What Are You Wearing?

 

Homemade and hand-me-downs were the clothes of my youth, with the occasional new item from Sears. I never thought about it much until high school, where other girls (the cool ones, anyway) exulted in Villager dresses and Bobbie Brooks suits. Or was it the other way round? Didn’t matter. We couldn’t afford either one.

       I made my own wedding dress. When my husband started working for a company that staged big fund-raising banquets, I made a slinky blue nylon halter dress that held its own pretty well with the gowns for which the wealthy flew to Atlanta.

       Now a grandmother, having retired all the giant tee shirts and homemade maternity pants and having husbanded our income to a comfortable depth, I could probably afford any clothing that strikes my fancy. But the expensive designer outfits are striking something else.

       The last high-end mall fashion magazine that crept into our mailbox was filled with models who looked like heroin addicts draped in rags. The latest came with a New York newspaper. New York City! World fashion capital! Well—the models look a bit less desiccated, though we suspect a couple of the women might be men.

Facial expressions range from misery to a sort of hostile desperation. Didn’t models used to smile? Like they were happy to wear the lovely clothes? But the desolate faces go with the clothes. “You’d have to pay me to wear that stuff,” was my first thought. On further consideration, “You couldn’t pay me to wear that stuff.” Aside from the realization that many models appear to have forgotten their undershirts, the outfits scream, “I started with tacky and carried it to a new dimension.”

This is from Chanel. Chanel! They've gone from Coco to Coocoo.

I can duplicate these "shoes." I need only sweep up after the dog and scoot through with glue on the soles. Swiffer chic.  

When Mrs. Harris went to Paris, she wound up with a gorgeous, flattering gown. That was close to the year I was born. I'd like to buy something gorgeous, but I guess it's not happening in my lifetime. They may have to bury me in something homemade. I do have some extra fabric somewhere.                                                                                                                       

Baal, Right on Target

 

At last, the children who have all had to go naked since they stopped the alphabet-jumble-wheel on “DAWAALAINM” (Do Anything With Anybody As Long As It’s Not Marriage.) have a haberdasher in Taregret stores. Who can forget the kindergartener who tied her shoes properly for the first time, looked up, pumped her fist and cried, “I’ve got it, Parental Unit. I’m Queer! So I can’t wear these ordinary sneakers any more. Or any of the clothes in my closet.” Or the little person whose finger stopped on the third item on the children’s menu and announced, “Hey! I’m Gay! So my board shorts will simply not do. I’ve got to have a swimsuit that looks like a girl’s and has special construction to mash my wee-wee down.”

        Across the country, progressive, virtuous mothers shed a little tear and said, “Oh, my brave darling, I’m so proud of you. I must post this milestone on social media.” A hitch arose when the children shed all their sexuality-limiting clothing and were forced to go around naked. Enemies of self-expression refused to allow the unclothed children on their platforms, thus snuffing out the Actual Lives of these little heroes.

        “Oh, Baal. Oh, Moloch, anybody but that Creator guy, help us!” cried the mothers. The prayer trickled downward. The gods stroked their horns and thought.

        “Ooo, ooo, I’ve got it,” piped up Baphomet. “You know I’ve got a deal with this English guy who uses my image on tee shirts and pretends not to believe in Satan, but quotes him anyway? Because that way he can tell anyone who objects that they’re stupid morons for thinking he’s a Satanist? Hahahahaha.” All the assembly leaned on each other and guffawed until they gave a final squeak and wiped their eyes with their tails.  

        “That’s it,” bellowed Baal. “You get with him, and we’ll get Taregret interested. We already have an ‘in’ there, you know.”

        Thus was the prayer answered. At last there were complete wardrobes with a wealth of accessories for the DAWAALAINM. Naked no more, they could wait happily for the day when they could proudly show their surgical scars on social media. No longer would they be oppressed by the perfectly healthy conventional sex organs they were oppressively born with. Progress!