Bobbe White's Blog

Organizing/downsizing my life: begin in my closets

bobbewhite — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 12:22:55 +0000

Organizing/downsizing my life: begin in my closets.

Organizing/downsizing my life: begin in my closets

bobbewhite — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 13:30:53 +0000

There’s something about January 1st that makes me want to get organized. It’s almost as powerful as the nesting stage was in my 11th month of pregnancy. Organization will always be a perpetual challenge for me. And my family. Case in point: our son, Nick, asked me where a certain paper was. “In my office,” I said. Our daughter, Korey, quickly commented, “Mom, we’re trying to figure out which room in this house ISN’T your office!” Ouch. The truth hurts. “Pile management” is the term I give to all of those papers, clothes, laundry, and etc. Piles ‘r’ Us. It never ends and it is truly exhausting. However, I have been picking up tips here and there and applying them with fervor. A professional organizer friend, Mary Beth McGee, (Sidebar: Her business is called “The Orderly”. She is also a nurse. How clever is that?!) As linen closets go, she told me that all we REALLY need are two sets of sheets for each bed. Same goes for towels. I’m no Martha Stewart, but my closet is drop-dead beautiful! Never mind the pile of sheets that didn’t make the cut. What’ll I do with them all? I don’t even really know where they came from. They must be reproducing in the closet.

Next up: clothes closet. Korey sat on our Queen sized bed, like the Queen of Couture, rolling from laughter, rolling her eyes, and on a roll with her quips:

On Asian influenced fashion: “….maybe if you’re going to China soon, Mom.”
On elastic waist slacks: “The only ones wearing those are under age 8 or over 80.”
On Chico’s Travelers fabric: “I do not understand your obsession with this fabric, Mother!”
On ill-fitting blue jeans: “Keep one (1) pair for a time when you need bad jeans. ONE!”
On anything sequined: (see #2 above)
On anything from Casual Corner. “Mom, there’s a reason Casual Corner Closed ten years ago. You need a 10-year-rule.

And so I do. And so it went. I don’t know whether to have a yard sale or rent a U-haul to take this pile – which is the size of Montana – to the resale shop or just call it charity. Major props to me for buying good quality that has a ten-year, or more, life. Right? I must keep in mind that my direction is coming from a 23 year old grad student. Those young things look cute in everything which I do not. So in honor or the new year, my sparse closet, and my daughter, I shall look forward and not back. This means that I will shut the door to the room with the pile ‘o clothes until I (a) dump it, (b)delegate it, or (c)dig it back out to wear, one more time. Point (c) will be difficult, but if I am to move on and organized (c) it will NOT be! Wish me luck.

The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off. (Linda Larsen)

We’re hot and tired of the hot.

bobbewhite — Thu, 25 Aug 2011 02:59:20 +0000

Everywhere I go and everyone I know is talking about the hot weather. It’s nothing new. It seems to be here to stay. And there. And everywhere. There’s Christine in Dallas. Her children are roasting on the school bus. The bus doesn’t even need flashing lights, because the kids have such red cheeks. There’s Debbie in South Carolina. She’s sweating in her yard. We can’t even one-up each other on the humidity factor. And Nick in Champaign, IL where his window A.C. unit was confiscated by the frat police for being too cool, because it was too large. Great. There’s nothing better than a room full of sweaty, stinky, guys. And finally, the White house. We think we’re hungry, but it’s too hot to grill. And we don’t want to warm up the kitchen with the oven. Neither of us wants to get in the hot car in the hotter garage to go get food. We paw through the pantry, which is sparse after returning from vacation. Finally, we settle on a soup mix. Wild rice mushroom. Sounds awful, but okay. “It probably needs milk,” he states. ”We don’t have any!” I whine defeatedly. I quickly scan the directions and, Hark! The mix requires only water. Woohoo! Dinner is served. Soup. When it’s this hot? How does that make any sense. It doesn’t. Until we realize Seinfeld is on T.V. It’s the Soup Nazi episode. And finally, dinner makes sense. Bon appe-heat!

Why I Avoided Classic High School Lit Class

bobbewhite — Tue, 21 Jun 2011 11:59:33 +0000

Where were the guidance counselors when I signed up for classes? Where were my parents? Who let me avoid some of the most important subjects of my foundation? In short, I was afraid of being bored, a classic teenage fear! Now, it makes me angry, that as a fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen year-old, I was entrusted with choosing the right schedule. Instead of enrolling in Brit Lit, American Lit, or World Lit, I opted for Creative Writing and Mythology. Good grief. I feel like such a slacker. Jacquelyn Mitchard (Deep End of the Ocean) once had a weekly syndicated newspaper column. Every Wednesday evening, I devoured her wit and wisdom, especially her column titled, “Read These Classics Before You Die!” Eleven all-time-must-reads were on the list and, at that moment, I wondered if I had a chance to make a dent. A Tree Grows In Brooklyn was my first book. Check. To Kill A Mockingbird. Check. Catcher in the Rye. Check, check. Sadly, I do not read very fast and am easily distracted by current best sellers. My bedside stack of books continues to grow. My family passes good reads my way, with the enticing words, “You’re going to LOVE this one!” If only I could finish books by sliding them under my pillow at night. There is one bright spot in my delayed reading curriculum…as an adult, I am enjoying the classics more than I ever would have, as a teenager. Last week, I read Hemingway’s, Farewell to Arms. My husband said, “What? You’ve never read THAT?” I read much too slowly to read things twice…although, there are some books which I would love to read once a year. This week I am reading Three Cups of Tea and (yes, and) Hemingway’s Garden of Eden. I am becoming a huge Hemingway fan. The simple dialogue is very creative, if that makes sense. Old Man and the Sea was my first Ernest book, so I had no idea that Farewell and Garden would be so sultry. Perfect summer reading. Did you catch the part that I am reading two-at-a-time? This is only possible because of books-on-C.D. from our public library. I do not feel like I am cheating by listening, as opposed to reading the written word. On the contrary, it is absolutely delicious to hear the story read as it was intended to unfold. I’ll never totally conquer the classics, but with two-at-a-time, I can certainly make some progress. Now, if only the community college offers a speed reading course, for audit only-not a grade, please, maybe I can knock out three-at-a-time! Parents, guide your children. Counselors, guide your students. Administrators, require the classics.

I Picked The King’s Speech Too!

bobbewhite — Thu, 03 Mar 2011 02:34:22 +0000

Rarely do I go to the movie that receives “Best Picture” at the Oscars, and actually AGREE it was worthy. Not that I am any expert, but past winners sometimes boggle my mind. The King’s Speech was wonderful. Just wonderful. It was sad, tense, laugh-out-loud funny, and uplifting. (And, I might add, the f-bomb sounds quite lovely in Queen’s English!) I would see it again, for sure. The next time I whine about a huge hurdle to overcome, I should make myself watch a clip of this film. If you haven’t seen it, make a point to do so. I doubt that you’ll be disappointed. There’s something about a non-fiction film that has a happy ending…

Being A Low Maintenance Woman Requires Resourcefulness

bobbewhite — Tue, 21 Sep 2010 12:32:25 +0000

I always wondered what the “Beyond” meant in Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Now I know. It’s for the consumer like me who uses non-personal products for personal use. It happened last Sunday as I prepared myself to attend a funeral visitation. After a quick shower, I applied face cream given to me by a dermatologist. I threw on my clothes, and headed for the home. On the way, I kept smelling the scent of a suntan product. But I had showered and was clean from head to toe. I couldn’t imagine why I smelled like sunscreen. Then I remembered the face cream was infused with 60 SPF. 60 SPF at 5:30 p.m. is an oxymoron to me. I had no idea it would smell so strong. I could not go through the family line this way. I was horrified that they would think I was so lazy, I would have gone from pool to parlor. I parked and searched my purse for an antidote. The only thing I could come up with was a purse-size spray of room freshener from Bed, Bath, and Beyond. French Vanilla. Room freshener? I threw it back into the purse, but then dug it out again. I had no other options. Better to smell like an ice cream cone than a sun goddess. I sprayed it on my neck – both sides – and on my wrists, the same as perfume and headed to greet the family. I felt I had reached a new low? Or a new high – for resourcefulness. Or, as we say in the laughter biz…a new “ha!” Would you like sprinkles on your cone?

Ahhhh…uncontrollable laughter!

bobbewhite — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 13:09:15 +0000

Who knew a Facebook link would send me into fits of laughter? Crying, snorting, gasping laughter. I pressed replay. Again. And again. I went to my parents’ home to see if it was just me. My father mirrored my laughter, right down to the snorting. He cries at anything, so that wasn’t the true test. But the snorting. Ahhhh, the snorting. That was for real! We fed off of each other’s contagion. Take a look for yourself, and remember, we’re not laughing at the couple, but at the talk show host’s inability to contain his inappropriate laughter. And you’re lying to yourself if you’ve never had this happen. Go on. Have a laugh. I think I can substitute this for sit-ups if done daily. Laughter. It’s so delicious. Bon appetit! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7TlN-DJTL0E

Score: Lycra 1, Bobbe 0

bobbewhite — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 02:15:29 +0000

It seemed simple enough, a blouse and skirt for work. Unfortunately, a glance over my shoulder into the mirror, revealed seams and ripples that should not be visible. I tried a different slip, seamless underwear, and tried untucking the blouse. Nothing helped. My last resort was Spanx, previously known by our moms, as girdles. (circa 1900′s). On a Lycra strength scale of 1 – 10, Spanx are a 37. And the bottom line is a much improved view for those behind us. As for the blouse, our bank’s dress code has zero tolerance for exposed cleavage; not a huge problem for me, but I comply when I must. So, off came the blouse. I nearly dislocated my shoulder squeezing into a camisole, formerly known as an undershirt. I don’t have many of them, but sometimes, I acquire used camis from the old clothes box that my daughter packs for the thrift shop. One last look in the mirror showed that everything was smoother. It should have been! I mean, between the Lycra content in my cami and in the Spanx, I felt like a sling-shot. 8 am: my Lycra meter was edging higher. 11:30: I tugged the cami away from my ribs. 1:30pm: I couldn’t breathe. Why does Lycra seem to tighten every hour? And without getting too graphic, let me just say, that avoiding the restroom was easier than wiggling the Spanx off and on. 3 pm: my Spanx were strangling my flanks. I would’ve screamed but the cami was a vice on my lungs. I grabbed scissors and headed for the ladies room. I ripped off the Spanx as fast as is humanly possibly. It could not be fast enough. Then I cut off the cami, from waist to sternum, threw it in the trash can and headed back to my desk to face the rest of the work day with little support, but with a great deal of relief. The Lycra won the battle, but I won the war!

Out of the mouths of babes….in a down economy

bobbewhite — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 13:29:05 +0000

You say it’s been a warm summer? Let me say this about that: I would pay my Air Conditioning bill before paying for groceries. I mean, when you think of it, who can eat when your “eyeballs are sweating”? (Donovan Cashen) Given these circumstances, it’s not totally unexpected for me to go from the pool to the grocery, on occasion. Recently, I had a half day off and ran into a Dot, a co-worker, and her five-year-old daughter, at the store, after work. She was dressed from work; I was fresh from the pool…in a sensible floor length t-shirt dress over my swimsuit. Now, sometimes, I’ll throw this frock on after a shower and Jeff will ask, “Why do you have THAT on?” (Meaning: it’s a dress, are we/you going out somewhere? Also meaning, it’s not a rag.) Dot’s daughter asked (1)who I was? and (2) why did she know me? Dot explained that we worked together. Kaley looked my dress up and down and asked her, “Mommy, is she laid off?” Hey, Art Linkletter, are you laughing too?!?

Move-in day: College Apartments 101

bobbewhite — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 12:22:13 +0000

It had to be the fourth floor. Twenty-seven times. Up the stairs, down the stairs. And the hidden bonus was that one must climb half of a flight of stairs before you even got to the first floor of apartments. It was exhausting, yet, if I lived in my daughter’s apartment for one year, I could probably drop my YMCA membership. My legs might look like toothpicks. Not only that, once in her apartment, her bedroom is on the second floor and to get there, you must use a spiral staircase. I don’t even want to think about her coming down on the morning after a party. They would be better off with a fireman’s pole. Whoever designed these apartments apparently never lived in one.