I am no fashion genius. I’m not on the cutting edge of stylistic reality. Never would I want to be. It’s too expensive and I’d rather spend the money on important stuff like Skittles and wine. But don’t get me wrong. I like to look nice. And there are days when I know I’m the hottest guy around. Like those days when I’m matching my argyle socks to my sweater or when I’m layering polo shirts. My style secret is simple, but achievable by many. My secret to looking nice is this: I wear clothes that fit. We all have seen those people whose clothes are either too small or too big. Some are aware, while others are completely clueless. There is a reason why clothes makers, put sizes on labels: to make people accountable and responsible for their choices. I have compiled a list of helpful FACTS in order to raise awareness (because in American, that’s what we love to do) and to assist other humans in dressing themselves better.
6 Signs that You Suck at Dressing Yourself
1. Your pants don’t fit. This is an oft-too-common mistake among (tall) males and adolescents who grow too fast. We stilt-walkers of the world are burdened with being lanky, which narrows the window for inseams. Most fashion retailers sell up to size 34, in stores, and maybe you can find size 36 online. Often, it’s difficult to find anything greater than 36, unless you’re moneyed or make your own pants.
2. People joke that you’re dressed for an appearance by your 1980s pop culture icon. Yes, you dress like a “super freak”. But it’s not a good thing because the 80s are long past and Rick James is too. Also, your nappy, bird’s nest afro in 2011 does not bode well for garnering the respect of people outside of the formerly-crack addicted demographic. (If you don’t know who Mr. James is, Google him.) “Winger-hair” plus bearing your post-baby, muffin top, mid-drift in the time of Gaga, emo, and hipsters shows you’re out of touch. Try reading Cosmo in the checkout line, instead of condemning the “trashy” ladies on the covers.
3. Clothes retailers refuse to mail their catalogs to your house. When J C Penney, Sears, Old Navy or any other site won’t mail you a FREE catalog, then that means you’re a lost cause. Better yet, when your Internet browser blocks access to their sites with an error message reading “WARNING: Content may not be suitable for certain audiences” you know it’s time for a change.
4. No one offers unsolicited comments on your attire. Silence is golden. Less is more. What is unspoken is truth. So, when you show up to work, feeling great in your hot threads and dubs, but co-workers are quiet: not a good thing. People always find reasons to lie and they’ll do it to your face, unless your clothes are hideous. When it comes to dressing yourself, leaving others speechless is not a good sign. Or it could mean they just don’t like you.
5. Your children ask you to change before leaving the house. Children are clueless about many things (i.e. Santa’s true identity, the power of broccoli, etc), but they are also quite observant creatures with impulsive tongues. When your child, in the middle of watching a cartoon, asks you to change your clothes before going grocery shopping, it’s probably time for a period of introspection. Remember: children are clueless about many things (i.e. politics, the value of money, not being annoying) EXCEPT when it comes to other children making fun of them. So try not to make them a target for their peers by dressing like a psychology experiment. Do you want your child to be bullied? I’m just saying…
6. Homeless people offer you their money (and booze). Casual attire is liberating, especially when you have to wear boring fancy pants and tight-necked shirts. However, problems arise when you’re too casual. At times, you will find, that “tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free” may offer you their change so you can obtain new dubs. Take their money. Do it. You need it.
7. You’re friends with mostly Christians, lesbians, and married men. It’s a scientific fact that church-goers, lesbians and “owned” men are by far the worst dressers. Don’t shoot the messenger, it’s science. And in the unlikely (possibly closeted) event that you’re in all three categories, then step off the cliff now because you’re definitely a lost cause. It’s also scientific that persons in these demographics are most likely to 1) wear socks with Birkenstocks and drive Subarus, 2) tuck their sweat pants into their socks when going shopping, 3) read political magazines at work (guilty!), or 4) spend more money on clothing for their children.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Repeated episodes of rising from bed during sleep and walking about OR Why are they awake?
I have been distracted by more important things. Too distracted to post something interesting. I can’t make blogging too regular because my imagination doesn’t run that deep and I’m tired.
From what I understand, sleep comes like a drug in God’s country. Well, in the Grant house sleep is precious commodity. It can be leveraged for backroom deals. Now before your minds start wandering, I mean deals such as more sleep, avoiding cleaning, or several minutes of alone time. Yes, sleep can be used to buy more sleep. It’s a delicate game of negotiations and quid pro quos. But it’s necessary for survival. If I can sleep in to 8 am, I can be refreshed and alert enough to watch the boys so Fran can return to sleep for another 1-2 hours. She’ll then wake up somewhat refreshed, but less likely to punch me in the face due to sleepless irritability. When she doesn’t get sleep she doesn’t laugh. For example, while watching Anchorman, she yawned and asked, “Is it over yet?” I said, “No.” And she punched me in the face. That’s just a hypothetical example, it never really happened. But you know what I mean.
This week we started to let the babies cry it out at night. It’s hard sleeping knowing they’re crying. So I turn off the baby monitor and put a pillow over my head. Prior to this experiment our nights were often interrupted with someone needing to eat, usually around 330am. I would turn over to my wife and say, so eloquently, “You got legs, go get something to eat.” And she would punch me in the face. Not really. It’s all hypothetical, but you know what I mean.
Anyhow, sleep is important. I’ve noticed all other biological processes are thrown off and all I’ll want to do is what Phineas and Ferb or eat everything in sight to compensate for the imbalance. My breathing is arrhythmic, so when I run I’m out of step, leading to disruptive exercise, leading Chris to become Captain Crankypants. At work, I want to sleep when talking with patients about how their lives are falling apart. (Empathy is hard to show when eyes are squinting and heads are nodding; it’s called fotlobbing.)
Sleep in our house can be leveraged for goods, but I’m not sure if this transfers to non-Grants. If it does, let me know and we can work out a deal. Until then, look for the tall, dark, and overtly attractive zombie who is sliding by on several hours of interrupted sleep. It’s not a complaint. It’s an acknowledgement. I know what I bought when I signed on the line.
From what I understand, sleep comes like a drug in God’s country. Well, in the Grant house sleep is precious commodity. It can be leveraged for backroom deals. Now before your minds start wandering, I mean deals such as more sleep, avoiding cleaning, or several minutes of alone time. Yes, sleep can be used to buy more sleep. It’s a delicate game of negotiations and quid pro quos. But it’s necessary for survival. If I can sleep in to 8 am, I can be refreshed and alert enough to watch the boys so Fran can return to sleep for another 1-2 hours. She’ll then wake up somewhat refreshed, but less likely to punch me in the face due to sleepless irritability. When she doesn’t get sleep she doesn’t laugh. For example, while watching Anchorman, she yawned and asked, “Is it over yet?” I said, “No.” And she punched me in the face. That’s just a hypothetical example, it never really happened. But you know what I mean.
This week we started to let the babies cry it out at night. It’s hard sleeping knowing they’re crying. So I turn off the baby monitor and put a pillow over my head. Prior to this experiment our nights were often interrupted with someone needing to eat, usually around 330am. I would turn over to my wife and say, so eloquently, “You got legs, go get something to eat.” And she would punch me in the face. Not really. It’s all hypothetical, but you know what I mean.
Anyhow, sleep is important. I’ve noticed all other biological processes are thrown off and all I’ll want to do is what Phineas and Ferb or eat everything in sight to compensate for the imbalance. My breathing is arrhythmic, so when I run I’m out of step, leading to disruptive exercise, leading Chris to become Captain Crankypants. At work, I want to sleep when talking with patients about how their lives are falling apart. (Empathy is hard to show when eyes are squinting and heads are nodding; it’s called fotlobbing.)
Sleep in our house can be leveraged for goods, but I’m not sure if this transfers to non-Grants. If it does, let me know and we can work out a deal. Until then, look for the tall, dark, and overtly attractive zombie who is sliding by on several hours of interrupted sleep. It’s not a complaint. It’s an acknowledgement. I know what I bought when I signed on the line.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Inflated self-esteem or grandiosity OR less is more
“Oh, so you have three boys,” she commented, “You’re going to have your hands full.”
“Well, it is what it is,” I replied. The usual, scripted retort, often laden subtle sarcasm.
“Are you guys done having kids. I mean, you want a girl, don’t you.”
Of late, this has been the ire of my existence. People ask about my wife and me wanting a girl in the future. Call me crazy, but that’s none of their business. However, as they prod their little noses in our reproductive agenda, they often appear insistent and hell-bent on changing my mind, offering myriad arguments to convince me to lay with my wife, in the biblical sense, to have a girl. I often ask myself, why does this matter to them that they suggest and are insistent on how a girl would be life changing. They say, “Oh, you’ll get to balance the boy stuff with girl stuff. I mean your poor wife, surrounded by all those boys.” To which I coyly reply, “I have enough boys. One can like girl stuff.”
I had one casual observer point out that I am still young and I can have more babies. True. Having twins speaks to our fecundity and prowess as reproductive agents, but we also take care of ourselves. No tight pants; we avoid chairs made of ice; and we stopped punching each other in the crotch. I am actually surprised that I have been blessed with children after playing games like Nut Tennis Ball, Nut Frisbee, and Nut Water Bottle while in college. Being 28 with three kids, in my opinion, speaks to having a rich and fulfilling life before 30. I see no need to push it further. I don’t have to think about what could have been.
Don’t get me wrong, or do, I don’t care, but I’m not opposed to children. I love mine and would fight mortal combat style to protect them. I don’t like anyone else’s kids as much as mine. And I don’t like the idea of having more than necessary. Especially since children are the most expensive investment anyone can make. However, the frustrating part is that people, both with and without children, approach child-rearing with the same attitude of how they care for silk plants.
When did children become commodities? I blame Hollywood and the collect-em-all mentality where children are merely accessories put on for the right occasion. You can go to Africa or South America to buy one, attach it to your hip when shopping for high-end couture, and sell baby photos to TMZ.com. Or, if you’re lucky, people will think it’s cool to watch you guide your small battalion of children on TLC as you talk about how modest your life is on national TV.
All children, at some point, serve as adjuncts to their parents. It’s natural because the parents see attributes of themselves in their children. Children will serve narcissistic needs for parents varying points during their relationship. Or at least they should. BUT there is a fine line between having healthy and unhealthy needs. Having children just to have a boy or a girl, when you already have, and love, children is dangerous. A Child is a gift, which means he or she is graciously provided without provocation or groveling by the recipient (or persons “acting” on behalf of the recipient). I enjoy what I have. I love my gifts.
I feel complete in my three piece suit; I don’t need to buy a top hat, cane, or lacy socks to accessorize what I already have. It would seem overboard, possibly ostentatious, to add anything else. Besides three beautiful boys and a trophy wife make me look snazzy enough. I can manage. We can manage as a family because we are a family.
“Well, it is what it is,” I replied. The usual, scripted retort, often laden subtle sarcasm.
“Are you guys done having kids. I mean, you want a girl, don’t you.”
Of late, this has been the ire of my existence. People ask about my wife and me wanting a girl in the future. Call me crazy, but that’s none of their business. However, as they prod their little noses in our reproductive agenda, they often appear insistent and hell-bent on changing my mind, offering myriad arguments to convince me to lay with my wife, in the biblical sense, to have a girl. I often ask myself, why does this matter to them that they suggest and are insistent on how a girl would be life changing. They say, “Oh, you’ll get to balance the boy stuff with girl stuff. I mean your poor wife, surrounded by all those boys.” To which I coyly reply, “I have enough boys. One can like girl stuff.”
I had one casual observer point out that I am still young and I can have more babies. True. Having twins speaks to our fecundity and prowess as reproductive agents, but we also take care of ourselves. No tight pants; we avoid chairs made of ice; and we stopped punching each other in the crotch. I am actually surprised that I have been blessed with children after playing games like Nut Tennis Ball, Nut Frisbee, and Nut Water Bottle while in college. Being 28 with three kids, in my opinion, speaks to having a rich and fulfilling life before 30. I see no need to push it further. I don’t have to think about what could have been.
Don’t get me wrong, or do, I don’t care, but I’m not opposed to children. I love mine and would fight mortal combat style to protect them. I don’t like anyone else’s kids as much as mine. And I don’t like the idea of having more than necessary. Especially since children are the most expensive investment anyone can make. However, the frustrating part is that people, both with and without children, approach child-rearing with the same attitude of how they care for silk plants.
When did children become commodities? I blame Hollywood and the collect-em-all mentality where children are merely accessories put on for the right occasion. You can go to Africa or South America to buy one, attach it to your hip when shopping for high-end couture, and sell baby photos to TMZ.com. Or, if you’re lucky, people will think it’s cool to watch you guide your small battalion of children on TLC as you talk about how modest your life is on national TV.
All children, at some point, serve as adjuncts to their parents. It’s natural because the parents see attributes of themselves in their children. Children will serve narcissistic needs for parents varying points during their relationship. Or at least they should. BUT there is a fine line between having healthy and unhealthy needs. Having children just to have a boy or a girl, when you already have, and love, children is dangerous. A Child is a gift, which means he or she is graciously provided without provocation or groveling by the recipient (or persons “acting” on behalf of the recipient). I enjoy what I have. I love my gifts.
I feel complete in my three piece suit; I don’t need to buy a top hat, cane, or lacy socks to accessorize what I already have. It would seem overboard, possibly ostentatious, to add anything else. Besides three beautiful boys and a trophy wife make me look snazzy enough. I can manage. We can manage as a family because we are a family.
Friday, July 16, 2010
In the recovery room
Eight years ago I had a Live Journal account. I used it maybe 3 times, mostly to jaunt into my mind to pull out the most random, immature ideas I held at the time. Seeing how that was college and my early 20s, who knows how important or appropriate those thoughts were. It served to get out what I was thinking because I was dealing with a lot of crap. I find it impossible to keep my mind still; sometimes it’s slowed, but never “racing”. I’m always thinking of something. An interest fleeting or concrete. Something I would like to pursue or pass up.
I’m attempting again to maintain a blog. It’s my connection to the world outside Christopher. Transcendent almost, but necessary. It will help scrape the plate from which I frequently eat. It will allow reality to be friend and foe. Between my obligations of family, school, and work, I have little time to decompress. There are moments when I hide, usually in the bathroom, just to have “without” time. That is time without everything else. I need it. More than anyone else, I need it to counteract those period when I want to bang my head off a wall.
Yeah, as if I need another thing to do. This is nothing 5 to 10 minutes to jaunt out-of-my-head into the Land of Wherever and Whatever, the place of mystical real obligations. I need to go there, but I don’t have time. I need to make time. It is my recovery room. This will be my recovery room.
I’m attempting again to maintain a blog. It’s my connection to the world outside Christopher. Transcendent almost, but necessary. It will help scrape the plate from which I frequently eat. It will allow reality to be friend and foe. Between my obligations of family, school, and work, I have little time to decompress. There are moments when I hide, usually in the bathroom, just to have “without” time. That is time without everything else. I need it. More than anyone else, I need it to counteract those period when I want to bang my head off a wall.
Yeah, as if I need another thing to do. This is nothing 5 to 10 minutes to jaunt out-of-my-head into the Land of Wherever and Whatever, the place of mystical real obligations. I need to go there, but I don’t have time. I need to make time. It is my recovery room. This will be my recovery room.
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