salt water pepper water
GET IN MY CLOSET
Every so often I decide I need to step up my grown-up game, and I go “shopping.” What that really means is that I wander in to a store and hate everything that’s considered fashionable. Then I try on a few things in terrible lighting and feel like a hideous elderly potato. Then sometimes I buy another V-neck sweater and another A-line black skirt, and maybe an extra pair of tights, and leave.
Then I got this promotion and got serious. I went to Nordstrom with an actual personal-shopper lady, who stays in the dressing room with you* and makes you fill out a questionnaire about your “personal style.” Shit got real when I admitted I mostly shop at Target, man. The look in that girl’s eyes was something special.
*When I tell LT this, or whenever I mention the phenomenon of professional bra-fitting, or even talk about how the goddamned surgical-gloved MAMMOGRAM TECHNICIAN helpfully helps you squash your boob in a plastic vise, his mind immediately goes to a porny place. For the last time, IT’S NOT LIKE THAT. Marriage means having no one to listen to your breast-related stories, because your spouse is always busy picturing Whore Island.
Anyway, I got over the awkwardness of having a pal in the dressing room because this personal-shopper girl was great. I learned that I am a whole lot more conservative and less fashion-y than I thought I was (I did not think that was even possible, since I am already the person screaming PLEASE JUST A PLAIN SHIRT AND PLAIN PANTS PLEASE). Shopper girl originally kept bringing me things like a jacket with leather sleeves and other things that made me go whaaaaaat. But she caught on quickly, and we found petite pants that make me feel awesomely slender and bad-ass, so I bought them in every color and Nordstrom threw in free alterations for some of the other things. Which was the least they could do since I was basically pre-spending a bunch of my first new paycheck in advance? Look out here comes a baller! In her tasteful, conservative pants!
STEP AWAY FROM THE “LIKE” BUTTON
Despite being generally content and upbeat lately, I have been trying to stay away from social media because there is an inexplicable bitchy streak embedded in this good mood. It is probably better not to let that out publicly. I will get the urge to reply to every inane Tweet with “Cool story, bro.” Or the other day, this jerkface homosexual (he happens to be both a jerkface and a homosexual, the traits are not related) mistakenly thought he had school/insulted me on stupid Facebook, and it was ever-so-tempting to comment, “Look everybody! A bitter old queen is talking!” But I was restrained and simply logged out for the day. That’s another thing you can do in your adult pants: leave the drama alone.
I am sort of a rule-follower at heart. I enjoy showing up and clocking in and dressing appropriately and making schedules. I have my dysfunctional, compulsive side, under a measure of control with a probably not-large-enough dose of medication, and you don’t want to see the fucked-up numerological (really) meal-planning lists hidden on my Google Drive. I remember once driving (a short distance) home after ingesting an illegal baked good (don’t do this, kids!) and I got an inordinate amount of pleasure from following all the traffic laws REALLY PRECISELY. Here I am gently pressing the brake until I come to a complete stop. Here I am going the exact speed limit. Watch me use my turn signal, check the mirror, glance over my shoulder.
Of course, every so often my inner maenad breaks through and I end up blind drunk on Twitter, telling anyone who cares to listen that I accidentally got Dorito dust on my breasts. Everything in moderation.
—mimi smartypants is rollin’ in her 4 with 16 switches, got sounds for the bitches, clockin’ all the riches, hollow points for the snitches.