists are to blame for the current state of Wall Street (and, frankly, Main Street). The point made is that many people claim we all became Mini-Psycho Boys (of the material variety) in the past few years, buying up everything we could, centering the world around our consumerism, etc. etc.
I'll spare you the long read, and tell you the conclusion, however, which made me feel better. We're NOT all narcissists. To really be one of those, you'd need a striking lack of empathy; a desire to make yourself much more important than you really are; and a belief that normal rules just don't apply to you.
(And I know what you're thinking - my driving DOES NOT make me a narcissist, really).
So see, don't you feel better? This economy, it's not all your fault! It's not all my fault! At least, not because you have a diagnosable pschological disorder. Now your credit card debt, that's another story :)
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
It's Like Dating...Only Different...
I've been searching for an analogy that accurately describes the dance between job hunter and job recruiter. Given all the different elements at play - power, intrigue, salesmanship, personal connection, and personal fulfillment - well, I couldn't help but think of dating.
Take, for instance, mystery. How much do you reveal on the first date/call? Do you tell your new recruiter up front why you left your last job after six months? Or do you let that hang until he's had the good sense to dig a little deeper? In the dating world, it's the equivalent of "so, what's the longest relationship you've been in?" If the answer is "three months", that's not necessarily something you want to reveal on Date One. (It scares them away, trust me.)
And then there's that awkward "where are we going with this?" moment. In a real relationship, you've got at least a few dates before THAT awkward conversation. Typically (not that I've got much recent experience here) asked after several glasses of wine and a particularly nice night out, when you're wondering if he's going to be around next year...
I had forgotten that, in the job hunt, this conversation - and the "what's your ideal date" conversation - comes at you fast. Like, first phone call fast. Yesterday I was speaking with a recruiter for a staffing firm, who, having seen my "diverse" background in public accounting, wanted to know "what I was looking for". And immediately I felt like I was back on Match.com, searching for Mr. Right.
"In order of priority, I'd like him to be kind, funny, intelligent, financially solvent, and - ideally - taller than me."
Oh, wait...that's the dude part.
"Actually, I'd like a job where I can use the compliance, analytical, project management, and client relationship skills I've built in ten years of consulting."
Which, in dude speak, means "I'll take any guy who is willing to date me."
As you might imagine, this is not exactly a position of power. So, I guess it's back to doing what we always do in these situations: tell the other person what you THINK they want to hear, in order to get close to what YOU want.
Ergo, for the finance guys: "I'd really like an opportunity to work in a strong team of dedicated finance professionals who are interested in making strategic recommendations, and providing good analytics to help the business unit."
Oh, and for dude speak, that would be "I'd like him to be breathing, funny, taller than me, and preferably work in Finance or Law, making more than $75,000/year."
Right. Perhaps both of these are lost causes? I'll let you know how it goes. Here's hoping it's better than the last dude in the inbox on Match.com :)
Take, for instance, mystery. How much do you reveal on the first date/call? Do you tell your new recruiter up front why you left your last job after six months? Or do you let that hang until he's had the good sense to dig a little deeper? In the dating world, it's the equivalent of "so, what's the longest relationship you've been in?" If the answer is "three months", that's not necessarily something you want to reveal on Date One. (It scares them away, trust me.)
And then there's that awkward "where are we going with this?" moment. In a real relationship, you've got at least a few dates before THAT awkward conversation. Typically (not that I've got much recent experience here) asked after several glasses of wine and a particularly nice night out, when you're wondering if he's going to be around next year...
I had forgotten that, in the job hunt, this conversation - and the "what's your ideal date" conversation - comes at you fast. Like, first phone call fast. Yesterday I was speaking with a recruiter for a staffing firm, who, having seen my "diverse" background in public accounting, wanted to know "what I was looking for". And immediately I felt like I was back on Match.com, searching for Mr. Right.
"In order of priority, I'd like him to be kind, funny, intelligent, financially solvent, and - ideally - taller than me."
Oh, wait...that's the dude part.
"Actually, I'd like a job where I can use the compliance, analytical, project management, and client relationship skills I've built in ten years of consulting."
Which, in dude speak, means "I'll take any guy who is willing to date me."
As you might imagine, this is not exactly a position of power. So, I guess it's back to doing what we always do in these situations: tell the other person what you THINK they want to hear, in order to get close to what YOU want.
Ergo, for the finance guys: "I'd really like an opportunity to work in a strong team of dedicated finance professionals who are interested in making strategic recommendations, and providing good analytics to help the business unit."
Oh, and for dude speak, that would be "I'd like him to be breathing, funny, taller than me, and preferably work in Finance or Law, making more than $75,000/year."
Right. Perhaps both of these are lost causes? I'll let you know how it goes. Here's hoping it's better than the last dude in the inbox on Match.com :)
Monday, March 16, 2009
The AARP Exit Aisle
Last week I took advantage of my underemployment status and flew to Florida to spend some time on a beach. I know, traveling while unemployed is about as financially savvy as shopping at Whole Foods with food stamps. But hey, when else was I going to have 10 days to sit on the beach, relax, and invite skin cancer to take over my pasty facade?
Not for much longer, we hope.
But I digress. It was an interesting week. I got in some beach time, some pool time, and have worked myself into a love of open lap swimming...and all in all, I dealt with my immersion into great AARP retirement center with just a mild irritation. Waiting at traffic lights? Please, come to Chicago - I'll show you waiting. Standing in line at Publix? Again, step right up (there's a reason we go nowhere without books here). Worried about the best spot on the beach, far, far away from that smoker? PLEASE! You have a beach! And water you can enter before August! What's a little smoke amongst friends???
But perhaps my funniest moment of dealing with the Senior Set came on Saturday when I flew home. As I boarded my AirTran (yes, that bucket of death) flight in Sarasota, I grinned as two septaugenarians sat down - IN THE EXIT ROW in front of me. See, on AirTran, only those who fork over an additional $20.00 can choose to sit in the exit row. I restrained myself and took my $6.00 seat in the row behind - but when these two sat down, I was having second thoughts. I mean, hadn't a hundred or so people just needed to use those exits over the wing??? Shouldn't we be putting, I don't know, people who had used their muscles this decade in those chairs???
"You do recognize that you are seated in an exit row, and you are prepared to assume the duties required of sitting here?" asked the pretty flight attendant of the three in front of me.
Someone's very Jewish father, occupying the middle seat, with his full head of hair and slight Chicago accent, held up his hand to ask her to stop - he couldn't hear her while the other overhead annoucements were going on.
I looked at the fit, 30-something next to me and we shared a laugh.
"What was that, honey?" he asked again.
She repeated her shpiel. He and his wife Delores (well, she looked like a Delores) nodded - somewhat vigorously. Clearly they knew that admitting they couldn't put their luggage over their heads, let alone hoist a 40 pound door in an emergency, would result in the sacrifice of leg room that Delores, at 5'2", really needed.
My seatmate and I just grinned, tacitly acknowledging our fate. As we settled in for the ride home, we agreed that, if necessary, we could just talk loudly during the emergency, climb over them, and help ourselves out.
And maybe that's the lesson from Florida - that when you're surrounded by crazy people, or crazy days, you just have to accept the cards you're dealt, and find a working alternative. Don't sweat, don't get freaked out, don't tailgate, don't cuss (not even with your inside voice). Just sit back, let the crazies fly their Freak Flag, and enjoy the ride.
Usually, it's a lot more fun.
Not for much longer, we hope.
But I digress. It was an interesting week. I got in some beach time, some pool time, and have worked myself into a love of open lap swimming...and all in all, I dealt with my immersion into great AARP retirement center with just a mild irritation. Waiting at traffic lights? Please, come to Chicago - I'll show you waiting. Standing in line at Publix? Again, step right up (there's a reason we go nowhere without books here). Worried about the best spot on the beach, far, far away from that smoker? PLEASE! You have a beach! And water you can enter before August! What's a little smoke amongst friends???
But perhaps my funniest moment of dealing with the Senior Set came on Saturday when I flew home. As I boarded my AirTran (yes, that bucket of death) flight in Sarasota, I grinned as two septaugenarians sat down - IN THE EXIT ROW in front of me. See, on AirTran, only those who fork over an additional $20.00 can choose to sit in the exit row. I restrained myself and took my $6.00 seat in the row behind - but when these two sat down, I was having second thoughts. I mean, hadn't a hundred or so people just needed to use those exits over the wing??? Shouldn't we be putting, I don't know, people who had used their muscles this decade in those chairs???
"You do recognize that you are seated in an exit row, and you are prepared to assume the duties required of sitting here?" asked the pretty flight attendant of the three in front of me.
Someone's very Jewish father, occupying the middle seat, with his full head of hair and slight Chicago accent, held up his hand to ask her to stop - he couldn't hear her while the other overhead annoucements were going on.
I looked at the fit, 30-something next to me and we shared a laugh.
"What was that, honey?" he asked again.
She repeated her shpiel. He and his wife Delores (well, she looked like a Delores) nodded - somewhat vigorously. Clearly they knew that admitting they couldn't put their luggage over their heads, let alone hoist a 40 pound door in an emergency, would result in the sacrifice of leg room that Delores, at 5'2", really needed.
My seatmate and I just grinned, tacitly acknowledging our fate. As we settled in for the ride home, we agreed that, if necessary, we could just talk loudly during the emergency, climb over them, and help ourselves out.
And maybe that's the lesson from Florida - that when you're surrounded by crazy people, or crazy days, you just have to accept the cards you're dealt, and find a working alternative. Don't sweat, don't get freaked out, don't tailgate, don't cuss (not even with your inside voice). Just sit back, let the crazies fly their Freak Flag, and enjoy the ride.
Usually, it's a lot more fun.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Shop Till You Drop
When I was growing up, my mom and I would wander through Cincinnati's West Side. Filled with guilted Catholics, working and middle class folks who sent their kids to schools with uniforms and nuns, shopping was a little extravagance in our world.
Don't get me wrong - it's not like we ever wanted for anything - but with three kids at home, and a sense of style that Ruby gave her, my mom had an eye for the nicest, best cut, most fashionable items on any rack - and thankfully, imparted that skill to me.
Fortunately, I never inherited her great legs, or ability to maintain a size 12, or I'd be in the poorhouse. You see, I learned to shop at the feet of the master, and to this day, both my sister and I would admit that, though we frequently don't buy exactly what we want, we always want to buy something.
I thought about that a lot this week, as I examined the overflow of clothing in my second bedroom. More closet than sleeping area, the bedroom has become a bit of a disaster zone. Frankly, Susan Lucci could be hiding out under the clothes on the bed and I wouldn't know it.
So it's with some surprise that I spent Sunday inventorying a friend's shoe and purse collection to sell it off on eBay. You'd think my selling would begin at home - but nope, I'm far more content to sell other people's fine items than my own.
The store is up and running now (you can visit it here). What I'm enjoying most is a tossup - is it writing the fun descriptions of the merchandise? Maybe. But maybe it's also that feeling - that you're giving someone else the chance to do what my mom and I did, all those Saturdays growing up - to run your fingers along the bargain rack, hoping to find that one piece of gorgeous cashmere, or well-cut wool, or beautiful loafers. Hoping to find that one thing that made you feel like you found a bargain, and got something that made you feel like you had won the shopping lotto.
I'll admit - in these times, it's a hard feeling to come by. But in the absence of wandering around the mall with Mom, spreading a little shopping glee is a pretty good substitute...
Shop on...
Don't get me wrong - it's not like we ever wanted for anything - but with three kids at home, and a sense of style that Ruby gave her, my mom had an eye for the nicest, best cut, most fashionable items on any rack - and thankfully, imparted that skill to me.
Fortunately, I never inherited her great legs, or ability to maintain a size 12, or I'd be in the poorhouse. You see, I learned to shop at the feet of the master, and to this day, both my sister and I would admit that, though we frequently don't buy exactly what we want, we always want to buy something.
I thought about that a lot this week, as I examined the overflow of clothing in my second bedroom. More closet than sleeping area, the bedroom has become a bit of a disaster zone. Frankly, Susan Lucci could be hiding out under the clothes on the bed and I wouldn't know it.
So it's with some surprise that I spent Sunday inventorying a friend's shoe and purse collection to sell it off on eBay. You'd think my selling would begin at home - but nope, I'm far more content to sell other people's fine items than my own.
The store is up and running now (you can visit it here). What I'm enjoying most is a tossup - is it writing the fun descriptions of the merchandise? Maybe. But maybe it's also that feeling - that you're giving someone else the chance to do what my mom and I did, all those Saturdays growing up - to run your fingers along the bargain rack, hoping to find that one piece of gorgeous cashmere, or well-cut wool, or beautiful loafers. Hoping to find that one thing that made you feel like you found a bargain, and got something that made you feel like you had won the shopping lotto.
I'll admit - in these times, it's a hard feeling to come by. But in the absence of wandering around the mall with Mom, spreading a little shopping glee is a pretty good substitute...
Shop on...
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