(no subject)

I had a lovely day of socializing yesterday with goodbadgirl and queershoulder. There were some follies at the beginning of the afternoon involving misremembered dates and lost phone numbers (and me being really early, and the meeting place really crowded), but by the end of it all I'd had two cups of tea, a tasty dinner, much lovely and meaningful conversation, and acquired a pair of red and black snakeskin-pattern pants :) That fit! I promised to debut them at an appropriately fabulous event, like, say, the next Perverts Put Out! on January 5 ("The Hangover Edition").

Also in the meantime I got to wander through Paxton Gate to look at dead things, buy a couple books, and enjoy the weather.

Then I skipped class and had a drink in a Tenderloin bar with a really hot, slightly severe older lady bartender wearing a stunning necklace. I almost complimented her on having the cleanest bar bathroom I have been in in ages, but somehow it didn't seem the right time. I watched a bit of basketball and a bit of pool, and then I went home to my sweeties, whom, by the way, I am really very much in love with.

Clearly I should Move to Britain

So you're telling me that I can find J cup bras on the rack at a major department store in the UK, but still can't find anything over a DDD cup over here?

(Not that, admittedly, I've bothered to check in a while.)

(no subject)

Oh, also on my perambulations yesterday, I ran into a copy of the Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica, which has my story "Ruth, Roses, and Revolvers" in it. (Some who attended an earlier Perverts Put Out!" this year will remember.) Actually, three copies, on the display table at Modern Times. Whee!

The navy pants suit

Once upon a time, I was a young woman who had just graduated from college.

I was moving to Chicago to be with my boyfriend, who was still in school. I was going to need to look for a job in the big, big city.

So my father took me shopping.

All through my childhood, it was my father who took me shopping for anything other than the most basic of clothes. He was the one willing to spend money on certain things, like a good cut or a certain fabric. With my mother, I would look at cute sweaters in the mall, and she would refuse to buy them. She would offer to knit me one instead, but she wouldn't pay for the fancy yarn, and it was never the same.

My father bought my my one and only pair of designer jeans, in that brief window of time when they were a) popular and b) I could still fit into them. My mother bought me Tuffskins. I also wore my mother's hand-me downs until I was too big to fit in them any more.

Sometime in high school, I had stopped wearing skirts. Sometime in college, I had come out to my parents. I had been living in a threesome with a boy and a girl for six months. I had cut off my waist-length brown hair a year before I entered the store with my father, to shop for a post-college interview outfit.

I don't remember the name of the store, but I do remember its location, and my location within it -- the dressing rooms were to the left, just behind the first display window.

I've never been one for fancy clothes of any gender or flavor. Aside from that one pair of designer jeans, I never wore anything branded. For a long time, my parents couldn't afford new clothes for me, not on graduate student plus state social worker wages. And even when they could, my mother's frugal habits died hard. I was uncomfortable in anything fancier than jeans and a t-shirt, really. Especially since I was fat. I had no idea what might look good on me any more. Nothing looked good on a fat person. They would always still be fat.

At the store, I tried on a navy blue pants suit. It didn't have a skirt, which was good. It was cut respectably, which was good. It fit. It looked good on me. The saleswoman and my father both praised it.

It was expensive.

It was navy.

I could tell that my father wanted to buy it for me. He wanted to give me a gift. A gift of a certain style, and a gift of acknowledging my gender -- no skirts if you don't want skirts! You will look appropriate and stylish and you will get a good job, and you will still be able to express yourself.

It was navy.

(I have nothing against navy. I look good in navy.)

And it wasn't a suit. It was a pants suit.

I probably looked a lot like a baby Hilary Clinton. Except fatter. But you know what I mean. Little apple-cheeked politician. Lobbyist to be. I probably did look ready for downtown in the big city. It probably would have been a fine interview suit.

It was hard not to let my father buy it for me. But I knew I would never wear it. It was navy, not black. It was a pants suit, not a suit. It was almost, but not quite. And that's how I'd feel whenever I looked at it or tried it on. Almost but not quite...something. Something I couldn't put my finger on then. Not yet.

I put the navy pants suit back on the rack. I told the very nice saleslady -- in her fifties, with a short red perm, I remember that, too -- that I needed to think about it. She smiled at me. I didn't buy anything that day. I don't remember if I ever left for Chicago with suitable interview clothes, or if I cobbled together something from my closet, or if I bought something after I moved.

Someday, I will complete the circuit, and get myself a suit. A real suit.

And it won't be navy.