Crack Den Couture for the Upper Middle Class

While on a wild pinning spree, I started to notice a repetative pattern in the images from one of my favorite stores. (If you just said, "huh?" I'm talking Pinterest. Google it.)  

Juxtaposition, odd marketing stategy, trying to make overpriced linens seem not so over-priced? Art? Call it what you will. All I took from these advertising images is the assumed truth that Anthropologie shoppers must all live in crack dens.

They moved the bed away from the wall so now
they're safe from the mold, you see.

Every little girl's fantasy bedroom: Wrought iron headboard,
pretty yellow sheets and sludgy walls.

Roof over my head, or fancy comforter... Roof over my head, or fancy comforter...?
FANCY COMFORTER!!!

Why, no! No murder was ever commited here.
Just go to sleep dear...

The best way to counteract asbestos?
A purple chair-and-a-half! 

The honeymoon suite.
Just don't look up tonight, darling!

Scared by the nightime sounds of your house settling?
You just need an antelope pillow to cuddle up to.

With pretty bedding like this, you won't mind
ingesting lead-based paint chips in your sleep!

No time to repair plaster and refinish the hardwood floors?
A low-hanging chandelier is sure to distract the eye.

I couldn't afford a Trapper Keeper for my homework
because my duvet cost too much.

The most restful place to position the bed is
directly beneath where the bathtub is likely to fall through.

So, next time you begin to judge the lady with the fancy shopping bag, vintage-looking sailor pants and the perfectly heathered embroidered sweater... Don't jealously assume she's going home to your dream house.

Maybe, just maybe, some Anthropologie shoppers really do live in crack-dens.

 Some may be gypsies...

And, some simply homeless...

(They do have free coffee in their stores, you know.)

Cellulite... That's Right!

If there's one thing that should bond us women together, it's our cellulite.

SAY WHAT?!  Yeah, I said it.  Since nobody one else will!

80-95% of us have it (depending on which study you choose believe is most accurate.) That's a higher instance of commonality than anything else we as ladies share. 

Marital status, skin color, education, tax bracket... the only thing we women have most in common is undeniably our cellulite.  So why don't we ever talk about it?

Because it's a gross part of life that we'd like to forget is there. 

So, no, don't worry... I won't be trying to work cellulite into everyday conversation. (Got that, readers who actually know me personally?  There's no need to dodge into the nearest doorway/elevator/house plant the next time you see me coming.)  We're going to keep this to a one-time thing between you, me and the internet.  As it should be.

How many of you pick up the annual Cellulite Issue of that tabloid that you normally despise? I admit, I've never actually purchased these issues (just can't bring myself to feed the beast), but I've definitely sneaked a peek in the checkout line or if I find a loose copy left lying around the lunchroom.

Obviously, the tabloid magazines that make big bucks from their annual Cellulite Editions are doing it for the wrong reason.  They're officially in the business of knocking celebrities off of their pedestals and bent on ruining the lives of the privileged by whatever means ethical or not.  (Sidenote: That's why I've cropped all faces, captions and identifying features from the "backside" photos I've used here. It was done without their permission the first time around. I'm not about to be the repeat offender.)

But, let me tell you what I personally get out of peeking: The relief that we're all just as sexy as one another.  

If I would have captioned the accompanying pics, you may have been shocked to learn that these lumpy ladies being crucified in the tabloids are the same ones gracing the "Most Beautiful" covers of other publications. The same bombshell airbrushed in the swimsuit issue may be the next one featured on the cellulite edition's cover.

Go figure!  Even movie stars and divas are a part of the 95% of us.  We really do have something in common after all!  (And, those remaining 5% probably either lied during the survey process or are a part of the under-21 demographic.  They're not fooling us!)

My cellulite story started at a very young age. Probably early teens. That's when I started wearing swimsuits with skirty bottoms because I was one of the first of my peers to enter this passage of womanhood.  (Why couldn't the boobs have come first?!)

See, it does come on arms.
Even celebrity hottie ones!

It started on the butt and upper thighs, like it always does, and slowly crept it's way down past the knees over the following three decades.  As I get closer to 40, I'm finding it sneaks up in the most unexpected places like, Ack! My calves? What?! My arms!  I wouldn't be surprised if my ears were next. 

There's different kinds of cellulite, too. My personal brand is "skinny girl's cellulite". I've always been tall and small-boned, so unfortunately my cottage cheese has nowhere to blend within normal womanly curves. It just stands at attention, grasping to my skin as if it were in fear of falling off. (Little does it know, I'd be perfectly fine with it falling off!)

I've learned to dress to camouflage, but the "skinny girl" blend always gets the biggest reaction. People don't expect you to have it, because you look so "normal" when fully dressed. So, when that first trip to the beach, pool, spa, store dressing room with us catches them off guard, it is usually met with screams and stares. (Screams from the small children who don't know any better and stares from the shocked adults who are trying their darnedest to feign unfazed.)

In the winter, it's easy to forget about because we're covered up, shivering and forgetting to shave. (What? You're not from around here? You have to shave year-round? So sorry to hear...) But, the weather will eventually turn warmer and the cycle begins again. 

I'll buy a new pair of shorts that looked surprisingly great in the dressing room, but the truth is soon revealed in my obscenely well-lit bathroom. Swimsuit season jiggles in to greet us and I'm in a mad dash to find the last pair of swim-shorts in my size.  No more string bikinis here!

But, then the latest Celebs with Cellulite issue is released to save me just in time.  I can peek, feel at home with my famous fellow 95%-ers and be lifted back out of my shame spiral.  

What else are you gonna do? There is no cure. Yeah, there's expensive creams and treatments that really don't work. The latest trend being caffeinated lotions. I've considered trying a poor girl's version of rubbing Folgers Crystals around on my thighs, out of curiosity, but it just seemed too messy. Besides, if I did find a way to make it disappear then what would we all have to bond over?

So, why did I post this?  Some of you are probably saying this in your head, or aloud to one another as you snicker and judge me. If you haven't figured the answer to that question out yet, take a look at your own backside. I know I'm not the only one who takes a spin on the self-pity tilt-a-whirl this time of year. Misery loves company and so does cellulite. We're all in this together... at least 80% of of us. The rest of you can go eat a burrito while we join hands and ♫ We shall overcome...♫

If you take away nothing else, at least take away this: When you're people-watching at the beach this summer, don't gag and make jokes at others like the tabloid do. Remember that you're most likely sitting on a similar lump of Jello. When you catch your boyfriend or husband ogling the latest chick on the Maxim cover, don't get down, feel free to point out that if he flipped her over, odds are, she's as lumpy as you are.  

If you made it this far, and you're a daring soul... I'm not letting myself off the hook that easily. Since I've exploited the backs-of-thighs of the rich and famous, it's only fair that I exploit my own. Below, I give you:

My Cellulite.

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You're welcome!

 (And, yes, macaroni and cheese was consumed during the making of this post.  It was GOOD!)

Silence Isn't Golden

 

The rear speakers in my car blew out a few weeks ago. I came to this conclusion when instead of hearing the classic rock stylings of Detroit's WCSX on my ride home from work, "psst-psst-psst- SQQQQQQQUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEE-ooooooooohhh-sssQQQQQQQUUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-oooooohh-SQQQQQQUUUEEEEEE...ffffft-ffffft-fffffft... POP!" was heard in its place.

You know? That high-pitched bad frequency feedback you hear at every amateur rock show each time the novice guitar player wanders out in front of his amp, "SSQQQQQUUUEEE-OOOHH!", then looks around confusedly like, "Dude, what was that noise? Where is it coming from?"

Well, that was my ride home the other week. For twenty minutes straight. With the radio turned OFF. My ears rang for days. DAYS, I tell you!

I had to beg my father to drop his fork full of dinner, calling from my cell phone in the driveway, "Please come out and disconnect this thing! I can't take it! The noise!" He came outside and we went through the same, "What noise?" conversation that takes place every time he's called out to my car. (Too many amateur rock shows in his day?)

There were some perks to losing the rear speakers though. When toting a carload of kids around town the following weekend and having a song arise that's totally their jam; their "Turn it up! Turn it up!" pleas were easily squashed by my, "Oh, so sorry, Karlie Rae Jepsen. The rear speakers are blown. This is as loud as it goes." (Volume turned down to three.)

But, then madness happened on today's morning drive. I usually have the Christian radio station on in the mornings, setting my mind and spirit in place for the coming day. When I started off my drive they were taking calls from listeners, "My life... ppppfffftttt...that bridge...p-ppt-pfftt-ppt...my family is in... Ptt-[silence]-pttp...sooo low...ptt..." "Wow! What a sto...ptt-[silence] Let's lift up... pfftt... in prayer.. Ptt-[silence]-[silence]-[silence]..."   Augh!

Now the front speakers! In my mind there was some depressed soul out there dangling from the side of the Ambassador Bridge and my curiosity couldn't be any further fed. I convinced myself the word "bridge" I'd heard was just part of some analogy I'd missed in between the sputters and silence, but said a "Please help whoever that was with whatever that was all about..." prayer (almost verbatim) just in case.

By lunch, the front speakers were useless and the radio could only be heard from the radio itself. This reminded me of the transistor hand radio I had in the early eighties.  A vintage sound.  Better than nothing!

By the five o'clock rush hour commute, even that had evolved into "Here I am... [silence]... again. ♫ Here I... [silence]... the stage. ♫ [silence]" That's it! I threw in the towel and the radio went off. Twenty minutes of silence can't be that bad. Stereos aren't a necessity. It could have been the engine to die. It could have been the transmission.

Silence isn't so quiet though. The first thing I noticed, without having music to distract me, was the squeaking of my seat every time stopping and going caused the slightest shift in my body. Red light. Squeak. Green light. Squeak. Right turn. Squeak squeak. I spent the next quarter-hour wondering if I had recently gained weight.

I briefly tried to make my own music. For some reason a medley from Les Miserables was all that came to mind and mouth. It took very few stanzas to realize that my own voice wasn't something worth listening without a full set of speakers and a pro on the cd player to drown me out.

The squeaking of the driver's seat then met the harmony of the pinging of invisible debris being flung at my windshield. I didn't see a thing, but every few feet was met with, ping! Ping. Ping! Ping. Dust particles? Microscopic insects? Gravel shavings? Is it possible to hear glass settle?

The "quiet" of the red light of my final left turn caused me to notice dozens of birds up on a wire.  I'd never noticed them up there before, but they are likely to be sitting there every evening like thirty little dots all in a row. I'd never noticed them chirping before. I'd never noticed them actually interacting either. One bird kicking the other to his left like a bratty little brother. This made me laugh and almost hear the next sound of my drive. I preempted the honk that was sure to be coming my way as the light turned green and I was still gazing skyward.

The last sound of my evening was the pop of my speakers' last dying gasps. "Remember us! *pop* Make sure our story lives on... *pfft!*" And so, it has.

I may never adjust to the sound of silence before my budget affords a new sound system for the car. But, at least I managed to honor a deathbed promise. *pop!* [silence]

Things the World Can Shut Up About Any Time Now

Here is a list of things I'm officially tired of hearing about at the moment:

Gabby Douglas's hair:  Gabby Douglas is a beautiful, extraordinarily talented girl.  So why the fuss over her hair?  I'm tired of hearing mothers, who pay exorbitant amounts of moolah to have chemicals drenched and a weave sewn into their  own young daughters' hair, criticizing the care and keeping given by our national hero's mama.  Her hair is, yes, relaxed and then pulled into a bun when working... like every other gymnasts' on earth.  Then, off duty, she wears the exact same hairstyle as my own teen-aged niece.  So the real question is, You got a problem with my niece's hair?   

 

Miley's hair: I absolutely love Miley Cyrus's new hairdo!  It suits her face, it suits her personality and it definitely suits her age.  So why do I keep reading headlines of shock and awe about whether there are deeper issues involved in this celebrity's haircut?  The world has no control over any one person's personal style choices and the sooner the world realizes this, the happier I'll be.  She is not really Hannah Montana!  And, besides, *secret to be spilt* Hannah Montana wore a wig.  I tried a very short hair cut myself in my twenties, the best time to experiment with extreme fashion.  I even tried to frost it to this shade of platinum, but mine turned out yellow instead.  Shocked?  Nope.  Jealous?  Absolutely.

Lindsay Lohan. Period.: Once upon a time, I watched Freaky Friday, Confessions of Teenage Drama Queen and Mean Girls so many times with my niece that I couldn't even venture a guess at the tally.  She was such a promising young actress at the time and then something went slightly off kilter.  The world took notice, then something went drastically wrong.  The world, then, never stopped paying attention, perpetuating a spiral that apparently was never to be recovered from.  World: Please, stop looking at her.  It's the only cure.  (Remember Speidi?  No?  Good.  See, my theory is now proven.)

Passive/aggressive Facebook posts featuring unsolicited parental advice: We get it, we get it... you're a good mom or dad.  No one doubted you. No one needed proof.  And, certainly no one wanted advice that didn't ask for it.  You see, being a good parent isn't a rarity.  Most parents I know are pretty great at it.  So, quit assuming you're way is best when most other parenting styles are working just as effectively.  Don't expect the world to praise you for refusing to vaccinate.  Don't expect a trophy for forcing your child to go vegan.  And, the world will absolutely not be throwing a banquet in your honor because you chose to breastfeed until the age of five.  The sooner you realize this, the sooner friends will start "liking" your statuses again. 

 

The chemicals I may be ingesting, at my own will, as a grown human being: Going along with the previous category; I myself don't need advice about my own diet either.  I have been eating meat, dairy, processed foods, carbs, preservatives and additives my entire life.  And, guess what?  I have my doctor's seal of approval!  If a number skews ever-so-slightly in a worrisome direction upon any visit, we make the appropriate dietary adjustments to correct and move on.  So, while I salute your self-control and your acquired taste for foods that taste like yard grass, while I tolerate your tolerance to ingest a product with the word "germ" in its title... I am uninterested in participating.  I eat, not for political or social agenda, but to stay fueled and living.  Seeing that I'm upright at the moment, breathing and typing... it appears that my way works too.  (Remember: It's your b.m.'s that are unusual in color and texture, not mine.)

Your political convictions: Newsflash! Your offensive critiques, exhausting Facebook rants and "clever" memes have yet to sway a single soul.  Yes, you're passionate.  You have your convictions.  But, guess what? We all do!  And, they're rarely identical.  That's why we show up at those polling stations with the little walled off booths that make one's vote private and sacred.  The way they were meant to be.

The designer names of your attire: When you're talking about your shoes, they're not your "Jimmy Choos", they're your shoes.  When your putting on your jacket, your not putting on your "Burberry", it's simply your jacket to rest of the world.  When you're digging through your purse, you're not digging through your "Louis Vuitton", it's just a bag, for the love of Pete!  If you feel the need to turn every label into a noun, think long and hard about why you feel the need to do that and then be very sad with yourself.  If you, then, still feel the need to pronounce your "Gucci"s, I'll give you a head start while zip up my Gaps and lace up my Targets.

All the Noise, Noise, Noise, Noise!

Why is it that some noises can drive us climbing up the wall by our fingernails and others can be the sweetest sounds to kiss our eardrums?  I have a fickle relationship with noise.  I may sometimes be the noisiest thing in a quiet room but I'm---more often than naught---the quietest thing in a noisy space.

I've heard alot of noise lately.  We're having flooring installed at home and every bad noise that could possibly come with that followed.  By Day Two I had to escape!

Then, I heard more noise.

First, I packed a lunch (because noise and digestion are not compatible) and went to the park.  There I found alot of sounds I liked.  I was amazed to find that one dead leaf brushing against the armpit of a tree was, not only audible, but loud enough in this peaceful environment to make me spin around and "What's that?!"  The bullfrog I thought I heard was nothing more than a detached branch caught midfall and rubbing against a tree trunk, creating such a ribbit.  And, that very peculiar noise that sounded something like a waterfall---only one whose molecules had shifted, causing it to sound more like a solid-fall than a liquid-fall---ended up being two adorable baby squirrels chasing each other around the base of a tree.  Toenails clamping onto the bark in a downward spiraling motion.

I accidentally disturbed quite a few pairs of birds enjoying the Spring mating season.  I was merely hiking down the marked trails in an innocent manner, not wishing to offend.  But these avian flew away from me with such speed and attitude, you'd think I was an overprotective father busting up their session at Inspiration Point.  Wings wildly flapping, twigs violently swatted out of the way... now that was a sound!

Then I went to the library.  For a place whose national motto is, "Shhh...", there's certainly alot of noise going on in there.  There's guy who thinks he's obeying the "Do not hold cell phone conversations at the desk" sign, by slipping into the entry hallway and holding a thirty minute conversation loud enough to echo through the rest of the building.  The book cart with the squeaky wheel.  The shuffling of feet.  The schooching in and out of chairs.  The phone ringing.  The kids running by.

Then I went to my beloved Target to grab a few grocery items.  I'm now noticing the decibel level increasing with each bulletpoint of my day.  We all know the shopping noises.  Hundreds of conversations blurring into each other and taking place all at once. Cash registers, shopping carts, babies wailing, the "beep beep beep" that those tiny stock vehicles make.

I finished my quick stop and then proceeded homeward, only to find the flooring truck still in the driveway.  My peaceful sanctuary was still being molested by the sounds of power saws, vacuums, clunking and hammering.  The walls were practically vibrating, so I escape with my mother for a quiet walk around the neighborhood.

Boy, are those neighborhood kids noisy...

Nosy Neighbor

Just so you know, if you see me out on a walk anywhere near your house, I'm most likely:

• Inner-critiquing your landscaping, color choice of siding and shutters and any interior decorating I can see through your windows when the curtains are drawn.
• Mocking your canine's watchdog skills.
• Luring your cat to the sidewalk with my pro "Kitty kitty kitty" calls.
• Judging your kids if they're misbehaving in the front yard.
• Saying a friendly "hello" to the ones who are well-behaved (even though they don't respond because I represent "stranger danger" and you've taught them well.)
• Counting your Spring buds and comparing that data to the last time I walked by.
• Wondering why your husband isn't at work.
• Acting disgusted at the teenage smoker blaring music out of the car you shouldn't have bought them because they don't deserve it.
• Dodging the garbage that missed the can at the end of your driveway.
• Dodging the can at the end of your driveway that blew over in the wind because you didn't retrieve it last trash day.
• Wishing you weren't parked in such a way that you're blocking the sidewalk and I have to pass through a puddle in the wet grass to get by.
• Secretly envying the fact that you own a home; no matter the paint color, dead grass, rowdy residents or noisy pets.

P.S. Just so you further know, most people are doing this when they walk by. I'm just an openly nosy neighbor and willing to admit it.

Shoes in the Road

There's been a subtle phenomenon that's had me baffled for an entire lifetime and I'm finally ready to address it:  Why are there so many shoes in the road?

Every day of my life, within every commute---short or long---I see shoes in the road.  Not pairs of shoes.  Random single shoes lying around the shoulders of highways and byways, blending in with the roadkill.  They resemble those cartoon men in those cartoon deserts, slowly crawling toward those cartoon mirages that they will never reach.  Where do the shoes come from?

Every now and then I know a pedestrian is hit in a tragic traffic accident and the impact may cause their shoes to fly off.  This happened to my niece once.  Her shoe did fly off, but it was also immediately retrieved.  (And, by the grace of God, her shoe suffered worse injury than her body.) But, every day?  If there were that many car-on-pedestrian accidents occurring, we'd be hearing about it on the news and we'd become very unlikely to leave our houses on foot.

Another cause could be domestic disputes.  There's always that couple you'll drive past who's sparring, waving arms at each other and shaking fists.  Or, the big brother torturing the little brother in the back seat.  I always presumed that at least a small percentage of shoes in the road had to have been thrown there by a disgruntled party.  "Quit touching me!  Quit touching me!  Stay on your side of the line.  I've got your shoe, now are you going to quit touching me?  No?  Whoops..."  And, one more shoe is added to the one-legged road's closet.

There's always the piece of luggage that spills off of the unsecured luggage rack.  But, if road shoes came from luggage, they would also be accompanied by road pants, shirts, socks and undies... which is something we rarely see.  (Although, I did see a lone---very large---bra on the side of the road once.  That must have been one heck of a domestic dispute!)

How many more causes can there be?  Is it those people in the passenger seats who air their foot out the window, by the side view mirror, without tightening their laces first?  Is it joggers who take a spill, sprain their ankle, and end up crawling the rest of the way home before noticing the missing party on their left foot?  Is it those victims running away serial killers who run so fast they run right out of their shoes?

I wrack my brain every journey in the car and have trouble coming up with any answers that make better sense.  I guess the world may never know.  Shoes-in-the road is destined to be an eternal enigma, not unlike those lost socks in the clothes dryer.

If you've ever lost a shoe in the road, leave your story in the comments field below.  As you can probably tell, I'm dying to know how!