‘Tween Adult-hood and Older-hood : Clothing Edition




Apparently, I am at that awkward phase that is in between ages or a ‘Tween. Obviously not a teenager between childhood and adult hood, but a *gasp* mid-aged adult on the verge of, well, older-hood. This between stage is particularly trying in the clothing department and the weight department. Let’s start with clothes.


I have a quiver of pretty vintage dresses in my closet that I used to wear to work. In the last couple of years, the expansion of my mid-section inhibits the wearing of these dresses as vintage people were SMALL, man. I am no longer small.

Without these dress options, my daily clothing choices have dwindled to the same few pairs of either khaki or black pants. The skirts in the closet are for vintage people, too, as the waist now wants to sit up somewhere under my boobs, which is really no place for a waist to be.

My fitted dress shirts are slowly being replaced with more, shall we say, blousy shirts that flutter around my rapidly rising and flaring hips and cover my arms. The high heels I wore to work every day for seven years are cobwebbing it in the corner of the closet, having been replaced by sensible flats.


All of this is fine in many respects. I mean, after months of being miserable in my low-rise jeans that bind my belly and make everything mush out the sides, I bought some jeans that are made for the more, (ugh), mature woman and in larger size and it was like a whole new day! They fit and were comfortable and didn’t look terrible, sort of Younger Grandma Chic, if that’s a look.

The thing is I don’t really know who this person is yet; this person who wears flats and blousy shirts and stretchy jeans, khaki and black, a startling lack of color or originality. Vintage clothes are unique and interesting and helped me put on some exterior personality. I have yet to find personality in this new way of dressing, to find a more mature identity with flair.


So, for now I’m in the ‘Tween, getting through the last of the mourning for my lovely  dresses with the 25 inch waist and spaghetti straps, while trying to accept that I MAY (I’m not willing to give up yet) never wear those again. And trying not to freak out about possibly ending up in a caftan by the time I’m 50, even though some days, I must admit, that sounds divine. As long as it’s vintage.


PS:  What I don’t want is for this to be a chick-lit blog. Meaning, I don’t want it to be about clothes and weight loss and kittens and relationships and pop culture. But guess what – it is, because I am a chick and this is my… lit?

Next up: begin a ‘Tween and the issues of weight. Betcha can’t wait.







Yep. It’s been a while. In fact it’s been so long I couldn’t even remember the password to log into this blog account. I’ve been missing writing and missing spewing my guts on paper, virtual or the tree-pulp kind. So here ya go.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about why I’m not writing as much as I used to and have discovered it is directly related to happiness. Historically, I have always written more when my soul is slightly tortured and/or I have days upon days of alone time. It is then that my thoughts bounce around my brain, some disappearing into a gray mass crevasse, some ricocheting within the black hole of dead brain cells that I KNOW is in there. Then there are those that spill out onto “paper” clear as lump of coal, compressed and expelled by sadness, loss, mild depression, or intense longing.

Writing happens (and often very good writing) with a bit of darkness in the mix. I think that’s true for a lot of writers. The tortured soul must create and do it while chain smoking cigarettes and drinking tumblers of whiskey, while roaming wintry beaches, leaning into the needling wind wearing a man’s oversized blue sweater for masochistic comfort. Maybe that’s a little ever the top cliche (not to mention a tad romanticized), but when I think of tortured writers I think of the Lillian Hellman short story from Pentimento when she writes about being holed up with Dashiell in a house in the Hamptons, gestating and finally birthing a play.There was lots of smoking, lots of drinking, lots of beach walking in the wind, fighting, yelling, emotional torment. Hellman is one of my favorite writers and I don’t think she ever wrote from a “happy place”.

So, happiness. Happiness! And contentment. And writing. I know it happens; I’ve read many examples of great writing by happy people. ELizabeth Gilbert is a shining example of this. How do I know she’s happy, you might ask? Her daily posts on Facebook are joy-filled snippets of positivity and encouragement; happy person stuff.

Truth be told, I don’t want to be tortured any more, or unhappy or depressed or have to anguish over life to get a story out. I’m not sure I know HOW to be that anymore. It’s incredible to me that I put up with some of the crap that used to make me so “inspired” to write. Who was that person? She definitely wasn’t this person – the one who drives home as quickly as possible to do nothing more exciting than co-prepare dinner while catching up on the day and watching The Big Bang Theory (re-runs) night after night and finding that the most satisfying and pleasant of ways to spend my time. Co-habitating with the right person is so much fun! Who knew? Certainly not this content, peaceful, dare I say even-keeled woman who wakes up to a view of the ocean every morning next to a bright-eyed love of a man and a cat, who then goes to a great job (me, not the cat) and still sees her great friends and family, albeit a bit less these days, for sure. It’s getting hard to remember how it felt to be that much in pain, to be so conflicted, with a tenseness in my core that has finally unwound. I’m glad I’ve forgotten that feeling.

The challenge now is to use this very new and fecund place as a catalyst for more writing. It will come. And while it will not coincide with trauma or heartache or cigarettes it will include whiskey and a man’s blue sweater.

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The day before the shutdown, 2013.

The day before the shutdown; September 30, 2013.

Basically, I really like this photo I took of the White House the day before the government shut down, so I am posting it without a whole lot of political ranting that I am probably not informed enough to even rant about. I did write a very long, ranty post prior to this (now deleted), but have decided to keep it simple and share just the photo.

It was my first time seeing the White House and our nation’s capital. I found it to be a very clean city with impressive buildings. It reminded me of Rome in the sense that the ancient Romans created a city that was laid out and built to impress foreign visitors and to show power through architecture. DC had that same thing going on. I’m glad I got to see it, glad it’s back up and running. For now.



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Dear Elizabeth Gilbert,

Yeah, I’m a fan. Our new-found “friendship” on Facebook is fun and easy. Your posts are bright and cheerful, inspirational and positive.  I’m glad we’re cyber pals.

Your newest book THE SIGNATURE OF ALL THINGS is exactly what I love in a good story; one that takes me away from this present world and, in this case, into the world of an intelligent woman from another century who is knowledgable about something I know nothing about. The escape factor of this book is off the charts (and I’m only on page 72).

This book pushed me to schedule a time to sit and read on my balcony last night with a glass of wine and a cat on my lap to savor each actual paper page. This book put me in my bed earlier than usual along with the same cat and a faux fur blanket to log in another hour of reading before sleep. This book has scrubbed my brain clean of images of over-sexualized young girls with their tongues hanging out (see previous post, or NOT) and replaced them with images of tall ships, exotic plants and fancy dressed party goers forming the design of the solar system on the lawn in the moonlight (I LOVED that whole scene. Beautiful!) But mainly, this book has made me want to read more and write again.

I was pondering how I would describe this book and why, when I’m reading it, I have a smile on my face; here is the first description that popped into my head:

It reads like a bright creek full of recent snow melt, rushing under the sunlight in a definite direction, but with an unknown destination. 

As I mentioned on Facebook, this book is a good read of history, her-story and just good story. Well, done Liz. And THANK YOU!



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This cover of Rolling Stone (and subsequent article if you want to read it) came across my cyber sights this morning. Without expending too many words about Miley Cyrus (I already said I wouldn’t write about her any more, but this cover really jarred me. Well done Cyrus publicists!) I kind of felt like I wanted to vent SOMETHING.


My first thought when I saw this cover was WE HAVE ALL SEEN YOUR NAKED BODY SO MANY TIMES NOW, IT’S NOT EVEN INTERESTING. So what was all the uproar from about five years ago when Annie Liebovitz took that picture of you for Vanity Fair and you had your bare back showing and the world cried foul on poor Miley being tricked into showing some nudity by the wiley Annie? I’m ashamed that I even know of that “scandal”.

Secondly, yo Miley! A tattoo of a DREAM CATCHER???? That is such 8th grade lame symbolism. No offense to 8th graders. I’m embarrassed for you that you have that forever. Why didn’t you just hang one from the rear view mirror of your Maserati like the rest of the kids?

Thirdly, you keep stating that you “DON’T CARE” what anyone thinks of you; that this is the “GROWN UP ” you. Well guess what? Of COURSE you care what people think. That’s why you’re doing all of this very un-grown up sensationalist crap. Your sexuality on vapid display does not a grown-up woman make.

Fourth, I can just imagine her handsome (recently Ex) boyfriend on the set of the Hunger Games movie (how do I know this stuff????) and all of his colleagues being like, “Miley Cyrus, Liam? Really?” while pointing at him with giant foam fingers and laughing. Liam Hemsworth plays the brooding, stay-at-home baker, Gale, in the movie. Gale trumps Peeta in my opinion, but I digress…

Miley Cyrus is a twenty year old with no one guiding her toward self-respectability and as a mother to a young woman in her twenties, that really riles me up. Her father keeps saying how proud he is of her. Really, Billy Ray? Proud of her riding a wrecking ball naked and then rolling around in the rubble in her underwear after licking a sledgehammer? (Yeah, I watched the video and now I can’t un-see it.)  What does all of that even mean, anyway? Why would she lick a sledge hammer? Maybe sledgehammers are the new dreamcatchers? I just don’t know.


Someone guide this girl onto a new track and please tell her to put some clothes on and her tongue back where it belongs. Okay, now I’m done.

I need to go read Middlemarch (and then mail it to Miley) to cancel out all of this crap in my brain. On the flip side, if there is ever a Celebrity Trivial Pursuit game, I will win it ALL.



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The shallowness of my thoughts appalls me at times. There are many deep and important things to be mulling over, such as potential U.S. government shutdown, the plot and format of a pending story, why no one is currently buying paintings in the gallery, etc. Serious stuff! Instead of pondering a five year professional plan complete with milestone achievements, while simultaneously understanding everything about what’s going on in Syria, I’m finding my thoughts darting with hummingbird speed to clothes and shoes, clothes and shoes, clothes and shoes.

This happens with an accelerated frequency bordering on obsession when there is an event or the possibility of travel coming up on my calendar. In a week I’ll be traveling to Chicago (for fun) and then on to Washington DC (for work, but fun work.) The first thought I have when faced with these types of events is “What am I going to wear?”. Which inevitably leads to “I have nothing to wear” and slides on home to “I guess I need to buy something new to wear”. Of course, I have plenty of things in my closet that are appropriate for this trip, but it’s the fantasy of it all that makes me think of new clothes. I’m thinking Fall in Chicago, which must mean boots, jeans, sweaters and scarves; all of which I own, but none of which fit into this particular fantasy. The weather is not cooperating with my fantasy, however. It’s still summer in both cities with temperatures in the 80s and 90s.

Sometimes the fantasy purchase is a spot on purchase and can be worn for years, justifying the cost. Other times, the item will languish in the closet for years having been only good for that one event. We all have items in our closet (I’m guessing) that were purchased for some fantasy or another. There is a gorgeous vintage dress in my closet that is about an inch too small in the waist, but I can’t get rid of it because I still have a picture in my head of what the scenario will look like when I’m wearing it (not to mention holding on to the fantasy that I will actually lose that inch around my waist-line to fit into it, which is a WHOLE OTHER fantasy topic).

Mixed in with the buying of clothes to fulfill a fantasy is the retail therapy effect; it DOES feel good to buy something new, it feels even better to wear something new (especially if that something new fits properly around the aforementioned waistline). Am I right? While I have four pairs of lovely boots in my closet, none of them are the right boots for my Chicago fall fantasy, so I purchased some new ones, city summer temperatures be damned. They arrive in a few days. Hopefully, they will fulfill the fantasy and become a well worn staple in my closet.

My mind takes a moment to register the self indulgent, unnecessary consumerism of this purchase and then it’s off to visualize a dress to wear to dinner on Saturday night (the black one or the red one? And, my God, which shoes??); a dinner at which I’m sure we’ll be discussing Quantum Physics, so best check Amazon for a copy of Physics for Dummies to add to my shopping cart of shoes.




My brain is experiencing a terrible drought. Let’s blame it on global warming and Fukushima’s radioactive fallout. This drought is so dusty I can’t even think of a clever blog title, nor can I come up with any quippy status updates for Facebook either for my personal page or our business page. Thank God I don’t Twitter (Tweet, WHATEVER!) or I would have another media outlet wagging it’s shaming finger at me.

On a side note, really quick, I looked at my “Most Used Emoticons” screen today and thought, “What do these little icons say about me and my state of mind or general psychotic state?” And then I thought that was looking way too deeply into a shallow little Emoji-san. But here is a photo of my most-used screen for you to decode. If you see anything alarming, please keep it to yourself let me know.


The other day, here within my radioactive, globally-warmed drought brain I decided to make a list of things I could write about, but am so depleted the list was all I could write. For lack of being able to expand said list into actual blog posts (at least for now) I thought I would just post the thing as it reads on the rumpled post-it note that I just found stuck to the bottom of my purse. As follows:

Possible Future Blog Posts List:

1. BBQ/Matches

2. Aging – wax paper

3. Fukushima

4. Politics

5. Moving

6. CAT

7. Women in Art – Lack of

8. Gluten

9. Thoughts/Weight

10. Bridal shower speech

11. 30 Minutes of Yoga

That is one exciting list, right? I’m not really sure about the “Aging – wax paper” item. What does that even mean??

In other news, here’s what I bought on the internet today, but not for me. Obviously. Ridiculously adorable, right?? Right.


Here is one of my favorite photos ever, taken at a dive bar a couple of weeks ago whilst slow dancing 8th grade style with my dreamy man. Sigh. We were the only one’s on the dance floor, for real. Usually when we’re together I feel like we’re the only ones in the room, but this time it was sort of true. Awwww, shucks.

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And here is my cat, Carlos.


That’s all I’ve got, folks, until we get some rain in this Grapes of Wrath dustbowl of a brain. Have a great weekend!



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Last night I went to the Heart concert. Ann and Nancy Wilson. Heart! I know this dates me but who cares. They are not Beyonce*, they are not necessarily current in the charts (are there still charts?) and maybe that’s why I like them. That and the memories their music invokes; a scratchy, vinyl version of Magic Man being played over and over while sleeping over at my best friend’s house. By the light of the record player we would discuss what our own magic men would be like when they finally came into the picture (for me, he showed up 32 years later, but he is indeed magic.  And I have honestly “never seen eyes so blue”).

Nothing is more inspiring to me than a live performance. It could be a performance of third graders playing kumbaya on kazoos and I will be inspired and moved to tears. But front row, my face at knee level with Ann and Nancy was MOVING. And it made me think about Miley Cyrus. Bear with me, here.



Part of my job at work is to update our social media outlets to keep us current in everyone’s minds, to advertise and to educate. In scanning said social media outlets every day I am exposed to certain popular culture moments that I would rather not be exposed to, honestly. Monday morning, the Facebook hub-bub surrounding Miley Cyrus’ performance at the VMA’s was deafening, and/or blinding. So, I watched the performance.

I posted on here before about women in “entertainment” after watching Rihanna perform at an awards show, a performance that was basically porn. This is what women have to do to become the most popular entertainer? It’s really depressing. I admire women like Adele who can sing the shit out of any song and doesn’t take herself too seriously. I admire Patty Griffin, Emmy Lou Harris, and Sarah Bareilles for being stellar musicians and writers.



None of them have ever had the need to put their ass(ets) on display in such a degrading way, the way Miley did the other night. I feel for her. She obviously has such a need to distance herself from her good-Disney-Christian-girl image that she is willing to do whatever she can to get there, and/or does whatever people are telling her to do. She looked shameless and not in a good way. She also looked happy and in control of the situation, proud to be there, nailing all her moves. Her confidence showed at the end of the performance, as if she knew she’d stuck the landing of her beam routine and was about to receive a perfect ten. But where was the heart? I saw a whole lot of tongue (WTF was that anyway?), but no heart.

Ann and Nancy brought it the other night – you know, the Heart part of a live experience. Yeah, I get it’s a different generation of women entertainers, but these ladies are artists. They are a perfect ten in their musicianship, their writing, guitar playing, singing and confidence on the stage. They were comfortable enough in their own bodies to not need to strip down, to not need backup dancers, to not need so much sex and hub-bub going on that viewers would be distracted from the fact that they really don’t have anything to offer, because guess what? They have it all and they put all their assets on wonderfully clothed display and it was bloody inspiring. And yes, I got all teary at one point.

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I don’t want to talk about Miley Cyrus anymore. I don’t want her to be a part of my thinking, so I’ll wish her the best and move on; may she experience the pleasure of feminine power and confidence without having to use a giant foam finger.

Heart brought the goods the other night; the juicy, deep, intimate, sexy, beautiful, gut wrenching goods. And we were all the better for it.

*I actually like Beyonce, FYI. She’s a great performer without an overload of sex, just maybe not the best singer or musician. “All the Single Ladies” and “Crazy In Love” are both on my dance party playlist. So am I legit now? Also, I have used “Hub-bub” twice in this post. What are the odds?




There are a few writing assignments in my immediate future, one of which is a huge project that will end with my name on the spine of a hardcover book if we can hurdle a whole lotta “if’s” that are to come; IF the book gets funded, IF I can cast a Jedi Mind trick upon the powers involved to see me as a legitimate writer person,  IF I can remember how to write…

That’s a lot of ‘IF’s”.

Lately, life itself has been so satisfying and rich that, afraid of what I might miss, I am loathe to sequester myself in a room alone with my laptop. Weeks of no writing are now starting to accumulate into months of no writing and it’s beginning to show. At work, one of my assignments is to write essays and press releases for upcoming exhibitions. Some come easily (particularly if I connect with the work itself), but with others every hard-won word typed is a strain on all my faculties, both mental and physical, which then spirals into emotional stress and self-loathing. Ugh.

broken piano keys

I know practice is key in most things. There is one Mozart piece on the piano that I play infinitely better if I have done even a few minutes of scales prior to butchering it, so I figured I’d better get busy writing and what better place than this blog. Unfortunately, that means you all get to read the equivalent of a G Scale on repeat for infinity, which I understand is not very satisfying or even enjoyable. However, at the end of this practice (and if all the IF’s fall into place) will be a big fat book. With glossy pictures! I’ll be sure to share it here. After all, if you suffer through the scales, you should at least get to indulge in a bit of the symphony.


Write on!


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