how things change

Last Friday on our morning walk it was 8 degrees. I was furious, but Chester got to wear one of his new custom-made outfits.

I call this one Chet D'Arthur, Dogge of the Rounde Table.

Tomorrow it's supposed to be 76 and sunny. Chester will go naked.

if you can't beat 'em, walk a mile in their shoes, which are actually quite comfortable

In spite of the fact that I spend my days unwashed and wearing what basically amounts to pajamas, there have been certain lines I wouldn't cross. For example, if I'm going to an event that takes place at night and has a ticket price of $15 or more, I will not wear any fleece (unlike most Vermonters, who will show up decked out in their best fleece vests). And I've always resisted clogs, because with the exception of winter boots, shoes are not meant to be comfortable or practical, they should to be pretty and crippling. But then I tried on my sister's clogs. I tried on my sister's clogs, tried to hide from her the fact that I was wearing them, and got angry when she asked for them back. And the next day I spent the gift certificate I'd planned to use to buy some foxy new boots on what are basically slippers I can wear to work. Up next: fleece pants at a dinner party.

it's not pretty

Signs I'm getting old:

1. I've changed the settings on my internet browser and in Word to enlarge the text so I can read without squinting my eyes and straining my neck.
2. Chris opened a kitchen cupboard the other day and found my sunglasses on the lazy Susan.
3. My bursitis has been acting up.

Shall I go on?

4. We were going to see a friend play music last night but could not stay up.
5. Chris is worried I'm going to damage the floor shuffling around in my slippers.


6. I wear slippers. All the time. And my Couch Jedi outfit is so comfortable, I may skip the mom jeans and go straight to granny pants. That's right: I'm starting to think elastic waistbands are a viable sartorial option.
7. I play bridge. Like someone with dementia.

I blame all of this on moving back to Vermont. And raising all these kids (your mind just goes!). And, um, the drugs? I think I'm going to start doing drugs.

grueling day at the office

I wore a power suit to work today (please note that the socks match the sweatpants), and on the off chance that location is my problem, I tried working on the couch instead of at my desk. Yesterday, also hoping for a geographical cure, I left the house entirely and camped out at the lovely Sapa teahouse.

It actually sort of worked, though I had to put on what I call "street pants" (jeans), which was a little more effort than I could exert today.

shoo

I'm currently sharing my studio with this massive wasp, which means that every few minutes I run from the room, arms flailing about my head. This move and the fact that I frequently catch myself speaking with an English accent (three of the seven residents here are British, a condition that is apparently contagious) make me pretty much the coolest person here, if you're into spastic Anglophiles who dress like bag ladies. Which apparently you are.

morning at the convent

The light is beautiful here, and the toast is pretty good, too.



Sadly (for them), the other residents get up each morning and put on normal clothes, so I feel pretty classy shuffling around in my Couch Jedi outfit. That's just how I roll: in sweatpants and striped socks and a sweater with holes in the armpits. Yes, I will come model in your runway show, and no, my one-of-a-kind designs are not for sale. The people who run the soup kitchen across the street invited us all over for lunch any time we please, and you know I am not above taking food out of the mouths of the homeless. Sartorially, I think I'll fit in much better over there.

For my concerned relatives and anyone else who's interested, I've posted photos of my studio, bedroom, and the kitchen I spent three hours cleaning here. My friend Laura from Santa Fe came to visit yesterday and gave the place her seal of approval; she also likes my Couch Jedi outfit, so clearly she has good taste and high standards.

the mall

Chris and I went to the mall the other night (our first mistake) to go the AT&T store (our second mistake), which was like walking through the insane asylum to buy a phone at the freak show.

I saw three different people at the mall wearing slippers, and it wasn't like I stumbled into the middle of a gang of slipper-wearers: These were three separate slipper-wearing individuals. Admittedly I'm not in a position to judge, given the fact that I walk around my building (and sometimes the park across the street from my house) in my couch Jedi outfit. And yet I do judge. Even I put on shoes to go to the depressing, fluorescently lit wasteland that is the Burlington Square Mall! Granted, I don't brush my hair or teeth, and I think it's perfectly acceptable to wear pajama bottoms that bear a passing resemblance to pants. But c'mon now. No shirt, no shoes, no shuffling around the mall.

But the greater mall was nothing compared to the AT&T store, which was PACKED, mostly with stoned fifteen-year-old boys using the web-enabled phones to check their e-mail, listen to music, and look at porn. There was also a long line of unruly customers and only two employees, so we had to wait for quite some time, during which I kept sneaking out of the store and curling into the fetal position behind a massive fake potted plant. Chris, apparently thinking I was trying to get a game of hide-n-seek going, kept finding me.

Other visitors to the store included a prepubescent girl wearing an adorable pink teeshirt that said "SLUT" in sparkly letters, a toothless pregnant man, and a woman with knee-high, spiked-heeled boots and peroxide-orange hair who came in and immediately started yelling to the employees, both of whom were helping other people, that one of her "clients" had stolen her phone. I of course assumed she was a prostitute, but it turns out she was a hairdresser, which I know because she could not stop talking loudly to herself about her misfortunes while walking in tight little (probably cocaine-induced) circles.

All of which is to say that I have a new phone.

synchronicity

While I was honing my Couch Jedi skills this afternoon, Chris was at the hardware store buying a squeegee to clean the very windows I was taking photos of from the couch. And instead of peeling me a grape when he got home, Chris actually washed those windows.


Lucky for all of us here at Gruel for Dinner, I was able to take that photo without stepping off the Millennium Falcon that is my couch (I'm going to work this metaphor to the bone), although I did have to pause my show.

I was finally forced off the mothership when Chris stuck his head in the window (at this point he was out on the roof washing the south-facing windows) and requested that I go ask the neighbor if she wanted her windows washed (who is this man, and how did I convince him to marry me? In my world, neighbors are people you pretend you don't see when you're standing next to them in the elevator). Out of some misplaced sense of guilt I did as he asked, completely forgetting that I WAS WEARING MY JEDI OUTFIT.

In case it's unclear, I just knocked on my neighbor's door wearing high-water orange fleece pants; striped socks; clogs that are at least two sizes too small, forcing me to walk in a shuffle; and a stained pink sweater with gaping holes in the armpits. The neighbor actually looked scared when she answered.

There goes the neighborhood.