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Showing posts from June, 2010

The Rake's Progress. Or: How the Purge Goes

Several cubic feet of things chucked chock-a-block into boxes and into the back of my car. An old dog bed--which probably should be just thrown out--and camisole tops and shorts that are years too young for me, which probably also should be thrown out. I pitched some old ceramic top bottles that I was saving for heaven knows what--I think I thought we were going to marinate our own vinegars or some such crafty thing. Duplicate shoes. Ugly toys. And there are so many ugly toys for boys. I worry that the boys will have no toys after I throw out the ugly and annoying ones. You try to throw out your kids' art work and try to explain it to them when they find it in the garbage! How did that get in there???

I gauge my progress on my satisfaction of how I feel at the cubic footage I've freed up. I do a little mathematical equation using our monthly mortgage, our home's square footage, solving for how much per month we've been paying out to store stacks of Yoga Journal magazine…


I've been looking at those shows about hoarding. Ha. Child's play. I coulda been the host of THAT show. They never make enemies with their own mothers, trying to explain that one really should dispose of boxes of books and doll clothes that had been shat in by raccoons. I'm sure I don't why the raccoons shit in their own nests. Perhaps it should be a lesson to all of us of what NOT to do.

So, I've got my mom's house in the back of my mind. Always. But as summer closes in and the A/C hums and drones, and the jungle creeps closer, I start to get a bit batty. And I'm thinking of raccoons. I feel a big purge coming on.

Empty boxes crying out to fulfill my fantasies of simplicity. I see the stuff huddling in corners, in stacks, and cluttering up my shelves tremble in fear. They are right to do so.

Show Up, Shut Up, Wear Beige

Instructions to mothers of the groom.

The reason why groomsmen all wear the same suit to a wedding--so if the groom doesn't show up, everyone can just take a step to the left. The people on that side of the church are just props, baby.

Your role, as mother of the groom, is to provide a groom. And maybe a brother for a spare. The extent of your input is limited to saying how lovely everything is.

The bride's strapless ballgown in the church? Why, it's lovely, of course. The mother of the bride's equally revealing gown to show off her boob job? Lovely. The new wife of the bride's father who describes herself as a "cougar" (in the latter part of her nine lives) (meow!)? Nope! Nope! She's so lovely. The "blending" ceremony in which all the members of the bridal party dance around and fill a vase with pink and blue vials of sand to symbolize the "blending" of two souls into one purple-ish vase of sand...or something? Lovely, lovely, lovely…


I love skirts. I loved this skirt. I still love this skirt.

I bought it for Derby one year. I was going to be sitting in the Jockey Club and thought it would was cute and punchy and would work if the weather was warm or cold: high-heeled sandals and a white blouse if warm and white wool tights, a white cashmere turtleneck and black Gucci boots if it was cold. But I've never figured out Louisville fashion don't's. My cousin shook her head sadly when I showed it to her. You just don't wear black to Derby. And you NEVER wear wool tights and boots. It could be 30 degrees and snowing and that's just too darn bad: it's little spring sandals or spring shoes; seersucker and floaty florals and little tailored polkadot whatnot. So, I wore a little halter dress and red sandals and the outrageous hat and fit in. But it was pretty cold that Derby. So the lack of support I didn't get from the halter dress didn't matter.

The skirt made its own events. I wore it to an op…