restingmotion

Wishing for Good, Blind to Reality

I have always assumed that in the ideal world there would always be time for all the things that are important to us, time for the people who are important to us yes, but also time to explore and learn and do all the things we think matter.

 

But of course we do not live in an ideal world, and I suspect that even the concept of ideal is highly subjective and even illusory, just as the imaginary "ideal mate" is only a shallow half truth, a list of the things we think we want which is never fully realized because we as humans tend to discount the importance of the mundane, the necessary, and especially the things we dislike. We tend to not think about how the characteristics of those we love are deeply intertwined in their psyches with other characteristics, perhaps even qualities that we find less than attractive. In the same way that our view of those we love is defined by our views of ourselves, so is our view of the "ideal" world.  Our relationship to the "ideal" directly reflects our relationship to ourselves and our own self-judgement. The truth is there is no ideal, only me, how I chose to function in the world and what I chose to accept or not accept.  This is something I struggle with every day, some days more successfully than others.  The same is true for all of us to some degree or another, whether we chose to be aware of the struggle or not.

 

But where am I going with all this philosophizing? Is it really fair to disappear for two weeks and then reappear, spouting mumbo jumbo? To tell the truth, I am not quite sure, but I am willing to trust all the hypothetical posts that have been swirling around in my head during the past weeks are not completely lost, but have found some toehold in my mind and that something coherent will arise from the depths. In the end, this too may prove to be just another illusion.

Let's go back to that concept of "ideal".  Nearly two weeks ago I was in Chicago.  The trip was good for me, and although it had its ups and downs, it was clearly exactly what I needed.  I would have preferred not to come home to the chaos that greeted me upon my return, and I would have said that in the ideal world what is good for me would also be good for G.  The truth is that what is good for G probably is good for me and vise versa.  But to make that work, I have to stop wishing for the ideal and start living with the actuality.

 

The simple story is that things fell to pieces on the home front while I was away.  The scheduled night aide disappeared and the agency had to scramble to fill the slots.  Yes we had help, but having someone new every night was not good for G, whose mind can no longer really comprehend or cope with the unexpected.  Sunday night I returned to my hotel room to a flurry of texts that once again there was no aide, and I was on the phone, calling everyone, the angry hen defending her brood, even when that brood is one dementia-addled spouse.  Perhaps I overreacted.  It is true that I did not have all the information, and that I regretted some things when I returned home and learned more.  But I also learned that I made the right decisions, that things could have been much worse.

 

But as I pondered the whole situation and went through the various stages of coming to terms with the state of my life I realized several things.  It was not about me feeling guilty for going away.  It was not about me at all.  I had to accept that there are two forces at work here.  Me, meaning what I think I want, what I think I don't want, my own self-judgements about these things, and what actually is happening around me to the person I love.   I knew that we needed more help.  That five full days and two half days a week with no night-time help was not good enough.  But I was not ready to accept that G really needed 24 hour care.  I thought there could be some transitionary period where I could prepare G for the eventual shift.  But it wasn't really G who needed to be prepared; I was the one who needed to accept the inevitability of change and decline. I needed to see G with both my eyes and my heart, not looking for some ideal, but accepting what is and making the most of it.

 

It is not always easy.  

 

The last two weeks have been a period of transition and changes.  G was confused and tired.  I was a trifle overextended.  Nonetheless there were good moments.  We went to the zoo.  Grandpa held on to Owen's hat while we took a short break for ice cream and popsicles.  Moments of silliness still exist.

 

On Monday we start 24 hour care.  I expect the first week to be difficult, but it may not be as difficult as I imagine. G may in fact be more ready for this transition than I.  Nonetheless I am planning for a light week, with no particular plans and a pile of frivolous, easily interruptable reading.  I am giving myself permission to try not to define myself by what I do, but to just go with the flow and try to be present when needed.  This may be the hardest task I've set for myself yet.  

 

It may be a week of radio silence.  It may not.

 

 

In the wind

I am off again today, this time a trip purely for pleasure, a weekend in Chicago. It is a trip that is desperately needed, now that I at least finally appreciate how much I need the decompression period that going away allows. I will probably be the wimpy one that poops out early.

My grandmother had one of those folksy placques in her house that read "the hurrieder I go, the behinder I get" and that has been pretty much how I have felt lately, although it is more appropos to think the "more I think everything is under control, the more chaotic it becomes". Not that I believe anyone has everything under control anyway, control is just another one of those little lies we tell ourselves to make life a little easier.

Anyway, although several blog posts have been circulating through my thoughts, the process of actually stringing words together has proven more elusive. This is why I am sitting in the airport, waiting to board, and typing a post. I am not sure that I am enamored of the way post editing on the iPad is shaping up so far, and I seem to have no control over the photos. I may have to find another way. But here goes. I am hoping for the best.

Hopefully the first photo is of the back of the sweater I started before leaving for New York. It is a fast knit; the fact that I spent 2 weeks on it is no indication of the difficulty of the pattern, more likely the paucity of my knitting time. This particular sweater started with the yarn, Lang's Sol DegradéOnly after I fell in love with the yarn did I realize that I had purchased a Lang book 182 last summer and that it had an extensive selection of patterns using this yarn. Through no fault of mine, the pattern I chose, #67, happens to be illustrated in the same colorway that captured my heart.

I believe this will end up being a versatile sweater in my new locale, and the colors will be good for both spring and into the warmer days of fall.

I have it with me on this trip. I considered starting something more portable, like a delicate shawl, but that just didn't happen. How much knitting I will actually do is debatable. If my last two trips are any indication of a developing trend. I may well fall asleep the instant the plane leave the gate. Decompression indeed.

What I learned in NY

The trip to Hyde Park was good in so many ways and although I can't say it was particularly restful, it was reinvigorating.

 

 

I overscheduled myself from the very beginning, trying to catch up with everyone and do everything in an impossibly short time.  Then, when plans began to go awry while I was in transit, I felt a little worried and stressed just by the logistics of everything, frazzled before I even arrived.   Time spent with friends was far too rushed that first day.

 

But when I went to to the Hyde Park house I was instantly calmed.  I saw this place with new eyes, eyes that were no longer clouded by the various other stories that had been going on in my life when I left. The house itself was good and in good shape.  I thought I would buy it again, if my life were on a different course.  But even though I still own the property, it is not my house anymore.  And I don't miss it.

 I was happy to see a few flowers, happy to see that a few tulips were still blooming.  And my beloved hellebores were lush with flowers.

The fern-leaf peony was about to open.  Perhaps it is still open today for the open house.  I was tempted to dig it up and bring it home to Tennessee.  But I did not. 

 

The pool was opened.  Chemicals were added.  A few things were purchased.  After all of this I left.  I was supposed to meet a friend in NYC.  She got her weekends mixed up.  Always late, but a little later than usual I sent a text only to get "That was this weekend?" in response. Out. Of. Town.  Oh well.  

 

When I got the message I was in a bar waiting, negroni in hand.  At first I felt at loose ends.  I thought of going back to my hotel and ordering room service. That is what the Mardel of just a few months ago might have done.  During the past few years I have admittedly drawn inward.  Always introverted, I had retreated further into myself to the point that I haven't always been quite sure how to reach back out.  Instead, I decided that I had been given an opportunity.  I sat back and savored my drink slowly, watching the crowd.  There were many groups of people talking.  Some were talking business.  Some were just kicking back and relaxing.  One girl, obviously a friend of the hostess, would be animated when her friend had a few minutes to stop by but otherwise looked down at her drink, forming an island around herelf in the crowd.  On another side of the bar were several single guys, drink in hand, frantically attacking their smartphones, scanning their networks, trying to find a connection.  One managed to link to someone he knew and work his way into a group on the far side of the bar, relief palpable in his every motion.  The others finished their drinks and left.

 

I could have been one of those people.  Might have been.  But I decided to follow a different path. I went for a walk.  I watched people hurrying home from work.  I watched friends laughing together.  I watched people walking dogs. I slowly breathed in the New York air and looked at the buildings and in the store windows. At one intersection three women were trying to hail a cab.  When a cab pulled over, the women, who were apparently not traveling together, got into a discussion over which one of them should take it. The cabbie gave up and departed.  Only women would do that, even in New York.  It made me smile.

 

By then I realized I was hungry.  I passed a sushi place that was quite busy but there was a seat at the bar. I am always attracted to busy places when I am alone.  I sat and ate, quietly at first, trusting the chef to give me something good, but allowing myself to begin chatting with my neighbors about the food, sake, and the protocols of using soy and wasabi with one's sushi.  This lead to more random and frivolous discussions.  It all turned out to be a perfect evening, exactly what I needed, and the highpoint of my trip.

 

I was just another annonymous person in a big city on a Friday night, and I had fun.  I had forgotten how much I like to travel. I had forgotten how much I like to see new places, to observe yes, but with an open mind, and a willingness to interact.  It had been a long time since I had been able to experience that side of travel, the wonder at the new, either alone or with a partner.  My days of having a partner in observation are gone.  New things became frightening and overwhelming to G long before most people were willing to accept changes in his everyday demeanor.  And this changed me as well:  Forced to cope, often without support, I drew inward and essential parts of myself got locked away.  This past weekend in NY it is as if I found a key to some long-locked door, which when opened, was filled with light.

 

That little spark has remained.  I like the way people here are more open, more likely to greet strangers with a kind word.  I may have shrugged it aside a few weeks ago, but now I find myself discussing recipes with the clerk at the food market, chatting with the postal clerk,  discussing wine with another customer at the local liquor store, or shoes with a deacon at my church. Well, there has not been a complete transformation. I still find safety in annonymity.  It is easy to master easy-going banter when there is no risk involved.  It is the middle territories that are hard, the groups that are neither strangers nor close friends, where the risks seem higher.  Somehow those risks don't seem so insurmountable this week.  And for that I suppose I have to thank New York.

48 Hours

Thursday morning.  As I am writing this, my bags are packed. Yes I have knitting. But by the time this post is actually published I will be  somewhere in the air between Knoxville and Washington Dulles, the first leg of a whirlwind trip to New York where a few things need to be accomplished.  I will be in New York 2 nights or 48 hours and 13 minutes assuming everything runs according to schedule.  Most of that time will be spent in the Hudson Valley where I have some business to attend to, including opening the pool at the Hyde Park house so that it looks all pretty and inviting to potential buyers.

 

Packing was pretty straightforward, I dithered over a rolling bag but decided the trip was too short and I didn't need so much room.  Then I dithered over which handbag to take, my Vuitton Alma is the same volume as this bag but measurably lighter.  However that bag feels more dressy to me and this is a decidedly casual trip.

 

Here is my basic travel wardrobe, including what I am wearing on the plane. Everything revolves around the Lafayette 148 light-colored jeans that are my current favorite, especially when worn with the black and white check shirt and the white and black cap-toe flats, which have probably seen more wear this spring than in the first several years I owned them.   Add to the mix two scoop-neck tees, one navy, one black, a light linen cardigan by Eileen Fisher, navy Supergas and a lightweight cashmere shawl and everything was good to go.  Being overcautious I threw in a pair of lightweight black ponte pants, just in case something goes wrong at the pool opening and I get wet. I can't promise it won't have been removed by the time I actually leave the house.  In my life carry-weight is everything, and knitting is paramount. Well, and jewelry of course, but the jewelry will be stowed while clearing security and opening the pool.  Chlorine and gold do not mix.

 

I have my iPad, but I don't know if I can actually blog from that even though I am sure people do. I will probably just see friends and sleep.   Have a wonderful weekend.

 

Sock Sock

Knit socks:

 

My pair in Noro Silk Garden Light.  I didn't even bother trying to match them exactly, as the colorways in Noro are not necessarily that predictable.  I was pleasantly surprised that the feet just happened to match so well, even though the tops are different.  I suppose if I had knit them toe-up rather than top down, the tops would have matched.  Oh well.  At least they look like they belong together.

 

The blue socks are also finished, and the second sock went surprisingly quickly, despite the ribbing. They are actually the same size, but the first sock has spent more time on the foot of the recipient, being admired although not yet really worn much.  Not much you can do with one sock, at least not as long as you have two feet.  

 

I've already started my next project, which you will see soon enough and I have managed to spend a couple of hours up in the studio, beginning the long process of unpacking, although you couldn't really tell that yet if you took a look.  Next week should be promising though.

 

Brightening up Difficult Days

Friday was one of those days where I just couldn't settle down at my desk, couldn't focus my mind, jittery and distracted.  Of course I found other things to do instead, I went out to get the new slippers G said he wanted then went to Hobby Lobby and bought a plate stand. Later, when G was out for a walk, climbed up on the step ladder and put a large plate that will not fit in any of my cabinets up top.  Storage as display.

Some days are just like that.  Some weeks even, and you learn to cope.  Little things help.  I made myself a mocha to start the day rather than my usual plain unsweetened black coffee.  By breakfast I was already tired, already frazzled.  G and I had been up since 5 and he was mad at me, mad at his aide when she came in, probably most of all frustrated and angry with himself since his mind and body weren't doing what he wanted them to do and he wasn't able to express himself in a way we understood.  The hostility, the anger, this is all just part of the disease.  One might think "this is not my husband" and in many ways it is not, it is a symptom of neurological paths gone horribly awry, and yet one must live through it and try not to take it personally.  That part is sometimes hard.  What the brain knows can still cause the heart distress, even when the heart knows better.  Besides how do you explain to a man who is sitting on the bed screaming that his feet can't touch the floor and that he can't put his slippers on , that his feet are on the floor quite firmly and that he is, in fact already wearing his slippers, and that he put them on himself. How to explain that he may in fact be standing up while he is screaming that he can't get out of bed.  

 

By breakfast he wasn't speaking to me or to his aide, just muttering a steady stream of swear words and glaring at us.  The mocha was good.  So was hiding.  Sometimes absence is the best solution. Or joking.  We joked that we should start a collection for the aides.  Everytime G used a swear word he would have to put in a quarter.  I would have to buy rolls of quarters by the gross.  Later, when G saw the new slippers he threw them across the room, once again swearing, "I don't want anything that woman gets for me".  This is why I waited until he was out to put things away. 

 

By the time all the early morning drama was coming to a close and we were entering the wall-of-hostility phase, my hair was frizzy and I considered just opting for a tee and yoga pants and admitting defeat.  But I wanted comfort and color so I grabbed the first bright things that caught my eye in my closet and ended up discovering another favorite outfit.  There is nothing quite like dressing up when the road is hard, or dressing to satisfy your inner three-year old.   

 

This is the same purple silk Ralph Lauren blouse I posted before, worn with J Crew Cafe Capris from last fall and purple Moschino ballet flats that are several years old.  In the fall I wore these pants with boots and a sweater, but I hadn't worn them since moving to Knoxville, I think they are perfect with the long blouse and the delicate flats.   It is true, that the long straight top with the cropped pants accents the fact that I am long of torso and short of leg, but so what.  I am long of torso and short of leg.  And yet this is everything I love:  narrow pants hovering around the ankle (yes these are a little shorter than that), long tunic top, simple flat shoes, color.   I assume you are picking up on a trend here.  I certainly am.

 

In fact this outfit reminds me of my favorite gardening outfit, something I wore for years back when I spent a lot of my time out working in the garden.  In those days I wore something called Japanese gardening pants, which I initially purchased and later copied.  They were full and straight and loose and gathered at the bottom, just at the top of my ankle.  Sometimes I wore loose straight leg jeans or painter's pants, rolled up or chopped off, again to the top of the ankle.  I had some cute little canvas flats shaped like a ballet flat with rubber bottoms and toes, and I always wore G's old scrub shirts.  I could spend the day in that outfit, day in and day out, only changing if i had to leave the house.  This is just an updated version of the same thing and obviously an essential part of my own style. 

 

As for the hair, it had settled down quite a bit by the time I got around to taking the pictures in the late afternoon.  Starting out you can imagine Sonia Rykiel with shorter hair and you would get the basic look.  At first I wasn't happy but then I decided I had to own my hair.  I opted for a much brighter pink lipstick than I usually wear.  I rather liked the effect.  It made me feel intentional, as if I had planned to frizz my hair out to the skies. I suppose even bright pink is still just pink; its impact is still somewhat subtle.  But it made an incredible difference in my attitude.  Bright. Pink. Must. Remember.

 

Oh, and things did get better.  Saturday morning the aide was in tears, but G and I had a good time Saturday afternoon.  I took him out for lunch and shopping, exploring some of Knoxville's finer men's establishments. He found something he wanted,  although we had to order the right size, and equilibrium was restored.

 

Have a great Monday.  If you have a chance pop over to Patti's blog and check out what is going on at Visible Monday.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

photo of japanese gardening pants from here.

 

Inspiration Week 2012.15B

Once again I have a post I started at the beginning of the week and am just now getting back to writing. For all of my efforts I have not yet managed to keep to a schedule and I suppose given the rather unpredictable and erratic forces shaping my life right now it is time a came to terms with that.   But for now, back to the inspiration files. 

 

This second post focuses on items I clipped from the March issue of Town and Country magazine. There is some repetition, as in this photo from Prada of another version of the same coat I posted a few weeks ago.  It still fascinates me.  I like the other colorway better for me, but saved this picture for the better detail of the embroidery. This coat is way outside my budget, but that doesn't mean that I can't have my own extravagantly embroidered coat someday.  (assuming I ever get enough time and peace to do it).

 

I did take the time to look up the items I liked online, found two, and clipped them to pinterest but the entire process made me feel like I was circling the edges of a black hole, afraid that if I fell in I would never resurface.  This is part of the issue I still have to deal with, it is multi-faceted, and I just don't have the time to do anything but continue circling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

These are the two items I found online.  

 

The jacket on the left is by Armani and is elegant in its simplicity, but what attracts me to this jacket is the subtle play of the colors of the jacket with the soft aqua lining.  Now using a contrasting lining is nothing new, but imagination can still be caught and held still for a minute.  

 

The pink leather jacket is by Ralph Lauren and I just love it in all its pinkness.  I think the way it is styled here, from the Bergdorf Goodman website, is too nice and ladylike for this jacket.  Because it is pink, it needs to be toughened up a bit, worn more casually, tapping into its moto-roots.  But I still like the jacket itself and the jumbled up messages sent by the combination of soft, pink, exposed zipper, and motorcycle.

 

Another motorcycle inspired jacket caught my eye in the magazine but I was seriously dissapointed in the online photographs.  This is where imagination gets to shine.  Getting inspiration from photographs versus real clothes is completely different.  In the stores, fabric and cut shine, and you might see things that you would completely miss in a photograph.  But photographs allow you to imagine things as you would like them to be, unencumbered by disappointing details like fabric and cut that don't match your imaginings.  The same can be said of seeing an item flat (or on a hanger) versus on a model.  This Vuitton Crocodile jacket is the perfect example.

 

Town and Country photographed this jacket flat.  You don't really get a feel for how it fits on the body.  If you read the description -- crocodile, you know it is going to be kind of substantial and not soft and drapey like the lambskin jacket by Ralph Lauren.  This is a distinct contrast to the soft color, a contrast I rather like.  But, when I looked at the runway photographs I had a distinct aversion to the strong architecturally contrived look of the shape on the models.  I am sure it appeals to some, but not to me, and it may look completely different on a woman with real curves rather than it did on the model.  But I can't tell anything about that.  I have to go by what I see and how I interpret what I see. I see details,  color, texture and an idea of sense of shape that do appeal.   A crocodile jacket is completely out of my price range anyway, but I could come up with something inspired by this, in a more fitted shape than the original, echoing the color the details, the richness of the texture, even the tongue-in-cheek details of the large white buttons. This jacket has far more of a tough-girl edge despite its obvious luxury.  If anything I think there is much more to play with here in terms of inspiration and style, it is simpler, less contrived, and could work in anything from croc, to embossed leather, suede or even wool, each having its own feeling but each option working its own unique way.

 

Lastly, I clipped this image from a Bottega Veneta ad.  I only needed a part of the picture to capture the idea. This skirt is simple in its basic shape.  The interest is all in the fabric, center panels of wider pleats stitched down and not hidden, with narrower pleats on the outsides, and the long vertical lines caused by the shiny trim between the sections.  This is fiddly detailed work to get it perfect, and the quality of the workmanship would be very obvious here. A cheap knockoff would never have the same cachet.  And yet if one had the skills I think the effort would pay.  If one doesn't have the skills, it is a reminder of something to strive for, that details do matter.

 

 

1. photo from Prada spring ad campaign. Scanned from Town and Country Magazine, March 2012

2. Armani jacket, spring ad campaign, here.

3. Ralph Lauren Jacket, Bergdorf Goodman.

4. Vuitton jacket, scanned from Town and Country Magazine, March 2012.

5. Bottega Veneta skirt, Bottega Veneta ad campaign, scanned from Town and Country Magazine, March 2012.

 

Inspiration Week 2012.15A

Somewhere between week 12 and week 15 (current) I discovered Pinterest and started pinning my online clippings.  I like pinterest.  But I discovered, as I started looking through the accumulated pile of magazines last week, I can't pin everything, and those magazine photos are still an issue.  One can upload one's own work to pinterest, but I don't believe that I quite have the rights to a photo from a magazine as I would to a photo I took myself.   I could probably pin a link to my own blog post once I reviewed why I was interested in said photo.  I shall consider.

 

I also realized that I will quickly overwhelm the master board I have created and I shall have to break it up, but I've not yet sussed out the connections that will be most useful to me in that regard.  Cell division will occur, but at which point I cannot yet predict.  A pattern must emerge and along with it a plan.  In the meantime, this is a catch-up post, with some things I pinned in those heady first weeks, with a few notes, and one previously unpinned item.

 

Take this Cushnie et Ochs dress.  It is simple and classic and yet not at all boring.  I love it.  When I saw it I fretted over it for a week, fretted and mourned in a self-pittying way as I thought I would have no need for such a dress in a life that seemed to revolve around chinos and jeans. But of course there are opportunities, and we make our own opportunities if we so desire.  I still love the dress and undoubtedly will continue to do so.  The cross-draping on the bodice reminds me of a Donna Karan look from the 80s and a Vogue pattern I made at that time.  I still have that pattern waiting to be unpacked, and variations on the look recur every few years.

 

Then I was thinking about spring coats and light-weight coats that can be used for climates with those long transitional seasons, neither hot nor cold but where something is needed. All my coats strike me as being too somber, too black.

 

 I found this gorgeous coat by Burberry.  It is linen.  It will wrinkle. That doesn't really lessen the appeal for me as I like linen, but it does sharply increase the maintenance in a coat, which one would probably prefer to look a little crisp.  I naturally tend toward rumpled anyway so it seems best to avoid things that will hasten the downward slide.  Doesn't make me love it less.  Imagination is free. Inspiration is priceless.

 

Other finds were more random.  This little Tori Burch jacket would be great with jeans or chinos but also with a skirt or dress.  And I love the trim detail.  But I have lots of pretty tweeds and boucles sitting upstairs waiting to be unpacked. Trims too.  I'd rather wait and make something all mine. But I admit the shades of blue and the multicolor trim are very pretty:  all grown up and yet still retaining a bit of a sense of fun.

A few things have taken me by surprise.  In this season filled with many pretty soft full skirts shown with casual sandals, oxfords and brogues, I am focused on pencil skirts.  Who would have thought?  I've been wearing full and pleated skirts for years, when pencil skirts were everywhere I wanted pleats.  Now that I see skirts that are so perfectly my (former?) style, all I want is the straight and narrow, preferably brightly colored.  The bold bright colors on this skirt by Lela Rose makes me smile.

 

Although the more subtle colors on this pretty paisley skirt by Jil Sander also make me very happy. Besides it is paisley.  How can one not love paisley?  No don't tell me.

 

Somehow I suspect that haven written that all I want is pencil skirts I will turn around and fall in love with some softly pleated number.  I see the pictures, and I love the look, but when I wear last years pleated skirt I am not happy.  It could be the drape of the fabric, or the style, or the way I put it together.  I only know that what usually happens is that as soon as I say no, something shifts in my brain and it becomes a resounding "Yes. Now. Please". 

 

But I promised something not in that pinterest file.  This tunic by Vionnet fits the bill.  I saved this to my computer from Moda Operandi before I made the mental link to pinterest and since the sale was closed, I couldn't find a link.    I would wear it as it is shown on the model, with narrow pants, but I suspect it could be more versatile if the cut were good, perhaps working with a narrow skirt (see I can't escape it) and either layered or worn with a short jacket or shrug.  It struck me as something to play with, idea wise, when I get my sewing room set up.  I don't suppose I will duplicate Vionnet's cut, but I am not really trying.  Although I would indeed wear this if it happened to land at my front door, I saved it because it inspires me to play with fabric.  Now that is a good thing indeed.

 

 

 

Easter Pink

Pink and easter always go together in my mind, something to do with spring and rebirth and promise I suppose, although why pink instead of green or blue, I'm not sure.  The intellectual side of me, the student of history and literature, always remembers that not that long ago pink was considered much too strong a color for girls, even watered down as it is, still too much of a reminder of red with its associations of warriors and blood.  Good thing we are at least somewhat past those days, although I still adore a man in a pink shirt.

Anyway, the pink Lafayette 148 New York dress came in two weeks ago and seeing as it was so close, I decided I need a new Easter dress this year and that pink cotton would be perfect.  This picture was taken after Easter services and is a little rumpled but still looking good.  I went to the earliest full service which meant I had to get G out of bed early and didn't have time for pre-departure photos, but it was worthwhile.  Afterwards I was in such a good mood because I always love the music at the Easter services and most of the congregation joined in for the Halleluliah Chorus at the end.  I sang the alto part, which I still remember from when my junior high school choir sang the entire Messiah, as well as those high school years in the church choir; I didn't pass the audition for our high school choir.  Of course this time I  had the orchestra and the choir to help keep me on track as well, and as usual, the higher alto notes are out of my range so I had to drop down to tenor.  That too brought up great memories of when a friend and I would trade parts sometimes in church and he would sing alto and I would sing tenor.  I don't think the organist appreciated our efforts but we had fun.

 

Anyway I think my Easter-Pink association probably dates back to a particular pink Easter dress I had as a child.  It was a  pretty full-skirted number which had a little off white bolero with it.  I adored that dress and I dreamed of pink patent mary janes to wear with it.  I remember begging and whining for those shoes, making a terrible nuisance of myself, and being told they were completely impractical.  And yet, on Easter morning there they were, waiting for me to wear with my pretty pink dress.  I held on to those shoes for years, until there was no chance of even squeezing my foot into them.  They made me so happy; the memory of them still does.  I still like having a pair of pink shoes in my closet, like this pair of Manolos, which are at least 7 or 8 years old.

 

This post is part of Visible Monday.  Pop on over and see what others are wearing.  And also take a peek at the pretty pink tulips Materfamilias posted yesterday. Don't you think they would look just perfect with my dress?  Easter and pink just go together.

 

 

 

Vodka as household necessity

When I was in Texas back in February, G was not the only member of my family who was unhappy that I had gone away.  Sam too expressed his displeasure by peeing on the sofa in my office.  He had done the foul deed before, and I was fit to be tied, and one of my first tasks upon my return was googling such fascinating subjects as "cat pees on furniture" which proved to be worthwhile as I learned about the usefulness of vodka, to whit:  

    Cats don't like the smell

    It removes odors

    It removes stains

 

After I poured vodka in a spray bottle and liberally dosed the scene of the crime, I was shocked at how good my pale gray sofa looked, all the rings and pee stains almost magically disappeared. I put the vodka aside and forgot about it. 

 

Until last week when I was despairing over stains that were not coming out of linen napkins and thoughts that I might have to resort to special actions such as:

        using only paper napkins

        keeping two sets of napkins, one marked G,and one for general use, or 

        using linen napkins myself and giving G only paper napkins, further stigmatizing him,

when it occurred to me that I still had a bottle of vodka in the house, and if it worked on a sofa it might just work on badly stained napkins.  After all, what did I have to lose (except some good vodka).

 

So I doused the stains with the vodka and allowed them to sit.  Then I put the napkins in their normal pre-treat enzymatic bath for a few hours, then washed them.  They came out mostly stain free, and they ironed beautifully as well.  Well linen usually irons beautifully and perhaps they just seemed special because I was so happy, but I do think they ironed up just a little more crisply than usual, but not at all as stiff as if I had starched them.

 

Now of course, I used good vodka in this experiment because that is what I had in the house in the mistaken idea that I should have vodka that I like to drink.  This sounds good except that I really don't drink vodka.  I would be surprised if I drank vodka twice a year, and then probably only when I am out, not at home.  So the next bottle will be your basic cheap vodka.  I am sure it will work just as well.