Portrait in Linen

Nine West “Yawl” slide sandal
Macy’s in-store sale - 40% off

The light leather attracted me in the first place. The buckles, to die for. But it was the touch of the leather that got me. Soft. Classic.

Have a beige cotton “safari” dress (Old Navy) that will pair just right. I’d love to find something like it in white, but maybe a little more flare on the skirt, slimmer bodice, straps of some kind instead of the sleeveless, scoop neckline.

Could dress down the shoes, too. I can see wearing them with some classic washed denim Bermuda cut-offs–with cuffed hems, for crying out loud; just don’t like them any other way.

I have yet to find a sleeveless top that is the right cut, color, and fabric to go with both the shoes and the denim. I envision something a little tailored, white cotton or linen, brown detailing in the seams or buttons or beading.

Or…a little Americana casual à la 1940s. Like Rosie…

12:30 AM and still reconstructing the household. Guess that’s the price one pays for leaving the house under kid control all day. It was worth it.

I can see why Josie enjoys working at L’Auberge. Being the vacation fiend she is, it would be the perfect environment for her, second only to Disneyland. The boulevard leading from the main road to the casino is–how did I phrase it–”intimidating.” Glassy signage, manicured grounds, bleached pavement snaking through the acres and around a curve where the visage opens up to a sprawling resort. A gaping patio outside the front doors…wide pillars, valet parking, doormen (do people still use that word?) dressed to the nines….

Walking inside is like stepping into a lacquered mahogany forest. Lush wood, lush rugs, mirrors on all sides, tall ceilings, wide hallways. It’s beautiful.

However, the buffet was not “all that.” Virtually no seafood. No white gravy (why???). Highlight was the White Zinfandel (in lieu of a massage) and the yummy crab salad.
Josie and I ate leisurely, laughing, gasping, plotting, speculating. No rush at all.

Finally got a visual on Ryan Seacrest manager who sends Josie spinning every time he passes by. She gets absolutely giddy and reverts back to high school self-consciousness, face flushing a furious shade of coral. I know I’m not much help with the cheesy grin and knowing cutting-of-the-eyes, but I can’t help it. That’s what best friends do, heighten the static. I have toned down the playful prodding since high school; I don’t embarrass her anymore. Just try to provide impeccably timed opportunities for her to look even more demure and desirable in that subtle supporting role kinda way. Doesn’t take much for her to look demure and desirable.

The rest of the day was spent zipping around between the mall and various other clothing retailers, searching for Josie’s perfect pair of board shorts.

Was mildly miffed when the clerk at Gap asked, “Is that a real (insert classy handbag designer here)?”

Huh???

Not that it’s really all that important, because I’m not a bag hound, nor am I a brand snob. I didn’t buy the bag; classy cousin gave it to me when she cleaned out her closet, so in all probability, it is a genuine (insert classy handbag designer here).

But what if it wasn’t? What would I say? “Nah, it’s a cheap knock-off.” Geez.
In the end, success: Josie got her board shorts, and I got a kickin’ little cotton flare skirt, same cut as the linen one I made a few months ago. Perfect A-line, feminine and flow-y. Will go with just about anything. Can’t wait to wear it.

Starbuck’s made for the perfect ending to a perfect girly day. We never stopped talking, never stopped laughing. A glass of wine, retail therapy, and a fresh cup of java…primo decompression.

We’re determined to make this a regular thing, every other month. Sure beats a massage.

“Certain Slant of Light”
paper cutting

Week holds five dental appointments on three different days, evening psyche appointment (she forced her schedule to accommodate me; felt bad about delaying it for another week. Maybe she sensed the Scotch tape that’s holding me together might not last till then), acting class invitational, karate class times-two, Hawaiian language study session, and Chess club. By Friday, I’ll be ready for something exclusively recreational and feminine.

So, Josie and I have cemented plans to meet for lunch at L’Auberge Du Lac Hotel & Casino. She said the restaurant inside is classy, the food pretty good. My question is, Do they have coffee? Simply cannot meet Josie for a meal without good coffee and several hours to indulge in mutual therapy.

Honestly, I’m looking forward to seeing where she works, putting faces to the names of all the colorful characters who are perpetually entangled in her real-life daytime dramas: a couple Davidian security guards whose senses of humor betray their frightening physique; a flock of cocktail waitresses, some beaten and cynical, some flailing about at the end of life’s tether, some wise and sensitive, some a mixture of all these; an especially affecting manager who is rumored to look a lot like Ryan Seacrest (except I wouldn’t know what Ryan Seacrest looks like, since I don’t watch TV); and London, Josie’s best buddy who helped her survive so many months working the buffet before she landed the cocktailing job on the floor.

Lunch and a couple of drinks would suit me fine. Laugh, cry, and vent with Josie, then I can make it through another six months of domestic dueling and acrobatics.

Shopping is on the agenda, too, which is dangerous territory when one’s dealing with crossroads profundity. I think I’ll be safe. Not too keen on malls to begin with. They suffocate me and make me grumpy. I look around, and all I see is a waste of money and corporate creativity. Nothing else brings out the acidic cynic in me like the mall.

But if there’s an Old Navy within proximity, I’ll be perfectly content. And it would be nice to slide into Banana Republic for a moment just so I can smell the Italian leather, and inhale the fragrance of what classy men and women are supposed to smell like. They probably charge for that.

—

Littler Sis and I have hair and nail appointments together next week, too. The stylist is a rugged older man. The loves of his life are his bike, Middle Eastern afghans, and the boat he’s saving up for so he can move to (where was it?) the Bahamas in three years. He strikes me as quite sanded by life, but he’s elegant in his own way. And the man can cut some hair.

Intend to get the same razored, gradating-length style; touched-up highlights, and a couple shades lighter than last time. Summer’s on the way, after all. It would be nice to look “sun-kissed” instead of like I’ve spent the evening sleeping in bleach.

—

Sounds prissy and self-indulgent. That’s because it is prissy and self-indulgent, but seeing as I only priss and self-indulge two times a year or so, I refuse to feel guilty about it.

And speaking of self-indulgent, I’ve been seriously considering a massage. Previously, I flat-out refused to consider it, because I couldn’t stand the thought of being even partially disrobed around a stranger who was not wearing a white coat and did not have “M.D.” behind her name. Terrified of that, not to mention being kneaded and tenderized under a stranger’s hands.

But I think I’ve reconciled. I thought about what a relief it would be to feel the tension leave these wiry shoulders, how glorious to crush to powder these bricks around my spine. I got tears in my eyes just imagining the release. And it was enough to get me past that initial panic of having to present myself “au naturale.”

I’m just writing these things now. Whether or not I possess any real courage to actually make an appointment and go…well…that’s to be seen.

—

In any case, Rocky’s appointed proctor for the duration of Friday. Stocked up on healthy snacks. Will grab a couple movies the kids haven’t seen, some popcorn, and maybe a handful of new games and activity books to keep them occupied.

And I will try not to worry. And I will try to genuinely, thoroughly enjoy myself.

The clerk had checked us out dozens of times before, so she was unaffected and unsurprised when the groceries kept comin’ and comin’.  She recognized me, even without the kids in tow.

But the man in line behind us was shocked and appalled and made no secret of it.  “They must be spendin’ a fortune!”

Maybe he meant nothing by it.  Maybe he didn’t know I could hear him.  Maybe his mama never taught him any manners.  I pretended not to hear him, no matter why he opened his mouth.

His wife came to what I interpreted was our defense, though I’m unsure whether or not she knew I could hear her, too.  “Maybe they have a large family.”

Well, yeah.

Yes, I’m experiencing a heightened sensitivity level due to recent, enduring, and unresolved trauma.  Such an audible observation of which I would be subject might not faze me in the least a week ago.  I may have inwardly sighed and written the comment off as curiosity.

But I am sensitive right now, and I was offended.  The resulting irritation may simply be an exaggerated over-compensation for any guilt the man’s comment may have incited in me–guilt which is unreasonable and unwarranted.

Why might I feel guilty?

Because stuffed and loaded in the stranger’s remark are several loosely related accusations that may be silently hurled at me from afar.

1. We’re having a national food shortage.  How can you go drop that kind of money on taquitos and fudge pudding when there are people all across America who are having trouble buying milk and bread?
2. The world is over-populated.  Why do you have so many kids?
3. Nobody spends that much on groceries.  Are you out of your mind?

…among others.

I have a conscientious objection to each and every one of these phantom accusations.  I feel more than justified–I feel blessed to have Rocky, Priss, Bunny, Mo, & Squeak, blessed to have the responsibility to provide for them, blessed we can provide for them.  I have not and will never apologize for bringing them into the world.

But I feel guilty when accused of anything, whether or not I’ve actually done anything wrong.  And that guilt makes me defensive and angry.  And ever since I heard Mr. Fortune in line at the grocery store, I’ve been upset about it.
And I’m upset that I’m upset.

Honestly, we were over budget, but not by much.  Maybe 30% more, which was to be expected when we’ve gone so many days beyond the shopping day without replenishing staples and household supplies.  We buy twice as much when Miner’s home, because that doubles the cooking requirement.  And I never stop him from deviating from the list; he earns the paycheck, so I don’t complain.

So yes, we spent more than usual, but “usual” for us is always going to seem inflated compared to the “usual” for a family of four.  Multiply the average monthly cost of food per person, and I’d say we do damned well to stretch a dollar.  Better than damned well, even.

If Mr. Fortune ever read this and felt bad about what he said, I’d then feel bad about letting it get to me and ranting away about it.  I would probably apologize profusely before explaining, “I’ve just had a really, really, really tough week.  I’m sorry for losing my temper.”

Sometime between high school and now, I stopped caring about how I look. Appearance and style gradually moved down the rungs of the Ladder of Priorities, until it was the furthest thing from my mind.

1. Will skip it today.
2. No time.
3. Not important.
4. Not turning out right.
5. Every attempt is a failed attempt.
6. Why try.

Attitudes followed.

1. He loves me just the way I am.
2. It’s called “au natural.”
3. I don’t want to find myself guilty of superficiality or gross vanity.
4. Style is a waste of time.
5. None of the styles these days appeals to me anyway; I do my own thing.

And I’ve been content, set in my own simple, bland, routines year after year, wanting nothing, missing nothing, happy to blend into the background if not wash away completely into the crowd of unremarkable extras in everyone else’s lives.

If I’ve been so content, why have I felt unhappy with the way I look? Why have I avoided the subject? Why do I tune out when conversation turns to clothes or hair or shoes or style? When, why did I stop caring?

I don’t know when or why or what changed, but a few weeks ago, I started caring again.

Maybe I woke up one morning and cracked open that door to the room of self-image, and I dared envision myself much different than I allowed myself to become. I decided, I wouldn’t act on impulse. I’d give myself time to think and get used to the idea of making an attempt before I’d go traipsing off to the stylist or the mall, throwing money into a swallowing pit of self-improvement. I decided I’d start slow–brainstorming.

I asked myself, “What would I change?” I came up with ten focal points.

‘Ailina’s 10 Focal Points for Change

1. hair
2. makeup
3. wardrobe
4. accessories
5. fragrances
6. nails
7. teeth
8. figure
9. preoccupations
10. hobbies

I hate to use the term “makeover,” because it brings to mind episodes of Oprah and intense shows on TLC and Lifetime. “Makeover” sounds sensationalized and melodramatic and silly. But honestly, that’s what I decided I’d do. A homegrown, Do-It-My