Thursday, August 26, 2010

The Urge to Purge

Aside from purchasing quite a lot, I purge frequently.  Today a friend took the children so I took it upon myself to clean their rooms and playroom and discard old toys.

I find it exhilarating to get rid of little used items.  I gave away Teddy's remote control DinoRaptor and Annelise's easel.  I packed up games and puzzles, trucks, and tea sets.  Since the children rarely use the playroom, I'm guessing it will be weeks before either notices anything is missing.

Or I could be dead wrong.

Should I have Givers Remorse?  I didn't touch stuffed animals, books or blankies.  I do NOT count Happy Meal freebies as real toys, so they got tossed first.  Then I tried to be judicious; I boxed up toys I hadn't seen them play with for months.

Now I am flashing back to Toy Story 3.  Should I have let the children choose what to do with the toys?

Teddy's room is still inundated in his precious Bakugans and Annelise still has piles of her animals.

How much is enough?

I thought this thought for myself today as well.  My arms laden with Goodwill finds, I paused and asked myself if I NEEDED anything else.  I put everything back and left empty handed.

Certainly I have a full closet and dresser, so why do I keep trying to cram more in?

I chastise my children for hoarding, yet I realize no woman honestly needs 30 handbags.

Is it the constant search for the magical pair of jeans that will whittle my things to supermodel status?  Do I try to fill the void my father left with shoes?  Am I mothering properly?  Do I show my children enough love and spend enough time with them?

Yikes.

This is dangerous territory.

Yes.  I love my children and they know that.  Should I spend more time with them?  Probably.  Do they feel slighted and therefore need to gather as much as they can?  Most likely not.  Sometimes a greedy child is just a greedy child.

So their rooms are tidy and the playroom is a little more spacious.  I tossed in a bag of my clothes when I dropped the toys off at Goodwill.  I feel lighter, less indulgent.  The house feels cleaner and I am satisfied.

But there is no way I am parting with a single handbag.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

How smart is pretty?

I am trying on clothes.  Tight pants, loose skirts, comfy tees, less than comfortable jeans.  My room looks like Nordstrom exploded in it.  The cats pull loose ends out of open drawers and the overhead fan rustles the stack of fashion magazines.  I am an unforgivable clothes horse.

I am also however an equal opportunity shopper.  I am just as likely to buy a cute pair of shoes at Payless as I am at Prada.  I shop Goodwill, Target and Neiman Marcus.

Two days ago, the most revered printed word published annually arrived in my mailbox, the Vogue September Issue.  Since then I have drooled over Marc Jacob's sexiest line ever for Louis Vuitton.  I have coveted the swirling skirts and cinched waists from Prada.  Don't even get me started on Max Mara.  Leathers and lace and gathers and pintucks.  This is a spectacular season.

Hence, I am twirling around my bedroom like some hopped up teenager, piling on necklaces and pinning up hems.

Somewhere, in a room close by my children are sitting mesmerized in front of the T.V.  I am vaguely aware of SpongeBob's droning laugh.  I am reluctant but I tear myself away from closet and peep into the living room.

Annelise is wrapped in a blanket, even though I keep the air at 77, and lounging on the sofa.  Teddy is ensconced in the "dog chair" with, who else but, the dog.

I quietly retreat, aiming back for the bedroom but sit to write this blog instead.

When did I become obsessed with fashion?  I remember in high school devouring the Utne Reader and The New Yorker.  Sure, my mom bought me a subscription to Seventeen but I was more likely to be found reading Anne Tyler or e.e.cummings.  Not to say I wore a bag over my head but when did I notice the way Carolina Herrera drapes material or Prada stacks a heel?  When  did hemlines and kid leather become as important to me as...as...well, as they are?

I don't watch Project Runway.  I've never been to Fashion Week.  I consider In Style vapid (though I do have a subscription.  Jeesh).

Recently I tried to entice Annelise to practice ballet.  Tutus and leotards, stockings and satin shoes... so pretty.  She abruptly informed me that she wants to take a form of martial arts (we immediately enrolled in Tae Kwon Do, white uniform included).  I felt proud.  I have raised a smart assertive little girl who frequently dons leg warmers, over the knee, and a newsboy.  She is no slave to fashion and barely tolerates my drivel about wanting her to look pretty.

Somewhere, at sometime, I decided that fashion and intelligence cannot be married.  When guests come over, I actually hide In Style and Vogue and put out The Smithsonian.

I guess I don't hide my dirty little obsession very well considering I actually wear the clothes and shoes I covet/purchase.  However, I do hope my epitaph doesn't read "She dressed well".... however, I am sure if given the opportunity I will choose want I want to be buried in.  I've always favored Oscar de la Renta...

Monday, August 23, 2010

Brave New World, I guess

So I have a client.  Mind you, I don't have a business, or even much of a plan, but on September 9th I am meeting a woman who will pay me for my time as I help her rearrange her furniture and assess her decor.

I am almost paralyzed with fear.  I feel like a fraud.  I am not licensed.  I'm not a designer, I'm not even a decorator.  I am a poser.  Sure, I've helped some friends... placed some furniture, arranged some knick knacks, assisted with color choices and wallpaper.  It was fun.  Like playing dress up or house.

Now the rules have changed... money will change hands.  It is a nominal fee but regardless, I am taking currency from another for services rendered.

I armed myself with what I believed to be appropriate questions and supplied limited but detailed information about myself and my abilities.  I had a great conversation with my client... and yet... could she detect the hint of wariness in my voice?  What shall I wear?  What should I bring with me?  Magazines, paint chips, catalogues, tape measure?  I don't even know how to gauge square footage.

In high school, I believed that I would grow up to be a professor, or a writer.  I would drive a Volvo station wagon and wear chunky wool sweaters.

In college, I fretted that I would end up a saleswoman, a ghastly pharmaceutical pusher.

In my early twenties, as I bounced from ridiculous job to ridiculous job, I worried I would never find a calling.

Now, as a mother, with a calling perceivably knocking on my door, I am confused and scared.

I'm 39.  I make a great Coq au Vin and can write a proper condolence letter.  I have a pretty good taste for wine and love to travel.  I've made my own pesto and children's clothes.  I have an uncanny knack for finding incredible items at Goodwill.  None of these would translate well on a resume.

So, here it goes.  Forward.  Armed with moxy and a stack of  Southern Accents.  Let's see how far we go....

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

get over it

Chicken tagine with greek green olives, israeli couscous and key limes.  Buttered smoked paprika pork chops with a dijon potato green bean salad.  Zucchini and feta fritters with a tapenade tomato salad.

As I obsess about my weight, I cook.  I pour my creativity into healthy delectable meals and erstwhile run, pound weights, pummel myself.  I shop for fresh herbs and garden my cucumbers while counting calories.

I long for red velvet, coca cola, meatloaf made with 8 0/20, mashed potatoes, gruyere, Fritoes, beer... I try on new clothes and preen in front of the mirror.  I get up, I run, I push, I lift.  I go to sleep and I dream of running... through pastry shops, through Timbuktu, through Nevis... I dream of wearing a swimsuit I wore three years ago.

I shuffle clothing... size 27 jeans to the back... size 6 to the forward.  My mother says I need to lose 15 pounds.  I stare at the mirror, only neck long, suck in my cheeks and jut my chin.  15 pounds.  15 pounds... a 3 month old baby, a kettle bell.  When did I ever have to lose 15 pounds?

I refuse to part with my clothing.  The St. John one armed side ruffled dress.  The Max Mara grey wool slacks.  The Tracey Reese dress I wore to our 1st Derby Party.  The gorgeous shirred red tankini.  

I buy shoes.  Lustrous leather.  4 inch heels.  Velvet.  Studded.  Stacked.  Platform.

I lament.

I read the papers.  1/5 of Pakistan is under water.  A mother smothered her children before driving the family car into a South Carolina river.  Another dead toddler was found in Arizona.

Jesus.

I am complaining because I eat too well?  Too much filet mignon?  Too many glasses of Pinot Noir?  Not enough plodding on the treadmill I pay $80 a month to use?

Relative.  Its all relative.

Right.

I need to get over myself.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

The challenge of coping

In the midst of a hectic morning, the coffee maker stopped brewing.  I checked the clocks to make sure we hadn't had a power outage.  Strange.  And annoying.

Testily, I drove the children to their respective camps.  Ugh.  At Teddy's camp, we spied the child that he had had a physical alteration with in school this year.  I advised him to give the other child a wide berth and whisked Annelise off to gymnastics camp.  The mother of the the aforementioned child was dropping off her other child at gymnastics camp too.  Great.

At home I noticed spots on the carpet; damn dog.

Somehow though, chipping away at my day, I noticed that things didn't really seem that bad after all.  Sure, I was jonesing for coffee and I had agita over whether my children were in safe environments, but it all seemed manageable.

Medication, I thought appreciably.  Yes.  The great equalizers.  Wellbutrin.  Zoloft.  Abilify.  My three amigos.

Sure,  half the refrigerated vegetables have spoiled and Annelise stained her new leotard with red (red!) Kool - Aid and the cat threw up under the dining table (again), but there is money in the bank and gas in my car and the air conditioning is running and thank God for drive-thru Starbucks.

Now if only I could put my Mother's little helpers in the water system.  My God that woman at Target could sure use a big dose.