Fashion Fail.

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I logged on this morning to find that Yahoo’s FASHION ADVISOR wanted to share her list of ten items that are “must-haves” in any woman’s closet. Okay, fashion advisor, let’s look through my closet, shall we?

1. Little black dress
I have numerous black dresses. Most are vintage, some are from Target. None are particularly little but Check.

2. Black blazer
Blazer? Does anyone who isn’t in boarding school really wear a blazer? No.

3. White button-down shirt
I have several white shirts I use when helping S. on his caterings. Not button-down though. No.

4. Well-cut trousers
Do Dockers count? No.

5. A beige trench coat
I don’t do beige and I haven’t worn a trench coat since my days with Scotland Yard. No.

6. A big black bag
Does the big black garbage bag holding my summer clothes count? I say yes. Check.

7. The perfect pair of jeans
What is the perfect pair of jeans? To me, they’re the ones that fit you once a month. And I do have those, so Check.

8. A great pair of pumps
There is no such thing as a “great” pair of pumps. Uncomfortable, hate them, No.

9. Statement jewelry
My jewelry makes the same statement as my wardrobe: I don’t care. Check.

10. Diamond studs.
Don’t like diamonds. No.

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How does YOUR wardrobe stack up, hmmmm?

The Bastard.

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Mystery Bro, as we’re leaving the funeral home with Little Bro’s ashes: “Road trip!”
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Mystery Bro. later, as people started filing into my mom’s house for the memorial: “Can I leave now?”
Me: “Not unless you’re taking me with you.”
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My mom and I sat up late last night talking about Little Bro., the day’s events, and our crazy family in general.
Me: “How did you end up with such a bunch of goofball kids?”
Mom: “Well, I’ve always liked interesting people…”
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I’ll post a full, brutal play of the day sometime later this week. We are all hanging tough but the days ahead are going to be really hard. I also want to thank HARRIET and FAIRLY for coming yesterday. And I need to apologize to Harriet for mispronouncing her real name for the past year. Now you know why I can’t have real friends.
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Butterflies.

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My little brother died this morning of cardiac arrest, brought on by a host of other things. He was three years younger than me, a very lonely and unhappy person whom my mom tried her best to lift up. And now it falls to my brother and sister and me to lift her up and help her attend to every parent’s worst nightmare. She has now outlived two of her children and I am going to do everything in my power to get her through this safely.
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Tag, I’m it.

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A reading meme from READERS GUIDE, started by beanphoto.

1. Most memorable place/experience reading a book?

At 13,000 feet on top of a mountain in Colorado as a wild thunderstorm was bearing down on me. My hiking companions and I ended up having to lay flat as the storm threw down lightning all around us. I remember laying on top of the book I was reading to protect it (which, under the circumstances, was a fairly ridiculous thing to do. (It was THIS BOOK, in case you’re wondering.)

2. Most unusual place/experience reading a book?

I read in the bathtub a lot, although I don’t think this is particularly unusual. I tend to drop books into the bathwater so you might want to think twice before lending me any of your precious volumes.

3. Most dangerous place/experience reading a book?

See #1.

4. Most luxurious place/experience reading a book?

The huge, incredible library at a historic house S. and I were caring for over one weekend last year. (This was also the place where I read some Mark Twain while lying in Mark Twain’s actual bed.) The library is about the size of our house – floor-to-ceiling with books and antiquities and comfy old over-stuffed couches. It was wonderful.

5. Funniest place/experience reading a book? Or, add a reading-place/experience description of your own…

I’ve had a lot of fun and funny experiences reading to – and being read to by – kids, who notice grammatical and pictorial minutiae like no other readers on earth. Can’t think of any particular example at the moment, though.

And that’s it. One set of very dull answers from me.

The deal, according to RG, is that you tag some people – and when you’ve done it you email beanphoto at mail@beanphoto.co.uk and tell him you did it so he can go and collect it. And ask the bloggers you tag to do the same. I’m not tagging anyone but feel free to participate.
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Oops.

Someone emailed me to tell me my archives link had disappeared. It’s back now, so if you really feel the need, you can once again delve back through months of this b.s. Enjoy, America.

Where have I been?

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Maybe I was cleaning my house…or reading through a bunch of my Dad’s documents…or playing Farmville on Facebook…or having a seemingly un-ending dream in which I forgot to pick the charges up from school, then couldn’t remember what number to call to tell their mom I wasn’t going to be there….or watching back-to-back episodes of INTERVENTION online…or re-reading Harriet The Spy and The Long Secret (in which Harriet screams or shouts everything she says)…or maybe I was cleaning out the pantry…or trimming the rosebush…or cutting sumac off the phone lines…or perhaps I was at Home Depot getting paint for the bathroom…maybe I was reading the paper…or talking on the phone with my sister or my mom…or maybe I was having a different un-ending dream in which I was supposed to be in someone’s wedding and I couldn’t find a place to change clothes or get ready and I knew the event was already underway and I was missing it…or maybe I was drinking coffee in the backyard, watching deer move through the pasture for the first time in months…or maybe I was cleaning out my car…or outlining an article that BUST may or may not want and moving forward with plans to interview the subject of said article anyway…or…maybe I was just sitting here, thinking.
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Gooooood Tuesday mornin’ to ya!

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The short story is that I am stupid. The long story is that I was moving my car so S. could avoid getting stuck in the mud. I got stuck instead…right on top of our freshly-laid water main pipe. AAA sent out someone who I’m pretty sure was McGuyver, because he managed to free me from two feet of mud without damaging my car or sending it into the tree it was practically butted up against. So yeah, I guess the long story is also that I am stupid. The. End.
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So, let’s see…the weekend.

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Friday, S. and I went to see Inglourious Basterds. Here’s my mini-review (possible spoilers), posted on FB over the weekend:

Brad Pitt sounds like my uncles, scalpy-scalpy, dude from The Office, lots of dead Nazis. In summation, not Tarantino’s best but really, how can you NOT like lots of dead Nazis? The.End.

That just about sums it up for me. Oh, and I greatly enjoyed watching Hitler get his face shot off.
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Saturday I did a lot of yard work and had declined an invitation from friends, opting instead to stay home and do, well, nothing.. S. went out to meet a friend and I was enjoying a quiet evening at home when suddenly I heard something drop in the bathroom. Then I heard some gnawing and shuffling around and figured out that the something was in our bathroom cupboard. And then I totally lost my shit. I called S., who raced home and peeked into the cupboard only to see a rodent* staring back at him. Because it was cornered and there wasn’t really any other way to get him out without risking a bite, S. got his pellet gun and in one well-aimed shot, dropped the unwanted visitor. He also took care of disposing of the body and cleaning up the cupboard, for which I am eternally grateful. I was rather girly and useless through the whole thing.
*(S. thinks it was a field mouse, I say it was a Norway Rat. Whatever it was, it was big and ugly.)
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Yesterday, we ventured out to the WILDFLOWER CENTER to see an exhibit of Origami sculpture…which turned out to be more crafty than arty, but still held a few enjoyable pieces. We also stumbled upon the Center’s “Women in Science” fair being held in one of the galleries – the focus of which was to promote science and engineering for girls (there were Brownie troops and other large groups of girls milled through the gallery). How very cool. S. and I wandered through and learned a bit about invasive species of fish, among other things. All in all a lovely afternoon.
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Today, older charge and I exchanged a series of joking notes; he saw some show in which school kids were passing funny notes and he was trying, I think, to replicate that. (I was going to copy and post pictures of, but I am too lazy, so here’s the text):

Dear Laura,
Henry is walking and you are WEIRD.
Love, T.

Dear T,
Henry IS walking and I am not weird, I’m strange. Get your
facts straight, mister.
Love, Laura

Dear Laura,
You’re on.
Love, T

Dear T,
It’s on like DONKEY KONG.
Love,
Laura

Dear Laura,
xoxoxoxoxoxoxo (this was accompanied by a drawing of me with wild hair and a big “X” drawn across my body)
Love,
T

Dear T,
One of my favorite things about you is your great sense of humor.
Love,
Laura

Dear Laura,
You’re going DOWN.
Love,
T

Dear T,
No, I am not going down. YOU are going down like the biggest down-goer in
the history of down.
Love,
Laura

Dear Laura,
I have to slug you.
Love,
T.

Dear T,
I have to HUG you and give you my evil nanny germs.
Love,
Laura

Dear Laura,
I hate you.
Love, T.
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And that, America, is all I have for you this evening.
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Blue Monday.

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I don’t really have much to say today but I hate leaving that Sept. 11th post hanging out there in the ether.
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Do you like weasels? Do you like coffee? Then perhaps you’ll want to try THIS. I think I might buy a bag just to have around for those hard-to-get-rid-of dinner guests. “Stay for coffee? Er…oh, no…we…uh…”
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That’s all you get today, internet.
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What to say.

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I’ve tried three times now to write something about today’s sad anniversary. I’ve tried to convey the panic I felt when I heard that two of the planes came out of Boston, because I knew my older brother was flying out of Logan that morning. I’ve tried to describe the gut-wrenching sob of relief that came out of my mom when I called to tell her he was safe.

I’ve tried to describe how it felt to leave work and start driving back into downtown Chicago that morning, not sure I should be doing so. How a federal agent friend of mine called during that drive and told me there was still a plane unaccounted for and that I should turn around…and go…where? Where was I going to be safe? Where would anyone be safe? What if those two planes were just the beginning of something more horrible?

I’ve tried to write about my friend, L., seven months pregnant with her first child that day, whose husband worked for Morgan Stanley. How L’s mom sent out an email to her friends, telling us L.’s husband was dead. How L., in outraged shock, called all of us two days later and said her mom was wrong and that she just knew he had made it out…that he was unconscious in a hospital somewhere. He wasn’t.

How my nephews, young at the time, were so fearful of “bad men” and anxious about their dad’s absence (he was on a business trip to L.A. that day and it took him almost a week to get home by train and rental car) that they set up “traps” in their bedrooms and slept with the lights on. How it took constant reassurance for months afterward that yes, they were safe at school, daddy was safe at work, I was safe living downtown.

I tried to tell how I felt every time an F-16 flew over Chicago, which they did frequently in the weeks after that horrible day.

But I can’t make a coherent post out of any of this because as much time as has passed, this is still a very open psychic wound for me. I envy those nephews, young adults now, for whom Sept. 11th is just a history lesson. For me it will always feel somewhat unbelievable…a very bad dream come true.
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