Baseball shoes

Yesterday, we took a family trip to the ballpark. The husband, the kid, and I dressed up in our team colors and went to our first game together this season -- our first game together since last year's playoffs.

Mommy-Baby bonding.

I have a cut on my foot -- a blister from a pair of ballet flats that I wore to work last week -- so I tried to find a comfortable, supportive pair of shoes to walk around in, particularly since I was going to be carrying the baby in the Ergo all day. I settled on a pair of grey Pumas, old, but not too old. What that means is that I've owned them as long as I've lived in this condo, but I did not own them when I moved to DC from Florida. I'm certain that I have not had them for over 10 years, but I am also certain that they're more than 5 years old.

While we were on our way to the ballpark, I felt that there was something sticky on the bottom of my shoe. "Great," I thought. "Old gum."

We started walking, and the feeling went away. We walked around the stadium, fed the baby some gelato, and then, I went into the bathroom to wash my hands. For some reason, I looked down at my feet, and was astonished. My shoes were literally falling apart -- the sole had split into pieces and the padding was falling out in chunks. I was leaving a trail of sneaker bits behind me as I walked. It was worse than when I was living in London and the only pair of casual shoes I had with me were Chuck Taylors with the hole in the heel.

So, I did what any rational woman would do: I sent my husband to the gift shop to see if he could find me a solution. He came back with a pair of blue flip flops with red sequins. Team colors. Also: ostentatious and hideous. He also told me that they had black ballet flats, but that they cost $80.

I have the best, smartest husband. And now, I no longer have a pair of cute, grey Pumas, but I do have a pair of hideous, blue flip-flops with red sequins.

Nice shoes, right?

Simplification

I generally don't make New Year's resolutions, mostly because I generally don't keep New Year's resolutions. Besides, any promise you make to yourself or to anyone else after a few glasses of champagne is likely to be voidable.

This year, however, I have a resolution. A good one. But bear with me -- it requires a bit of an explanation.

The idea started with my CD collection. Despite the move towards electronic distribution of music over the past years, I keep buying compact discs. I like listening to albums as a whole. I like reading the liner notes. I like being able to grab a CD that fits my mood to take with me in the car. I like having a tangible, physical thing, instead of just having the intangible music stored on a hard drive or a .mp3 player. And what if the electronic device fails?

So now, I have entire bookshelves filled with CDs, just sitting in my condo. Of course, I've copied each onto my computer and backed them up on another hard drive. I'm starting to think that maybe it's time to change this strategy. Maybe I should sell the CDs. I don't need them; they are just things taking up space.

Then I think about all of the other things I keep in my house. Do I really need to keep a full bookcase of the books I've yet to read, when I can get books from a library? Do I really need to hang on to my prom dress -- and the elbow length gloves that went with it? People somehow manage to live with far fewer shoes, clothes, and beauty products. What is it that I can't replace? What is it that I really need? What is it that I can't live without?

The answer is depressing: Not a single thing is necessary. No thing is necessary. Nothing is necessary. Nothing. I can live with none of these things.

Under many of the measures of affluence in this country, I am quite wealthy. I have a good job that pays well, and as of this month, when I make my last student loan payment, I am by-and-large, debt free. (Well, except for that pesky mortgage . . . ) I have no significant health concerns. I have no dependents relying on me. I have so much. And yet, I constantly add to my collection of things, and I don't save. I am a shopoholic, and not in a cute, fictional way.

According to this article, I should ask myself these questions before buying anything:

1. Do you have to buy this item?
2. Have you found the best deal?
3. Have you gotten your z's?
4. Are you buying just because it's on sale?
5. Have you asked about future deals?
6. Do you love it and do you need it?
7. Can you afford it?

I know I fall into the trap of buying because things are on sale, and I know I ignore the part about whether I have to buy things, or love it and need it.

Another article gave five tips for avoiding impulse buys:

1. Stick to Your List
2. Get Some Air
3. Be Critical
4. Phone a Friend
5. Use Cash

And so, just like the summer of 2009, when I vowed to not eat meat for a whole month, I am going to spend the first few weeks of the new year putting these tricks and tips into play, trying to not buy anything unnecessary. At a minimum, each time I find myself going for my wallet, I'm going to ask myself whether the purchase is a "want" or a "need," and try to eliminate the "wants." At best, I'm going to try to not spend any money on anything that is not essential -- mortgage, utilities, food, basic hygiene and medical care, and transportation.

Simultaneously, I am going to try to figure out what possessions I can eliminate. Thoreau said, "We are happy in proportion to the things we can do without." I'm going to test that theory.

And thus, I resolve to simplify.

The one where I discuss my unmentionables

I am going to break one of my cardinal rules and write about something I promised myself that I would never discuss in public: underwear, specifically my underwear, and even more specifically, bras.

In case you don't know, buying a bra is not as simple as going to the store, grabbing something, and paying for it at the counter. Different brands, styles, and designs all fit you differently -- pretty much like all clothing, actually. There are stores that actually specialize in bra fittings to make sure that you are wearing the right size. (Yes, I've been measured on occasion.)

Yet, despite weight fluctuations, I've been the exact same size since I turned 17 -- and coincidentally, I am also the average size for American women. Like most people, I have certain brands and styles that I like, and it changes from time to time. Right now I'm going through a phase where I love Simone Perele, a French brand.

All of this brings me to the bra in question. A few months ago, I was somehow convinced to buy a very expensive bra from a very well-known high-end label. I think it started as an experiment in trying to figure out why people would spend so much money on a plain old bra. But just like when I try on expensive shoes, the serotonin rush takes over and I fall in love. Regardless of the item being purchased -- shoes, clothes, cosmetics -- it all ends the same: a swipe of the credit card and a brief feeling of elation, followed by regret.

I am still embarrassed to admit how much money I spent, but in my defense, the bra fit great in the store. Once I got it home, however, it turned out to be among the worst bras that I have ever purchased. About halfway through the day, the fabric starts feeling itchy and uncomfortable, the straps start stretching out, and then when I move, one of the cups slips into an awkward position. I bet I could find a bra in Walmart that fits better.

As a result, this insanely overpriced bra is now relegated to the back of my drawer, for emergency use only.

I was wearing it yesterday because I really need to do laundry. Late last night, I was on the phone with my brother (who I hope is not reading this) and I had a weird itch on my shoulder. I touched my shoulder and felt something strange. Apparently, the fabric covering the bra strap had started to disintegrate, leaving random bits and pieces of sheer, glittery, beige fabric stuck to my skin.

So here is the most expensive single piece of lingerie that I own falling apart while I am still wearing it. It is disgusting, not to mention disappointing. Most importantly it is, once again, a reminder that price, reputation, and celebrity endorsements are not necessarily indicative of quality. Be warned.

Veruca Salt

I understand -- really I do -- that if I were to get everything my greedy little heart desires that I would be utterly impossible to deal with. I would feel entitled, that I deserved what was coming to me. And then -- lo and behold! -- I would be bored with it all and I would need more, more, more, faster, faster, faster. After all, I am human. I exist. I crave. I want.

Je veux, donc je suis.

I am trying, really I am, to embrace the Buddhist philosophy of abandoning desire. Be happy with where I am, what I have. Be in the moment.

And yet, still, here I am. Wanting just a little bit more than what I have. Trying to figure out how to have everything. It can't be that hard. Just a little bit more, really. Just. A little. More.

What Holds Us Down

I don't think that we, as human beings, are equipped to recognize happiness:  instead, we're hard-wired to strive for more, for better.  Generally, it's not a bad trait, but sometimes, there are unintended consequences.  Take antibiotics for example:  100 or so years ago, scientists were determined to figure out a way to fight infection, and now, because of their work, the world is a much safer place as a whole, and people live longer, healthier lives.  Well, except for the whole antibiotic resistant bacteria thing.

I've spent the last two-plus years since my mom died trying and failing at figuring out how to be happy.  Some days I feel as if I'm just not built for happiness.  Other times I feel as if I'm a victim of circumstance.  As with most things, the truth likely lies somewhere in-between.

By way of contrast, two years ago, my father made a point of saying that he was going to try to not be unhappy -- and, by all objective indications, it seems as if he's been quite successful. I think the end result of my quest for happiness is that I find myself even less happy than I was to begin with.  And the end result of my father's quest to not be unhappy has yielded some sort of happiness.

It's not until RIGHT NOW that I've realized that the two things are distinct.  Not unhappy is not precisely the same as happy:  the Venn diagrams overlap somewhat, but the circles are not the same.

I have many things to be thankful for.  I have a home, a car, a job, an education.  I have more than enough in the way of material possessions.  I have friends and family.  But I still find myself looking at what I don't have and it tears me up.  I don't have enough leisure time, or the money to do what I want whenever I want to do it.  I don't have children.  I somehow manage to surround myself with people who have an expert way of making me feel second-rate or second-choice or just not good enough.  And, when push comes to shove, I'm not even sure that I have a person that I could really rely on to take care of me in case of emergency.

Am I wrong for wanting more than what I currently have?

Don't get me wrong:  I am extremely grateful for my current situation.  I like my clothes and shoes and CDs and DVDs and books; I like my condo and my car.  But this is not happiness: things are not happiness. If push came to shove, I don't think there's much that I would fight to hang on to. It would be very easy for me to let go of things, people, and places and move on:  there are so few things in my life that I am particularly tied to, and even less that is irreplaceable.

On a very basic level, I am a traveler.  And not just for work -- which I do, a lot.  Somewhere, in my personality, I have some kind of nomadic streak. At this point in my life, I've been a lot of places.  Still, there is so much more out there for me to see, and I desperately want to get there, before it's too late. If I could, I would start tomorrow -- just get on the plane and go.  The where doesn't even matter anymore.

It's the logistics that get in the way.  I have a job, responsibilities.  I have a mortgage.  I have family, more or less.  Still, other than my material possessions, what is anchoring me to any one place?

Maybe that's the solution to all of it:  I should let go of things, get rid of the clutter that weighs me down and holds me in one place.  Be ready to go on a moment's notice, whenever the whim strikes.

Roses

Please don't give me roses.

Don't get me wrong: Roses are a beautiful tradition, a lovely gesture. But they're just that: a gesture. They smack of trying too hard and yet, of not trying hard enough. Of trying to impress with the cost and the ostentatiousness, but not trying to find out who I am or what I really like.

Roses are too lofty, too rife with metaphor, with their soft petals amongst the thorns. They're for apologies, for Mothers' Day and Valentine's Day. They're for pageant winners, prom dates, and brides.

I am none of those things. Give me something from the earth. Give me daisies or tulips or sunflowers that fill the room with color. Give me the gardenias that remind me of my mother. Give me the night-blooming jasmine that scented the evenings of my childhood.

But please don't give me roses.

Favorite Jeans

Originally, I was only supposed to be in Florida for a day and a half -- Friday night until Sunday morning. But, on Thursday morning, when I realized that the snow was coming, I changed my plans to leave that afternoon. I ran from work to my condo, threw some stuff in a suitcase, and raced to the airport. I forgot pajamas, but I did manage to remember to pack a few t-shirts, a pair of flip-flops, and my favorite jeans.

The jeans are my favorite jeans, but by no means do they fit me. They are at least three sizes too big; I can put them on and take them off without opening the button. Basically, they are denim sweatpants.

Saturday night, I found out that my flight home was canceled. Sunday morning, I ran to the grocery store with my dad, wearing the jeans and a very large Florida Law t-shirt that I had given him during my first year of law school. When I got back to the house, I walked past a full-length mirror and caught my reflection. I yelled, something to the effect of "Dad, why the hell did you let me go out of the house looking like this?"

He shrugged his shoulders and said that I looked okay in his opinion. But when pressed, he did say that I looked like I was twelve.

On Tuesday, I finally got to fly home. The security lines at Palm Beach International were very long, but I travel enough that I have it down to a science.

Or so I thought.

I remembered to take my liquids out of my bag. I remembered to take off my shoes. I remembered to take everything out of my pockets. My luggage did not set off any alarms. I did not set off any alarms. Still, I got selected for a pat-down. The TSA agent was very kind about it, and let me know that my baggy clothing was the reason. Apparently, people hide all sorts of things in baggy clothing.

My favorite jeans are now retired. I'm going to have to start wearing pants that fit me. For security reasons.

In the trenches

I think I am about 30% packed, and the movers come in six days. In other words, there's much work left to be done.

I am trying to figure out how I managed to keep so much stuff in this apartment. Because I keep bringing things over to the new place -- which is just about twice as big -- and I am starting to be concerned that it's not all going to fit.

Don't get me wrong: I've been able to get rid of some things, and not just the boxes. I already gave my old rollerblades to Goodwill, and I've got a bag of electronics to take over there this weekend. I have a pile of old suits to give to charity. I have a dress and a sock monkey to send to my sister.

In the meantime, I've learned one very important thing: I never ever want to move again.

A fond farewell

I've lived in my apartment for roughly five years longer than I was planning on staying when I first moved in. It was supposed to be a stop-gap -- and now, six years later, I am finally leaving.

I remember going to look at the apartment with my mom, and how blown away we were at the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Of course, it was mid-May, so we had no clue about how cold it would be to sit near those same windows in the winter, or how stifling the apartment would get from the western exposure during the summer.

We also loved the giant walk-in closet in between the bedroom to the bathroom. At the time, my mother had no idea how bad my shopping habit was becoming -- and that it would eventually end in a closet calamity.

I moved into the apartment on July 27, 2002. I was pretty much completely moved-in within a week -- once the desk and bookcases got delivered -- because I got tired of tripping over boxes -- and let's be honest, apart from clothing, shoes, books, and CDs, I really don't have all that much stuff. And then I bought a little bit of furniture -- a coffee table, a kitchen table, and eventually, a new frame for the futon that serves as my sofa -- which were the first pieces of "grown-up" furniture that I owned. Somehow it all managed to fit in the neat little 750 square feet, although more often than not, I wished for more room -- a guest room, more closet space, a pantry.

In just over one week, I will be closing on the new condo -- which will have all of the things that I wanted, and then some -- HELLO, second bathroom, linen closet, and sunroom! And, in some weird synchronicity, it will be almost six years to the day since I moved into the apartment.

I will miss this apartment.

• I will miss the fun times that I've spent here. (I will not miss the Midori stains in the carpet.)



• I will miss my very short commute and easy access to the airport. (I will not miss walking through the mall every day, especially during the Christmas and Cherry Blossom seasons.)



• I will miss having the Harris Teeter and Noodles & Company downstairs, and the DSW next door. (I will not miss how I could not possibly fit ONE MORE ITEM of clothing in the closet.)



• I will miss the baseball players living down the hallway. (Too bad they play for the Nationals, but that's a whole other post. . . .)

Fashion fate

I left for Chicago right after my offer on the condo was accepted. As a result, I swore to everyone that would listen that I was going to be on a strict budget. There was budget for the hotel, and for food, and for activities -- but no budget for shopping.

Of course, my brother has a close friend who has a boutique in Wicker Park (or is it Bucktown?), and he thought I should go to her store. So off we went. What happened next is a blur. I tried on skirts and jeans and shirts and tops. Some things looked good -- others not so much -- but almost nothing ever fits me right because I am so short. But my brother's friend was not deterred, and kept bringing me new cute things to try. If this was what shopping with a personal shopper is like, then I totally understand why people do it.

Then she brought me a dress -- a simple sundress, spaghetti straps and a slightly empire waist leading into an A-line skirt, made out of a light blue cotton fabric with white polka dots, red roses, and green leaves. The dress was nothing I would have picked out for myself, seeing as I have a closet full of skirts and dresses that I hardly ever wear, telling myself that I am just not a dress person.

I put on the dress, zipped up the back, and stepped out into the store, where my brother sat on the couch, next to the mirror. He looked at me and his face changed. "That is your dress," he said. I knew it too -- and not just because my brother almost never says anything complimentary about the way I look. I knew it the second I pulled up the zipper. It was like the dress had been magically waiting there for me to find.

Of course, the dress was very expensive. There went the budget, before it had really been in effect. But the dress and I were meant to be. It was fate. Kismet.

This morning, after I heard the weather report, I decided to wear the dress to work with a white crocheted sweater -- mostly to cover up my tattoo, but also to protect my arms from the air conditioning. And all day, everyone kept commenting on the dress -- and I kept telling the same story: The dress found me.

Retail economics

On Saturday, I went to the Shakespeare Theatre to see The Imaginary Invalid. We managed to score a parking spot right next door -- right in front of the Penn Quarter Olsson's books -- which, apparently, is now closed.

Now, I'm not going to write a great lament about the demise of the small independent book and music stores -- been there, done that. Besides, that Olsson's location did nothing for me. The cafe was not very large or good, and there was not a lot of room to sit there and read. The books (and CDs) were overpriced, the selection was not great, and a lot of the time, it was just impossible to find what I came in to look for. And in terms of authors/readings/events, other local stores seem to do a way better job.

So, I guess what I am going to say is that it's a matter of economics -- the small stores generally can't compete with the large chains in terms of pricing, so to stay alive, they need to do something else -- or do it better. Like how some smaller coffee shops are doing well, despite the bad economy causing Starbucks to close 600 stores. Maybe the bookstores and record stores should take note.

Amazing powers of observation

Friday morning, on the way into work, I was on the escalator coming out of the Metro station, and I looked down and noticed some girl's sandals.

My first thought was "Those are really cute and they look comfortable."

The second thought was "Oh, they're Tevas."

The third thought was "I am wearing the exact same shoes."

I am a shoe addict

Honeykbee asked for more shoes, and I like to give people what they want. Before I got on the whole budget kick, I bought these:



Yes, kids -- they are brown and teal snakeskin. And I have absolutely no idea what to wear them with. But I got them on sale, which makes everything okay.

Budgetary concerns

So I think I'm making an offer on a condo tomorrow. I'm not sure if I'll be able to get it for what I want to pay for it, but I'm going to try. And I'm very nervous. It's a lot of money. And, at least for the first couple of months, my budget will be very very tight. I think I'm going to have to stop buying shoes. And clothes. And bags. And hats (like this one, which, along with t-shirt that says "Captain Awesome," is what I happen to be wearing as I type this).

As someone who has never really been on a budget in her entire life, this is going to be a challenge. I don't even know where to start. I mean, I probably should have started a while ago. Like I didn't really need to buy a new dress this week. And maybe I should be learning to be less of a food snob -- for example, I can go back to buying cheese at the grocery store instead of at Cowgirl Creamery.

Maybe I should get a roommate.

Santa Barbara Wine Country

We left L.A. today, heading north, first to Santa Barbara and then to the Santa Barbara wine country. We drank a lot of wine. I bought a case of wine. There was a lot of giggling. And then we settled down -- to drink more wine -- in a town with a windmill.



For the record, I did drink Merlot, against my better judgment.

Just a trim

For the last couple of days, I've been thinking that my bangs are too long, and that I probably ought to get my hair cut before I go on vacation. But because this revelation was kind-of last minute, I couldn't get in to my normal -- and comparatively expensive -- salon. Which is probably a good thing, because despite my proclivity for spending a ridiculous amount of money on clothing and shoes and manicures and so-forth, I can't fathom spending $60 or so to get my hair trimmed.

So I went down to the neighborhood Hair Cuttery after work tonight. That was my first mistake.

The second mistake was allowing a girl who barely spoke English and had crooked bangs near my hair with scissors. I told her that I just wanted a trim.

"One inch?"

"No, a trim. Just cut off the ends, keep the layers and the style."

"One inch?"

Rather than argue, I decided to hold up my fingers to indicate about a quarter of an inch.

"Oh, okay." Surprisingly, she followed my instruction.

Then we got to the bangs. "How much cut?"

"Shorter, but not too short, keep them long enough so I can push them to the side. Keep the style, but angle them in. Try to blend them into the layers."

She gestured to her very short and crooked attempt at blunt-cut bangs. "Short like mine?"

I said, "Uh, no," but I was thinking, "Pretty much exactly the opposite."

She then proceeded to part my hair down the center to trim my bangs. She cut about a quarter of an inch off the bottom, and asked me if it was short enough.

Admittedly, I'd rather her leave them too long then have her cut them dangerously short. But that wasn't even close to what I had asked her to do. And I haven't worn my hair parted down the middle in a very long time. So I told her that they don't go like that. And I told her that my hair generally parts on the left. She then proceeded to try to part my hair on the right, and couldn't understand why my bangs didn't want to cooperate.

After watching her fuss with it for a couple of minutes, finally I said, "My hair just doesn't go that way. Do it on the other side."

She ignored me and took the razor to my bangs. Unsurprisingly, my hair was still not cooperative. Finally, she got frustrated and asked me to show her how I do it.

I took the comb, changed the part, and the bangs went right where they were supposed to go. She played with the razor for a little while longer, but really didn't cut much more.

Ultimately, I think I avoided the third mistake, which would have been letting the girl actually cut my hair. In fact, when I left the place, my hair pretty much looked exactly like it did this morning. Thank god it only cost $14.

Of course, I'll have to see what it looks like in the morning.

What to pack?

I was at work until well after midnight last night, and came home to no internet. Which, in retrospect, was probably a good thing, since I really needed sleep. But what I also need to do is pack for my upcoming vacation, which starts Saturday. (And get a haircut, which is a whole other matter.)

Anyway, in deciding what to pack, I have a quandary: Which dress to wear to the wedding. So I'm asking the audience. Here are your choices:

Yet more shoes

Not sure if these are too high (4"), but they match my Catherine Malandrino dress:

More shoes

These might be the most ridiculous shoes that I've ever purchased:



And yes, I really do need a pedicure.

How the dinosaurs must have felt

Don't get me wrong: I love CDs. But my consumption of music has been evolving -- I am now as likely to download a song from iTunes as I am to go to Amazon and buy the CD. And not too long ago, I noted that I had digitized my entire music collection -- it's now up to 12051 songs (not including a whole bunch I got from Stereogum that I haven't added to my iTunes library yet).

I even posted my own muxtape to share with the world.

I used to buy CDs in actual music stores. But I can't remember the last time I did that. In fact, the only time I remember going into a music store lately, it was a record store (Orpheus in Clarendon, which is going out of business by the end of the month), and I bought a used copy of Fleetwood Mac's Tusk from the bargain bin. And that was before my record player died, which must have been at least a year ago.

I think I'm a prime example of the reason that record stores are going out of business -- my habits have changed drastically in a very short time.

A couple of months ago, I read a Washington Post article indicating that the record industry believes that it is illegal for me to copy the music that I have purchased in CD format onto my computer. That can't be right, can it?

About the only thing in the entire story that made sense to me is this:

The RIAA's legal crusade against its customers is a classic example of an old media company clinging to a business model that has collapsed. Four years of a failed strategy has only "created a whole market of people who specifically look to buy independent goods so as not to deal with the big record companies," Beckerman says. "Every problem they're trying to solve is worse now than when they started."

The 21st century is a confusing time.