I Made it Official

Doing it!!

I made it official this week and declared that January 15th will be my last day at the forklift factory. Now the real work begins. Gotta do a bunch of oral histories of the folks who took VERO. Gotta clean my computer, my email, my server spaces, my office, my cubby and my locker. Gotta sit for my own oral history.

When I told my girlfriend who is my trainer that I made it official she was proud of me but disappointed that it wasn't two weeks.

"You going into 2027 with these ho’s, hell no. Fuck that." I get it, but I want to stick around for my bonus, a computer discount that resets in January -- that sort of thing. 

I leave you with some photos of mostly pink things from our trip:

In downtown Navan

On Inishmore

At an historic site that we didn't really walk into. I just wanted a photo of this lady's coat, but she did not appreciate my attention. Note that this is the Regatta Red Hydra Fort Waterproof Orla Changing Robe. You can get one on ebay but the taxes and shipping are hideous for something that I probably couldn't wear often. For real, I would love to steal this lady's entire style.

In the gardens of said historic site.

Inishmore. Random beautiful geranium.

Oprah, You Are Tripping

Apparently Oprah has never clapped eyes on me and Amazon must have a head wound because they are both encouraging me to adopt the Coastal Grandmother look. 

White clothes for white people! 

I'm more of a Coastal Cat Lady whose current favorite color is rainbow.

Gunne Sax

Jessica McClintock has died, but her brand will live on.

I always wanted to own a Gunne Sax dress, which was suuuuuper popular growing up. When I finally managed to try one on I had hair down to my waist and was wearing my go-to Kung Fu mary janes and I looked *exactly* like illustrations of Alice in Wonderland. I was finally too old for the look, or at least looking for something that made me appear more mature.

I passed.

Botched Gwyneth Restoration

This "Photoshop fail" of Gwyneth Paltrow reminded me of something:

Shirty

I didn't even know what you were, Shirty. You were just a really flat piece of clothing gradually being returned to the earth, or the asphalt, as it were.

On Wednesdays and Thursdays on the way to the taco truck I would look for you. My little urban mascot. Are you flatter today? Will you even be there for me? What would you look like if you were washed?

I had to know.

One day I brought a plastic bag to work and picked you up like a piece of dog doo, so my hand didn't have to touch your disgusting rain-plumped fibers.

I brought you home. I rolled you out of the bag and into the washing machine without even touching you. As mrguy mocked me for bringing your disease-ridden form into our house and into our washing machine, the rocks from 3rd street rattled around with you and made it sound as if you were trying to get out.

Fluffed and folded, I now know who you are. You are quite ugly, Shirty. It's clear why nobody stopped to pick you up when you'd fallen.

I will redeem you somehow, Shirty, even if only by this post.

Deinstall, Day 1

We got to the hotel bright and early for the deinstall of the forklift show in Kaohsiung. People sure like forklifts.

Our other colleagues for the deinstall won’t arrive until late tonight, so I am playing tour guide. So far so good. I got us to the museum of forklifts, then to a yummy cafe, where it seemed like all of our food involved tea, including the gelatin.

We visited the museum on the last day of the exhibition. Visitors were four-deep looking at the forklifts. It was an amazing site to see.

After we got back to the hotel we went on a long walk toward the night market, stopping at the beautiful temple around the corner. The man who is the caretaker (?) encouraged us to come in, and kept revealing additional rooms to us as we climbed higher and higher.

Then we shopped for athletic shoes, and popped in at the Macanna store. I now look like I'm auditioning for clown college.

We stopped for a beer at the Blue Muse on the way back in. The ladies remember us and still insist that we say "bow mi wha", which I hope means what they say it is and not something else.

And that's how the day ended.

I Know Why

I know why you fell, Russian skater.

You were distracted by shame. The shame that they made you wear a polyester outfit from Medieval Times on the ice.

You, too, Blue Man. You blinded yourself with that shiny spandex.

Mr. Smirnoff, dressed like a brown Reddy Kilowatt, I worried for you but you did o.k.

I see a new trend, though. It was the Americans, I think, who dressed like normal people. If this sport stops channeling Elton John, I'll watch more often.

See what you can do.

South Pole

I interrupt the Taiwan trip to discuss a fashion issue I have just discovered:

Apparently middle-aged white ladies do not wear South Pole.

The story starts, as things sometimes do, with the free pile at work. It was on the free pile that I found what looked like an enormous letterman sweater. Score!

I soon learned that it said South Pole, and that that was a brand of clothing. It is no surprise that brand names are unfamiliar to me. Anyway, the response to the sweater based (I assumed) on its enormity, what I pair it with and how hard I rock it, has been enthusiastic and mirthful. People love me in this sweater.

This morning I learned something additional: I am not the demographic for this brand. At the coffee station at work a guy looked at me quizzically and said "Are you even allowed to wear that?" This hipped me to the fact that there was something unusual about the pairing of me and my garment.

I looked it up, and it is true that none of the models look like me.

Now I like my sweater even better.

A South Pole History