Striped Top - the Mumsy
Skinnies - Target
ASN Wanna-be Skate Shoes - Bargain bin at Famous Footwear or somewhere similar
The second of my backlogged collection of outfit photos. Super simple, monochrome and comfortable. It was a lazy day.
All the pictures have me in the same general pose, so I cut it down to this lone wolf. Poor thing. It just serves as a reminder to me to add some variety.
Off the topic of clothing and phototaking, allow me to explain my absence and my lack of willingness to write much in this brief little post:
This month just so happens to be National Novel Writing Month and due to my desire to produce a 50,000 word tome by the end of it, I've found myself devoting a great deal of time to typing words and squinting at the computer screen.
In order to maintain my blogs integrity and to finally post the pictures I've been quite lax in uploading, I've decided to include a snippet from my novel in each post from now until the end of this month.
My novel consists of a series of vignettes about my life, which are exaggerated into absurdity to create what I consider humor. If you happen to enjoy satire and such, I suspect you'll enjoy the the excerpts and you would serve yourself well to click "read more". Obviously, this is a work of fiction. Or, at least most of it is.
The One where Home Improvement is Attempted
Looking out the window, I can’t help but notice the haphazardly built shed my father calls his workshop. Nor can I help but remember how the monstrosity was constructed.
The summer before my junior year of high school was blistering hot. So much so that I, the girl who scoffed in derision at all female objectification, was reduced to black booty shorts and a series of lace cami’s.
Walking into the local home improvement store, I couldn’t help but notice the leers. My mother, herself (at fifty three) reduced to a denim mini and a light blouse, hurried me along to locate the building materials for my father’s latest project. Our plan was simple: locate the wood and screws. And then run like hell after we paid for them – avoiding the potentially lecherous or simply perverse retirees and high school part time employees.
Trying to find screws in Lowe’s, however, is like trying to find a needle in a haystack, while blindfolded, and on LSD. (And for those of you who haven’t done so, it’s quite difficult). So, my mother and I had to wander. And wander. And wander some more, until we stumbled upon the screws while distracted and admiring some rather ornate door knobs.
This was our breakthrough. We were free. We could finally check out and leave and shower and try to wash all the filthy looks away! We said a few hallelujah’s and made the long trek back to the checkout area.
If you know anything about home improvement stores, you know that they are ridiculously busy. People think “ha – plumbing. I got this. I don’t need a plumber”, then they think “that was only a minor water leak, I got this” and then they think “I should’ve called the plumber in the first place, but damn it, I’m going to prove my nagging wife wrong”. After that, most don’t return again.
The resulting chaos means that my mother and I develop the urge to use the self check out. To take our lives into our own hands. To control our own destiny.
We approach the machine with caution and a bit of wonder. “How miraculous,” we think, “we can check out in under two minutes. No line. No hassle.” We slide the wood panels across the scanner and place them on the floor beside us. And then – we are greeted by a delightful female voice. The voice commands us to “return the checked item to bagging area”. We, like good law abiding citizens, obey this authoritative, assertive and electronic voice command. She then speaks again:
“Remove unidentified item from bagging area.”
“Return the item to the bagging area.”
“Remove unidentified item from bagging area.”
And then we snap. We realize, almost simultaneously, that we are trapped. Locked in infinite loop. Doomed to remove and return for eternity.
So we conspire to conquer the voice. To escape from the loop and return to a normal stream of existence.
We steal the wood and the screws. We run through the blinking red lights and dinging doorway and make our way to the escape car. Speeding off into the distance – leaving the voice behind.
So, every time I see my father’s crumbling man cave, I can’t help but reminisce, let myself be overcome by nostalgia and return to that fateful day in July. The day I became an outlaw – Daisy Duke style.
And then I think about how important it is for my generation to remember not to steal plastic “wood” laminate and tightly wound silver wire if their father wants to actually build a shed and not just roll around in rubble.