As I Was Saying…

tweet yallYeah, so didn’t make it back quite in the time frame I imagined. I’m just not going to get into why because it’s really just not that interesting. I mean, I know I’m not generally interesting anyway, but this is like hearing someone else’s dream not interesting. It’s like listening to someone describe a dress not interesting. Have you ever noticed that when someone describes what she’s going to wear, it never looks like you think it will? There’s a lot of that going on in my world.

And yet here I am. IT’S ALL FOR YOU, INTERWEBZ!

I just want to say that I hate spring. I mean, I hate summer more. Especially August. But summer is at least honest. You know you’re going to be miserable in summer. You know you’ll spend three months peeling your thighs off hot car seats. You know you’re going to shower three times a day because walking out to get the mail makes you sweat through your caftan. And your mailbox isn’t even at the road. You know there are bugs as big as toddlers that are just waiting patiently to suck the life out of you by biting your ankles…just like toddlers with wings, in fact.

No, I hate spring because it’s too damned optimistic. Spring is all about promise, but it’s like the promise of that pub with the sign “Free Beer Tomorrow”. And now we’re into June and it’s going to be 95° this week with 876% humidity. You know what that means? There’s nowhere for the sweat to go. So you spend a little time outside and you turn into a Syracuse salt potato but without the creamy interior. Spring is crafty like a ninja. One day you’re sweating your bippy off and the next day you’re digging for wool socks. One day everything’s all green and fluffy and the next day it’s like Colonel Kilgore decided he wanted to smell victory so everything’s charred.

Also in Memphis, as in much of this part of the world, the hotter it gets, the more we all start sounding like Blanche DuBois. The heat turns our brains syrupy and ridiculous memories start oozing out our ears so then we’re like Blanche DuBois at the end of the play. And we start using the term “branch water” too much.

I’m going to be writing more regularly this summer, although I’ll just tell you up front I’ve got some obligations that might make that more difficult in the immediate future. BUT DO NOT CRY, GENTLE READER. For just like bangs and STDs, you’re pretty much stuck with me from here on out.

Taking It To The People

Have I mentioned I hate summer? I mean recently. I believe you can find previous mentions here, here, and here. One of the many things I hate about summer is shorts. I know I do not have to wear them, but sometimes they are the only thing that will do. Since the three pairs I had were either falling off me, falling apart, had paint all over them, or a combination platter thereof, I made the ultimate sacrifice. I went OUT and bought some shorts.

Now. Shorts are funny things. Especially for someone whose legs look like giant stalks of white asparagus. Or like tree trunks with the bark ripped off. And because I am not a size 4, my choices are limited. I can wear what are actually pedal pushers or possibly clam-diggers. Because that’s such a flattering look on a girl. I can wear these canvas things with drawstring waists or a lovely seersucker madras plaid. A jaunty knee length denim number would be awesome if it were 1984 and someone else were dressing me because I’d taken leave of my senses. I did finally manage to find a pair of booty shorts. NOT a good look for most people, but I did happen to notice they had tabs and could be rolled down to cover my business. Sold.

These shorts have three buttons at the waist, then the waistband morphs into something I thought would be super comfortable. It’s an elastic band about the width of my thumb and covered in soft cotton knit. The legs say I’m a hottie, the waistband says I’ve given up. The thing is that the elastic is not tacked anywhere but to the front button placket.  So it squirms. It twists. Trying to get the waistband straightened out is like trying to get a cranky infant into one of those long onsie things with feet that have the snaps at the diaper so you have to put the damn thing over the baby’s head. And the baby has a stomach ache AND an ear ache and is all squirmy and sweaty and screaming. That’s what getting into these shorts is like.

Other than that, I love them.

Yesterday I tacked the elastic to the knit band in a couple of places, and that has helped. I don’t know about you, but I read user reviews before I buy something online. I’ve learned which ones to ignore (those with neither punctuation nor capitalization) and which ones to take to heart (those in which the reviewer has actually used the product are helpful). I sat down to compose a helpful review. Here it is:

Title: Designed by Satan

Review: I never believed in Satan until I wore these shorts, but that is clearly who designed them. Because the elastic is not attached to the knit waistband, you must spend five minutes (I timed it) working the kinks out of the elastic. Once you have done this, you must carefully arrange the shorts on the floor and stage a sneak attack to put them on. You must put them on gently lest they realize what’s happening and start twisting around and laughing manically.

In short, these shorts rebel like a 14 year old.

Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, I like the style. The length is short, and I do not use the tab function to roll them up because I don’t like to have to have a special hair removal session just to run out for milk. They aren’t actually pedal pushers which I did not want. And that’s why I’m keeping them. The size is true. The khaki color has a lot of red in it, fyi.  Tacking the elastic to the waist has helped, so if you have needle and thread you can enjoy poking them into submission.

I thought that was a helpful review. Target did not. It would not let me publish it. The unhelpful site would not actually say WHY, but I removed references to Satan, teenagers, and infants and it seemed to take. It is now titled “Waistband of Doom”. You can’t read it online because Target hasn’t published it. But as much as I love Target, the website sucks (insert joke about 1997 calling for its website) so I’m not terribly surprised or upset my honest and helpful review was not published. Target also did not respond to my tweet where I name-checked them, but to be fair, I once tried to compliment the management staff of a store and there was nowhere on the website to do so nor did they respond to that tweet.

Just know if you’re going to buy a pair of Pure Energy shorts with a knit band, you’re going to want to refill your Valium. But I found the fit to be true-to-size bordering on generous and I really like the polished cotton material.

I Don’t Care What You Did Last Summer

I hate summer. I hate summer with the heat of a thousand suns. I hate heat. I hate humidity. I hate mowing grass. I hate all summer holidays because they require fake patriotism and the ingestion of various bland, disgusting mayonnaise-based salads. I hate hearing about how your mother makes HER potato salad. I don’t give a rat’s ass. Unless it involves distilling those potatoes down to a smooth, clear liquid that goes well with tonic and lime, I have heard it. You boil the potatoes in their jackets? Heard it. Marinate them in dill pickle juice. Done. Oh, you use yogurt and ranch dressing? DID I ASK YOU?

And while I’m on the subject of things I did not ask you about, I do not want to see your goddamn vacation photographs. That’s what The Facebook is for. You put them up online and I either ignore them or flip through them and silently mock your walking shoes. If I had to choose between seeing your vacation photos and hearing about the really wild dream you had last night, I’ll choose a spike through the eyeballs every time, hoss.

You just checked in on Foursquare at the Trevi Fountain with 56 other people? You know what that tells me? I’m going to have to endure two weeks of hearing how the Romans really don’t eat pizza and how fresh your cheese course was every night.  Really? Your hotel had complimentary continental breakfast? Oh, and you had kwassonts and jam, European-style, every morning? Fanfuckingtastic. So does the Radisson at the airport.

No, really, I’d LOVE to hear about every meal you had for the last twelve days. In detail. SHOW ME THE FUCKING PICTURES OF THAT BEAUTIFUL FUCKING FRUIT SALAD YOU HAD IN BEMIDJI! Do I know the story of Paul Bunyon, you ask? Does Babe the Blue Ox eat a big bushel of nuclear waste-contaminated hay, turn zombie, and eat Paul while while he watches Real Housewives of New Jersey? No? Then why don’t you move on to telling me how well you slept on those beds at the Westin so we can get that part over with and I can move on with giving myself an appendectomy with a pair of tweezers and some grain alcohol because that’s going to be a welcome relief after hearing about how the soda machines only had Pepsi and were $1.75. EACH.

You want to know why I drink? I drink so I can endure summer vacation stories. I drink rather than wrap my hands around your neck and squeeze you until your eyes pop out so that you’ll stop telling me about how you were on the plane to Orlando with Hoda Kotb, and you said to her, you said, hey, Hoda! Where’s your drink?! And all of coach class thought that was just RICH that you said that to her.

I drink so that I can sit there with a smile plastered to my face while you describe the china at the Hungarian restaurant you loved and, what’s that? You say you have the menu? Has heaven just unleashed a storm of a million tiny unicorns and marshmallows?! Sit your happy ass down because I am DYING to know why you chose the chicken paprikash over the stuffed cabbage.

You’re going to The Big Apple for Thanksgiving? Sweet fancy Moses! I can’t wait to hear how expensive the cab to the hotel was and how the driver had no vowels in his name!!