We’ve sunk to a new low. It’s a fashion faux pas of the dire, denim variety. I’m referring to jeans — waistbands in particular. Do you remember when pants used to sit at your waist, not three inches below? Now, we wear low-rise, which is designer secret code for ugly-butt, muffin-top. Low rise is nothing new. They’ve been around for years, and quite frankly, the trend is making me cranky.
I wanted a kayak. It was a simple request I repeated repeatedly. I talked about how we would go kayaking this summer on the lake. We’d have a blast making family memories while building our triceps and getting a tan. I communicated as clearly as I could, in English, which is the language they speak. I wanted a kayak. They got me a blender. There was a reason for their actions. They like smoothies. And, despite the allure of a sleek kayak cutting through the cool, clear water, it was a distant vision. In Minnesota, you can’t kayak in the winter. You have to wait until summer.
Go green! Reduce, reuse, recycle! Be kind to Mother Earth. Protect our planet. The taglines promoting ecologically correct behaviors are as vast as our earnest plans to follow them. We want to do what’s right, even if it takes a little more effort, so we bring our cloth tote bags to the grocery store and put our cardboard, metal and plastic into the recycling bin each week. We are doing our part. Despite well-intentioned efforts to be green, we’ve become a throwaway society.
I am a hot mama — although not in the way you might be thinking. I am hot, but I’m not referring to a trendy or hip sort of fashion, which, ironically, might also be thought of as cool. I am hot, as in Hades hot. Temperature hot. My husband is not. (Hot in a temperature sort of way, that is.) It didn’t used to be like this. In our early years of marriage, I suffered from chilled-to-the-bone syndrome. Brrrr was practically my middle name, especially at night. I wore winter pajamas — the kind with feet built right in. I piled on thick quilts and comforters — the more the merrier.
It’s human nature. We want what we don’t have. The condition often follows us through life. To get what we perceive we don’t have — or didn’t have during childhood — sometimes, as adults, we overcompensate. When she was a girl, my mom had only one doll. As an adult, she collected dolls to the point of near hoarding. Some people fill their china cabinets with china. My mom filled hers with Baby Tender Love, Thumbelina and Swingy. Other people overcompensate with an overabundance of shoes, cats, comic books, PEZ dispensers, sports memorabilia or anything else one can purchase on eBay.
There are two kinds of people in the world: those who bake homemade cookies, and those who eat them. Sadly, I think those in the first group are in danger of extinction. Not many people take the time to bake cookies anymore. Take me, for instance. My kids think “homemade” cookies come preformed in a plastic package in the refrigerator. Try not to judge; I make it up to them in other ways. This morning I spent time in the kitchen with two friends who are part of the endangered species of cookie bakers. Somehow, I corralled them into teaching me the art of cookie creation.
As a self-professed fan of the English language, I like to think I stay hip with our ever-evolving lingo, but I learned a new vocabulary word this week. It came to my attention during a news story about a 16-year-old boy in Texas who, as part of his defense in a drunk driving case, claimed he suffered from a condition called affluenza, or poor-little-rich-kid syndrome. His legal team said he couldn’t be held accountable for his actions because he was too rich to understand that other people are, well, people too. His parent’s wealthy lifestyle makes them responsible for his affliction.