The Housecoat through the Ages

The other day it was a beautiful spring day, a bit on the warm side but gorgeous none the less...as I started to dress to head out to mulch the garden...I realized I hadn't done the switch of the cold weather to warm weather clothes in the closet yet.

Egad, a fashion "don't" on the horizon.

But there, on the chair, was the all purpose any season outfit of the modern woman...yoga pants and a t-shirt...doesn't matter if you even do yoga, you got the pants for it girl.

It's an acceptable casual assemble, any-wear outfit...the coffee shop, the supermarket, the soccer game...it's says, "I just came from yoga class, smell my organic affluence".

The bottom line is, it's nothing but this generation's version of the housecoat.

You do remember the housecoat don't you...you must have had a neighbor, or grandma who walked around in one, bare legged, shaggy slippers, smoking a cigarette, cat's eye glasses.

They had snaps for a quick throw in the wash after cleaning the house.

You threw it on over PJ's to answer the door for the meter reader, the mail man, or to let the dog run.

Somewhere in the late 70's, the house coat phased out of our lives and velour robes with big stripes, and a zipper down the middle snuck in there..

Then the advent of denim as fashion burst on the scene and jeans became the uniform of the stay at home mom, straight into the late 80's and 90's

...remember Hope Steadman on Thirty Something? Jeans, t-shirt, flannel shirt, holding the baby in the unfinished kitchen

..and lurking behind all that, in the fashion shadows, was the dreaded sweat pant.

Ugh, I don't care if you had the body of an Olympic athlete, NOBODY looked good in sweat pants...especially the ones with elastic ankles, they made your legs look like hot dog balloons...that's why I always tried to steal scrubs from my friends connected with the hospital...plus it made me look like a med student...smell my potential affluence.

Then the wonderful millennium rolled in, and sweats became the costume of aging mall walkers (especially the matching sets) and yoga popped it's new age head up and became the new fashion clearing house of ladies who lunch (vegan only puh-leese) and Meg Ryan.

Now it has all reached critical mass, and been dumbed down and has become ...the new housecoat.

Which is fine by me, whether I'm actually doing yoga or just bending over in the garden or meeting the Fed Ex person at the door... I need an easy uniform that's washable and

now available at TJ Maxx at great prices.

I'm just wondering what is the next future housecoat, will it come full circle to the original cotton or polyester dress?

By then, I hope I'm old with pale stick legs and wild gray hair smoking an electronic cigarette and wearing cat's eye sunglasses, sitting on the porch with my iPad, yelling at the kids crossing through my yard,

...then it will feel complete.

....

What Budget?

Well, yes, my husband and I have failed to come up with a workable budget.

Contrary to the scare tactics perpetrated by the the non cooking half of this partnership...The Invisi-Gal household will NOT come to a screeching halt...the mortgage will be paid, insurance will be paid, tuition will be paid.

However, Starbucks , The Apple Store and Overstock.com will suffer for at least 3 days until we can come to an agreement.

I will argue that coffee is a necessary tonic for the household to run smoothly and my husband will argue something about hard drives as I put my fingers into my ears and say "Lalalalala".

Manicures and brand new golf balls may become a thing of the past....instead, investment in a locking gas cap will be imminent.

We will remind ourselves, that as children of the 70's, we know a thing or two about Recessions and gas lines and cashing in the loose change from the couch cushions....and that the only ones who really dressed like it was the 70's were confined to members of the The Brady Bunch.

We will long for the entrepreneurial spirit ushered in with the collection of bottles for the two cent deposit and the Archie comic book it bought for only 25 of those cents.

But nothing will stop, life will just meander until it finds the path of least resistance to the end of each day....

...at which time we will watch programs like "Extreme Couponing" with a religious fervor once reserved for "Selling New York".

Once the budget has passed, my husband will declare victory while I motion silently behind him with a big nicely manicured "V", and sip my Starbucks, slowly.

....

So, you think you can dance?

Yes, I said yes to a Dancing with the Celebrities of (insert your town here)... I guess I was a target, because I never back down from a challenge, unless it includes something with extreme heights and sharp pointy thingies.

I watched Dancing with The Stars, I was a supreme couch critic and arm chair analyzer of Kate Gosselin's Bride of Frankenstein arms and David Hasselhoff's -am -I still-sexy-desperation....no problem, I'm am so much better than those posers...hah!

Can you dance? Sure ( I think) although, truth be told I was a teenager in the 70's and no one touched each other when they danced , let alone LOOKED at each other...yeah I can dance, like a white girl to a back beat.

Ballroom dancing? What's so hard about that...ballrooms are big, I'll have plenty of room. Eat my fairy dust, wimps.

I would like to say right now, that I completely relied on the notion that I can find the beat in a song and also carry the DNA of Mamie, my grandmother, who danced with Ray Bolger (the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz) and was a flapper and tap dancer extraordinaire...perhaps the best way to meet a challenge is to have such blind ignorance that you can't fear a failure you don't know…are you followin' me here camera guy?

I was partnered with a pro competitor/ winner /real deal dancer and instructor...thank you baby Jesus...he had impeccable manners and I don't think I ever heard him swear...even when I stepped on his feet, clocked him in the eye with my elbow and put immeasurable stress on his groin during lifts.

He sized me up, quietly calculating how much leverage he would need for this little piggy on a lift, tried not to laugh at my "Amish gone Wild "dance shoes" and immediately dumbed down whatever grand dance routine he had planned for the event...and took my hand and walked with me across the floor and asked me if I could do a cartwheel..."Sure, I used to be a cheerleader, haven't done one in years, but I'm game..." what did I get myself into?

We rehearsed once or twice in December and then the holidays hit, and as always, when exposed to sweet family and snot nosed petri dish children, I got sick...the virus from hell... out of commission for 10 days…the event is March 12^th, are we in the deep doo yet?

Once I could breathe without choking, I headed back to the studio...Bill, my instructor, was waiting with dance shoes for me, here's what you need, suede soles, closed toe and t-straps, because we are dancing the waltz...the waltz?...I wanted to cha cha, or samba and shake my hair around and look younger than my 54 years...the waltz?

Controlled, fluid, poetic...the waltz...words that would never describe me. W.T.H?

The waltz is a swan gliding on the pond...I am a terrier bouncing up and down on the couch tearing your underwear to shreds.

Which brings me back to Bill...he is the Dance Whisperer ... he makes you dance as you walk in the door, wears you down, puts you in a calm submissive state, then he trains you...just like a terrier...gives you chocolate after a good session. He is the Cesar Milan of the ballroom.

He is the leader, you follow...once again, he is the leader, you follow, alpha girl...what is happening to me, I am starting to like this follow business...what is happening? Do I have to relinquish my Xena Warrior Princess status card?

I am now plunging head first into the world of ballroom dance, I am scouring the videos on You Tube, learning words like developpe and promenade.

I am looking at ballgowns, which are Southern Beauty pageant gowns on steroids...and they are studded with rhinestones, dangling with beads, layered with tulle and mesh, lined with body suits (private parts contained) cupped to stand up "the girls" and tighter than sausage casing.

Oh and did I mention all the TOUCHING that goes on? Let's start with saying, I am not a touchy feely huggy kissy person, not even with my own family...this is my idea of payback for all the hugs I never gave in my life....partner dancing is all touch, connection so you can feel his lead...

When you dance the waltz with your partner, there isn't a place his hands don't go...nether regions, other regions, give me a region....it all gets touched and you have to get over it or go home....

Bill is slowly exposing all this to me as we train, trying to desensitize me, lowering shock values and keeping me focused...I still step on his feet...still.

I am finding my mind is struggling to remember the steps and combinations, they are getting jumbled up with what time is my son's soccer game, did I pack his cleats, did I pay the car insurance, when is the dog's vet appointment, did I get directions to that voice over gig, did I put sour cream on the grocery list for the enchiladas, is my husband's meeting today or tomorrow, one two three, one two three, step step step, spin...sh*t, where am I?

One day, as we are moving along quite well, he suggests that my husband come in and video tape us dancing... sure this would be grand, my husband can see the man responsible for my calm submissive state, and ask him how he does it....and I get to show him how well I can dance.

My husband tapes us, tells me I'm "brave for doing this", and leaves it at that....hmmmm...where's the "you are amazing honey"....I watch the video later, in horror...it’s the training film from hell in a big ass hand basket..I'm not brave, I'm an idiot and most of all a really BAD dancer....I cry, crawl into bed with a bag of carbohydrates in full fetal position and fall asleep with Nancy Grace on in the background...this is the stuff of nightmares.

Overnight, in my dreams, I am flying, spinning, rolling , weightless ... I am reminded of who I am and what I am capable of.

The next day, I walk in to the studio, Bill looks at me and says softly,"did you watch the video?" ... "Yes!," I exhale loudly "...and I had an epiphany.... I looked terrible, I had that deer in the headlights look and I'm so fat and I can't believe you aren't ready to quit this whole thing...BUT... I know what I need to do now... because up to this point I've been acting like a fish out of water, trying to catch up, an outsider...it's time to claim this or at least look like I'm claiming this...I am a dancer, and I'm going to start moving like one and acting like one and DANCING like one!"

Bill tilts his head and says, "Good, finally... let's get to work we only have a few more weeks...oh, and I brought you some herbs from my kitchen garden."

I am now thinking and acting like...a dancer...my posture is up, I find my self standing straighter all the time, I learn to use the floor to slide into moves, and I am not afraid to bend backwards, and I feel fluid, and pretty...as the song says, everything’s beautiful at the ballet.

Now I am bringing Bill chicken soup (made with his herbs) and we are swapping stories about childhood and laughing as we waltz...I can converse with him and dance at the same time, and possibly chew gum... I am a dancing fool savant.

In his wisdom he has selected a song we could rock the waltz to...a bit of r & b ... I Never Loved a Man by Aretha Franklin...we used the version from the movie The Commitments...I saw it one night on TV while I was practicing a spin, it felt like a good sign.

The choreography opened me up to the ability to perform...that I can do, been on stage singing since I was 14...I can work the crowd...now I have to do it without my voice...because, and let’s say this all together "I'm a dancer!".

I can't stop singing the song as we rehearse to it... Bill says I have to , you aren't allowed to sing on stage in a dance competition...Mr.Ballroom, you sure have a lot of rules.

I am now eating protein like it's the new bread...I am spinning every time I pass a mirror, I am exfoliating and using tanning towels on the parts not covered in my gown...which Bill has acquired for me "I take care of my girls.." he said , and he does.

It is periwinkle blue, studded in rhinestones all around the décolletage …with the most twirl-a-matic skirt ever, I feel like Ginger Rogers after downing two caramel macchiatos....twinkle toes and all that glows.

It is March 12th and we are dancing...all the training, all the foot crunches, all the time obsessing over a single step is here...in the lights on the floor with judges, the 65 bobby pins holding my hair in place, my family, God, my dance partner, and the specter of Mamie watching over me...I remind myself how all this is for charity and all these people have arrived here to have fun, dress like princesses and princes and raise money for those who couldn't imagine such a night...I am weightless, on air....

I can't even hear the crowd...I hear the three judges giving their critique and holding up paddles that read 9-10-9 Holy Moley....can't believe it... I look at Bill, he is beaming... another "celebrity" trained and exhibited, good showing, it's like a human Westminster Kennel Club moment, breed that dancer!

My fake tan held up through the sweat and makes my permanent flashed smile look Hollywood white...

I can't stop smiling...

even though my feet are on fire...

I see my husband, his face is telling me he can't believe I am the same bungling woman he videotaped weeks ago in the dance studio...he is amazed...

My son is relieved and not scarred for life...

The 65 bobby pins are shellacked and still in place...

I am thinking about a plate of pasta with sausage and tons of cheese on top...

an unexpected tear rolls down my face,

and now I know why,

I have to say goodbye to the big ballroom

the sparkly gown,

the false eyelashes,

the bling earrings,

but I don't say goodbye to Bill,

we will see each other soon,

I will be back,

I hear a salsa class is starting,

Sign me up,

because...

I

am

a

dancer!

...

Odds n Ends

SO much is going on, Invisi-Gal is spinning like a dervish on crack...here are some odds n' ends to consider...

1) Charlie Sheen is not only NOT sober, he is exhibiting brain damage from drug abuse...of course dear readers, I am NOT a doctor, but I know a when the all the tools in the shed are dull, it's time to close up shop and sell the farm.

2) By his own admission AFL-CIO Union Emperor, Richard Trumka... talks with the White House everyday....he also believes that raising taxes create jobs...oops I just threw up a little on that one...also, while his union has been dying financially , he has raised his own pay to double since 2000...let's play AUDIT THE UNIONS...won't that be fun? See how much his own members have lost....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O4NrT2oTQqE&feature=player_embedded

3) Ball room dancing will save many marriages, because it is one of the few times the man of the house can actually lead and tell his wife what to do.... she must be a calm submissive, just like a day with the Dog Whisperer.

4) Fashion is full swing back to the 70's...I was a teenager then, during the Recession, does this mean we have to sit in gas lines again? Is fashion the new crystal ball?

5) Chicken pot pie is a labor of love.

6) Kettleball workouts were developed by sadists, sadists with great bodies.

7) University of Central Florida is facing down an appearance by a radical Imam to speak to the Muslim student society there , and I wait patiently for good, peaceful Muslims to protest his appearance...still waiting.

http://www.myfoxorlando.com/dpp/news/faith_news/022211-controversial-imam-to-speak-at-university-of-central-florida

...

OVER 50 MEANS SHUT UP AND LISTEN, I KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT.

Yes you heard me, Invisi-Gal is telling you how much easier your life would be, if you would just listen to the women in your life over the age of 50...

...one caveat however, I would caution to steer clear of the over 50 bitter ones...they are easy to spot, they flirt with your husband (because their's ran away a long time ago), they make sure to say things like "Lovely dress, I almost bought it when it came out last year."... and they tell you how your children will end up hating you too....RUN from these women...

Now having said that, if you are lucky enough to encounter an over 50 woman who is mentally intact, and she has engaged you in conversation...do listen.

Sometimes it's a simple comment at a register..."Oh I love those shoes, (and wait for the lean-in) I wish I could get back all the money that I spent on $250.00 shoes when I was your age" .

Here's the one I love...overheard at a Starbucks..."You really don't need extra life insurance, what you need is disability insurance"...best advice I ever heard and it came from an over 5o gal.

And of course my favorite..."only buy a house that needs to be renovated if you're under the age of 40..otherwise start looking for a home with a first floor master suite."

Child rearing tips are my favorite..."The word "No" is not a swear word , dammit."

or the wise "Let the kids eat dirt, I did, and I'm fine".

Also understand that Invisi-Gals comment by not saying anything....like when you pick the vomit yellow paint for the kitchen...not a blessed word is heard.

Advice on love is this simple...."Never marry a man who doesn't get along with his mother, because you will spend the better (or for worse) part of your marriage convincing him that you are not his mother".

So next time you are in the Supermarket and your toddler is cranking and the baby is screaming and you are dropping sippy cups on the floor and a woman over 50 steps in to help you by distracting the low blood sugar toddler so you can reset the baby back in the cart...

when she comments that they often give free cheese to kids at the deli counter (a nice way to say...your kid is hungry, dear)...

don't see it as a judgement, or interference...

she has been there...

shut up and listen....

she knows what she's talking about...

....

Wednesday's child is full of lead.

Here's the deal y'all....don't call me on Wednesday nights from 10pm to 11pm...because I will be watching my self-united-in-marriage husband Timothy Olyphant in Justified on FX.

It is based on the short stories of Elmore Leonard... note to self: pick up any book with his name on it.

It's been beautifully adapted for television by Graham Yost (The Pacific)...it is gritty and filled with eloquent and relevant profanity and ooozes the underground charm of the South.

Finally, a well written TV show...it is vulgar poetry and completely Shakespearean ... and I am hooked.

I am fighting with my girlfriends over who gets Raylan, laughing with my husband over Gordy's comebacks, and shaking my head in wonderment over Graham Yosts' brilliant mind.

For one hour I suspend all outside world activities and enter Harlan, Kentucky for better or worse, and allow myself to get involved in others people business...oooh my favorite thing...and these other people have interesting bidness.

Yes there is swearin', shootin' and some lovin'.... but none of it feels gratuitous in the least...and the hat jokes are perfect.

.....remember, no calls, no texts, no emails, no nuttin' , I ain't a answerin', I'm fixin' to watch me some Justified....

carry on...y'all

http://www.fxnetworks.com/shows/originals/justified/...

Labor pains...

Invisi-Gal is very upset...as of today, over 729 organizations have been granted waivers from participating in Obama Care.

Ex-squeeze me?

Looks like they are mostly unions and quite a few from ... hold your heart now dear reader.. the CHICAGO area!

Invisi-Gal wants to know why she can't get a waiver ... ooops maybe I didn't vote for the right person... mmm, how do they know .. they seem to know union members did.

Wow, what a perceptive group of people...

Read and weep:

http://michellemalkin.com/2011/01/28/waivers-for-favors-big-labors-obamacare-escape-hatch/

Why are we letting this happen?

And why, while I'm at it, are we letting the government legislate what light bulbs we buy?

Maybe to keep us in the dark....so we can't see what is right in front of our faces?

......

The Evolution of Crushes

My very first crush , about age 5 , was on my dad...I wanted to marry him, he could build me shelves for my Barbies and fix my bike ... my mother told me I could have him ... and all his laundry too.

Age 7 , definitely Paul McCartney...the Beatles had invaded America, I wrote him a fan letter and invited him to dinner...just don't bring Ringo.

Somewhere in between, I thought Ken was pretty cute, although a bit plastic...but he did exactly what I told him to do, and I liked that.

By 10, (1967) I was torn between Davey Jones of the Monkees (it was a Brit thing) and Carl Yastremski....he was left handed like me and that pretty much ended at that.

Junior High school found me turning my crushes in towards my own social strata...the football captains and the errant bad boys both had my heart. In a bit of James Dean vs. Johnny Unitas.

By high school, it was James Taylor and when I was feeling rebellious, Jim Morrison...but a word of warning, never have a crush on a man whose hair is nicer than yours, or a smaller butt, it can only breed contempt.

In my twenties, I stopped having crushes on unattainable men, and developed crushes on guys my age ...mostly musicians, and romantic poetry writers... they all were jobless, aimless and I saw that as freedom..instead of just dumb.

Although somewhere in there there was a bodybuilder, Corvette driving insurance salesman (he did play guitar)... but I think that was an extension of Ken.

In my 30's , my crushes turned to men who had some kind of power, politically, financially, socially... I knew by then, that money was a bit more important , especially in the shoe department...'nuff said.

Tick, tick, tick, what's that?? Ohh the ol' biological clock.... it hits big time in the early 40's...if you haven't conceived by then... plus the sing song voice of your mother saying "A woman only has so many eggs, dear"... starts resonating in your ears like a stadium horn....

sooo the crushes go to good breeding and fatherly stock.... Mel Gibson (pre Oksana) and Harrison Ford, and of course Paul McCartney, whose loving, monogamous, musical, progeny heavy, marriage to Linda was the bomb!

Now I am in my 50's, and gone away are all the romantic ideals...and I am faced with the stark reality that all I really need is a man who can plumb a toilet and find the stud in the wall to hang my new mirror

...they have all been replaced by Mike Holmes

...that's right gals, that's what it comes down to, a crew cut overall wearin' Canadian handyman. He fixes everything and gives you a big hug and leaves.

So now we have come full circle haven't we, we just want our daddies after all...

all that money wasted on therapy, you could've just read this.

....

The Green Turtleneck...and other things I can't find.

We live in a house that measures around 2000 Sq.feet...not tiny but not a McMansion by any stretch...there are only 3 of us and I am pretty organized.

So why, WHY, can't I find my green turtleneck sweater?

I'll tell you why, because I live in a state of unconsciousness ... auto-pilot so to speak.

As a female I multi-task like a whirling dervish... that's why women make such good news producers, they can write, edit, take a phone call while making a comment to someone down the hall and get the story live on the air , no problem.

It dates back to the hunter, gatherer, raise the little Neanderthals, and kick that sabre tooth in the butt, gene pool. We are meant to multi task...

which means we are masters of the dual circuitry in the brain that teaches, and moves. Cognitive and action, one takes over as needed...here I'll let the experts e'splain:

http://www.livescience.com/health/brain-habit-learning-autopilot-100609.html

Which brings me back to my green turtleneck...I know already that it's somewhere in this house, and unless the dog has decided she looks better in green than in brown, then I am the culprit.

We do so many things on auto-pilot...driving being one...how many times have you been so deep in thought as you drove to a familiar destination, to find yourself there and parked before you can blink?

How any times have you checked a email or text (that required an action from you) in the middle of doing something else, only to see it a day a later and cringe at your in-action?

Once again, we are brought back to the turtleneck; I know in the process of the mundane ( as in laundry) the mind wanders...perhaps to a sunny golf-course in a day dream, and the folding and putting away is on auto....and my concern for my green turtleneck is waylaid until I want to wear it...as in TODAY!

This is were it gets fun...

I need to retrace in my mind, the last time I wore it and if I had travelled during then and will it involve a phone call to see if I left it somewhere...once again solidifying my forgetful base.

I search all the usual places, once twice and three times until I FIND IT, right there, on top of the dryer under the mess I call my son's, I-can't-find-my-dresser-or -I-would-put-these-things-away pile....and I want you to know, I looked there two times already.

So apparently my COGNITIVE part of my brain was not in charge while my body was in ACTION on auto pilot looking for the green freakin' turtleneck.

And the lesson in all of this?

Well, it has nothing to do with memory, dear reader...

so sorry for the red herring....

Nooooo, it has to do with career choices...

because this is exactly why I do what I do and NOT work in a nuclear power facility, because you never want to hear me say...

"Did I remember to cool the rods in the core today?".

.....

Odds n' Ends....

Invisi-Gal is the original touch screen maven...I had a Treo back when that was the ONLY touch screen phone on the market...now I am an iPhone robot and I am so glad this problem has been solved:

http://www.agloves.com/

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I am addicted to Le Crueset cookware...but I am a savvy shopper and buy it majority discounted at TJ Maxx or Marshall's...I use it for everything, and the fact that it is soooo heavy just means that Invisi-Gal gets a mini-work out in the kitchen!

http://www.lecreuset.com/

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Thanks to a sharp cookie who comments on this blog, I have been able to locate the book of poems from my childhood....if I could only find my old Barbie corvette, I would really be complete.

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/The-Best-Loved-Poems-of-the-American-People/Hazel-Felleman/e/9780385000192

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Invis-Gal is cleaning house in many ways, especially when it comes to people who act like jackals or just plain cranky people...so reading this book may help:

http://www.drlaura.com/index.php/eng/Books/Books-By-DrLaura/Surviving-a-Shark-Attack-On-Land-Overcoming-Betrayal-and-Dealing-with-Revenge-Dr.-Laura

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This show actually looks funny, Invisi-Gal may have to watch and eat chips n' dip:

http://www.wetv.com/joan-and-melissa

_________________________________

and lastly, cabin fever is striking deep right now, and it's either redo the bathroom or start in on some early spring cleaning:

http://www.marthastewart.com/article/spring-cleaning-checklist

Those are the odds n' ends...the New Year is now for real and I was thinking , aside from learning ball room dancing, this would be a good year to break some old habits and start some new ones...

since according to my son's entire middle school that 2102 is the End of the World...

well I usually don't take advice from people wearing braces, but they seem sooo sincere....so I might as well get on with whatever I was supposed to get on with.

So....on with it then!

...

Don't ask why I know this one....

I am going through the poems I learned as a child and recited in the kitchen with my mom, this was one of her favorites, I get a feeling it was something she had to learn in college...I will tell you, as a child, I hated the big words , as Invisi-gal I still hate the big words, but it creeps me out a wee bit.

It strikes me as a poem used by med students to remember sterilization techniques and now possibly by bacteria-phobes....

Strictly Germ Proof by Arthur Guiterman written in 1916

The Antiseptic Baby and the Prophylactic Pup
Were playing in the garden when the Bunny gamboled up;
They looked upon the Creature with a loathing undisguised;—
It wasn't Disinfected and it wasn't Sterilized.

They said it was a Microbe and a Hotbed of Disease;
They steamed it in a vapor of a thousand-odd degrees;
They froze it in a freezer that was cold as Banished Hope
And washed it in permanganate with carbolated soap.

In sulphurated hydrogen they steeped its wiggly ears;
They trimmed its frisky whiskers with a pair of hard-boiled shears;
They donned their rubber mittens and they took it by the hand
And elected it a member of the Fumigated Band.

There's not a Micrococcus in the garden where they play;
They bathe in pure iodoform a dozen times a day;
And each imbibes his rations from a Hygienic Cup—
The Bunny and the Baby and the Prophylactic Pup.

....