Palazzo Pants – 50 cents too much

I am the easiest sell.

At a garage sale recently, I pulled out what I thought was a sarong. It had multiple straps that could be tied and I convinced myself it would be a perfect adjustable maternity dress.

50 cents? Sold.

Then someone told me that they were italian palazzo pants, and the straps wrap around the waist.

Problem is, I’m not in Italy nor on a patio. To make matters worse, I didn’t even have gelato. So I did the only logical thing and bought a gallon of Blue Bunny ice cream.

It’s for the baby, people.


Now she is pantsing it up on an italian patio. But don’t worry, I’m positive she also just put down a gallon of gelato before taking this photo.

 This was my photo shoot. Freaking yikes. At least I was wearing a bra.  

Note to self: do not wear sarong-like palazzo pants on a windy day while playing horseshoes.  Neighbors will confirm their suspicions on why you live in shack.

 Speaking of horseshoes, R and I were neck and neck and he needed one shoe to touch the pole for two points in order to win.

 We heard a clang and so ran (I waddled) to see if he got it. While inspecting, R also weeded the sandpit.

 Yes! I won. By a millimeter.

I think R was distracted by the palazzo pants siren’s call. I know, you just can’t blame him, can you.

Scarface part deux

I have a confession, my friends:

I have never, ever mended anything in my life. Never stitched up a seam, never sewed on a button… nope. But a couple days ago, I was folding laundry and came across a shirt that had a hole in the armpit. It’s one that we wear to bed, and really, should have been given to the Goodwill years ago, but I hung onto it for some reason. So I noticed the hole and decided that I was not going to donate it, but rather mend it.

Hell, at least I should donate something that I first royally messed up with mending. Right?

The Victim:

T-shirt already with low self-esteem as it had been relegated to the “sleeping attire only” drawer.


The tools:

A mixture of random supplies given to me during college that have never seen the light of day… which for some reason also includes one bright orange ear plug. Apparently I’m Van Gogh or something.


The moral support:

A batch of homemade chocolate icing. If I had only had graham crackers…

So after staring at the t-shirt for what seemed a couple hours, I finally picked it up. And lightning did not strike, much to my surprise.

Thankfully I did remember to turn it inside out. How I knew that, I have no idea. I probably just wanted an excuse to use the midget scissors and cut off loose ends.

But then I came to the needle and thread debacle.

Now, I’m not going to blame anyone (mom), but why do I not know how to thread and knot a needle?

I turned to my trusty binder full of misc magazine articles…and by golly there was a mending section! Surely they would describe how to thread a needle, yeah?

Um, no. Apparently that part of the process is a given. In fact, there was an asterisk at the bottom of the article stating, “Anyone that tears out this article for later reference should obviously know how to thread a needle and tie a knot. You idiot.”

I was offended. So did the only logical thing…

…and go to the internet. I swear, what would I do without the internet?

Except, this is what I watched for most of the time. Our internet is so darn slow, it’s excruciating. But finally she came through and showed me what to do.

And so I did.

And it was sewn.

And I flipped the shirt back to admire my handiwork.

Holy Freaking Moly.

Let’s all have a moment of silence and thank God that I did not become a surgeon.

Ode To My Ankles

Oh, ankles. You were my body’s crowning joy. The one part I didn’t have to worry about…. the one part that stayed shapely despite all those Snickers Sonic Blasts.

We’ve shared many memories together….

like our time cooling off in waters, fresh & salty alike…

or when you made your stylish debut with highwater pants. Everyone I applauded your confident strut amongst fellow ankle-covering compatriots.

But as I see your end drawing near, let me write a last heartfelt epitaph for you.

Oh! Let me count the ways I’ll miss you, my dear beloved ankle.

But first, I’ve got to run and tankle.

Sigh. Pregnancy.