She looka likea man

The other day I was standing with two friends at work when another coworker was trying to enter the building with someone else. I asked my two friends, "Who is that man with Cheryl?" They replied in disbelief, "That's Betty!"

Not a man. Betty.

I'm sorry but Betty looked like a man. She is tall and was standing behind the door frame where I couldn't see her face. I was alarmed to see Cheryl bringing a man to work, so I wanted to know who it was.

I felt terrible. Luckily only my close friends heard me but I still felt bad. Then I thought,
"Had I been walking in with Cheryl, would people mistake me for a man?"

The answer is no. Never.

I must encourage you to ask the same question of yourself, "Could I be mistaken for a man/woman?" If the answer is yes, do something.

Sooo Sorrrry!!!

Turns out, I'm sorry. Sorry for everything.

A woman plows through a doorway, nearly knocking me over and I say, "I'm sorry"

A man in the grocery line cuts in front of me but looks at me like I'm at fault and so I say, "I'm sorry"

A woman at Anthropologie is hogging an entire aisle in the sale section and as I say "Excuse me" for the second time she finally moves but as I pass I whisper, "I'm sorry"

It's not my fault. None of it is. It's all their fault.

A couple weeks ago, Hoband and I had just arrived in Carmel, CA for a vacation. We were sitting on the beach, watching the sun go down as anticipation for the beginning of our trip grew. 

If you've never been to Carmel Beach at sunset, imagine this:

You're walking down a steep street, flanked by houses that even the richest hobbits would covet. The sloping sidewalk is made of mismatched bricks that go with the flow of swelling tree trucks and persistent moss. All the way down the street, trees act like umbrellas, keeping cool air over your head just so the sun's rays feel that much warmer when they beam on your cheeks. 

Soon, the moss turns to sand and the trees separate. The ground flattens to a brief plateau insisting that there is more ahead if you just walk a little further.
So you do. And there is.
Plunging below your feet in a large but sheltered beach, frosted with rhythmic waves and dogs is a crescent shaped beach.
There are dogs everywhere. Big dogs, fancy dogs, scruffy dogs and tiny dogs. 

The first time we stopped on that plateau we thought, "Is this dog heaven?" but it wasn't, it's just like that there all the time. Beautiful.

So we sat there, on the cool sand, watching the dogs, the people, the children and the waves go about their glorious business like it was just another day of the week. 

Whenever you're there, you want a dog. They're so friendly and happy, so when this scruffy German Shepard mix came up next to me, I was thrilled. You see, my cat hates my guts but loves Hoband and this dog chose me. I pet her on the head and instantly, my voice succombed to a higher register normally reserved for babies or castration. And as quickly as I started oogling, Hoband pushed me, yelling. "Get up! Get up!"

"What a jerk, he doesn't want anyone to love me, not even a stranger's dog," I thought to myself as I glared at him.

"She's peeing!" 

"What?"

"She peed on you!" he clarified.

Quickly a woman ran up to us and asked, "Oh my God, did she just barf on you?"

"No, barf on me? No," I laughed nervously.

"Are you sure it's not on you? I can't believe she did that."

"I'm sure."

"No, she peed all over you coat. Turn around," Hoband said.

I thought to myself, "Stop it. I don't want any trouble. I mean, how inconvenient for this woman that her dog obviously barfs everywhere. Just everyone go away, I'm okay...Oh shit. There's dog piss all over my coat."

The woman said, "Oh my gosh, there is."

I said, "I'm sorry".

And then the woman, with one of those logical minds looked at me and asked, "Why are you sorry?"

Yes. Why the hell was I sorry? Her dog pissed on my favorite coat, whose button I had just repaired the night before. But I hate being a bother, it makes me feel fat and needy so I'd rather just act cool and natural, like I get peed on all the time.

So when the woman offered money to pay for dry cleaning I resisted just enough to be polite and then told her where we were staying. She dropped off 20 bucks and a sweet note about the pee-scapade.

Maybe with time I'll get my "sorrys" in order but until then I'm going to change my automatic response to "You're sorry" because most of the time, someone else should be saying it so I'll do it for them.

-----

This just happened as I wrote this. Hoband was getting his cereal out of the cabinet when I heard a soft crash. Crispix went everywhere. (Crispix boxes are so big the have to be stored horizontally) I said, "What happened?" He said, "I took the box out and when I turned it around, the bag was open and they all spilled." I said, "Oh." He said, "You never close the bag!" (I don't eat the Crispix. I eat Kashi :)) So in the spirit of this blog I said, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I spilled the Crispix."

He's still sweeping. 

Short Pants

The weather is turning. Birds have returned to our mornings, singing us awake to the bright sunshine that has been held captive for the last 5 months. And with this new season, no matter how beautiful, comes something so ugly, so foul and so prevalent that it cannot be escaped; Capri Pants.

Soon, these too short pants will be unfolded from boxes labeled "Summer Clothes :)" and women all over will put them on their legs, claiming, "They're so cute!" and "They cover me up but keep me cool!"

I've never been skinny. I've always looked...fed and there was a time when I, too, believed Short Pants were the answer to shorts. I can't wear shorts. My thighs touch at the top. I've bought shorts 2 sizes too big just to create the illusion that I was small but even that didn't stop the rubbing. Walking down the street on a warm summer's day, I would transform into a a boy caught in a girl's outfit, constantly readjusting my crotch by pulling the inseam down and forming a barrier between my thighs.
I looked ridiculous; like someone hiding a ball of mozzarella in their underwear that needed to be pulled every 30 seconds to be kept viable.

So I bought baby powder. Spread along my inner thighs, this miracle powder could keep my skin stick free. I bought a big bottle for home and travel sizes for my purses and before long, I realized I was frequenting the ladies room just to reapply. The worst was the by the end of the day, I had caked on chunks of a sweat and baby powder dough stuck to my skin.

I swore never to wear shorts again. Then came Peddle Pushers and later on, Capri Pants. I thought, "This is my answer!' and "I'm going to look so summery and skinny in these trendy short pants" so I bought one million pairs in one million colors.

The result: I looked fat.
The truth: Most everyone does in those devil pants.

Somewhere in a sweatshop one day, they ran out of fabric. Instead of being beaten to death, these workers just made all the pants shorter, hoping no one would notice.

No one did.

People, summer jean-wearing because they can't wear shorts because their thighs touch people, bought the short pants not realizing that...

1. They end in the middle of your shin, cutting the long line that make you look skinny in pants. 
2. They make you look shorter than you are and stouter than you are. 
3. They are the devil in the clothes community. Not a short or a pant.  They try to walk the line between the two, not declaring their true allegiance. 
4. They invite shoe pairings that would, in normal circumstances, never be considered.
5. They are SHORT PANTS!!!

Please, reconsider your next purchase. Instead, buy a nice long jean or even a pant that hits just at the ankle, paired with a cute wedge or flat, but do not, ever, buy Short Pants again.