So, today’s b(ack)log topic is being an only child, specifically with regard to selfishness. I should preface this by noting that I am still feverish from this weekend’s flu, but I’ll see if I can distill a little coherency for the next few hundred words.

One morning when I was volunteering at the humane society in Naperville, IL, one of the other women in the room was discussing a black sheep relative, and listed among his attributes the fact that he was an only child. “Oh, yeah, only children are weird,” I said, and before I could append the statement with a joke about me being an only child, she and the other ladies in the room launched into their own discussion about everything wrong with only children.

It was good to get out of the midwest.

The prevailing attitude about only children is that we are selfish – after all we never had to learn to share with siblings – but over the thirty-five years I have been on this planet, I have found the opposite to be true. Most only children I know are emotionally generous to a fault, perhaps as a reaction to being told that we are destined to be mean, selfish people, or perhaps because -think about this- who will grow up more selfish: a kid who feels like he has to compete for parental attention, or a kid who is going to get all of the attention that the parents have available to give to a kid? Even if the parents are distant, the kid is never going to be competing with peers for attention. That kid will only be competing with things.

Many of us only children are weird about things. Not selfish, just weird. Seriously, don’t touch my things. I will gladly give you my things if you want my things and then I will get new things for myself, but don’t touch them because they are mine. I would really rather just give you my things than have you touch my things or use my things. But maybe that’s just me. I used to have a big problem with taking a shower after someone else used the shower. For two years, that was how my ex got me out of bed in the morning. All he had to do was say, “I’m going to take a shower,” and I was up and moving because I had to get there first before anyone else got it all covered in their shower water. See, it’s not so much selfishness as it is very strange sets of rules that don’t get tested without other kids around.

Anyway, the majority of adult only children I know are emotionally generous to a fault, myself included. I don’t think it is any coincidence that two of my significant relationships were with men whose mothers were only children. No one loves you like momma, and no one loves you like an only child. Certainly, not having siblings around to knock a kid down a peg can make one grow up involuted and hyper-sensitive, but it’s a disservice to mistake that involution for selfishness. As Scott once told me, “You’re self-absorbed, not selfish.” It was meant nicely, and he’s right.

Of course, I could be wrong about all of this. In my darker moments I think that being generous to what I consider a fault makes me almost as generous as a normal person, and that I am just not cut out to relate to people in this world, that I am too sensitive and involuted and impatient for any kind of fulfilling relationship. But then again, that is hardly selfishness talking. Selfish people feel that they are entitled to give less, not obligated to give more, right?

Whatever the case, this post has required several naps and a couple of snacks. At least for today, it is all that this only child can give to the world.

Especially when there is a thong underneath. Fine, so I am writing about underwear again -it is Misbehaving Tuesday, after all- but I am writing about underwear with a purpose this time. For the sake of propriety in an age of clingy modal dresses, I finally ceded to the thong. To my sisters who wear these things all the time, including during vigorous exercise, my ass and I salute you. I don’t know how you do it. Contrary to popular wisdom, I did not get used to it. I don’t care what anyone says, a wedgie is a wedgie, and I will not abide by self-induced wedgies, not for anyone, not for any dress.

On that note, I have noticed an alarming trend in underwear recently – not only the dominance of thongs in the undie marketplace, but the rise -so to speak- of the “cheeky panty,” which for the uninitiated, is a pair of underpants with a seam straight up the back, effectively guaranteeing a semi-wedgie at a minimum. These seem to be geared mostly to women younger than me, which leaves me with questions. Questions like, “Why are you paying money to shove things up your butt?” and… actually that’s it. Why on earth are you paying money to shove things up your butt? From what I understand of the world, shoving things up your butt is either free, or if you’re fairly attractive, quite lucrative. Therefore, do not pay to shove things up your butt. This is my sage advice to my younger sisters.

There is room for me to benefit from this, however. This morning as I dubiously eyed the thong, I had this idea about printing the Twitter whale on the back, so when it inevitably pops over the waistband of a pair of jeans, there will be a failwhaletail. Hellooooooo, CafePress.

SO. Misbehaving Tuesday. I scampered around running errands in a nice dress listening to Phish, because April always makes me want to get stoned and listen to jam bands. (I am certain, though, that any attempt at getting stoned these days would render me stupid for at least a week. Even in college I was the queen of the dumb-dumbs. Dumdums? Both look weird. It occurs to me with each post I write that I am pretty much guaranteeing myself never to have a reputable employer ever again, unless I plan to work for the Maryland State Office of Underpants and Shoes, or perhaps the Department of Misbehaving and Tofu.) I spent the rest of the day working on a project due tomorrow, but it was tough to focus with the windows open and a warm breeze on my shoulders, so I also did some general, free-floating screwing around.

As for celebrating my birthday month: coconut water with pineapple.

Then I spent the rest of the day freaking out every time I burped, terrified I had food poisoning.

So, every now and then, there is a Thing. I get this Thing into my head, and I will not rest until I find it.  Things have included the perfect backpack, accordions, a gray and black plaid skirt, and tie-dyed socks, to name a few. Lately there have been two Things. First, a blue shirt in the exact shade of blue that looks fantastic on me, you know, that shade of blue that is the exact color of nothing, anywhere in a store in shirt form. Second, days of the week underpants. I have been looking for a while, and after weeding out the options that were either absurdly expensive, or had a giant seam up the back for instant super wedgie (Why are underpants manufacturers doing this? As if thongs weren’t bad enough. Lofty though my ideals may be, I do not need my underwear taking the high road.), I was left with either a pack for $29.99 online -$36.98 with shipping- or a pack for $6.99 at Target.

The issue here is that the ones from Target are from the kids’ department. Every so often, I will buy something from the kids’ department because I can, but I worry that this is extremely creepy, especially when it comes to underpants. The thing is, I just could not see spending $36.98 for seven underpants. Relatively, that is not terribly expensive; it works out to $5.28205714 per… underpant? which is about what one would pay for the more expensive stuff at Target, or the less expensive stuff at Victoria’s Secret. Still, it seems like a lot, as if it should be less expensive because I am buying in bulk. I went back and forth about this for a few days, and then yesterday decided to buy the pack from Target. It’s just pieces of cotton and elastic, I figured, and if I am not supposed to wear them, they should stop making them in my size. Besides, it is not so much that I have gotten that small -proportionally, I still have ample booty- but that kids have gotten larger.

As it turned out, I picked up the wrong pack and had to return them today. I came to my senses, and decided that there will be no misappropriated underpants. I proudly paid for my foil and manicure sticks and left.

Then I changed my mind. Fuck it, it IS just pieces of cotton and elastic. What does it matter which section of the store it comes from? So, I went back to Target, and now I have days of the week underpants, and I am delighted because the Tuesday ones are purple.

I know that there are at least a few of you out there -hi!- wondering if I am going to post pictures of myself in my Misbehaving Tuesday underpants. How could I not?

Maybe the real reason I went back and bought these was that I didn’t want to wait another week to post a picture of myself with underpants on my head.

Other misbehavior: had cookies for lunch, painted toenails, drove around in the sunshine.

One more time:

I am sort of kidding about this, but the more I think about it, the more I think there is something to it. The doshas are one of a zillion different frameworks out there for making sense of the play between mind, body, and the rest of the world. And now I know: Vata is my dosha of misbehaving, and also the dosha of underpants.

As for my actual misbehaving today, I took a nice long time getting myself moving this morning, sleeping in with wonderful, gorgeous dreams that have no business on a reputable blog, or this one either. But, oh, there were… things. Dream things. My vata garments for the misbehaving day were purple, as were my seasonally inappropriate open-toe shoes. I shirked the mountain of work before me this afternoon in favor of painting my toenails and talking with an old friend for an hour and six minutes. (Hi, Josh!) I tried very hard to buy some festive underthings, but it just didn’t work out. I stopped at Target for sanitizing wipes, and spent some time perusing the undie bins, but alas the stash was somewhat disappointing. For one thing, many of the funkier styles are either thongs or have seams up the back, and I just cannot bring myself to wear anything engineered to give me a wedgie. Call me old fashioned, but as far as I am concerned, wearing a thong is like putting a middle school bully in my pants.

I write about underwear a lot. Well, I like it. And shoes. In fact, with fabulous things on beneath and below, I think I could very happily wear the same jeans and shirt every day (Ok, throw in a vintage sundress from time to time. With fabulous underthings and shoes. That, too. Is it summer yet?)

And so another Misbehaving Tuesday draws to a close. Vata is balanced, and it is time to dig into some of that work before I go back to those gorgeous dreams.

So, I considered my options. It is, after all, Misbehaving Tuesday, and a crucial component of misbehaving is wearing underthings that put a spring in my step on an otherwise unstimulating weekday – what would be the third date underwear if I were single. However, I am not dating my doctor. It took some thinking, but I came up with the Missouri Compromise of underpants: one of those innocent looking girly pairs that women look at and say, “oh my god, those are so cute!” and men look at a say, “Hwwwuh.” Yeah, we know exactly what we’re doing with those, fellas. We are forming an independent state constitution north of the 36th parallel, if you catch my meaning. Ladies, am I right? Behold, the power of Missouri Compromise underpants.

Do not try this at home. Taking a picture of one's own shoulder can cause muscle strain and dropping things.

My appointment went just fine and was behavior filled. Also, I was thoroughly poked: I got an H1N1 vaccine, and I had the usual bloodwork drawn, which for me includes a couple of extras. As I was sitting in the poking chair with my arm twitching, I watched the lab tech review the form, take a vial from the supply, and then another vial, and then another… seven vials in all for me to fill. “Good lord,” I said. “That’s a lot of vials.”

“No it’s not,” she replied.

Touche, lab tech.

I went home, put on my misbehaving socks, and carried on through the rest of the day: errands, homework, and regenerating blood cells. Perhaps not the most exciting Misbehaving Tuesday ever, but I would like to think that as I write this, my shiny new blood cells are getting down and funky, maybe having a little party in the marrow, yo.

I started at a Goodwill in Towson and found a purple dress and a black and white polka-dot skirt for thirteen bucks. I also found some orange pants which I liked, but I had a long conversation with myself about how many pairs of orange pants one really needs. Myself and I reluctantly agreed that one pair of orange pants, one pair of orange capris, and one pair of orange short shorts should really cover it. The next stop was TJ Maxx, where I found a funky mod looking black dress on clearance for for ten dollars, and -holy boulder holders, batman- one of my favorite kinds of bras in my size, for $12.99. I am an odd size, so this is the type of thing that makes me giddy enough to consider asking the store out on a date.

Last stop was DSW where I had a familiar moment – I tried on the ridiculously impractical shoes, loved them, decided not to buy them, and by the time I got home, knew I would be heading back tomorrow. Because, really, no matter how impractical they may be, sometimes, you know what? Shoes. And we’re only thirty-five days out from March 2, the date on which I start wearing open toe shoes again.

Speaking of thirty-five, this is all part of a dramatic de-frumping of my wardrobe that has been happening since last summer (she writes, sitting on the couch in sweatpants). At first, the idea was to enjoy the hell out of the clothes that will expire at thirty-five, but as the year moved on, I decided that I don’t care if the clothes expire at thirty-five, I am going to wear them anyway, but if I am going to do this, I had better -to borrow some outdated vernacular- really freaking work it. I plan to be thirty-five in a miniskirt not so much in a Pamela Anderson kind of way as a Halle Berry kind of way, if Halle Berry were an overgrown punk instead of an accomplished actress. (The current stage of the de-frumping is focused on underthings. Bras were radically updated over the summer, now I am onto getting rid of any crotchless underpants that did not start out that way. Good god, undies that are one hanumanasana away from full frontal just have to go.)

All in all, a successful, if frivolous Misbehaving Tuesday, that will extend partly into tomorrow. $37.00 isn’t bad for two dresses, a skirt, a bra, and chasing away the blues.

1. I overslept, blissfully.

2. Orange pants!

3. As I was walking up an aisle in Whole Foods, a woman walking toward me with her cart stopped abruptly and stared at me. “Your hair is beautiful,” she said. “It’s a beautiful style. Perfect for your face.” I thanked her, and we went our separate ways. This is by no means the first time some one has stopped to tell me about my hair -it has always gotten attention- but the interesting thing about it is that in the year and half that I have had my hair short, the demographic of people who stop to tell me about my hair has changed. When it was longer, I always got comments from middle aged white women and young-ish black men. Since I went short, the comments are almost exclusively from younger to middle-aged black women. I have no opinion about why this is. I am delighted to have the attention.

4. Sommer Marsden‘s wiener dog nosed my name out of a virtual hat, and I won one of her books!

5. I finished the story I am going to submit for the sex issue of Smile, Hon, which is, ahem, a feet of misbehaving all its own. I am just so glad to have to it done that it doesn’t matter anymore whether it gets printed (although I would like it very much if it were printed).

6. I spent a little time meandering aimlessly through Target. I didn’t buy anything interesting (coffee, conditioner), but I was amused when I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror and was, for a brief moment, surprised by the brightness of my own orange pants. I considered buying some orange underpants to cap off the whole orange pants experience (ok, technically, underpants would underlie the experience, not cap it off), but I walked away from the undie bin empty-handed. Hmmm. Maybe next time.

Aside from the obvious – $2.50 flip-flops from Old Navy – a comparison of the quintessential warm weather shoe, the sandal, and the quintessential cold weather shoe, the boot, reveals that sandals are intrinsically more satisfying, to me at least. Aesthetically, it is the same reason that evening dresses are rarely long sleeved, high necked affairs, and even winter formal shoes are often open-toe. At a woman’s most elegant, she is revealing just a little something. Sandals do this, which is probably why I have a pair to match every sundress, skirt, etc., in my wardrobe.

There is a practical side as well. One can dress down a shamefully trashy pair of strappy, high-heeled sandals, but there is just no way on this earth to wear a pair of thigh-high boots and not look like a hooker. I could put on a nun’s habit with a pair of those things, and the effect would be entirely whorenun. (It would be spectacular if right here I could link to the SNL clip to which whorenun refers. It was the “Dieters Dream” episode of Sprockets, and probably the last time I watched SNL. If anyone can find it for me I would be most grateful. So far, I have gotten only links to youtube copyright infringement nastygrams. Whore… Nun… Whore… Nun… WhoreNun.)

As much as I like boots and tights, there is a limit to their versatility, and they’re just not sandals, which makes winter a little sad. Funky tights are a nice way to add a some sartorial spice, but every time I put on a pair I am reminded of the night that my college roommate, Spanky, sat me down and implored me on behalf of men the world over never to wear dark tights ever again because, as he put it, “they make legs scary.” Thirteen years later, and I can still hear the urgency in his voice every time I even think about wearing tights.

This is why I am especially delighted about today’s revelation at The Bon-Ton: over the knee socks. I have decided that this may be my thing this winter; in a way they are the yin to sandal’s yang. They are soft, dark, and cover a lot of territory, but are just a bit revealing on the flip side of legs. I’m thrilled because they cover all of the necessities. Allow for a little showing off, check. Reveal without being slutty if done properly, yep. Draw attention to the fruits of hours of my life spent in utkatasana, righto. Oh, and recognition that my butt will be cold? Indeed. Wool underpants, itchyNO. Long coat, win!

I am writing to tell you that I think you are positively keen. Why? Because your lingerie department is full of oddly sized, inexpensive bras in fun colors and shapes. We’re a perfect match, you and me. Your lingerie department is small yet robust, much like yours truly. You have lots of matching sets of things -even some in purple!- for little women with big boobs and I AM a little woman with big boobs. It may not seem like a big deal to you, but for someone like me, well, I am just thrilled to find you. You have no idea how long I have searched.

Loehmanns, I don’t mean to be too forward, and I hope you won’t think less of me, but why don’t we have dinner together some time? We can talk about the shoe department, accessories… wherever the conversation takes us. If things go well, maybe we’ll go back to my place for a nightcap and I will let you see my bra.

Will you think about it?

Yours truly,
Lauren

This is the Phabulous Philadelphia Pumpkin Chocolate ChampionChip Bun(d)t Cake. I made a few tweaks to this recipe since I posted it last October, and it is really just spectacular. There were only five of us tonight, and currently there are two pieces left. It’s that good, if I do say so myself.

Scott did a little dance when he saw my outfit for the evening. Go skirt!

That’s right, all this and I bake like a mofo, too.

There were presents. (This one is from his sister, and included wiener dog boxer shorts. Now we have a matching set.)

And a hamster dance themed card. It’s always 1998 around here.

Oh, the thing about the cake is that the candles don’t quite make it through the glaze, so it’s kind of a flaming tiara cake. But, it’s also his favorite.

Happy 43rd birthday, lover, friend, man o’ mine!