Dressing My Spouse

I may have mentioned that Steve is not really into clothes.  Also, I had to do a lot of work to convince him to wear summer clothes in the summertime.  I bought him a pair of shorts the first year we were married and he wears them so often that they've become less and less presentable until Steve himself asked me the other week to find him some more. 

Every Monday I make the rounds to the two thrift stores in town that have buy-one-get-one-free specials that day in an attempt to keep myself clothed in actual maternity clothes rather than Steve's t-shirts.  This Monday I scored two maternity shirts, two pairs of maternity capris, and two pairs of shorts for Steve.  I didn't take Steve to the store, because intentionally taking him clothes shopping is a bit like taking a cat to the swimming pool--everyone ends up sad. 

When I got home, I pulled out the bag of clothes, told Steve about my purchases, and went to unpack the groceries.  I heard Steve exclaim, "These are great.  The perfect length."  And when I turned around, he was wearing my capri pants.  Oh, lady pants.  You rear your ugly head again.  They really do fit him nicely.  I suppose that if he doesn't mind that I wear his clothes while I'm pregnant, I shouldn't be stingy with mine.

Dressing a Pregnant Person

I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror in the mall last week (the library's in the mall, otherwise I wouldn't go in there because it's dark and mall-like and I think all those new letting-fish-nibble-bits-off-your-feet shops are creepy and there isn't even a Thornton's or a Mrs. Field's or something to make it more palatable, although I can buy cheap frozen fish there, but I think that's kind of wrong too).  I caught a glimpse of myself and I thought, "Who has been dressing you in the mornings?  A blind misogynist?"  I walked over to Steve's office and asked him why he let me leave the house looking like this, but he didn't know what I was talking about.  He thought I looked fine.  That's because he personally thinks it's okay to wear silk-screened wolf sweatshirts and believes I look fetching all the time (good on him for that last bit).

I didn't look fine, though.  A friend gave me all her maternity clothes, which was very nice of her since I have no desire to pay for expensive clothes that I will wear for four months.  It's tricky to even find maternity clothes in our city, despite the fact that it has the highest teen pregnancy rate in Scotland (shouldn't that create a demand for maternity jeans?).  As far as I can tell, none of the high street shops stock maternity clothes; they have to be ordered online.  And the specialty maternity stores are PRICEY.  So I'm very happy to have my free wardrobe, but the woman who originally bought the clothing is a bit taller and a bit thinner than I am and she's Swedish which leads me to believe that she can get away with certain fashion decisions that I canNOT as a short, stocky American.

I decided that I could fix my wardrobe with some hemming and layering, but I only got through half of one cuff on one pair of trousers, before I found the intrigue on the newest episode of MI-5 too riveting to sew.  And then when MI-5 was over, some little baby was kicking me, which I interpreted as a request to eat ice cream, which is just the kind of decision that's going to make this whole wardrobe issue that much worse.

I suppose it's not SO bad to look homeless while pregnant.

MBC and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

I had a job interview last week for a job I didn't get. I don't mind that I didn't get the job because it would have required at least 15 hours of commuting every week to a school with a very old-fashioned library in a very bureaucractic school system. The interview process was two days long and required waking up at 5:00 am on Thursday and spending the night in a different city to give my required presentation on Friday. The weather was terrible and I had to go straight from the interview to my actual job, which required 3 hours of additional travel and resulted in a long, hungry day, but the thing that I can't quite get over and still consider one of the worst aspects of the day was my wardrobe.

On Thursday I wore a pair of professional trousers and a sweater to visit the school in the morning and then I continued to wear the outfit in the wind and the rain walking around town and then I continued to wear it in a tractor at the college where Steve teaches. By the end of the day the trousers were not looking so great, which is one of the reasons I was so distressed to discover the next morning that I had not packed the second pair of trousers I had intended to wear for the interview. They were still at home, hours away, lying on the guest room bed. My only options were to wear jeans or to wear wrinkly trousers that had recently been riding around at a farm to my interview. AND the trousers did not match the clean top I'd brought to wear, so I wore mismatching clothes to my interview. I was so embarrassed. After the interview, I was sitting in the train station still feeling awkward that my trousers and top didn't match when I looked over at the girl sitting next to me. She was wearing jeggings. I felt a tiny bit better. At least I realized my clothes looked bad.

The Fashion Police

Doesn't Steve look sharp here? Yes, yes, he does. Very handsome.


Occasionally, though, we have a difference of opinion about his wardrobe. Early in our relationship, we were having dinner at Steve's house. We'd just come from church and Steve went to change into more casual clothes. When he reappeared, he was wearing The Sweatshirt. It's silk-screened with an outdoor scene of a wolf and boots on a porch. It's not exactly to my taste. In fact, when I saw it, I had to have a little internal conversation with myself about how it was only a sweatshirt and it didn't indicate anything negative about the content of Steve's character or have any bearing on my feelings for him personally and that all it meant was that Steve quite liked the Smoky Mountain Gift Shop look.

After we were engaged I suggested to Steve that perhaps he should take that particular piece of clothing out of his rotation.

Steve: What?! I wore that sweatshirt (actually, he probably called it a jumper) specifically to impress you.
MBC: What?!
Steve: Yeah, I thought it would make you think I was the kind of guy who liked to stay home in the cabin in front of the fire. You know. It's cozy.
MBC: That is not the message I was receiving from that shirt.
Steve: But it's so nice. I got it in 1992 and it's still in perfect shape.

Yes, I could tell that it came from 1992.

The week before the wedding, Steve and I were talking on the phone and he told me that a friend was over and wanted to have a last hurrah kind of night. The friend suggested they do something I wouldn't allow Steve to do after we were married, so the activity Steve came up with was to wear The Sweatshirt.

Sunday Steve pulled out a zip-front sweatshirt and started to praise it. I wrinkled my nose at it and noted that it's several sizes too big for him. He could shoplift a pot-bellied pig out of the store while wearing that sweatshirt and no one would notice.

Steve: What?! It's so great. It was my granddad's. I've had it since 1992.

At least he doesn't wear lady pants.

I've Got Skills

I helped make pajama pants for a humanitarian aid project tonight. As I was sewing, a woman was watching and asking how I learned to sew. I told her that my mom sews and that at some point, after showing me how to sew straight seams, my mom let me pick out a dress pattern and said, "Call me if you have questions." Occasionally Mom inspected my work and caused me to wail by advising me to rip out an incorrect seam or pleat or tuck.

The woman at the humanitarian aid project asked if I resisted being taught to sew, which I thought was an odd question. I absolutely wanted to learn to sew. I loved sewing. In junior high and high school I made quite a few of my own clothes. Some of them were lovely. Some of them were hideous. Unfortunately, I didn't realize which ones were hideous until I left high school. There's a shorts and vest combination I made with green plaid seersucker that I recall with particular regret. I'm not sure if I really like my little teenage self for so unapologetically sporting unattractive self-creations or if I should be embarrassed for myself.

I am embarrassed about the green plaid pants I wore in Russia in college (I don't know what my deal is with green plaid). I only took a few pairs of pants to a foreign country for three months and I took green, plaid pants with an elastic waistband. Why? Why?!

In Which I Farm ("Farm"), Part 2

Moo's family is very kind to indulge my need to do farm tasks badly. On Saturday I picked corn. I spent hours and days and weeks and months and years of my childhood picking and snapping green beans. And when I was older, my family picked strawberries and blueberries in the summers. I had never picked corn before, though. Moo's brother, FarmerBoy, drove me out to the field (giving me the option of reaching the corn by climbing a barbed wire fence or jumping a ditch) and showed me how to identify ripe ears and pick the corn and then proceeded to pick corn a billion times faster than I can. I picked about 130 years of corn. He picked a whole lot more than that.

ALSO

This is what picking corn sounds like when FarmerBoy does it:
whoosh. silence. whoosh. silence.

And this is what picking corn sounds like when MBC does it:
WHOP CRASH SWOSH

I am not graceful in a corn field.

Moo sent me home with corn and peaches AND her grandma's shoes. Three pairs from the '40s. They are FAN-tastic.

These are my favorites, even though they were designed to bend my feet in ways that nature did not intend.

My brother took some pictures of me wearing the shoes, but I was not smart and had him take them while I was standing on carpet that was close to the color of the shoes, so they didn't turn out well. Trust me, though, they're striking.

I wore the shoes to church with the Marmot Family (the Marmot Babe was blessed today; more on that later). When I got out of the car, Madame 5-yr-old exclaimed, "Oh, Aunt, your shoes are BEAUTIFUL," and Madame 3-yr-old informed me that she has shoes just like mine except that hers are white and decorated with butterflies. I find that claim highly unlikely. All the same, the shoes were a hit.

These are My Shoes

I went to Cedar City on Saturday and saw two plays, "School for Wives" and "The Taming of the Shrew" (if you'd like to locate me, just follow my giant carbon footprints to and from the Utah Shakespearean Festival). "Taming of the Shrew" was such a FUN performance. It's really a shame that we saw it first, because "School for Wives" paled in comparison. The performance of "School for Wives" was not terribly well attended, though, so the ushers let us move into very nice seats on the main floor. Being offered better seats was a treat, especially since the ushers we encountered at the earlier show gave one of my friends stern warnings about not touching the gold leaf on the balcony (she had no intention of touching the gold leaf) and scolded another friend for coming in the wrong door, even though we were sitting exactly in the middle of a row and the only extra person my friend had to climb over to reach her seat was me. The ushers owed us a little sweetness and kindness and goodwill after all that chiding.

I wore these shoes on Saturday, because they are cute and they make me happy. I had never worn these shoes all day before. I will never wear these shoes all day again.

Today I wore these shoes to church, because they're cute and they make my feet look grown up. When I bought them, my mom commented that they're pointy enough to use to kick out a bug's eye. They are, indeed, pointy. And after several hours they feel a lot like the shoes I wore yesterday.

Which is why I put on these shoes as soon as I got home from church today. My feet need a little sweetness and kindness and goodwill, too.

The Rummage Sale

This weekend was The Rummage Sale. It's an annual fundraiser that people from across the state (and I've heard from different states) attend, because it is so very good. The doors open at 8:00 a.m., and my sister and I arrive early like those brides at Filene's Basement. Skirts cost $0.75, shirts are $1.50, jackets are $3.00, children's clothes sell for $0.50. I bought a jacket, two sweaters, two skirts, three tops, and a whisk for $11.00. It's such a fantastic sale.

My sister and I attend the sale together, but we don't actually shop together. We take our huge bags and spread out, reconvening to critique one another's purchases and to give opinions on whether or not selections should actually be taken home. For example, this year my sister made me put back the brown swing cardigan that she said made me look like I was wearing rags and a gray blouse with ruffles that she mocked (it would have looked fine under a jacket). She had a bright pink, flowered rayon dress in her bag. She pulled it out and showed it to me, saying that she felt that something might not be right with this dress. Too true. What was wrong with it was that it was hideous. I assured her that we could no longer be sisters if she purchased that dress and reminded her that once before when she was pregnant she thought it was a good idea to buy a hot pink, flowered maternity bathing suit that still makes me fall down laughing every time I see it. The pregnant are not always wise.

p.s. Did you all hear This American Life this weekend, in which Ira Glass admitted to his love for The O.C. Validation! (It was actually a rebroadcast episode. I'd heard it before but I didn't fully appreciate it before I became acquainted with Seth, Summer, Ryan, and Marissa.)

Observations from the Dressing Room

I went clothes shopping this week, because my entire spring wardrobe makes me sad. I look at it, and I think, Whose blind grandma purchased THESE clothes? I don't want to wear any of them. (Actually, I'm jumping the gun, because I can't wear my spring clothes yet, what with all the snow and hail that continues to plague us.)

I don't actually do a lot of clothes shopping, especially since I rely heavily on the two major rummage sale extravaganzas in town (one's coming up very soon! whee!) to outfit myself (which might explain my dismay at my closet). I realized, though, that every time I do go shopping, I have these very same thoughts.

1. Why is it impossible to purchase a white woman's shirt that's not see-through? Do we not have the technology? I put the clothes on in the morning, so that I'm NOT naked. If I put on see-through clothes, I might as well not bother.

2. Vanity sizing. Yeah, I'm talking to you, Liz Claiborne. I have a strict One Trip to the Dressing Room rule, which means that if I pick up pants marked my size and then they're all vanity sized, they don't fit AND I can't go try a different pair, because it would violate my personal shopping code of conduct.

3. Spring and summer women's clothing is hard to find because the trends tend to fall in one of two camps:
-Clothes that scream I work on a street corner in the Red Light District OR
-Clothes that scream I live in Colorado City
I would like some middle ground.

On a completely unrelated note, I'm alone at my sister's house with her sleeping children. My sister called and left me a message on my phone at work tonight. She said that I sound mean and grouchy on my voicemail recording. I do not believe such a comment is in keeping with the spirit of sisterhood.  She was sweet and kind when I came over, though, and directed me to the chocolate, so I've decided there will be no reprisals for her voicemail comment.  I will wait to hide the silverware around the house when she is truly bad.

Pants

I attended a production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" tonight. It was set in 19th century South America with this whole imperialism/colonization background built into the performance. What I really enjoyed was the fairy choreography. The actors playing the fairies were trained in modern dance and Capoeira--two of my favorite arts. The Capoeira was especially effective in differentiating the fairy world from the Athenian world and fit perfectly with the South American setting.

Unfortunately, there were some bad pants. Two of the main male characters had TERRIBLE pants. I was so distracted. I may be a pants snob. One of my greatest triumphs in life thus far was convincing my sister to rid her closet of skinny-legged jeans, and I cry a little bit every time I think about the brown jeans Marmot Dad used to wear. In college, Amy and I knew this guy who had these lovely eyes and was perfectly nice, but every time we referred to him, we included the disclaimer (as if people needed to be warned about a shocking flaw--"now he's very nice but you should know--he sells crack to kindergarteners") that he wore pleated jeans.

I'm a pants snob, but I also own and wear unattractive pants myself. Several months ago, I looked in my full length mirror and realized that my black work pants didn't fit AT ALL. They were way too big (and, no, I didn't lose weight--I guess they just never fit right). I'd been wearing those pants a lot. Every week for years. And I even wore them to work that day, because I didn't have any other clean work pants, but I felt awkward all day. Our director stopped me to ask me about something, and the whole time I was singing in my head, "I look like a freeeeakshow." I've seen him wear tights and capes and all kind of wacky stuff, though, so he probably didn't even notice.

Wardrobe Malfunctions (Not That Kind)

I've had crazy, hectic mornings almost every day this week. I blame this on the construction crews who are replacing the sidewalks on my street. They start their work very early in the morning, sometimes before I would like to be awake. If it's dark outside and it's still 58 degrees in the house (and it is at 6:30 in the morning), it's still time for sleeping, not for ripping out my sidewalk with a Bobcat. (They leave that little Bobcat--the machine, clearly, not the animal--right outside my house every night and I'm sorely tempted to climb inside and pretend to drive it like I used to do with the tank at the park where my brother played t-ball when we were little.) The early work disrupts my morning routine.

Tuesday was one of the worst mornings. I knew I had to move my car before the cement truck came and squashed it, so I was trying to be fast and get out of the house earlier than usual. The shirt I wanted to wear had holes under the arms that I didn't notice until I was dressed. The only other shirt I had ironed has French cuffs, and I don't own cuff links. I thought that perhaps earrings could replace cuff links. I was mistaken. I went tearing through my house looking for something to use as cuff links and discovered a bottle of apple juice I'd been given that had ribbons tied around the neck. I pulled the ribbons off and tied up my cuffs and it was lovely. (Later that day, my sister mocked my beribboned cuffs, even though her husband was wearing lady pants at the time.) I dressed and then decided that I hated the shoes I was wearing, so I took them off and replaced them with boots (replacing shoes with boots is always a good idea), but I was still wearing bulky socks that scrunched up in my boots. There was no time, though, because I could see the cement truck bearing down on my little fuel-efficient car! There would be no match! My car would be destroyed! And the construction workers would say mean things to me and laugh at my French cuffs! So I stuffed knee-high stockings in my pocket, grabbed a piece of bread for breakfast, and saved my car from imminent destruction.

Yesterday morning was a challenge, too. I couldn't find anything to wear, so I decided to sew up the holes in the shirt I couldn't wear Tuesday. Not a problem, because I have a sewing machine. The sewing machine's not set up in the new house, though. It's been sitting in the spare bedroom on the floor. I only have one table and it was far away. In another room. At least 15 feet from where I was standing. So, I decided to sew on the floor. Sewing on the floor is really hard. It seems like it will be okay, even though it takes a little contortionism to get the machine threaded. It seems like using your hand to control the treadle will be fine. But then you discover it's impossible to work a treadle, push down a reverse lever, and guide a piece of fabric at the same time.

It's kind of a miracle that I've lived this long without setting myself on fire.

Life Imitates Art

Yesterday I was at my sister’s house when Marmot Dad came home. He walked through the door and, very pleased with himself, tossed a bag to my sister. He had purchased himself some pants at D.I.

Marmot Dad: Here. Look at these. I got some great pants.

Sister (looking at pants): Did you try these on?

Marmot Dad: Yeah, they’re great.

Sister: Well, don’t take the tags off. I don’t think these pants are quite right.

MBC: What’s wrong with them?

Sister: I think these are women’s pants.

A visual inspection confirms that Marmot Dad has purchased some size 18 St. John’s Bay khaki pants.

MBC (also inspecting pants): These ARE women’s pants!

Marmot Dad: They were in the MEN’S section!

Sister: They came from DI. People with limited skill sets sort those clothes. Didn’t you think it was odd that the tag says size 18? Men’s pants don’t come in sizes like that.

Marmot Dad: Well, I noticed, but I thought they must have used European sizes. (With uplifted chin.) I thought maybe these pants came from the Continent.

Marmot Dad tries the pants on.

Marmot Dad: They look alright, don’t they? You can’t tell that they’re women’s pants.

Sister: I don’t know. You look a little more (pause) shapely in the rear than usual.