|Small things that have made me inordinately happy lately
||[Jan. 9th, 2008|10:00 am]
There are two pairs of elevators that face each other across a central hallway both on the ground floor and my floor at work. I have finally found a pattern on each level that helps me get out of the elevator and head in the right direction without looking around like a rube. There's an extra black stripe on the floor upstairs and it's on the same side of the hall as the receptionist's desk. And going downstairs, one of the elevator pairs has a rear door. If there's an "R" on the button, then I go right to get to the parking lot. If not, I go, left...|
Oh, go ahead, laugh...but I hate looking stupid and I'm stupid about figuring stuff like this out. So, it's a small, but important victory for me.
When I leave work, the crows are in the middle of their flight back to their rookery. So the sky is filled with a stream of hundreds of crows flapping, mostly silently, back to their night roosts. I feel fortunate that I live near some of the largest rookeries in the area. And fortunate that, amidst all of the development, many, although not all, of the rookeries have been preserved -- and when not, the crows have been adaptable enough to relocate. I love crows. And the absence of them since West Nile hit the area has been so sad. But the rookeries are rebounding and the sight of all of those glossy black wings flapping overhead each evening fills me with joy.
Lest you think I've gone all soft and maudlin...
Finally, near age 45, I have begun to hang up my clothes. No, really, this is a big deal. Sadly I just can't seem to get the hang of regular maintenance neatness. After decades of struggling with my habit of strewing clothes about the room like some spastic flower girl, I have finally arrived at a solution. The only way I can manage it is to get undressed in the closet itself. Then, it is technically easier to put the damn things back on the hanger than it is to throw them on top of something. Because there's nothing to throw them on top of, and even if I tried...I bang the crap out of my elbow. I know this because, one day Lazy took the reins and tried anyway.
I've also come to terms with: I just look better in a skirt. I have to thank Fetch for being my role model here. No one makes pants that do anything but make me shorter and dumpier looking than I look in a skirt and I'm going to stop looking.
I will still wear pants, but give up on the Holy Grail of a pair of pants designed to flatter a middle aged woman with dachshund-short legs, meaty horse-gripping calves, big ol' deleted-for-your-protection-gripping thighs, generous hips and an actual waist, but one that sits low. Pants that fit my waist tend to fit my leg like sausage casings -- and what feels more attractive than standing up and having to wrench your pants legs back down over your calf? If they fit my legs and butt...there's room enough for a toddler in the waistband with me. (I used to say third-grader, until I realized that these were low-rider pants and if I pulled them back down where they belonged, they fit a lot better. And didn't pinch my girlies so much.)
Even when they fit....meh. I'm so much happier in a skirt. And thanks to tights, which are like pantyhose that someone designed for comfort and ruggedness, I feel better about the way I look.
Finally, I give you: mushrooms sauteed in butter. Just plain ol' button mushrooms, sauteed golden brown in olive oil and butter with salt and pepper. Damn good. Especially when sitting on a fine rib-eye. But that was just ICING.
(What? What about the Captain, you ask? I did say small, did I not?)