Those Jeans

You know those jeans. The ones that live in the back of your closet or the bottom of a drawer. The ones that will fit you when you loose 5 pounds, and then will look so hot, that traffic sill stop, men will faint, your boss will give you a raise, and they discover how to make your favorite confection calorie-free. The jeans that will bring ecological harmony and world peace when you wear them.

Just 5 more pounds.

Well, I have a pair of these jeans. And I've dropped 15 pounds so these suckers should fit beautifully. What a load of horse pucky! If I loose any more weight, I will officially be pushing too slim and just be considered bony. So the jeans should fit right? When I bought them I was larger than I am now and they still don't fit, which makes me think.

I don't think I've actually ever worn these jeans. I think I looked at the size (which is one up from what I'm currently wearing), grabbed them and bought them, with out trying them on, because I needed a pair and was heading somewhere. I'm also beginning to think that they are junior sized. Because let's be honest here, I have no ass. Never had one, never will-it's genetics. My hips aren't overly broad either, and this is where these "jeans" don't fit.

I have come to the conclusion that short of shaving bone from my pelvis and hip joints, these will never fit me. Ever. And do you know what I almost did? Fold them up and put them back into the drawer. No, no, no!

So I stayed my hand and instead, started a pile. And the jeans led the way. Followed by turtlenecks (I really can't explain how horrific I look in those), cap sleeve shirts ( I already have the shoulders of a linebacker, do I really need to point that out?!), and every button down shirt and cardigan that I can't actually button.

I feel better already. And I'm going shopping for jeans this weekend to fill the gap in my wardrobe.

Spring is here!

Spring is here and it is official. Do you know how I know? I had to mow the lawn.

All up and down my street today, the residents in my fair little shire broke out the hats and sunscreen. Grabbed the keys to the shed, and dusted off ye ol' lawn mower. Across the realm could be heard the sweet buzzing of bees, the chirping of birdies and the whirl of mowers and trimmers. You could smell the fresh cut grass and almost taste the victory lemonade.

And then there was my house. The sounds of which should not be repeated. But I will confess to swearing in three different languages and would have added more had I known them. My mower would not start. After extensive kicking an cussing, and with the help of a nail file, I got it started, mowed the frippin' grass, locked the damn thing back in the shed until next week and headed in to take a shower and cool down and recompose.

Better, yes? Birdies are chirping again, the windows are open and the cat looks dreamily out at the aforementioned birdies. Ahh. Then I pick up my knitting.

On the needles I have : one lace stole, three 2nd socks, a tank top out of sock weight aptly named "frogged camisole", a tweed sweater 3 sizes too large, an albatross for my sister she will get when she's 80, and the beginning of another tank in 100% cotton, because I want to see if it works before wasting good yarn on the pattern.

If you are not a knitter, you may not understand the list. You might say something silly like, why so many projects? If you knit, you understand and groan in sympathy. All are time consuming pains in the a$$ that are currently ranking with the lawn mower.

My solution? Make lemonade, eat ice cram and ignore knitting until next weekend. Then put knitting and Mower in the "Rabbit Cage o Rage" and see which one comes out in the end. That or the garden which needs to be plowed eats them both.

Brilliant, yes?