If your pubic hair shows
. . . then it's a sign your jeans might be a little too low. Just a thought.
I was at Central Market today (I've gotten into a recent habit of going grocery shopping about every 3 days or so, but I figure there are far worse things to spend money on than good food, and with my recent change in diet, I find myself eating at home far more than I did before — an unexpected side-benefit), and in front of me in the check-out line was a girl (maybe 16 or 17 years old) with her grandmother, and this girl was wearing those low-rise flared leg jeans that seem to have been the latest craze for a year or two now. Well, as my introductory sentence indicated, I think she didn't check the full-length mirror before leaving home this morning, because she was skiing below the treeline, so to speak.
I would have thought that at least her grandmother might have said something (I'm sure my own grandmother would have — I received plenty of loving warnings about hair cowlicks or untied shoes as a kid, and there weren't even any private parts involved). Of course, when trying to imagine how that speech would have gone, I'm at a bit of a loss. Perhaps, "Honey, maybe you should wear some drawers that fit better? I think your cookie is showing, dear." I don't know, honestly, but grandmothers have a knack for finding a way for bringing up those things.
Incidentally, my doctor seems to have been in the next aisle over. "Seems," because I was struck with that uncertainty that strikes anyone when seeing their doctor outside of the doctor's office for the first time. I mean, it looks like Dr. Day (and honestly, how many smiling little 5'2" brown-haired dudes does a person see every day? Not as many as you'd think....), and he was wearing a Honduras T-shirt, which seemed much more likely weekend clothing for a doctor from Argentina than for the average bear, but I still wasn't sure enough to lose my place in line to go say "Hi." It couldn't be him, I kept thinking, because he wasn't wearing a doctor suit, though, right? I have to confess, regardless, that I looked down and started evaluating the stuff in my shopping cart to determine whether the doctor would approve:
The embarrassing things that people do inside their own heads, I guess.
Before going to the grocery store, I'd stopped by the Borders bookstore across the street (inspired by a dream I had this morning in which I'd gone back to work there, actually; plus, the sudden fall weather totally reminds me of the time I spent as a friendly neighborhood harbinger of books), where I picked up another book by Arthur Neresian, since I'm enjoying his first one so much, along with a copy of Franny and Zooey, which I've wanted to read for a long time. (And yes, I realize that using BarnesandNoble.com links for books I bought at Borders is kind of wrong, since they're each others' primary competitors, but since Borders sold their website to Amazon, which I've grown a little tired of recently, I don't care.) I'm also trying to round out some of my author exposure a little, instead of having read only one book by quite a few significant authors, at least giving some of them a second go-around. More on that another time, perhaps.
Anyway, while at the bookstore, I ran into a guy I used to work with at the other Borders store (he'd moved to this one because it was closer to his house), and I was pretty flattered that he still recognized me. Six years is a long time. Little things like that are great for reminding yourself that you really do make a difference to the people you meet.
An old high school buddy of mine is having a party tonight, and I've been debating all afternoon whether I feel like going, or whether curling up with the rest of my book and stuff sounds like a better idea. I'll have to decide one way or the other pretty soon, I guess.
I was at Central Market today (I've gotten into a recent habit of going grocery shopping about every 3 days or so, but I figure there are far worse things to spend money on than good food, and with my recent change in diet, I find myself eating at home far more than I did before — an unexpected side-benefit), and in front of me in the check-out line was a girl (maybe 16 or 17 years old) with her grandmother, and this girl was wearing those low-rise flared leg jeans that seem to have been the latest craze for a year or two now. Well, as my introductory sentence indicated, I think she didn't check the full-length mirror before leaving home this morning, because she was skiing below the treeline, so to speak.
I would have thought that at least her grandmother might have said something (I'm sure my own grandmother would have — I received plenty of loving warnings about hair cowlicks or untied shoes as a kid, and there weren't even any private parts involved). Of course, when trying to imagine how that speech would have gone, I'm at a bit of a loss. Perhaps, "Honey, maybe you should wear some drawers that fit better? I think your cookie is showing, dear." I don't know, honestly, but grandmothers have a knack for finding a way for bringing up those things.
Incidentally, my doctor seems to have been in the next aisle over. "Seems," because I was struck with that uncertainty that strikes anyone when seeing their doctor outside of the doctor's office for the first time. I mean, it looks like Dr. Day (and honestly, how many smiling little 5'2" brown-haired dudes does a person see every day? Not as many as you'd think....), and he was wearing a Honduras T-shirt, which seemed much more likely weekend clothing for a doctor from Argentina than for the average bear, but I still wasn't sure enough to lose my place in line to go say "Hi." It couldn't be him, I kept thinking, because he wasn't wearing a doctor suit, though, right? I have to confess, regardless, that I looked down and started evaluating the stuff in my shopping cart to determine whether the doctor would approve:
Eggplant and green onions, good. And edamame and salad, okay.
Fat free raspberry vinaigrette salad dressing, yeah he'd approve.
Frozen quiche? Hmm, not sure.
And those butter croissants on top? I don't know. Better than a big bag of tortilla chips or something, I suppose. But hey I see those steaks in his basket, so he can't talk.
The embarrassing things that people do inside their own heads, I guess.
Before going to the grocery store, I'd stopped by the Borders bookstore across the street (inspired by a dream I had this morning in which I'd gone back to work there, actually; plus, the sudden fall weather totally reminds me of the time I spent as a friendly neighborhood harbinger of books), where I picked up another book by Arthur Neresian, since I'm enjoying his first one so much, along with a copy of Franny and Zooey, which I've wanted to read for a long time. (And yes, I realize that using BarnesandNoble.com links for books I bought at Borders is kind of wrong, since they're each others' primary competitors, but since Borders sold their website to Amazon, which I've grown a little tired of recently, I don't care.) I'm also trying to round out some of my author exposure a little, instead of having read only one book by quite a few significant authors, at least giving some of them a second go-around. More on that another time, perhaps.
Anyway, while at the bookstore, I ran into a guy I used to work with at the other Borders store (he'd moved to this one because it was closer to his house), and I was pretty flattered that he still recognized me. Six years is a long time. Little things like that are great for reminding yourself that you really do make a difference to the people you meet.
An old high school buddy of mine is having a party tonight, and I've been debating all afternoon whether I feel like going, or whether curling up with the rest of my book and stuff sounds like a better idea. I'll have to decide one way or the other pretty soon, I guess.