It was, and I am not exaggerating in any way whatsoever, a fucking CRIME AGAINST NATURE to be in an office yesterday. It was that nice out. Cloudless blue skies? Yep. Hot? Oh yeah. Buttery sunlight just begging to tan your pasty white self while you recline on a teak chair sipping a melon margarita and watching the scenery bobbing by from the deck of your 30 foot Bayliner? You better believe it.
The weather lately has made me want to go shopping. I want to be cloaked in flippy little sundresses, dammit. Gossamer scarves, or something. Flattering breathy summery things. I'm telling you, though. No one is selling fun little sundresses anymore. The sundress is Not Hot.
I did end up buying some new things the other day at Banana Republic. Normally I don't get stuff there because really, it's just an expensive version of The Gap. Which is just a middle priced version of Old Navy. So why not just go to Old Navy, right? Except sometimes you - you meaning "I" - feel like some sort of old crone amongst the freshly-minted low-ride-jean-wearing KIDS cavorting about the store.
Anyway, I did my usual routine of bringing about 294817 things into the dressing room, because odds are most of them won't fit. What the hell is it about women's clothes? I mean, not to sound like a Cathy cartoon or something, but sizes are always inconsistent. An size 8 pair of capri pants that fit perfectly in one brand will either droop to the floor or creep halfway up your lower intenstine in another. I've got a few more issues, too:
Shirts designed for Twiggy
What the fuck is going on with this conspiracy to make women believe they are only attractive if they have giant gravity-defying jugs, but then only designing shirts that work if you have an Ace bandage wrapping tightly around your A-cups? Button down shirts that do not allow for hooter room and instead gap rudely in the middle? Teensy little spaghetti strapped tank tops? T-shirts that give you boobline (you know, when the fabric stretches between your tatas and creates a line)? I'm a C cup, dammit, not Pamela Anderson. Little help here?
Way too long pants
I am five foot five and one half inches. That is a perfectly respectable height and certainly in the normal range. I am not a Petite. I am not a Little Person. So why, oh why, when I try on pants, is it not surprising - NAY, commonplace - to find an extra 4 inches of material puddled around my feet? Who are these giraffelike creatures and why are pants being designed only for them?
It just seems like some skirts are specifically created to give you the kind of hips that need a "Caution: Wide Load" sign. I'm just sayin'.
Anything that gives you toe
Why? Dear god, why? Didn't someone try on this design before it was unleashed on an unsuspecting public, whose dressing room neighbors must be subjected to shrieks of horror?
All right, I'll stop my ranting. Instead, I'll just sit here in my cat-annihilated office chair, anticipating the meeting from HELL scheduled this afternoon. I called it in order to "strategize" an upcoming trade show. By strategize, I mean "put 15 different engineers in a room to argue endlessly over incredibly annoying topics like the thickness of the carpet pad we should rent". I'm going to bite someone before the meeting ends, I know it.
go back :::
06.10.2002 - Boredom does not exist, and if it does, it is cloaked in something cute from Restoration Hardware, ok?
06.06.2002 - Bangs
are not my hair's destiny.
06.04.2002 - "We need a fish Lassie.
Lassie, save Oscar! Go get help!"
comments so far.
I have moved. - 1.03.2005
Obviously, a work in progress. - 12.27.2004
Happy holidays! - 12.24.2004
Listen, I am not a complete dick, it's not like I want Joe to die alone surrounded by cats or something. - 12.23.2004
Plus I am convinced my butt is extra big when it's upside down. - 12.22.2004