Why I Love Elbow-Length Sleeves, and Janeane Garofalo

I love clothes with elbow-length sleeves. I don't mean three-quarter sleeves, which are often advertised as

Image credit: hugoboss.com

"elbow-length." I mean sleeves that go EXACTLY to the elbow.

So I've been so happy when I saw all the elbow-length sleeve action in stores this spring and summer.

Why are elbow-length sleeves the greatest thing ever? I'll tell you why. They're flattering on everyone. They're great for work. They're nice and cool for summer, yet way more professional than a tank top. They look good loose or fitted. They go nicely with a variety of necklines: drapey/cowl, V, boatneck, scoop.

But most importantly, they perform the greatest favor that fashion could ever do for me. They cover 100% of my upper arms.

I Have Matronly Upper Arms 

"I love my pink top! It
covers my upper arms!"
- J.Jill model

Everybody has an answer to the question, "If you could change one thing about your appearance, what would it be?"

My answer would be: my upper arms. They are, shall we say, fleshy. Not fat, exactly. Just... thick. And rounded.

I have matronly upper arms. If you're a woman with this type of arm, you're sitting here nodding along because you KNOW. If you're not, consider yourself lucky, because matronly upper arms are biological destiny that no amount of cardio or weight-lifting can ever change. Motherhood makes no difference, either—my arms have looked like this since well before I had children.

If you are a woman with this kind of arm, you're often self-conscious about it. None of the models and actresses have arms like that. No, they all have those beautifully defined arms where you could practically identify individual muscle fibers through the skin. If you're like me, you prefer never to wear sleeveless garments unless it's so hot outside that everybody is too busy wiping sweat out of their eyes to notice your sub-shoulder chub.

The definitive work on this topic comes from Janeane Garofalo. I saw this bit on TV circa 1997 and laughed my ass off because it's SO TRUE:

Janeane is the bomb.

"And I'm worried because I have matronly upper arms, y'know? I can't get intimate because I have matronly upper arms, and there's two kinds of women in the world: those with matronly upper arms and those with visible biceps and never the twain shall meet, because the bicep gals don't get it and the matronly upper arms girls know about life and love and losing and do you know how hot it has to be for Garofalo to go sleeveless? ... I will wear a sweater or a sweat jacket or a long-sleeve shirt until it's literally a hundred and ten degrees out."

Image credit: inkedmag.com

SING IT, GIRL! And go out shopping. Scoop up a bunch of these items now before they go out of style again and then we'll be back to boring old three-quarter sleeves. Or... heaven forbid... cap sleeves, the single most unflattering sleeve ever known to women with matronly upper arms.

Actually, I see that Janeane got tattoos on both of her upper arms at some point since that 1997 routine. Which I think is a great idea. If you don't like some part of your body, find a way to distract people. It's harder to notice the shape of someone's arm if you're busy looking at the ink.

Nicely done, Ralph
Lauren.

Even Carhartt makes
them. Score.

I have and adore
this Ellen Tracy dress.

Pet Peeve of the Day: People Who Say "Cut and Paste" When They Really Mean "Copy and Paste"

Image credit: Zazzle.com

It seems like I hear it on a daily basis.

"Check out this cool article. I cut and pasted it from the Wall Street Journal's website."

"I sent you the specs yesterday. Just cut and paste them from my e-mail." 

"This homework is plagiarized. Someone clearly cut and pasted it from the internet."

NO, NO, NO. Nobody CUT nothin'. You COPIED it.

WHY???

The words copy and cut are easy words. We all learn them in, like, preschool. Everybody knows what they mean. Hence my confusion.

If you CUT something, you take it away forever. If you cut your hair, that cut-off hair is gone for good. If you cut out trans fats from your diet, you eliminate them. If they cut you during an audition, you ain't getting that part, girlfriend.

Same with text. There is no way to CUT and paste something from the internet, unless you have admin rights and are editing the web page itself. If you COPY some text, the original page stays intact. Nothing is cut from it.

So why do people say CUT and paste when they really mean COPY and paste?

I am truly stumped. Maybe the phrase "cut and paste" is irresistibly catchy, with those cute little one-syllable words. Maybe people are so focused on the pasting part of the operation that they figure the first part doesn't matter. Maybe people just hear the phrase "cut and paste" more often, so it sticks in their head and they don't stop to think about whether it's accurate or not.

Alas, I fear this is yet another example of a VTD. A Verbally Transmitted Disease, where inaccuracies and poor grammar get spread around the world through carelessly open mouths and ears.

Resist VTD! Say COPY AND PASTE when that's what you're doing.

Road Rage, and the Things We Do to Avoid Cursing in Front of Children

Ahh, the things we say to children.

I don't mean baby talk, y'all. I mean the things we say INSTEAD of the swear words we'd like to say but hold back because a small person's big eyes are staring at us.

Another Day, Another Douchebag Driver

Not my husband. Though he used to
sport a hairdo kind of like this one.

My husband is from New Jersey. So it's pretty much encoded in his DNA to swear at other drivers and call them douchebags if they wrong him in traffic.

Well, one day we were driving along, my husband at the wheel, and some douchebag driver cut us off. I looked over at my husband and could see, as if in slow motion, his body tensing up, his vocal cords priming themselves for some quality swearing. Then I saw him check himself because our daughter, age 4, was sitting in the back seat, listening, with her eager mind and elephant memory. 

"You........ You D-BAG!" he finally yelled at the guy, through clenched teeth. Clearly not as satisfying as the real thing, but better than nothing.

Immediately our daughter piped up: "Bean bag? Why did you call him a bean bag, Daddy?"

It has become a family joke. If somebody does a stupid thing, we say, "What a bean bag!" Then we laugh and move on.

Road Rage—As Old as the Model T?

My grandfather, not from New Jersey but born and raised in the midwest, used to yell at other drivers and even shake his fist out the window. "Keith!" my grandma would scold him, sternly (and fruitlessly), from the passenger seat. She was a preacher's kid, and I mean the good kind. (I once asked Grandma if she was familiar with actress and singer Mae West. "Oh, I never liked any of her songs," she responded primly.)

I think I experienced road rage shortly after learning to drive. When you're 16, it's all about, "Oh my GOD, why are these morons driving so SLOW?!" At some point, and I am definitely beyond this point, it's all about, "Oh my GOD, what is WRONG with these idiots driving 75 miles per hour on Lake Shore Drive?!"

I read a theory somewhere that we get road rage because we are territorial, and our car is an extension of our territory. 

I think that might explain a lot. 

It would certainly explain why I get pissed off at the people who live in the condo above us, whenever they have the audacity to (1) talk at any volume above a whisper, or (2) walk across their hardwood floors. Is it their fault that our 100-year-old building has no carpeting and no insulation between floors? Not at all, but dammit, they're disturbing MY quiet evening at home. 

So I sit and stew and dream of the day when I'll live in a real house. Of course, when that day comes, I'm sure I'll feel the same way about my neighbors' lawn mowers, barking dogs, and teenagers' parties. I'm practicing my line now so I'll have it perfect when the time comes: "Damn kids! GET OFF MY LAWN!"

Maybe I should have been born in Jersey.

Why Biking to Work Kicks Ass (And Not Just My Out-of-Shape Ass)

Image credit: www.planetbike.com

Today I biked to work for the first time in 2+ years. My legs hurt, but I am damn proud of myself. Eight miles ain’t too shabby for a woman who hasn’t been on a bike since getting pregnant with her now-1-year-old.

I have missed this. I used to ride to work more often. But that was before children entered the picture and made mornings before work 1,000 times busier than they used to be.

So now I present to you, David Letterman style, my own personal…

Top 10 Reasons to Bike to Work on Chicago’s Lake Shore Path

10. The magnificent views of the lake and the downtown skyline
9. The morning sunlight glinting off Lake Michigan
8. Setting my own timetable, rather than waiting for the CTA
7. Not being stopped in traffic
6. Being gloriously solitary and free, rather than being one of 125 commuters packed onto a bus like sardines
5. Breathing in fresh air, and the smell of freshly cut grass, rather than vehicle exhaust
4. The exhilaration
3. The forced freedom from my cell phone, allowing my mind to wander
2. The exercise

And the number one reason to bike to work along the lake shore path:

1. Flying past the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Lake Shore Drive (Nyah, nyah!)

I even made it to work in less time than it takes on the bus. Which says a lot more about Chicago traffic than it does about my athleticism, you can take that to the bank.

Happy Bike to Work Week!

The Too-Much-Information Age, Part Infinity

My beloved HTC One S. Well,
not MY HTC One S. Mine has
a photo of my kid drinking
from a beer bottle.

I like technology. I am glued to my smart phone during every commute—it lets me begin my work day while I’m still on the bus, and when you’re paid hourly like I am, that matters. I have even been known to play Candy Crush on my phone while in the bathroom. (Hey, when you’re enjoying a few minutes of privacy away from your small children, every second counts.)

But at some point, enough is enough. The urge to multitask, sometimes on multiple devices, can go too far. At some point your mind becomes so divided that it can’t focus on any one thing anymore.

Take my boss. Please! (ba-dum-pa.) Kidding. I like and respect her very much.

But she is in a different office than I am, halfway across the country. So 99% of our interactions are via IM or phone.

Our phone calls often go something like this: 

Me: Did you see the e-mail that I sent you yesterday about Project K?

Boss: Uh… let me look. (15 seconds of silence while she scrolls through 200+ e-mails)

Me: Hang on, I’ll forward it so that it’s at the top of your list.

Boss: OK. ………… It hasn’t arrived yet … While we’re waiting, I see an e-mail about that question that Department X sent to you. What did you tell them?

Me: I told them we could...  (We proceed to discuss the other issue for 10 minutes)

Boss: That reminds me, we need to schedule a meeting with Department X about Project Z.

Me: Agreed. I’ll put something on the calendar. Sooooo, back to Project K…

Boss: Oh, yeah. I see the e-mail now. Oh, I just got an IM from Department J about something they need posted urgently. Gotta run. Sorry! Let’s discuss tomorrow.

E-mail is a fairly useless communication tool, with the high volume of e-mails that many of us get. Imagine receiving 100 paper memos a day and being expected to read and answer them all. (Remember memos?) I get relatively little e-mail at this job, compared to other jobs I've had—yet if an e-mail gets buried far enough down in my inbox that I have to scroll, it may as well cease to exist.

Instant messaging is better, but not much better. My boss and I had the following exchange today:

See how she answered my question? Except… not. Maybe she was answering someone else’s question, and that person received my answer in their own chat window.

This is a daily thing. And it’s not just my boss. I can hardly blame the poor woman. She is one of millions of Americans being asked to accomplish more in a workday than is humanly possible. We should take to the streets! But to demand—what? That they take our multitasking tools away? Many of us would rather undergo a root canal.

True Confessions of an Information Junkie

My own husband and I can’t stay off our smart phones during date nights. It began innocently enough:

Me: “I’m so happy we’re out without the kids for a change! And I'm excited about this restaurant. I’m going to do a check-in on Facebook.”

Him: “Me too!”

Me: “Oh, I didn’t show you this picture from the other day. Check it out.”

Him: “That reminds me, I was going to show you this article about…”

Before we know it, we’ve spent half the date staring at small screens. We have to make a conscious effort to put the phones down and have a face-to-face conversation.

I never thought I'd come this far. It's a slippery slope from here to cyborg.