Posts Tagged ‘pants’

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13 March 2010

Dear J-

Yesterday I spent a few minutes looking around the daycare for dirty laundry — not figuratively hunting for rumors and innuendo, but trying to find evidence of accidents; there were none, and I was confused, doubly so today when we ran out of pants and we had to choose between putting figgy into a diaper before bedtime and trusting that she’d be able to hold it. We did make it through an outing without incident (I’m not counting falling asleep and letting go in the car seat) but the rest of the day was filled with craziness.

It threatened rain all day, but the madness could not be contained in the house either. We made our way to Balboa Park where I initially thought we’d go off to the Japanese Garden and the Spring Festival, but we ran into a perfect storm of traffic (Zoo, major rummage sale, and a parade on the western edge) and we ended up trying to find a quiet corner instead. Yet as we made our way across the highway, the noise swelled and our steps quickened toward the St. Patrick’s Day parade instead of the Marston House like I’d thought. The brick paths and lush greens from the last month of rain were calling to me, but we’ll have opportunities in the future.

It’s strange how the more independent we want to make her, the more work we have to put into it. At some point she will find out that her legs work again and we’ll be able to discontinue the impromptu upper-body workouts, but that means we don’t get to hold her as much either. There are compromises and tradeoffs to every choice; we can’t hold back time, we can’t keep her from growing up and I wouldn’t want that — the small steps seem so infinitesimal until you actually take a longer look at things; one month ago, one week ago, one year ago.

Mike

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New Pants

8 June 2009

Dear J-

I had a list of things to do — the list has some urgency now that this is the last week before vacation — but it doesn’t seem that important any more.  One thing I should look into, of course, is the finding of new pants; for someone that doesn’t mind shopping as I do, I sure hate buying clothes.  theVet tells me sure-fire ways to find clothes that fit, and I still end up looking like something fit for the rag barrel (noted sadly, as I type:  thin spots on the perma-creases in these khakis I’ve got on, and what I suspect must be some holes in the back — things felt a little breezy today).

I don’t mind picking through a disorganized rack in a thrift store (again noting this is undoubtedly what gets me into trouble more often than not; the current threadbare outfit came straight out of Salvation Army, if I recall correctly), but the neatly organized-and-labelled shelves at new clothes retailers drive me nuts.  “Try us on,” they cajole, “we’ll fit just well enough to make you believe you can find clothes in your size, but of course everyone will know better.”  Part of that must be the excuse — hard to find an exact size in the thrifts, and good-enough often is — and the other part is the odd little thrill of the hunt, unearthing questionable gems of dubious parentage.

I just need to find a store and/or brand that actually fits without much fuss, but that invokes the dressing room phobias of childhoods past (I thought that the Filene’s Basement free-for-all cured me of that, but maybe not) as well as the time and research needed.  It’s one thing to get clock radios and camera bits — you don’t have to worry about how it intersects with your anatomy, for the most part, but stuff you wear isn’t convenient to order sight-unseen.  Any suggestions for a 32 waist, 30 inseam that doesn’t make me look like a hobo?  Khakis please — I know my work will let me wear jeans, but I don’t change clothes after riding the bike, and khakis are pretty much perfect, weight-wise.

Mike

Cold Water on Your Back

5 November 2006

I must have really been homesick those two years in Boston. That’s all I can excuse myself for.

*****

All the same, I really enjoyed grade school. You got crayons, glue, pencils, and a notebook in September. You listened to stories after lunch. You wondered what was on top of the roof, over the fire escape, past the fences, behind the bushes, under the slides, inside the teacher’s lounge. I personally had a huge fear of being in the sunlight with the bloodstones present. As my friend described it, it would suck the blood right out of your body, much as lab reports and midterms were to do in a few years.

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