12.18.04

Energized by the prospect of a job that expects slightly more dressiness than penniless student chic, I shopped last night. Trying to find halfway decent clothing in a discount store is challenging.

First, I rummaged in the juniors section. *giggle* Buried among the bootylicious hoochie mamma wear are some treasures, but it takes digging. Some of the things that I uncovered... Who knew that gold, copper and bronze-coloured chains with fake pearls (the opaline paint all ready chipped and peeling) with purple satin ribbon attached to the waist of chocolate-brown cordouroy was le dernier cri in suburban teen fashion? Not I.

After picking through and finding some possibilities, I went to the women's wear, career dressing section.

The horror. The horror.

What is up with all of the front-pleated, tapered leg trousers? This is where they went into hiding after the 1980s? Who looks good in these? Who?! Vile, beastly, horrid style that emphasizes the areas that make the wearers look huge-assed and knock-kneed. *shudder*

Hey, I wore them in the 1980s. I am not without guilt. I also met my future ex-husband in the 1980s. It proves that sometimes it's good to let go.

After much searching, I found some trousers with a slight flare at the bottom of the leg. No, not elephant bells (who remembers elephant bells?), just a flattering line that makes the leg look longer.

La! Listen to me; Xatia, would-be fashion maven. *snort* If you ever saw me in person, you'd know that wasn't true. Still, with my new-found dignitas due to my venerable age, *a-hem* I am trying to be a bit more aware of how easily people are fooled by appearances. I'm working it, just to see what happens.

Don't think my happy, comfy scruffies are going anywhere. (As if you even care.) No way. There's a time and place for torn jeans and baby doll t-shirts that say inappropriate things.

*grin*

Today, when I went out, I ran into a disreputable poet friend working at the record...uh...cd...oh crap...music shop. Here's my foot-in-the-mouth moment for the day; I called him by the name that the fantabulous Mlle.E. thinks should be his nom de plume. I am a jackass. I'll apologize tomorrow at the Beat.

Okay, it's back to knitting StepPater's chriskwasolyulekah present, thinking dirty thoughts to inspire naughty writings, and maybe a big ol' glass of cabernet and some dark chocolate.

Whee~

~go be fabulousness personified.

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