Why Women Shouldn't Play RockBand

I have a pair of black Justin cowboy boots. I have had them for at least 15 years. I might have been wearing them when I met hubby.

Before that, they were my mom's. She probably had them about 5 years.

No, the blog title isn't wrong. Bear with me.

The point is, I have had these things for ages. And have worn them for ages. And loved them. Until today.

I came home with a raw spot on the inside of my calf from where the boot pull up strap rubbed my leg (no, I didn't wear tights, and I wore a skirt).

It is so sore. So I get home and hubby meets me at the car (he's so sweet). He asks how my day was. I go in to this rant about how bad my leg hurts. And it is all because of Rock Band. These boots have fit me for fifteen years and now that I am the drummer, my calf has grown two sizes too big for my leg. And my boots.

This is awful! What a fashion nightmare!

Anyway, he sarcastically comments as I am taking off my boots, "Well, why don't you use a marker and mark the spot on your leg every couple days until you wear them again. Then you'll know just right where to put the bandaid."

My witty reply? "Well, maybe I will just get a tattoo on my leg that says Place Bandaid Here." Wouldn't that be cute??? ha Very RockBandish I think.

LICE!!!! No, Not Really

I was so upset this afternoon when I came home. I had on my brand new brown tights, which I just love. I had worn a camel colored microsuede skirt (the kind that is wash and wear, oh so soft, and comfortable). Well, the two didn't mix well.

When I got home to change into my lounge around clothes, my tights had lice. Well, it wasn't really lice. It was miniature microsuede balls embedded into my dark brown tights. The moving and wear had rub the skirt and gotten little balls attached to my tights.

Is this insane???

So I tried the lint remover (the brush kind AND the sticky roller kind). Neither worked. These things were embedded and not coming out. I asked my husband to help.

He took a few little pulls at the balls and said, "These things are cheap. I would just trash them."

But that wasn't the point. I had just gotten these tights and I love the way they feel and love the color.

So I said, "Give me a glass of wine. I'm in for a long night."


45 minutes later . . .

Well, they look a little better. I guess a lot better. Or maybe it is just the wine talking/wine goggles. Hopefully the rest will come out in the wash (yeah, right). But at least I got most of them off.

This is just another day in my wacky life.

Bras

photo courtesy of nasirkhan @ morguefile.com

It took me 27 years to find the perfect bra.

That's a long darn time. And I have to say that when I found it, I bought 8 of them. They are beginning to wear out. I think I might cry.

They are nothing fancy or expensive. They are made by Bill Blass. You will never believe where I found them. Dollar General. Yep. Forget Victoria's Secret, Macy's, JC Penny, etc. The most perfect bra ever lives at Dollar General and they cost $5 a piece.

They only come in white, but that's okay because they are perfect. (and I wear tons of white shirts - which is a whole nother blog in itself - the quest for the perfect white top)

With these bras I never have seam lines show (or anything else for that matter). The straps are adjustable and don't come off in the wash. They are preformed, so they look like they are full even when laying on the bed. They are low cut in front so I can wear any shirt I want and not worry about it showing. They have three dual hook sections in back (which is great around Thanksgiving time as I grow!) And they always look nice.

It's hard to find the perfect bra. I am hoping Dollar General still has them as it is time to get more. Otherwise I might just wear them until they become rags. And then I would probably still wear them!

Of course, my husband is now laughing hysterically as he just read my blog. He thinks I am nuts. He doesn't get how important the perfect bra is. But us girls know. ;)

photo courtesy of nasirkhan at morguefile.com

Jeans

photo courtesy of cardenio @ morguefile.com
I don't care what everyone else says. Jeans are not warm.

Today was REALLY cold - like 10. It might have gotten up to 18. When I walked outside at noon for about 5 minutes, I thought my jean legs had frozen solid. It's almost like they trap the cold air in after allowing it to float up from the ground.

Also, most jeans are not flattering. Give me a cute little skirt any day. For jeans to really look good, they should not be purchased (or even made) above a size 2.
The low jeans have a bulge over the waistband. The high jeans cut off your circulation from the waist down, make you miserable if you eat, and make you look like your waist is just below your boobs. Now that's attractive.

Jeans are not comfortable. (unless you get the grandma elastic waist ones, and then of course, they are not fashionable) You can't bend your legs. If you wear low riders you spend the day pulling them up or else you look like a plumber. Not to mention, some feel just like your wearing a thong bikini. Yikes!

Over the years I have had my share of jeans. But I don't think I have ever found a pair to like, much less love. Favorite jeans? That would be the ones that hurt the least, look the best (which isn't saying much) and don't make me look like my grandma. I haven't found that pair yet.
Give me a bikini any day. Way more comfortable.

photo courtesty of cardenio at morguefile.com

What Do They Really Mean?

How many ways can you say "You look like crap?"
My husband has become excellent at this.

Various comments he has said -

"I thought you were going to do your hair?" Well, I had!
"Does that go?" Yes, the two different patterns are the same colors.
"Are you wearing that?" It's a little late now as I am already walking out the door!

And the new one this morning -
"That doesn't really look like you."

I have to hand it to him. He is becoming more and more creative and kind the longer we are married.

So this morning I responded, "So basically what you are saying is that I look like crap."
He didn't say a word.