I am just about to get to work finishing up my green, double-gauze “kimono” top, which I draped myself and am making without a pattern. Here’s what she looks like right now, which is to say: she doesn’t look the way I intended for her to look. I did not expect draping to result in a drapery panel, which is approximately what I’ve created here so far, though I do have ideas about how I might save it. Truthfully, It’ve been so obsessed with trying to decide how I want this blog to look that it’s brought my sewing to a complete standstill.
Now I think I’ve settled on a blog design I can live with (for a little while), it’s time to get back to the activity that actually inspired said blog.
In the meantime, I present for your consumption something else that happened. I promise to finish this top in the next few days and blog all about it / post it under “Creations” as soon as I’m done.
That Time I Went Condom Shopping
When I was 34 I aged out of the birth control pill because I smoked, so I went to CVS to buy condoms. It was the first time I’d ever bought a condom, and I was dismayed to find that the pharmacy had decided to place them in a small swiveling display stand on their counter, rather than on a shelf in an aisle. I can only imagine what possessed some fool to showcase the merchandise in this way.
To my further surprise, I discovered that condoms come in flavors, textures, sizes, colors, and sweet baby Jesus did I mention flavors? All things that might cause the simple pursuer of a practical prophylactic to stop in her tracks, frozen in place, forced to imagine how the pluses and minuses of each attribute might play out in a sexual setting while she stands in a public place with no idea how sizing works on stupid condoms.
There were two women standing behind the counter, and it took them awhile to wait on me because we all three kept avoiding eye contact. Meanwhile, a line formed behind me. Finally, the older of the two women asked me if I had a question.
Well, that was something to ponder. I opened my mouth to respond, but just then a fly flew in my mouth.
A FLY FLEW IN MY OPEN MOUTH.
But wait, there’s more.
I have to begin this next part by explaining that I never learned how to spit. When we were little kids and I was still trying to be just like my brother I failed in many ways. I couldn’t make squeaky sounds with my armpit. I didn’t know when to turn on warp drive when we were running from the Klingon’s. I couldn’t spit. And of all those failures, spitting was the most
embarrassing, because not only was I incapable of projecting anything like a distance — the spit inevitably just sort of trembled on the edge of my lower lip and then fell off the edge in a slippery, slimy string while I was busy looking around to see where my loogie went. [optional, here: nobody ever even laughed when I tried to spit because I just appeared to be a failure as a boy, and that was fine with them, especially if it meant they never had to watch me try to spit again.]
I didn’t have time for any of this to cross my mind that day the fly flew in my mouth at the pharmacy, though. I just spit. I spit like I was born to spit.
The older woman behind the counter looked disgusted and took a step back, and the younger woman next to her said, “Did you see that? Did you just see that?”
And I looked down and saw this big giant glob of glistening spit with a fly desperately trying to swim its way out of the bubbles.
The line behind me sort of spread out.
I asked for a paper towel but nobody moved, so I stepped on the fly (regrettably, because I felt pretty sorry for it) on the off chance that I could hide it. And then I started laughing in a way that probably sounded maniacal and I couldn’t stop.
So then I just left the store.