the ramble

Yet another Naked Lady Party has passed, bringing with it bags and bags of clothes to donate and a pile of new things to wear and use. My personal favorite find was this wallet:

I mean, the wallet and the colorful pajama pants that I spent a good few minutes wearing over my jeans. Unfortunately, the photo of that experience didn’t come out, so you’ll just have to imagine how awesome I looked.

This year’s Naked Lady Party is coming up. In case you don’t know what a Naked Lady Party is…here’s the skinny:

First, you call up all your lady friends. It’s important to call ALL of them, because this kind of party requires lots and lots of people to be successful. In fact, not only should you call your lady friends, but they should call all their lady friends. Best size for this kind of party: over 10 people. The more the very much merrier.

Second, every person who is coming to said party goes through their closet, their shoes, their jewelry box, their drawers…you get the point. And at this point, it’s time to be ruthless. Any clothes/jewelry/handbags/shoes that you:
Have not worn in months (or years)
Don’t feel good in
Are too big for
Are too small for
Are hoping to fit into someday in the future when you suddenly feel like eating no more sweets ever again
Etc.

Any of those items…items that you no longer wear (or shouldn’t wear) go into a bag or a box or several bags and boxes. These items are then carted to the party location. In this coming case: my house.

Third, everyone dumps their clothes in one pile, shoes in another, bags in another and jewelry in still another. Then it’s ready, set, rummage!

Basically, you bring all your old stuff and watch people with different styles and body shapes take it home with them and you go through all their stuff and find things that look better on you. Everyone wins.

Of course, there’s also lots of wine and snacks and partial nudity. And someone always ends up bringing something hilarious. One year there were rainbow-colored crotchless panties. Another year, a bright orange mini skirt. Etc.

So, as I said, this year’s party (I throw one every year) is coming up in just over a month, which means that it’s time for everyone to go through their closets. And because I’ve been re-imagining myself this year anyway, I gave myself some more brutal rules than usual. I piled everything on my bed and went through it piece by piece…trying each piece on (except pieces I wore in the last couple weeks and knew I loved). And I followed these (ruthless!) rules:

1. Anything with a hole goes (lots of people can patch and sew their holes, but despite my best intentions, I never get mine fixed…they just sit in the closet and/or I wear them with the holes…shameful!).

2. Anything with a stain goes! (same logic – I’ve totally been wearing this stained black shirt for years. Bad, bad.)

3. Anything that creates a muffin top goes (obviously).

4. Anything that makes me look like I’m twenty-one goes (this is a new one. Owning my own business makes me feel like I should look my age–or even a tad older).

5. Anything that doesn’t make me feel sexy GOES (uh oh, there go my fat-day clothes and half my underwear drawer. And no, the underwear isn’t going to the naked ladies. It gets to live in the garbage.)

And so there goes a large portion of my wardrobe. And soon comes the Naked Lady Party. And then shopping for whatever I need and don’t find at the NLP.

This morning I took my car to the car wash–a long overdue task. And while I was sitting there with Luna reading my book and minding my own business, a man walked over.

He was somewhat handsome, though wearing dirty cutoff clothes, and started out with some easy questions, like what kind of dog is Luna and did I just get her groomed. We chatted for a moment, and then the big old sign on my forehead that says “PLEASE BE AS CRAZY AS POSSIBLE” appeared (as it always does).

First, he started to gain momentum on the topic of unemployment. You see, he’d had a hard, hard last few years. And once you’ve been out of work for a while, it gets harder. And, really, should it get harder? Shouldn’t he be able to land a job, any job?

Yes, I agreed. I’m not sure why you can’t land a job.

He kept going: saying that if you didn’t have a permanent address, no one would give you a job. He was sleeping at the homeless shelter, he said. So how is he supposed to get a job?

I suggested that he make a friend and give that friend’s address. Employers aren’t magic; they don’t know that you don’t own the house.

Then I politely asked what kind of job he’d like.

“Making babies,” he answered.

After a long pause, I offered, “oh.” And he went on to explain how he didn’t have any kids and would really like some.

I refrained from pointing out that having kids usually requires you to A. also have a lady-type who would like to sleep with you and B. also requires that you support said kids. Also, having kids usually doesn’t pay well. Just sayin’.

I will take this whole interaction as a sign that I’m having a good hair day.

That’s all.

What an exceedingly good week!

.One.
After a long few weeks of working every day for varying amounts of time, I finally took almost three whole days off. I went to the gym. I replaced my embarrassingly holey tank tops at the mall (with BonBon as fashion support). I made shrimp sauted in truffle oil and covered in freshly grated pepper. That, my friends, is the good life.

.Two.
The second draft (and by second draft, I mean major rewrite that took the book from a 32,000-word short story extravaganza to a 70,000-word memoir. Still with lots of craziness. But now also with lots of heart. Today, I sent it off the the potentially-interested agent from two years ago. We’ll see if the interest has grown or faded in that time.

.Three.
Pookie the Raven introduced me to his handsome, kind, scruffy friend. Did I mention that he’s handsome? I win.

.Four.
After going through my wardrobe and significantly diminishing it by tossing out anything that looked garish, had holes, had stains or had been sitting for a year with the intention of finding a tailor, I found myself with very little to wear. For the past few weeks, this has been a source of stress for me, particularly as some of my staples (black tank tops and t-shirts) had made it into the toss-out bin due to holes. This week, I partially rectified the problem by replacing the tank tops (the rest of my wardrobe becomes so much more wearable when I have tops to wear under things!) and buying two cute little jackets.

I’m still holding out to replace the rest of what needs replacing (waiting until after my annual Naked Lady Party, which I’ve planned for early October – and waiting until this gym membership gets me in the shape I A. want to be in and B. can maintain). But at least I don’t have to run around naked. I consider this a win.

As you can see from the large amount of quoting going on on this blog, I’ve been reading Sloane Crosley’s book of essays: How Did You Get This Number? One of these essays was on her roommate adventures in New York, which got me thinking about all the different places I’ve lived with all the different–often wacky–roommates.

First, of course, there was college. I started my “independence” in the only all-girls dorm on campus. They called it the home of the Harley Hos–not because the girls in Harley slept around more (I daresay they slept around less), but because you could TELL when someone was sleeping around. When a man walked out of the mixed dorms, you didn’t automatically know he’d been there for a sleepover, but when he walked out of Harley, it was a fair assumption that he’d been snuggling up with a lady.

My roommate that year was Yvonne, a quiet freshman from Ghana (West Africa), which, of course, made me miss Africa. She was mostly quiet and studious–the latter a characteristic that we shared, making for a productive and A-filled first year.

My second year at college, I moved into the larger dorms–the ones full of Juniors and Seniors, since getting in was based on how many credits your group of roommates brought to the table. Our little suite–The 217–offered a large common area with a TV and a Foosball table (both provided by my roommates) and two large bedrooms, each housing three girls. It’s a lot of people to have living in one small space (unless you’re in Manhattan, in which case you can call it The Palace), and with our open-door policy the rooms were usually even more crowded. Full of people who got stuck with Crazy Roommates, girls who unexpectedly lost their apartments and had to sleep on our couches and the men who wanted to woo said girls.

On the left side of the suite was my room, which I shared with Tana and Teresa, two future schoolteachers. Tana was the most conservative of the group. She made colorful charts depicting who should be vacuuming the common spaces (an action that somehow never seemed to happen) and spent lots of time talking to her long-time-boyfriend (now husband) on the phone. Teresa and I took advantage of Tana’s conservative and modest personality by constantly having half-naked parties in the bedroom and frequently jumping on Tana’s bed in our underwear. We were so grown up.

My third and final year of college, I moved on again, asking for a Freshman roommate and landing myself in a co-ed dorm at the back of campus. It was delightfully close to the back road out where I frequently went for long, frustrated runs in the rain–often followed by our cutely-concerned-for-my-safety RA, Jeremy. When I first moved in, the bed by the window (which I wanted very much) was covered in giant spiders. This is what happens when your window is just over the light fixtures on the back of the building: the light attracts bugs and the bugs attract giant possibly-man-eating spiders. I have no idea how I slept the first few nights, because it took them a week to send in the exterminator.

My roommate that year was Jamie: cute, naive, happy, thin and blonde, which ensured that our room was always full of boys pining after her. It was amusing to watch. Sometimes they would come by drunk and tell me their woes while they waited (in vain) for Jamie to return to the room. Sadly for them, Jamie was much more interested in the sports-playing Seniors (isn’t that how it goes, though?) and usually didn’t get back to the room before I kicked the sad-faced Freshman boys out so that I could study.

After graduating, I moved into a local family’s basement where I had a makeshift room blocked off by screens and featuring a cute little bed and dresser, as well as hundreds of stuffed animals that the little girls would inevitably place around my room when I left the house.

There were four little girls (and, of course, their parents) in the house: Rae, the oldest, who was sweet and beautiful and helped give me an up-do for the Senior Semi-Formal the year before. I knew Rae (and the family) because I volunteered with the youth group for the three years I’d been in school, watching these kids grow from somewhat awkward 13-year-olds into the strapping 16-year-olds just about ready to take on the world. Rae was one of these.

The second of the girls was Becca, the storyteller. She loved to talk when I was home and would sneak into my room and re-make the bed and clean up when I was gone, putting my things away in somewhat random drawers for me to find at my leisure. Then there was Lizzie–my favorite little troublemaker without a filter. She frequently embarrassed her mom (and brought me to tears of mirth) by pointing out the painfully obvious flaws in everyday life: “mom, LOOK, that guy has a HUGE wart on his face!” Finally there was Emmie, not yet walking or talking, but often smiling and exploring by crawl. Now that I’ve been around other babies, I truly appreciate how content and quiet little Emmie was.

When I finally landed a job in town, I moved myself into the top half of an old farmhouse. It had been listed as a one-bedroom, so I was delighted to find a very small second bedroom at the back of the house and a Very Large attic where I could store things as long as I didn’t mind the Enormous Wasps of Death who would dive bomb anyone who went up there in the summer months. I was also delighted to find that my living room window opened onto a little roof space where I could sit and have lunch and watch the cars mosey by.

About a month into living there alone and liking it, a friend of a friend had a roommate emergency. She needed a place to live, and quick. I let her move into the smaller bedroom.

She wasn’t around much, as she often traveled to see her family or her fiance, but when she was around, we spent a lot of time laughing and/or laying around in our bathing suits, hot as hell without air conditioning.

To be continued…