Click And Clack Crack Me Up

This post is dedicated to Lynn Soon Small, who is a woman after my own heart in oh so many ways. And my dad, who I only roll my eyes at because I am him incarnate.

Let me tell you about my ideal Saturday. I get up early. I wake up slow. I take the dogs for a walk and take myself for a run. I drink chocolate Silk soy milk and eat Nutella on three-grain sourdough with a banana on the side. I put on a mumu, turn on the radio, tune it to NPR and listen to 'Car Talk.' Yes, 'Car Talk.'

For those of you who don't know, 'Car Talk' is, at least in theory, a call-in radio show for people seeking helpful advice on problems with their automobiles. Much like the title suggests. But in reality, it's much more than that. It's an hour of life lessons and comedy served up by two brothers who know almost everything about cars and plenty about everything else.

Most of my friends know I'm a regular listener of NPR's programming. Neal Conan and Robert Siegel could talk me to sleep every night of my life for the rest of my life and I'd be happy. I think Steve Inskeep is hot. 'Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me' makes life worth living. But 'Car Talk' is sort of my dirty little NPR secret. My affinity for public radio confirms my status as a nerd. And I embrace that. But 'Car Talk' pushes me into an entirely new realm, where book smarts meets automotive and vehicular knowledge and East Coast wise-cracking. Perhaps this just makes me MORE nerdy, but I like to think it gives me some points under 'practical' and 'street cred.' Regardless, I'm hooked.

This 'Car Talk' revelation might not be that shocking to most of my readers. But I know my dad is incredibly disoriented right now as he reads this. I have spent years, even decades, trying to show my father my disdain for Click and Clack. On Saturday mornings, while we ate breakfast around the kitchen counter, my dad would be guffawing at these nasally voices and wheezing laughs saying things like "what do you want to bet they say it's the alternator? what do you want to bet?" I would roll my eyes (it was my signature move indicating parental annoyance for most of the 1990's) and say something sarcastic and beg him to turn off the radio so that I could watch 'Star Trek: The Next Generation.' I was nerdy even back then.

But my dad didn't give in. And why should he? Beginning when he married my mother and continuing with more intensity each time a daughter was born, my dad has been gracefully taking into account of the needs of the women in his life. In other words, giving in. Not because he had to under threat of death or anything, but mostly because he is smart enough and kind enough to pick his battles. And looking back, I can see he really only chose a few. 'Car Talk', however, was one that he was not willing to let go of. The last bastion of his foothold in the Clark Castle. He endured an hour of heavy sighing and teenage whining and enjoyed his program over the din of it all. But here's the thing...

I was listening. And laughing. On the inside of course, only internal laughing would do when I was trying to get my angst across on the outside, it was the grunge era after all. But I liked the show. I liked the jokes, the Puzzler and even the advice about cars. I liked to listen to my dad laugh at Tom and Ray laughing at themselves. I was then and continue to be a terrible driver. And if you asked me what kind of car it was that rear-ended me I'd probably answer something like "blue with a Jesus fish thing stuck on it." I know very little of the ins or outs of cars. But that show taught me a thing or two, namely that I don't have to know everything about cars but I do have to know enough not to get screwed around with when getting mine fixed.

And so, it continues. When Dave first discovered this habit, he was highly annoyed. He couldn't believe I would make him listen to such dribble and just WHAT was I laughing at so hard...and suddenly he was hooked, too. He hears what I hear: two men who love each other, their own jokes and cars. Somehow they have combined those loves into a career and a cult-following that makes us all envious of those who can make money doing something they would probably do for free anyway. And in addition to all the technical vernacular, I'm sure that's what my dad loves as well.

Next Saturday morning think of me, holding my tea, laughing out loud, trying to think up a problem that would be worthy of calling and asking the Car Talk brothers. Think of my dad, holding his coffee, laughing out loud, trying to think of the answer to the problems of the callers to one-up the Car Talk brothers. At that moment, on Saturday morning, the universe is in balance. Or as close as it can get.

I Love Yoop

Everyone has a certain fondness for their hometown, the setting of their childhood, the haunts of their formative years. We all take pride in our regional affiliations, New Yorkers think it's the only city in the world, people in L.A. think the west coast is where it's at, people from Toronto think Canada ends at the edge of the T-dot suburbs, and British Columbians believe all other areas of the universe are hellish dungeons. Yoopers (people from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan) believe, scratch that, know that all the bits of Michigan south of the Mackinac bridge are rather useless. But for people from this slightly rabbit-shaped slice of heaven it's more than just bragging rights. Yoopers share a culture, a mindset, a lifestyle that brings us together even when we leave home. If you go to most major cities in the U.S., you'll find groups of us huddled together in shady bars. When we introduce ourselves, we subtly remind you we aren't from the mitten-shaped part of Michigan so please don't ask us to point to your hand because you can't find us on that map. Maybe what draws us so closely together is that unlike east vs. west rivalries or tensions that run along the Mason-Dixon line, our regional pride isn't in competition with anyone. Sure, we belong on one peninsula of a two-peninsula state. But even that doesn't put us in a contenst of northern vs. southern Michigan because a) they don't give a rat's ass about us and b) we know we have won by making them think they don't want to be up here.

I remember once my sister brought a friend to visit the U.P. for the first time. We were walking down the street on his first morning here when, after only a block or two, the friend stopped us and said “I know this is a small town, but this is ridiculous! How can you know ALL these people?” We didn’t know them, or at least not all of them. But here it’s normal to greet someone you pass on the sidewalk with hello/good morning/how are you today and while you’re at it, hold the door open for someone who is coming into a store behind you. Manners are important, but in the heart of a Yooper you’ll find more than that.

Here you find people who continue to thrive through very cold, very snowy, very long winters as though it is a just form of payment for the other three abbreviated but glorious seasons. In fact, up until May most Yoopers are complaining when there isn't enough snow. The weather here may be considered a drawback by outsiders, but natives know that the blinding blue sky in winter that brings the below-zero temperatures is the same sky that brings the glorious sunny days of summer. We understand that the weather in our climate makes this place unlivable for some, and for that reason we don't complain too much even in the longest winter because we fear overpopulation. We love snowsuits and long underwear as much as we love swimsuits and flip flops and we'll find a way outside regardless of the forecast.

We're people of the earth, and we like to glide, ride or stomp over the ground to commune with nature as often as we can. Some teenagers rely on parties at the home of a absent parent, but Yoopers simply take to the woods with tents, four-wheel drive vehicles and Boone's Farm or Pabst Blue Ribbon. We don't really mind being dirty or cold just as long as we're together on a beach/boat/porch/moutain sharing some stories and some spirits. And when the rest of the state making fun of us like we are hicks who just hunt and fish and say 'eh' while wearing camoflague vests while we ride snowmobiles to work, we take it with a grain of salt an often add our own punchlines. Because ultimately, the joke isn't on us.

We believe in the power of where we're from. Serendipity has made it so we were born in a small town with open minds. Big water, infinite trees, higher education and sophisticated medical treatment. Speed limits never to exceed 55 miles per hour. Hundreds of miles from a Gap or an Abercrombie or a Chili's, despite the invasion of Target and Walmart and Applebee's, our home seems to spawn a more original and interesting people than other parts of the country. For many people, a visit home means to visit those they love. And while most of us make the pilgrimage from where life has brought us back to where we came from in part to wrap our arms around those we love, none of us would deny that we also come to touch the water, smell the air and sit on the ground of a place that is as just as a part of who we are as any person ever could be.

Dangerous Crossings

Over the years Dave and I have crossed many international borders together. Most frequently and most obviously, the United States-Canada border. And when we head towards the glorious wheat-city of Brandon, Manitoba, we usually cross at the most geographically convenient spot also known as the International Peace Garden along the border of North Dakota. As Caitlin or Abby or Liz or Nell could tell you, sometimes getting past immigration officials, even when you are totally legit, is a bit tricky.

For the first couple years of our marriage, we weren't full-time residents of either of our native countries. We weren't full-time residents anywhere, so this made answering questions about our permanent residence a tad confusing. And when I say confusing, I mean terrifying. Various border agents at various times have made us very nearly shit ourselves with their thinly veiled threats. I fully realize they have a job to do, but I also have to believe that we are in no way the biggest immigration concern. Regardless, we made all kinds of effort to avoid these stressful encounters. We traveled separately, had friends drive Dave across the border, and pretended now to know each other in line at the airport. And crossing at the Peace Gardens involves the most elaborate of planning, since they seem to have too many staff and too few vehicles rolling through.

Thinking and planning these palm sweat soaked crossings was exhausting, but several months ago we filled out thousands of papers (not literally) and paid thousands of dollars (literally) to make this process so much easier.

Dave got his green card. Which isn't green and is actually called his Permanent Resident Card. And no, this does not make him an American, but he is a Permanent Resident Alien. He has the right to work and reside here for the foreseeable future. In 2019 we will have to fill out more paper and pay more money to continue this hullabaloo, but I am banishing it from my mind until then. And so, as we returned from Canada to the United States this week all my fears were assuaged. I knew we would breeze through by simply flashing our passports, that magical card and my endearing smile. So you must imagine my surprise when, after nearly an hour inside the customs/immigration building while my car was emptied and searched and my dogs were tied to a post where I couldn't even see them, I was still being asked questions like this:

Officer of Customs and Immigration Law: "Do you have any tobacco products?"
Lane and Dave: "No."
Officer: "None?"
Lane and Dave: "None."
Officer: "You don't smoke?"
Lane and Dave: "No."
Officer: "Really? No pipes? No papers? Nothing at all? Nothing?"
Lane and Dave: "No?"
Officer: raises eyebrows skeptically

By the end of that line of questioning, I was actually confused. Do I smoke? Did I buy a carton of cigarettes on some kind of sleepwalking excursion? And the Tobacco Inquisition of 2009 is only one example of what that 90 minutes held for us.

Now of course I realize that these people have a job to do. I get that. But at the border crossing between Bossevian, MB and Dunseith, ND there isn't a whole lot happening. It's not like crossing at a major city or through an airport hub. Others who crossed (without inquiry or search, I might add) while we waited included elderly people in a Lincoln, families in campers and a semi-truck full of giant hogs. We didn't carry any booze, our dogs have more papers than most humans to document vaccinations and I did not pack citrus fruit in my lunch. I've had one too many orange confiscated, I don't play that game. And yet still, there we sat, under suspicion and adding moments to our 9 hour journey.

When we were finally allowed to return to our car, we found it in a state of disarray. I have inherited my packing sense from my father. Packing a trunk is like a game of Tetris, and these border guards clearly never owned a Game Boy. Everything they couldn't fit sat on a very surgical looking stainless steel table and several guards wearing rubber gloves and wielding high powered flashlights watched with what I can only describe as bemusement as we repacked the car and reunited with the dogs.

We drove away, silent at first as we sulked about the time lost. Then laughing, more like nervous giggles, at the irony that our first search after getting the green card was the most aggressive yet. Then, not laughing anymore, we searched the atlas for an alternate point of crossing next year.

Celebrate Twenty-Eight

Tomorrow is my birthday. I'm not shy about telling you or any other person I come across that 28 years ago today I made my way out of Deborah's uterus and into the world. I'm not completely obsessed with my birthday like some people I know (my sister), in fact I see that I didn't even mention it at all in my blog last summer. But I don't pretend it isn't happening or lie about my real age either. Because while I do feel myself aging when it comes to hangovers, taste in fashion, choice of underwear and sleeping in, I don't feel old. Sure, in 730 days I will turn 30, but who is counting? I have a hard enough time battling societal pressures to be thin, successful and appropriately feminine all while having plucked eyebrows (which I don't) and a working knowledge of celebrity gossip (also missing this). I refuse to get upset about getting older. My birthday is the one day in the year I can officially make all about me. Sure, there are other unofficial days that I also try and make about me, but on my birthday it's completely legit. I get together with friends, eat my favorite foods, and celebrate being alive for another year.

Because when you think of it, what's not to celebrate? True, as I get older I get closer to crow's feet and death, but life is way too interesting and way too much fun to worry about things that are inevitable anyway. Why mourn getting older when you can instead think of what you would have missed in the past year?

If I hadn't had this 27th year it's pretty disturbing to think of the things I would have missed out on. I would never have been there to see my friend Kim incubate and then evacuate two babies. The Murph got married. My sister started real life and rocks at it. My parents celebrated another year of an awesome marriage. I followed along closely as Jenn and Lesya grow tiny humans. We found Enid and brought her into our family. Dave had the best season of his personal career and I proudly got to watch much of it. I reconnected with old friends that help me remember who I was and who I could be. I made new friends that make all this constant moving worth the heartache. I went to Las Vegas, tasted fancy wines, spent many a night dancing until my sexy but impractical shoes had to be kicked off. I ran two half-marathons and finally held crow's pose in yoga class.

So, in honor of my birthday I plan to cheer aging and hip hip hooray to my late-twenties. I'll get up early, walk my dogs, get a massage from the master of all massages, go for a pedicure, swim laps and lay by the pool with Jenn and Ash, then go to a Spaghetti Birthday Party being thrown in honor of my favorite comfort food! What's to boo hoo over when a day like that even exists? Life can be stressful, getting older can hurt the joints. But we're here for now and that's more than anyone could ask for. Thanks to those of you who have sent me your happy thoughts already, I hope we can be together soon while I spend the next 12 months working on getting to 29!

A Frienship With No Bread...Still Has Potatoes

Generally speaking most of you know me as a pretty healthy person. I don’t eat meat. I’ve cut back drastically on dairy. My friend’s mother and, I like to think, my friend Tina Ostwald once told me “the whiter the bread (rice, grain, etc), the sooner you’re dead.” I exercise for pleasure. I exercise for health. I medidtate to try and keep stress levels low-ish and I do crossword puzzles to avoid Ahlzheimer’s. But I do not, and never will, give up certain guilty pleasures. Selections from this list include:

Red Vines. Nacho Cheese Doritos. Powdered donuts. Pizza. Golden Grahams. Chocolate chip cookies. Funfetti cake. Blueberry pancakes.

But since this season began, I’ve been eating drastically less of all of the above mentioned items. Not because they are bad for me, which they are. Not because I’ve gained more willpower, because I haven’t. But simply because the person I’ve spent most of my social (ie: eating) time with is Jenn. And Jenn can’t eat any of these things. Correction: Jenn can eat these things, but they will make her violently ill and increase her chances of further medical issues down the road. It’s a trade-off I guess.

See Jenn has Celiac disease, and you can read more about that here, which is basically an allergy to gluten. Gluten is found in wheat, barley and rye. When you take a minute to think about all that this really includes, the North American mind is staggered. Bread, in all it’s glorious and wonderful forms including an ‘everything’ bagel, is out. Beer, unless you mean the Asian varieties like Sapporo, is out. Beer and pretzels gone from your diet. The ballpark is ruined forever.

As Jenn’s friend and a person with self-imposed dietary restrictions, I decided to take a hands-on and proactive approach to eating with Jenn. And since eating is a prime component of most of my friendships, taking this step was crucial. First of all, if and when it becomes necessary for Jenn to explain her condition to people, they often exclaim things like ‘I’d DIE without bread!’ or ‘Life wouldn’t be worth living without cupcakes!’ I know how they feel, but neither statement is true and both are annoying to someone who both continues living without bread AND considers that life worthwhile without cupcakes. I sympathize with Jenn on this because when people discover that I’m a vegetarian they say similar things, replacing ‘bread’ or ‘cupcakes’ with ‘steak’ or ‘turkey.’

So I looked into it, and discovered some very good news. Nacho Cheese Doritos are out, but Cool Ranch are in! Red Vines and all other licorice are a no-go, but Sour Patch Kids are completely fine! Potatoes, my favorite food of all time in their various forms, are completely and utterly edible. In fact, since becoming pregnant Jenn could have lived on Potato Skins alone! You can make gluten-free (GF) flour for baking, and better yet, you can buy it pre-made! Sure, it’s more expensive than normal flour but maybe that’s a GOOD thing! It really makes you think twice before making a batch of cookies all willy nilly! Use the GF flour as a one-to-one substitute in your recipe and reduce the cooking time slightly. Voile! Anyone could be fooled!

Eating out includes another set of issues. Obviously Italian restaurants, what with the pre-meal bread and the requisite pasta, aren’t ideal. But Jenn is a trooper, and once in a while she’s up for calling the restaurant ahead, bringing her own pasta, and having them make it for her. Sandwich shops are often also kind of a write-off, because while they could wrap the sandwich contents in lettuce ala Atkins diet, that gets old. But Japanese, Chinese and Mexican food, all with acceptable carbs like rice or corn tortillas, always fit the bill. Salads are available anywhere, and Jenn never says boo as long as she can order one. I’ve expanded my palate to include sushi (don’t roll your eyes, more on that later) and a number of Mexican dishes that I would have balked at previously, all because of my desire to spend time eating with my dear friend Jenn.

There are always snags, when I forget that something includes gluten as a elasticity agent or if I assume something is GF just because a similar food also is. But Jenn forgives me, because she has also had to learn the sometimes tricky art of feeding a vegetarian, remembering to look at ingredients closely and realize that chicken stock is not vegetarian and ‘imitation crab’ simply means it’s some other kind of fish instead of crab. Still meat my friends. This year the team had a large group of girls who loved to get together regularly and, you guessed it, eat. For some of them having two vegetarians and one gluten-intolerant diner was a bit overwhelming and made cooking difficult. But we reminded them that a veggie platter meets everyone’s needs, and pizza sans meat works in a pinch because Jenn will provide her own corn tortillas onto which she scrapes all the toppings. Remember? Trooper.

When I drive back to my old friends in a few weeks, my intake of the foods on Jenn’s forbidden list will surely go up. It’s not good for my waistline, but it’s inevitable since I’ll surely be lazier and less consistent without Jenn around. But more than that, I’ll miss the fact that I could buy a GF pack of cookies and use it as an excuse to spend time with my head in the lap of my friend. Yes, she lets me put my head in her lap. And she even pats my hair. As happy as I’ll be to reunite with my much loved and much missed friends from other places, I’d give up all the gluten in the world to be able to bring Jenn and soon-to-be Baby Arturo with me.

Day Becomes Night Becomes Day Again

Last weekend we put on our road trip faces and our party pants, and hit up Las Vegas double-date style with our dear friends the Fahsbenders. And while I could fill this blog entry with a predictable, but simultaneously hilarious, play by play of the trip and the events of the weekend, I’d rather take one particular aspect of the trip and expand on it so that you know how I really feel. Because on Saturday night, after a day of activity and an evening spent galavanting, we kept alive through the wee hours and right until dawn. As I lay in my bed watching dawn become morning, wondering when my hangover would start to kick in, I had to smile. Because despite the exhaustion and often accompanying dehydration, there is nothing like the feeling of accomplishment one has when seeing the sunrise after a wonderful night with friends. One of the little triumphs and joys of life is occasionally staying up all night. Here are just some of the reasons why:

1. Judge Not. You know when you get up and at ‘em early, maybe you are on your way to work, drinking your Starbucks, acting all responsible like? And suddenly, approaching you on the sidewalk, comes a rowdy bunch consisting of anywhere from one to twenty-one people. They look as though, possibly 8 to 12 hours ago, they had been dressed up and looking fabulous. Some of the girls are carrying their shoes. The men have ties and/or belts tied around their heads. Mascara is in places it was never meant to be. But these people are laughing, calling out inappropriate things to traffic and taunting passersby. To you, in your dead sober and well-rested state of mind, they may seem menacing. But these people don’t want to hurt anyone, in fact, they want you to ditch work, get a Bloody Mary and find the nearest Denny’s with them.

Staying up all night ensures that you will get on the flipside of that encounter. Once you realize that while you may feel embarrassed for that group of nearly-thirty-years-old hooligans, they feel absolutely no shame at all, you’ll realize that the occasional all-nighter simply humbles you.

2. Find Out Who Your Real Friends Are. Say you start the night out at a pre-party. It’s you, your friends, some of their friends, and a few random stragglers. The night continues, the group size tends to swell to include increasingly random revelers in addition to your posse. After the bar closes, at least half of the crew is usually ready to enjoy some after-party action. But eventually, gradually, people start disappearing. Some call a cab. Some call a questionable love interest to come pick them up. Some people simply pass out where they stand. Others seem to vanish into thin air. By about 4 a.m. those who are left have the potential to pull through the night. Obviously not every night of fun should end by the light of the next day’s dawn. But you’ll know in your heart when it’s one of those times. And those who are left standing with you will be either your closest friends with whom you like to discuss life’s most complicated mysteries after 24 hours of wakefulness, or they will be people you met along the night’s journey who you’ve discovered as a kindred spirit and who must be appreciated as such.

3. Appreciate Breakfast Foods. One of the key ingredients to keeping any group of late night drunkards alive until dawn is food. After the bar it’s pizza and chips and, in all likelihood, a lot of Oreo cookies. But if you are still awake 5 to 7 hours after the bar closed, you’re going to need breakfast. Lucky for you, most breakfast places open around 6am so that people who have ‘jobs’ can eat before they ‘work.’ Eggs and toast with some hashbrowns or pancakes from a diner always sound pretty good for Sunday Brunch. But if you haven’t been asleep since the last time you ate breakfast, your enthusiasm for breakfast foods at dawn will be comparable the lust a tween feels for Edward Cullen. Bon apetit.

4. See The Sunrise. No matter where you are, or what time of year, there's always something magical in the moment when the sun breaks over the horizon. Obviously, to see the sunrise you could always go to bed at a reasonable hour and then set your alarm for the morning. But there isn’t much fun in that considering that many of us do that every day in order to be at work on time. Seeing the sunrise as you scrape ice off your windshield on your way to your cubicle doesn’t exactly hold the same sense of satisfaction as seeing it rise as you begin your hangover in the arms of your closest friends.

5. The Best Sleep Of Your Life. When night-turned-morning becomes full on daytime, you face an important choice. You stand at the crossroads between either committing to wakefulness until a socially acceptable bedtime OR shutting it down and writing off the day that you have already begun. If you choose the first option, I wish you luck and I suggest you wear sunglasses and drink lots of aspertame laced caffiene. But if you choose the second option, I will warn you that you are about to enter the most deep and cavernous coma that ever existed. Pull the blinds, turn off your ringer and prepare for a 14-hour shut down that could only be rivaled by something medically induced. Congratulations, this is the fruit of your labor.

Home from the after-party, no pool in sight. Why is my bathing suit on?

A belt on his head, he becomes the Karate Kid.

Dave tries to bully people into staying awake past 8a.m.

Packing And Purging

The season has ended and once again we are in the time of year known as the off-season. And after the bittersweet celebrations and goodbyes, we end up facing the same reality as we have the last 5 seasons. Talk of planning, travel logistics, family visits and the infamous 'what/where next?' all become commonplace. And amid all this talk and talk, some actual action has to take place. Whether we move across the world or to another zip code in Bako, packing has to be done. YES, packing. The only thing worse is unpacking. So all this boxing, folding and jamming makes me once again take stock of what we have and what we don't need. I feel, personally, that I am an expert at the art and science of deciding what stays, what goes and what never should have been here in the first place. Let me share some of that expertise with you...

Get Real And Get Rid

Whether we're talking about fashion that was never fashionable, a misguided infomercial purchase or a gaudy gift, I can almost guarantee that you are hanging on to more than your share of things you never, ever use. Moving and packing every few months has it downsides, but one of the best aspects of this lifestyle is that I am virtually forced to purge such items regularly. Better yet, as the end of a season approaches or while we live in transition during the off-season, I lose all desire or urge to shop. I don't want to add books to my shelves, clothes to my closet or food to the cupboards. Every time I pick an item up in the store, I automatically ask myself 'where will I pack this' or 'can I bring this with me' or most tellingly 'would I replace something else from my luggage with this item?'

You probably don't move that often (unless you are Nell, Jill, Hilary, Sherry or my other readers from the world of hockey). So you probably have closets and drawers that hide the things you aren't using. And the more that's piled into said drawers/closets, the less likely you are to see or find any of it. Open those drawers, silence your inner hoarder, and be real.

You never will (and never should) wear those leopard print leggings. Despite seeming useful, the hand held misting fan will never be the preferred way of cooling yourself. A Snuggie is just a bathrobe worn backwards. You don't need an Ab Roller/Nordic Trac/Thighmaster collecting dust in the corner just because you fear to admit that you never intend to break a sweat using them. If, in your attempt to cleanse, you are tempted to listen to a little voice that says 'oh yes, we forgot all about that! NOW we'll be using it regularly!', I beg you to be realistic. That voice is a lying liar who doesn't love you. Silence that traitor and move on.

Take Your Clothes Off

Of all those closets hiding your clutter, the fastest, easiest and most productive place to start is in the one that holds your wardrobe. I am willing to bet that every morning as you stand there looking for something to wear, you shuffle through a number of items that are never, ever chosen. Those things are never given a chance because they no longer do (or never did) fit or flatter you. And they never, ever will. Don't get me wrong, I am not here to say that you won't lose those last 5 pounds or tone up your tummy. I'm simply saying that a) your overall body shape is what it is and b) having a dress two sizes too small staring at you from a hanger every day isn't so much helpful encouragement as it is cruel taunting.

Trimming down the size of your wardrobe is a way to shed more light, in both literal and figurative senses, on those pieces that do fit and make you fantastic. Fewer distractions means more creative outfits with much less fuss. Packing for a trip becomes much less complicated. Quality over ill-fitting quantity, my friends.

Go Go Gadgets

The allure of cluttering a closet full of clothes seems only rivaled by a desire to cram cupboards full of crap. Gadgets and gizmos, particularly for kitchen use, are over abundant. A walk through the nightmare that is Bed Bath and Beyond on a Saturday will prove that you can truly buy a device to do any random and often infrequently performed kitchen task. You do not need these things. You think you do, and you convince yourself you'll use it the same way you convince yourself that stirrup pants will come back someday. Even if you use the sandwich maker more than once (doubtful), it isn't worth the space it takes up. Even if stirrup pants are back in fashion (dear god), they aren't worth it for the way your ass will look in them. See where I'm going with this?

A short list of examples of gadgets not to buy includes but is not limited to: juicers, ice cream makers, any Ron "Ronco" Popeil invention, tortilla warmers, margarita maker (seriously, use your blender) and waffle irons.

Less Is More Freedom

The truth of the matter is that the zen of simplicity can't be underestimated. We don't even own one closet or cupboard to clutter, but I can tell you that life was simpler when we had two suitcases worth of belongings rather than the amount that fills a half-full mini-Uhaul. The thought of owning a home to make my own and fill up is enticing, but the liberation of downsizing and possessing mobility, if not much else, wins for now. I could pack it up, two dogs and happy husband in tow, and move anywhere they would allow dogs. So where should we go, where should we stay...


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