The last post may have given you the impression that I've been doing nothing but buying cute dresses to prepare myself for the tour.
That's not at all true - it's just that I've purchased almost nothing but Champion t-shirts and mesh workout bottoms for the last year, so shopping for pretty stuff has been a delight. (Especially since new shoes may or may not have been involved.)
In case you're wondering, here's what I got:
Available from Nordstrom.com.
(I got these exact same shoes, only in taupe, available on Zappos.com. They look really comfortable, but trust me, it's an illusion.)
This swirly-skirted dress comes in white, chocolate, or lilac. I picked lilac because the beads are silver. I got it at Vive La Femme on Damen Ave in Chicago, possibly the greatest store ever for items size 12 and up. (Not local? Buy it on Alight.com.)
I bought these shoes for my book events last year and will be pairing them with the lilac dress.
They are, hmm... what's the word I'm looking for? Oh, yes, CRIPPLING. They cause pain to shoot up my spine with every step I take. Yet they completely dress up shorts and a polo shirt, so you can see my dilemma.
This one's available on LolaandGigi.com. The weird thing is, I got this exact same dress in person at Nordstrom and the label says Jessica Howard Woman but the one online is by Donna Rico. It's almost as though these dresses were all made in the same factory in China and someone simply slapped a different label on them depending on vendor. But that would be impossible, right? (I also got a boring white cardigan and black shrug to wear over these because I care not to expose my armpits in a formal setting.)
Regardless, the impromptu fatty fashion fiesta was not the intended purpose of this post but it illustrates my point nicely. I have 10,000 things yet to do, thus I have been procrastinating like crazy. This aversion to finishing my tasks has led me directly to the internet. Normally I'm a lurker - I read scads of blogs but never comment. But since commenting is much more pleasant than say, reorganizing my closet or raking up the mountain of defrosted dog poop in the backyard, I've suddenly become prolific.
Because I should strive to be more prolific on my own website, I'm going to give you the long version of the key-losing-neighbor from a couple of days ago. Here goes:
A bothersome family moved out of the house two doors down last month. No surprise, I was thrilled to see them go. They bugged me because they had a very nice, private backyard with lots of lawn furniture, but they preferred to gather up all their friends and family, sit on their front stoop in kitchen chairs, and shout to each other, leading to my never being able to watch TV with the windows open for two summers running. (FYI, it took them weeks to clear out of their house because there's apparently a rule in this 'hood that you aren't allowed to rent a truck or hire a moving van and there's only so much furniture a 15 year old Chevy Malibu can transport in one trip.)
So, it's a Friday night and Fletch has his friend Hurricane Joel over for cigars and rye and Military TV programming. After Joel goes, I pour Fletch into bed. (No one survives a night out with Joel. NO ONE.) As I'm closing the curtains, I see two huge men park their big red car in the middle of the street. I notice they start poking around a couple of the other cars up and down the block, including mine. They don't actually put their hands on my vehicle, but they keep diving under it. They're super loud and they've got their headlights shining directly on themselves. I figure if they're car thieves, they aren't particularly good ones.
I attempt to rally Fletch, but all he does is mumble, "Smokey smokey smokey," into his pillow before passing out again, so it's up to me to deal with the situation. I'm trying desperately to stop going Gladys Kravitz all over everyone's asses because it would be nice if at least someone in the neighborhood didn't hate me. In neighborly solidarity, I let the situation play out a little longer. The guys poke around a while more and then I see the bigger of the two guys open up a Zippo and dive under my car again.
OK, smile and wave at people on my street in an insincere attempt to be more friendly? Yes. Willingly allow arson? No. I call the police and they arrive in record time.
The police talk to the two guys for a few minutes and then drive away, leading me to assume they aren't criminals and are neighbors who have lost something. But what? Maybe someone dropped a stone out of her ring while shoving a plastic potted tree in the passenger seat? Possibly a wallet fell out of the pants riding mid-thigh on the gentleman with the bass loud enough to rattle my fillings? Obviously the missing item was valuable enough to keep up the midnight recovery effort. However, even if they are my neighbors, they're still strangers and I'm not about to dash out in the dark and volunteer to help.
The two guys continue to light their lighters and dive under cars. I watch as they leave them open long enough to get hot, then flick them closed and wave their burned fingers in the air. Sometimes they pause, dust off their knees, and scratch their heads. Finally, one of them opens his cell phone and uses the dial light to illuminate the ground under my car.
This little dance goes on for FOUR HOURS.
Lighter, OWIE, cellphone, head scratch.
Lighter, OWIE, cellphone, head scratch.
Lighter, OWIE, cellphone, head scratch.
I am flabbergasted at their lack of problem solving skills. As the night proceeds, I find a million different ways to locate the lost object myself.
I drive to any one of a dozen all-night grocery stores in the vicinity and buy a flashlight.
I knock on neighbors' doors, explain what I've lost, and ask to borrow a broom, rake, or shovel to scoop out the contents of what's below the cars.
I decide the missing object is a key, so I call a locksmith because the phone in my hand is more than just a very dim source of light.
I call a friend to help.
I say, "Fuck it," and come back as soon as it gets light out.
At no point would I use my lighter on a McDonald's cup, only to be shocked at its sudden, violent incandescent, thus singeing off my eyebrows and setting fire to the brim of my hat. I'd probably also forgive my friend for hitting me in the face in an attempt to douse the flames and would not let the situation devolve into a shove fest. And were I to engage in these actions, I wouldn't blame my friend for screaming, "Fucking burn next time then!" either.
At this point I go to bed because the show can't possibly get any better. But I have to sleep in the guest room at the back of the house because of all the I-burnt-my-eyebrows-off noise out front. Also, Fletch smells like a bachelor party.
The following Monday I'm coming back from the gym and the two guys are on the street again, only this time they're busy moving furniture out of their car and into the old neighbors' house.
Of course they are.
They call me over to say hello. They're very friendly despite the fact they've only got one set of eyebrows between them. We chat for a couple of minutes and I learn about the lost key, but I don't mention my having called the police. I just smile and nod. Look at me, what a good neighbor!
Then one of them tries to sell me a box of meat out of his trunk.
And I... I... I give up. I excuse myself abruptly and dash into my house.
Someday I'll live in a neighborhood where people don't set their hair on fire or try to sell me a trunk full of flank steaks.
'Til then, I'll keep buying pretty dresses and uncomfortable shoes so I look nice when I get to meet you all and tell you the stories in person.
