It's One of THOSE Days

Today has turned out to be one of "those" days.

One of "those" days when nothing quite seems to go right, yet it isn't so horrible that I can justify sitting down in the middle of the living room in a huff and crying.

It's tempting, but not justifiable.

Yet.

I had an appointment this morning at 10:30 with one of my legions of doctors, and since I typically show up in gym clothes (intending to proceed there immediately after my appointment), I decided I would dress nicely today: J. Crew blue-&-white striped shirt, skinny jeans, sandals, jewelry.

Casual, but nice.

My hair disagreed with my planned outfit, however.

I didn't wash it last night, and I didn't plan to wash it this morning, because if I wash it more frequently than every other day, my scalp mutinies, and I have to appease it with lots of Benadryl.

I hoped I'd be able to spray it with a little dry shampoo and get it to obey my will.

Nope.

By the time I realized my hair was a lost cause, it was too late to wash it and blow dry it and style it if I wanted to be able to eat breakfast before my appointment. I tried on a baseball cap with my planned outfit, but it just didn't work.


So the cute J. Crew shirt was jettisoned in favor of a chambray maxi dress, hoping I could pull it off with the baseball cap.

Chambray maxi dress had stains all down the front, that I apparently missed during the last laundry blitz, despite the fact that I specifically checked the dress for stains.

Finally, I tossed on one of my husband's cast-off T-shirts (which I've claimed, and wear more frequently than formerly due to my, um, well, my little belly. And love handles. Yay).

So now my doctor probably thinks I just run around in super-casual clothes all the time, rather than wearing more civilized, ladylike garb.

Sigh.

I ran a few errands, post-appointment, and came home. I took off my baseball cap.

My hair looked perfect.

Sigh.

Time to do laundry, bake, monitor the crock-pot, pay off the rest of the taxes the IRS claims we owe them, but that Turbo Tax said we didn't, and work on my Mystery Blog (with perfect hair).

Several items in the laundry needed stain treatment, so I applied Shout spray like a mad woman, and made sure to add OxyClean to the load, as well.

The load of lights finished washing, and I pulled out the clothes to toss them in the dryer, being sure to check each and every garment that was spot-treated before tossing it into the dryer.

All of the garments looked great, except - of course! - my favorite shirt, a white J. Crew button-down identical to today's intended blue-&-white shirt, which is the inspiration for my house-wife "uniform".

Of course, the spot on my favorite shirt - iced tea, a little tiny amount - was darker. And bigger.

What. THE. HELL?!?!?!?!?!?!

Lots of angry fuming, cursing, and stomping around the laundry room ensued (it's a huge laundry room, relative to the size of our house). I tried spraying more Shout on it and rubbing it with a white cloth.

No dice.

I rinsed out the Shout, and poured liquid OxyClean on it, waited 15 minutes, and then rubbed it with a white cloth.

Nada.

I poured a leeeeeeeeeeeeettle bit of full-strength bleach onto it and let it sit a few minutes, then rubbed it gently with a white cloth.

Nil.

So it's now sitting in a bucket filled with water and bleach, while I pray that my fairly expensive shirt isn't ruined forever.

I started working on my Mystery Blog, and was experimenting with different layouts/visual themes for the site. Unlike this personal blog, I want my Mystery Blog to be immaculately laid out and designed, because I intend to try to make money off of it, damn it.

I had one scheme I kind of liked, but wanted to look at another, so I wrote down what I thought was all the pertinent info, design-wise, and began monkeying with the font, text size, background color, etc.

At which point I realized I hadn't exactly written down all the pertinent info. Fortunately, I had taken a screen shot of the first design, so I was able to MacGuyver the information I needed, using PhotoShop and Apple Preview, but it was a tense few minutes, there, before I found the HTML color code converter I needed.

Sigh.

I also used a bit of Barkeeper's Friend to clean some rust of the washing machine interior (it's now going through its Clean Tub cycle to remove any residue), and I happened to get a tiny bit of the liquid cleanser on my thumb. No big deal. I rinsed it within 30 seconds.

But my skin doesn't care. My skin is angry. It is livid. Specifically, it is a livid shade of red, and it itches, because it's a primadonna.

And I haven't eaten lunch, yet.

So I'm going to go throw myself onto my sofa, now, with a slice of coconut-flour pound cake and a handful of cashews - which I'm calling "lunch" - and I'm going to watch Parks and Rec on Hulu while I finish my niece's Christmas stocking.

Because I'm obviously not meant to succeed at being a housewife today.

Unless that housewifeliness involves sabotaging my diet, because the pound cake turned out perfectly.

Oops

Can we just go ahead and agree that I'm contrite for not having blogged in so long?

Okay. Good.

Now that that's over, let's get down to the reason for my absence: migraines.

Okay, so migraines, layered with work and school, but still: migraines.

They started back at the end of June. Up until that point, I'd had maybe 2 or 3 migraines per month. For most people, that would be a catastrophic amount of migrainage, but for me, it was pretty darn good.

And then... I don't know what happened. I began having multiple migraines per week, first on Tuesdays, then on Tuesdays and Fridays (so I missed work on Tuesdays, but "fortunately", my second migraine was on a day off). And, eventually, pretty much every day whenever my brain felt like it. Except for Thursdays. Usually not Thursdays.

Long story short(ish): I ended up having about 4 migraines per week. Something had to give, what with starting back to school (and missing school) and having to work, and not being able to control the migraines (and nausea. OH MY GOSH the nausea!). So I quit my job.

I had decided that I would be cool, just explain to my boss, give my two weeks' notice. I practiced so I wouldn't cry.

Of course, I cried. But they were nice and didn't make me finish out the two weeks, since it was for a health problem.

The migraine situation is still kind of dicey (I haven't had one since Friday, and it's a Thursday, so there's hope!). I'm seeing a new neurologist in Houston who I like, and he confessed that he had no idea what to tell me, since I seemed to be doing everything properly: no gluten, limited processed foods and refined sugar, minimal caffeine, no HFCS, if I can help it. I'm monitoring my sleep habits, computer time, what I eat each day, what I drink, and any symptoms I have. I take magnesium and a Vitamin B complex and Vitamin D and iodine (because I don't cook with iodized salt). I even take cod liver oil after dinner (lemon flavored to cut the fishiness, naturally).

So, yeah, he had no idea what was causing the migraines. I hypothesized that it might have been increased dairy intake, since my latte and ice cream consumption was off the charts for a while, there. As a result, prior to my first appointment with my new neurologist/best friend, I had already abandoned the consumption of milk, including a painful parting with the ice cream aisle at Whole Foods, and sacrificing my morning mocha latte.

Hopefully, along with my abandonment of dairy will come a return to what I consider to be my "normal size."

Ahem.

See, I gained weight after I stopped working (really, before I stopped working, but after the migraines started and I was less willing to push furniture and constantly pace the sales floor). Because I don't eat gluten, the places I gain my weight have changed.

I used to gain weight "like a boy": in my stomach and love handles.

Post-gluten, however, I tend to gain weight where women are stereotypically supposed to gain it: hips, bum, and - ahem - boobies.

For some unaccountable reason, I still don't gain much weight in my legs.

For my 30th birthday (this coming Sunday!), my parents gave me the funds to purchase a suit for job interviews, come March. I found a suit shape I really liked.

I bought the jacket in-store - where I discovered that I am a size 2 suit jacket at J. Crew.

The pants aren't sold in-store, however, so after a bit of a run-around, I finally got the new pants today.

Because of my lovely womanly derrier, I am a size 6 in the pants. But my thighs are still a size 4.

I know, silly to complain. But this means that I am going to have to have the pants altered to fit properly (not surprising). I would have taken the pants to the tailor, regardless, because pockets on slim-fitting pants are always visible, so I have them removed on pants and skirts that I wear for work. My tailors - a slew of them from Dallas, and now my Houston tailor - are used to the request.

This time, however, there will be the added requirement of taking in the thighs and, possibly, the calves of my new suit pants.

Because, you know...

A Surgical Patient, a Single Lady, and A Fashionista Walk Into a Bar...

I'll cut to the punch: they're all the same person.

Moi.

I had surgery, this past Monday. In essence, the surgery wasn't particularly surgical: I had three needles inserted into my left posterior, one of which was electrified, and then had an injection of - er - something into my left piriformis muscle (it's beneath the gluteus maximus). I've had pain from my piriformis for a long time, mostly because it's wound tighter than a naval clock, and it's squeezing my sciatic nerve.

Fun, no?

Post-surgery, the BIL had to practically carry me into my apartment, because my left leg decided not to work for a while.

No big deal. I crawled around the apartment until my leg got back to business.

Problem: The Man of My Dreams suggested during Date #2, last night, that we go to a rather nice restaurant for Date #3, because I haven't been there, and it's been a few months since he's been, and damn a good steak will hit the spot.

I checked the prices on zagat.com. It will hit about 100 spots, per person.

I'm so glad I don't have to pay for anything when he takes me out.

The difficulty: I would normally wear a dress and heels. I haven't tried on any of my "nice" pants, but I'm pretty sure they're all too big. At present, I have three large, highly-visible bruises around my left knee, along with carpet-burn on both knees from crawling to the front door to lock it, then to the bathroom.

Yay, nylon carpet...

What's a girl to do?

I know: First World Problems.

At Least I Will Eat Well, This Week

I no longer eat gluten. My migraines occur less frequently, my skin is improved (or, at least, it is improved between the days when I have dates, but always seems to unleash its full fury the day of a date; I think my skin wants me to stay single), and I lost 10 lbs. without changing my exercise regime a single solitary bit.

Awesome, right?

Yes, in most ways. And now, I'm going to sound like the world's whiniest person.

Because I have very little to wear in the way of "Date Clothes."

I didn't date for about two years, and now that I'm dating again, I'm rapidly discovering that the clothes I wore pre-gluten-free-diet are, for the most part, too big.

I know: P.O.O.R. B.A.B.Y. (and then you make a gagging motion when I turn my back. It's cool, I understand).

(Also, with my broad, square shoulders, some of the things I used to wear when I was bigger now make me look like a freaking Greenbay linebacker).

For the date with Mr. Ihavenoideawheremylifeisgoing, I bought a shirt from Banana Republic to wear that goes with my limited color palette wardrobe rule/theory, wore it with my great-grandmother's gorgeous gold pocket-watch/necklace, and felt fabulous.

Too bad the fabulousness was sort of wasted...

But I can't go out and buy something new to wear every time I have a date. I'm a grad student. I don't have that kind of cash.

So I'm trying to figure out what to wear for the two first-blind-dates I have this week (one of which will take place with the Man of My Dreams. Pardon me while I run around the apartment shrieking at the top of my lungs for a moment. Okay. I'm better, now). I want to look like I tried, but not like I tried too hard.

Complicating matters is Houston's weather: it was in the 50s a few days ago, and now it's in the 80s... during the day. The temperature drops to borderline-chilliness in the evenings. Do I wear winter/fall clothes, or do I chuck the Southern Lady conventions and wear whatever the heck the outside temperature suggests?

I DON'T KNOW!!!!!

If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go have a panic attack in my closet, for the next 3 hours.

Back to School!

Today, Dear Reader, was my first day back in school.

I have a desk near the window (hooray!), and a couple of the girls in my studio asked me to join them when they went to get food at the University Center Satellite.

The campus is so enormously sprawling that they have a mini-University Center. How's that for "urban planning"?

I made the mistake of wearing shorts, though. Seeing as the university overcompensates for the heat outside by cooling its buildings to Arctic proportions, I will be wearing long pants, in future. At least, until winter comes, when they will hopefully keep the buildings a bit warmer.

I already have oodles and oodles of work to do, Dear Reader, on three "tiny projects," as our German curriculum director termed them, and they're very conceptual in nature. My undergraduate work was more along the lines of "arrange a series of pristine white boxes and clear glass until they look nice."

Here, I'm supposed to define Originality, Innovation, and The New as the first part of our tripartite assignment.

I have my definitions down, for the most part (it's good to be a wordsmith), but the rest of the assignment has me a bit puzzled. I'll be sitting down with some of my books on architecture and design to try to figure out what my Originality, Innovation, and The New examples will be.

Then, there's The Knot assignment (as opposed to The New assignment). We are supposed to think about knots in multiple ways, then create some, and then use our analyses of the knots to design a building. Mine is going to be a String Theory research center.

Thank you! Thank you! I'll be here all night!

And yes, if asked, I will say it's a String Theory research center. I hope they don't ask, though.

The third mini-assignment involves boxes of given dimensions that then collide. Collisions tend to be violent and create mish-mashes of things. I have some brilliant ideas for collisions, and the materials out of which the boxes could be made, but alas! the brilliant ideas are all too time-consuming to pursue, right now.

(sigh)

I'll just have to think of something else that's brilliant!

Oh Blah Di, Oh Blah Da!

Life goes on!

Things are starting to take on some semblance of normalcy, around here.

And by "here" I mean my apartment in H-Town.

I have cooked a real meal on my stove, and discovered that its Level 4 setting is about what my old stove's Level 6 setting was. Fortunately, my 14 oz. sirloin didn't suffer too much in the searing!

I have unpacked more things, and put them away. Some are relegated to a cardboard box that will be unceremoniously shoved underneath a skirted table.

I have received a number of packages via UPS, so my UPS guy and I are now on smiling, "Hey, how's it going?" terms.

I will be sending back the contents of one package - wheeled ferrules for my sofa, to elevate it since it was made for wood floors, not carpet - because I only measured one of the six legs on the sofa, and four of them won't accommodate the ferrules. Other brass wheels will be exchanged for the ones I mistakenly purchased.

I've read a book, which I'd read once before but was absolutely certain that I had not read. It was Wilkie Collins' The Woman In White. I read the copy I already owned, so it's not in any way like my proliferating copies of The Count of Monte Cristo, which I misplace and then buy a duplicate of, only to find the original right where it should have been.

Besides, you can never have enough Counts of Monte Cristo lying around.

I received a shipment of shorts from The Gap, one of which will be returned because 1) they're too big; and 2) I look like I'm wearing baggy liederhosen. Not particularly flattering.

The last thing I want is to be mistaken for Kurt Von Trapp while traipsing across campus.

I'm still not 100% on board with the whole "wearing o the shorts" bit, mostly because I've spent the last ten years keeping my legs covered so they don't blind everyone in the vicinity. I don't do tanning. So I feel, I suppose, the way the young ladies of the 1920s felt when fashion dictated a raise in the hem-line: somewhat scandalous at all that bare skin - and with a 33 1/2" inseam, that's a lot of leg - but still condoned by society (to a degree).

I've spent 45 minutes on the phone with a surprisingly delightful and helpful young woman from AT&T who helped me re-register my wireless router/modem thingy after it inexplicably ceased to function, yesterday.

And now, I'm about to head to bed.

At 7:40 p.m.

Hopefully, I will finish the book I am currently reading (The 6th Lamentation) and begin reading another one, perhaps Spy Princess: The Life of Noor Inayat Khan or The Memory of All That: George Gershwin, Kay Swift, and My Family's Legacy of Infidelities by one of the Warburg family's descendants, who apparently has made a career out of outing her family's little secrets.

I look forward to some scandalously delicious reading, to go along with my scandalous shorts.

Two Steps Forward and One Step Back

For the past week, I've been borderline incapacitated by migraines, and that's my excuse for not posting in a long while.

I had three consecutive days of pure migraine hell, and then one of a morning-only migraine that I finally vanquished with copious amounts of caffeine and two doses of migraine medicine. Since caffeine tablets give me heart palpitations (scary!) I stuck with soda and the mucky coffee provided by the office. I've found that three shots of "French Vanilla coffee creamer" help immensely with the bitter taste.

My doctor switched my migraine medicine almost a month ago, hoping to see an improvement from the two migraines I was having per week.

How I long for the two-per-week days!

On a happier note, I can now do something I haven't been physically capable of doing since last June: I can walk in high heels again.

Little victories, people. Little victories.

I haven't rushed out and bought new heels, though, because I have plenty already that are sitting unworn in their matching plastic boxes from Mecca (a.k.a. The Container Store). I'm enjoying walking around in them again, and - specifically - being 6'-0" tall again.

When I worked for my current employer during my first go-round (2007-2008), I wore heels almost everyday, ranging in heel height from 3-1/2" to 5". The first time I wore flats, my boss was confused, because he just thought I was 6'-0" tall.

Like any other victory (other than, say, winning the lottery) I had to work to be able to wear stilettos again. I started out in wedge-heels, then moved up to stilettos. It was difficult, the first couple of days, because my calves and my abdominal muscles weren't used to working that way, but now it's back to what it was once before: effortless.

Little victories.

Hither and Thither

I did something yesterday that I hardly ever do: I went to Marshall's. As in, the discount clothing store. I'll occasionally go to the factory outlet mall up in Allen, but I rarely venture into Marshall's.

I'll gladly go into Neiman's Last Call Clearance Stores and sift through racks of sequined miniskirts - which I never need right then but usually end up "needing" at some point a few months later, when I kick myself for not buying them - and black silk harem pants, which, again, I want but do not buy.

But I do not go to places such as Marshall's very often. As I've grown increasingly frustrated with my search for halfway decently priced clothes that don't make me look like Frumpmaster 5000, however, I've begun to expand my hunting grounds.

So, although I went to Marshall's and tried on 15 things, I only brought one home with me: a black and white striped t-shirt dress that I can wear with a black cardigan and heels to work or with flats for play.

I've been thinking a lot recently about the clothes I gravitate to in magazines (versus those that I find in stores and can afford) and I think I know what draws me to certain clothes rather than to others: proportions.

Just as my body is somewhat oddly proportioned - that short torso creates problems with boned strapless dresses; narrow ribcage + square shoulders = what the hell size am I supposed to buy in shirts? - I like my clothes and accessories to be "off." This is possibly the reason I have a fixation on over-sized purses and chunky bracelets to dangle from my rather small wrists.

Granted, I also like bracelets because they're shiny, and I'm a bit of a magpie. A recent refrain in conversation with my mom is (from me) "That would be awesome gilded."

And, okay, insofar as purses are concerned, there's also the fact that, if ever evicted from an apartment, I could live in one of my out-sized handbags.

Except the suede one, because it would be ruined in the rain.

But seriously, also, there's the proportion thing. It's the best I can come up with, right now.

Good Things Come to Those Who Get Laid Off

I have some news that is absolutely faboosh!

Starting this coming Monday, I have a multi-week contract job! With the guys who laid me off back in 2008.

Sweet.

I'll be paid hourly, but that's A-OK, because, as a contractor, I can charge more per hour than I would make on salary, seeing as I have to take into account insurance premiums, parking, and all the other perks salaried employees get that this little contractor won't receive.

As always, this leaves me with a teeny tiny dilemma: clothes.

For the past 18 months, I've been able to wear jeans to work every day, because I couldn't always count on staying in the office all day. Sometimes I had to get myself out to the construction site, and a girl can't do that (successfully or safely) in a pencil skirt and heels.

So I bought a few things, today, to help me get in the mindset for the office: two pairs of shoes, both of which go with clothes I already have; a new fun cardigan (will also go with things I already have); and a new pair of trouser jeans. They will be taken to the tailor tomorrow so I can get them hemmed properly.

In other news: I applied a few months ago to graduate programs in architecture. I've received a couple of rejections, which didn't surprise me, because I didn't feel too great about my portfolio this time around.

I did receive an acceptance letter from the University of Houston, however, along with a scholarship! It's not a full ride, or near a full ride, but every little bit helps, right? Also, it's the program one of my favorite professors at UTA recommended most highly to me, so I feel better knowing that it's respected by other architecture academics.

Houston, here I come!

Friday Funday

I should, by rights, be at Happy Hour, right now. But I am not allowed to drink alcohol for several days prior to the medical procedure Dr. Pain will perform on Monday. Anyways, I'm broke.

Two strikes, and I'm already out. What the hell kind of baseball is this?

Instead of imbibing, I'm at my apartment, having picked up an enormous armload of dry cleaning from the love of my life (a.k.a. my Korean dry cleaner... who has a leggy blonde girlfriend... who probably has phenomenally clean clothes in addition to her BMW). I began unshelling my clothes, removing their plastic wrappers and mentally counting the dolphins the dry cleaning industry strangles every year, and I saw the first one: a dead sweater.

It's not the dry cleaner's fault. The sweater is - or rather, was - five years old, purchased as part of my inaugural professional wardrobe. It's been a good run. But now, alas, the elastic threads in the knit are separating from the soft merino, and they create shiny little loops as they swirl out from the black fabric. It's not attractive.

I put the sweater on, comforting myself somewhat with the fact that my anatomy has changed shape, so the sweater no longer fits properly anyways.

It's cold comfort. Especially once the sweater is off, because my apartment is freezing.

Another sweater has fallen prey to the same malady. And then, I find that the oatmeal sweater I bought last year, faithfully de-pilling as my purse rubbed its woolly threads into nubbies, has nubbed itself up again. Perhaps beyond redemption. I worked on de-pilling for a good ten minutes, giving my grandmother's old embroidery scissors and my electric pill-remover a good workout, and then called it quits for a time.

The electric pill-remover was getting a wee bit warm for comfort. Nothing like trying to salvage your clothes and setting them afire by mistake, eh?

A tan wool sweaterdress - which once garnered me a date request from a client, which was entirely inappropriate but still flattering - is also incredibly pilled. And snagged. The snag is in the bum region, and it pulled the threads of one row taut across the tush. I worked at that for a time until the one particular thread that seemed to be the worst offender snapped. Whether or not the dress is a lost cause has yet to be seen.

It might take an exploratory wearing for a few hours to find out. Anyways, the turtleneck I had to wear under it to keep from breaking out in a not-so-attrractive rash bit the dust last year, so I have to find a replacement before I can wear it again.

Millionaire clients do not (inappropriately) ask you on dates if you have a rash on your neck, or so I assume.

It appears that I'm now down to a four black turtlenecks, two cream-colored ones, a soft pink one that doesn't stay where it's supposed to because clothing designers don't account for the fact that women have hips (this shirt will sit above the waist, but we will only design pants that ride below the hips! I imagine them cackling fiendishly) and a couple of thin-ish cardigans that I bought because I could wear them during the spring and summer over a shell/camisole without burning up (outside) or freezing (in the office). I have one grey sweater/blazer and an olive green cardigan (that's pilling where my purse brushes against my hip - it will also encounter the electric de-piller tonight) and a multitude of shells and camisoles to wear under the cardigan and blazer.

I used to be a total clotheshorse, but that was in the days before my spate of unemployment, before I began economizing, before 1/4 of my gross income went to medical bills (yeesh). Now I get excited at the prospect of buying a couple of T-shirts at the Gap, whereas before I wouldn't have deigned to do so. It would have been silk blouses from Neimans or nothing.

Well, almost nothing. I've always been something of a champion of high/low dressing.

It just seems like there's considerably more low, of late.

Happy Feet

At my former place of employment - a more corporate environment where I spent half my week in meetings with clients - my wardrobe consisted mostly of high-waisted skirts and sky-high heels, typically with rounded toes.

The former exaggerated the length of my legs in proportion to my body, and the latter exaggerated the utter tininess of my feet.

As I am wont to say when a shoe salesperson looks at me incredulously: "I got little midget feet."

I wear a ladies' size 6-1/2, which, given that I am 5'-8" tall, means my feet are woefully undersized for my height. This creates all sorts of problems, such as the tendency to lose my balance while standing perfectly still.

Now, dear reader, do not believe that I exacerbated my balance issues by wearing stilettos. Au contraire: I had to concentrate more on locomotion, and so tended rather to be more successful at walking than otherwise.

Now, I spend at least one day each week wearing steel-toed boots. I had looked at myself in the mirror while wearing them, of course, but until today, it had not struck me that they give me the appearance of having "normal" feet, or, at least, feet that are more proportional to my height.

I don't think I like this.

As Sir Francis Bacon put it, "There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion."

My personal appearance has always played on this idea, although I did not come across the quote that exemplifies the theory until earlier this year. I like to set off my relatively slender frame with enormous handbags and to overwhelm my somewhat delicate features with outsized sunglasses. Then, of course, there are the previously mentioned methods of exaggerating my already uncommon proportions.

At least I know something that the casual observer does not: my boots are too big.

In order to shove my foot into a Wellington-style boot, I had to buy a pair much larger than I would normally wear. In addition to the tiny foot, attached to long legs that reside at the bottom of a truncated trunk, the arch of my foot is extraordinarily high, and has an instep to accompany that trait.

So my high arches required the boot shaft to be of larger diameter than a men's size 5 (approximately equivalent to a ladies' size 6-1/2). I wear a men's size 6. And thick socks.

And I sigh over the apparent return of my feet to a seemingly normal dimension.

Cut and Paste

Pacman returned to the office, today, and immediately expressed his satisfaction at how I'd been running our current project. He then left me to continue running the project, while he and Scooter deal with some tricky questions and needy contractors who are bidding a church addition. Let's hear it for earning more Intern Development Program hours for Contract Administration! Woohoo!

I decided to celebrate by... treating myself to a shower caddy. And a little plastic organizer thingy for my medicine cabinet so my tubes of face cream and tweezers don't rain down on my head when I open it to pull out my toothbrush in the morning. I threw in a new cutting board as a prize, too.

Once my shower caddy was installed, and my tubes and tweezers and extractors were all safe and sound in their cubbies, I cleaned my makeup brushes, and decided I'd indulged in enough obsessive behavior for one evening.

Let me rephrase that: enough non-creative obsessive behavior.

Shall I explain?

I'm a scrapbooker. Now, before you decide Ms. Strainedconsciousness has turned into a suburban mother of twelve, I should clarify that it is a highly curated design scrapbook, encompassing multiple facets of design: interiors, architecture (the two are inextricably linked, in my not-so-humble-opinion), fashion, and product design.

My "scrapbooks" are Moleskine A3 sketchbooks and/or watercolor books. They can fit a full 9x12 magazine page, or a multitude of tiny pictures. Recently, I've been arranging - carefully, methodically - the latter.

The pages containing multiple images and are arranged similarly to the salon walls of 18th and 19th century manor houses, with one central painting/image surrounded by smaller ones that are more or less related. I tend to related things by color. For that reason, this lady:

(okay, dame) is surrounded by interior images, all of which have a decidedly orange or red tinge, like so:

And an image of Iris Apfel - who wears the world's most amazing jewelry and spectacles - is accompanied by images of a marine hue. As long as that marine area is not Galveston.

Are you catching what I'm throwing, here? It's a wonderful exercise in the study of interiors and architecture and how they relate to individuals' tastes. In addition to Great Personalities, I also collect images off The Sartorialist website (http://thesartorialist.blogspot.com/), firstly to help me in expanding my personal wardrobe horizons and in targeting my wardrobe goals, but also because the way people design themselves can have an impact on the way I design interiors and architectural spaces. The following images are all from the above website.

And I'm in good company, it seems. A collection of Cecil Beaton's scrapbooks is slated to be published in the near future - November, if memory serves. He created his scrapbooks from magazines, movie posters, and snapshots to help him in his studies of lighting photography shoots and how to pose people, and to study how they interacted with their surroundings.

Ms. Strainedconsciousness and Cecil Beaton. Whodathunkit?

What the Modern Female Contract Administrator is Wearing NOW

I saw my neurologist, today, and it's okay, guys: my head is not going to explode any time soon (unless severely provoked by contractors and/or clients' sons). My doctor was a trifle worried by a few things, however.

1) The fact that the delightfully named Neurotin I'm taking - doesn't it sound like something Batman's nemesis would put in Gotham's water? - doesn't completely take care of the neuralgia I'm experiencing as a result of the pinched nerve.

2) The fact that I had three migraines in the past week.

3) The fact that my purse is too damned heavy for her liking.

Issues 1 and 2 are within her purview, but Issue 3 isn't, really. Except that migraines can supposedly by set off by carrying heavy weights on your shoulder. Supposedly. Attractive purses are expensive, though, so I'm going to hold off on satisfying her by buying a lighter one, for now. In the meantime, I've culled the herd of belongings within, and switched to a smaller, lighter weight one in dark green and black... which segues nicely into my post-doctor activity.

I decided I'd lighten my purse's load a bit by hitting The Gap's 40% off Wednesday. Last time around, the delightful cashier somehow managed to take 40% off my whole purchase (I bought a couple of T-shirts and a sweater, despite the 90+ degree weather outside). This time, he was not so generous, perhaps because I spent more.

With the advent of fall-ish weather (followed by its rapid disappearance, unless you consider 85 degrees to be fall-ish), I started surveying my clothes. A lot of the clothes I bought this time last year no longer fit me properly for one reason or another (no, I have not gained weight), and I'm tired of wearing jeans all the time.

But I don't feel confident in khakis. Maybe it was the summer spent trapped in the attic floor of a reputably boring architecture firm with a bunch of bitter female architects, all of whom wore khakis and pastel sweater sets every single day, but I just can't abide wearing khakis. I'd rather wear a nice pair of dark denim jeans with a trim crease down the front, thank you.

But I wear jeans every day, now, so I decided to shake things up by buying a pair of *gasp* corduroy pants, cut similarly to jeans, in a nice shade of dark grey.

The (attractive and straight) cashier at The Gap looked at the clothes I was buying - a few long-sleeved T-shirts, a lovely and soft cream colored blouse, the cords, and two turtlenecks - and remarked that I seemed fond of grey and olive green and cream.

He has a point, and a well thought-out one, at that. I told him of my Master Plan for clothing myself, which involves buying limited colors of clothes that can all be mixed and matched in endless variations. So olive green, grey, cream, and a lovely rusty-orangey-pinkish color are my go-to colors. I'm not about to toss out everything that fails to conform to the New Closet Order, however, because navy blue chiffon blouses from DKNY... from 10 years ago, natch... look smashing with dark grey and olive green.

And, of course, I still have black clothes in my wardrobe, because I'd have to hand in my Architect Card if I didn't. The funny glasses were recently made optional in order to retain the (imaginary) Architect Card, but I cling to the old ways and proudly wear them on those days when I get shampoo in my eye.

OCDesign Taking Over My Life

Once again, I took out my OCD tendencies on the company archives. We ran out of archive tubes for the drawings, however, so I unleashed my fury on the jumbled slides of past projects and miscellania littering our slide and materials library.

I accomplished a lot. Whoever last attempted the project had no idea what they were doing. In all honestly, I don't always know what I'm doing, either, as some of the projects in the slides are older, less prestigious projects that aren't much discussed around the office. Putting them with their fellows is difficult, at best, and I can't exactly ask Oldsmobile for help, as he can't see the slides well enough to tell what they are showing.

During my lunch hour, I performed my daily cruise of the Dallas Craigslistings in the furniture section, and found a pair of lurvely orange chairs, very mid-Century Modern and fantastic. They are not quite what I'm looking for for my apartment, though, although the $200 price tag (for the pair!) made me stop for a second look. And then a third.

Of course, the idea of chairs for the apartment - to replace the love seat that is looking rather sad, even under its colorful coverlet - got me on a roll, and I obsessively began collecting images on the interwebs of the shape of chairs that would be acceptable for my apartment.

Because, you know, I don't need lampshades or anything. Or clothes.

I gave up looking for chairs online - I found the ones I want, and they're beautiful, but some jerk in Elle Decor already owns them, sheesh - and began obsessing about other facets of design.

Facets of design that include my personal appearance. In particular, a facet of design called My Face.

This is not an unusual phase for me. I'll go through a period of time where I'll roll along, same old same old skincare routine, and then BAM I will want to try something new, because what I've done for the past 27 years just isn't cutting it in the pore-refining category.

Over the weekend, I had a little bite of the Skincare Bug, in the form of trying to use a mudmask my dad brought me back from his last trip to Jordan. I had used some of it about a year ago with no ill effects, and decided to do it again.

It appears that Jordanian mud masks do not last more than one year. It smelled, quite literally, like perfumed crap, and the salts and solids refused to reincorporate with the liquids, so it was rather runny, blobby crap, indeed. Not a pleasant experience.

I manage to mix a bit of it together in my hands to the right consistency - at this point, I honestly don't know why I was proceeding - and rubbed it onto my face.

I have sensitive skin. Skin that is sensitive to past-its-expiration-date once-wonderful-now-crappy perfumed mud. It burned. It stung. I cursed.

I was nowhere near as happy as this lovely young lady appears to be:

The resurfaced top of my lovely rental vanity was covered with watered-down muck by the time I succeeded in rinsing off all the mud/muck-mask.

I pity my neighbor. Every time I whack an elbow in my closet (once per week, on average) or slather something on my face that I shouldn't, she has to hear me bellowing at the top of my lungs, usually in language about as offensive as the mud-mask turned out to be. She should get a discount on her rent, akin to ambassadors who get hardship pay for living in uncomfortable or hostile environments.

So my disastrous dalliance with the mud-mask launched me on my newest skin-care expedition. When I had my facial a few months back, the aesthetician used some lovely glycol peeling pads on my face. I cannot locate them online. I could call the Spa at Nordstrom and inquire about them, I guess, but they're really expensive.

Or, I could go to Sephora when I go pick up my jeans (they're being hemmed, and not for free, because I wanted it done correctly), and hunt around until I find the particular product I saw recommended in a friend's copy of Real Simple magazine. It's the mid-range one, pricewise, and it looks promising.

Hmmm... Of course, that's one fewer shirt next month.

Decisions, decisions.

The Gods Must Be... Kind of Mean

The Good News: I found my beloved teardrop necklace. It was sneaky, hiding under the stiffener-board in the bottom of my cowhide duffel bag.

You read that correctly: cowhide duffel bag.

The Bad News: The Gods of Lost and Found Articles decided to exact a price for my being able to locate my necklace. The price? An earring, sent into a death spiral down the drain of my sink.

I considered buying a wrench so I could save it. I went to Home Depot to price wrenches - the big kind, that you use to remove P-traps where your favorite earring lies, lonely and abandoned.

Buying a decent wrench - because I do not buy cheap tools - would cost more than buying a new pair of earrings.

I bought a new pair of earrings.

Ralph Lauren makes this particular pair every season. They're little silver pebble-shaped studs, and they're unobtrusive and classic. Like my teardrop necklace.

So I paid my pound of flesh to the Gods of Lost and Found. And then I paid about 6 pounds of flesh to Seven for All Mankind to buy a pair of new jeans, because they last a long time, and they're low maintenance, and they hem them for free.

So my clothing budget for the month is gone on a pair of earrings and a pair of trouser-cut jeans, and I will just have to wait until next month to buy anything else, I guess. Hopefully, it will cool off by that time, so I can break out my fall/winter clothes. Hopefully, but - this being Texas - doubtfully.

Lying Abed After Work

Yes, I am already happily ensconced in my bed, and it's only 6:30, Texas time. I have downed a bowl full of curry and rice, followed by a white nectarine for dessert, and am taking a well deserved rest.

You see, dear reader, I am almost finished with my archival duties.

Almost.

Today, more boxes were sorted through, albeit with less gusto than on previous days. Today, the routine was more along the lines of my poking through the box, saying to myself, "Yup, they're all project files of one form or other," and putting a new lid on the box.

Most of our file boxes are lidless, a fact that initially struck me as inexplicable, given that file boxes are sold with lids. The mystery was solved when I found a stockpile of unassembled file box lids lurking in a corner of the office. WHAT. THE. HECK.

And the guys complained that the boxes didn't stack properly. No kidding, geniuses! They DON'T HAVE LIDS.

Anyway, Radio was kind enough to haul out four file boxes to the recycling dumpster for me yesterday, but did not make the mistake of doing so today. His comment to me after completing that task was "How are you able to carry these things around?"

"I just move them a few feet at a time, or I incrementally lift them and carry them on my shoulder," I said.

"Huh." I only have to move them a few feet at a time, as I decided to just sort through them all in the archive room, rather than moving them around.

Nothing interesting really stood out, today, insofar as archival articles go. I did find a box of framed pictures - mostly limited edition cartoons and prints - stacked at the bottom of a tower of boxes, all of which were much heavier and less fragile than the box full of pictures, none of which had the glass broken.

I also decided that I would reward myself, today, by taking a full lunch hour and by taking a few goodies from the archive room.

Now, before you call the police, or the TBAE, or something, let me state that nothing I took had anything to do with the firm, and they were duplicates. As in, I took a postcard, because there were literally 20 of them in a box, along with a Key Club bumper sticker (I have no idea how many of those there were, because there were so darn many). After carrying a 4-foot wide and 10-foot long roll of gridded mylar into the office and saying, "Uh, guys? What do I do with this?" and being answered with "Throw it away," I decided that it would be better off coming home with me for art project purposes.

Speaking of art, did you know it's almost impossible to find colorfast grey tissue paper? Anywhere? I tried "making my own" by layering black and white tissue paper (it's for a collage) but that didn't work out. It appears that if you want colorfast grey tissue paper, you must buy 480 sheets of it. So I now have 960 sheets of grey tissue paper coming my way, because I needed two different colors of it.

Everybody, prepare to have all of your gifts wrapped in grey tissue paper until the day I die. Or, conversely, if you'd like some, let me know, and when my project is finished, I'll send you some.

Or maybe I could just end my clothing crisis and start wearing tissue paper clothes.

Teardrop

I have lost a necklace. I have no idea where it is. The last time I remember seeing it - or wearing it - was when I was at my parents' house.

The necklace was incredibly special to me, not because someone gave it to me. Quite the contrary, it was special because it was the first piece of "real" jewelry I bought for myself: not silver plated, not costume jewelry, but a simple Elsa Peretti silver teardrop from Tiffany's. I had seen it and coveted it, and I wanted it terribly.

I managed to scrape up enough money, about 8 years ago, to buy it for myself, and I have worn it almost every day since then, save for those days when the pearls I received for my 16th birthday were more appropriate, or when I decided to be a bit more outlandish, and threw on the North African silver mail necklace I picked up in the flea market in Amsterdam.

Not having the necklace leaves me feeling uncertain, because I don't have my old standby to wear. I'm having to delve deeper into my jewelry box, past the tiny gold-leaf-encrusted ceramic heart my sister gave me, that hangs from a waxed cord - the only piece of heart jewelry I think I will ever wear - and into the jewelry box, to pluck out a necklace of heavy stones with a carved jade pendant, or the bronze necklace with the red coral beads, big around as your thumb, that dangle from the ends.

Perhaps the missing necklace will be good for me, and force me out of my comfort zone. I design for a living, and perhaps I should be riskier with the way I design my appearance.

But then, I have always had a penchant for the classics, and clung to the things that worked.

For years, I wore the gold locket I was given as a baby, until it fell out of the pocket of my purse while I hunted for a valet ticket. The restaurant washed their patio, that night, and no one had turned it into the lost and found. Gone forever, a gift from my great grandmother.

A pair of favorite jeans, ones I've owned for 10 years and that I fancied incredibly expensive when I bought them, recently ripped at the hem. Or, rather, they ripped a good 3 inches above the hem. I am left with yet another dilemma: do I patch them, as they are still holding up decently in other places, or do I toss them out? I wear them often in the summer, since the denim is now so thin that they are too chilly for winter wearing, but they do look tired. Particularly with the gash that cuts across them right above the arch of my foot.

For a while, I didn't buy clothes, because I had just bought a sofa, I was being more financially responsible and saving more money. Then, I didn't buy clothes because I had mountains of medical bills to pay and no energy to shop. The medical bills aren't flowing as quickly, these days, and I did buy myself a few things to wear, recently, but now I'm struggling with another question: I need new clothes, because the torn jeans, in addition to my first "expensive" pair of jeans that I bought 4 years ago, are verging on unwearable, so do I buy new clothes, or do I put that off and replace the necklace? Will the necklace have the same meaning it did before, now that I am able to replace it more easily (although that amount of money is one with which I will never gladly part)?

Or will it just be something pretty that hangs around my neck?

Seriously?

I slept well, last night; it was the second good night's sleep I've had in about three weeks.

I ended up skipping Radio's birthday party because I wasn't well enough to go. Sure, I guess I could have gone, if I'd loaded up on oral muscle relaxers and injected myself full of the other ones, and I did have someone who offered to drive me there and back, but I knew I'd still be in pain, and that my would-be-driver - who we'll refer to as Jonah - would have been forced to dance attendance on me all evening. And by "all evening" I mean "for the one hour I probably would have lasted before either 1) falling asleep curled up in a corner or; B) demanding I be taken home because the pain had grown unbearable."

I have a hunch Jonah wouldn't have minded his role as attendance-dancer-on-er, seeing as he offered to skip the party altogether to come entertain me at my apartment, but my emotional state is somewhat volatile, right now, what with all the trauma/drama/ramalamadingdong going on, and I think the last thing I need is another potential upset, or the guilt from potentially upsetting someone else.

So after skipping last night's soiree, I arose at 8:30 am Sunday - which is a miracle, and I think I should be canonized for it - dressed, and was at La Madeleine by 9:15 for breakfast. I decided I should eat something healthy involving a jam-slathered-croissant before I took my oral muscle relaxer, and La Madeleine is usually a nice quiet place to eat breakfast.

USUALLY being the key word, here. Because on this particular Sunday, it was full of loud blowhard men (I will not call them gentlemen, judging by their coarse language in the presence of ladies) who had no concept of the sanctity of others' solitude or their potential need for quietness. It's a very small La.M., so sound travels very easily. I tried shooting a couple of dirty looks at one of the tables, but that apparently led the corpulent 60-something leading the hard-blowing charge to think I was enamored of him as he just winked at me. I sneered and went back to (vainly attempting to) read my Economist. A few minutes passed and he walked by my table en route to refill his coffee cup.

"Watcha reading?" he inquired.

"I'm trying to read The Economist," I replied.

"Yeah, it's a difficult magazine."

I lowered said magazine. "It's not the magazine that's difficult, it's the loudness of the other patrons and their interruptions that makes the reading slow going." I raised said magazine. He walked off to refill his coffee. He didn't stop by again on the way to the table. In fact, he took a decidedly circuitous route to avoid passing near my table, and I can't imagine why. I'll chalk it up to the dark circles under my eyes and my Seek and Destroy Metallica shirt. The winged skull with fangs is fairly intimidating to the uninitiated.

By the time I left, just a few minutes after my encounter with the corpulent interloper, I was starting to feel weak again - the opposite effect desired after a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, tomato, croissant, and a potato galette. I drove home, took the elevator upstairs, grabbed a glass of iced tea, and fell into bed. The pain was staggering and so was I, despite the fact that I'd given myself an injection before I left for breakfast, hoping to stave off the pain long enough until I got back from eating. I took the oral muscle relaxers, and settled down to read some more of my Economist.

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to follow the stories in The Economist when you are half stoned out of your mind? Incredibly difficult. I know who Nicholas Sarkozy is. He's the president of France. No. Wait. He's the prime minister. Damn it. Which one is it? Which one is more important in French government? I should know this. But at present, the only thing I know is that his wife is gorgeous, he's short, and his name is involved in a scandal surrounding the L'Oreal heiress' fortune, but I'd still accept a date from him if he offered it. You know, once he's tired of being married to a supermodel/renowned singer, 'cause I'm next in line.

What am I going to do this next week when I return to work? I can't take the oral muscle relaxers before I leave for the office, since I can't drive for 6-8 hours after ingesting them (neat!), so after taking them at work, that should give me a good solid 30 minutes of work at the office before my level of concentration drops to nil and I start twiddling my thumbs and singing Frere Jacques to myself.

I also have no idea what will happen if I'm on the muscle relaxers and I have to sit up all day. Will they be as effective as they are currently, when I take them and then lie in bed, reading biographies of aristocratic women and trying to focus my eyes on pictures in the shelter magazines that constantly arrive at my house? Would it be unprofessional to set up a cot in my cubicle and move my computer to a cardboard box next to it? Or could I just talk to Oldsmosbile and Radio and see if I can work from home for a couple of days?

And most importantly, will I have to wear pants? I'm pretty sure part of my comfort level at home is the lack of pants involved - I'm taking my cues from the likes of Wonder Woman and Lady Gaga on this one - and I'm afraid wearing pants will interfere with the healing process.

I think the pants might definitely interfere. Think a more Gaga wardrobe could pass muster?

Running Hither and Thither

I spent most of my day running around like a headless chicken. This, in itself, is no different from how I usually spend my weekends, except for the amount of money spent.

My first task was to knock out Father's Day gifts, which I did with great elan. I wandered around Northpark for a while afterward, looking for clothes for myself, hoping I might catch some great deals, or see something I didn't see two weekends ago when I went clothes shopping (with limited success).

No dice. I have apparently exhausted my options for the current buying cycle and for my budget at Northpark Mall.

What to do? My wardrobe is still in a parlous state, so I decided to do the only thing I could think of doing: make the lengthy trek to Allen and brave the crowds at the outlet mall.

Outlet malls hold all the appeal to me that theme parks do: Jostling around with the unwashed masses, picking through clothes that were picked over in stores previously, and have been picked over again in their Outlet incarnation. The idea holds little charm for me. But my good old standbys had failed me, so I was desperate.

I hit the BCBG outlet first, to no avail. Even at "outlet" prices, and on sale on top of that, their clothes were still overpriced. Waaaaaaaaay overpriced. I almost wonder if they didn't mark them up before "marking them down." Or maybe I just always buy clothes at their regular retail stores when they're on superduper sale, so I've forgotten how much they cost.

After leaving BCBG, I walked halfway across the stupid mall to the J. Crew outlet. I found two shells and a cardigan and called it a day. The shells are both neutral - grey and beige - but are out of a crinkly silk fabric. They'll work well with multiple cardigan/jacket combinations, and aren't so ridiculously bare that I couldn't take off the cardigan if I was stuck on a construction site for three hours.

Granted, I'd be sunburned on that construction site, but that's neither here nor there.

The cardigan is basic black. I almost grabbed a black and white horizontal striped cardigan, then remembered that I already have one.

I have a thing for stripes, okay?

After leaving the Outlet Mall from Hades, I decided to go get a pedicure at the cheapo nail place near my parents' house. It was totally worth it, and my nails are now pretty and shiny and coated with a slick of metallic beige polish. The leg massage was better than usual, as was the foot massage.

And then, I reasoned, I might as well just go to my parents' house, even though I knew they weren't there for the afternoon. I wanted to hang out with my dog for a while.

What up, Dog?

Major Tom (yes, that is my dog's real name, not his nom d'usage for the blog - I don't think he'll complain about being outed) was overjoyed to see me, even more so when I left to get barbecue for dinner and let him have some of the pulled pork I didn't eat. I scratched him for almost the entire 5 1/2 hours I was with him - except for while eating, and of course when I went to get the food - and my fingers are sore, now.

And en route to my apartment, after abandoning my dear old dog, I freaked out. Because my car is really bouncy when I drive it. Which makes me think it might need new shocks and/or struts. So maybe I shouldn't have gone to J. Crew after all... Oh well, that's why they make their clothes Final Sale I guess! Oh, darn...

Holey Shirt!

While getting dressed this morning, I realized something. Something that is kind of disturbing. Something that is going to end up costing me money.

The clothes that I wear most often are those that I've owned for 5+ years.

What made me realize this? First, the dress I went to put on this morning - which I bought 4 years ago - is stained and discolored beyond repair (it's white, but with colored stitching, so no bleaching). That was okay, I'd suspected it was time to part ways with it... or turn it into really high-quality dusting cloths (I will be the only girl in my apartment complex with BCBG dustrags).

Then, I decided to wear a skirt (owned for 9 years). Nothing wrong with the skirt. Miraculously, it still fits after 9 years. However, the only shirt that I have with which it coordinates is also about 9 years old, and the pointelle detailing around the neckline is dead. The elastic has come out, stretched out completely, and pokes out between the knit border in gargantuan looping spirals.

One of my favorite summer sweaters has bitten the proverbial dust.

The shirt I'm currently wearing is a good 4 years old, and it still looks okay, but that's because I rarely wear it. It's black, and the neckline is a little bit lower than I'm typically comfortable wearing in the office. And I wear black entirely too often. It's paired with a denim pencil skirt I bought right after I started working for Oldsmobile, when its (8 year old) predecessor decided not to resume its shape after years of happily hugging my curves. Stupid Lycra. I can't believe it only lasted 8 years. On the upside, Oldsmobile complimented me on my appearance, today.

So it appears that the lampshades for my lovely lovely lamps will have to wait while I go through, look at my clothes, see what is salvageable, and what needs to be tossed, and then go hit the sales and discount clothing stores, this weekend. I usually avoid discount stores like the plague, but I think if I shop carefully, I can find some good clothes that will (hopefully) last me a long time. Maybe I'll find some more 8-10 year sweaters.

In other news, my favorite pair of jeans has a hole just south of a back pocket, but I'll be damned if I'm going to give up on them. That's why God invented iron-on denim patches, right?