Frankenstein Skirt

 I have 22-year-old denim. That I still wear. Not often because it's basically disintegrating. But I love it and I keep patching it up as best I can. And I wear it when I think I can get away with it. At a brewery on a Sunday, for example. (Not that I would know ...?)

I used to call it my Million Dollar Skirt. I wrote about it 12 -  twelve - years ago. Follow the link to read about it; I just read it a few minutes ago and was shocked to learn this denim is at least 22 years old. (Thanks for the semicolon, Dad! Still suffering from parenthesitis, -p. Miss you!)

I was at Costco recently buying a few things when I felt a draft on my derrière. I was wearing my denim skirt. I knew that I had a hole below the left rear pocket but I didn't think it was that big. Had it gotten bigger? My ass size hasn't changed that much although it would be fair to say it's lower to the ground than it used to be. (And I never upgraded to Kevlar.) The waistband has now frayed like a friar's haircut and the pockets couldn't possibly hold loose change. But, still, I can't imagine getting rid of it although it's hanging by a thread. (What's left of them.)

In a rare moment when I was ironing things, I decided to apply some iron-on patches. It's too late to breathe new life into my aged skirt. But could it be saved? Feeling desperate, I pressed on.

To review, the skirt started as a pair of jeans. Five years after I bought them, the backside fabric gave out. (Clearly, they were not Levi's.) I wasn't ready to get rid of them so I sent them to an outfit in New York, Denim Therapy, which is, amazingly, still in business (and who might be hearing from me in the very near future). They re-wove the fabric so I could continue to wear my beloved jeans for another five years. At some point, the knees gave out so I mailed the skirt to someone in Michigan (I think) to have the jeans converted to a skirt (because I don't sew). Then, 12 years ago, I wrote about how I got to wear my then reincarnated jeans skirt. I've been wearing this denim - in one form or another - for 22 years!

Fast forward, Costco and iron-on patches. Four:

These jeans are older than I was when I first got married. (And look how that turned out.) I've had these jeans longer than I've had any pet. So when the time comes - and I'm preparing myself for this eventuality - they might be buried in the back yard.

RIP will be an appropriate epitaph.

Look at what my husband gave me!

 

Happy Anniversary!

His timing was perfect. I was just coming home from Costco (from whence the flowers were purchased) and he was just coming home from an appointment. We arrived in garage at the same time.

"Perfect timing," I said as I handed him the flowers. "You can give these to me."

He looked at them, smelled them, and then handed them back to me saying, "Happy Anniversary!" 

It will be 37 years on Monday so I have the experience to know that if I wanted flowers, I was going to have to get them myself. Besides, he's been super busy so I know he has given our Anniversary little thought.

He'll be "giving" me flowers again on Valentine's Day this year because, guess what? Valentine's Day is the same day as the Super Bowl this year. Incidentally, that's also the same day as I'm participating in a half marathon so maybe he'll get me two dozen.

No need to feel sorry that I have to self-supply the roses. He gets to pay the credit card bill. :-)

Ask me how fast I was going!

On a recent trip to Napa, I discovered the Napa River Trail - a beautiful place for a four-mile walk. I found an access point and headed north from Kennedy Park. After about 2 miles, averaging about 18.25 minutes/mile, I stepped on the gas. Up to this point, I got "good morning"s or "hello"s or a nod from other trail users.

I did mile 3 in about 13.25 minutes, five minutes faster than my last 2 miles. Now I was getting smiles that said, "How cute. Look at that little old lady trying as hard as she can."

After I turned back for my final mile, I was heading into a slight wind and I was really huffing and puffing. I passed a couple of trail users I had passed earlier and now the smiles were like "I see you" and "Respect!" I stayed to the right to allow others to pass. Soon, a group of bikers came along all wearing their brightly colored spandex shirts. They were chatting idly about this or the other trip to Europe, presumably a biking trip. None said "hello." None said, "On your left." None said, "Respect!"

Yes, I was walking. But I was killing it.

Finally, my watch indicated that I had finished my 4th mile. The bikers - maybe 20 of them - had already passed me by. I glanced at my watch to see how I finished. When I saw the time, I thrust my hands in the air like I had just crossed the finish line of a marathon. Yes!

I texted Hubby that I was finished and would meet him at our rendezvous spot. As I arrived, I found the bikers taking a break. They filled the trail and said nothing as I worked my way around them to a shady spot where I could stretch while I waited for my ride. I was on one side of a road facing the bikers. They were on the other side facing me. 

I wanted to shout at them, "Ask me how fast I was going!" I imagined they would all shout back, "How fast were you going?" And then I would tell them. And then they would say, "Good job!" Or, "Nice work!"

It wasn't my fastest mile but it was pretty dang fast. And I was feeling good.

At the tone, the time will be ...

... eight, forty-seven, and thirty seconds ...

BEEP

For anyone who doesn't know what I'm referring to, you used to be able to get the exact time of day by calling a telephone number. Why, you ask, would anyone want to do that? Because, once upon a time, there was no other way to get the exact time of day. There were no cell phones or computers. If you didn't wind your watch (battery and quartz watches weren't invented) or clock, they would stop. Electric clocks would stop during power outages. If you didn't know what time it was, how would you find out? 

The Cambridge Tribune, Volume XLI, Number 15, 8 June 1918, page 12

Until 1918, people would call the operator. An operator, dear children, was a human that answered the phone when you dialed 0 - just 0 - on a rotary phone. People called the operator for all sorts of reasons: to report a fire or look up someone's phone number; to get sports scores, news headlines, or the weather; or to get the time of day so you could set your watch. The operator was like a search engine in human form. Interesting factoid for those of us who remember the rotary phone: the 0 was placed at the end of the dial (after the 9, instead of before the 1) because it was thought to be easier to find in the dark or in an emergency. 

After 1918, when the service was no longer provided by phone operators, people could call their jeweler, utility company, or Western Union. However, by 1920 New York City established a dedicated phone line where operators did nothing but tell you the time of day. The time was told to you by another human being who did nothing but tell people what time it was.

It wasn't until 1933, that the process became automated. AT&T provided the service and callers would heard a recorded human voice. You can hear what it sounded like here: Telephone World.

And if you want to know the official time today, you can still call the U.S. Naval Observatory at 202-762-1401.

Or you can just look at your phone.

Another Household Tip

When taking out your recycling, be sure to empty your hands of other items that might be recyclable but are not yet ready to be recycled. Otherwise, you are sure to put everything in the recycling bin including the item you meant to take with you when you left the house.

It's only when you arrive at your destination that you will notice that you no longer are in possession of the item you meant to bring. After a short panic and a phone call home to see if the item can be recovered, you will decide you can remember everything that was listed on that item.

Sure enough, when you get home you will find the item exactly where you knew you had deposited it despite your husband's feeble attempts at finding it (did he really look?) and while you will congratulate yourself on not only easily finding the discarded grocery list (and thus, feel righteously superior despite the earlier snafu) but also on the fact that you did remember everything on the list (except the paprika which you didn't really need right then anyway).

Instead, put your not-ready-to-be-recycled items out of the way lest you discover something sticky in your hair the next morning and not know where it came from, forgetting all about dumpster diving the day before.

Follow me for this and other household, recycling, and hair care tips.

My first day of not going to school.

I'm not driving to school today. Or back from it either.

For the last six or seven years I've been shuttling little ones to and from school. These "littles" are my grandchildren and they're not so little anymore. One of them is a senior in high school and drives himself to school. Another recently moved away. And the baby, well, she's not even in school yet.

And, so, on this first day of school I'm not going anywhere.

Before I drove the littles, I drove the kiddos. Ours. That was decades ago, of course, but I wasn't working at the time so I took care of the carpool duties. ("Carpool" might imply there was a cooperative feature but there wasn't. I drove our kiddos and would queue up with all the other parents doing the exact same thing.) It was and continues to be a traffic nightmare that requires spending lots of time just sitting around and waiting for your turn to drop off or pick up. Heaven forbid if the kiddos got out of school at different times or attended different schools. Seriously, how does a parent keep a job when their entire afternoons are spent sitting in line?

Delivering and pickup by drone would give a whole new meaning to "helicopter parent."

So what will I do with all this time I suddenly find on my hands? I haven't a clue although reentering the workforce has crossed my mind. That would get in the way of all the goofing off I'm prone to do but the income would be nice, allowing me to elevate goofing off to a whole other level.

Just now, I'm missing the littles, seeing them frequently throughout the week. That's okay. They're growing up. Maybe I'll be lucky enough to drive some tiny ones someday.

Grumble, grumble, grumble.

But I did it anyway.

Nothing noteworthy but not nothing either.

Maybe I'll do it again tomorrow.

Today's excuse?

All my sports bras are dirty.