Category: Shiny Things

BALLPARK ADVENTURES

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I went to a Texas Rangers game last night – courtesy of a friend who has season tickets and couldn’t attend. I caught a lucky break, as the temperature for the day only reached the mid-90s, therefore, it was actually bearable (although still not what I would call pleasant) in our shaded seats.

 

As it happened, we parked on the opposite side of the ballpark from where those seats were located, so we began our evening with a trek through the throngs of humanity lurching about the stadium in search of sustenance, bathrooms, or a good cell signal. As we waited in line for a beer, I caught a whiff of 5-day old cigarette-sweat, beer, and unfulfilled potential.

Ah, humanity. Thanks for reminding me why I stay home so much.

Once in our seats I was diverted by all the good people-watching around me. The couple in front of me with a little boy who had zero interest in the game at hand, but was totally focused on the game IN his hand – his mother’s iPhone. He was also really good at being belligerent.

Behind me, a woman kept asking her date if there wasn’t some sort of time limit on how long a pitcher could take to throw the ball in the direction of the batter, rather than sending five tosses to first base in an attempt to get the runner out as he took a lead toward second. She refused to believe his answer. 

Then there was the guy in the row in front of us to the far left. Rather than trying to squeeze past the very large individuals on HIS row, he decided I looked easier to get past, so climbed up to our row each time he exited. Didn’t matter if I had a lap full of food and drink myself, while they had nothing in their laps except their laps.

The second time he scooted past me resulted in my wearing a bit of the melted cheese I had been inhaling in a very unladylike manner. He’s lucky I didn’t trip him. One should not get between me and melted cheese. (Or whatever that orange glop is they put on nachos at the ballpark.) The window for eating ballpark nachos is a small one. The cheese has to still be hot enough to not reveal that it is really some sort of petroleum by-product, and the chips should still resemble chips and not wilted disks of cardboard. Once the first 3 minutes have passed, the magic spell is broken and you realize what you’re doing to yourself.  

During the “kiss cam” portion of the night’s entertainment, a proposal took place. The camera angle was terrible – the Rangers’ mascot was holding up a sign we couldn’t read, because we were looking at the back of it. Before the poor guy on bended knee could get a yes or no, the director must have lost interest because he moved on to what I think was a mother and son, whose expressions revealed utter and complete horror; the same look I would be sporting if they found me sucking the cheese off the front of my shirt.

At the end of the evening, the Rangers had won (barely) and I could sense what felt like  cellophane making its way through my veins.

FRANCE PLAN – IT’S IN THE BAGUETTE

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Anyone who recalls the trip I took last year to Wales with Sandy will perhaps note that there was little hostility at any point during our travels. Except toward the tour guide who sent us wandering down a path along the ocean that ended up being closed, and thus resulted in an unexpected mountain climbing expedition. As traveling companions go, Sandy and I move at similar speed and enjoy the same amount of planning and activities per day. Just enough to keep us entertained, but not so much that we keep staring at our watches lest we slip 5 minutes off schedule.

I am beginning to have concerns about the trip to France Robert and I are planning. My first clue that this was going to be a bit more intense was when Robert started shoving a Travel Guide into my hands every time I sat down. “Read this and make notes,” he says. I respond, “Vacations should not require homework.” I don’t want to be tired of France before I get there. I want to read about it while I’m soaking it all in – staring at the little note card describing “Winged Victory”- or listening to the audio tour as I wander about Versailles. Is there a test I have to take before I get into the country that I don’t know about? A pop quiz? Can’t I just be surprised?

I am not totally ignorant. After all, I’ve read “To The Scaffold,” the story of Marie Antoinette. I’ve watched a multitude of Anthony Bourdain shows in and around Paris, and I saw Les Miserables. TWICE. I’ve also read “Sex with Kings” and “Sex with Queens,” which I believe will provide those “ah ha!” moments when I hear a courtesan’s name mentioned and can say to Robert, “Madame de Pompadour! That’s the woman Louis XV was fooling around with… her maiden name was Poisson, or ‘Fish.’ Courtiers hated her. Imagine the field day they had with that name!” Then I can add in confidence, “Madame du Barry was the successor to Madame Pompadour. She was an infamous Parisian prostitute many of the courtiers had already ‘enjoyed.’ Talk about awkward dinner conversation.”

Madame de Pompadour

Madame du Barry

THAT’s my idea of intriguing French history and research. Real Housewives of the French Court.

Last week, Robert handed me an Excel sheet with each day laid out by the hour – and asked me to fill in the empty spaces in the schedule. The problem with that is I am a lazy traveler. I want to have a few things in mind, then “play it by ear.” Although Robert says he is willing to do some of the “play it by ear” thing, I believe the Excel sheet indicates something else ENTIRELY.

The truth is, it’s nice to have someone who is capable of planning and researching how we are going to get around so we’re not at the Metro freaking out.

On the other hand,  I wonder what his reaction will be when he looks at the Excel sheet and discovers my evil plotting. (As usual, I am not cooperating in the full sense of the word.) For one thing, I read enough to learn they have golf cart rentals at Versailles. The carts shut down if you try to take them off the prescribed paths. Therefore, my contributions to our schedule include:

13:00 Sunday: Versailles – Rent golf cart for the self-guided tour.

13:10 Sunday: Rig golf cart to go anywhere we want.

8:00 Monday: Assure American Embassy we will behave ourselves from now on.

10:00 Monday: Purchase disguises so we can re-enter the grounds of Versailles and enjoy the gardens on foot.

13:00 Monday: Find nearest sidewalk cafe. Sit. Order vin blanc, baguette and fromage. Relax for next 2 – 4 hours.

13:00 – Tuesday: Find nearest sidewalk cafe. Sit. Order vin blanc, baguette and fromage. Relax for next 2 -4 hours.

Wednesday: You get the idea.

THE OLYMPICS AND OTHER DIVERSIONS

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I am writing this for the moment instead of doing the work I should be doing over the weekend so my work week doesn’t kill me. But what I really want to do is watch the opening ceremony of the Olympics. I caught a glimpse every now and then last night while visiting with the Duchess and Max, and was giggly each time I was able to identify a place I had been while in London. “Look!” I’d squeal and jump up and down (carefully, so as to not spill my chardonnay) waving toward the TV, “I was THERE!” I would turn toward where the Duchess and Max were hunched over a computer screen at the kitchen bar and stare at the backs of their heads while they ignored me completely, or looked up long enough to say “What?” Then went back to what they were doing. I was not feeling the Olympic love.

The Olympics – you either love them, hate them, or feel “meh” about them. Kind of like Angelina Jolie. At my house we have a sort of Olympic war. Robert despises the Olympics. I think he actually used the word “hate.” He hates the sob stories. He hates the announcers. He hates the sports. He clicked past the ping-pong competition today and looked at me disdainfully, “Oh look! We can watch some ping-pong.” I have to admit, I felt embarrassed.

Due to his deep-seated animosity for the event, and my “meh” attitude about many of the areas of competition, I have become accustomed to skipping them. But this year is different. I am really interested in the games because… well, after visiting Wales and London last year, I now feel a sense of ownership. Or companionship. Something like that.

I recorded the ceremony that re-ran at 1:30 AM and am looking forward to popping open a bottle of champagne this evening and saying witty things to amuse myself in my empty room. This morning I went on Facebook and couldn’t believe what I’d missed. Sandy was in her usual rare form, as was her friend (and my Facebook pal because his sense of humor is unmatched), Doug.

Sandy has decided to start her own country so she can march in the parade. Watch for Sandonia in the next opening ceremony. Perhaps Sandy will let me be on the curling team, as that is the only sport I believe I could do while holding a glass of wine.

I have to say the gold medal for FB commentary goes to Doug. I can’t wait to watch and see if I agree with some of these classics: “Ukraine wins the silly hat award,” “Nicaragua is dressed as Sigma Chi fraternity, circa 1987,” and “Estonia looked like they were all dressed as Absolut Vodka.” My favorite: “Liechtenstein looks like they picked up their uniforms at Penney’s on the way to the stadium.”

Ouch. And I thought the best part of the ceremony was supposed to be all the hubbub at the beginning, with the skydiving Queen and such. Silly me. I’ve just never watched the parade portion with the right crowd before.

The right crowd being people I’ve never met in person before, but who crack me up.

I better start practicing my curling now so I’ll be ready for the Winter games.

I COULD EAT A HORSE (SADDLING UP FOR FRANCE)

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We are scheduled to leave for France in a few weeks. (Cue the panic attack regarding what to wear, how we’re going to navigate, communicate, or order anything I recognize as food that doesn’t involve brains or horsemeat.) The chevalier situation is actually the most disconcerting as I’m sure my husband is going to try to freak me out by sneaking it past me. If I find I have been tricked into eating horsemeat I will throttle him in a foreign country and end up on the show “Locked Up Abroad.”

I tried to explain to him that as a former rodeo queen and horse trainer, the thought of eating one of those gorgeous animals is repellent. I learned during my short stint as a ranch manager in East Texas when I was 20 that each horse has its own personality. Some are adorable, some demanding, and as we used to say, some had nothing wrong with them a bullet wouldn’t fix.

But I wouldn’t EAT them.

Here’s where I get totally off topic and talk about cats. Why? Because even though this could be a separate post all together, I have no self-restraint today.

During the ranch days, I also learned that barn cats have a pretty high mortality rate. We always had strays around the barn. They’d get into the walls and have litters. Some would survive and we’d feed them and tickle their heads while they slept in a cluster of ears and tails on a pile of saddle blankets. But some didn’t survive.

This still seems so surreal to me – but part of my responsibilities was to take the kittens that hadn’t survived, roll them up in the empty paper feed bags, carry them down beside the lake in the evening and cremate them. I suppose I managed that because it was part of my job, and I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. A city girl might freak out, but a country girl, a ranch hand, would not. I really wanted to be a ranch girl.

Sometimes when I’m feeling particularly wimpy I remind myself of those days – standing alone by the lake as the sun went down (after checking the area for water moccasins) and setting kittens on fire. Dead kittens, but still, kittens. 

Looking back I wonder why the people who owned the ranch didn’t have the cats fixed – but maybe that’s just a country thing. If you took every stray cat you found on your property to the vet you’d be running a recovery home for wayward cats, rather than a horse ranch.

AND we’re back to horse talk. Maybe I should get tested for A.D.D. But where some might say this post is disjointed, I prefer to call it “dynamic.” 

This whole horsemeat as dinner thing is troublesome because I seem to be able to turn a blind eye to beef, pork, and yes, sometimes even lamb and veal. If it helps, I feel terrible afterward though. Especially if City Slickers comes on and I see Norman’s soft little snout. Believe me, I would be a vegetarian (or at least give it a try) if I could eat lettuce and actually LIKED vegetables other than corn, carrots, green beans and peas. Unfortunately, those are the only veggies I will eat without a deep-fried breaded coating and/or ranch dressing. Or cheese.

So, what have we learned?

No chevalier for dinner, although I HAVE threatened a horse before.

I am tougher than I look.

Everything is better when battered and fried, but I should probably consider vitamin supplements, or a V8. 

If I go missing after the trip, watch for me on Locked Up Abroad.

BRING ON THE FIREWORKS

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The 4th of July is one of my favorite holidays. There are flags flying everywhere you look. Plus, we get the day off from work. For those with pools, the day is spent bobbing and floating, the scent of sunscreen in the air mixing with the smokey but sublime scent of hot dogs, hamburgers and ribs on the grill. For those without pools, you still get the thrill of the grill, but it’s in shorter bursts as you dodge the 99 degree heat threatening to cook YOU.

My family has a traditional celebration on the 4th. We go to the Country Club (pronounced the way Thurston Howell III would say it). At the Club, we join about a million other party-goers at tables decorated in red, white and blue, feast on fried chicken and anything that stood still long enough to get grilled.

As dusk falls, our little party of 14 or so heads outside with the other 999,986 festively dressed guests to jockey for a position from which to watch the fireworks. Somehow, this always works out remarkably well for us. I credit my stepfather who can clear an area with the simple gesture of squinting and putting his hands on his hips, although I’m not sure he’s aware of his super power. I also give my husband credit. He can locate chairs and line a dozen up like nobody’s business. We end up at the top edge of the grass overlooking the golf course, yet conveniently close to the bar.

After being seated we train our eyes on the flares moving beyond the creek, where final preparations are underway. Around us, giggling, excited children chase each other, waving glow sticks and necklaces – like little miniature rave attendees.

In the past, there have been what I would call some dicey choices made with the music that accompanies the show. For YEARS they kept playing that country song by Martina McBride – Independence Day. I don’t know whose idea it was to adopt a song about a woman who burns down her house with her abusive husband in it (and herself), leaving her child an orphan – as a song celebrating our country’s freedom, but I hope to never meet them. Here’s the chorus:

Let freedom ring
Let the white dove sing
Let the whole world know that today is the day of a reckoning
Let the weak be strong
Let the right be wrong
Roll the stone away
let the guilty pay
It’s Independence Day

Ugh. It always took a few patriotic songs after that before I could stop scowling and muttering to myself.

Lately, someone at the Club blessedly took that particular song off the play list. Now we have a medley that includes Neil Diamond’s “Coming to America,” the ever popular, if a bit tired, “Proud to be an American” by Lee Greenwood, “Born in America” by Bruce Springsteen, and if I’m not mistaken, “American Girl” by Tom Petty. It’s an interesting combination, to be sure.

The fireworks are fantastic. They burst directly over our heads, within reach of our fingertips. The 999,986 others disappear, and my family remains. When they play the National Anthem and everyone stands and sings while watching the last of the ghostly firework trails disappear in the night sky, I tear up. For a brief moment, across the country, I feel like we’re all on the same page.

But I know we’re not. I can tell, because SOMEWHERE, at a firework show near you, SOMEONE is playing THAT STUPID SONG.

PRELUDE TO A REVIEW OF ROCK OF AGES

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My husband entered me in a contest to win tickets to a pre-screening of “Rock of Ages,” which was strange because he had no interest whatsoever in seeing it – which must mean he wanted me out of the house so he could play his new Rush CD over and over again at ear-splitting decibel levels, or “11” as he and Spinal Tap like to say.

I believe when I originally told him I wanted to see the movie he said, “That is every band and every song that I absolutely hate.” Go figure. I however, am quite fond of Night Ranger, Whitesnake, Bon Jovi AND Def Leppard, so when he told me I had actually WON two tickets I was PUMPED. Until I realized I needed to find someone to go with. But then I had a brilliant idea. Since Sandy lives too far away to play on a “school night,” I called… MAX!

So, our guest reviewer on 2fortheshow this week is the adorable, talented, creative, multi-faceted, Max.

On a side note, Max has a little trouble with his filter regarding what you should and shouldn’t say in public. We had been in the theater about 5 minutes when I realized the best part of the show was going to be him. As other contest winners and “regular people,” began strolling into the theater, I was treated to a running commentary on attire, nationality, cleanliness and personal appearance in general. While Max snarkily commented about buses, subtitles and Bosnia (don’t ask), I attempted to hum or cough to block the hearing of the gentleman directly to my right whom I felt wasn’t happy to be there in the first place and just MIGHT be happy to kick somebody’s butt. And I’m pretty sure Max is not a fighter.

And THEN, the movie promotions company did the unthinkable. They decided to host an air guitar contest. I think this was intended to up the energy in the auditorium prior to the movie viewing, which made me immediately suspicious. I typically enjoy movies WITHOUT needing a warm up act. So Max and I huddled in our seats trying to become invisible, which we successfully managed, as neither was chosen as an air guitarist.

Try to contain your disappointment.

They chose people based on whether they looked like 1980s roadies. If I had been selected it would have been the second worst insult of the week. The first being the comparison of myself with Carole the receptionist from the original Bob Newhart Show. But I digress.

For the next 15 minutes (or lifetime), however you prefer to see it, we watched 5 people be publicly humiliated, then rewarded with barely a smattering of applause. We should have just voted on which one we thought really HAD been a roadie. They were eventually given t-shirts with the name of Tom Cruise’s fake “Rock of Ages” band on it – Arsenal. Max predicts they will never see the light of day.

Everyone settled back into their seats, and they dimmed the lights to start the film…

To be continued on 2fortheShow, as soon as Max and I finish writing the review.

Now THAT’s a teaser.

Insert air guitar solo here. And take a look at the preview, if you haven’t seen it yet.

WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE ON YOUR SANDWICH

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Thanks to my informant in the UK, I understand the Viscountess had a new food experience this weekend, and I’m jealous. I’m not sure if the Diamond Jubilee brought on such frivolity or what, but it was crazy. The Crisp Sandwich.

You heard me. Two pieces of bread, buttered, with a layer of, in this case, sea salt & vinegar chips. According to the responses on Facebook to the announcement, it’s not something new. I also don’t think it had anything to do with celebrating the Queen, unless they were implying she’s a crusty/salty/tart little dish. And we’re not saying that, are we?

The whole crisp sandwich idea reminds me of the scene in The Breakfast Club when Ally Sheedy pours Captain Crunch cereal on bread and smashes it all together with a few Pixie Sticks sprinkled on top.

My own personal weird sandwich recipe – the one I didn’t bring out until I’d been married well over a year – and I still tried to be secretive about it, but got busted – is a peanut butter and dill pickle sandwich.

Delicious. Seriously. Hey, at least it’s a step up from my elementary school daily luncheon of mustard and white bread sandwich. Just mustard. And bread. It’s a wonder I didn’t get beaten up on a daily basis.

How about a banana & mayo sandwich? Just banana and mayonnaise. Sounds hideous to me, but Max swears by them.

I really have to give the Brits credit here for getting to the heart of the issue. I’ve heard from others today in the US who add whole or crushed chips to everything from bologna & cheese sandwiches to peanut butter. But across the pond, they cut out all that middle of the road, “I’m still eating decently because my sandwich has ‘real’ food on it,” mumbo-jumbo. They just went for it.

Bread. Potato Chips. Butter.

Carb, carb, and butter (which is actually a beverage at my house).

Bring it on! Just THINK of the other food sensations out there I haven’t even considered! Has anyone had a popcorn sandwich?

Perhaps a taste test is in order. Salt & vinegar chips, barbecue flavor, nacho cheese, and… suggestions?

SUPER

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Since superheroes are in the air lately (The Avengers), I started thinking, which is often dangerous, and realized I know enough superheroes to make up my own band of Avengers.

First, there’s The Viscountess – (Not a nickname, but a real Viscountess.) The Viscountess flew thousands of miles back and forth from the UK to Dallas, eventually sitting vigil virtually around the clock at the side of her dearest friend as she lost the battle against breast cancer. The Viscountess acted as protector, keeper of sacred confidences, guard, and eventually as the voice for our Leah when she could no longer speak for herself. This was not a glamorous job, nor was it easy. It took strength, courage and determination. I also believe, had she the power to fly, the Viscountess would have circled the Earth at such a speed as to reverse time.

Next, we have The Duchess – (Which IS a nickname.) The Duchess doesn’t even like to be tagged in Facebook status updates.) If you love animals, The Duchess is the superhero for you. The woman has rescued more dogs than I can count. And I don’t mean by adopting them from a pound. I mean, she is driving down the street in her “alter ego” costume – designer suit and heels, when out of the corner of her eye she sees a four-legged furry critter darting through yards and headed directly toward a traffic-heavy street or highway. At this point, The Duchess slams her SUV into park and with superhuman speed, chases down the dog, (in her heels – through rocky terrain, sometimes across fields, and several times through a cemetery.) After snagging the cavorting canine, she contacts the grateful owner, and with a wave of her manicured hand, drives off into the sunset leaving a relieved owner and happy dog behind. Most recently, the rescuee was a 17-year old basset hound – almost completely deaf and blind – that was trotting steadily down the street at dusk. The Duchess admits her superhuman speed wasn’t needed in this case, as Humphrey wasn’t particularly spry, but still… a rescue is a rescue.

(Not actually Humphrey, but she was too busy rescuing to snap a pic.)

My mother is on this hero list. She drives back and forth – over 30 miles each way, at LEAST once a week and often more, while still not 100% recovered from a broken pelvis, to see to the care of her 95+ year-old mother. My aunt and uncle are similarly engaged in witnessing, managing, and trying to somehow ease the winding down of their mother’s life. And as you know, superheroes don’t always work that smoothly together. Even in the best of times. And this is a process that is, as one would imagine, emotionally exhausting, frustrating, sometimes unbearably sad, and underappreciated. At other times, it appears Grandmother must be a superhero herself, who will outlive us all.

I also have a mother-in-law who volunteers at the homeless shelter when she could simply write a check and not get personally involved. My father-in-law does his part by allowing her to smile upon these downtrodden souls. She also tutors kids who probably don’t have anyone at home who cares whether they complete their studies or not.

The littlest superhero of all has been undergoing chemo since January. He is doing well, and the prognosis is as good as it can be, which is a 90%+ chance the villain will not be seen again. While battling cancer he has managed, at the age of three, to master bike riding (sans training wheels), and to maintain his charmingly happy personality.

There are plenty of other superheros I know. In their alter ego existence that are taking the first tentative steps into the caregiver role for aging parents. Others are squaring off against depression, loneliness, health problems, or loss. Thank goodness they have the super powers of optimism, humor, grace under pressure, and loyalty in their arsenal. (Not to mention STYLE.)

If I could, I would have a cape made for each and every one of you.

FRAXEL THURSDAY

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Thursday afternoon, I will be submitting myself (my face) to a little procedure called Fraxel. If interested in what THAT’s all about from a purely medical point of view you can check it out here: OUCH.

I titled that link ouch, because I have done this before and I know what’s going to happen.  You go in to the office for the treatment and they have you wash your face, then they smear numbing cream all over it. The numbing cream takes about 45-60 minutes to really kick in, which results in your skin feeling about an inch thick. Sounds weird. Feels weirder. Kinda’ like your face is made of this:

Somewhere along the way, if you are really freaking out, they have you take a little pill to help you relax a bit.  (Doesn’t this sound awesome so far? What could possibly go wrong?)

Years ago, after learning my lesson during my first session, I took a couple of those little mini wine bottles in and I’d drink them while reading and numbing. One of my special gifts is the ability to self-medicate.

After you’re numb, (from the cream, not the wine) they have you lie on your back on a table. Then, they hand you a hose. “What’s this?” 

“It’s a cooling device,” the nice nurse tells you. “As the laser wand is slowly rolled around your face, you’re going to want to follow it closely with this hose that blows cold air.”

Well, sure I am. Actually, at the time, I thought I would not be using that little hose. I was wrong. That hose became my very best friend. BEST FRIEND. Why? Because this laser treatment, this Fraxel thing, feels like…

…feels like…

…it feels like that nice nurse who was so sweet a little while ago is now taking scalding hot bits of broken glass and raking them over your face. Slowly.

I am not kidding.

This procedure takes about 45 minutes or so, then you are free to go home, whine and hold ice bags on your red, swollen face.

Let me just say that by definition, a swollen face has very few lines or wrinkles, so the effect is somewhat immediate, if not terribly attractive. Over the next few days, the skin starts to dry and flake, but after THAT, you are left with a smooth, healthy, glowing complexion.

I signed up for 3 sessions, one every three or four weeks. Because I’m obviously insane.

The last time I did this (5-6 years ago), it greatly reduced acne scarring I’d had since my teens. Scars that every dermatologist my whole life told me I could not get rid of without basically scraping my face off. But that’s not all. After having my face scraped off, I would need to remain in seclusion for 2 weeks to avoid any nasty facial infections resulting from having my face scraped off. It sounded like a terrible, terrible plan. Even to me. Two weeks in isolation is not exactly on my to-do list, unless it’s on an island in Hawaii with an excellent wine cellar and a box of puppies.

Thus, I lived with my scars until finally, FINALLY, they came up with the Fraxel laser. The only downside is that I managed to schedule the first appointment for three days before Mother’s Day. Genius.

The good news is – the boys can satisfy any Mother’s Day gifting with ice packs and some mini wines. And by telling me I look ten years younger. And well rested.

Happy Mother’s Day weekend to all!

You look FABULOUS!

SHOP ‘TIL YOU DROP

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Each morning of my work week I get up, shower, brush my teeth and step into the abyss that is my closet and think, “Who is this person and why does she dress like this?”

How have I reached this age without having a style that I’m happy with? Seriously. Why is this so hard? I need help. And a personal stylist. And a shopper. And possibly medication.

I approach shopping like most people approach the dentist’s office. It has to be done. It’s going to be uncomfortable and probably even painful. It’s going to cost more than I thought. There will be bad news, and there may be blood. There will definitely be an urge to spit.

There’s something about all the options or the way the stores are laid out that elicits an impending sense of doom in me. All those racks and racks of clothes stare at me, mocking, “You will never sort through us and find the hidden items that are flattering and make you feel good.”

“I know,” I whimper in response, starting up the aisle as though I’m taking the steps to the guillotine.

For this reason I tend to shop maybe once a year, or every two years. You can see why this is not a good solution. If I were shopping regularly, like normal people, I might pick up items here and there – accessories, maybe a blouse to toss into the rotation. But that’s not how I work. That would imply I know what I am shopping FOR, which is the whole problem. I have NO IDEA what I need, or what style I wish to adopt. My standards are low. “Is it clothing? Yes. Is it dry clean only? No. Does it fit? Sort of. SOLD.”

Many years ago, my dear friend, Sandy, attempted an intervention. She shoved me into a dressing room, said, “Stay there and try to keep the whimpers to a minimum. You’re scaring people.” She then did whatever it is people do to make selections from all those rack and racks of clothes and began hurling items over the top of the door for me to try. If I protested, she would say, “JUST TRY IT.” I complied. After all, what else could I do in that little room with all the mirrors and the bad lighting? Karaoke?

After about two hours of this, which included probably more cussing on my part than was absolutely necessary (think Linda Blair in The Exorcist), I emerged with 4-5 outfits for work. Crossing my heart and hoping to die, I swore that I would return for casual clothes at a later date, (never) and off we went to reward me with a nice adult beverage.

If only I could have that service on a monthly basis. Isn’t there someone out there who will drag me out of the house on weekends, force me into a mall, lock me in a dressing room and toss clothing at me? Is that too much to ask? Doesn’t that sound like tons of fun? When was the last time someone called you vile names in public?

Imagine bringing a feral cat into your house to give it a bath. The growling, the hissing, the spitting, the scratching. You could have all that with me. Without the rabies.

So, who’s in?