Let’s Go Shopping, Pear Shaped People!

 

Photo Credit: Auntie P via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: Auntie P via Compfight cc

I don’t usually write fashion posts. There’s a really good reason for that, and it’s called my children and friends laugh at my taste. But sometimes, I really have no choice. If you have any doubts about this, scroll up to the previous post and the photo of me and Dr. Ruth.

Caveat: This blog post is NOT about Dr. Ruth. It’s about those of us who are pear shaped. That would be me.

I looked up the words, pear shaped. Synonyms I noted were rotund, bottom heavy and fat. As you read this, if you have been described as “pear shaped” raise your hand. Thank you.

Now, I’m going to take this fashion blog a bit further. Let’s talk about a particular kind of pear, the Comice Pear. Comice pears are considered the queen of all pears because they are so sweet. They have a really special attribute….Ta Da drum roll! Comice pears are short! Foodie bloggers have also called them “squat, broad, stubby and rather blunt.”

To summarize: Comice pears are short and fat. If you consider yourself comice pear shaped, raise your hand. Thank you. This blog is for you.

Now, let’s just say you have the great luck to be shaped like a comice pear, and you decide to go shopping for a nice dress or a nice pair of pants. You will probably want to kill yourself.

An example of a comice pear size is 22 petite.

You start off in the Petite Department in your local department store. You look around the petite shop and see so many pretty things in solid colors of black on black, brown on brown, charcoal on charcoal. If there are any prints, they are tiny ones. Their individual designs are the size of a salt crystal.  This is the kind of stuff my friend, Joy, wears, and she’s super slender and super fashionable.

So you go up to the little mini salesgirl, “Do you have any size 22 petite?” you politely inquire.

Screwing up her itty bitty nose, she will say, “Oh, no. we don’t carry that size here. We only go up to size 16 and, even then, we have very few of that size. You need to go to the Woman’s Department.”

So down you waddle to the Woman’s (big and fat) Department! You know… the department that’s found in the lower level next to the king size sheets and the tractors. Ahhh…a proliferation of bountiful color and gigantic prints. You see flower prints the size of watermelons, leaves the size of palm fronds, and large lusty animal prints.

And speaking of animal prints…how about all of those stripes? Each strip is about eight inches wide and, of course, horizontal!

These striped prints are super cool, if you are tall like a giraffe.

But you are short, like a comice pear.

And these prints are just on the capris.

“I don’t want capris,” you say to the short, chubby salesgirl as she bends over to put something in the lower drawer. You find herself talking to her plumber’s crack because her pants have slipped down, just like yours do.  “I am looking for a pair of pants that go to my ankle because I’m short and I want to elongate my legs, not cut them off at my calves,” you explain.

“Sorry, we only have a few petite pants, and they’re mixed in,” she says. Not a good omen.

So you go through the racks and, you finally find one pair of petite size 22 dark, heavy jeans.

The problem is…it’s July 1 and it’s very hot. You know, like thighs- stick- together- hot.  Sturdy, heavy denim jeans like these should really be repurposed by the fire department as nets for catching falling air conditioners.

Long ago, I told my friend Joy that we could make a zillion dollars if we started a business that just catered to the short fat set. I even volunteered to be the model. Joy could do everything else, designing, styling, buying, and selling. I am still waiting for Joy to come through. Until then, if there are any venture capitalists, and you are reading this blog, you will remember this day as the day your destiny changed. We, who are comice pear shaped, are out there, and we’re waiting for you. I volunteer to be your model.

I even have a name for our business. We can call it Pear Wear!

Night Terrors in the Bedroom

 

Photo Credit: Dia™ via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: Dia™ via Compfight cc

Three a.m:  “Chirp. Chirp.”

She wakes.

Uh oh. The window’s open. The screen must be broken.  There’s a bird in the house.

Ridiculous. Go back to your dream.

I think it’s flying around the living room.

What if it’s not a bird? What if it’s a bat?

If it’s a bat, then we’ll have to go for rabies shots.

No, get a hold of yourself. Bats don’t make sounds. They use that echolocation stuff.   It’s one of our phones.

We just charged our cell phones. It must be the smoke detector.

“Wake up, Jerome.” He snores.

Chirp!  Chirp!

Oh my God! What if it’s the carbon monoxide detector? Do we even have a carbon monoxide detector? Is it that red and white thing that’s been hanging in the basement for twenty years? There must be a gas leak. I must be delirious, probably dying from the poison gas.

“Jerry, wake up. We gotta get out of here. I think we are unconscious. We’re dying.”

He snores.

She tiptoes out of the bedroom to investigate.

Chirp! Chirp!

The noise is definitely coming from behind her, in their bedroom.

She whirls and steps back. “Oh my God, Jerry!  It’s in this room. I think someone has been recording us.”

“Boring movie,” he speaks for the first time. He turns over.

Who had done recent work in their house?  Cable guy? Electrician? Which one of them installed the camera? She looks up at the ceiling fan. Was that little button there last week?

She looks down at her bleach stained green tee shirt and ratty sweats, and then at her snoring husband.

“You’re right,” she says as she gets back into bed, “pretty boring.” She gives a quick wave to the ceiling fan, pulls the covers to her neck, and goes back to sleep.

 

Stage Your Supermarket Cart: Be the Envy of Everyone

Photo Credit: JasonUnbound via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: JasonUnbound via Compfight cc


Start with the Kiddie Seat.

Staging One: No Child is in the Kiddie Seat:

Stage a Tableau of Color and Texture

Mix red and green baby lettuces, white daikon (who cares that you don’t know what to do with it; it’s a nice color contrast.) Mix in a few jars of baby octopus. So what if the jars have been on the top shelf since 2004; people will be intrigued by your allure.

Surround an upturned loaf of white Wonder Bread with jars of fig jam, assorted almonds and quince. Shabby chic!

Staging Two: A Child is in the Kiddie Seat:

Stage the Child

Give him carrot sticks and have him nibble them passionately. No one needs to know that you promised him, if he was good,  a big fat bag of M & M’s when you got back in your car.

Get on line in back of a cart where another child is having a tantrum. Teach your child to smile and coo at other customers who are screwing up their noses in disgust at the crying child.

When you get out to the parking lot, get the hell out of there, fast, before the other mother comes out. Throw your kid his M & M’s and head to McDonald’s just like you promised.

A Bad Birder, Some Bicyclists and a Battlefield

Photo Credit: howardignatius via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: howardignatius via Compfight cc

 

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I said to my husband, Jerome The Great and Good, as we left the parking lot and approached the beginning of the uphill trail to the Stony Point Battlefield Lighthouse, “I’m not in shape.”

He said, “There’s no rush. Whenever you’re tired, we’ll stop and rest.”

We took two steps up the path, and I stopped and rested.

With another couple of steps upward, the immortal words of The Sound of Music were resounding in my sweaty ears.

Climb every mountain; ford every stream.

Follow every rainbow, till you find your dream.”

My dream was survive the climb to the lighthouse so that I could then go home and reward myself with a big fat lox and onions omelet washed down with one or two Bloody Mary’s. Mmm just the thought of the meal propelled me forward.

I had been to the lighthouse before. If one could make it up the hill, one would be rewarded with a wonderful view of the Hudson Highlands as well as an educational tour of an historic Revolutionary War Battlefield.

As we turned the corner to the beginning of the trail, I saw a guy sitting on a bench. Next to him was  a box filled with bottles of water, white sandwich bags, and oranges. As Jerome and I trudged past him, I croaked out a hello.

He looked down at his box of food and pretended not to hear me.

“Snotty bastard,” I mumbled to Jerome. “He must have heard me say I was out of shape and dreaming of food.  I really hate him.”

As Jerome and I were midway on the hill toward the lighthouse, we looked back down at the beginning of the trail. The guy with the box was surrounded by a swarm of bicycle riders. Oh no.

All I wanted was some peace and quiet and a bit of exercise to justify my upcoming meal and beverage. Now at the top, we would be surrounded by the bicyclists. Were they actually going to ride up the hill to the lighthouse?

“Let’s hurry,” I said to Jerome. “There’s only one bench up there and I want it.” My plan was to sit on the bench and enjoy the view. Maybe I’d stroll around with my binoculars and try to find one bird I could recognize.

I really have issues with some bicycle riders.  In addition to riding double and hogging the road, they are the biggest outdoor snobs in a world of outdoor snobs. Trust me. I know.

Did you ever meet a bicycle gang at a rest-stop?  You’re standing there chowing down on your donut, and they’re standing there sipping their water. You try to make conversation. Ah, forget conversation—how about just plain eye contact!   If you’re not wearing spandex, or if you’re a trifle wide in the rump, you’re invisible.

Jerome and I pressed on, reached the top of the mountain, and he plopped down on the bench and immediately started snoring. I sat next to him, trying to catch my breath.  I figured if the bicyclists came, I would definitely move into serious birding mode.  Serious birding for me is also called “pretend birding” because I am the world’s worst birder.

I heard the bicyclists. They were walking up the hill.

As I heard the bicyclists coming up the hill, you would have thought I was Audubon. Grabbing my binoculars, I headed toward a low cluster of mountain shrubs.

Interesting! Without their bikes, the tight-assed ones were a huffin’ and puffin’ when they reached the top of the hill. They collapsed on the grassy knoll surrounding the bench where Jerome was snoring.

“Oh, God, I’m dying,” said one of them. He mopped his brow and gulped his water.

“Well now! How-do-you-do! Ha! Ha! Hee! Hee!” is what I was thinking.Of course I didn’t say anything because I was pretending that the bicyclists were invisible. Besides, I was much too busy scanning the shrubs with my binoculars

“See any interesting birds?” asked one of the bicyclists.

He actually talked to me!

“Oh, so many ,” I shared. “too many to name.” It was time for Jerome and me to scram.

Two Bloody Mary’s and two lox and onion omelets were awaiting our triumphant return from our hike.

 

 

 

 

Social Media Can Make You Get Fat

Photo Credit: Lotus Carroll via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: Lotus Carroll via Compfight cc

When I Get Nervous, I Eat

Why I am Nervous

I am trying to Tweet. In fact, I have been registered with Twitter for almost 10 months, and I have only made 7 Tweets. That’s because I get totally confused.

For Facebook, I have no idea what I’m doing. For starters, I still can’t tell the difference between the pages I see and the pages that everybody else sees.

When I am inept, I get nervous. When I get nervous— I eat.

Out there in the world, I see everyone else clicking, clicking, clicking. I do not click. I write, with a pen, on a little pad  Then I go home and put my thoughts into my blog. I love to write. That’s not my problem. Writing is my comfort zone.

But only about twelve people read my blog and three of them are my first cousins.

Getting my writing found is NOT my comfort zone. I must reach out and use social media. That’s why I am nervous.

When I am nervous, I eat.

My Two Imaginary Friends Are At War Again

Grim says, “Just Tweet. Start already. You’re old and getting older.”

I say, “I don’t know how to Tweet. I get mixed up with retweeting, mentioning, modified Tweet, hat tip, replying, hashtags, linking, following.

Overthinker says, “Sit down and draw up a plan to plan for planning to link.”

Grim Streaker says, “Just retweet somebody. Become part of the community. Pretend you are at a cocktail party. Join the conversation.

And now,  Nervous Nibbler, my new imaginary friend arrives.

Nervous Nibbler says, “Speaking of cocktail parties, pour a small glass of wine.  Have some cheese with your wine. It will calm you down and then you will begin to make a plan for writing your plan on planning to use Twitter.

I looked at a few Tweets on Twitter from the people I follow. One of them was from Lois Alter Mark who wrote about her own writing process. I loved what she wrote!  I think I will tell her on Twitter. I’d like to tell other people how great she is too.

Overthinker chimes in, “Go back and read the Twitter help columns again, Rose. Be careful. You might write something that everybody will see. What if you do it the wrong way? Everybody will know you don’t know what you’re doing.”

I knew Nervous Nibbler would have to put her own two cents in.  “This calls for some salsa and chips,” she said. “Perhaps you might want to round it off with a donut.”

Grim Streaker Wins the Contest!

Grim Streaker finally set me straight, again. “Rose, put down the donut. You loved Lois Alter Mark’s article. Just tell her in as many ways as you can.

I respond in panic, “How do I do that? Should I retweet her? Or do I link to her blog or her Twitter account here on this very blog? I don’t’ know what to do first.”

Nervous Nibbler thrives on my indecision. “Rose,” she says, “make a  ham and cheese sandwich. Add some mayo, some chips and a pickle.”

I will make the sandwich, but after I write this link. Then, I will do the best I can on Twitter.

Read Lois Alter Mark’s post on her writing process here.  I loved it!

my writing process — or lack thereof

 

How Really Cool People Go Hiking in the Wilderness

On this Earth Day I am contemplating the great outdoors.  Here is how Really Cool People go hiking in the wild.

Really Cool People:

  • Always wear red or khaki bandanas,
  • Never wear pink flowered scarves designed to draw the eye upwards and away from the butt.
  • Always carry matches.
  • Never carry handbags.
  • Always pack a light snack of nuts and raisins and lots of water.
  • Never pack pickled herring with creamed onions in a Tupperware container.
  • Always squint their eyes and say words like “I reckon…”
  • Never screw up their noses and say words like “Oy.”
  • Always have weather-beaten feral faces and look formidable.
  • Never have flushed sweaty faces and look like they are about to drop dead.
  • Always wear weathered khaki short shorts, and baseball caps.
  • Never wear blue plaid Bermuda shorts with a matching baby blue solid shirt, and a white sunhat with chin straps.
  • Always nod and say hello to other hikers who look just like them.
  • Never acknowledge people like me.

Setting Up a New Laptop—Can this Marriage Survive?

depositphotos.com/JD Hancock

depositphotos.com/JD Hancock

True Story: I  knew a lady who was convinced there were little green men in her computer. She was certain they were watching her and laughing at her.  Then the lady went “away,” and took lots of new medicines. Vouchers for affordable psychiatric care should be included in all computer start up packages. Thank you, and please allow me to continue.

So I bring home my new laptop from the store. It’s been pre-loaded with all sorts of good stuff, and I’ve been told it’s ready to use. I open the box, and take out the laptop, its cord and some pieces of paper with receipts. There is nothing else in the box. I shake out the box (yes, like they do on TV), and nothing else drops out.

My heart sinks. “There’s no instruction book?” I say to Jerome, the Great and Good, who is sitting in the other room realizing that he is not going to be having a fun day.

“Rose, it’s all done online these days,” he says gently, assuming his usual position of cradling his shaking head in his hands. “You’ll find help online.”

“Waddyamean I’ll find help online?” I wail. “Help from whom? Toshiba? Microsoft Windows? Windows 8?  Optimum Cable? The Little Green Men? I need help to get online— to get help online? Where are the tutorials?”

He makes the mistake of saying, “Tutorials for what?”

“If I knew what I needed the tutorials for, I wouldn’t need the tutorials,” I hiss.

“Rose, just turn it on and start,” Jerome, the Great and Good speaks gently. “You can’t break it.”

“I will if I throw it out the window,” I mumble.

I didn’t throw it out the window because I was afraid of the Little Green Men who were watching me.

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Buying a Laptop Together—Can this Marriage Survive?

Your laptop crashes.  Literally it hits the hard floor with a bang.  You find out that the hard drive can be transferred but, alas, the motherboard is dead.  You need a new laptop.

You go to a store, buy a new laptop, get help transferring your files from the old laptop, take your laptop home, do the quick start up, and go about the business of your life, with a sense of competence and peacefulness. Perhaps you whistle while you work.

I am not you. I am The Nothing Expert, and I never whistle when it comes to technology.

I snarl.

“I want to do this quickly,” I spit at my husband, Jerome the Great and Good. Jerome is an expert on buying anything and getting the most for his money. Unlike me, Jerome would never refer to the broken laptop’s Mother Board as the Mother-F—ker Board.

“I don’t want any hassles with this new laptop, ” I say. “ I want them to set everything up, teach me what I need to know, and let me hit the ground running.  Also, this time, I do not want to cry a lot and throw things.”

And so Jerome and I went forth and shopped; it seemed like forty days and forty nights. We went to Best Buy…to Staples….online …and then back to Staples and so on until we found the Store with the best price.

And finally we bought a laptop, and a service contract package, and a virus package, and a cloud package, and Microsoft Office 365 Package because now we were going to use Windows 8. The Store assured us that we would receive lots of help from them.

We met them. He was Bill, the Tech Guy, whose daily hours were something like 4 p.m. to 4:17 p.m.  For another hundred dollars, Bill was going to transfer all of the stuff from the old laptop to the new laptop and explain all of the new Windows stuff to us.

“Bill, when will I have my laptop loaded up and ready to go?” I asked. I wanted to add the word, “sweetie,” but I refrained.

“In a day or two,” said Bill.

Jerome and I were delighted that Bill could transfer files from our old laptop to our new one.  We left both laptops in Bill’s loving care. Jerry and I might have even left the Store holding hands.

The next day Bill did not come in to work. He was ill.

In the Store where we bought our laptop, there were many, many people who were proficient at selling laptops. There were no people, other than Bill, who were good at fixing laptops. And so, our eager new laptop sat right next to our sad old laptop, on their shelf, in the Store, untouched.

Then Bill had family trouble.

I stopped talking to Jerome, the Great and Good. I started using more bad words whenever the subject of the new laptop came up. Jerome put his head in his hands, and he was sad.

After an eternity, Bill came back. He handed over the new fully loaded laptop, and after spending about 51 seconds explaining its new features to us, he moved on to his other chores.

As Jerome drove me and our new laptop home, I swaddled it in my arms and cooed to it.  I promised to take care of it and not drop it on the floor, like I did to its predecessor.

I didn’t drop my new laptop.  All I did was try to use it.  Will this marriage survive? Is there any connection between motherboards and waterboards? Tune in to my next post.

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On the Sidewalks of New York

As The Nothing Expert, I pride myself on doing nothing well. But sometimes doing nothing may be the wrong solution to life’s ethical dilemmas. This is a true story.

On the corner of East 34th. Street and Park Avenue in New York City, a very tired older lady walks to her bus stop. She worries that she might fall and break her hip, so she is careful where she places her feet. Thusly, just as she reaches her bus stop, she narrowly sidesteps a humungous pile of excrement lying in the middle of the sidewalk. The excrement was definitely deposited there by a very large mammal, perhaps an elephant.

The old lady’s bus always comes late, and, so she stands at her bus stop waiting, and watching. She is the only one standing still on the busy sidewalk, near the pile of excrement.

She can tell the tourists because they are all looking up at the Empire State Building and they wear white sneakers. She can tell the regulars because they are not looking up, nor are they looking at the ground.  Most are doing something with their phones which the old lady has never been able to master while walking, or even sitting. Some of the walkers are students from the nearby high schools, who are having fun, shoving, smacking, and smooching with each other. Some of the walkers are shoppers, laden with shopping bags. Some of the walkers are being helped by caregivers. Some of the walkers look mean and angry.

The older woman watches the walkers approaching the pile in the middle of the sidewalk. They do not see it. What is her duty (ahem) to them? Should she help? Or should she turn away? What would you do? What would you say?

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Nuts on a Plane

Photo Credit: faungg's photo via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: faungg’s photo via Compfight cc

Nuts are soothing to eat, especially on a plane, during turbulence. Next time you fly through turbulence, look around. If you see a passenger resembling a deranged beaver gnashing savagely on her peanuts,  share your own measly pack of peanuts with her. Chomping those nuts with ferocity might just calm her enough to keep her in her seat and save all of you from the sight of her running through the plane, ripping off her clothes, and screaming, “I wanna get out.”

Gnashing nuts is definitely better than being nuts. As I am quite capable of both gnashing and being nuts on a plane, I read lots of stuff about my fear of flying. Once I even spoke to a pilot about my fears of turbulence. He suggested that I think of the plane (with me in it) as a grape sitting on a bed of Jell-O (the air).

“The grape,” he said,  “might get jostled but it will never fall through the Jell-O.”

I embraced this grape comparison as a compliment because in the past, I had always been likened to a pear, particularly when buying clothes.  If given a choice of being a grape and sitting on a bed of Jell-O, or being a pear and sitting in the middle seat on an airplane, while playing the “keep my thigh from rubbing your  thigh” game with the window and aisle passengers, I’d definitely opt to be the grape.

6342751964_d0cdab414b_m (1)

Photo Credit: Mez Love via Compfight cc

Let’s go back to the nuts. I used to buy a whole bag of them at the airport concession stands before I got on my flights. It was worth paying a price almost as high as my plane ticket to have my little crunchy comforts in my seat pocket. Then, hurrah!  I flew Southwest! The peanuts and snacks at Southwest are freeeeeeeeeeeee! Yippee! On my last flight, the flight attendants came through the cabin on their first pass  and they tried very hard to make eye contact when they handed us our snacks. On their second pass, however, our keepers, oops, flight attendants  tossed our snack packs at us, and some of us, so happy to be fed for free, were leaping in the air to catch our little feed packs.

It’s all good, however. Gnashing nuts is a much better way to reduce flying anxiety than being tackled by six burly passengers, and then being restrained in my seat by their neckties, belts and shoe laces.  And, remember! On Southwest, the nuts are free!

Photo Credit: N00/4775842363/”>faungg’s photo via Compfight cc