I have enormous respect for Krissie for putting up those Photo Booth photos every day. I think it’s a great idea, but Photo Booth makes most people look like Night of the Living Dead, so I have said, “No, thanks.” But tonight, still coming back from bad stuff, I thought, “If she can do it, I can do it.” (Krissie gets me in a lot of trouble that way.) It’s ten o’clock, I have no make-up on and I haven’t combed my hair, just tied it in a knot on my neck to get it out of the way while I type, but it’s not like I’m ever not tired, made-up, or coifed, so what the hell. And I’m behind about forty pictures so it’s time I got started.
I took the first one and looked at it and thought, “Dear God, am I that depressed?” Continue reading
I like sloppy houseslippers, but even for me, there’s a limit. I loved these suede mocs so much I bought two pair and wore them into . . . well, into this:
This pair is missing their laces (that would be Mona; she looks on suede laces as a particularly chewy form of spaghetti), they’re shapeless, they’re stained, they’re . . . comfy. Really, really comfy. So of course I decided to ReFab them. Continue reading
I’m turning Re-Fab over to Krissie for the week-end, but before I do I’m going to re-direct you to this Jezebel piece on Dolly Parton and fashion. Be sure to read the comments, too. The Jezzies can be brutal, but in this case, the Dolly love knows no end, which is as it should be. I mean look at this woman, she’s a national treasure:
I want to be Dolly when I grow up.
I know she’s the same age I am, I still want to be Dolly when I grow up.
So something interesting (to me) has happened this week. Because I knew I was going to be blogging this site–must support Sister Krissie–I started looking at things as Post Topics. I do this all the time on Argh, but I try to keep this kind of personal stuff away from there since it turns into a whine. No whining on Argh. Well, not any more. So instead of looking at my bathroom full of stuff and thinking, “I have to do something about this some day” and repressing memories of my mother saying, “Jennifer, you have to pay attention to your appearnce,” I looked at it and thought, “Re-Fab posts” and sorted out all the drawers and boxes, threw out anything that was too old or that I knew I didn’t like, and stacked what was left around the bathroom sink. Continue reading
I’ve always had terrible skin. Bad acne until I gave birth at twenty-five, scarring, big bags under my eyes, awful. Of course, I did have a great personality, but you know how that is. So I basically ignored my face since I had enough hell to deal with in the first forty years of my life. But when I was forty-one, I decided to make another change in my life (I’m good with change), and I started to write fiction and I quit my teaching job (loved the kids, didn’t like the hours or the authority stuff) and my life got much, much better. By the time I was fifty, I was pretty happy, but the toll those first forty awful years had taken was etched all over my face. So I went to a plastic surgeon. Continue reading
As I said in the last post, I bought this derelict cottage. It was darling but it looked as run down as it was: leaves on the discolored roof, paint peeling off down to the wood, the yard wild and overgrown. So one of the first things I did to both stabilize the house and signal to the neighbors that I cared about them was have the house painted and the grounds mowed and cleaned up and a new roof put on. And I put out a welcome mat and put pots of daisies and mums next to the front door. The inside was still moldy, but the outside said, “Somebody who lives here cares.”
That made perfect sense to me, so I don’t see why I never made the connection to my body. Continue reading