I’m Lion about Witch Wardrobe


I came home from work last week Friday, intent on my closet.  One of my co-workers mentioned that the jeans I was wearing looked like they were ‘a bit loose,’ and that the Keto must be doing well.

I beamed like a lunatic.  I know my waistbands have become looser, and the legs of pants baggy, but to have someone else confirm it?


So instead of taking in the Friday night festivities in the downtown area (it was raining, anyway…) I spent the night in my closet.  One thing I’ve come to realize is there are many, many different wardrobes within what many would call a pretty unremarkable little wall-space designed to hold clothing.

My garments are arranged, from left to right, in a semi-organized fashion.  Now, I’m not gonna lie and claim there aren’t times when I get home from the laundromat and just shove stuff on hangars, but it’s never long before I’m in there, making sure none of the more esoteric bits of my clothing collection have strayed from their assigned areas.

I like to know where things are in the morning, when clothing comes before coffee…

For those of you out there who have trouble organizing your closet (and I’ve seen some REAL disasters out there!), I offer the following guidelines for subdividing your wardrobe:


boston-film-door-2093774-o1- The Closet of Shame.   These are the pieces in your wardrobe you were wearing a year into your 3-month cake depression.  Stretchy waistbands, harem pants, and over sized tunics.  In a dark corner, a few maternity outfits lurk alongside a full-length Hawaiian print Mu-mu.  You don’t dare toss these out, because someone might look through your trash, and you can’t donate them because the local Goodwill doesn’t accept puptents.  You’re pretty sure that you AND your significant other could both slide into any random piece at the same time, but you can’t bring yourself to dig any of these out, for fear they might fit better than expected.


2-  The Grunge Collection.  Got a messy project?  Perhaps you’re painting the living room, assisting in the delivery of a baby elephant, or burying a jealous, former-lover in the backyard?  These ensemble pieces are stretched out, faded, disintegrating, stained, punctured, mutilated, or otherwise rendered unacceptable to wear in polite society, but they are just the thing to wear when you KNOW your clothing is going to be completely destroyed upon completion of the task at hand.  These are also acceptable to wear on those occasions when laundry procrastination has you down to your last pair of clean underwear.


iron bra copy3-  The Comfy Couture.  When you come home from selling your soul for a pittance (see:  The REAL Cost of Your Job) chafing (both literally and figuratively) in business-casual pants which are specifically constructed to be the exact opposite of comfortable, these pieces of your clothing repertoire are quick to alleviate irritation.  Fuzzy socks.  Sweat pants.  That Tee-shirt with a rubber ducky screen printed across the chest (What the Duck?), and imitation (soft as) Cashmere sweaters.  Bras are NOT allowed in this collection.


4-  The ‘Wardrobe Malfunction’ Emergency Purchase.  We’ve all had it happen.  You go to Six Flag’s huge theme park, squeeze yourself into a seat on Batman:  The Ride, and happily scream your way through the 90 second ride you just stood in line 2 hours for.  Upon descending the exit ramp, you feel a curious breeze on your backside, casually run a hand toward your back pocket, and find that your hasty patch-job has not only failed to hold together, but expanded into a rent from waistband to crotch.

Adding to this sudden em-bare assing over-exposure is the realization that the last pair of panties you want to be wearing while experiencing this type of catastrophic malfunction is the snake-skin print micro thong you selected that morning.

I don’t care how much I paid for the pair of Great America branded, sweat-pant cutoff shorts – they ended the unintentional mooning of my Brother-in-law in particular, and the population of the park in general.


5-  The Uncomfortable Denial of Truth accouterments.  Ahhh, the memories of when these fit well, and you looked good in them.  These vestments have been slid into the dark recesses of your closet not because they no longer fit (ummmm…they don’t) but because you don’t want to be reminded that you’ve given up on your promise to yourself to go for a walk each evening after work so they will.


custom-font-b-jeans-b-font-labels-woman-fashion-trousers-hang-tags-brand-garment-hang-tags6-  The Bribery Ensemble.  These outfits shine on near-center stage within your wardrobe.  They look great.  They cost a FORTUNE (as evidenced by the tags you haven’t cut off yet).  And you’re going to look fabulous in them…as long as you stick to the latest fad-diet that you tortured yourself with for 2 months, 2 years ago, before sliding into the year long, 3-month cake depression.


7-  The I have a Dream Trousseau.  Buried in the bottom of your underwear drawer is an acid-washed, denim mini-skirt you wore the summer after graduating high school.  It’s old.  It’s (a few) decades out-of-style.  It’s carefully preserved in a clear poly bag and only gets brief glimpses of sunlight when you run afoul of Laundry Procrastination (see ‘The Grunge Collection,’ above).  But you looked like a Goddess in it, had so many amazing adventures while wearing it, and even random strangers loved you while you were in it, so you can’t possibly throw it out.  This single piece of clothing holds the very distillation of your youth, and is the one you’ve sworn a blood oath under the light of the full moon that you WILL WEAR AGAIN.


8-  Your Current Wardrobe.  Sadly, this segment of your clothing arsenal has no space within your closet, but hangs haphazardly on the treadmill in the corner of your bedroom.  It is comprised of (5) wrinkle-resistant cotton blouses in acceptable business-muted colors, (3) pair black, business-acceptable dress pants, (2) business-acceptable-length skirts, (2) power-bras, assorted control-top stockings and panties, and (3) pair business-casual loafers.  You may substitute heels for loafers, but I tend to choose comfort over style.


red-renaissance-corset-costume-renaissance-pirate-fancy-dress-86524609-  The Party on Wayne, Party on Garth-ments.  These are clothes you wore once, as the occasion of the moment demanded the purchase of a new outfit, and haven’t seen the light of day since.  These outfits are far too strange for work, far too good for slumming at the corner bar, and some are just too bizarre to wear in public.  Clothing in this section includes the outrageous (two full Klingon costumes & one wizard’s robe), leather (biker vest, ass-less chaps, bikini top & cat-o-nine tails), the bridesmaid dress in silver satin & purple taffeta your friend forced you to wear and still owes you a lifeblood favor over, and the corset you picked up the last time you and your girlfriends got trashed at the Renne Faire.  Not included in this sub-section are funeral garments, as they are business-appropriate (in more ways than one).


So I have reason to celebrate!  A few pair of pants from Uncomfortable Denial of Truth have happily been reclassified to Current Wardrobe.  My current favorite pair of jeans will be moving to Comfy Couture, and I’m ready to transfer 2 of my work pants to the Closet of Shame.


There may have been a moment of almost-asphyxiation involving an over-enthusiastic tightening of corset strings, but no pics were shot, so it didn’t happen…



An Ode to a Sweet Friend



I’m back on the “My ass is mASSive” roll.

I haven’t experienced this level of tuckus-disgustous since my wardrobe malfunction at the Great America theme park. Batman, the Ride will never be the same…

That’s a story for another day, however…


I mentioned that the kids, the SQO & I found a new apartment in the very-early spring.  An apartment that has some perks, some downfalls, and a lot more room.

It also has stairs.  Lots of stairs.

Our apartment is comprised of the 2nd & 3rd floors of an old downtown building.  You know, one where there’s a commercial space (or 2 or 3 or 6) on the first floor, and living quarters (or 2 or 3 or 6) above?  My apartment has the character, high ceilings, wood floors, and funny angles that come with a structure which has rolled its odometer into triple digits.  The only thing that would make it quirkier is if the apartment were lofted.  Personally, I love the new digs…I’ve a southern exposure, HUGE windows, and enough foot traffic to make it a perfect people-watching perch.


Enter:  The Stairs…

They aggravate my knees.  Because the ceilings are high, the stairs are long and steep.  I’ve got one flight of stairs to get from the street to the apartment, and a second set of risers to traverse to reach the bathroom.  The bedrooms are also upstairs, so getting up in the middle of the night to pee is convenient – but the rest of the day?  Stairs.  Stairs.  Stairs.  Stairs.

We also have no parking attached to the property.  Granted, there’s a public parking lot a block & a half away, so it’s not a LONG walk.  But to my sedentary ‘subwoofer,’ it feels like a country mile.

I’m feeling each and every one of the +++’s attached to that 29 year old mythology I keep running regarding my age.

So, it’s once again time to take a long, hard look at the portion of my anatomy that fills out the backside of my pants.

What was that saying…10 pounds of s**t in a 5 pound bag?

Yup.  There it is.  It’s large, and it USED to be in charge.  I’ve enough junk in the trunk for a dozen yard sales – but no longer have a yard…and (I feel like I’m bragging, here) I put the B.A. in Ba-donk-a-donk.

Super-sized me?

My new living quarters have the patootie quite upset…and it has complicated things by bringing the knees and feet over to its side in sympathy.



These protesting body parts have no real idea of what a lease is, and how difficult it would be to break said lease in favor of a first-floor unit with associated parking within the city limits, or one of those ‘trendy’ luxury units in the downtown area which have an elevator to traverse floors, and assigned parking.






Additionally, they have nary a concern for the amount of energy and/or sweat which would be expended in packing up and moving all our things AGAIN to this rose-colored-glass mythological beast of a new, bright & shiny apartment with amenities designed to keep the ‘horn section’ at its current volume.



Lastly, they have no clue on the financial logistics of such a move.  I’ve tried to explain to all my protesting  parts that if they want the ideal, they’re gonna have to go without food…but my body’s never been real good with figures…

As it’s the keister that started all this nonsense, I feel the need to deflate the booty-ego…for its own good, of course…

So – first and foremost on my list of caboose-busting changes?

Coke copy

Coke, to me, is as difficult an addiction to break as, say, cigarettes.  I LOVE regular Coke.  There’s a tingly feeling as it floods the mouth with carbonated sugar and spices.  There’s a slight burn as it slides down the esophagus, and a rush of fullness as it hits the stomach.

This would be the ‘ode’ part, for those of you still reading…

Coke brings belching ease.  Without my fizzy little friend, I find it difficult to expel the gasses produced from breaking down foodstuffs in my stomach. I guess my body prefers to hold on – giving me heartburn and gas pressure, instead… so Coke is, to me, a pressure-release valve…until I drink too much.  Then it becomes an addition to the pressure-cooker I call my stomach.

I’m sure there’s a ‘safe level’ of Coke, but I’ll be damned if I can find (and stick to) that safe level.

I’ve quit the sweet stuff before, for years at a time.  But then I’ll buy a bottle of Coke from the work vending machine.  Make it last a few days.  Then another, certain -this time- that I can limit myself to ‘just a little bit’ of sweetness.

Next thing you know, I’m back up to buying (3) 2 liter bottles at the grocery store each week and supplementing that stock with visits to that before-mentioned vending machine, or others like it around the city.

It.  Has.  To.  Go.

Farewell, my fizzy friend.  I’ll miss you every time I drink a glass of water with a shot of lemon juice.  I’ll remember you fondly when I reach for a Tums.  I’ll have dreams about your cold, caramel-y colored spiciness in the dead of night.


I just have to remember:  if you lie on your back, and cry in your pillow…tears get in your ears.