Mavis: Mother Nature on Notice

Dear Mother Nature,

You have seven days to fix this.

Get to work.

Hugs,

Mav

Mavis: The Color Palate (sp?)

Did I spell 'palate' right? Is there a different spelling for the palate in your mouth and the palate that you put paint on? Help - I don't know.

or

?

Regardless, the palate I'm talking about is completely different. It's a color palate for my new colorful wardrobe. And it looks a lil' something like this:

That's 3 pieces. Including an accessory. Because my phone doesn't offer the highest quality resolution, I'll go ahead and tell you that what you're seeing is a pair of green (yes GREEN!) skinny dress pants, a purple shirt dress, and a red patent leather belt.

I don't plan on wearing these items all at once, but if I did I imagine I'd look like this:

Today I decided to wear the dress. All of these items came from Target because it's all I could muster during my 57-minute dash yesterday. I'd post a picture of the dress but I can't quite get the angle right... it's a sack. A colorful sack. I love it.

Paired with my self-taught semi-chic manicure:

I think I'm all colored out for this week. Tomorrow I will promptly return to my Communist attire so I can detox from all this color today.

Taking it one step at a time, people.

Mavis: Too Much and Too Little

Changing it up font-wise. Trying to see if I can get a different look going since I seem to be monopolizing our little corner of the blog universe. 

For anyone other than sisters that read this, know that there are 3 more people that are able to post here. One of them you've met (and she created the site; thank you Debbie) and the other 2 have not yet posted. I hate that I can't shake the urge to keep posting because everything I post is drivel, but I love... love, love, love blogging and can't seem to stop.

[Admitting one has a problem is the first step to curing oneself of said problem, right? Well I don't know if that's going to happen with me and my blogging obsession, but at least I've made it to Step 1.]

Worse than my fascination with posting my biz all over the webs is the compulsion to find somewhat topical photos on Google and post them here as well, to break up the text and make me giggle. There's nothing quite like a picture of a screaming baby to hammer home an otherwise bland point. 

Like, I'm pretty bored this morning.

So I search for clever photo.

Then I insert said photo:

... and instantly it's more relatable! 
So now I'm tired like this poor kid. 
"This carpet is boring. I'm just... over it."

As usual, I'm feeling chatty. A fellow sister availed me to a fantastic blog the other day and I've been obsessed with it ever since. I even read an entry out loud to my husband last night before we fell asleep. He didn't find it as amusing as I did, but at least he stayed awake long enough to listen to me read it with the enthusiasm of a TwiHard and intermittently interject with comments like, "See honey? You're not the only man who turns into a 500-degree oven at night? Isn't that awesome? Don't you feel BETTER?!?!" (Pretty sure he's never had a problem with his nighttime heatwave.)

But even more than the delightful posts about everyday life in the wonderful, wonderful Pacific Northwest, I find her fashion tutorials to be the most inspiring content. Which leads me to another admission that will hopefully set the stage for some kind of change in my life: I am a fashion coward.

Fashion is something that I have very strong opinions about.   But because I exhaust myself formulating opinions about other people's fashion all the time, most days I end up walking out of the house looking like a "before" version of a sad school teacher from TLC's "What Not to Wear." 

[ I can't even find a picture of bad office fashion on Google that does me justice. I might have to post a homegrown look. ]

[Let me think this over. ]

Okay... let's do this.

This is a "crazy" blouse and a pencil skirt. This is about as risky as wearing water wings in a toddler pool. But this is pretty standard.

<Snore>

Part of my problem is that my morning routine largely consists of being able to answer "yes" to the following very important questions:

1. Is there coffee?

2. Did I remember to put on deodorant?

3. Is there coffee?

4. Am I wearing pants?

So you can see how little emphasis is placed on being fashion-forward in my life. It's sad.

As you can imagine, this "work look" is pretty easy to achieve so I do it daily. It usually consists of 3 staple pieces - a very bland top of some sort, shoes and something to cover my butt. Either pants or a skirt. If I'm feeling extra lazy and can't even muster the mental commitment to choose 2 whole items of fabric clothing for myself, I'll wear a very non-offensive dress with no accessories.

My personal color palate is a solid mix of "don't look at me" and "back off." Black, white, neutral colors, minimal accessories... rinse, wash, repeat. 

I feel like accessories make me look like a pirate and that anything I see in a magazine won't look right on me because of my shape. So like all things I am fearful of, I choose to deal with them... not at all. Avoid, avoid, avoid.

However, because of this fab blog, I'm now re-thinking the 'pop of color.' I plan to shop during my lunch hour with the hope of finding one piece that I can easily integrate into my office wardrobe without having a panic attack. 

My next baby step will be the purchase of a fun accessory. When I am sufficiently satisfied that I can rock these items and still look like a normal person at work without being boring, I'll post a picture here.

Don't hold your breath, though. My ability to talk myself out of things is the stuff of legend. Chances are I will be in head-to-toe khaki tomorrow, but at least I'm going to try. 

And that's the most important part of the process.

Mavis: The Guilt Saddle

Something to ponder: Do you ever feel really guilty about being a jerk when you were younger? If so, what do you do about it? Is there anything that can be done about it?

For instance, maybe you laughed along when someone was getting picked on or perhaps you mistreated an ex. Maybe your name is Mavis and you did both of those things, and probably more.

Unfortunately, we can't all have one of those Billy Madison moments where we place a call years after the fact and then are magically forgiven for a past wrongdoing.

I love Googling pictures from the webs and posting them here. So. Much. Fun.

So what do you do?

I've thought about this and put myself in the place of the person who was wrong-done. I ask myself, if I had an opportunity to be wrong-undid, would I want that? And my answer to myself is always:

"Mavis, you beautiful bitch, everything that happens in this life happens for a reason. And no one can undo anything once it's done. Words may ease the pain of a past hurt but they won't change the outcome, and chances are, bringing it back up will re-open a wound that has healed considerably since you inflicted it. So get over yourself."

... or something along those lines. Which pretty much gets me out of ever having to consider apologizing to anyone. Which might make me feel better if I was a sociopath, but sadly, I'm not. Moving on.

I'm not looking for am AA sort of system of asking people for forgiveness/acceptance, etc. I don't need a verbal confirmation that it's "all good." Chances are if I'm even having this conversation with someone, it's not good at all. 

So in the end what I am selfishly searching for is a way to not feel so terrible about the really crappy things I did to a few people, that I no longer speak to, a long time ago. None of these offenses are truly awful, yet they weigh on my conscience. 

I suspect that maybe I carry guilt longer than most people. I don't exactly have this conversation with people everyday so I don't know what's considered a normal guilt sentence for an otherwise standard, 30-something woman. Is 10 years too long...? Not long enough?

Regardless, I feel like I've been wearing this guilt saddle for far too long and I'm ready to move on. 

Mavis: The Fitness Curse

Earlier this year, I started noticing weird body quirks. Some foods I ate tasted different, my intestines seemed to have grown tired and become overly sensitive, I had to rule out spicy foods completely and oddest of all was the fact that my knees started to squeak.

At least that's what they did at first. Like a cat toy.

Aren't I adorable?

At first, it was fun... like a party trick. I'd lay on the couch and stretch my legs out and then bend them until my knees touched my chest and listen to their delightful cry. There was no pain - just entertainment. My husband was treated daily to my requests for him to "listen to my knees." He didn't enjoy it as much as I wanted him to, but that was okay because it soon got worse.

A few weeks later, my knees became crunchy. 

Hmmm... let me try again.

Better.

When my knees became crunchy, I got worried. I'm not old, but I felt like I was 90. Without even realizing it, I found myself groaning out loud every time I had to go up a flight of stairs or - God forbid - sit on a toilet seat. It was the sound (and now pain!) that accompanied my attempts at the latter that motivated me to call an actual knee doctor to find out WTF was wrong with me.

$250 for an x-ray copay later, he tells me I have "weak knees." Cute. But what's really the problem?

No, seriously. My diagnosis was weak knees.

He tells me to go to physical therapy which I promptly refuse since there is no injury to rehabilitate, only my damaged ego, so he gives me some exercises to do at home. I immediately set to the task of strengthening my knees. Fantastic!

A few weeks in and I'm feeling pretty good. Coincidentally, during this time I'm working a lot and not making it to the gym very much. So I'm pretty much just doing the knee stuff at home in the evenings and sitting on my arse all day at work. 

The occasional attempt to be active unfortunately resulted in an even worse fate - rusty knees.

 Effffffffffffffffffffff...!

Word to the wise - rusty knees don't work. They simply don't bend. It's like they just give up. Like an insolent child. 

Hope you weren't planning to bend your knees today, Frankenstein.

Lucky for me, I am very stubborn. After a few days of grunting around, I became determined to get my rusty knees working again. So I literally had to go to the gym and work out for 2 hours alternating between an elliptical machine and a stationary bike. And although painful at first, eventually I experienced a breakthrough and at some point, everything was working again... just like it had before anything started squeaking. 

But, as with most things, there's a catch: I can't stop working out or my knees will lock up again. 

It's the only conclusion that I have come to that makes any sense. And it's like a death sentence for me because I hate fitness. I really do. The only reason I work out is because of the love of my husband. Seriously - that's it, the only reason. Because he wants me to be healthy and be his wife for a long time, I work out. Now if I stop - for any reason - my knees will rust over and I'll become a hideous beast.

I had to change this pic. Isn't this so scary...? But he was, arguably, the best Dracula ever. Not that I want to be him or anything. 

So I suppose in the end, fitness is all we really have on our side to delay the aging process. And even with it, it only slows it down a little bit - it won't prevent it from happening. And this is pretty much what every gym teacher - and my parents, and my husband, and my healthy friends, and people on TV - have always said, yet I never wanted to believe them. And now I see it. I'm living it. 

And it totally sucks.

Mavis: Red Wine Attacks!

It's Friday. I'm feeling pretty good. A little hungover, but whatever. Nothing like a little red wine mouth fuzz and some Wham! on Pandora to make for a pleasant end of the work week.

I've had the distinct pleasure of having most Fridays off for the past month. A gift from my employer; the kind of gesture that hearkens back to my mom's oft-used adage of "not looking a gift horse in the mouth." Today is my first Friday back in as many weeks as I have fingers on my left hand (5) and although it's a little jarring, I think I'll be okay. I really like my job so it's not a big deal to hang out here most days.

Most days in the office, I feel like a mix between this:

and this:

... neither of which is a bad thing. This week, however, I feel kind of like this:

... which is fine, but again, between the slight hangover and the fact that it's Friday and I'm not chillin' on my couch watching garbage television, it's been a little interesting. Imagine a juggler... a good one... Howie Mandel. (He can juggle, right?) Anyway, imagine that he's mostly been hanging out on his front porch all summer yelling at kids and drinking Old English. Then you throw him 8 tennis balls his way and expect him to juggle at his best. Not gonna happen... at least, not right away. It's ridiculous to expect that. Anyway, that's me today, except no tennis balls... just lots and lots of tasks. And of course, blogging.

Let's take a second to chat about how I can't handle wine anymore. Last night for instance, I had a friend over for gab and nom-noms. (Chats and food.) Of course she brought wine because a) she's an excellent friend, and 2) it's the mannerly thing to do. A white and a red - we chose red. The bottle was an anomaly... "Ghost Pines", yet the picture was clearly of 2 maples... whatever. Misleading label not withstanding, it was delicious so we drank it. (Is there wine that isn't delicious? If so, I've not had it.)

We also ate food. Strawberries, chips, delicious corn salsa, crackers, and port cheese.

And we didn't even finish the bottle. We each had 2 glasses...? Yet here I am at 11 a.m. the next day with mouth furries and a headache. Why?

Is it because red wine is potent and my aging body cannot handle it? Is it because I did not have enough 'real food' in my belly to cushion my gentle intestines from the explosion of potency that is red wine? Is it that I am allergic to red wine in some way? (Man I hope not.)

Anyway, Happy Friday.