This is me scrolling through the available males on OKCupid: Frowning in every photo -- next! Describes self as "old soul" -- yeah, no. Describes self as "man of God" -- whoopsie! Shows bare skin -- ick. Does not include head in any of photos -- whaa? Tells me not to contact him unless I "LIVE IN PORTLAND!" Photographs himself next to his car. Or in spandex shorts. Or swim trunks, making a muscle. Actually that one was kinda cute. Here's a guy petting a deer while still sitting on his bicycle. Like he thought maybe the deer would let him pet it, but he wasn't so committed to the idea to bother getting off his bike.
These men need a friend. A friend who will say, "Dude, skip that photo of you in the green cape." And, "add some punctuation." And no, I don't want to know that you can't live without good sex, or any of the details of what that means to you. It's also freaky when they say they're looking for a "kind-hearted woman." Does that mean all the women they've been with were somehow evil, they just couldn't tell when they first met them? I've never heard anyone say they were looking for a partner with a good heart. What are the alternatives? A cold, black dead heart?
The Old Soul, just to tell tales, was raised by Quakers and always cuts his own hair because the results, he says, are more consistent.
Too skinny, plus wearing red tights, and doing a handstand on a giant log. You in your Superman costume, possibly on Halloween. Or a full-face selfie, followed by the same selfie but now you're wearing sunglasses. So I can see how much cooler you are when you put your sunglasses on. A profile that reads like it was written by a Russian hacker.
When did I get so dour and picky?
42. I'm sure of it. OK, maybe a couple years earlier than that.
I am going to meet my first "date" this afternoon. His name is Stephen and he encourages me in dollar cost averaging. His kids are grown, and he lives nearby. I'm not sure he drinks. It could be interesting. He did initially want me to swing by his house. Not sure if that's code for something.
This is hard.
Friday, November 06, 2015
Monday, November 02, 2015
The Uber/Car Experiment
OK, it turns out I cannot do *nothing* for very long. My front door project is nearly finished (only two more coats of Spar varnish to go!) and the raised beds are on hold due to the rain. What's next? Turns out, I am signing up to be an Uber driver.
Now, I'm a greenie and a reluctant car owner. It costs me roughly $200 a month to keep my Prius on the road - that includes gas, insurance, and those two new tires they just put on. Could I live without a car, save that money, and walk the environmental walk?
To find out, I started looking at how I use the car. As a work-at-homer, I don't commute. I'm an avid bicyclist, and its super easy to get around Portland to meet people, run errands, etc. So the car is a luxury, not a necessity.
Right now, I make 6-8 car trips a month:
- moving cargo (like front doors)
- taking the dog places
- going hiking
- when I'm late
- when it rains
The math here is pretty bad. Just with the monthly expenses of the car -- and no car payment -- it costs $25 a ride in my own car -- the same as taking Uber on every trip. There are additional factors to consider, like tolls and fees. Depreciation runs roughly another $100 a month, assuming the car will be worthless in 15 years. And there's the opportunity cost of not having that $15,000 in the stock market, which could grow to $45k during those 15 years, instead of $0.
I have two choices. I can sell the car and augment my existing setup to cover the above use cases. That means renting or borrowing a car to move cargo, and using Uber when I'm running late. Biking, even when it rains, and taking public transit, even with the dog. So better time management, planning ahead, learning the bus routes and schedules, and getting wet. But this is Portland and these things are doable.
OR, I can keep my wasteful, polluting and gloriously convenient vehicle, and find a way to offset the cost of ownership. That's where Uber comes in.
If I can pick up an Uber rider on each trip, that should lower my cost per trip by $10-$20. If I increase my number of trips, say with a new hobby, that will lower the cost per trip. Admittedly, this is somewhat fuzzy logic. On the bright side, it would be good to get out more -- and a car helps me do that in a fast, spontaneous way. I'm trying to save the car because the car takes me to other people and, consequently, more connectedness and fun.
Now I just have to figure out if it's worth the cost. And answer the question: How much do I love my car?
Now, I'm a greenie and a reluctant car owner. It costs me roughly $200 a month to keep my Prius on the road - that includes gas, insurance, and those two new tires they just put on. Could I live without a car, save that money, and walk the environmental walk?
To find out, I started looking at how I use the car. As a work-at-homer, I don't commute. I'm an avid bicyclist, and its super easy to get around Portland to meet people, run errands, etc. So the car is a luxury, not a necessity.
Right now, I make 6-8 car trips a month:
- moving cargo (like front doors)
- taking the dog places
- going hiking
- when I'm late
- when it rains
The math here is pretty bad. Just with the monthly expenses of the car -- and no car payment -- it costs $25 a ride in my own car -- the same as taking Uber on every trip. There are additional factors to consider, like tolls and fees. Depreciation runs roughly another $100 a month, assuming the car will be worthless in 15 years. And there's the opportunity cost of not having that $15,000 in the stock market, which could grow to $45k during those 15 years, instead of $0.
I have two choices. I can sell the car and augment my existing setup to cover the above use cases. That means renting or borrowing a car to move cargo, and using Uber when I'm running late. Biking, even when it rains, and taking public transit, even with the dog. So better time management, planning ahead, learning the bus routes and schedules, and getting wet. But this is Portland and these things are doable.
OR, I can keep my wasteful, polluting and gloriously convenient vehicle, and find a way to offset the cost of ownership. That's where Uber comes in.
If I can pick up an Uber rider on each trip, that should lower my cost per trip by $10-$20. If I increase my number of trips, say with a new hobby, that will lower the cost per trip. Admittedly, this is somewhat fuzzy logic. On the bright side, it would be good to get out more -- and a car helps me do that in a fast, spontaneous way. I'm trying to save the car because the car takes me to other people and, consequently, more connectedness and fun.
Now I just have to figure out if it's worth the cost. And answer the question: How much do I love my car?
Saturday, October 17, 2015
Laying Fallow
Work has ended, at least for now. Suddenly, no structure, no early morning meetings, no deadlines -- and no money coming in. It is time for radical life evaluation.
Week 1: Visited parents in New York. Dad turned 86 last month and is slowing down. He often complains of the cold. He and mom are healthy and chipper, though, and fully mobile. Gives me great hope for my future as an elderly person.
New York's leaves were late this year, so not much color. But this was waiting for me when I got back home. Sweet!
Week 2: Did a monthly budget and freaked out. Loafed and read. Started Spanish class, so I can order "cerveza frio" and find the bathroom when I visit San Miguel de Allende next month.
Week 3: Made a lasagna with buffalo meat. Got back in the pool. Went ISO music: classical, country, alternative. Found out it only costs $60 to apply to the Iowa Writer's Workshop MFA program, in case the winter isn't cold enough in Oregon. Bought a couple "wicking" shirts for biking around town.
There is something about doing nothing. For us Type A personalities, it can be excruciating to have down time. (What to do now? Where's my accomplishment rush?) Yet it's uncanny how, without structure, I can seem to get things done in a gentle, eddying sort of way that's really quite lovely. Creative loafing, as it were. Doing more by doing less. Like Dan Price and his hobbit hole.
A friend suggested I make a list of everything I want from this new life in Portland. So here they are.
- A strong body
- A tidy house
- A simple life (as simple as possible)
- Meaningful work
- Someone to love me
- Creative outlets
- Community / camaraderie
- A calm mind
- Financial security
- A low-stress lifestyle
In the last seven months, I've gone through a breakup, moved to a different state, bought a house, moved again. Work has been consistent throughout the past two years, and it was hard to let it go. What's interesting though is to see what I am like as I emerge from all these transitions. Back to being single, growing older, sorting out who I am at this stage of my life. Still the same but with small changes that seem somehow enormous. So that's what this post is about: the never-ending process of finding yourself, and when you do, figuring out what you're like and how you operate.
The process has given me hope -- and faith -- in an organic sort of personal development that doesn't come from self-help books or programs. Small changes that are not coerced by requirements or expectations, even my own. Hasta luego!
 |
| Dad and niece pick pumpkins |
Week 2: Did a monthly budget and freaked out. Loafed and read. Started Spanish class, so I can order "cerveza frio" and find the bathroom when I visit San Miguel de Allende next month.
Week 3: Made a lasagna with buffalo meat. Got back in the pool. Went ISO music: classical, country, alternative. Found out it only costs $60 to apply to the Iowa Writer's Workshop MFA program, in case the winter isn't cold enough in Oregon. Bought a couple "wicking" shirts for biking around town.
There is something about doing nothing. For us Type A personalities, it can be excruciating to have down time. (What to do now? Where's my accomplishment rush?) Yet it's uncanny how, without structure, I can seem to get things done in a gentle, eddying sort of way that's really quite lovely. Creative loafing, as it were. Doing more by doing less. Like Dan Price and his hobbit hole.
A friend suggested I make a list of everything I want from this new life in Portland. So here they are.
- A strong body
- A tidy house
- A simple life (as simple as possible)
- Meaningful work
- Someone to love me
- Creative outlets
- Community / camaraderie
- A calm mind
- Financial security
- A low-stress lifestyle
In the last seven months, I've gone through a breakup, moved to a different state, bought a house, moved again. Work has been consistent throughout the past two years, and it was hard to let it go. What's interesting though is to see what I am like as I emerge from all these transitions. Back to being single, growing older, sorting out who I am at this stage of my life. Still the same but with small changes that seem somehow enormous. So that's what this post is about: the never-ending process of finding yourself, and when you do, figuring out what you're like and how you operate.
The process has given me hope -- and faith -- in an organic sort of personal development that doesn't come from self-help books or programs. Small changes that are not coerced by requirements or expectations, even my own. Hasta luego!
Tuesday, May 06, 2014
Short story: The Yellow Chip
Carla tried to pull the curtains shut, but they didn't quite meet in the middle. She looked out the sliver of window at the parking lot in the failing light. It was her first night alone.
She'd been planning to leave Bill since December. It was in the shower Christmas morning that she realized that, more than anything in the world, she wanted to end her marriage.
It wasn't that Bill was so bad. He wasn't. He was a decent man with not much to say and little he liked to do. He was a plumber. He liked to drink light beer, never too much, and watch sports on TV. He was a good-enough husband. But 17 years of cooking, cleaning and tidying their childless home had worn Carla down. She couldn't imagine what it would feel like to be excited about anything, anymore.
It was August now, and after scrimping and saving and borrowing, Carla had enough money pulled together for a deposit and two months' rent on an apartment in Albuquerque, 100 miles away.
Her first night, however, was in a Motel 6 just off the highway. She wondered what Bill would think and do when he came home to an empty house, and her note. She'd left him a meatloaf in the fridge, with instructions on baking it. The cleanup, she frowned, he would have to sort out on his own.
A car pulled up outside, the headlights piercing the thin fabric of her curtains. A man's voice, a woman giggling. They're drunk, Carla thought. And then: they're here to screw.
It wasn't a charitable thought, but it was hers and she kept it, holding it loosely. She imagined the couple -- him in his stiff Wranglers, her in a nylon taffeta skirt that clung to her hips, and fake pearls. Maybe she was his secretary. Maybe they'd been thinking about doing this for years, and this was their first night together. Maybe it was romantic love, and they were both so scared they needed to drink too much and act silly.
Carla froze. There were so may possibilities -- for her, for the mystery couple. So much that could happen, so much she didn't know.
So this is what it's like, she thought, to be alive. And one by one, tears began to slip down her cheeks.
Coming up: the bit about the Yellow Chip. :-)
She'd been planning to leave Bill since December. It was in the shower Christmas morning that she realized that, more than anything in the world, she wanted to end her marriage.
It wasn't that Bill was so bad. He wasn't. He was a decent man with not much to say and little he liked to do. He was a plumber. He liked to drink light beer, never too much, and watch sports on TV. He was a good-enough husband. But 17 years of cooking, cleaning and tidying their childless home had worn Carla down. She couldn't imagine what it would feel like to be excited about anything, anymore.
It was August now, and after scrimping and saving and borrowing, Carla had enough money pulled together for a deposit and two months' rent on an apartment in Albuquerque, 100 miles away.
Her first night, however, was in a Motel 6 just off the highway. She wondered what Bill would think and do when he came home to an empty house, and her note. She'd left him a meatloaf in the fridge, with instructions on baking it. The cleanup, she frowned, he would have to sort out on his own.
A car pulled up outside, the headlights piercing the thin fabric of her curtains. A man's voice, a woman giggling. They're drunk, Carla thought. And then: they're here to screw.
It wasn't a charitable thought, but it was hers and she kept it, holding it loosely. She imagined the couple -- him in his stiff Wranglers, her in a nylon taffeta skirt that clung to her hips, and fake pearls. Maybe she was his secretary. Maybe they'd been thinking about doing this for years, and this was their first night together. Maybe it was romantic love, and they were both so scared they needed to drink too much and act silly.
Carla froze. There were so may possibilities -- for her, for the mystery couple. So much that could happen, so much she didn't know.
So this is what it's like, she thought, to be alive. And one by one, tears began to slip down her cheeks.
Coming up: the bit about the Yellow Chip. :-)
Tuesday, January 07, 2014
Remember being 12 years old?
Here's the prompt for today's writing class: What was your favorite thing to do when you were 12? Here's mine.
Her name was Reagan and she was a horse. She used to be my sister Sharon's horse, but then Sharon went away to school and she became mine, if I wanted her. She was a Quarterhorse with a red-brown coat and a white blaze running down her long nose. She had a clear eye and an occasionally obstreperous temperament. And she loved to run.
When I was twelve years old, my favorite thing to do was to take Reagan out into the fields behind the farm where my parents paid to board her, along with my sister Donna's horse, Dee. On the ride out, Reagan's metal-shod hooves beat a quick tattoo on the packed earth and she tosses her head, filling her huge fluted nostrils with fresh air and birdsong.
We take the field to the right, careful to stay on the path. Gophers burrow here, making the fields treacherous to horses. At speed, a slip into a gopher hold could snap a horse's leg clean through.
Reagan always knows what was coming. First a leisurely trot on a long rein. Then the turn, paralleling the route home, and she picks up speed. Reagan pulls right, eager to break free. I hold her to the trail, looking for holes. Then, a few strides from the corner, I loosen the reins.
She cuts the corner, bending her body toward the route home. She gathers her haunches under her in two quick steps, then launches forward, reaching her forelegs out in front of her like a praying mantis. She takes off. After a few steps, up a short rise, her body levels off. She is flying.
When a horse goes into a full gallop, only one foot touches the ground at a time. You can see it in slow-motion video of racehorses. They lose agility, flying over the ground with just the dig of hooves propelling them forward. Reagan's body rises up, her hoofbeats coming slower, her muscles rippling powerfully with each giant stride.
In these adrenaline-filled moments, time stops. The grass and trees pass in a blur. I crouch forward, hands tangled in reins and mane. Holding on to both is a good idea, and sometimes it's the only thing that keeps me on.
Reagan bucks. In the glory of an all-out run, she lets loose. Usually, you can feel the buck in the bunching of the muscles behind your leg. She holds back, doing a chicken hop before launching herself up in the air. If you let her get her head down, she'll get you off for sure.
Instead I pull her head up with a steady pressure, pulling at the soft skin that lines her mouth behind her molars. It's a soft bit, a broken snaffle, that I use, so the pressure doesn't hurt her or push on her tongue. It forces her head and neck back up, and gets the weight off her front legs so she can't kick up in the back, or plow the ground, stiff-legged. She manages a small kick, still, but settles back down. She could plunge and twist, but she doesn't really want to get me off, not today.
We reach the top of a gentle hill and relaxes, taking long strides with her head raised. If I turned around, I'm sure I'd see her tail streaming out behind us like a banner. She's feeling good.
At the corner she tries to sneak out, dropping her right side to try to veer off, trying to take off again. If she had her way, she'd go back to the barn at full tilt, screeching to a stop only at the last minute, her rear legs angled deeply into the mud at the pasture fence. I bring her down, first to a canter, then a trot. At the end of the field we walk, back down the road. Her footsteps are still rapid and she's bobbing her head. Her nostrils are wide and wet and she starts to blow. As her breathing slows she snorts, an abrupt, thrumming sound like she's clearing her nose, or exasperated.
I reach down and pat her neck. She pulls at the reins and I loosen them. She takes the slack and looks around. Then she sniffs, and sneaks a bite of grass.
Her name was Reagan and she was a horse. She used to be my sister Sharon's horse, but then Sharon went away to school and she became mine, if I wanted her. She was a Quarterhorse with a red-brown coat and a white blaze running down her long nose. She had a clear eye and an occasionally obstreperous temperament. And she loved to run.
When I was twelve years old, my favorite thing to do was to take Reagan out into the fields behind the farm where my parents paid to board her, along with my sister Donna's horse, Dee. On the ride out, Reagan's metal-shod hooves beat a quick tattoo on the packed earth and she tosses her head, filling her huge fluted nostrils with fresh air and birdsong.
We take the field to the right, careful to stay on the path. Gophers burrow here, making the fields treacherous to horses. At speed, a slip into a gopher hold could snap a horse's leg clean through.
Reagan always knows what was coming. First a leisurely trot on a long rein. Then the turn, paralleling the route home, and she picks up speed. Reagan pulls right, eager to break free. I hold her to the trail, looking for holes. Then, a few strides from the corner, I loosen the reins.
She cuts the corner, bending her body toward the route home. She gathers her haunches under her in two quick steps, then launches forward, reaching her forelegs out in front of her like a praying mantis. She takes off. After a few steps, up a short rise, her body levels off. She is flying.
When a horse goes into a full gallop, only one foot touches the ground at a time. You can see it in slow-motion video of racehorses. They lose agility, flying over the ground with just the dig of hooves propelling them forward. Reagan's body rises up, her hoofbeats coming slower, her muscles rippling powerfully with each giant stride.
In these adrenaline-filled moments, time stops. The grass and trees pass in a blur. I crouch forward, hands tangled in reins and mane. Holding on to both is a good idea, and sometimes it's the only thing that keeps me on.
Reagan bucks. In the glory of an all-out run, she lets loose. Usually, you can feel the buck in the bunching of the muscles behind your leg. She holds back, doing a chicken hop before launching herself up in the air. If you let her get her head down, she'll get you off for sure.
Instead I pull her head up with a steady pressure, pulling at the soft skin that lines her mouth behind her molars. It's a soft bit, a broken snaffle, that I use, so the pressure doesn't hurt her or push on her tongue. It forces her head and neck back up, and gets the weight off her front legs so she can't kick up in the back, or plow the ground, stiff-legged. She manages a small kick, still, but settles back down. She could plunge and twist, but she doesn't really want to get me off, not today.
We reach the top of a gentle hill and relaxes, taking long strides with her head raised. If I turned around, I'm sure I'd see her tail streaming out behind us like a banner. She's feeling good.
At the corner she tries to sneak out, dropping her right side to try to veer off, trying to take off again. If she had her way, she'd go back to the barn at full tilt, screeching to a stop only at the last minute, her rear legs angled deeply into the mud at the pasture fence. I bring her down, first to a canter, then a trot. At the end of the field we walk, back down the road. Her footsteps are still rapid and she's bobbing her head. Her nostrils are wide and wet and she starts to blow. As her breathing slows she snorts, an abrupt, thrumming sound like she's clearing her nose, or exasperated.
I reach down and pat her neck. She pulls at the reins and I loosen them. She takes the slack and looks around. Then she sniffs, and sneaks a bite of grass.
Monday, December 16, 2013
Waking up the flies
It's been unusually cold in Petaluma this winter. Although, technically it's still fall, with the first day of winter coming right up on Dec. 21. Still, it feels like winter. We've had weeks of frosty nights up here in the north bay. Today I had to scrape thick frost off my windshield. Brrr!
To help ease the heating bills, I followed this advice: to stick bubble wrap on all the windows. It looks a little funny, but it lets decent light through and makes the place cozier. Check out this instructional video, compliments of PovertyLabs: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JqD5fdEj8t8
To help ease the heating bills, I followed this advice: to stick bubble wrap on all the windows. It looks a little funny, but it lets decent light through and makes the place cozier. Check out this instructional video, compliments of PovertyLabs: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JqD5fdEj8t8
So the whole project took me a couple of days, and for $65 in materials, I now have double bubble over the windows and two sliding glass doors. There's only one drawback: we have flies.
It took me a while to figure out what was going on. I sprayed on the first layer of bubble wrap: bottle with soapy water and a touch of bleach. Afterwards, I noticed a dozen or so flies flailing around. They're the big ones, giant houseflies, and they're slow and stupid. After the second round of bubble wrap, we had three times as many. I was bubbling Paul's office when I saw them: black slits jammed into the frame of the wide aluminum windows we have, compliments of 1969 construction. The suckers were hibernating. And I woke them up.
I've managed to get a couple out the door. The rest are trying to wedge themselves under the bubble wrap or have succumbed to life in December. My hope is their numbers will dwindle as they find their way back to the slits in the window frames. Fingers crossed.
We're all ready for Christmas around here. Like Thanksgiving, it's going to be a quiet holiday at home. Although there is talk of Elephant Seals next weekend, and sledding in Tahoe the weekend after Christmas. My job, as I understand it, is to make cake. Chocolate. And rewrap the presents that the dog has deemed fit to denude. What a cutie.
Love and light to all. And remember, it's one less week of pre-Christmas mania this year, with a late Thanksgiving, so should be just the right amount of time with Christmas carols. Happy holidays!
Friday, November 01, 2013
Thrift Store Scores - My New Wardrobe
For me, it happens once in a blue moon. There, among the flotsam and jetsam of donated clothing items, something catches your eye. You try it on, it fits, is flattering, in decent shape and nice quality. And it's $3.99. Score!
Well, call it kharma (I must've done *something* right in a previous life), but this week, it's happening over and over. Lucky me!
Because I'm so excited that the universe is smiling on me, clothes-wise, I'm treating you to an itemized list of all my new scores. Such variety! So many cuts and colors! No longer confined to my uniform of jeans and a shirt and a vest (now fraying), I am expansive. Hell, I even bought a sparkly purse with bamboo handles to go with my angel costume for Halloween. One use, who cares? It's still cheaper than a movie. Or a large double latte.
The net net (as they say sometimes) is that I've built an entirely new wardrobe for less than $200. Half of that was my discovery of Kohl's, specifically their shirts and cotton sweaters. The other half was my local Petaluma thrift stores - Alphabet Soup, Sacks and Goodwill.
So, what was my best score?
Value-wise, it might be the Michael Kors 3/4 length raincoat, black, great condition for $10. For pure love, it has to be the Esperanto men's cashmere v-neck - roomy, soft and with only a few holes in the armpits. Don't look! I love it so much I found another one on eBay, and sent the link to Paul as a gift idea. Honey, have you bid on that yet? How about now?
Other scores: Facconable khaki pants, brand new, fit just like I like em. $4.99. Also got some new-looking Athleta wool pants with some funky zips but they're super comfy and slouchy and I have them on right now with tights because the fabric is just a little itchy. Perfect for anytime you want to feel like you're walking around in sweatpants.
Paid top dollar for a new cashmere hot water bottle cover. $15. It still have the tags on from Restoration Hardware. What woman denies herself the pleasure of a little cashmere tickling her toes and she warms her tootsies? Not me, I can tell you.
Levi's jeans, for the barn
Cashmere cardigan, blousy and a very workable tan
Skin-tight Level 99 gray jeans, bizarrely comfortable, for date night. Not jeggings. Jeggings are not allowed on women my age. No one wants to see that. Plus, if you have skinny calves like me they give the strange appearance that you're walking around on sticks and are about to topple over. Not sexy. These have a flare in the leg that look great. I might even wear them out of the house.
Two pair of blue capris for summer
Royal Robbins v-neck green marled wool blend sweater - kicky
White pants for my costume, tight and comfortable. Paul liked them.
Tiangello brown leather purse. Because I don't have a purse.
Calvin Klein black pants, rayon, probably mens. Fit low and the fabric moves beautifully.
Now I just have to figure out where to put all this stuff. Honey, you sure you want to use the extra closet for your shirts?
Love to all,
Judy
Well, call it kharma (I must've done *something* right in a previous life), but this week, it's happening over and over. Lucky me!
Because I'm so excited that the universe is smiling on me, clothes-wise, I'm treating you to an itemized list of all my new scores. Such variety! So many cuts and colors! No longer confined to my uniform of jeans and a shirt and a vest (now fraying), I am expansive. Hell, I even bought a sparkly purse with bamboo handles to go with my angel costume for Halloween. One use, who cares? It's still cheaper than a movie. Or a large double latte.
The net net (as they say sometimes) is that I've built an entirely new wardrobe for less than $200. Half of that was my discovery of Kohl's, specifically their shirts and cotton sweaters. The other half was my local Petaluma thrift stores - Alphabet Soup, Sacks and Goodwill.
So, what was my best score?
Value-wise, it might be the Michael Kors 3/4 length raincoat, black, great condition for $10. For pure love, it has to be the Esperanto men's cashmere v-neck - roomy, soft and with only a few holes in the armpits. Don't look! I love it so much I found another one on eBay, and sent the link to Paul as a gift idea. Honey, have you bid on that yet? How about now?
Other scores: Facconable khaki pants, brand new, fit just like I like em. $4.99. Also got some new-looking Athleta wool pants with some funky zips but they're super comfy and slouchy and I have them on right now with tights because the fabric is just a little itchy. Perfect for anytime you want to feel like you're walking around in sweatpants.
Paid top dollar for a new cashmere hot water bottle cover. $15. It still have the tags on from Restoration Hardware. What woman denies herself the pleasure of a little cashmere tickling her toes and she warms her tootsies? Not me, I can tell you.
Levi's jeans, for the barn
Cashmere cardigan, blousy and a very workable tan
Skin-tight Level 99 gray jeans, bizarrely comfortable, for date night. Not jeggings. Jeggings are not allowed on women my age. No one wants to see that. Plus, if you have skinny calves like me they give the strange appearance that you're walking around on sticks and are about to topple over. Not sexy. These have a flare in the leg that look great. I might even wear them out of the house.
Two pair of blue capris for summer
Royal Robbins v-neck green marled wool blend sweater - kicky
White pants for my costume, tight and comfortable. Paul liked them.
Tiangello brown leather purse. Because I don't have a purse.
Calvin Klein black pants, rayon, probably mens. Fit low and the fabric moves beautifully.
Now I just have to figure out where to put all this stuff. Honey, you sure you want to use the extra closet for your shirts?
Love to all,
Judy
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