My sixth grade art teacher told my mother, "She sure is a fly-by-night." I take issue with that. The dictionary says that a fly-by-night is someone who is unreliable or untrustworthy. Not true! I am completely trustworthy, have a conscience of steel, and you can always rely on me...to do something ditzy. I prefer scatterbrained. That is how my brain has always felt, all over the place, a 52 pick up of signals telling me, "But you need to do this, and this, and this, and you want to make this, and oh, isn't that pretty, and uh-oh you missed the turn." There are always so many things that I would love to do in each day that I require myself to keep a numbered list, prioritized, with my fun things at the bottom. Even with this crutch, however, I do many ditzy things each and every day - always have. My mother would say it's a short-term memory problem caused by a cardiac arrest when I was eight. But this does not hold water, as my daughter, Christina, is exactly like me - even worse. In fact, I should have her make a list for me because some are really funny. Just one...She did all her errands uptown one day to finally look into the rear view mirror and notice that one lens was totally missing from her dark sunglasses. She had wondered why people were looking at her funny. I, myself, am used to it. I have gone to the bank, chatted with tellers and customers, only to return home and see that I have a cherry red Crystal Lite mustache. Once at Oak Brook Mall in Chicago, I bought earrings and sat waiting for my friend on a bench outside. Numerous people walked by and looked at me, I thought with approval. I was thinking, "Oh how I fit into the city environment. They think I'm cool." They were all smiling at me and I smiled back, my confidence growing. Then my friend came out of the store, burst out laughing, and said, "What are you DOING? Look at yourself!" She whipped out a purse mirror, and there I was, wearing my sophisticated new earrings--one sporting a large, dangling price tag. (No Minnie Pearl jokes please, I've heard them all.) There are simply too many incidents to report here, such is my life. Remind me to tell about exercising at Curves, the Amish hat, Starbuck's line, and many more that I hope my friends will remind me of so that I can record them for posterity.
Last week's escapade took place at a CAbi party. In case you are not aware of these events, they are private fashion parties featuring clothing from the designer, Carol Anderson. (Carol Anderson by invitation = CAbi.)
Now usually I dress in linens, natural cottons, comfy clothes, comfy shoes that Johnny and Timmy hate, and I generally order without trying on from J.Jill and Garnet Hill. I fill in with U.S. made pieces from The Wooden Hanger in Urbana, IL and pick up cotton tees at Target. Once in a great while I add an Elaine Fisher jacket and I feel I'm good to go. So...I wanted to attend this party because I love the woman who was hosting. She's been a dear, loyal friend to me and to Metamorphosis Montessori school. In my usual way, I was behind on laundry, washed a load of clothes, and sat down in the studio to make a bracelet. Time got away from me, and I realized in panic that my ride would be here in just a few minutes. My clothes were not dry. My closet selection was lousy, thus I kept cramming outfits on and throwing them off. After this I was sweating and my make-up would not stick to my face. My hair would not go into my usual knot and I looked like a school marm. Then the big shocker - NO clean underwear! I put on a pair of my husband's white Hanes with a big old wasteband. I had no choice. I should have worn one of the Fisher jackets, but Jim told me to go with another in black. (Tell me why I listened to a man whose idea of fashion when I met him was black fur pants, and red corduroys that zipped from waste to ankle.) Here came my ride, I threw on Ugg boots and we were off.
Arriving, I am introduced to very stylish women in little golden ballet flats, tall heeled boots, perfect make-up and very trendy clothing. I can't wait for a glass of wine. Or four. Seated, and gulping, I note that my jacket has lots of dog hair on it, then glance down at my matronly Ugg boots, and notice, right on the outside of the heel: Chicken Poop. No, I did not muck out the coop in my boots, but Swizzlestick, who thinks she is human and knows we have food in our house, keeps pecking at the front door. Obviously, she had shat, shitten, beshit, upon my front stoop, and of course, I stepped in it. (My friend will read this and Lysol every inch of her house, retracing my steps.)
Thank you Swizzlestick!
CCCbi
Cody's Chicken Coop by invitation
Here I am with my friends, pickin' up cowboys on a Saturday night.
In short, although most of these clothes are not a good choice for me, as I play on the school playground each day, and work with children who wipe mucous on my skirt, they are indeed beautifully cut, and very flattering to the female figure. There were Ship's Ahoy blouses, and Dreamy Drapers, Palazzos and talk of pairing up and trending. But I had not thought this through. I was just going to buy a cardigan, and not try on so that the three inches of white men's waistband sticking up above my jeggings waist would not be detected. That's not how they do it at these parties. Women are whipping clothes on and off in front of each other and everyone, especially the presenter, wants to see how you look! I wish you could have seen me trying to get into these sweaters without raising my arms high enough to show Jim's jockeys!
I BOUGHT THE DREAMY DRAPER! Super soft and comfy.
AND
the DOTTI CARDI because it's really cute and looks like it's inside out because it is hand-stamped.
I do hope my friend invites me again someday, it truly was fun. And I promise to lay my clothes and shoes out days in advance, because I may be ditzy, but I am totally trustworthy.
