Getting Better All The Time

Listen folks....this post makes no sense what so ever. I was going to try to edit it, and clean it up - but it's futile. After a raucous couple of days, my cup it runneth over.

Last night I came home from work, begged off a late night outing of unicorns and rainbows and belly shots, and climbed into bed. As I drifted off to sleep I vowed to myself:

"Tomorrow, I wear the pants."

The pants, which I have been deeply in love with since the first day I saw them, have been made EVEN BETTER. I know, I know. Impossible. They were already The Best Pants Ever.

But then I took them to my tailor, and she chopped about 6 inches off of them and now.........they're perfect. Which is why I put them on the moment I rolled out of bed this morning, and still have them on 14 hours later. And I gotta be honest - I'm not any closer to taking them off then I was when I put them on. You may have to pry them off my cold, dead body. But since I want to be buried in them, I really wouldn't recommend taking them off then either.

Have some respect. I'm dead for God's sake.

In addition to my newly-improved-better-than-perfect pants, I also got a dress altered.

I bought this dress 9 years ago. This dress, like the pants, looks good on everyone. The color is almost universally flattering - a deep cherry red - and it's strapless. I have lent it to at least 3 friends for holiday parties. I myself have already HAD the dress altered once - I had the top taken in between kids. Because my top was, well......smaller.

And last week I had it taken in again. I don't think it's possible to get it any tighter, so next time I'm just going to get breast implants. It would be easier.

In addition to altering the pants and the dress, I also cleared the closets. I recommend doing this twice a year. I pull out all of the things I haven't worn since my last purge, bring it all to the consignment shop, and then I sort through what's left. There's a "maybe" stack, and an "I can't live without you" stack. The maybes get brought to the front of the closet, and if I don't get enough use out of them by the next purge, then Out They Go.

The last purge involved removing every item of clothing that I owned that could not be worn with a bra. The ladies may be small, but they still need support. So any dresses that were cut "down to there" or had no back whatsoever, or perhaps had extra-wide armholes? Gone. I absolutely cannot even entertain the idea of wearing them anymore. I do not want to be the old lady with the tits down to her waist, rocking the stretch halter.

You're welcome.

In the maybe stack this time, I had a pair of black leather boots. Classic. Gorgeous. Bought them on my honeymoon in Las Vegas. So of course I started reminiscing. We just celebrated our 12th anniversary last week, and I am pretty sure that getting 12 years out of a pair of boots is a good value. As much as I love them, I was ready to let them go. My honeymoon was memorable for several reasons, and these boots are the one tangible memory I have, which is why I held on to them as long as I did. If you don't count the tattoo. Which I don't. Because the trampstamp has officially been put in the double secret undercover program with my nipples. Again, you're welcome.

But back to the honeymoon. First of all, we got tattoos the day after we got married. I immediately went to my mother's house and dropped my pants to show her the ink. She gagged and asked me to please cover it up. I tried not to be too offended. Fresh tattoo goo notwithstanding, my mother was VERY DISAPPOINTED IN MY DECISION TO GET A TATTOO. So when faced with the very real (and totally slimy and gross) tribal sun I had permanently applied to my back, she was completely appalled. Good thing I was flying to Vegas the next day !

But about that. Here's a tip. Don't get a tattoo on your lower back and then get on a plane for 6 hours to Vegas. It's a bad idea. You will feel some..............discomfort. You will also not be able to get in the pool in Las Vegas - something I did not know until I was already tattooed and leaving the tattoo shop.

I was also on crutches.

No, my mother didn't break my leg (though I would be willing to bet she would have liked to). I had been on crutches for several months actually, ever since a huge wooden shelf had fallen on my foot at work. I refused to use them during the actual wedding, but by the time we went on our honeymoon I was paying for that choice. My foot was twice it's normal size, and gray. So I had crutches in Vegas and if you take one thing away from this blog, let it be this:

Traveling with crutches means you will never wait in a line..........ever.

Preboarding? Yes.
Handicapped entrance at the buffet? You betcha.
Special seating for shows? Of course, right this way.
The only place I ditched them was at the Rio, because I wanted to go in the sky parade and fling mardi gras beads at the heads of the people gambling below me. Which I did. Probably a bit harder then was strictly necessary, but it was hard to judge and I had to throw it clear of the float, you know.

After that excitement, we went to Ceasars, and I saw these boots in the window.

They called to me, and the first one fit perfectly. But then I had to try to get it on the other foot. The bigger one. The broken one. It took a while, but I managed. And then, mostly because we couldn't get it off again, we bought the boots. Then we went straight back to the hotel, dropped off the packages, and raced off to a buffet. Any buffet. And "raced" is not really the right word, since I was on crutches. Maybe "stumped off" would be better?

ANYWAY my point is, being on crutches in Vegas is awesome if you can get past the armpit blisters and the hands that smell like rubber all the time. Not from anything fun, mind you, just from gimping around in the heat clutching the handles of the crutches as I cut in line, help myself to extra crab legs, and get premium seating.

It was pretty much the best honeymoon ever, obviously.
Don't hate me for seeing the silver lining here.