February 19
 

It's stripy and sparkly and cleavage revealing.  I've been distracted by my boobs all day.
 
 
 

I was at the mall yesterday, briefly.   You would think that there was nothing better to do in Connecticut than to go to malls.  This is, in fact, not true.  Well, okay.  It's partially true, but not during the summer.  Oh, wait.  In the summer it's true if you don't have air conditioning in your apartment.  But ONLY then.  Anyhow, I was at the mall yesterday to go to the kitchen store to look for two big plastic containers to contain the 800 pounds of rice I'd bought at Stop and Shop  like 6 months ago which has been sitting, en sack, on the dining room floor.  But, once you've made the mall committment, how can you go just to look at one thing?  How can you get to the mall and say "I am only going to look at Tupperware!"?  It's not possible.  Or, it's not if you're a helpless capitalist pig with Good Credit like I happen to be.

So, I'm walking along, looking in the windows of stores, lauging at the teenagers and a strangely overdressed Hispanic woman (remember, despite the Clairvoyant Daffodils, it's still FEBRUARY in New England.  It is not warm) in platform open toe and heel sandles, flesh colored panty hose [please note:   I hate the words panty and hose together.  That is an expression I would like to banish from the collective world vocabulary.  PANTY hose.  Ugh.  Nasty!] a light blue mini skirt, a silky white tank top, and a cream, rain coat weight jacket.  Her hair was teased and frosted to a shade and height of some concern for me, because it certainly jeopardized her structural integrity and I feared that I'd be walking behind her and her hair would get caught in some errant Ernie face helium balloon and she'd wind up sprawled out in front of me and I'd be responsible for the helping up and the "There, there, are you okay?"  while trying not to laugh in her made-up-like-a-clown face.

This is a phenomenon I may or  may not have touched upon in some entry of long ago.  People Who Dress Up To Go To The Mall.  What a sack of assholes.  And, give me shit for this if you must, but Black and Hispanic women are the most guilty of this offense (Please note:  Young white teenaged girls are the same way, just the level of committment to clothes that just come right out and say "I WANT SEX.  GIMME! No, I CAN'T WAIT UNTIL WE GET TO YOUR CAR, I want you T HAT BAD, baby!  LET'S GO FUCK IN FITTING ROOM.  And, by the way, is that a Gold Card in your pocket?"  is a little less blatant.   White girl clothes say: "I might let you finger me if you get me an Orange Julius and a Beanie Baby" This is not to say I don't respect people for working it, because girlfriend, I do. I am full of admiration when I see the ladies all dressed like they're stopping by the mall on the way to their night job at the Cooter Palace)

I can see the Mall as Place to Meet Potential Mate.  I can see that.  Malls are all sexy and bright and climate controlled.  There's the flush of purchase in the air.  People are giddy with the power of decision at the food court {"Ooh..Sbarros?  Wok Express?  Nathan's?  I Can't Believe It's Not Yogurt? They all sound so damn good!"}.   I might even go so far as to say that malls are stimulating.  But for fucks sake, SILVER lycra capri pants?  A backless silver shirt with  no bra with big old pendulous titties hanging out the sides?  Hair all glittery and sprayed straight up?  Mall hoochie mamas:  it's survival of the fittest in there, man.

Then there's me.  Faded purple hair.  Smelly sweater plucked from under dogs ass on bedroom floor.  Ripped leather jacket.  I am unable to ignore the rest of the mall experience, and I walk off, no particular place in mind.  Then I see it.  The shirt in the window.  It calls to me.  It is glittery, striped.  Bright.  Happy.  I rush in.  I find my size.  I pick out some other shirts.  I take it home.  I am pleased with my purchases.

I wake up this morning, and I choose which of my delightful and pleasing new shirts to put on.  I put on some pants.  Shoes, hair, perfume, jacket, bag.  I'm gone.  Out the door.  I drive to work and I look down at  what I'm wearing all smirky and happy that I have this GREAT new glittery top on, that no one could possibly be any cooler than me, today, at the Death Star.  In order for them to be at all cooler than me, they would have to come in with blue hair and a blue prom dress, riding a scooter down the damn hall.  Cooler than me?  Im-fucking-possible!  Then I kind of notice it.  My top, well, it's green and yellow and brown with green glittery stuff.  My pants?  Maroon.   Every time I find myself dressing this way, I'm reminded of two things.

1.)  When I was a kid, and I'd begun dressing myself and actually giving a shit about what I wore, I'd submit clothing combinations to my mother for her approval.  I'd say "Does this match?"  and she'd look at me, very carefully and reply, with raised eyebrows:  "Well, it doesn't exactly match, but it definitely blends.."

2.)  Spinal Tap:  "I'm not about to co-manage this band with someone who dresses like an Australian's nightmare!"   I can not say, for sure that I know exactly what an Australian's nightmare of clothing might be like, but it sticks with me.

I am dressed like an Australian's Nightmare, and the truth of the matter is, I love the shirt so very much,  I just don't care.  I sit all day.  I'm like a newsperson, who'd even know that I have a bottom half?
 

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and if a double-decker bus
crashes in to us
to die by your side
such a heavenly way to die
and if a ten ton truck
kills the both of us
to die by your side
the pleasure and the privilege is mine
take me out tonight
oh take me anywhere, I dont care
and in the darkened underpass
I thought oh god, my chance has come at last
(but then a strange fear gripped me and I just couldn't ask)