In the business world when I hear the words 'deep pockets' I think of someone or some organization with a lot of money.
But lately I've been thinking about those words in a very different context.
Since it is January, the month of bone-chilling winds, I've had occasion to pull out my winter coats. One of my favorite coats is a simple black wool coat.
I like the fabric, I like the weight, I like the fit of this particular coat. But the thing about the coat that I most enjoy is that it has deep pockets...... deep, cozy, luxurious pockets.
I have several coats and jackets that have shallow pockets. When I try to warm up my hands in these pockets, I feel cheated, literally left out in the cold. Why would anyone put shallow pockets in a winter garment?
I've read that during times of tight economies (i.e. during the depression and during the rationing of World War II) the difficult times were reflected in women's fashions. In other words, during these times, lapels would get narrow or disappear, trouser legs get narrower and have no cuffs, skirts get straighter, and pockets disappear. The idea is to be as efficient with costly fabric as possible.
Maybe that idea lurking in the back of my head is what causes me to associate deep pockets with luxury. Knowing that doing without pockets has been associated with times of poverty or deprivation makes pockets seem like such an extravagance.
And it isn't just about winter coats. It's also about jeans and skirts and house robes. Deep, comfortable pockets are simply one of life's great joys!
May all your clothes be blessed with great pockets.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Why is it . . .
Why is it that when a cold front blows in and the wind is so frigid that it cuts right through you, that's when my gas tank is empty and I have to stop to fill up?
Why is it that when I have less than 10 items in the store and can go through the speedy checkout, everyone else in the store has less than 10 items too?
Why is it that when you finally find the laptop you want at the right price, they only have the display computer left?
Why is it that the night I decide that I want cereal for dinner it's the night that we are out of milk?
Why is it that the day I'm presenting strategies to the executive management team is the same day that a random section of my hair protrudes awkwardly off the side of my head?
Why is it that the ice hangs tenaciously in the bottom of the cup regardless of how you tap it until the entire glob of ice plummets onto your face (and shirt) ?
Why is it that the neighborhood is totally abandoned until you get halfway to the newspaper in your nightgown?
Why is it that I always go in and out of my office building alone until the day that I trip over nothing in the parking lot and that day my boss happens along?
Why is it that the zit appears on picture-taking day?
Why is it that when I have less than 10 items in the store and can go through the speedy checkout, everyone else in the store has less than 10 items too?
Why is it that when you finally find the laptop you want at the right price, they only have the display computer left?
Why is it that the night I decide that I want cereal for dinner it's the night that we are out of milk?
Why is it that the day I'm presenting strategies to the executive management team is the same day that a random section of my hair protrudes awkwardly off the side of my head?
Why is it that the ice hangs tenaciously in the bottom of the cup regardless of how you tap it until the entire glob of ice plummets onto your face (and shirt) ?
Why is it that the neighborhood is totally abandoned until you get halfway to the newspaper in your nightgown?
Why is it that I always go in and out of my office building alone until the day that I trip over nothing in the parking lot and that day my boss happens along?
Why is it that the zit appears on picture-taking day?
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Refrigerators
I've been noticing the contents of refrigerators lately and wondering about the significance therein.
Let me explain. I am most intimately familiar with the refrigerator in my own kitchen and the refrigerator in the employee break room at my office.
Last month my own refrigerator was crammed full of gift foods from friends and the special ingredients for holiday meals. Front and center was the smoked turkey someone sent me, while specialty cheeses from some gift baskets were tucked into odd corners and crevices. My husband's special cranberry salsa was there, as were the mascapone cheese for topping his luscious annual fruitcake and the unusually large amounts of celery (for the cornbread dressing!)
I could hear my own mental version of 'Chestnuts roasting on an open fire' everytime I opened the refrigerator door. Just like the Christmas cards displayed across the room, my refrigerator testified to the season.
At the office, there was a similar sort of thing happening. No, no one was cooking Christmas dinner at the office, but there were endless holiday celebrations throughout the month: a holiday reception one afteroon, a pot luck holiday luncheon on a different day, a celebratory breakfast shared by two neighboring divisions on still another day.
These various office events meant that the refrigerator was always full of various creations either destined for the event or leftover from the event. Throughout December, the refrigerator (and the whole breakroom) was a rich place for grazing, sampling, or sneaking a bite in the middle of the afternoon.
That was last month.
This month my home refridgerator has finally been purged of the plastic containers protecting the last vestiges of holiday dining. The interior walls and shelves of the refrigerator have had their first of the year cleaning. For the first time in weeks a visitor can actually SEE the walls and shelves. It looks somehow bereft, lonely, empty.
January brings a lot more salad ingredients, hardboiled eggs, and in the freezer section, lo-cal, small-portioned, frozen dinners. It's a bleak landscape indeed. It seems hollow and I almost expect an echo.
At the office, it's the same story. The gaudy holiday fare is replaced by carefully packed lunches and veggies. It's as though the refrigerators adopted that same resolution to eat healthy.
Ah, January . . .
Let me explain. I am most intimately familiar with the refrigerator in my own kitchen and the refrigerator in the employee break room at my office.
Last month my own refrigerator was crammed full of gift foods from friends and the special ingredients for holiday meals. Front and center was the smoked turkey someone sent me, while specialty cheeses from some gift baskets were tucked into odd corners and crevices. My husband's special cranberry salsa was there, as were the mascapone cheese for topping his luscious annual fruitcake and the unusually large amounts of celery (for the cornbread dressing!)
I could hear my own mental version of 'Chestnuts roasting on an open fire' everytime I opened the refrigerator door. Just like the Christmas cards displayed across the room, my refrigerator testified to the season.
At the office, there was a similar sort of thing happening. No, no one was cooking Christmas dinner at the office, but there were endless holiday celebrations throughout the month: a holiday reception one afteroon, a pot luck holiday luncheon on a different day, a celebratory breakfast shared by two neighboring divisions on still another day.
These various office events meant that the refrigerator was always full of various creations either destined for the event or leftover from the event. Throughout December, the refrigerator (and the whole breakroom) was a rich place for grazing, sampling, or sneaking a bite in the middle of the afternoon.
That was last month.
This month my home refridgerator has finally been purged of the plastic containers protecting the last vestiges of holiday dining. The interior walls and shelves of the refrigerator have had their first of the year cleaning. For the first time in weeks a visitor can actually SEE the walls and shelves. It looks somehow bereft, lonely, empty.
January brings a lot more salad ingredients, hardboiled eggs, and in the freezer section, lo-cal, small-portioned, frozen dinners. It's a bleak landscape indeed. It seems hollow and I almost expect an echo.
At the office, it's the same story. The gaudy holiday fare is replaced by carefully packed lunches and veggies. It's as though the refrigerators adopted that same resolution to eat healthy.
Ah, January . . .
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Time Travel
Santa brought me an Ipod Nano. This tiny thing has more memory that an entire university faculty. I have been diligently feeding it albums from our collection, and the little bar at the bottom of the screen has hardly budged. Amazing.
It's a voracious little device. It feels like I am pouring my favorite music into a black hole that is hungry for more and more. Absolutely fascinating. But unlike a black hole, this cute little thing serves up all this music on command from my pocket.
Along the way, I am listening to dusty CDs that I had almost forgotten we own. I'm feeling that glow of renewed friendships. I am delighted by album after album, song after song. Ah, yes . . . that's why I liked this song. Ha! I love that great phrase in those lyrics. And that one still makes me want to dance around the room.
I've always enjoyed a wide variety of music, and the task of loading the ipod is reminding me just how many kinds of sounds speak to me. Beatles (of course!). Glenn Miller, courtesy of my dad. Classical music I've learned to love. Other music introduced to me by my kids.
And many songs evoke an almost palpable memory, a feeling of time and place and mood and relationships so strong that I feel like a time traveler visiting my high school years, my first apartment, my parent's house, my favorite car, a transistor radio beside a swimming pool, the first FM station I heard.
In the blink of an eye with the first few notes of a song, I'm 14 years old and listening to the AM station from Oklahoma City late at night when the reception was better. Next I'm sitting in a dorm room on a college campus with girlfriends. Like the background music in a movie, these songs provide cues and context for the stories of my life.
The performers are like old friends who have seen me through my ups and downs. It seems that we have shared so much over the years, and it is a delight to visit with them as I load them into this new toy.
What a delightful way to begin a new year: not just reviewing 2007, but enjoying music from many years past.
It's a voracious little device. It feels like I am pouring my favorite music into a black hole that is hungry for more and more. Absolutely fascinating. But unlike a black hole, this cute little thing serves up all this music on command from my pocket.
Along the way, I am listening to dusty CDs that I had almost forgotten we own. I'm feeling that glow of renewed friendships. I am delighted by album after album, song after song. Ah, yes . . . that's why I liked this song. Ha! I love that great phrase in those lyrics. And that one still makes me want to dance around the room.
I've always enjoyed a wide variety of music, and the task of loading the ipod is reminding me just how many kinds of sounds speak to me. Beatles (of course!). Glenn Miller, courtesy of my dad. Classical music I've learned to love. Other music introduced to me by my kids.
And many songs evoke an almost palpable memory, a feeling of time and place and mood and relationships so strong that I feel like a time traveler visiting my high school years, my first apartment, my parent's house, my favorite car, a transistor radio beside a swimming pool, the first FM station I heard.
In the blink of an eye with the first few notes of a song, I'm 14 years old and listening to the AM station from Oklahoma City late at night when the reception was better. Next I'm sitting in a dorm room on a college campus with girlfriends. Like the background music in a movie, these songs provide cues and context for the stories of my life.
The performers are like old friends who have seen me through my ups and downs. It seems that we have shared so much over the years, and it is a delight to visit with them as I load them into this new toy.
What a delightful way to begin a new year: not just reviewing 2007, but enjoying music from many years past.
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