For years my husband has been wearing his trademark, self implemented uniform of your basic blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt. The beauty in this, he says, is that you never have to think about what you're going to wear. You just open the drawer, pick any white shirt, any pair of pants and of course all the socks are white so it all goes nicely together. Dressed in 30 seconds - ta-dah! Little did I know he was about to become a fashion icon.
A few years ago I went to the local Fall Foliage Festival with my mom. This is a craft packed place few men dare to go. When we arrived I realized that the weather was a little more brisk than I had anticipated so I dug around in the trunk of my car and found said husband's old brown work coat. It even had his name embroidered above the pocket, which was ripped. The coat was a little stained. Afterall, it WAS a work coat. There were a few rips & snags on it. I put it on figuring no one would notice in the crowd.
As we were browsing, the proprietor of one booth, a pretty young women in her late 20's who looked like she was not a native of Around Here, told me she liked my coat. I did not appreciate the sarcasm, as I've always believed it to be in bad taste to make fun of those who are less fortunate, in this case, me. I didn't know why she'd bother to ridicule me so I just stared at her like she was nuts. Then she asked me where I got it. I told her it was my husbands work coat. Then she told me she LOVED it and turned to her friend who was also now beginning to fuss over me. "Look!" she said, "It's even DISTRESSED!" Knock me over with a feather. Then she went on to ask if I knew how much coats like this were worth, because where she comes from, people will pay a fortune for one.
Needless to say I walked away laughing my head off. I couldn't wait to tell my husband he was in style. He said I should have charged her $75.00 and sold it to her.
Now I find that holey jeans are all the rage. Again. This comes and goes every generation for some reason. As I glanced through a recent Penney's flyer I showed the husband this season's latest fashion trend. Holey jeans are all he's got. Some are patched but the holes come through anyhow. He decided he'd open a boutique and sell all his clothes.
The other day I went to China-Mart to buy some t-shirts for work. I ended up with a pack of plain white t-s. They match everything and their cool in the sun. Best of all - dressed in 30 seconds - Ta-dah! The man knows his stuff.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
Farkle
Farkle. I cannot grasp this concept no matter how hard I try. I even read the directions for playing. It seemed simple enough. I clicked on the dice cup. Some dice rolled out. I randomly picked ones that looked like they matched. I clicked the cup again and the dice rolled again. Then the letters on the screen said FARKLE! Which if this is anything like Bingo must indicate that I have won. So just to follow the proper Bingo rules, I yelled to no one in particular: FARKLE!
I was so happy that I won on the first try. Then all the little dice disappeared and I realized that the game was starting over. So I did the same thing again, and Farkled again. I was under the impression that I was a FARKLE genius. Mais non. (Translated to english "But No." This is the only thing I can remember from French class besides the term "Ferme le bouche", which I've probably spelled improperly.) But I digress.
So I stared at the directions again. They were as clear as mud. I even asked my mother, the Farkle Queen, about this crazy game. She began spouting out numbers and matches and what is good & what is bad & none of what she was saying was even trying to go into my ear canal. It all bottle necked outside my ear & refused to go in.
There is a clear and simple explanation for my Farkle stupidity. It's the numbers.
Numbers hate me. I hate them. The only time they are relevent to me is when they have a dollar sign in front of them or are indicating the time of day. Other than that me & numbers don't jive. It started way back in high school when my dad made me take Algebra II. He wanted me to raise the bar, so to speak. The only thing I raised was Mr. Brode's blood pressure. I was clearly not one of his A or B students.
I used to shoot pool for fun now & then. Until. My husband was helping me line up a difficult shot & I asked him how he knew where to hit the ball. "It's just simple geometry" he said. I laid down my pool stick & haven't touched the game since. The idea of pool relating in some way to math just swooped down upon me like a dementor and sucked all the fun - WHOOSH- right out of it.
I don't know why I'm number disabled. There is surely a phobia in there somewhere. Someday they'll do a study & come up with some silly name for it. Just like they did with Restless Leg syndrome. Heck, I've had that since I was wee little. We didn't know it was an actual affliction though. My family just thought I was weird & mom would send me outside to run around before bed so I could lay still. And then 25 years later - HA - Restless Leg Syndrome! So I'm very curious to see how this turns out with numbers and if there is a cure for it. In the meantime I'll just try to farkle when no one is around to smell it.
I was so happy that I won on the first try. Then all the little dice disappeared and I realized that the game was starting over. So I did the same thing again, and Farkled again. I was under the impression that I was a FARKLE genius. Mais non. (Translated to english "But No." This is the only thing I can remember from French class besides the term "Ferme le bouche", which I've probably spelled improperly.) But I digress.
So I stared at the directions again. They were as clear as mud. I even asked my mother, the Farkle Queen, about this crazy game. She began spouting out numbers and matches and what is good & what is bad & none of what she was saying was even trying to go into my ear canal. It all bottle necked outside my ear & refused to go in.
There is a clear and simple explanation for my Farkle stupidity. It's the numbers.
Numbers hate me. I hate them. The only time they are relevent to me is when they have a dollar sign in front of them or are indicating the time of day. Other than that me & numbers don't jive. It started way back in high school when my dad made me take Algebra II. He wanted me to raise the bar, so to speak. The only thing I raised was Mr. Brode's blood pressure. I was clearly not one of his A or B students.
I used to shoot pool for fun now & then. Until. My husband was helping me line up a difficult shot & I asked him how he knew where to hit the ball. "It's just simple geometry" he said. I laid down my pool stick & haven't touched the game since. The idea of pool relating in some way to math just swooped down upon me like a dementor and sucked all the fun - WHOOSH- right out of it.
I don't know why I'm number disabled. There is surely a phobia in there somewhere. Someday they'll do a study & come up with some silly name for it. Just like they did with Restless Leg syndrome. Heck, I've had that since I was wee little. We didn't know it was an actual affliction though. My family just thought I was weird & mom would send me outside to run around before bed so I could lay still. And then 25 years later - HA - Restless Leg Syndrome! So I'm very curious to see how this turns out with numbers and if there is a cure for it. In the meantime I'll just try to farkle when no one is around to smell it.
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