"So I want you to do me a favor. Tonight when you get home from work, or today while the kiddos are napping, go find your clothing/footwear/accessory equivalent of my pajama top and take a picture of the revered item. Post the picture on your own blog tomorrow and tell us the story behind it. You don't have to link back to this post because I don't get fussy about stuff like that but please do come back and leave a comment so we can find and enjoy your stories"
So I thought I'd have a rummage and see what I could find (and I DID link back ... simply because it is my opinion that Gwen's blog should be read and enjoyed by everyone ... and because I have issues with doing what I'm told to ... as my poor Mother will vouch for).
Anyway, having risked life and limb by trawling my way through several dangerously over-stuffed drawers, this is what I've decided to share with you ...
I bought this t-shirt to take to the V festival in 2007. The weather wasn't great (shocker) but the sun did finally come out and an awesome time was had by all.I associate this top with good times, when I look at it, I think of me and my friends singing and dancing our hearts out as the Foo Fighters did their wondrous thing on stage. I'd just come out of the most heartbreaking split-up and I honestly felt like I would never smile again, but my friends and the Foo's rallied round and proved me wrong, at least for those two wonderful days.
The smile well and truly slipped when I saw the photos though. Hahaha ... oh lordy! ... it really did nothing for me, even with a little pair of denim shorts I still managed to look totally shapeless and rather boyish. So it's a pyjama top now that I slop around in on weekends when there's zero risk of anyone seeing me. My mum keeps asking me why I don't just get rid of it, especially since I have drawers full of much nicer, matching pyjamas and silky lingerie. She doesn't understand the sentimental value it holds. That is a t-shirt of hope, it's a symbol of comfort and beautiful friendship, of light at the end of the long, miserable Tunnel of Love-Death and of bitchin rock God's with great hair.
I also like how my crappy phone-cam has given the pic a kind of soft focus effect, like they use on ageing actresses to hide the wrinkles ... oh, sorry, I mean "laughter lines" (nothing's THAT funny though), my t-shirt is the Jane Seymour of style!
And this is what I wear with the t-shirt.Yep, it's a pair of men's boxer shorts.
Hot, huh?
(I bet the guys have never wanted me more.)
They belonged to a guy I dated for a while a few years ago. I guess I liked his boxers more than I liked him. They're big and baggy, and with the top they make a pretty grim ensemble ... but oh my gosh, they're comfortable! I could happily lounge around in them all day (and have, on occasion)
So there you go, a sneaky peek at the beloved style faux pas' of Girl Interrupted.
I nearly posted a picture of my lucky "pulling pants", but if I did that I might jinx them and make them lose their magical ability. You wouldn't want that, would you?
Oh, and before I go, here's another photo of Puss in Snoots, as requested by Mr Condescending.
We go through a ritual every Saturday and Sunday morning; on week days I'm up earlier so I'm spared the cat alarm, but at the weekends I like to have a lie-in, this however is most definitely NOT met with approval from the ginger whinger, who wants her breakfast at the same time as during the week.
It starts with her getting up on the bed, right next to my head if possible, and just staring at me. She obviously thinks she can will me to wake me up, or shout in my ear by means of telepathy. When this fails pathetically she will gently pat my face with her paw. She likes to give me a fair chance to do the right thing before turning to more aggressive tactics. However, when I mumble at her to "sod off" and roll over she starts to get a bit narked and pulls my hair. My answer to this is to grumble about "effin cats" and duck my head under the covers.
Thoroughly annoyed, she will then come round and jump onto the bedside table where she proceeds to stare at me again, this time with a steely glint in her beady little eyes. If I were smart (and awake) I would know that she was rapidly reaching the end of her patience with me and I would hurry out of bed and into the kitchen. But alas, I am rarely smart or awake at 6am on a weekend.
So she starts to push whatever happens to be on the bedside table on to the floor. One by one until I give a shout of annoyed despair, throw back the duvet cover and alternate a string of abusive names with big, hearty yawns while grumpily rubbing my bloodshot eyes.
At that stage, clearly wary of reprisals she jumps down from the bedside table and sits looking up at me, smug triumph written all over her evil, furry little features, a look that says "Don't mess with me bitch, I'll win every time. Now get your lazy butt out of that bed ... don't make me take a dump in your slipper. You WILL feed me now, and you WILL enjoy it".
A look, something like this ...
