He'll get here at 9 AM Friday, more than twelve hours after his intended arrival time, and will have to break into my house to pass out on my bed while I'm at work. But at least he will get here, and the poodlypoo fuzzywuzzy romp'em stomp'em cutiefuckface "movie moments" can commence.

As it is, I spent a romantic evening alone doing my LAUNDRY, and the only action I got was from the gruff old man in the laundromat who handed me the thong that I'd dropped during the transfer from washer to dryer. I'm now in my bedroom, alone, staring at the pile of clean and unfolded clothes and wishing I was Mary Poppins so I could snap my fingers and watch them fold themselves.

Which brings me to my next topic: Fuck those clothes. I hate my clothes.

See, since moving here, I've somehow managed to drop about fifteen pounds. (Apparently, the secret to losing weight is to forego bulimia in favor of cookies and beer. I should market this.) Nothing fits. My "PMS Jeans" look like they were made for a pro wrestler. My "skinny jeans" are drooping and have worn holes in very suggestive areas. The only article of clothing that properly hugs me is my pair of "skinny underpants," and I didn't even know such a concept existed until yesterday. I am also quite poor, and quite hard on my clothes, so anything that was once passable is now falling apart and I can barely afford to replace it.

I know, "Oops! I lost weight!" = "Cry me a fucking river, bitch," but this is ridiculous. I'd just gotten used to the shape of my big ol' ass when it suddenly shrank, and now you can't really see its lovely contours unless I take my pants off. Which I guess I could do, now that I've discovered the "skinny underpants," but I already fit in too easily with the screaming San Francisco crazies due to my habit of wandering around and talking to myself. I don't need to drive the point home by walking around, bare-ass.

All that in mind, and considering Dean's visit and my impending vacation to Hawaii, over the past couple of weeks I tried quite a few times to shop for some new items. Just the basics: jeans, a new coat, boob-friendly tops, a skirt or two. As long as it isn't sackcloth and ashes, nsuperficial Dean couldn't care less what I wear, (he himself is like a South Park character, in that he has one basic outfit that he wears every day, barring special events or meetings-of-the-parents,) but I'll be his meeting his friends in California and Hawaii, and I wanna look genuinely cute instead of ragamuffin chic.

So, a-shopping I went, forgetting a major deterring factor: I HATE SHOPPING.

The Kelly Shopping Experience:

- Take deep breath in effort to rid myself of dread.
- Enter store.
- Assess mob factor. Deem it unclaustrophobic.
- With head down, wander among the jungle of racks, hunting and gathering tops and pants on pure impulse, hoping to God something proves to be passable when I try it on.
- Wait in line for dressing room. Note mild annoyance at blaring ASSHOLE music pumping through the sound system.
- Enter dressing room, after having irritated the salesperson because I totally forgot the number of items I've brought with me.
- Disrobe.
- Put stuff on, probably ripping a few seams in the process, and take a gander in the kaleidoscope of merciless mirrors.
- Find NOTHING worth its price. Return to the fray.
- Taking into account what I learned from Round 1, select different items that will be more flattering, or will, at the very least, fit me without my having to hike it/cinch it/stretch it/hokey-pokey-let's-call-the-whole-thing-off it.
- Notice that the crowd in the shop has thickened, and with the increased number of shoppers the collective IQ in the place has responded inversely. Because, in a crowd, no one is smarter than the dumbest motherfucker in the throng. Lowest common denominator, you know.
- Has the music in this fucking store of TRENDY HELL gotten louder and more obnoxious? Maybe, but that might just be the blood rushing through my ears as I delve into the throes of a panic attack.
- HATE THIS HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE THIS FUCKING SHIT HATE HATE
- Christ -- All this crap was made in Indonesia or Bangladesh or Peru or some other sweatshoppy land where Kathy Lee Gifford runs wild and free. Am I going to find a wee brown finger sewn into the lining of these pants?
- Experience temporary relief by leaving my body and visiting somewhere interesting and nerdy, like a bookstore.
- Did this line triple in size since I first got here? Is there really a need for all of these mirrors? I look like a fucking alien in comparison to everyone else here. People actually enjoy this. Look ... over there ... several women my age having fun while SHOPPING. Good. Good for them. But really, ladies, "cute" has only one U. Saying something is "cuuuuuuuute" will not make it look better on you or your much more attractive friend.
- This song makes me want to tear out my tongue and turn it into a belt.
- I have to get out of here RIGHT NOW.

That last sentence is usually said aloud, which is extra-dramatic because I almost always shop alone. I can't in good conscience take any of my friends with me into The Shit.

And so I leave with nothing new, but when I step foot outside the store, I feel a renewed sense of freedom. Viva los skinny panties!

Oh no, wait, last weekend I did stop into a department store and buy some linens. Linens don't judge. Linens smell nice and always live up to their promises. Linens keep me safe and warm, in a world wear "one size fits all" does not mean "fashion incompetent."

Raggedy,
Kelly

PS = Just so you know, I'm smoking again, with gusto. Smoking Harder. Smoking Hard With a Vengeance. More on that later. Knowing me these days, it'll be much, much later. But I will be stopping again soon.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Chris - 03.21.07

Zooming Around - 01.26.07

I Met Courtney Love and Can't Think Of a Good Title - 11.08.06

Metacrap - 10.20.06

7 - 09.12.06

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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