I found this shirt on the clearance rack at Neimans. At checkout, I stopped the lady.

“Excuse me,” I said.  “That shirt was 75% off.”

“That IS the marked down price,” she says. I pause for a moment.

“What is it, Versace?” I say this in jest, as a euphemism for very expensive.

“No, it’s not.” She says this with a straight face. I sense distain. As if she took personal offense to this reference.

“It’s Brunello Cucinelli. It’s even more expensive.”

That means nothing to me. It reminded me of that band Milli Vanilli in the 90’s who lip-synced all the words and it was a big scandal.  Or that brand Z Cavaricci, which claimed  to be fancy but everyone knew you could buy the jeans at Costco, stacked up in lumpy piles.

“How can it be more expensive than Versace?” I asked.

“It’s a very exclusive,” she says.

“You mean expensive,” I corrected.

She looks me over. “That’s a great price. It was originally $1,300.”

“For a shirt?” I said. “For the love.”

Perhaps she thought I fell off the fashion turnip truck. Which, okay. Good point. I suppose it’s partly true. I am digging around the clearance rack and I’ve never heard of this fine man Brunello. I grew up in a small town in Texas where we wore flannel shirts and boots.

“Well truthfully I’m a little pissed off,” I tell her. “Because it fits so well. And I want to buy it.”

She nods like she knows.  Like it’s a universal truth that I touched this shirt and it went on my body, and is now a part of me, and I must have it. Even if 75% off the already discounted price is $130 with tax.

It is the one connection we have, this saleslady and me, eye to eye, the shirt between us. She is holding it up with a judgmental question mark in her eyes. It’s a stalemate of whether I’ll buy it. Here it is, what are you gonna do?

The fact is, good design pulls one in and ends up holding its own weight in an argument.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

She nodded in approval, like I had chosen the correct door, allowed this Bruno man to dress me, like a good student taking a teacher’s instruction.

Now if I can only refrain from spilling BBQ sauce or mustard on it. That will be the real fashion miracle.

Laundry is important.  You can’t just keep going to Target and buying new socks. When your children are pulling wrinkled things from the floor to wear to school with chocolate stains, you know it’s time to act.  Something must be done.  Identification of the problem is the first step.

Step One:

Identify you have a problem.  You’re a little slow.  We went over this.

Step Two:

Take an entire day and dedicate it to doing laundry.  Begin in the morning, after coffee and after you check all the social media feeds and after you talk to your mother and after you go down an Instagram rabbit hole looking at old houses for sale in Vermont.  But those large porches and maple trees!  Focus.  Gather up all the laundry and put them in piles according to color.

Girl, you got this.  You’re a laundry wizard! 

Step Three:

Throw in an armload full of dark things in the machine, washing them in cool water so the colors don’t bleed. Feel good about your domestic skills.  Reply to texts with “sorry can’t talk doing laundry” so this information will be readily available that You Are a Person Who Takes Care of Things.

Step Four:

The dryer’s done, and it’s time to switch the wash. That was a quick 36 minutes.  You just started watching television and BAM, buzzer.  Throw the clothing into the dryer with an anti-static sheet. This time, load the washer with whites, using hot water, and use a stain stick on stubborn stains.  You’re a veritable Martha Stewart. Look at you with that bleach pen.  You almost have an urge to bake something or sweep! Let the urge pass.  This is laundry day.

Step Five:

The dryer’s done and it’s time to switch the wash again.  That can’t be right because it seemed like you just turned it on.  Plus, you’re right in the middle of an E-online viewing marathon of some singer you’ve never heard of and her husband who decided they needed to own some goats in Beverly Hills. Isn’t that against several city ordinances?  Her hair looks damaged by all the bleach.  Do they make money on this television show?  The clothes are probably not fully dry (damn jeans) so turn on the dryer for another 40 minutes.

Celebrities are just like us!  They apparently need to read this helpful guide!

Step Six:

The clothes are really dry now.  You need to remove them and switch the wash. But all of a sudden you remember you have to go to the grocery store.  Just dump the clothes from the dryer directly on the floor below the dryer and you will absolutely 100% fold them when you get back.  Switch the contents of the washer to the dryer, start a new load of wash, this time just whatever colors are left and just use warm water and it’ll probably be fine.  You can’t dedicate an entire day to laundry because you have other things to do. Honestly.

Step Seven:

You get back from what turned out to be multiple errands. You now own a new pair of cute suede boots on sale at Nordstrom. You turn on the dryer to “make sure the clothes are dry.”  You really should consider purchasing a new dryer since it apparently doesn’t work that well.

Step Eight:

Take this new load of clean and dry clothes from the dryer, dump them on the floor atop of the others, and switch the wash into the dryer.  You are absolutely going to take care of this very soon so you don’t have clean and dry clothes getting wrinkled in a pile in the laundry room.  Remember to clean out the lint filter. You’re really getting good at this.

Step Nine:

This last load is dry, but there’s no need in really emptying it right now since the dryer is a perfectly acceptable place for them to remain for the time being while you read a book about winter.  This is your new hobby, apparently. Reading.  You might have ADD.  Apparently focusing on one task is difficult for you.

Step Ten:

Shut the door to the laundry room so you don’t have to see all the clean clothes on the floor.  When the kids say “mom, I’m out of underwear” just direct them to the clean pile of clothing in front of the dryer.  Ask them to take their own laundry to their rooms, which of course they won’t do.  All week people will be pulling things from this pile. But no one will complain and they will simply do this because they are all too lazy to fold, carry clothing to rooms, or do it themselves.

Step Eleven:

Secretly call a service who can do laundry.  Stop reading so many damn books, get a new job that pays well so you can afford hiring this out, and put bags of laundry on front porch to be picked up.  When it comes back all folded just set the folded laundry on your children’s bed with a note that says “Hey kids! I did your laundry!” followed by a bunch of little hearts.  Don’t let them know you outsourced this.  Tell them you’re working on a “new you.” While you’re at it, buy some cupcakes and set those in the kitchen on a plate like you made them. Everyone will be impressed.  You’re a Woman Who Does Laundry and Bakes.

Congratulations. Welcome to the real world. You’ve made it!  (Also, Target has a sale going on socks.  That may need to check that out).

Image credit:

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Sometimes it feels like there’s a peach pit in my stomach.  It rolls around and grinds whatever is in its path.  I can’t get comfortable.  I draw in deep breaths like somehow that will dissolve this stone.  I imagine drinking a chalky milk medicine my mother gave me as a child that coats and protects me from this feeling of anxiousness.  There is no such medicine, of course. I take walks and lean my head back against my neck to feel the sun.  Sometimes I get on the treadmill and just run and run and run.

I used to drink more, but it aggravated the symptoms and turned my state of being unsettled into rage.  So now I set the wine back in the refrigerator and write long letters to the people I’ve imagined in my mind who have wronged me.  There have been plenty.  People and situations that I’d rather not have to deal with.  And temporarily, typing out searing remarks to the person you’ve labeled as your attacker makes you feel justified in your anxiety.  Because you are a victim and have had so much shit pile up upon you.  No wonder why there is a rock swimming in your stomach.  How can anyone endure what you have had to endure?

The problem with being a victim is that you’re on the bottom of the pile, the harmed one, the person in an inferior position.  And after you write out your list of wrongs, you realize that being the One Who Is Attacked is no fun at all.  Your sense of injustice is enraged. You are suddenly beholden to the reality that you’re not the victor. Which is even more depressing.

So you delete the file.  Yes, you tell the patronizing computer.  I do mean to delete this without saving.  I do want to rip up this letter. I do want to eat those words that do not heal me but harm me.  Heaping blame upon someone else for your own misery is like stabbing yourself with sharpened pencils.  The lead often leaves a mark, which is strange but true.

Today the pit was there, the heavy unsettled feeling of being caught, trapped, in a dead end.  The fact that I’m not actually in that place except for in my mind does not escape me.  The fact that I have a husband who loves me, children who are healthy, a beautiful home, stares at me in the face. “How dare you be so ungrateful,” the voice whispers in my ear.

I went for a long walk with the dog, watching him sniff the ground and perk up his ears and take poops along the road.  He loves walks like I love chocolate ice cream, and every day he is overwhelmingly excited when he knows it is imminent.  I am in awe of his sense of being present, of his sheer contentment to sit by my desk as I work and follow me to the kitchen and the delight of being handed a treat to chew.  He takes the world around him as a gift.

On the way back home, I passed a dead end sign and muttered to myself, shook my fist at a truck that drove too fast, and felt like an old woman.  We live on this dead end, and this is how I feel.  Like there is no hope for my hurting heart, that there is no pathway toward peace in my present conflict, and I keep taking deep breaths willing this stone to pass.

It did not pass.

I got home, put away the dog collar, took in a long breath of air.  I checked the mail and got a glass of water and drank it slow.

I know that I am not a victim, because I have a track record of being strong. I know people may have done things regarding me or those around me that I do not like, but I get to control my reaction to those things.  I know I don’t have an actual stomach ache; it’s just my anxiety talking.

I also know that I am without peace that comes from submission while I am in this place, muttering and shaking my fist and feeling the rock in my stomach.  Submission to my present circumstances.  Submission to things I cannot control.  Submission to God himself.  And I know, as I have known for years, that life is not a linear path but moves in color and bursts and feelings and seasons.

Hope does exist, not by launching attacks at my attackers, but in time and with rest.  With prayer and deep soothing breaths.  And texting my girlfriends dry, angry, sarcastic funny things.  It helps for a moment.

These moments matter.  Moments where you see the dog in all his present love of life, moments where you lie next to the person who loves you most, where they touch you and make you feel valued.  The moments where your son makes you a card or your daughter lets you hold her.  These moments are important, and I cherish them.  Before long, you realize the rock fades to the size of a pea. And then you don’t feel it at all.  You walk past the sign, the one that says dead end, to the place where you live in all the messy and wonderful moments.

This is freedom.

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photo credit

This is a problem.  Amy, pull yourself together. 

APG (After-Party Guilt): A common, non-life threatening condition frequently diagnosed in women, aged 35-50 (women over fifty just don’t give a rat’s ass). Signs and symptoms that lead up to this diagnosis include talking too much with girlfriends about your cat, referring to your ex-spouse as “that cheating bastard,” and telling random strangers about your itch that “won’t respond to any prescription creams.”  It usually involves copious amounts of wine drinking, which can be a trigger. The next morning, symptoms surface of guilt, shame, regret, and embarrassment.  The only known cure is to move to another city and never speak to those people again.  Sure, you left your cashmere sweater at the party and you really liked that Michelle girl, but such is life.

RJMS (Reading Junk Mail Syndrome).  This is a rare condition that can sometimes surface in suburban areas in mothers of young children.  Usually boredom driven, this condition manifests itself in people reading the actual junk mail that arrives in their mailboxes and believing the words in the pre-printed letters are honest emotional sentiments.  Feelings of euphoria are experienced due to words such as “it is my great pleasure to send you this free coupon” or “here at Jiffy Lube we miss your company.”  This condition can cause hallucinations that there are actual people writing these letters who care about your wellbeing.  The cure is to burn the letters before you open them and make some friends (Maybe that Michelle girl?).

OSC (Obsessive Sweeping Condition). This condition is very common and occurs in both men and women.  Usually after a marital disagreement, the affected person obsessively sweeps the kitchen floor as if they are actually trying to clean but in reality are just super angry and trying to keep their hands busy so they thrust the broom around as if to say “at least I do things around here.”  Sometimes this useless sweeping is accompanied with small muttered phrases like “what the living hell” and “they are not the boss of me.”  There is no cure, but the episode passes soon and the person will throw the broom in the corner, usually with a “why do I try this hard/no one appreciates the things I do.”  The granola bar wrapper is still on the floor, because it’s not about actual cleaning.  Hence the difficulty with this condition.

Nametagitis.  This condition used to be more widespread in urban areas and large cities, but is now spreading to small towns, church suppers, and PTA meetings.  It’s very close to being categorized by the U.S. Health Agencies as an epidemic.  This disease manifests in many forms, all surrounding the use of a name tag.  Not everyone has a nice simple name like “Michelle.” Some people think they’re funny by putting “Big Mama” on the name tag, while others can’t write their name in a legible form that others can actually read so it looks like their name is “Broolcn.”  Other people put the name tag underneath their blazer so it’s not even visible, sew their name tag in advance, and the last group of people with this condition usually just say “I don’t need a damn name tag” when they do, indeed, need a name tag.  No one knows you’re Robert from Accounting. The cure for this to have someone else write all the name tags and not give any people this responsibility. Also don’t let them choose the sandwiches in box lunches or where to sit.  Treat people like robots and this condition fades nationwide.

OED (Over-enthusiastic E-mail Disorder).  This is not life-threatening, but symptoms can persist for long periods if not treated.  This disorder involves peppy responses to routine emails containing one or more superfluous exclamation marks (“Boy howdy this one’s a doosy! Can’t wait to see you all at the February birthday gathering in the break room!!”).  There is no need for such an excited response to a work gathering involving cake from Costco.  And yet the response is exuberant and excitable, usually sent before colleagues have consumed enough caffeine to handle it. If you are suffering from this condition, please watch Marley and Me to tone down the happy before coming to work and chill the hell out.  Maybe just respond with “sounds good, thanks.”  However, it’s likely by now everyone at work is blocking your emails. We all can’t be Michelle.

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I was driving home from taking my kids to school, the one day I actually wore jeans and boots instead of an oversized sweatshirt and pajama bottoms.  The car simply stopped accelerating, like I do on occasion Friday afternoons.  I’m done.  I can’t do any more.  Time for pizza. Except I was driving, which made things a tad awkward.

I pulled my SUV over to the shoulder, which is a tiny strip on the side of the road that’s more of a pinky finger, since it’s not broad and carries nothing off the end of it.  It simply drops off into a mesquite-tree abyss.  Here I am precariously sitting on this pinky finger of the road wondering why my vehicle suddenly needed a holiday.

But no worries, because I have AAA, the Stalwart Savior of Emergencies, whose card sits proudly in my wallet for times exactly such as these.

I called AAA, told them I needed a tow truck, and explained where I was on the highway with specificity and that “of course I’ll be right here” when hearing a tow truck was on the way.  Where else would I go?  A man doesn’t leave his soldier behind.  In my case, a woman with no make-up and a messy bun doesn’t leave her Lexus SUV.

An hour goes by.  My husband has a work call and is stuck in traffic. I’m not sure what’s taking so long with the tow truck.  I have no book to read, which is how I occupy dead periods of time, which makes me nervous.  I begin a tirade of social media posts.  I call my mother.  My foot begins tapping against the floorboard of the car. At least I’m wearing my nice boots.

But then the real panic sets in.  I suddenly felt my throat closing up.  I am parched.  I have no water.  How can I survive?  What if I’m here for days? I look down and see my YETI with coffee made fresh this morning and a half-open can of sparkling water shoved in the door of my car.  But no one likes to drink flat sparkling water, which is not in fact “just regular water.”  I frantically look around my car for a granola bar my children didn’t eat.  Ah, the days when food was plentiful.  When you could just say “I’m not in the mood” when your mother hands you an all-natural whole-grain bar made with almonds.

I call AAA to see what’s taking so long.  The operator on the phone tells me their computer is down, and that maybe a tow truck isn’t coming after all.  “You should call someone,” she says.  Really?  Isn’t that your one and only job?  If your computer is down, shouldn’t you, a RESCUE-BASED ORGANIZATION, be the one company that actually has a generator, or an IT guy eating a sandwich in the back room, or an iPad? For heavens sakes.  I wanted to slam down the receiver but of course this satisfaction died in the 80’s and we are left with furiously pushing the red button which is not at all satisfying.

This is an EPIC FAIL.  I am on the side of the road in peril with nothing but old used granola bars and flat sparkling water.  Here, I shall surely die.  I consider ripping open a Christmas package that’s been sitting in my car to mail for two weeks and eat all the candy out of it to stay alive in the winter cold.  It’s 46 degrees, which to a southerner like myself is akin to record low, blizzard-like conditions.  I grab a swim towel from the back seat my son left after a swimming lesson and wrap it around me for warmth.  I take a slug of flat sparkling water, because desperate times call for desperate measures.

My husband arrives to sit with me, although there’s nothing he can do except listen to me bitch about AAA. I call another tow truck, who tells me he’ll “be there in ten” although I know that’s a lie.  He’s on a congested interstate and it will be another hour.  My husband says he has to get to a meeting, which I’m not fine with because if I have to sit here until I face an inevitable hypothermic death I’d like to not die alone, but he leaves anyway.  Life is a series of disappointments.

The tow truck guy shows up, who by now is my one and only friend and is with me there at the bitter end.  I sit inside of his large heated cab while he hoists my vehicle on his truck like he’s throwing a baby on his back.  As I’m sitting there, his cell phone rings. I can see it laying on the bench seat.  It reads “DAD” and I almost pick it up to tell him that this man raised a son of worth – a man of value.  A person who shows up when he’s supposed to.  MY HERO.  But I don’t and let it go to voicemail because that’s weird.  Plus, I didn’t catch the tow truck guy’s actual name. I feel like by now we should know each other’s names.

So when we get to the auto body shop, it’s revealed that I’m simply out of gas.  To be fair, my gas gauge was broken so how would I know?  But it’s embarrassing to hear “your car stopped working because as it turns out, it can’t run on air. And your gauge is fried.”

Yeah?  Well I can’t run on air either but I managed to sit there for three hours with nothing but a swim towel, fueling warmth solely by internalized anger toward AAA, with half of a granola bar.

But it turns out I didn’t die there on the pinky finger of the highway of dehydration.  That would have been embarrassing.  Except that I was wearing my nice boots, so if they hauled me off on a stretcher someone would think “Damn, she has great taste in footwear.”  And you know what?  That’s something.

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