Fashion Forward Friday

Gordita, circa 1983.

Playing dress up while my older sisters were at school, I borrowed a hat, some silk flowers, and a lace shawl to create this ensemble. I was pretending to get married. And what better outfit could I have chose to get married in?

But seriously, I am loving the red pants. And the Strawberry Shortcake doll. She was my favorite. Because she smelled like strawberries and cream.

And, as we all know, I'm still a huge fan of the color red, and lace, and strawberries.

Silence please.

Way long time ago, when TC and Kacy and I went to Rome, we visited the Sistine Chapel. While there, we were surprised by the darkness and crowdedness of the room. We were also a little afraid of the stern guards who yelled every 30 seconds, "SILENCE PLEASE." It was alarming. And it was especially alarming when one of the guards marched up to a visitor and demanded that they delete whatever photos they had just taken of the art work or he would confiscate the camera. Bullies those guards were.

Not the Sistine Chapel (of course since I wasn't about to risk being yelled at or risk having my camera taken),
but it was taken in Rome and is lovely, right?

This is the reason for my silence. No, there's not some Italian guard that is yelling at me to be silent, but I've been reflecting, as I did in the chapel, only this time I'm not thinking about paint or artists or Bible stories or on hidden gems of truth found in centuries old paintings, but instead on the last of the gallon of milk, on my impending "retirement," on my dear husband and the demands I put on him constantly, and most of all, I've been reflecting on silence. Sometimes it's good to rest in silence, to observe in silence, to think in silence. So that's what I plan to do this long weekend, to be silent, and observe and reflect. Long weekends are good for that.

I have a fashion forward Friday in the queue for tomorrow morning, which I hope you will enjoy. I went digging through old photos to find pictures that demonstrate my love of clothing from even a young age. Unfortunately there are not all that many photos of me as a child from ages 5-14. I think it has something to do with being the last child of five and also that big stack of film my mom kept on her dresser that was never developed that eventually just went bad and had to be thrown away. Sad.

Happy Memorial Day pre-weekend.

How to be a selfish jerk.

I have a tutorial for you today, on how to be a selfish jerk.

1. Con a nice man into marrying you, loving you, and sticking with you for years and years. If you can get him to care more about your comfort and well-being than his own, even better. The nicer and more wonderful he is, the bigger of a jerk you can be to balance his niceness.
2. Announce one evening while watching the news that you are going to make yourself a glass of chocolate milk.
3. When the dear man answers that he would love a glass as well, you coldly and unfeelingly reply with, "Too bad. Get it yourself." If you can throw in a laugh, as though you were kidding, it might help soften the jerkness of the statement. But you will know in your heart (if you had one) that you are not kidding. Because you're a jerk. And you say this although you know full well that if the tables were turned he would prepare you a glass in a heart beat.
4. Retrieve the milk from the refrigerator and see that the gallon only has enough for one glass. Not to worry though, there is another, brand-new gallon waiting to be opened in the fridge. There will be plenty of milk, however the issue is that you find the last bit of milk in a gallon gross.
5. This is where you will need to make a decision: you can pull out a new gallon and "pretend" you "didn't" "see" the other gallon, or you can selfishly pour your husband's milk for him, in a false act of kindness, in order to ensure that you don't end up drinking the last of the gallon that you find gross.
6. This next step requires some intricate timing: when the man turns his back for a moment to return the Nesquik to the cabinet, you pour him the last bit of grody milk, then open a new gallon for yourself.
7. When the man confronts you about it, asking in good humor if you really had just done that, because he knows how weird you are about food, you deny it. Vehemently. No, you didn't purposely pour him the milk that you find gross. Of course not. You would never do such a thing.
8. And when he goes on about his evening in a forgiving and kind manner, your denial turns into outrage, "How dare you accuse me of such a thing."
9. And as he innocently laughs it off, your outrage turns into a sheepish admission of guilt, but with excuses, "But I know you don't mind the last bit of milk in the gallon."
10. Then you laugh uncontrollably out of embarrassment of being caught at your under-handed strategic move to get your dear husband to drink the last of the grody milk. Now this part is key: try hard not to laugh, because the harder you try the more you will laugh like a lunatic. And as you are in the throes of laughter you will realize that you are laughing alone. But being a selfish jerk, you don't care.
11. Then you enjoy your spoils (glass of chocolate milk) with a tinge of guilt. However, the more you practice this, the less guilt you will feel. Just keep at it. Eventually you will feel no guilt at all for being a selfish jerk.
12. Then you go to bed and tell your husband that you love him, pretending the the whole incident never happened.

Fashion Forward Friday

Gordita, circa 1990, age 11.

Skinny jeans tucked into navy blue cotton socks (scrunched, of course).
White canvas vans with navy blue piping.
Navy blue hooded sweatshirt, over-sized, BUM Equipment brand.

Alphabet Soup Again

I am nearly finished with my alphabet art, so I thought I'd show you some of it, cuz that's just how I roll. I spread happiness and joy across the blogosphere without regard to color, creed, or shoe size.

That's all for now my friends. I hope your Tuesday is fantastic! Joy joy joy! Happiness and more happiness.

Suddenness

see more Engrish

Ha ha ha. Ha ha. HA ha. Ahhh.

Fashion Forward Friday

This is what Gordita looked like at age 10, circa 1989. Note the red and black two-tone outfit, complete with grey denim "No Excuses" brand purse, black sunglasses, black Swatch watch, black cut-off shorts, and black shoes. On the red side, we have an oversized red t-shirt, red socks (scrunched), and red baseball cap, sideswept.

Also, please note the spiral perm that I was much too young as a 10 year old to take care of hence the extreme frizziness.

I'm enjoying how deliberately this outfit was put together. I think I had some help from my older sister KL, aka Hula Hoop. I'm sure she snapped the photo and told me how to pose. And wouldn't you know, I still love black and red together.

October 2008.

December 2008.

February 2009.

December 2009.

January 2010.

February 2010.

February 2010.

Elliptical

I believe that I have revealed several times in the past my chronic laziness. It's a problem, a disease, an incurable disorder that I fight against every day. Some people have acne, others have dry scalp, I have chronic laziness.

But this week I made excellent progress in overcoming my disease. I actually worked out, formally, on the elliptical, four times so far, and I have every intention of working out today as well. (Normally I would spend the morning trying to come up with excuses for why I can't/shouldn't/better not/don't feel well enough to exercise. Pathetic, I know.) This is crazy excellent for me. Also, I got out of bed at a normal, decent time, and got to work, not only before 10am, but before 8:30am every day this week. And, AND I've been productive and useful around the house, making TC's lunch every day, preparing dinner, cleaning up after myself, putting my shoes away instead of letting them pile up in front of the door, all that stuff. It's like I'm a new person! I've been reborn into a slightly less lazy body!

Me in my best exercise gear, circa 1983.

I know. It's like I've become a new person, so new that you don't even recognize me. Don't worry though. I'm still the same person. Despite my newfound non-laziness, I will still be able to relate to all you common people. I'm still grounded.

Draw a drawing

I can't draw. It's a fact of life. It's universal truth. It's a substantial verity that, Gordita Von SloppyHand, cannot draw. It's true. Let me prove it to you.

I present to you Exhibit A.

These represent my typical church doodles.

Are you convinced yet? No? Well, let's take a closer look. I'll ease you into the ugliness with some of my best drawings first.


This is me. Note that the drawing is not to scale. My arms are much skinnier in person.




Birds in the sky. This is one of my more artistic selections.




This is a dog. The fact that I have to even specify that this is a dog is an indication that my dog is not a very true representation of what a dog actually looks like.




And this is the pièce de résistance. A cat. "Meow," says the cat. "Meow indeed," says I.



Now we get into some less explored territory for me. These sketches are rougher than the first few.



An elephant. You can tell it's an elephant because he has big ears and a long nose, also called a trunk.




This is a pig. Pigs have curly tails and pug noses.




Mouse. Need I say more?



So we've established that I am not a natural cartoonist/drawist/artist. I lack talent when it comes to holding a writing utensil and creating. It's just not me. So I have been working at my drawing skills. I have been practicing using the following tools and tricks.

• Trick 1 is key for me. I used a Bamboo Pen & Touch. A gift from the Huz (after I asked and begged and mentioned and hinted and begged some more for it), it allows me to draw on the computer with a pen. It's awesome. And maybe my computer drawings will someday translate into pen and paper drawings. Who knows.

• Second trick: Adobe Illustrator. Using the Bamboo in Illustrator is like a revelation. In Illustrator, I choose the paintbrush tool and it smooths out all my shaky lines. It's super awesome. Also, I can select each individual line and manipulate it, rotate it, size it, move it, etc. So if my lines don't quite match up, I can move them around until they do. Sure that sort of thing wouldn't be possible with pen and paper, but that's the benefit of electronic drawing.
• Third trick: I find an image that I would like to reproduce, and I trace it to get the basic shape I want, then I add and embellish to my heart's content.
• Fourth trick: I ask TC to look at my work and make sure it looks decent. Because after staring at something for so long, it's hard to tell how it really looks.

Here is what I have been able to create using my four tricks.

First:

An elephant, which is part of my alphabet art project. So see the line drawing, the outline of the elephant? That was me. ME! Crazy right? And then I put together the rest of the image.

Second: A quail. Again, note the outline of the quail.

While my quail and my second elephant may not look like much if you take them out of context, a simple comparison of my pencil and paper drawings vs. the quail and elephant tell the whole story.

I mean, which would you rather look at? This elephant?


Or this elephant?

That's what I thought. The first one. Wait, the first one? You're breaking my heart! I spent hours on elephant 2. I spent seconds on elephant 1. Come on people, you're breaking my tender and fragile heart!

Well, I guess it's time to go back to the drawing board (pun intended).

Boring, loring, goring

I'm bored, and boring. All the posts that showed up on the blog this week? I have a confession to make: I scheduled them last week. I haven't blogged at all this week. I've been busy, but I've also been uninspired and bored. WAH wah.

Thanks for the support about the job thing, and my annoyance at people misunderstanding my job description. My replacement has been hired and will start soon. I will have the pleasure of training him. (Yes, I said him. Yes, they have hired a MAN to replace me. I wonder how many people will assume that he's a secretary. Blech.)

Thanks also for understanding my issues, and thanks to Heidi for the suggestion to shut up the irrational jerk in my head with chocolate. I think I'm going to shut him up (Yes I said him. What?) with some frozen yogurt in a minute.

I'm itching to be creative, but I haven't found the time. I have been spending a lot of time lately with our digital photo library. I've been organizing it and tagging people and places, and it's going to be fabulous. I think. What do I know? I just really enjoy the process of organizing. I hate the upkeep though. I'm such an anomaly.


Just because it's purdy.

I've finished several projects, but have yet to post about it because I'm basically just lame.

Our living room update is nearly complete. I really want to take photos and post them. I'm just so boringly lazy at the moment. Next up on our redecorating docket is the "guest room," which is really just the everything we don't know where to put room. We're going to clean that room up and then sex it up with an awesome chair, and a cool rug, and like tons of other cool stuff.

And my garage sale pile keeps growing, but I still haven't gone through the majority of my stuff, especially the stuff I have down in storage. I'll get to it soon. It's just that in order to clean up a mess, you have to make a mess, and I'm not looking forward to the making a mess part.

So that's a brief update.

Oh Ogio!

TC bought me a little present a few weeks ago:



This backpack! It has a special compartment for my white sparkly laptop. It is very comfortable to wear. It has plenty of room. And, best of all, the lining is PINK!

When we travel, which seems to be often enough to necessitate such a purchase, TC ends up being our electronics pack-mule. Now, with my handy dandy backpack, I can carry my own electronics on my back. It's amazing. And I love my new backpack.

West Elm

I may on the tail end of this, but I discovered a new store that has fantastic home decorating options: West Elm.


Is this duvet cover not completely amazing?


And this rug? I LOVE this rug.


And this pillow? How much fun is that?


And this yellow chair?

Sadly, they have no stores in Utah, but the internet is my refuge.

Issues

I gots wut dey call da issues. That's what I have. Last night I had a bit of a fashion show. I tried on a bunch of different articles of clothing, some of which were swim wear. And when I saw a bump here, a bit of roundness there, chunkiness on that side, and sagging on another, I freaked out. I came apart. It was amazing to watch how the temporary and irrational panic unfolded. So I will unfold it again for your entertainment.

Looking in the mirror.
"Wow my legs are white."

Then scrutiny.
"Is that cellulite on my thighs?"

Then upon closer inspection in the mirror scrutiny becomes overreaction.
"Oh my gosh, I'm a monster! I'm hideous. I'm huge! ... But I can't look away."

Then, the why me whine?
"How did I get to be so disgusting? I don't get it. I eat well. I exercise. It's not fair. Life isn't fair. I hate food."

Then give up.
"Maybe I just shouldn't even bother. I should just eat whatever I want, have quesadillas for lunch every day, cookies whenever I feel like it. Why do I even bother to exercise? That's IT! I'm DONE with exercise."

Then, a bit of rational me shines through.
"Calm down Gordita. You're being irrational. Of course you need to eat well and exercise. Just keep doing what you're doing. It's alright. You're alright. Everything is alright."

Then rational me is obliterated.
"But what I've been doing obviously isn't working. My legs are so chunky it's a wonder I don't need a Jazzy to move those trunks around. That's IT! I'm never eating again. Ever. No more Cafe Rio ever. Only salad and water from here on out. Yeah. And I'm going to exercise until I collapse from exhaustion. I will punish myself until I look less hideous."

Then, deep breath, attempt at rationality.
"I'm being too hard on myself. I'm not THAT bad. Everyone has some cellulite. It only looks bad because I'm so white. If I had a tan..."

Then, the wishful thinking.
"If only I weren't so pasty..."

Then freaking out because there's seemingly no solution.
"But when I go out into the sun I burn. I'm going to get skin cancer at some point in my life, I just know it. I don't want to damage my skin. I want to keep it young and unharmed by UV rays. I don't want to look like an old leather glove by the time I'm 40."

Then realization that 40 is just around the corner.
"Oh my gosh! I'm only 10 years away from 40. It seems not that long ago that I was 20. What happened? TIME happened. I can't stop it. What am I going to do? My life is practically over."

Then rationality sneaks back in.
"Don't be silly. Aging is a part of life. There's nothing I can do about it. I have to focus on the things I CAN do something about, like my ginormous thighs."

And then it starts all over again with the legs....

It's a bit of a freak show, I know. And some of you might say I'm brave for sharing this. I say, this is cheaper than therapy.

The end of the story as far as last night goes went like this: When I became rational again, later, after taking a long walk and talking it out with TC, I decided that there is more I can do as far as exercise; I can push myself a little more to work a little harder. I can do a few more squats, work a little harder at "fetal thighs," push my limits with my weight routine. But I also decided that I need to accept the fact that I'm pasty white, and my legs are kind of chunky, and I have cellulite, and my weight fluctuates from time to time, and my hair has split ends, and my belly button has lint, and my toes are crooked, and I have dark circles under my eyes, and I get pimples from time to time, and sometimes I freak out at the smallest provocation and I draw ridiculous and illogical conclusions, and sometimes I panic when there's no need to panic...

That's life. That's me. Accept it. Change what you can. Be realistic. Move on. Rational me knows this is the way to be: accepting, forgiving, moving on. Irrational me is a total jerk and tells me all that other junk. I'm curious how many of us are walking around with an irrational jerk inside our heads feeding us negativity all the time. How do we get the little jerk to shut his pie hole? If any of you have the answer, let me know.

Hypersensitive non-secretary

Nothing gets my goat worse than people assuming that my role at work is that of secretary.

I've been working here for 8 years, not one of which I was a secretary.

What's wrong with being called "secretary"? I'm not sure I can truly sort through the psychology of it all. What I can do is tell you with certainty that I am not a secretary, nor do my duties include typical secretarial duties. Not that there's anything wrong with being a secretary. I personally don't look down on secretaries. I don't think them lesser beings for their job title. So why would it bother me if people assume that's MY job title?

What is my problem? In the 8 years that it's bothered me when people assumed I was a secretary I have never been able to put my finger on it. And I tell myself it doesn't matter, because really it doesn't, but it still bothers me.

So most of the older men around here think that every woman in the department is a secretary, because they are older, and they are used to a workplace that is set up that way. And they are surprised when they find out that I'm not a secretary, and that my responsibilities include more than copying and unjamming the printer (which two things can be mutually exclusive). But their old age causes them to forget these facts so that the next time the subject comes up, they ask me again if I'm a secretary. *Sigh* They'll never learn.

As I mentioned before, one part of the TC got a job equation is that I'm quitting my job. And, as I've mentioned twice already in the previous few paragraphs, I've been working here for 8 years. I'm lacking the fire and vigor and excitement I once had for my job. And I consider that what I do is important and deserves fire and vigor. As a result, I've decided to step down, take a break, and focus on our little family for a while. I'm very VERY excited for this new phase of my life. And I have all sorts of plans of how I will organize my home, my time, and how well fed and dressed TC will be.

Since I'm leaving, my job was opened and resumes were accepted for a few weeks. And people in my department, mostly the older men, have come to ask me things like the following:

"Now the job description says it requires a bachelors degree. Do YOU have a bachelors degree?"

"The job description says that Spanish-speaking ability is required. Do YOU speak Spanish?" (That's where "Spreken ze Español" was born.)

"The job description says that experience with programming databases is required. Do you know how to program databases?"

*sigh* My sarcastic side wants to reply, "Well I'm certainly not making your coffee every morning, now am I?"

It's the surprise in their voices that really gets to me. And especially the surprise in one man's voice, I shall call him TJ. He came to me to tell me about a fantastic possible replacement for me: A nice little Filipino girl (his tone when referring to her is a subject for another day) that he knows from the bus who would be great in my job. She would be fantastic. But she doesn't have a BA (Do YOU really have a bachelors?), speaks very basic Spanish (So, you speak Spanish?), and doesn't know anything about databases (I didn't know you knew about databases. Wow. Did you study that in college? How did YOU learn?). But she's a sweet girl. Really nice. And she would be great.

*sigh* Another sarcastic comment: "Oh, I'm sorry. 'Nice' isn't one of the job requirements."

Does the fact that the people around me, who do not work directly with me anyway, don't know what I do actually have any bearing on my self-worth, or accomplishments, or anything at all? No. But it still makes my blood boil, just a little bit. (Note that the elevation here makes for a lower boiling point.)

So here I am revealing my inner-bias against being called a secretary, proud and wanting people to know what I do but not so they can ask me to do things for them-jerk. I hope you don't think any less of me.