Monday, March 10, 2008
Vintage Work Weekend (and in which I rant about getting old)
This weekend I did NOT vege out in front of the TV (ok, we did begin watching State of Play, which we had seen before on BBC America and loved and were jazzed to see is finally out on DVD and so I got a bit o' Bill Nighy time...and The Master, John Simms.) with Mr. Vintage Goddess, nor did I drive to any sales or spend the whole time playing on the net.
I hand washed, I spot cleaned, I steamed and I took pictures of what will be going up on Damn Good Vintage in the next week or so.
I was quite the busy fucking bee...not to mention I did laundry and made chcolate strawberry muffins AND Roast BEEF with mashed taters AND gravy.
DAMN I am a goddess among housewives, fear me and love me bitches!
On the vintage front I am going to begin selling a bit of vintage jewelry.
I took some pictures (I am not happy with them) of a couple of pieces.
Yes, those a freaking bongo drums. I love 40's quirky stuff.
Cute 60's(?) multi colored pin and earrings.
I have this awesome vintage 60's lace cocktail wiggle dress, it is an XL.
This amazing Henry Rosenfeld bronze rockabilly dress. VLV?
Cute vintage pink gingham shirtwaist dress....shirtwaist dresses make me very happy.
I have to say I'm really happy with my new dress form and backgrounds, but my back is killing me today which brings me to the most important point of this post.
I hate getting old.
The older I get the more of a bitch I become BECAUSE everything fucking hurts and has begun to fail to listen to my commands.
Yes my back, which used to be cool with the extra weight and bad posture and all the crazy sitting positions, no longer is happy. It wants me to sit right, loose weight and get a new mattress.
My eyes, which have never worked properly, have decided that they do not like the bi-focals (yes, bifocals) and now require me to take my glasses off to read and the put them back on to see.
Except, get this, I forget WHERE I put the fucking things.
And lastly, when I cough, liquids seem to be leaking out of me.
I have been coughing A LOT the last few weeks.
The worse thing is one begins to worry about their father who has had a heart attack and even though he does not need to go anywhere insists on shoveling the fucking snow off of his huge ass driveway just in case he has a heart attack and my mom needs to take him to the hospital, I guess.
When I share my concern with my mother, what does she say?
"We have an ergonomic shovel."
Buy a damn snow blower so I do not have to worry.
And he is chopping wood for his new play toy, the fireplace/Franklin stove that came with his new house. (of course I know I should be glad he feels buff enough to do all this stuff.)
Vintage is awesome in clothes, but sucks when it is a human body that is slowly decaying.