Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Looking For Hayes

A few weeks ago I did a fast read of one of those high interest beach books that features a hero with the somewhat odd name of Hayes.  He zoomed into the foreground of my life picture in a very special way because  I decided to look for him.  I didn't even begin to imagine how challenging this little project would be.

Hayes is 6' 4" tall, weighs 225 pounds, has chestnut colored hair that falls just to the nape of his neck, and has unusually intense blue eyes. He's in his late 30's, maybe early 40's. He wears tight jeans, hiking boots and a flannel shirt with a heavy ski jacket because the setting is winter snow.  He's muscled, coordinated, and agile.  He's clever, funny, sympathetic, and treats women with twinkly eyed charm. He can cook, shoot firearms, chop wood in minutes, change sheets, and tend wounded guests.  He can make accurate judgments about other people with a quick read of body language.  He jumps higher, hits harder, runs faster and looks better than most male contestants in any kind of sporting event. You get the idea. Oh, yeah-he really likes to read. All the walls of his cabin are lined with full bookshelves.

I looked for him at the grocery store. The men there were all older or younger and were dressed like they just rolled off the couch to quickly replenish the beer supply during halftime. I looked all the way to Gresham and back while transporting grandgirls from one place of fun spring break activity to another.  He didn't drive any of the trucks I saw or work in any of the garden centers I passed.  Home Depot!  Of course, he'd be there for sure I thought as I trailed behind my husband who was  looking for some sort of special electrical equipment.  Some of the guys here were hard to see because they looked out from faces coated with paint spray or sawdust.  Hayes would never do that.  He'd use a handkerchief from his own pocket to clean off his face and slap the sawdust off his jeans before he entered the store.

I was really hoping I'd find him Friday morning when we regularly meet our friends for breakfast.  Nope.  He must not care to eat in a loud, kid-filled egg and pancake house smelling of hot syrup and bacon.  His breakfast is probably lean and healthy and he puts it together in his sleek bachelor kitchen.  Maybe I'd spot him at the riverside bistro where we went for dinner that night.  I looked everywhere.  There were some possible candidates but they were all really too old to fit the bill and besides, they were sitting at the bar trying to make small talk with the bored servers who just wanted to get on with the night and meet their boyfriends later.

Let me tell you, I grew more and more determined to find this man.  But  a few more scouting forays caused me to give up figuring I'd have to go to southern California or maybe Manhattan to find this particular guy.  I concluded that such a male exists only within the exciting pages of a mystery romance or lives somewhere close to where people regularly get their bodies and faces recreated by their plastic surgeons. He's for sure not anywhere in  my world unless he's in the ski lodge at Timberline, maybe?  A cattle ranch in Central Oregon?  A helicopter pilot at the Coast? Owner of a large and successful business downtown?  You tell  me and I'll go find him.

 

Friday, March 6, 2015

B to D: Making Sure Your Cups Are the Right Size

My longtime friend Andrea is one of those women who can do magical things with scissors, fabric and a sewing machine. She has her own dress form which she adjusts according to need and recently completed a gorgeous quilt with an Hawaiian theme which she made out of old sundresses, her husband's shorts and even an old swimsuit.  She's that talented.   Last week she spent a few days in her own kind of  heaven in Puyallup WA where she attended a stitch and sew expo.  Not only did she browse through many hundreds of vendors' booths stunned by all the exotic sewing notions she suddenly found she needed to have, but she took some classes as well. She shared some of what she learned with our other longtime friend JoAnn and me at her house over tea and chocolate dipped fruit earlier this week.

The most unusual class she described for us was "Bra Making."  Yes. You can make your own bras. After all, according to her teacher, most American women are wearing the wrong bra size and don't even know it although constant tugging and strap shuffling should give us a clue.  Apparently, European women figured this out a long time ago and take their band and cup measurements way, way beyond even the 42 D level. A proper fit is the key and a knowledgeable fitter will make sure every bit of "tissue" (that's the term they use rather than "breast") is cinched and maneuvered into its rightful place thus producing a never before level of comfort. For your own personal amazement, take a special trip to Nordstrom or some other ridiculously expensive store and have yourself fitted.  Don't cheat and go to Target or Fred Meyer because the girl who works in that department is over there temporarily from Paint and Electronics and has only worked there for a week anyway.  Besides, you will be tempted to buy the "Barely There" pullover bra which is on sale and even has a coupon to go with it. No,no, no.  No pullovers; don't buy anything without an under wire even if your nose touches the wall before your chest does.

The fitter at Nordstom knows all the tricks, as I found out during my recent visit. My tissue has all been relegated to proper placement although the cost compares to all  the other bra expenditure of my entire  lifetime.  Andrea's teacher says I should feel much better about my body image and "should never again struggle with those pokey bras that are all day bothersome." Just to be safe, I kept the sleek handled shopping bag and the discreet receipt just in case I can't get used to this new, compacted feeling in my chest area.  Andrea is seriously considering buying the bra pattern. I bet she does.