New pants, new pants!

I bought a pile of clothes today for the first time since I got married and it was delicious. De-lish-uss. There's something about trying on a sassy little pair of pants with the Black-Eyed Peas blasting overhead and a surly gay dude just outside the door with a walkie-talkie that just gets me pumped. Also, I would like to shake the hand of whoever designed the Editor pant at Express because it fits my ass perfectly in all the right spots and makes me look statuesque, intimidating, almost predatory. Perfect for teaching.

One thing though-- where are these people who need their work clothes to "transition easily to evening"? Fuck them. I never head to a chic martini bar after work. I have never had a need to go from professional to sexy in one easy move. My work clothes need to transition into "coma-like couch nap" or "blogging with beer(s)." I suspect that it's these people driving the sequin market nowadays. Everything is loaded with sequins. My students are coming in with purses that look like they were designed by crows. Does this not bother anyone else? Am I the only person who thinks sequins are better left to drag queens and the circus? Sequins say, "Ta-da!" and if you have nothing to "Ta-da!" about, no feats of contortion or balls-to-the-wall gender bending, abstain. Abstain from the sequins.

Another great thing about clothes shopping: it's not 1991, we're not in Mervyn's fifteen minutes before closing time because I need "church clothes" for some function at school the next day, and my mother is not fuming just outside of the fitting room, hurling the most hideous things she can find in my size over the door and growling "I can't fucking believe you waited until tonight to tell me about this." Church clothes. I love how teachers assumed I had this whole other wardrobe just for Sundays, when my family would all scrub up and look decent for a trip to the Lord's house. My family never went to church, and I wasn't even baptized until I was 26. All through grade school the phrase"just wear what you would wear to church" (always that la-ti-fucking-da cadence, like "and it's just as simple as that!) was completely baffling to me. Hence, the many last minute trips to Mervyn's peppered with threats, tears, flying merchandise, and the soft musak version of Boy George's "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me...."

Other news: I am finally comfortable driving a stick shift. Just, no one can look at me when I do it. I had to drive my husband's car all this week when the Honda was in the shop playing radiator games, and it was terrifying. The car is new, for one thing, and neither of us have ever had a new car before. It was also made for superheroes, and tends to draw looks, which is awkward when you barely know how to drive the thing, it terrifies you, and you're just praying you don't make it buck through the intersection. I've had several instances where I've been waiting at a light, rehearsing in my head "ok, first gear, gentle, first gear, gentle, fuckity-fuck-fuck, fuckity-fuck-fuck" only to hear the teenaged guy in the Mustang next to me rev his engine and look over to see him eyeballing me. I want so badly to roll down the window and explain. "Look, um... I'm listening to NPR right now. When the light turns green, I will ease out slowly, progressing timidly through my gears. This turbine peaking out of the scoop in my hood, this giant fin behind me? Total miscues. Stay in school!"

But gradually, oh so gradually, I am learning the limits of the car. I am learning to love being mashed against the back of my seat when I accelerate. Something is... happening... to me. I even kind of eyeballed someone today, thinking, "I could smoke you." If I got out of first gear.

The dog and the kitten are wrestling again, doing things that look like they should hurt. She clamps her dog jaws over his entire head and drags him, he recoils and then launches right at her eye, she stomps his tail, he clings to her belly from below and takes giant chomps on her flesh. Honing future parenting skills, I either ignore them or applaud the more effective techniques with, "Oh! SNAP!"

Today was the first cold-ish day, just cold enough to feel collegiate and to make the idea of going for a run actually outside in the world not horrifying. I've been doing my running in the gym on base because running in the sticky coastal heat is evil and stupid. Treadmills are weird, though. Besides giving you an inflated idea of what your actual road endurance is, there's also something unnerving about the moment when all eight treadmills align somehow, and your footfalls become a collective booming like the sound of North Korean high-stepping troops. The weirdness is heightened by working out around military personnel, who tend to be scary-focused and toned into beef-jerky textures. Even the old retired sailors with their smeary blue forearm tats maintain a grim composure while spraying sweat. I take heart at the sight of the other wives, possibly as weirded out as me, possibly not, but all looking pretty ok with the fact that they can't crush walnuts with their biceps. Although that would be so cool now that I think about it.

Tomorrow's plan: sleep late, make muffins and coffee, wear pajama pants will about 3 and then try to be helpful while the man launches his frenzy of grilling before people come over. Maybe slip the dog a Valium before company shows up...