The Right Fit

As I write this we are socked into a two to four inch rainfall AGAIN, and it’s one of those fall evenings that makes you want to curl up on the couch in your baggie cotton pajamas with a blanket and a box of Whoppers. It is a far cry from the hot swimsuit weather we experienced in Florida just a couple of weeks ago. In fact, I wore little more than a swimsuit on most days down there. And I miss it. I went shopping for swimsuits while I was there. I tried on 23 of them because nothing is more difficult than finding the right swimsuit. Except for picking a great fitting pair of jeans. Or a bra.

I’d rather wrestle with a hyena than try on bathing suits, but sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, and this girl waited until all the swimsuits at home were gone from the shelves before she decided she needed another one. While trolling the Highway 98 Destin Target for a water bottle, I stumbled upon a swimsuit rack. Seduced by a clearance tag I tried on a mauve number that was a little edgy. I was all, “Ooh, $7.98 and it fits!” Now, we have all made the mistake of buying some outlandish hat or article of clothing while on a vacation high and the Calypso music is playing and the margaritas are flowing. It seemed like a good idea at the time and then you got home and realized you didn’t want the head of the Methodist Women’s Group catching you wearing that in the Piggly Wiggly. It’s how I ended up with a flowery skirt and tube top from San Juan, Puerto Rico. So, standing in the dressing room of the Destin Target, I eyeballed that monokini and said, “Self, just ‘cause you could wear it, doesn’t mean you should.” And after nixing every justification I could think of for buying that bathing suit, I put it back on the rack. And patted myself on the back for not crossing a line I’ve crossed several times in the past. And then I bought a wool flapper hat for this winter.

Flash forward to this week when Teen Angel and I headed out to buy her a Halloween costume for a school club function she has Saturday night. Now, I grew up in a time when we made our costumes out of whatever was lying around the house or stuff you picked up at the thrift store or dollar store. So, I’m not wild about store bought costumes anyway, given that they’re such a rip-off, and I HATE, HATE, HATE that they’re all so trampy looking. However, living in a rural area, our store bought costume options are limited so we headed off to the seasonal Halloween shop in town, which I won’t name but like to call Whores Are Us since almost everything in there is a g-string short of a stripper’s costume. All of the women’s costumes have the same basic form, a duck skirt (two inches below the quack) and a bustier with something on it to symbolize what the costume is supposed to be, such as a police badge or a dog in a basket. By the way, when did Dorothy start wearing stilettos and a garter belt? As usual we wandered around for an hour with Teen Angel pulling stuff off the rack and me going, “Hellza no!” or “You will not leave our house looking like a ho!” At one point we ended up in the tiny aisle of costumes with maximum booty coverage which consisted of a clown, a nun and a bottle of ketchup or mustard. After some gnashing of the teeth and a couple of eye rolls, we finally came up with an Alice in Wonderland costume that was okay once we bought some full length tights to go under it. Can I get an amen for full length tights?

While waiting for her to try this stuff on, I watched several young women, say ages 17 to 24, trying on costumes and was amazed at what I saw. I’m not criticizing anyone’s body shape, but many of these costumes only look good on someone who is a size 2 with a 38 inch bust. Ninety five percent of the female population does not fit that category and has more real estate to cover than these costumes allow. One girl squeezed into a “police uniform” (beige micromini with a badge), and with buttons popping from her bust to her hoo hoo, she declared it fabulous and headed to the checkout line. It was all I could do not to grab her arm and scream, “Girlfriend, just because you could doesn’t mean you should.” Another girl bought a “vixen” outfit that didn’t need a mask because no one was going to look above her neckline while talking to her at a party. EVERYTHING was hanging out.

I’m no prude, but I must be getting old because I sure did feel like my mama standing in that store. It makes me uncomfortable that young women today are so comfortable with being so naked in front of the world. And apparently, it works both ways. Teen Angel seems to be uncomfortable with some of my choices that have nothing to do with skimpy. When I showed her my flapper hat and asked her what she thought, her response was, (all together now) “Just because you could, doesn’t mean you should.” Smart aleck.

In the Swim

Dear Mr. Swimsuit Manufacturer,

Let me be frank. WHAT THE SMELL WERE YOU THINKIN’ WHEN YOU PUT TOGETHER THIS YEAR’S SWIMSUIT LINES?!! After spending several hours wandering from store to store in search of a decent bathing suit I am inclined to file an EEOC complaint against your company for having an all male staff because no woman would have designed the suits you have given me to choose from this year. If I am to appear in public near a body of water this summer in something other than a hoodie and capris I am going to need a few more choices. Let me explain why.

Everything I see is made for a seventeen year old girl with size 2 hips and no childbirth badges. As a 40-something woman I need something in between hoochie mama and senior citizen. I’m not ready for something flowery that stretches to my knees, but I certainly can’t tuck myself into those slingshots you call a maximum coverage bikini. Honestly, I could slap on two Post It notes and a piece of duct tape and cover up more than most of those suits I tried on recently. Can’t you put together something that covers my backside and pulls up the girls without making me look matronly? I need something that covers a few bumps on the rump and a stretch mark or two. I plan to do more than sit and pose with a martini in this suit, so make it big enough that I don’t want to spend a lot of time digging and tugging between my cheeks, if ya’ know what I mean. A little support would be nice, and can we once and for all get rid of the low rider look? That doesn’t work for anyone, even the teenagers. I’ve seen a lot of young girls whose junk was hanging out of the truck, and they could have used a little more lid.

Keep in mind all women are hiding flaws. We are imperfect people who cannot possibly squeeze into your idea poolside sexy. And it makes us feel insecure about our bodies when you ask us to try. So I’m begging you..for the love of all things summer…please go back to the drawing board and whip up something appropriate for a Hula Girl who hasn’t lost her swing but doesn’t want to let it all hang out when hanging out.

Sincerely,
Hula Girl

Birthday Blues

Woe is me. It’s that time of year again, the dreaded week when I must find something to buy my dad for his birthday. It’s harder than twelfth grade calculus. Or tenth grade geometry. Or Mrs. Brown’s college grammar class---“You will not guess in this class and pass”. Boy was she right.---Or…oh, you get the picture. It’s not that Zeke is hard to please. Actually, he’s very easy to please. He just doesn’t need or want anything. If he does want something he buys it. And he never gives me any clues about potential gifts. It’s maddening, and I’m running out of time.

What do you get the man who’s satisfied with his surroundings; who’s content with a bag of peanuts and good conversation? Asking mama won’t help. She’ll just say he needs a new shirt and some new underwear, which is probably true, but I am NOT getting him that AGAIN. There’s no surprise in shirts and underwear, no joy in flinging open a box of boxers. I want him to be surprised at the unexpected and thrilled with my creativity. However, I am not optimistic about this. That’s because I have a long list of past gifts that didn’t make the grade. There were socks (again, at mama’s suggestion), house shoes (boring), CD’s (a man can have only so many Hank Williams songs. Besides hearing too much Hank makes mama grumpy. She thinks he’s whiny.) and the hip shirt I thought would drag him into the new century (never wore it). I hate buying him essentials, but he never wants anything frivolous, except a new car every year, and that’s not in my budget.

He plays the guitar but has plenty of music and accessories. Unless I’m going to skip a mortgage payment and buy him some antique Fender-something-or-other, music is a dead end. He likes to tinker around the house but has enough tools to fill a semi. Besides, any new tools that show up at his house eventually wander off with my Handyman baby brother. That leaves Zeke’s only other habits: eating and talking. He may be skinny but the man can eat. In fact, he would eat all day if his diabetes (and mama) allowed. More than anything he likes to spend time with people; talking and shooting the bull. Young people. Old people. Working people. Retirees. Family. Friends. It doesn’t matter. He likes them all and needs human contact daily with the world outside his doorstep. He’s had a variety of part-time jobs since he retired, just for the social contact. Right now, he’s working at a grade school. That gives him 250 people to talk to from 8am to 3pm. It’s great for him, and it keeps him from driving mama crazy.


So what do you buy a talker and an eater? Maybe a gift certificate to Cracker Barrel where he can do both? I said that yesterday as a joke, but it’s not a bad idea. And that’s where I’m headed if nothing else better runs through my noggin’ between now and Friday. That’s three more days of agonizing over this. Why is this so hard? Probably because fuzzy house slippers or a book just don’t seem to demonstrate the depth of my feelings for him. A gift certificate feels like I’m settling, but that’s probably what I’ll end up getting. I’ll be dissatisfied with that for a few days but eventually work through it. Then this cycle begins all over again in a couple of weeks with Christmas shopping. Arrrg! Anyone know where I can buy a 50 pound bag of peanuts?

Dressed to Kill

I have decided that the only thing more frustrating than trying on dresses is shopping with a teenaged girl for a party dress. I have previously documented my angst over buying dresses for myself, but I hit an all new level of frustration this past weekend while shopping with Teen Angel for a Homecoming dress. It is Homecoming at the various schools in this area, so the stores were full of moms and daughters duking it out over dresses. Whew! The tension in the mall was as thick as my eyebrows.

Teen Angel is not allowed to date until she’s 16. Well, her dad says 23, but I think that’s a little overboard. He just remembers how hormonal he was at that age, and it scares the bejesus out of him. Anyway, she’ll be going to this dance with a gaggle of girls. I say gaggle because they’re just as loud and vocal as a group of geese. Apparently, they dress up for Homecoming now a little more than we did back in the pioneer days known as the late 70’s. Disco was still in during my freshman year, so I wore a white satin shirt, satin pants, satin ballcap and a green satin purse to my first Homecoming. Oh, and Candies platforms. I wish I had a picture to share because you would all get a huge laugh out of that ensemble. Teen Angel said it’s MUCH different now adays. She didn’t like my idea of a nice fall jacket and gauchos that could be worn throughout the season so off we headed to the dress department for something I hoped might have a slim chance of being worn more than once and wasn’t going to cost as much as a new Harley.



We discovered long lines in dressing rooms and racks and racks of stuff that seemed way too sexy for young teens. Who designs this stuff? Certainly not someone who has a teenaged daughter or else the tops of these dresses would have much more material. And it seems most of these little rags come in teeny, tiny sizes designed to fit only the anorexic. That led to two hours of “I’m fat” when in fact she isn’t, but it sure made her feel that way. Nothing I said made a difference. I’m old and stupid, you know. And some of the prices were downright ridiculous. Just when I was about to pull my hair out, and I had reached the end of my patience, something wonderful happened. I ran to the restroom in the midst of a marathon fitting/debate session and came back to the dressing room to find Teen Angel standing in a perfectly fitting, lovely dress that looks grown up, but not trashy. And she liked it. And it was on sale. Ah. Finally, something we agreed upon. With a $29 shrug (that makes mom happy because it can be worn with many things) and an inexpensive pair of black flats, we were done. And I didn’t have to have a margarita after all. I almost fell to my knees in J.C. Penney’s weeping a Sweet Jesus prayer. I whispered it silently instead. I had already caused Teen Angel enough embarrassment for one day just by walking beside her in public for an extended period of time. My relief was short lived, though. I realized that with an average of four dances a year, and with her entire high school years ahead of us, we will have to go through this FIFTEEN more times. About that margarita…