Old Man

Reasons I may be an old man trapped in the body of an almost 27 year old woman:

1. Yankee magazine. If it is near me, I read it.
2. A love of good bourbon, scotch and whiskey. And a knowledge of their differences.
3. Tools. Love tools. All tools.
4. The persistent cough that plagues me in the morning.
5. Chronic pains that actually do predict the weather
6. A love of John Prine
7. Dark, strong, black coffee every morning. Preferably in the same mug as the previous day. I enjoy consistency.
8. I get really annoyed and short with people I see too much.
9. Repetitive stories
10. Grunts when I stand up from a chair
11. LL Bean duck boots
12. Fly fishing. Love it.
13. “I can probably just do it myself” as a mantra.
14. Really cold hands and feet
15. Owning more than three “Peterson's Field Guides” or “National Audubon Society” guides
16. A sincere, undying love of quiet.
17. Zero interior decoration skills
18. Lots and lots of scars
19. I actually do pull my glasses off and clean them with breath and my shirt
20. Wanting to play a good game of Bocce or croquet for my birthday

Reasons I know I'm not an old man trapped in the body of a nearly 27 year old woman:

1. Don't have hairy ears
2. Don't have hairy nose
3. Still look good in a sports bra
4. Can hear
5. I don't think Matlock was all that great
   

When I was Younger, So Much Younger Than Today

Ahh yes, the station wagon. My first memory of our family car was a 1970s solid chocolate brown Ford wagon, an 8-person land yacht with that way back seat that let you look at the people driving behind you and create elaborate games as to what they will do when you:

(1) Smile

(2) Wave

(3) Give them the peace sign

(4) Flick them off

And got approximately 8 miles to the gallon. Ah yes, the early Reagan years...

Well our awesomely American beast was so 1970s cool that it didn't have one of those new-fangled cassette players, no. We had an 8-track player. Booyah.

I distinctly remember one of my mother's favorite 8-tracks was "The Best of the Carpenters" in all its schmaltzy glory and the one song in particular I recall is Karen Carpenter covering The Beatles' hit "Help!". My mother, being my mother, did not hide the fact that Karen Carpenter had recently essentially committed suicide and my impression of that song is sitting in that very back seat with my sister, "Help!" playing on the sweet 8-track stereo and being totally baffled how no one could have helped this poor girl out...I mean she sang about it. Did no one get it? And thus the song is really freaking morbid to me and I kind of hate it. And I think my mom also had an 8-track of Buddy Holly so for a long time I thought that if you were a successful singer you probably had to die first.
Here's to you, early 1980s.

Good Times

I don't have much else to say about this photo other than this: I love my friends, I love JotW and I can't imagine loving life any more than I am right now.

An Open Letter to Zippers

Oh zippers. When you were invented you were revolutionary; you created a whole new way to, say, put on a ladies boot. You stole time back from the sticky hands of incessant buttoning. You changed the world; you were a uniter. Look at the footie pajamas I wore as a child—all would be lost without the trusty zipper to guide me. Remember those candy-cane striped ones with the butt flap? Those were good times, zipper. My extensive denim jean collection owes its fitting to you my friend. To you.

So why do you get cocky, zippers? Why do you get cheap? You were once so reliable, so straightforward—a haberdashery workhorse. Why do you simply give up on the life you have with a garment at inopportune times? At, say, a wedding? Look at all those teeth you use and if you lose a one of them then you, zipper, you give up on any sort of functionality. And not only do you stop functioning, you let all of your previous zipping go to pot. That's shoddy, zipper. Stand by your work. Stay strong in the face of injury.

And don't blame me for this, zipper. We've worked fine together in the past. Is this your passive-aggressive way of saying you think I've gained weight? Is that it, zipper? That now I'm “too big” for you to hold me all together? That's a lie, zipper and you know it. I won't be manipulated by you; I won't play your games.

And so, zipper, I wish I could quit you but I can't. I'd like to tell you that I forgive you for the spectacular wardrobe malfunction you caused me this past Sunday at David and Alana's wedding but it's still a little raw; you spoiled a perfectly good looking outfit with your breaking all the way down my back, causing me to flee with my butt virtually hanging out the back of my dress. You cut me deep, zipper. You let me down. I'm going back to buttons. It may take time to build our relationship but buttons don't hurt me like you did, zippers. Buttons stick around.

(And thank you to Leslie for this little gem:
“Run, Spooner. Run to your car, go home and change, there is no hope for this dress. Meet us at the reception, just run.”)

Link of the Day

Thanks to my friend Andrew for this one...

Stuff White People Like

It's funny because for the most part, it's true. I mean, I like most of that stuff and I'm as white as they come. Andrew thinks its mildly racist and I agree, but sarcasm and being able to laugh at yourself are necessary. I love NPR, David Sedaris, Sushi, Apple products, 80s night, not having a tv, Wes Anderson movies, coffee, organic food, microbreweries....I am that cliche. Awesome.