Okay, now I'm obsessing on what to wear to my divorce. This may be actually harder to decide than what to wear to chemo. I mean, you want to look good, right? You want the guy to say to himself, "What was I thinking? Look at her. She's a knockout."
Well, a knockout is a bit of an exaggeration. A knockout is Greta Garbo or Carol Lombard. And then I'm thinking, maybe I should try and look sickly and go for the sympathy card. "Oh, what was I thinking? Look at her. She looks so pale and wan. I just can't leave her now."
I actually don't think I've ever looked wan. I don't think wan is a Jewish girl look. But the right outfit is key. I don't wear skirts even though it seems like a very black tight skirt kind of situation. You know, you cross your legs provocatively and you're wearing black heels with ankle straps and maybe not any underwear and what is he going to think then, huh?! You can bet he's going to think twice. If only I still had heels. I do not think Ugh boots or Doc Martins are correct for this occasion.
Low cut. That's the ticket. Something very low cut. With the right bra. And this may be a bit personal but what the hell at this point...I'm not sure what my right bra is anymore. Something has changed since my operation. Oh, they're still there. But I think because I haven't been swimming regularly yet my back size has changed. (Oh, sure Trish. Blame it on your back.) Anyway, that is way off the point but I think the holidays are making me think faster than I can write. Did I buy this one a present? Do I have to buy that one a present? Do we really like this time of year?
No Country For Old Men. It's good. The scariest thing in it is Javier Bardem's haircut.
Some days I wish someone would just whisk me away. Tell me they have something just wonderful to show me in a very special place that only a few people know about. And they will take care of everything. They'll pick out my clothes, pack for me, give me a bath, make sure Gracie the dog is taken care of while we're gone. They'll make sure everything is taken care of and I don't have to worry about a thing. They'll make sure I eat when I'm supposed to and have delicious healthy little foods ready and waiting for me when I'm hungry. They'll rub my back, hold my hair when I throw up. Be there in the middle of the night when I sit up and wonder what has happened. And we'll walk and we'll run and we'll laugh. Laugh a lot. And listen to James Taylor even though all I do is cry through every CD. But I love to cry because it feels good and I love to laugh and I wish I knew what to wear. That's really what this is all about. Someone to help me with my wardrobe. How do I look in this? Am I fetching? Was I ever fetching?
I think I was whisked away but it was into the cancer world. Definitely not the special place one dreams about.
But it's my clothes. It's all about my clothes. I know if I had the right clothes everything would turn out just right. Happily ever after. Like Enchanted. You just need the right blouse, that's all.