Thursday, January 24, 2013

A good party gone bad

Okay, so we’ve all done it, and we’ve probably mostly liked it. At least we’ve gotten stuff and had a few drinks with some friends, right? You know I’m talking about those quintessential suburban parties, in which you gather some friends and let a cute little clothes/makeup/jewelry/kitchen products rep come in and tell you why her products are the must-haves.

(Now. In the spirit of full disclosure, I actually love these parties. I have CAbi clothes that are staples of my wardrobe, Silpada pieces that are staples of my jewelry box, and Pampered Chef covered mixing bowls I couldn’t live without. I also spent a few years as an Arbonne consultant. I still use and love the products, but realized the job was not for me as I was sitting in a ballroom at the MGM Grand in Vegas and watched a heavily made-up woman weep in orgasmic ecstasy over the launch of the SeaSource Spa line. Her tears proved to me I’d just never have the right amount of passion to sell bladderwrack and sea lettuce to my friends.)

Usually, the most interesting thing I have to report about one of those parties is what I bought. Maybe who I saw. But I’ve never had a story to tell like the one I experienced a few weeks ago, when a good friend invited me for drinks and a clothing show.

My problems began instantly, when the hawkish woman sitting next to me tried to sit on my lap. I’m not kidding. It started with her arm, which was draped over the side of the sofa where I was sitting. It draped so drapily that I think she got to second base with me multiple times. She then kind of leaned her entire upper body against me, so that I was forced to practically sit on my friend’s lap to get away from her, all the while texting the hostess, "Who the hell is this creepy woman trying to molest me and why did you invite her?"

The problems continued with the very cute and frighteningly peppy saleslady, who insisted on pointing out that all the clothes worked on her frame, even though she was so so so so so tiny. Yes, I know. If I did not have these boobs or these thighs, or if I even had a mere two additional inches of height, all your damn clothes would fit me perfectly, too. But I’m not so lucky, and your so so so so so tiny frame is not helping you sell clothes. In fact, I would like you to take a short fat lady and stick all your clothes on her, so that I have a more accurate idea of what to try on.

Swallowing all my irritation (and more wine), I went into a dressing room with a friend to halfheartedly try on the clothes that looked good on a size zero. No sooner had I pulled the curtain closed than it was ripped the hawkish woman, who seemed very excited to have found us. How do I know? Well, not because she talked. She never actually spoke, but either silently clapped when I emerged from the dressing room in something she liked, or frowned and shook her head if she disapproved. Even my hostess pulled me into the bathroom and hissed, "What the HELL? That woman is so disturbing. I don’t even know who she is." This, in case you’re wondering, did not make me feel better.

Finally, I gave up. The clothes that needed boobs also needed height. The outfits that were perfect for those without height needed hips with the same circumference as a tennis ball. Every part of my body was too short or too curvy for 90% of the clothes. (This, in case you’re wondering, also did not make me feel better.)

When the night ended, I snuck out the side door very elusively so as to escape my apparent stalker. I snuck out so as to stop looking at the peppy size zero rep on whom everything looked fabulous. I snuck out because they stopped serving wine.

Trust me, folks. Catalog shopping is much less stressful than a night like that.

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

An explanation

Oh, guys, I have sat at this computer so many times in the past month (plus) – and I have written so many posts. But unlike my normal writings, I didn’t show them to my husband, and I didn’t post them. Rather, I left them open and unsaved in Word documents, so that I could sleep (or not) and wake up and read them again to see if there was anything worth saying.

Last year, one of my best friends from high school lost her two-year-old nephew in a drowning accident. My elderly neighbor, who I’d known for almost 30 years, died in his home. We buried my mother’s youngest brother, who was far too young and carried happiness with him wherever he went. Of course, being a parent with elementary-school children, the Sandy Hook tragedy rocked me in a way news seldom does. Very recently, there was a horrific and sudden loss that brought my entire neighborhood to its knees, children and all. It all just snowballed into a really, really sad event last week.

And there’s nothing to say about sadness. Everything I wrote just made me sadder. Then I couldn’t turn around and write something normal because I was too sad.

Life, in general, has been sort of tough lately, for so many reasons. And the other day, I offhandedly remarked to Whit that it was good I "don’t have the gene for depression."

Then I started to worry that I was, in fact, depressed, and that maybe I had been depressed my entire life and what I thought was normal was actually depression.

Then I remembered that I really, really want to get a job, because then I won’t get depressed when my children don’t need me anymore.

Then I remembered that no one is going to pay me to sit in my office and write, and occasionally go into an office to meet adults and go to happy hour, and so that’s a little depressing.

Then I remembered I don’t actually get depressed.

Then I remarked that my figure looks like the "after" picture in a Jenny Craig ad. You know, the ones where you say, "Eh, better than before, but she could still use a little work."

Then my husband looked at me and said, "Your brain is a scary place to visit."

So there we go. Tomorrow I'll tell tell you how I was stalked at a CAbi show and my little blog will be back to normal; probably still weird, but without a hint of depression. Today, I am going to harness the power of the Internet for a million wishes that sad events can stop happening. For a little bit. Just so we can catch our breath.