It's Chanel, For Goodness Sakes!

I am one of those typical girly-girls, who has 212 pairs of shoes, 1100 tubes of lipstick, and multiple fragrances for whatever the occasion. And while I do wear all of the shoes and I try to use all of the lipstick, my fragrance collection is rather...well, dusty. I use one or two regularly. The rest.....meh.

I decided I should probably get rid of the ones I never wear, and pare down a bit. Gone are the half-used bottles of what was I thinking, you've got to be kidding, and the Bath and Body Works Collection that no longer exists in the store. And can someone explain to me why they only discontinue the scents I like? That drives me crazy!

Anyway, I decided to wear my "special-occasion" perfume this morning. Chanel No. 5. Love it! It was the perfume I wore at my wedding. It was the perfume my mom wore for her special occasions. It makes me feel grown-up and sophisticated. But when I mentioned what I was wearing to someone when she asked, she kind of made a face. And it made me think of an NCIS episode when a character asked if anyone wore Chanel No. 5 anymore. Do they? Am I old-fashioned for loving it? And here's the bigger question...do I even care?

Regardless, I smell fabulous!

So Much for That Graceful Aging Thing

Let me tell you what depresses me! This weekend, while hanging out with Dave and his golf team (college), Dave and I were telling stories. And I told the story of the time that Dave and I were in the car, driving to Columbus, and I started singing "Check baby, check baby, 1 2 3 4." Do you remember the song? Wreckx-N-Effect?? Anyone?!? Yes, I know! The song is called "Rumpshaker," and what the heck was I doing singing that song I will never know. But it popped in my head that day in the car. So I finish the whole countdown and Dave turns to me and says "If you have to check the damn thing ten times, the SOB* is broken." Which made me laugh so hard that I cried for the next few miles

*abbreviation used to prevent offending blog readers.

So I tell the story, and these guys look at me as if waiting for the punchline. They had NO IDEA what the song was. And then, as if in unison, two guys get their laptops out and start searching for it on Google. It was so sad, because I didn't think the song was THAT old. Except that, yes, it was from college, and yes, that was a few years (13) ago. And YES, these guys were like 6 or 7 years old. But still!

All those times I got carded recently? Down the drain, I tell you. Those guys just stared at me. Tell me again, Kim, about the time the dinosaurs rocked the greek mixer. Whatever. That song was played at every event! That and Salt-N-Pepa, which reminds me of one night at the TKE house, but that's a story for another day.

I'm off to search for lines on my face.

Princess Palmer

Let me tell you about my niece, Palmer. She is such a hoot! She'll be three on June 2nd, but she already acts like a little adult. She has the most gorgeous hair...a brilliant, beautiful red that a lot of women would kill for.

Palmer recently discovered Barbie when her daddy brought a DVD home for her. And, like so many others before her, Palmer suddenly wished for the long, blonde hair that is Barbie's trademark. As my sister-in-law said, that damn Barbie ruins everything. I chuckled when I heard her say that, but I am sad that Palmer is already deciding at such a young age that something about her should be changed. And even though she also will probably forget she said that just as fast, it still makes me nervous. I remember longing for the same hair long ago, and even today, still have wistful moments when I wish for something other than what I have. But, this post is about Palmer.

Palmer, my incredibly independent niece. My sweet, persnickety, Dora-loving, hilariously-funny, soprano-voiced niece. The one who sings "Crinkle, Crinkle Little Star." Petite, serious, porcelain-faced, chocolate-milk loving little girl. Grumpy at times, always particular. She has had a personality as large as life from day one. She makes me laugh all the time. She is funny, most of the time intentionally, already demonstrating a phenomenal sense of humor. Her imagination is huge, and, I hope, still relatively untapped. I can only imagine what live has in store for her. Or, more accurately, what Palmer has in store for life!

Cheers!

This weekend marks the first tournament in Dave's spring season, which means no trip to Cleveland for me. I met him and the guys for dinner tonight in Mt Vernon, then drove to my brother and sister-in-law's house to prepare food for my Dad's birthday dinner tomorrow. Potato salad tonight, pies tomorrow. I'm embracing my inner domestic goddess. In fact, I think I could be a good 1950's housewife. I love the fabulous dresses, I look good in pancake make-up and matte red lipstick, and I can down the vodka like nobody's business. Get me some valium and I'm there!

I picked up the Pearl Jam re-release last night on a shopping spree. Spree is defined very loosely...it also included two shirts, MAC primer, and a new journal. The CD? It's awesome. Incredible tracks, new music. The only thing that sucked was that the CD player in my car stopped working, so I had to wait until today to listen to it. I really need to get that thing fixed.

March Madness moves on and my bracket is in flames. That's not so awful; it happens every year. What stinks is that the person who picked Siena over my Buckeyes also made a few other picks which trumped mine. Retribution will be swift. It's one thing to win one game but to absolutely trounce my bracket on your own? Unacceptable.

The birthday week is almost over. It will soon be followed by the treadmill week, then the step up the cardio week and so on, to counteract the massive amount of sweets I've eaten. My new boss turned 50 on Wednesday and, suffice it to say, I made a piggy of myself that day as well. There was just so much to eat. Except coffee cake.

Let me tell you the coffee cake story. It's a good one.

Wednesday morning, my co-worker and mentor (and all-around funny girl), Virginia, was carrying a coffee cake from the parking garage to our department for the birthday foodfest. She loaded herself down and set off for the stairwell. At the door, disaster struck. The load shifted and the dish with the coffee cake plummeted to its demise. That dish broke into a jillion pieces. I would have loved to have overheard the streak of words coming out of her mouth when it happened. She brushed the shards to the side in one pile, and called building services to let them know. On Friday, it was still there. Like a little memorial. Here lies Ginny's suicidal coffee cake.

Tomorrow I'll be writing about my niece, Palmer. She just discovered Barbie, and I'll say this...that damn doll ruins everything.