fearlesstemp (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fearlesstemp) wrote2004-09-14 01:34 pm
fearlesstemp) wrote2004-09-14 01:34 pm
Entry tags:
skirts, mrs. r, mike
Today's scorecard: My skirt fits funny and I have two runs in my stockings, both of them above the hem of the skirt right now, but they're moving fast. I had to scoot over to Rite Aid on my lunch hour to buy another pair, which I'm going to change into the second one of the runs sneaks by the hem.
The question of the skirt's funny fit is one I tried to solve in the bathroom earlier today by taking off my slip and then putting it on again to see if it was better with or without. I did this twice while standing in front of the bathroom mirror before realizing that anyone could open the door at any moment and see me standing there with my skirt hiked up, shimmying into the slip, since this was a three-stalled office bathroom and not my own little one-seater at home. I then became convinced that someone was going to burst in Right That Moment and hid behind where the door would open to fix my skirt, which was a ridiculous solution because (a) if someone opened the door at all, they would have nailed me and I would have had to explain why I was hiding in the corner of the bathroom, and (b) there was a private little stall just a few feet further away in the opposite direction.
Anyway. I am a mystery even to myself.
The verdict on the slip thing: Doesn't make much difference. The problem is my hip-to-waist ratio, which makes almost all not-completely-A-Line skirts problematic. Most that fit on my hips are too big on my waist and then fall down and sit funny. Note: The problem is less that I have a narrow waist (ha! Almost) but that I have far from narrow hips.
Also: I feel like my octogenarian Latin teacher from high school whenever I discuss wearing a slip, since I'm pretty sure I'm the only person under sixty who wears them. Mrs. R. had a tendency to put on the wrong slip in the morning and spend the whole day with three inches of the slip hanging below the hem of her skirt. Occasionally she'd comb her hair in the morning with one of those black thin barber's combs, stop halfway through with the comb in her hair, and then forget about it, only to discover it sticking out of the back of her hair halfway through her third class of the day.
I sometimes think Mrs. R. and I are spiritual sisters.
I got an invite to an alumni luncheon thing this year, which is featuring as its centerpiece yet another ceremonial award for Mrs. R. She got one last year and I'm pretty sure she got one the year before; she graduated from my high school sometime around 1930 and had been teaching for a few years when my grandmother had her in high school – and my grandmother was the class of 1947. She sticks around because she is from a wealthy family and is such a big financial supporter of the school that they're afraid to let her go, even though she's been having senior moments since the mid-eighties. I think they keep giving her these luncheons hoping that eventually, in one of her acceptance speeches, she'll announce her retirement, but no luck yet.
She was a character. I was one of four students in her Latin Culture and Vocabulary class, which was pretty much a joke. The night before the final exam she called each of us with mysterious messages like, "Think about Sparta...and Athens...and how they're different..." which then turned out to be the major questions on the exam. I think she was afraid that we were all going to fail because we'd all been so spacey and bored for the entire duration of the class. It was a legitimate fear; I was taking the class pass/fail, I think, since I was a senior approaching graduation with my college acceptance letters under my belt. I knew I would squeak by with a pass even though I'd been asleep for half the course both because I was a good test-taker and, also, I had a rep in the school as a Smart Kid, which, as everyone knows, cuts you a bit of slack at the end of your high school career.
She taught public speaking as well, and an odd assortment of other classes. Sometimes she would come in and spend the entire period talking about the dry cleaner down her street when she was growing up, and other times she'd tell us about the proper pronunciation of "often" (the t is silent) and the value of enunciation. One day she came in and taught me one of the most important things I learned in high school: what it really means to be a classy individual. She asked us what we thought it meant to be a classy individual, and we sat there, all fifteen and clueless, and said stuff about Audrey Hepburn and Jackie O. and expensive silverware. None of us had the right answer. Class, she told us, is not a set of clothes or good lighting; it's a way of treating people with respect and kindness. It's making your first priority, in any given situation, that the other person is feeling comfortable. The classiest person at a dinner party isn't the one with the best dress who knows the right way to use the flatware; the classiest person at a dinner party is the one who sees someone nervously pick up the wrong fork for the salad, and picks that one up herself.
Anyone can do that, she said, in any situation. That's the way you should be.
My cousin Mike is a classy guy. I have a sweet story about him that I'm going to share here, even though it would embarrass him if he found it. Even though it may come off as kind of corny. It made me smile and so I'm sharing it.
Thirteen years ago, my aunt Peggy, uncle Terry, and three cousins were in a serious car accident that left my cousin Daniel, who was two at the time, with significant brain damage. Since he was so young, he made a more complete recovery than an adult or older child would have, but there are things he's always struggled with and always will.
He has two older siblings, Katie and Mike. Katie is the oldest and is definitely a classy individual herself, but this sweet story is about Mike.
Mike is eighteen and started commuting to classes at a local college this month, leaving behind the high school where Dan had just completed his freshman year. Mike is a great kid; energetic, friendly, always halfway through a funny story when you walk in the room. He doesn't look like a jock and he isn't one, really; he runs well, which meant he was a pinch runner on my brother's American Legion baseball team a lot, and he was fast enough to make the varsity football team but too small to see much playing time.
Mike never minded. He liked to sit on the bench and talk to anyone, everyone – his teammates, his coaches, people watching the game. He has more friends than his two siblings and seven cousins probably have put together. He got his driver's license after his high school graduation because in high school, he never needed it. He always had four or five people willing to give him a ride.
Now the same cars stop at my aunt and uncle's house every day now, but it's not Mike they're dropping off anymore - it's Dan. Mike's set up his entire social system (and it's a significant one – he had friends who were seniors when he was a freshman, and had friends who were freshmen when he was a senior) to look after his brother, make sure he's okay and not being hassled or feeling lonely without Mike.
The other day was school picture day, and the uniform ties hadn't been delivered. The school announced that the kids would have to buy them at school and put them on themselves right before the picture.
And so on picture day, Mike got up early and drove Dan to school himself, making sure they arrived before the other students. He sent Dan in with the money to buy the tie and instructions about where to meet him out back behind the building, because Mike knew Dan gets embarrassed about things like this. Ties are one of those things Dan still has trouble with. Mike got up early and drove to his old school and waited out back to tie Dan's tie for him, so Dan wouldn't have to feel embarrassed in front of his classmates when he couldn't do it himself.
And I thought that was a sweet story.
Mike would be mortified if he found out I called him sweet, of course, so let's keep this on the down low.
The question of the skirt's funny fit is one I tried to solve in the bathroom earlier today by taking off my slip and then putting it on again to see if it was better with or without. I did this twice while standing in front of the bathroom mirror before realizing that anyone could open the door at any moment and see me standing there with my skirt hiked up, shimmying into the slip, since this was a three-stalled office bathroom and not my own little one-seater at home. I then became convinced that someone was going to burst in Right That Moment and hid behind where the door would open to fix my skirt, which was a ridiculous solution because (a) if someone opened the door at all, they would have nailed me and I would have had to explain why I was hiding in the corner of the bathroom, and (b) there was a private little stall just a few feet further away in the opposite direction.
Anyway. I am a mystery even to myself.
The verdict on the slip thing: Doesn't make much difference. The problem is my hip-to-waist ratio, which makes almost all not-completely-A-Line skirts problematic. Most that fit on my hips are too big on my waist and then fall down and sit funny. Note: The problem is less that I have a narrow waist (ha! Almost) but that I have far from narrow hips.
Also: I feel like my octogenarian Latin teacher from high school whenever I discuss wearing a slip, since I'm pretty sure I'm the only person under sixty who wears them. Mrs. R. had a tendency to put on the wrong slip in the morning and spend the whole day with three inches of the slip hanging below the hem of her skirt. Occasionally she'd comb her hair in the morning with one of those black thin barber's combs, stop halfway through with the comb in her hair, and then forget about it, only to discover it sticking out of the back of her hair halfway through her third class of the day.
I sometimes think Mrs. R. and I are spiritual sisters.
I got an invite to an alumni luncheon thing this year, which is featuring as its centerpiece yet another ceremonial award for Mrs. R. She got one last year and I'm pretty sure she got one the year before; she graduated from my high school sometime around 1930 and had been teaching for a few years when my grandmother had her in high school – and my grandmother was the class of 1947. She sticks around because she is from a wealthy family and is such a big financial supporter of the school that they're afraid to let her go, even though she's been having senior moments since the mid-eighties. I think they keep giving her these luncheons hoping that eventually, in one of her acceptance speeches, she'll announce her retirement, but no luck yet.
She was a character. I was one of four students in her Latin Culture and Vocabulary class, which was pretty much a joke. The night before the final exam she called each of us with mysterious messages like, "Think about Sparta...and Athens...and how they're different..." which then turned out to be the major questions on the exam. I think she was afraid that we were all going to fail because we'd all been so spacey and bored for the entire duration of the class. It was a legitimate fear; I was taking the class pass/fail, I think, since I was a senior approaching graduation with my college acceptance letters under my belt. I knew I would squeak by with a pass even though I'd been asleep for half the course both because I was a good test-taker and, also, I had a rep in the school as a Smart Kid, which, as everyone knows, cuts you a bit of slack at the end of your high school career.
She taught public speaking as well, and an odd assortment of other classes. Sometimes she would come in and spend the entire period talking about the dry cleaner down her street when she was growing up, and other times she'd tell us about the proper pronunciation of "often" (the t is silent) and the value of enunciation. One day she came in and taught me one of the most important things I learned in high school: what it really means to be a classy individual. She asked us what we thought it meant to be a classy individual, and we sat there, all fifteen and clueless, and said stuff about Audrey Hepburn and Jackie O. and expensive silverware. None of us had the right answer. Class, she told us, is not a set of clothes or good lighting; it's a way of treating people with respect and kindness. It's making your first priority, in any given situation, that the other person is feeling comfortable. The classiest person at a dinner party isn't the one with the best dress who knows the right way to use the flatware; the classiest person at a dinner party is the one who sees someone nervously pick up the wrong fork for the salad, and picks that one up herself.
Anyone can do that, she said, in any situation. That's the way you should be.
My cousin Mike is a classy guy. I have a sweet story about him that I'm going to share here, even though it would embarrass him if he found it. Even though it may come off as kind of corny. It made me smile and so I'm sharing it.
Thirteen years ago, my aunt Peggy, uncle Terry, and three cousins were in a serious car accident that left my cousin Daniel, who was two at the time, with significant brain damage. Since he was so young, he made a more complete recovery than an adult or older child would have, but there are things he's always struggled with and always will.
He has two older siblings, Katie and Mike. Katie is the oldest and is definitely a classy individual herself, but this sweet story is about Mike.
Mike is eighteen and started commuting to classes at a local college this month, leaving behind the high school where Dan had just completed his freshman year. Mike is a great kid; energetic, friendly, always halfway through a funny story when you walk in the room. He doesn't look like a jock and he isn't one, really; he runs well, which meant he was a pinch runner on my brother's American Legion baseball team a lot, and he was fast enough to make the varsity football team but too small to see much playing time.
Mike never minded. He liked to sit on the bench and talk to anyone, everyone – his teammates, his coaches, people watching the game. He has more friends than his two siblings and seven cousins probably have put together. He got his driver's license after his high school graduation because in high school, he never needed it. He always had four or five people willing to give him a ride.
Now the same cars stop at my aunt and uncle's house every day now, but it's not Mike they're dropping off anymore - it's Dan. Mike's set up his entire social system (and it's a significant one – he had friends who were seniors when he was a freshman, and had friends who were freshmen when he was a senior) to look after his brother, make sure he's okay and not being hassled or feeling lonely without Mike.
The other day was school picture day, and the uniform ties hadn't been delivered. The school announced that the kids would have to buy them at school and put them on themselves right before the picture.
And so on picture day, Mike got up early and drove Dan to school himself, making sure they arrived before the other students. He sent Dan in with the money to buy the tie and instructions about where to meet him out back behind the building, because Mike knew Dan gets embarrassed about things like this. Ties are one of those things Dan still has trouble with. Mike got up early and drove to his old school and waited out back to tie Dan's tie for him, so Dan wouldn't have to feel embarrassed in front of his classmates when he couldn't do it himself.
And I thought that was a sweet story.
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(durn it, don't tell stories that make me tear up!) :)
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(durn it, don't tell stories that make me tear up!)
(I will try not to!) :)
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I only own one, which I bought because I had a dress which was kind of see through, but I sort of wish I had more. Also, they look nice.
In other news, I enjoy bitching about the young people and their inability to inarticulate their speech, just like the elderly piano teacher who terrorized me in my youth. I'm soooo oooold.
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And then I felt all weird and old-fashioned, though not enough to throw away my slip, because now I can't wear most of my skirts without one.
In other news, I enjoy bitching about the young people and their inability to inarticulate their speech, just like the elderly piano teacher who terrorized me in my youth. I'm soooo oooold.
I have caught myself saying things like, "Kids today!" often followed up with a critique of some crazy fashion fad. And then I realize what I'm doing and clap my hand over my mouth in horror, but it doesn't help! I know I'll say something like it again!
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Actually, my slip wearing tends to stem from my wearing of wildly patterned panties. Excuse me while I glory in not being a total geezer.
Mike sounds like an absolute doll. My father always taught me the same thing about classiness, actually. I would tell a story here, but my comment is already long-winded enough. Er, as per usual.
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But I really should get a variety of lengths -- I totally am the girl who just rolls it at the waist to the proper length and then stresses about it falling down all day long. Not the best policy.
Mike sounds like an absolute doll.
He is such a cutie. And I want to hear that story about your parents! I think my parents had been teaching me that lesson a little bit through their actions, but Mrs. R. was the first one to articulate this (I had to sneak this in so that you would know that I wasn't raised by mean wolves who never taught me to tip well and always say please and thank you).
Also: I love that icon!
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And thank you for the compliment on my icon. May I ask who the young lady is in your default one?
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That's a great way of putting it. And I want to hear about your grandparents! Eccentric people tend to be the best kind of people, I've found.