Wardrobe Malfunction II

I am one of those people who have always really like the home arts.  As a kid, I spent hours rug hooking  or cross stitching pictures of cats.  I vividly remember the proud moment in sixth grade when I completed my semester art project: a pillow shaped like a hamburger.  In high school, I was that geek who gleefully signed up to spend three solid months sewing a quilt and matching pillow in home-ec.

Despite all my passion for it and despite all the hours I have sunk into learning how to do it, I still suck at sewing.  And by suck, I mean that I am so bad that, more often than not, my attempt at repairing something only renders that something worse off.  Once, while trying to fix a shirt cuff, I sewed close the entire sleeve.  On more than one occasion, I have sewn the shirt I was working on to the pants I was wearing at the time.  

A little while ago a large-ish hole (about 1/2 an inch long) opened up in the left armpit of my favorite dress.  Although, this normally spells doom to a piece of clothing in my household, I loved this dress so much that I pulled out the needle and thread and set to placing nearly thirty stitches over the hole.  Although the stitches were rough and uneven, I felt confident that at least the integrity of the dress was salvaged.  

Last week, I wore the dress to work.  As I got out of my car and reached for my computer bag, I heard the distinctive and rather loud sound of cotton ripping.  I winced and hoped, perhaps naively, that only one or two of the thirty stitches had burst.  I glanced under my left arm and saw what can only be described as full armpit ventilation.

For a few minutes, I stood by my car wondering whether I should go home and change or go through the day hiding my exposed armpit from my co-workers.  With a heavy sigh, I walked into the office and spent the rest of my day with my left arm rigidly clamped against my body.

*Update Post here.

Update Post

This is an update to: Stewing in My Own Funk

A little while ago, I admitted that my bathroom had reached an appalling level of disgusting.  After several months of living with my own filth, I actually buckled down and cleaned my bathroom.  The effort involved was great and I sweat through my clothing scrubbing the floor, but it was worth it.  Behold!

Update Post

This is an update to Triple the Moron, Triple the Tax.

In one of my last posts, I mentioned that I got sick from brushing my teeth with toothpaste that fell into my toilet.  Well, I'm happy to report that I didn't get sick from the toothpaste -- I just caught a small cold from sharing my nephew's chocolate mousse into which he dripped a little snot from his runny nose.  While that might be a little gross, it's not as gross as getting a massive e-coli infection!  And the best part is that I get to go on using that tube of toothpaste.

Triple the Moron, Triple the Tax

Last night, I dropped my new tube of toothpaste in the toilet bowl.  In the half-second that I stood over the toilet, pondering, "Do I really have to get that thing?" it occurred to me that my goof was moron squared.

First, there is the base layer stupidity, as I have mentioned in an earlier post, in having a bathroom cabinet poised directly about the toilet.  I have ruined many of my mornings by dropping my fancy, department-store facial soap into the crapper.  Then there is the stupidity multiplier, which is that my toilet has not been cleaned since January and there is an unsettling brown ring around the top of the bowl.

I decided to retrieve the toothpaste.  A tube that big would not flush, and it's unthinkable to allow it to float for eternity in the one toilet in the house.  Once I pulled it out of the water, however, I faced another dilemma -- do I keep it or throw it away?  On the one hand, it was a brand new tube good for at least another couple of months.  It was, moreover, the only toothpaste in the house.  On the other hand, the microscopic (and not-so microcopic) poo particles swirling about the toilet would probably stick to a gooey substance like toothpaste.  And, toothpaste reaches every crevice of your mouth, which seems to me to be among the last places you'd want poo particles to go.

Despite the fact that a replacement would cost me less than $6, I kept the toilet-water soaked toothpaste.  I doused it with soapy water and rubbing alcohol.  For good measure, I squirt out the top quarter inch of toothpaste into the garbage can.  "There," I thought, "good as new."  I squeezed a little toothpaste on my toothbrush -- sniffed it to be sure -- and then brushed.

This morning, I woke up with a fever and body ache.

*Update Post here and here.

Update Post

This is an update to: The Horror, the Horror.

About a month ago, I wrote about how rats had moved into my garage.  I called in the pest inspector who helped me figure out how the rats were actually getting in.  He then suggested a few handymen who could help me patch up those holes.  Sure enough, the handyman that I called was able to fix the problem right away and I have been rat free ever since!  

Great Moments in Photography III

I once had a boyfriend who insisted on keeping at least 3 pairs of ratty sweatpants in his closet because, as he liked to say, "You never know when you might need them for painting."  At the time, I laughed at this.  First of all, I'd point out, as a lawyer, you're not often ambushed by a rush painting job in the course of business.  Second, even if the improbable emergency painting situation arises, ratty sweatpants are not your only clothing option.  You don't need to stock up.  He shook his head at me --  I could see the words forming in his mind, "One day you'll see."

Well, that day came.  Last week, I joined some of my co-workers on a volunteer project to paint the gym at the local Boys & Girls Club.  As I did not have ratty sweatpants on hand for the occasion, I wore some old skinny jeans.  Jeans, as it turns out, is a bad choice for painting.  Because painting involves a lot of bending down and squatting, one benefits from an elastic waistband that clings snugly to your waist.  Jeans, on the other hand, pull down to an unseemly degree. 

Below is a photo that the volunteer coordinator snapped of me and my co-workers busily working away.  Notice the butt crack. 

It's hard not to die a little inside, knowing that I spent my day with my coin slot hanging out for the world to see and that this photo has since circulated to 50 of my co-workers.

Not Far From the Tree

As I've admitted a few times, I have a problem with not dealing with problems in a timely manner.  Boxes belonging to other people clutter my house.  I let rats poo all over my garage for weeks before I do anything about it.  My bathroom has crossed from unclean to oh-my-god-what-is-that disgusting (which, by the way, I still haven't cleaned).

How did I get to be this way?  How did I come to be comfortable with so much filth?  The answer is not obvious; the home I grew up in was usually clean and dust free, if not entirely orderly.  My mother can often be found stalking the house with a dusting cloth and squirreling away clutter.  I have no memory of ever stepping into a dirty bathroom during my childhood.

Yet, this week -- as I'm staying with my parents in the house where I grew up -- I discovered something.  Despite my mother's overt cleanliness, she, too, has a certain inclination towards the disgusting.  For reasons unknown, my mother likes holding on to open yet barely used highly perishable foods for years.

Behold these items from my parents' refrigerator that I pulled out today:

This is carton of cheese wedges.  According to the label, it was best until "October 13, 2009."


















This is a bottle of "Organic" carrot juice that was best before June 11, 2008 -- just over two years ago.

This tub of margarine stopped being good on July 8, 2008.

This V8 Fusion juice spoiled on October 16, 2008.

Stewing in My Own Funk

I've been in a funk lately.  For the past few months, I've been able to muster only slightly more energy than the absolute minimum needed to support life-sustaining activities like breathing.  I like sitting without moving.  I prefer lying down.  In fact, if I could sleep for 23 hours a day, I would.  When I'm at work or in public, I scrounge up the inner resources to put on a chipper face, but inwardly I'm fantasizing about falling into a coma.  "Why a coma?" my boyfriend asks, "Why not a vacation?"  Because vacations are require planning, packing, getting to the airport, finding shuttles, carrying heavy luggage, and floundering in a foreign language.  A coma requires only a gentle slumping over into oblivion.  You can fall into a coma just sitting at your dining table with a banana peel in your hand.

So, as I sit on my couch each night in my funk, the rest of my life unravels at the edges.  The mail piles up, the laundry doesn't get done, and dustballs the size of my dog accumulate behind the television stand.  My bathroom has declined the most.  It would not surprise me if certain corners of my bathroom are now cultures for new forms of life.  Though, the condition of my bathroom disgusts even me, I suspect I won't bring myself clean it until the day I contract a staph infection.   Even then, it might not be enough.

Here are pics of my bathroom in its current state.


This is my shower.  The green bottle used to hold liquid soap that I used up weeks ago.  You can see a clump of hair, too, that I haven't bothered to pick up.  And I think that's bubonic plague growing by the shower drain.

This is a picture of my sink.  I can't be sure what the brown rime around the drain is made of, but I suspect that it's month-old toothpaste.

This is the area just outside my tub.  The bathroom floor is totally covered in dust and fallen hair.


* Update Post here.