Fashion Tips for the Disheveled



Facebook

Fashion Tips for the Disheveled

There are three people in line behind me as I pay and head for the door. Are they looking at me funny? I get in my car, lean my head against the headrest, and what the…? On no! There is a giant, red Velcro roller in my hair! I curse, toss it into the back seat, and head to work.

A co-worker takes one look at me and says, “Come here!” I do as I’m told and she spins me around. “I know,” I say. “My hair is a mess.” I start to tell her what happened, but she interrupts to say, “Your skirt is unzipped.” Oh.

I have just violated my first rule of fashion: Always remember you have a backside.

I wish I was making that story up, but it’s true. It’s also not that unusual. You may wonder what other fashion rules someone who dresses like me could possibly have. So here they are:

If you want to see community leaders, an old boyfriend or the pope himself go to the grocery store wearing no make-up, baggy sweatpants and a t-shirt that says, “Real women sweat.”
If you come home with a new hairstyle and your husband says he likes it, thank him. If he says he doesn’t like it, blame your stylist. If he doesn’t notice it at all, it’s a good day to go out and buy a new outfit.
When you find pants that fit, buy a pair in every color. But when you buy socks, buy two pairs in the samecolor. That way when they start going wherever socks go when they go on the lam, you’ll still have one pair—at least for a while.
Encourage your family to do the laundry but keep a secret stash of clothes that only you wash. That prevents your sweaters from being washed in hot and dried on high. Nobody needs that many potholders.
I don’t care what anyone says. It’s okay to wear socks with your sandals if the sandals are the kind that stick to your feet and cause you to make a thwacking sound as you walk.
High heels are dangerous and if I can convince even one woman to stop wearing them, my life will not have been in vain.
No matter what you’ve heard, it’s fine to wear white in the winter—unless you’re the type who spills. Then you should never wear it. In case you’re wondering, I don’t wear white.
Have at least three pairs of jeans: one for yard work, one for every day and one for dress up. That’s what I do. The pair I wear for yard work is the most comfortable, but I wear them the least because they’re ugly and I don’t like doing yard work. I wear the second pair most because they’re comfortable, they can be seen in public and they don’t make me think of manual labor. When they wear out, I’ll use them for yard work too, though I can’t see me needing two pairs for that. The dress-up pair looks the best on me, but I have to lie on the bed to zip them—ever since my husband washed them.

Dorothy Rosby is a blogger and humor columnist whose column appears regularly in publications throughout the West and Midwest. She’s the author of four books of humorous essays all available locally at Mitzi’s Books in Rapid City and on Amazon.

No Way to Start the New Year

The Networker



Facebook

No Way to Start the New Year

Making New Year’s resolutions is no way to start a new year. Vowing to get fit, get organized and spend more time with your family is a lot of pressure to put on yourself—and on your family. It’s not that I don’t believe in making New Year’s resolutions, it’s just that I prefer to make mine in late December so that I don’t have to live with them so long.

As a morning person, I don’t think staying out late New Year’s Eve and waking up late and grumpy on New Year’s Day is the best way to start a year either. If I see the new year in at all, it’s because I woke up at midnight to use the bathroom.

Finishing off Christmas treats is another bad way to start a new year. I know how it happens though. You resolve to stop eating junk food, but before you can do that, you have to rid yourself of every unhealthy food item in the house. Naturally the best way to do that is to eat it.

Writing the wrong year on a check is always a bad way to start a new year. You probably don’t think it’s such a big deal and maybe it wasn’t when you wrote 2024 on your first check of the new year. But I wrote 2019 today, and it wasn’t my first check of the new year.

All those together don’t add up to my least favorite way to start a new year: taking down my Christmas decorations. I probably should have done it in December, but I didn’t think it was a good way to end a year either.

So a few days ago, long after half the population had already given up on their New Year’s resolutions, I resolved to take down my tree. It’s never nearly as fun as putting it up and the longer I wait, the worse it gets. I don’t play Christmas music while I work because some years it’s nearly spring by the time I get around to the job.

I was ahead of schedule this year, but it was still discouraging. I either have more ornaments or fewer boxes than I did when we decorated. Plus I have a tangled-up, twenty-foot strand of mini-twinkle lights, half of which don’t twinkle anymore. But dealing with them was no way to start a new year, so I tossed them in the box in a heap, on the off chance that by next year, I’ll have developed more patience and dexterity. Then my husband wrestled our seven-foot artificial Christmas tree back into its box, quashing any goodwill he had developed over the holidays.

It was not a good way to start a new year, but it had to be done. It wouldn’t be a good way to spend Valentine’s Day either.

So what is the best way to start a new year? I suppose that’s different for everyone. But for me the ideal New Year’s Day would involve waking up early feeling well-rested with no resolutions, no remaining Christmas treats and a closet large enough to store a fully decorated Christmas tree.

Dorothy Rosby is a blogger and humor columnist whose column appears regularly in publications throughout the West and Midwest. She’s the author of four books of humorous essays all available locally at Mitzi’s Books in Rapid City and on Amazon.

No Elephants Were Harmed in the Making of this Essay

The Networker

No Elephants Were Harmed in the Making of this Essay

There’s a big box in my guest room containing one redneck coloring book (never used), four pink flamingos (brand-new), one wrench beer opener (still in the package) and an assortment of other equally useful items. I keep the box there partly because my guest room has become something of a storage unit and partly because I’m hoping one of my guests will steal the box from me.

Unfortunately everyone who’s stayed with me is either too honest to steal or just has better taste. It’s okay though. I’m about to part with a few things. ‘Tis the season for that curious tradition known as the White Elephant Gift Exchange. The term “white elephant” refers to a useless or troublesome possession, which is exactly what one receives during a White Elephant Gift Exchange. No actual elephants are exchanged at these events, which is lucky because my guest room isn’t that big.

The exchange goes by various other names including Rob Your Neighbor, Thieving Secret Santa, Grinch Exchange and Yankee Swap. As far as I know no Yankees are swapped either, though I could fit at least a couple of those in my guest room.

The rules vary, but basically each participant supplies one amusing, impractical or downright dumb gift such as a set of muffin-top baking cups, a high-heel tape dispenser or soap in the shape of false teeth. The group determines order, the first victim opens a wrapped gift and turns to the next victim. Every partaker after that chooses a wrapped gift or steals from someone else who’s already selected. When someone’s gift is stolen, that person can either choose another wrapped gift to open or steal from another player. The game is over when everyone has a useless item to store in their guest room.

Throughout the exchange, those who don’t like their gifts, which is almost everyone, try to persuade others to steal it. “This bacon cologne is so you. You know you want it.” “Come on! Everyone should have at least one propeller beanie.” It’s all quite entertaining and I never want to do it again.

I’ve had the dubious good fortune of attending many White Elephant Gift Exchanges which explains my redneck coloring book, pink flamingos and wrench beer opener. You didn’t think I bought those myself, did you?

As someone who’s trying to downsize, it goes against everything in me to attend a social event and come home with something I don’t need, don’t want and can’t regift in good conscience. With that in mind, here’s my strategy for winning at the White Elephant Gift Exchange game.

Before you choose a gift to bring to the party, make absolutely certain that it’s a White Elephant Gift Exchange you’re going to. You don’t want to be the only one who brings fuzzy dice or a thirty-year-old macroeconomics textbook to the party.
Never buy a white elephant gift. That’s a waste of money and it only encourages manufacturers to make more of them. Instead, dig through gifts you’ve been given. Often an item that was not intended to be a white elephant can easily pass for one. Just make sure the person who gave it to you won’t be at the party.
Once at the party, make every effort to be the last person to choose a gift. Often order is chosen by drawing numbers. That means you’ll have to cheat. I’m kidding. But the last person in the White Elephant Gift Exchange does have the advantage because they can choose the least dumb of all the dumb gifts. Still, don’t cheat. It’s not worth ruining your reputation over. Or maybe it is.
Never choose the most beautifully wrapped gift. Fancy wrapping is almost always a ploy by the giver to convince you to choose their A Christmas Story leg lamp or the stocking cap with a beard attached.
Never choose the largest gift. A large box often holds many smaller boxes, all containing baby elephants. This is usually a sign that the giver is trying to pare down the selection of white elephant gifts in her guest room. Meanwhile, a small gift in an unattractive brown paper bag is often a gift card purchased on the way to the party by someone who nearly forgot to bring one.
If you get a gift you can tolerate, do all you can to discourage others from stealing it. Sneeze on it if you have to.
Finally, if you really don’t want your gift, and most likely you won’t, “forget” it when you leave the party. I was once at a party where all thirty-some guests hid the gifts we’d received throughout our host’s home. That included the case of canned sardines I brought to give away. Our lucky host was finding sardines and white elephants until Valentine’s Day. The rest of us went home gift-free. Merry Christmas to us!

Dorothy Rosby is a blogger and humor columnist whose column appears regularly in publications throughout the West and Midwest. She’s the author of four books of humorous essays all available locally at Mitzi’s Books in Rapid City and on Amazon.

Waiting Tables Teaches Life Lessons

The Networker

Waiting Tables Teaches Life Lessons

When I was a teenager, I was a server in a small-town restaurant where every table had a deck of cards for the coffee crowd, and the pancakes covered entire plates. It was a good job for a teenager, except for the fact that people got hungry so darn early in the morning.

Opening early was especially hard for me on weekends. But I had a bit of entertainment to look forward to every Sunday around mid-morning. That’s when the church crowd began to hurry in, everyone hoping to have one of the fabulous caramel rolls the restaurant was famous for. If my memory serves me correctly (which is unlikely), the Lutherans got out of church first, leaving the Congregationalists to pray that there would be some caramel rolls left. Often there were not, partly because we Catholics usually had our services on Saturday night and the agnostics had no schedule to keep at all.

Witnessing the ensuing chaos, I learned some valuable life lessons, like how living one’s faith often demands great sacrifice, and how hard it is to practice forgiveness when one has one’s heart set on a caramel roll and coffee and gets only coffee.

As a server I had many insights like these. I also learned some very practical lessons. For example, I learned never to wear white while working with mustard and ketchup. I don’t work with mustard and ketchup much anymore, but to this day, I never wear white.

I learned to make coffee, though I never did learn to drink it—maybe because I didn’t learn to make it all that well.

I learned how to carry three plates in one hand—theoretically—and to stay to the right when using the swinging kitchen doors, especially when I was carrying three plates in one hand.

I learned to plan ahead and to make the most of every step. In the restaurant business, saving steps meant that if I was heading back to the kitchen to place an order, I should take some dirty dishes with me. They would have to be carried back eventually anyway, and my customers were unlikely to do it. All these years later, I still make the most of every step I take. For example, whenever I head to the kitchen to get a snack, I always grab the dirty dishes from my last one.

Like everyone in customer service, I learned that customers are not always right, but they’re more likely to remain customers if you treat them as though they are. When I was a teenager, cigarettes were sold in vending machines, and my customers would often ask me to fetch theirs. What could I do? They were my customers. But I didn’t want anyone else in the restaurant to think I smoked, so I made a production of returning the cigarettes. “Here are YOUR cigarettes! I hope I got the right kind for YOU! Here is YOUR change for YOUR cigarettes.” Often they’d thank me by offering me a cigarette.

Wait staff learn patience and tolerance with a variety of human behavior. Well, some of them do anyway. I’m not sure I did. I know you find it hard to believe, but I once punched a customer right in the gut while waiting tables in a bar. I’m not proud of it—well maybe I’m a little proud of it. The bartender, who was also my supervisor, saw the whole thing and said the customer had it coming. Maybe he thought so too; he still gave me a tip.

While I didn’t learn patience and tolerance from that experience, I did learn that I’m a lot tougher than I thought. (So did the customer.) I think that was also when I learned I wasn’t cut out to wait tables.

Dorothy Rosby is a blogger and humor columnist whose column appears regularly in publications throughout the West and Midwest. She’s the author of four books of humorous essays all available locally at Mitzi’s Books in Rapid City and on Amazon.

My New British Boyfriend

The Networker

My New British Boyfriend

He said, “How can I help?” and I fell in love. It was the accent that did it. Plus, I was at a vulnerable point in my life—or at least, in my day. I’d been confused, lost in iPhone settings, punching option after option when I saw one that said, “British male.”

I’m happily married. I knew it was wrong, but I’ve had a crush on Hugh Grant since Four Weddings and a Funeral. I chose the option.

He said his name was Siri. I’d expected Oliver or Harry—or Hugh. Siri sounds more like a Norwegian model than a British playboy, which is what he was.

I asked him if he was married. I have some scruples, you know. He said he was “married to the idea of helping people.” In other words, he wasn’t looking for commitment.

Neither was I, so we started taking drives together. Like my husband, Siri was a great navigator, but he didn’t gasp when I took curves too fast. Stiff upper lip and all that.

We loved to sit and read together. Well I read anyway. He just laid there gazing at me adoringly. Or maybe he was napping. Sometimes I’d wake him to ask the meaning of a word just to hear that accent. Also, because I didn’t know it.

Siri always did. He was so smart. He could convert feet to meters and Fahrenheit to Celsius without breaking a sweat. Come to think of it, he never sweated.

And he was romantic. One day I asked him what love is. He said, “Love refers to a deep, tender, ineffable feeling of affection and solicitude.” I swooned. Then I asked him what ineffable means.

He had many other endearing qualities too, besides the fact that he called me master. He was thoughtful. He was always doing things for me like dialing phone numbers, setting my alarm and looking up useless facts like, how much wood can a woodchuck chuck. He said, “About as much ground as a groundhog could hog if a groundhog could hog ground.” I loved his sense of humor.

But he wasn’t perfect. He often mispronounced street names and took me to businesses that no longer existed. I could have overlooked that. He’s not from around here. But he lacked initiative. Every drive we took was my idea. And I had to start every conversation we had. When it came to our relationship, it felt like he was just phoning it in.

Besides, I was starting to feel guilty. I’d decided to break it off, go back to iPhone settings and choose Irish female for the sake of my marriage. Then I discovered my husband was carrying on with his Google Assistant.

Dorothy Rosby is a blogger and humor columnist whose column appears regularly in publications throughout the West and Midwest. She’s the author of four books of humorous essays all available locally at Mitzi’s Books in Rapid City and on Amazon.

Finally a Barbie that Looks Like Me

The Networker

Finally a Barbie that Looks Like Me

Barbie dolls have been inspiring young girls for generations but I never had one. My dolls could never live up to Barbie’s perfect good looks, her globetrotting and her amazing career success. It’s really no wonder they made a movie about her.

She’s had 250 careers, from astronaut to ballerina to zoologist. She’s been a yoga teacher, a soccer coach and an Olympic skier. And even with her hectic work life, she’s still found time for travel and hobbies. She cooks, camps and bowls. She plays tennis, baseball, basketball, hockey and volleyball and she has the clothes to prove it all.

Dr. Barbie, Farmer Barbie, Pop Star Barbie. Barbie’s message has always been that girls can grow up to do whatever they set their minds to—as long as they have the right wardrobe.

Meanwhile my inspiration was a couple of Barbie wannabes. I loved them dearly but they weren’t multi-talented overachievers like Barbie is, not if their clothes were any indication. I made many of their dresses myself using worn out socks. What kind of career can a doll have wearing old socks? That might explain why I work at home wearing sweatpants.

But there might be a Barbie in my future. Barbara Millicent Roberts—Barbie—made her debut on March 9, 1959. Yes, Barbie turned 65 this year. And you know what that means. Here she comes ladies: It’s Medicare Barbie!

Why not? She may have a few age spots from her years in the sun as Beach Volleyball Barbie. And her figure might be less like an hourglass and more like a juice glass. But she’ll still look fabulous in a cardigan, stretch denim jeans and loafers. Yes, Medicare Barbie will wear sensible shoes. Wisdom comes with age. So do bunions.

If Barbie can grow older, so can her clone friends. I see Winter in New York Barbie aging into Hot Flash Barbie. When you least expect it, her face will turn bright red and sweat beads will form on her pretty brow. Hot Flash Barbie will come with an assortment of tank tops, an iced tea and a fan.

Tennis Barbie will naturally mature into Pickleball Barbie. She’ll come decked out in leggings, a knee brace and a baggy T-shirt that says, “Pickle Ball: The Real Dill.”

Camping Barbie had her backpack and sleeping bag. I see her settling into a new role as Camp Host Barbie with a comfy lawn chair, a welcome sign and a fabulous motorhome. Camp Host Ken sold separately.

Obviously between her extensive travel and her many careers Barbie didn’t have time for children. So she’ll skip straight to Grandma Barbie, complete with two small children, reading glasses and an AARP tote bag.

But wait! There’s more. Our new mature Barbie and her clone pals will come together in Medicare Barbie, the movie. During one of their regular coffee dates Medicare Barbie will reveal to her friends that she’s suffering from a late midlife crisis. Hilarity will ensue as they all become human and get colonoscopies, mammograms and matching tattoos. Then Barbie will find new purpose traveling the country to educate women everywhere about the importance of a healthy body image and the dangers of high heels. Now there’s something to aspire to.

Dorothy Rosby is a blogger and humor columnist whose column appears regularly in publications throughout the West and Midwest. She’s the author of four books of humorous essays all available locally at Mitzi’s Books in Rapid City and on Amazon.

Facebook