I got my first Big Girl Coat* about a month ago in a size that I will not reveal to you because you will hate me. Once I got it home, I decided it was too big and ordered the coat a size lower. Until I got around to returning the unwanted coat to the store, I would not allow myself to wear the one I was keeping. It was my way of making sure I actually got around to it.

I returned the coat to the store yesterday and decided that my coat would make its debut today. I picked all of my clothes out yesterday so that I would be sure to wear something appropriate to the fanciness-level of a Big Girl Coat. I was quite excited to put on my coat, wrap a scarf around my neck... and swelter.

It's sixty-fucking-three degrees out today. Everyone was wearing t-shirts and I was wearing wool. Where did that come from? Weather, are you conspiring to ruin my unveiling?

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* meaning a coat that is not bright yellow and has no velcro on it. Here it is if you want to see.

I came to a point a few weeks ago where I realized I had enough shoes and I couldn't justify buying any others. There were no more shoes I needed.

It was horrifying. What is there to live for, if not for the acquisition of shoes?

Thankfully, my Marketing Management group has decided to do our December presentation on Converse™ footwear and have decided that we should all buy a pair of Converse™ to wear to the presentation. This resulted in a sizable portion of our Sunday meeting being devoted to surfing the Converse™ store and oohing and aaahing over the different styles.

O thank god for academic-shoe-justification!

(I am looking at these.)

When I left the house this morning, my pants were too long... and now they're just right.

I don't know how to feel about this.

The time has come to do laundry.

I never should have let it go this long, but I got busy and have been sucked up into the way of thinking that if I postpone something long enough, it will just disappear. This hasn't worked for my stupid internship poster or my research consultation proposal and it didn't work for my laundry.

I don't even mind doing laundry. There isn't a lot of work to do - I'm not beating the clothes on rocks or something. I think it's just the lingering fear of my basement and the fear of falling down the stairs while carrying a huge basket of clothes. The longer I put off this potential
Death By Breaking My Neck And Landing Face First And Smothering To Death In A Pile Of My Own Dirty Socks, that's one more day I can have in my valuable and rewarding life and can spend blogging and putting off other upleasant things.

It makes sense, dude. I swear.

So the deadline came yesterday. It was Laundry Time. There was no more time to waste. I had to face my fate.

And then I forgot.

Which means that today I must pay the ultimate price for procrastination*: the last pair of underpants.

Does everyone have a Last Pair of underpants? The ones that sit at the bottom of the drawer, hated and ignored, until the moment where they are the last resort? I have. I hate these underpants, but they are the cross I must bear for my sin of Sloth.

I also have a favorite pair of underpants, which I wear when I need extra confidence or when I think it will be a good day. No one sees them, but I know they're there and that's enough for me.

Do other people have an underpants hierarchy? Or do you do this with some other piece of clothing?

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* Well, I guess I would have paid the ultimate price if I'd waited one more day, but I don't really want to think about that.

Dear Girl Wearing a Trucker Hat,

I'd like to be able to tell you about now I feel about you (and your fashion decisions) STOP Unfortunately, this wire is already too expensive STOP So instead I will just say please STOP.

Sincerely Cordially Affectionately Yeah right,
SRAH

Dear Thirty- Or Forty-Something Woman Walking In Front Of Me,

Whoa. I think maybe we should slow things down. We are taking things a little too fast and I'm getting freaked out. Let's just take a step back and think things over because I think we might be rushing it.

I mean, I don't even know you, and yet I am intimately aware of your underwear selection. We've never even talked and I know that you're wearing a thong. Actually, that's not completely true. I don't know that you're wearing a thong, I just kind of hope that you are, because otherwise you're going commando and I'm even more horrified that you would rush into such a thing on this, the first time we've been out(side) together.

I know that you are not wearing proper underwear, because I know that there is no fabric covering your buttocks. And I wish I didn't, believe me. I could have gone through my day quite happily without seeing you in your excessively short shorts, flashing one cheek or the other with every step you take.

Well, that's really all I can say, dear TOFSWWIFOM. Maybe it would be best if we started seeing other people. I will start by trying my hardest to see people who know how to wear pants properly.

Love,
SRAH

I was reading a style-biography of Audrey Hepburn that I found in our common room yesterday. I think I'd like to be her when I grow up. I could come back from France all Sabrinafied! I suppose I would have to, like, wear makeup or buy designer clothes or care or something, though, so I guess that's out.

I'm wearing a black sweater, black trousers and black shoes today. I don't think I would ever dress all in black in the States. There, its like you're in mourning or you're making some kind of statement. I don't feel weird about doing it here, though, which is nice because a lot of the clothes I brought along are black.

Walking around the gardens at Chaumont, I decided that my least favorite new French fashion trend is capri pants on men. They are everywhere. I guess I should be glad that they're so confident of their masculinity or something...

Becky said that her least favorite new French fashion is green hair with orange pants, but since we only saw that on one guy, I'm not sure it can be counted as a trend.

Note to self: When you are going to spend the day travelling on airplanes and removing your shoes for security checks, do not wear white socks with ducks on them.

Duh. Everyone knows, the blue socks with ducks on them woudl have been a much more appropriate choice, because they don't show the dirt as much.

As I'd stayed up past 3am the night before, chatting with Wadsworth and Colonel Mus-tard, I was delighted that I actually managed to sleep in on Saturday. I didn't wake up until 11 or so, and had no real plans for the day, other than a graduation party for a co-worker in the afternoon.

Some time around noon, Robin called and said that she and her sister were going to get makeovers at the mall and that they had an extra spot so I was coming along. I hemmed and hawed but couldn't find a good reason not to do it, so I agreed if she would go to the graduation party with me.

Unfortunately, I then poked around on the computer for so long that when I realized what time it was, I had to rush to get ready. I ran and took a quick shower, got dressed, dried my hair and drove to Robin's. On the way, I felt like something was wrong. My hair felt funny - sort of heavy, like I'd put too many products in it. Then when I thought further, I couldn't remember putting any products in it. In fact, I couldn't remember washing it. Somehow I had managed to take a shower and forget to wash my hair. WHO TAKES A SHOWER AND FORGETS TO WASH THEIR HAIR?

Anyway, we went to Marshall Fields' Christian Dior counter, where they were doing free makeovers by appointment. We were asked if we were going to Prom, because apparently most of the people getting makeovers were there for that. Sigh. No, I am only about seven years too old for Prom, thank you. Robin told the woman that we weren't going anywhere special and I don't wear makeup, so she should do something subtle and natural.

The woman really liked my eyelashes. She and the other makeup ladies stared and oohed and aaahed and coveted them. I think she felt, somehow, that these lashes were wasted on someone who does not wear makeup, so she decided to sabotage them. I have perfectly lovely eyelashes normally, but by putting 40 coats of heavy-drama mascara on, she was able to clump them together so that I had about three eyelashes for each eye. I suppose I should be glad Robin told her to do something natural, or it would have been 50 coats.

Thankfully Robin and I were able to brush them out with some eye makeup remover and a mascara wand. And other than that, my makeup was pretty fine. It took way too much time and effort and felt too artificial to do all the time, but it was pretty interesting to see what could be done to my face. It was a shame that I had managed to FORGET TO WASH MY HAIR because I was way too conscious of that to really appreciate the makeup.

We returned to my house after the makeovers and I changed into something dressy for the party and put my hair up so that I could ignore the fact that I had FORGOTTEN TO WASH IT. Once I was all dressed up and no longer thinking about my stupid UNWASHED HAIR, I felt a lot better.

We went to Taco Bell to get something to eat before hitting the road. Sitting there in the drive-thru it struck me: I didn't really want to go to this graduation party. I didn't want to drive all that distance in the rain and traffic for the party of someone I don't even know that well.

So instead, Robin and I decided that we needed to show off our faces and go to the bar. We met up with her sister and brother-in-law at Conor's, then went to the Full Moon because we were too lazy/ill-shod to walk to Ashley's and too drunk to drive there. All in all, no one besides waiters and family members looked at us, so our faces were probably not used to their full advantage.

When I came home to remove the makeup, I used at least eight cotton balls, which was freakily excessive to me. I don't usually use more than lipstick and mascara, so I have no idea what's normal, but I have to believe that isn't.

I am not "dressed up." Wearing a skirt is my normal state - it's just that I "dress down" about 90% of the time. This makes sense in my head, but then I am in the middle of finals and I hate the world and I would kind of like to burninate Sun Microsystems for inventing Java.

Last semester, I was somewhat nocturnal, as I couldn't really get working until the sun went down. It's the same this semester, except that I don't do any work all day, then I sleep at night.

That thigh-high stockings are very sexy and that knee-high stockings are very not.

This resolution was decided in the highest court of the land*. The question is now open to public debate.

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* or... last night in an AIM conversation

Although there are many rumours going around about the aluminum in deodorants and anti-perspirants causing Alzheimer's Disease or breast cancer, WebMD says that these are false.

So much for that excuse. Forgetting to put deodorant on yesterday morning can no longer be chalked up to a hippie-ish preventive approach and doing something about my health. Instead, I must admit that in my hurry to be on time to pick tbone up for school, I ran around like a chicken with my head cut off, got out of my normal routine habit and somehow skipped a step.

I don't know what triggered my memory, but somehow, sitting in class, I realized that I had no memory of putting deodorant on. This didn't necessarily mean that I hadn't, but it did mean that I suddenly became quite conscious of it and imagined that I was sweating profusely, which made me nervous and therefore made me sweat. It was a vicious cycle that could only be broken by the application of deodorant.

Unfortunately, I had a full day of Take Your Professor to Lunch-ing, class and work until 5 and Ladies' Night Out plans directly after, so I wasn't going to be able to get home. Instead, I had to explain the situation to my lunchmates and drag them to the drugstore with me to make an emergency purchase.

I couldn't decide, the whole time, whether I should have been embarassed or not.

I went shopping with the Urstodian today. She needed to go to Target, so I took her, intending to be only the chauffeur.

Ursula needed socks, so we went to the sock section. She immediately picked up some socks. I, on the other hand, pored over the hosiery selection and oohed and ahhed over socks and tights and things. I ended up picking up a pair of pink "modal" knee socks.

What is a "modal" knee sock? What is modal about knee socks? I have no idea.

Why would I need pink socks if I don't have pink clothing? I have no idea.

And yet, I had to have them. And on the way out of the sock section, we were distracted by their selection of scarves. And I had to buy a pink scarf to go with my pink knee socks. And I still have no idea why I bought the pink socks in the first place. What is modal?

All in all, adding in the other shiny things that distracted me along the way, I spent more than $25 when I hadn't intended to spend anything. I should not be allowed to shop without responsible adult supervision.

I put on my suit and blow-dried my hair, mascaraed and lipsticked myself and put on the new shoes I bought just this weekend in preparation for my interview. I looked in the mirror and there was a grown-up in there. I don't know who she was.

The interview went well and it looks like I may soon have an offer and I may spend part of the summer in France. They asked a lot of the usual interview questions, but there were still a few that threw me. "Tell us about a problem that you've had that you weren't able to solve," for example.

Who goes around just leaving problems unsolved? I solve my problems and if I can't solve them myself, I farm them out to other people to solve. I outsource. Problems are for solving. I couldn't come up with an example, so I told them that I was pretty sure I just solved my problems. I guess that was an acceptable answer.

Have you ever had any zingers in a job interview?

The Urstodian peer-pressured me into painting my nails this weekend. When I paint my fingernails, I feel like a completely different person. Today, for example, I feel like a drag queen.

Who picked this weird, garish silvery polish? Why is it so bright and attention-getting? Please don't look at my hands! Why are my thumbnails so huge, compared to my other, daintier fingers? I am a mutant!

I got my hair cut today. Again. I took Robin along to translate from English to Haircuttese and still didn't get exactly what I wanted.

What I want is something that requires absolutely no effort and makes people go "Hey, that's a really cute haircut!" What I've got is... okay, I guess. I think I would have gone shorter if I'd been in control, but they told me this was short enough.

Who knows... maybe this one will turn out impressive (or at least noticeable) and easy to manage. I've only seen it in fresh-from-the-haircut-and-blowdried mode, so maybe it will work in fresh-from-the-shower-and-airdried mode and I'm just being an insane complainer. That's usually the case.

Got my hair cut.

Came home.

My mom looked at me and asked, "Did you get it cut?"

Sigh...

That's two unremarkable haircuts in a row. Next time I'm getting a buzz cut and dyeing the fuzz red just so I'll look noticeably different.

I just want to be noticed. I need everyone, male and female, to tell me I look faaaaaaaabulous, in the voice of this guy.

It's been almost a week and two people have noticed that I got my hair cut.

I have a haircutting appointment on Tuesday. I'm going back to Robin's hair-cutting lady. I will look good and feel guilty for abandoning mine. Either that or she will have gone insane in my absence and I will feel guilty and look like crap.

Why can't I get just a haircut and not have big dramatic issues about it, as I assume normal people do? Well, if I weren't insane and neurotic and overdramatic, then I wouldn't have anything to blog about, now would I?

Somehow I've recently found myself watching a lot of shows like Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and What Not to Wear. The good thing about these shows is that I'm sort of absorbing things about fashion. For example, what shouldn't I be wearing? Everything in my closet.

I should throw everything away and start over. I demand to be dressed by a professional. Where is the team of makeoverists*, come to give me $5,000 and make me buy clothes that are fashionable and flattering, teach me to cook, give me a faaaaaabulous new haircut, teach me how to put makeup on and clean up my messy room?

Queer Eye is nicer than What Not to Wear, but I'm not eligible for that one. Why is Queer Eye only for straight guys? Why can't it be Queer Eye for the Hopelessly Out of Style?

* I made this word up, but I think it should exist**
** Have you noticed that I'm addicted to footnotes? Blame Justin.

Robin has been trying to convince me for years to go to her hair-cutting lady, but I felt guilty cheating on my own. Finally, when I returned from France, I did it - thinking that it would appease Robin and I could just go to my normal hair-cutting lady the next time.

Except Robin's hair-cutting lady gave me a really nice haircut. Tonight I am skulking guiltily back to the normal one, and I'm going to try to get her to cut it the same, but now I'm feeling guilty about cheating on Robin's hair-cutting lady by taking this great haircut she did and never returning.

Because I am a Big Nerd, I have taken great joy in telling people that I didn't brush my hair today.

I got my hair cut yesterday, and the haircutting lady told me that it was so low-maintenance, I wouldn't even need to brush it - I could just finger-comb it and go. So I decided to test this out this morning, and my hair is just fine. And I can tell people I didn't brush my hair, because that makes me sound Really Cool.

I feel more urgently the need for a haircut now than I did before I got my hair cut. Argh.

Never say that my blog-posts are not important and deep. Heh.

These are my favorite shoes. I don't know how long I've had them, but I know they were not new when I wore them trick-or-treating in ninth grade. So they must be at least ten years old by now. They are showing their age - the black suede is worn and turning grey - but I keep wearing them because I know I will never find anything like them again.

They are comfortable, as any shoe would have to be to stand up to hours of door-to-door travelling on that October night nine years ago. They are sandals and have a heel, but are neither dressy enough to make me feel uncomfortable, nor high enough to make me trip or walk funny (or funnier than usual, anyway). And last, they are T-straps, which always make me feel a bit old-fashioned and fun and which are rather hard to find.

It's going to be hard for me if I ever have to get rid of these shoes, and I suspect that day will never come.

Un-blow-dried, my hair looks much the same as it did pre-haircut, minus some split ends. No one has remarked on it, so I assume it's not noticeable. Whatever.

I got over my trouille of having my hair cut. No, that's not true. I got my hair cut despite the ever-present trouille. Getting my hair cut in France never cures my fear of getting my hair cut in France. I don't know why this is.

It might be too short in front, or that might be because she blow-dried it all poofy. My hair is enormous and poofy and I can't decide if I like that or not. Tomorrow we shall see it in its natural state and see what we can do with it.

Everyone and their brother and their kitchen sink has my shoes. I swear, no one had them until I bought them and now I see them everywhere I go. I'm going to start stealing them right off people's feet.

Not that I'm recommending them or anything, but they're really quite comfortable and make a loud SLAP SLAP SLAPPing noise when you walk.

I own a pair of shoes that I bought just because they were ugly. They were on clearance, so they cost something like $4 and I couldn't pass up such cheap, ugly shoes. They are cream-colored heeled oxfords. I don't know what I was planning to do with them. Maybe use them in a Halloween costume. I've never worn them and only thought about them this morning because I came across them whilst digging in my closet.

What have you bought and never used?

Have you ever been in a situation where your bra comes undone in the middle of lunch and you have to be all nonchalant about it and pretend it's not happening?

Yeah, me neither. Ahem.

I love it when my underwear matches my socks. It's silly. If I can get my underwear and socks to match each other AND both match my outfit, that's even more exciting. Today, EVERYTHING matches - even my shoes. I am a symphony in black and grey.