19 March 2008

Smells like teen spirit

Good bananas gone bad make banana bread.

Bad bananas gone moosh go in the garbage.

And there is your kitchen wisdom for the day.

I have already attended the daughter's spelling bee this morning (she ended in 4th place, having bumbled "especially" in her Nyquil-driven haze), and the exercise bike is calling--nay, screeching--my name. So is the coffee pot, actually.

Unfortunately, so is the need to shop for clothing. If you've read this blog for any length of time, you know that shopping is not my favorite activity, with shopping for clothing possibly my least favorite type of shopping.

However, the children have once again grown out of everything they own (as the daughter trotted down the hall this morning, I noticed her brand new uniform trousers are suddenly 2 inches too short). On St. Patrick's Day, the son appeared in a green t-shirt that fit recently but is suddenly both too short and too tight. Both of them need dress clothes, and I'll have to bite the bullet and take the recalcitrant teenager out to a men's store to be fitted for his first real suit. It's unavoidable. But in the long run, it will probably be more pleasurable than trying to get the daughter into a dress.

If shopping for the kids is bad, though, shopping for myself is untenable. I made a pact with the devil and promised to get rid of my own ill-fitting wardrobe. In exchange for what, I'm not sure. I tend to keep my clothes if there is any possibility of wearing them at all, even if it's just when I'm gardening, and even though certain items date back to approximately 6 weeks after I last gave birth, they have drawstring waists, and I just keep them cinched tight. Voila...the pajama pants that never go away.

A couple of days ago, I was poking in a desultory fashion through some online retailer's stock of shirts.

"Can you buy something that's not black?" the son snarked at me while I was debating over a black t-shirt and a coral t-shirt.

"I don't always wear black," I replied with slightly justifiable outrage, adding the black tee to my shopping basket.

"You do, too. Everything you own is black."

"I'm wearing a red shirt as we speak. And white. I have white shirts."

"Well, almost everything is black. How many black sweaters do you have?"

"A lot. And a green one. And a blue one. And even, RED!"

"And black jeans. You're always wearing black jeans."

"I wear blue jeans, too."

"Just, you know, get something different."

My son, the fashion maven. As if he wears anything more exciting than a t-shirt and jeans when he's not in uniform.

"AND," he turned for his parting shot, "can you please stop listening to the same three songs over and over!"

"NO!" I yelled at his retreating back, turning the music up. "I LIKE those songs."

And I added an incredibly cute black cashmere cropped cardigan sweater to my shopping bag.

There's always room for one more black sweater.

Go listen to some music: "Smells Like Teen Spirit" from the album Nevermind by Nirvana.

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