Please find attached 2 relatively related rants:
Rant the First
Hubby and I are chronic renters. We prefer small cozy city living. Snuggled up in tight quarters. Small spaces but with great windows that on a clear night can see all the way to Bloor St. But to make way for progress our panoramic view is quickly depleting. It is a sad day for open space loving small townies like us. I liked the view from here. It's a great location... Location, location. Real Estate has never been my forte. It sounds really interesting at first until I realize the stories I hear about these amazing gems with nob and tube aren't in my future. I don't want a fixer upper in the city that's been lived in by 15 different people and none of them cared. Bleached and barnacled and tired from city living. It's not my cup of T.o. There is a dream though, a teeny little quiet dream. The wish is to have a house that's been in someone's family for generations and, this is silly; it's been deemed historically significant. Our house would be a part of the history of something bigger. Our very very very fine house, would have 2 cats in the yard. A story to tell. A song to sing. Our house would have personality. The stairs would creak and the wind might whisper on occasion but it would hold the secrets of history. Of course, it would be a pain to maintain all the structural integrity in accordance with the local historical society bi-laws; a challenge Future Me willingly accepts. But for now we live in a city shoe box, without a story. And the wide screen we were watching life on is shrinking. I guess I'll really have to go outside.
Rant the Second
The giant hole that is my backyard is a muddy disaster. Clay and gravel and slick squishy mud coat my pathway home. Covering my boots and imbedding itself in my tread. Stomping and dragging my feet the whole way. Trying to shake off the filth. When I do get inside the view is like an exposed root after the tooth has been ripped out. The bottom which is almost 4 stories down is dotted with tents to protect the men working in these conditions. Giant flood lights click on at sunset and push the crew to quitting time. The holes have been drilled, the rebar impacted. Cranes have been brought in to move the cranes in. The skeleton structures floating over head. Suspended and riveted. They are sleeping giants. Not quite ready for action. But I can hear them practicing their shriek, stretching for the long job ahead. I get why people want to live in the city. I mean obviously I do, it's just that how many more of us does there need to be? In such tight quarters and with all this mud and dog pooh, you can't ever wear nice shoes. Fancy city night living shoes. Shoes you hoped to look nice in, ensemble shoes. Been a long time since my feet were fancied up. Also down side, there is a lot of stomping in my building. Mud clots dot the hallway carpets. But winter is coming. The anticipation of frozen clay is killing me. Though, I don't think it will be a respite. By the time it gets cold enough to freeze everything's gross and soggy anyway. The once dirty route now becoming treacherous. It will be a slippery layer of icing on top of the so-hard-it-hurts-to-fall when you fall on it permafrost. (Notice I said when. I accept I will fall. It's slippery) At least while I am hibernating this winter, trying to pick the pooh out of my boot tread, I can watch the cranes spin and twill and finally grow up to be elevators. A dirty festering hole like that? The dentist would recommend a filling, at least 9 out of 10 of them would.
My face needs a break. This realization was quick and blemished. I've loved the same products for so long. But when BFF brought out her new cleanser, smelling of lemongrass and spring water; I was jealous. I have been using the same 12 step program for the last 5 years.
People have asked me how I manage to do all 12 steps everyday. The reply? Reverse packing it into the cabinet, so I have to move all 12 steps to get to step one. And I know that I have a very special case of OCD because if I have to touch it to move it, I will use it. It's there, paid for. It's got to be used up before I can buy something new. It's the rule in my house. It applies to everything, except for a few things.
There is something so predictable about my love for shoes. Something so Muriel's Wedding. I love My shoes. But there are shoes in every doorway. Hanging in mock organization. Hiding under the bed. In boxes stacked inside suitcases. The Comissioner hates it. *throat clear*game systems. To the uninformed observer it may seem like overkill but there are shoes for every occasion. I have costume boots and flimsy sandals. Green and brown and suede. Shoes for dancing. And peep toes fancies. How could I get rid of any of them:$ I might need them any day now.
Another jam packed buried treasure. My make up box. Every shade of the rainbow a piece from a different Mac collection. The shade variations and the exclusive colours tickling my fancy. Painting my face and changing my story. I am addicted to green mascara from the Amazon. And my sleepy time rose water nigh-night cream, a dreamy pre-bed ritual. Sephora calls to me like a siren in an otherwise ill fitting mall. Floating on a sea of serums and balms, gels and oils. Longing for the spice of life. Though my 12 steps remain the same.
With my tight fisted-ness and ability to deny myself the pleasure of shiny and new; I am boldy marching toward a new regime... Well, skincare regime. I am freaking psyched for the bright smelling clean feeling of brand spanking new! Having completed my 12 step program. One out, one in. So, without any of the potential hoarding episode my other collections are becoming, I will start anew. With that in mind this holiday season I will be giving bottles of wine wrapped in boots and makeup painted greeting cards. That doesn't sound sanitary...but it does sound Eco-nomical.
While trolling through my own FB page I noticed something...I still own most of those clothes! No matter when the photo was taken; I still got it. The turquoise wrap sweater, the black and white satin dress, the grey business suit from 1999; you name it, I still got it. Yesterday someone said I looked like a hoarder! Oh please! What does that even mean? I don't own more than my fair share of cats. I flush the toilet every time I go. I don't have a spare bedroom filled with fast food containers and old Reader's Digests. But man- have I got clothes. And most of them I've had for years!! I mean it, yee-ears. They are pilled and frayed and I keep clipping and tucking and yanking, stitching and hoping for the best.
Today however, I congratulate myself. I have culled the herd- again. Donating my too short t-shirts and throwing out ugly undies. Collecting uncomfortable shoes and mis-matched socks. Pulling out the shirts with missing buttons and skirts with dropped hems. Tossing anything stained, streaked or discoloured. In an effort to be seemingly more polished. I have given away my "party" shirt that's been a staple for 5 years. I'm convinced the only thing keeping those sequins attached was my wishing. I am sentimental about my Chicago and blue Batman tees, so I kept them, though now they're tucked away safely and quietly under the bed. My stack of work clothes keeps growing. Downgrading some of my 'nice' clothes to work clothes to make room for the new phantom pieces I should add. Now, I have only 3 casual tees and 2 skirts.
The real war being the cost vs the worth. Which brings me to another crossroad. Do the expensive products differ in value to the cheap stuff? The short answer is hell YES! Now, shall I continue with the long answer? Yes. You must've noticed the difference between the Payless pleather and the Steve Madden leather. The way your hair shimmers, shines and stays when using salon products. How the dermatologist tested and clinical skincare line is better; limiting breakouts, irritation and premature aging. With the adage of getting what you pay for ringing loudly in my mind, I've tried to KISS it. (Keep It Simple Sweet-cheeks) But how do you apply this when it comes to clothing?
Understandably, the fickle nature of fashion is a strange mistress. But I am a vintage lady with classic tastes. Maybe that's the reason I've kept so many untimely timeless pieces? Hoping that they will come back around style-wise, though they never will 'weather the storm' I will keep my fingers crossed that a white tee and jeans will never go out of style. Shopping vintage has it's advantages, it's also the toughest type of shopping. It might be easier to have clothing made...which brings me to alterations. I want my clothing to fit me, but I am between sizes on top, bottom and in the middle. The only realistic thing to do would be buy a bigger size and nip-tuck it. But why spend $25 in alterations on a $35 shirt? Because it will look way better!?! What's it worth to look better?
So, FB we've reached an impasse. I am sad that my wardrobe is on constant photo album repeat. What would it take to photoshop in a new look? Would it be cheaper to alter my photos or alter my wardrobe? Well when stacked up side by side I think: It all comes out in the wash.
I am a homebody. It's not a surprise, my parents are homebodies like their parents before them. Not to mean we're hermits, we're just more comfortable being at home, entertaining at home, and just plain living there. When we're not rushing, planning and executing tasks; we're resting at home in comfy pants- regenerating for the next excursion. But by the time you read this I will be on vacation. Finally. It's great. It has been a long time since I went somewhere with my Hubby. And it's amazing what packing for a change of physical location can do to your personal perspective. I don't mean in an "Ohhh it's so amazing there" way, though it is. I mean it in an "oooh I can't let anybody see me like that" type way. I realized half-way through my pack that I was only bringing the things I save for fancy time. I was packing that new dress I haven't worn and the emergency Spanx to ensure maximum new dress output. I was packing nicest jinkies, best under-ware, cutest shoes. I wanted Montreal to see me at my best, not what I would wear on a Staycation....
With this though, as with everything else; it snowballs. So new dress, means matching shoes, tiny clutch purse, jewellery and complimentary earrings. Cute shoes mean blister pads and in the worst case scenario; muscle cream. Also best undies, doesn't necessarily mean most comfy. This exercise encourages me to take stock of the items going into the suitcase; it also allows for quiet reflection upon the reasons to leave certain others behind. I didn't choose those undies, cuz the elastic sucks and they fall down...Wait, since realizing that before putting them on in the dark, why don't I just end this uncomfortable relationship now. So, I did...And it felt great. *insert 20 min whirlwind wardrobe culling. Feeling a grand sense of accomplishment rush over me; I went the the lavatory to pack my toiletries and had the same situation. So I rinsed and sterilized my makeup brushes, married up my part bottles of creams, washes and spritzes, threw out the deodorant that only had enough stick left to scratch my armpit. But I wasn't satisfied there. New toothbrushes and razors were tagged in. Almost empty containers that were WAY too old and expired makeup was also thrown out. It's amazing how far you can see when you're not blocked by piles of old crap.
This brings me to paragraph the third entitled; I intervened myself and didn't have to go on Hoaders. As bad as I ever really got, I didn't have to worry about that. Though there are times when it's not that hard to see crazy from here. I joke, but people really can be so consumed by things that they forget all the little pretty moments that happen everyday. Like getting to wear your cute shoes and going on a mini break. Taking a deep breath and letting it out and maybe it smells like garbage, but maybe it smells like honeysuckle or fresh baked bread. So, on this vacation, I am going to enjoy my under flaunted fancy things and breathe. Celebrating a wonderful change of location, a chance to hang with my Hubby and not just the Commish, wearing my top shelf clothes and going for a walk to who knows where in a city that doesn't speak my language. I might get a blister or two, but those will just act as reminders of my trip when I get home and have to be plain-old-home-body me again. I tell you though, I am looking forward to those comfy pants:)
It's hard to pinpoint the start of my love affair with all things vintage. But I think it started just after my G'ma Far passed away. She was such a Lady. With gloves and pearls and legs crossed at the ankle. It was with her that I watched my first black and white movie. At the time I couldn't understand why anyone would film in B&W instead of colour; it just didn't make sense. It was also with her that I fell in love with Holly Golightly, Gene Kelly and the Sharks (though sadly, I would probably end up being a Jet). At the time she passed I was in high school and had just made the very educated decision to be an almost vegetarian- who ate the occasional steak; because who can resist Papa B's BBQ? But I did give up all pork, you know, for Babe's sake. I tried not to wear leather and fur was murder. I was a very worldy young lady, as far as I was concerned. But there was just one thing; Grandma's fox stole. This glamours furry, rust coloured wrap that smelled like her and felt like a satin lined hug. While cleaning out her house, the house where my Momma grew up; the house were my Bro and I spent Christmases and giggled and fought and played with the old toys that our grown-up cousins had played with. The house where we watched the Jerry Lewis telethon every year the weekend before back to school. It was impossible to think of the things you hoped would remind you of the Lady she was. For me it was the antique cannonball bed and this very non-vegetarian fox stole. I remember talking it out with my Momma; and her tenderness in a time of such heartache. Letting me know that a fox stole worn by my Grandma was very different than a new fur coat. That having something loved by someone before you makes it that much more special. So, I braved my inner critic and wore the stole home on the 3 hour car ride. Sitting in the backseat, wrapped in the smell of my Momma's Momma; and I slept.
Now, a fox stole wasn't something a 17 year old could easily accessorize in 1998, so it went into storage; wrapped and delicately laid there. As I grew, I tried to find my place in this fashionable world. Not an easy task when you grew up in a small town, move to the big city and didn't/don't have any money. Second hand stores and thrift shops were what I could afford or cheap 3 for $10 tops. So I ended up in shoes that didn't fit properly and clothes that even people with bad taste didn't want. These facts forced me to adopt a uniform: jeans, t-shirt and hoodie. This outfit had many incarnations, variations and colours, but it didn't seem to fit me either. I longed to be a Lady, with a capital L like my Grandma. How was a poor little fashion faux-pas like me supposed to make her mark?
Then it happened. A tiny hole in the wall with 12 hats in the front window. My college friend dragged me into a softly lit shoe box storefront- filled with cloches, clutches and class. Smelling vaguely like Chanel No. 5 a woman in rhinestone rimmed glasses smiled at us; 2 college girls in our sweaty dance gear; ogling her wares. I couldn't afford anything that day; not that I didn't want to have it all. I wanted the hats, purses, gloves, brooches, belts and most of all the panache. I wanted to be classy.
It was many years of pining before I started adding quality vintage pieces to my wardrobe. It began with a white sundress from my Momma's high school era; found packed away for a sunny day. Followed by many dresses designed in a time when women were classic and mysterious creatures clad in soft and flowing fabrics. Last year Hubby added my most extravagant piece to date; a chocolate brown Persian lamb 3/4 length coat with voluminous Fox collar and trim. That is a coat that gets noticed! When I wear vintage I can feel the love that the previous owner invested in it and it changes the way you feel about yourself. I am amazed to think that someday my new clothes will be vintage. But by then I think we'll be wearing matching jumpsuits like Logan's run, without all that dreadful running...and murder. That's not the best case scenario for a Lady like me, but who doesn't want hover shoes with automatic laces?
When was the last time you danced. I mean really shook what your Mama gave ya? Danced until you were out of breath from laughing so hard... Closed your eyes and shrieked along with a song that makes you loose your mind and has for years? A song that you've loved since grade school- I bet my wicked sticks that you still know all the words. Dancing is something every kid does, even though it's more like shaking your sillies out than actual dancing, not that I can boast better moves.
I am not a good dancer, I am really Really not a good dancer. My very white and untoned arms flailing through the air. My legs either kicking Ringwald style or pogo bouncing- depending on my shirt as I have had too many dance-wardrobe malfunctions. The combination of clumsy and banging beats is dangerous. In highschool I used to dance with my shadow on the wall, cuz it was the only thing forced to dance with me. If you've seen me dance, you know, it's a combination of mock sexy oooh faces and deep knee bends. It's really not great. Thank goodness my regular dance partners are one tough cookie and a bitch. DJ Jilly Bean is a good sport, she tries to keep up for the first 2 songs but she's not in it for the long haul she prefers to growl/sigh at me from the couch once she's realized I am not dancing because there are "sooo manny ccoookkies in my pocket" and she's gonna get them all. My tough cookie is a whoo girl. Is there anything better than a Whoo girl, hooting and hollering and carrying on like a crazed woman; possessed by the music. Okay, that's a little much, but you get it. She's fun.
As for the loss of public dancing. Why don't we have group dances anymore? Moves that everybody knew- the bump, the shuffle, the dip, electric slide and begrudgingly I will even accept the chicken dance. The steps uniting a group of wedding goers or prom attendees. Making outcasts part of the group. A step chart for social interaction helps the socially awkward. Dancing is never going to be something I am good at- no matter how many tap, ballet or jazz classes I take. Even modern dance; a dance designed for the body you've got no matter who you are, I still look strange. A bad dancer dancing strangely is still bad. But what about twirling? I am a great spinner, like a Roddamn top! a twirl-master general. So, maybe I focus on the round and round instead of the doo-wop & get down; it's a small sacrifice. Plus the Macarena isn't dead and even my GMa can do that- Hhhaaa!
This past week when I received my mail, there was an ominous brown envelope with a bank logo in the corner. Usually, when I get one of these letters it is the bank congratulating me on my increased line of credit (which I need like a hole in the head), but this time.... Oh this time. This letter, with enclosed pamphlet details exactly how my bank fees are increasing. INCREASING? I am already paying $12.95 a month for the ability to use a debit card and for the bank to "take care" of my money. Money which they put on hold and prevent me from getting at whenever I want. They are also closing branches and limiting access to ATMs. Now, that seems nutty- raising fees and lowering expectations. C'mon! I am confused to say the least, where is all that extra money going? If banks are closing to limit costs, why do we need to raise the fees?
I really don't want to increase what I am paying the bank now. How can a business gamble with my money, keep the winnings and have the audacity to charge more? These banks are being selfish. When I was growing up, my Momma was adement about sharing. Or at least giving credit where it's due. It would be great if the banks rewarded us for being good customers, with something usable like, ummm, money. If money is a concept created by banks to establish financial hierarchy, they should be doing more to help the largest demographic- the bottom. How about a matching fund? For every dollar you save with the bank, they donate 10 cents? Or if your account has less than 20 transactions you get a money order that you can put towards a fun new pair of shoes. How about a fund that will donate monthly if you have a direct withdrawal with a registered charity. There are many ways to make the members of a bank swallow the new fees easier. How about this? The bank knowing your spending habits automatically gives you the account best suited for you, instead of wrestling with a bank employee to get it. It's not hard to be a better business, just ask your local BIA.
Can we create a better system? It seems like the best option for a broke ass like me, would be to go back to the barter system. I will give you a manicure and a massage for my groceries? Would that work?
If I came over and cleaned your house would you chauffer me around? Are there any other options? What is going to happen to the world if these bank systems need to be bailed out, and there is no money to do it? It seems to me that the best option is stuffing a coffee can full of $50 dollar bills and waiting for a rainy day. Though I think if it starts to look stormy I will just blow it all on rubber boots and call it square.
This is a jam goes out to everybody's favourite party girl;) My beautiful Tambourine.
To all you sexy business women walking downtown, looking sexy in their grey- scratch that sexy charcoal business skirt with matching blazer over a collared pinstripe blouse. Usually your striding with great confidence. Legs clad in taupe pantyhose. What's that you're carrying? Oh, it looks like you're bringing work home tonight, something to do between dinner and This is the Voice. And though your short snappy haircut is shimmering in the nearly spring sunlight, I must raise my hand and ask you this...
WHat is up with those white New Balance runners?
Boo! Hiss! I mean you are rocking your shit otherwise. Make up- Check! Hair-did- Check! Job-requiring unpaid-overtime- Check! Lady-I mean it. There isn't a point in life when you have to give in to the Sneakers and skirt combo. You can find very comfortable, supportive and visually stunning shoes, it has become an attainable dream. Hurray for women's lib:) Whoa! With this new found feminism can I still remain feminine? "Oh Hell yes" *insert 3 cross body snaps. Colour me shocked. Somewhere, some woman put their hand up and said: "Can you try a litte harder? I am tired of my feet hurting." and then someone who knows the shoe folks said "Hey yeah, skirts look way better with pretty shoes." And so it was, shoes with straps to lock and load your feet. Heels with magic soles made of cloud. Boots that cradle your ankles, lullaby-ing them to sleep. Look around Beautiful, this dream can be yours. Your new spring shoes await you. Please, please, please, I know you can do it. You know you should do it. So do it, cause no one wants to be the Old woman who lived in the New Balance Shoe.
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