Posts Tagged ‘socks’

Boy, You Sure Are Serious

July 30, 2014

About this Burning Man thing.

My friend leaned into my last night, gently joshing me about my apparent obsession with the event.

His words floated back to me as I re-arranged and sorted my sock drawer.

No, I am not on methamphetamines.

I dusted my book shelves when that happened.

Ahem.

Anyway, I bought two more pairs of socks today to round out my collection, I sorted them into various colors and striations–hearts (like polka dots, but hearts), polka dots (black and white, green, yellow, orange, on a white field, yellow and pink on a pink field, orange, pink, and yellow on white field), argyle, stripes (grape and lilac, Neapolitan pink, chocolate and vanilla, pink and brown Hello Kitty, forest green and light green, purple and navy, navy and black, black and white), “plain” colored socks, all either knee-high or thigh high.

Twenty two pairs all total.

I am out there 19 days.

You need a few extra pairs, because sometimes you want a fresh pair after a shower.

There may be nothing grosser than putting on old dirty playa socks after a shower.

I have done it once I never want to repeat the experiment.

So, socks are set.

And since I was in the bureau I did a quick inventory on my tights and leggings, which I found to be a little lacking, but not completely bereft of hope: two pairs basic black leggings, 1 pair red velvet leggings, 1 pair navy blue with tiny white polka dots, 1 pair pink argyle, 1 pair solid hot pink with lace ankles, one pair nude with black lace flowers, one pair nude with black hearts up the back seam, one pair sheer black thighs highs with pink ribbon laces up the back and thick black lace tops, one pair hot pink fishnets, one pair rainbow fishnets, one pair neon green leggings, one pair black leggings with silver glitter, one pair purple tights with glitter.

Total tights and leggings: 15.

I could use a few more pairs of tights/leggings.

I like to pair the leggings with a crazy set of socks or thigh highs and then wear hipster underwear (no none of my underpants have tiny mustaches on them or ironic coffee pour over references or Nietzsche quotations or Beach House lyrics) and a tank top.

These wild combinations with my boots and my utility belt and I am ready to rock the playa nanny gig.

I also inventoried my under ware.

When was the last time you hears anyone say that?

When was the last time I have ever said that.

“What did you do last night?”

“I inventoried my panty drawer, you?”

Baha.

The panty inventory too a little shy of my goal number: 15 pairs, ranging from solid black to plaid in neon purple and pink, hip hugger, lacy stripes, neon pinks, polka dots, tiny ribbons.

My boss has the best underwear ever–days of the week.

She literally has three sets and just uses a fresh pair each day of the week she’s there.

Well, she’s covered.

I, however, find myself a few short.

Plus, again, like the socks, there will be a time when I shower and I won’t want to put on the same pair of panties, blech!

I will want a fresh pair.

So, 19 days on playa,  I will shoot for 25 pairs of panties.

I am 6 pairs short.

That might be overdoing it a little bit, but better an extra pair of underwear than not enough.

True that.

I have plenty of tank tops and slip dresses and I am going to bring my bibs and my tutu, because why not.

I have one small box completely packed–a hat box, with a couple of hats, some fascinators, my goggles, and my utility belt with the pink Super Girl button on it.

Every good nanny needs a utility belt.

I ran across an old photo from John Curley that he took of the Junebug and I at camp and it is an awesome juxtaposition of charge and nanny.

Juni is looking wistful, forlorn, slightly tired, off into the golden hour descending dusk, and I, just shot from the waist down, am resplendent in my tights, striped orange and brown and cream, a pair of hipster underpants in black with white polka dots and a black tank top, utility belt with water bottle hanging from it, and in one hand I have J’s star wand and in the other her tiara, and I also have a pair of fairy wings that she dumped on me hanging off the back of my shoulders.

Voila!

Playa nanny.

My boss today stopped me mid conversation to ask if I was getting the time I needed to take care of all my own Burning Man preparations.

“I love having you this extra time,” in regards to me helping her out on Fridays for the last few weeks, and again this Friday, “but I realized, that maybe you need some time to get ready, how are your preparations coming?”

I smiled.

I have been whittling away at it for weeks.

A tiny bit here.

A teeny bit there.

So it would not overwhelm me, neither time wise or financially.

A lot of the stuff, socks included, I already have from previous burns, this will make number 8 for me (actually I am really impressed when I went through my tights, the black ones with glitter have been to five burns, unheard of, the same with a couple of pairs of the knee highs which I would never wear except out there)–my utility belt, my crinoline, my electric teapot, makeup, hair stuff, jewelry.

However, there are things that I have to always have.

Baby wipes.

I have bought one pack every once in a while for the past month and now have four packs ready to go.

One week it’s a lip balm.

Another week it was hand salve.

This week I got another container of sunblock.

A few days ago, it was cotton swabs and hair elastics.

“Oh, I have been getting stuff for a bit now,” I told my boss, “I am pretty much ready.”

And I am.

I could go with what I have and not break a sweat, I have gone with far less in the past and got by just fine.

There is a point to when the stuff getting has to stop and the being ready is just fine.

I pick up my bicycle this week from American Cyclery and that’s about all she wrote.

Well, aside from a few more pairs of underpants.

A girl can’t have too many of those.

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Where Are My Slippers?!

February 19, 2011

They be on my feet!

God damn it’s cold out there.  I don’t mind the rain and I don’t mind the cold, but combine them and I had wet, cold feet for a good part of the day today.  I can handle a decent amount of cold, but once the feet get chilled, it takes forever for the rest of me to warm up.

Case in point, I’ve been home now for about 45 minutes and I’m still wearing my scarf and my cardigan and I’m sitting next to the radiator and I have had a very large cup of hot Bengal Spice tea.  The toes are still cold.  The first thing I did when I got in was take off my wet shoes and socks and pull out my warmest pair of socks–purple striped wool Carharts that I got in Augusta, Maine during December of 2008, bought at the Renny’s with Wendy.

Then I put my slippers, faux fur-lined, specifically purchased for my trip to Hudson, Wisconsin this past December, on over them and started shuffling around the house.  I’m about to turn on my oven and stick my feet in there to toast them up.  I know that they will warm eventually and when that happens my whole body will light up because the rest of me is sufficiently warm.

My face is actually quite flush at this very moment.  But until my feet register as warm, the brain continues to send out distress signals telling me that I’m freezing to death.

If only my cat would sit on my fee rather than on my lap.  She is quite warm and divinely toasty hunched up in my lap right at this moment.  I already know she would not deign to nestle on my feet, but I have truly considered perching her there to warm up the tootsies.

I will be wearing socks to bed tonight.

That used to be an abhorrent idea to me.  I remember very distinctly sitting after hours over a few, quite a few, pints of bitter at the Angelic, talking with Maria Vasoli about how neither one of us could stand wearing socks on our feet when we went to bed.

This was in Madison, WI.

I am in California and I will be wearing socks to bed tonight, I can pretty much guarantee it.

Cass and I were talking today and she, being 65, credits this to getting older.  Fuck man, I’m 38, what do I have to look forward too?  I will be one of those old ladies carrying around an afghan that I crocheted myself.

It will be burnt sienna and it will have an owl in the middle of it.

I thought one got hot flashes as one got older.

Ah well, at least I have the ability to laugh at my younger self.  And John, John Morgan, where ever you may be, you darling man.  I am so sorry that I resented you for giving me socks one year on my birthday.  You were trying to be sweet, and they were wool, and cute, and I’m sure tres expensive (having now balked any number of times at putting out hard cash for quality socks, fuckers ain’t cheap) and I got mad at you.

You had noticed that I didn’t have many socks.  And I certainly did not have good socks.  And we were dating in Madison, and my birthday is in December.  You were a dear man and I threw those socks in your face.  Literally, I think.

If there is a man out there ready to give me a nice pair of socks, you, my dear are all romance and I will gratefully accept them and wear them to bed.

They don’t even need to come wrapped in flowers.

Daisies are my favorites.

I digress.

I think, it’s because I’m beginning to have sensation in my toes and my mind is overwhelmed with the feelings of defrosting toes.

Oh my god.

I’m still wearing my socks to bed.  In fact, I think I’m going to go huddle under the covers right now.


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