I always think it’s funny whenever someone calls a baby a “bebe,” because in my native language, Chamorro, bebe, (pronounced beh-beh) means vagina. It was particularly funny in high school whenever one of us would have a bebe bag and we’d say, “Ooh, I’m touching your bebe!” or “I’m opening your bebe! Your bebe has gum inside!” And by we, I mean, me. My humor hasn’t really elevated from vagina jokes.
Earlier this week, I turned on the TV and found that we had access to all premium channels offered even though it hadn’t shown up on our bill. I was privy to a late-night showing of “Hotel Erotica,” which is surprisingly not about tourism and hotel management.
False Falsie advertising! Also, the Spice Channel is not about cooking. Who knew?
Yesterday, the channels were gone as quickly as they appeared which is sad because I hadn’t finished watching College Coeds 4: X-mester at Sea. Does anyone know how it ends?
Last night, we went to the newly renovated Westfeld Mall. Mike pushed Nathan’s stroller while I ate my frozen yogurt. We were headed toward JC Penney to check out rugs when I noticed a woman speeding toward me, donning a surprised, wide-eyed look on her face. I immediately recognized her as C., my classmate from seventh grade.
I introduced her to Mike and Nathan and there was the requisite oohing over my baby and how big he is and of course, over Nathan, too. We hugged and said goodbye. As she left, I realized how utterly frumpy I had become. And I wasn’t comparing myself to her out of jealousy, only out of the fact that we were the same age and yet, I was dressed like I walked out of a Menopause Fashion Outlet. C. was still as stunning as ever. She was the most beautiful girl in seventh grade and I had to meet her looking like I suffered seventh degree burns.
This Monday I’m taking the day off. It’s our third anniversary and I want to spend some of that time rehabbing my wardrobe. I would like to shop at a place that is not the clearance rack at Target, though, don’t get me wrong, I love me some 75% off Isaac Mizhrahi. Here’s the thing: I don’t know where to go! Isn’t that sad? My sisters were already out of the house during my formative years, so much of my fashion sense was fostered by my mother’s clothing vetoes and Newport News catalogs. My mother also tied my hair into two ponytails ON TOP OF EACH OTHER, so it was more horse’s mane than pigtails.
Where do you shop? What is a relatively affordable brick-and-mortar store to walk into and scream, “HALP!”