My friend Coby gave me the perfect answer for the "Why is he/she black/brown/tall/short/fat/skinny/etc?" question:
"Because it pleased God to make him/her that way."
This is why people should talk about race more often instead of tiptoeing on eggshells (because walking on eggshells is too direct for most people, myself included).
In related (you'll see soon enough) news, I went shopping today with my friend Jen, who deserves a medal for answering the question, "Are these pants too tight?" fifteen gazallion trillion times. I needed to go shopping because I tossed all of my shorts and summer clothes out in a post-partum cleaning frenzy last September.
When shopping, I repeatedly asked Jen, "Who are these extra long T-shirts designed for?" They only look good on six foot tall people without hips. In other words, not me. It could be Ann Taylor, The Gap, or Macy's---no matter where I went, it was the same hobo-length shirt, with my birthin' hips destroying the clean lines I so desired.
I mean---Every. Shirt. Looked. Like. Ass. (Except for the forty-four dollar tank top that I was too cheap to buy, because, HELLO! It's a forty-four dollar tank top!)
Don't even get me started on the idea that I am supposed to buy numerous shirts or tank tops and then artfully layer them. I can barely get one shirt on, let alone several.
And good grief, WHY am I supposed to wear a FRICKIN' SCARF with my artfully arranged tank tops or something called a "lightweight summer cardigan"? Why, Fashion Gods, Why?
I would drown my sorrows in Ben and Jerry's Americone Dream, except that it would add additional poundage to my HIPS. BAH!
I suppose this would be a good time to point out that my hips look like this because it pleased God to make them this way.
Fine. The hips aren't the problem. The fashion designers, on the other hand, need to get a fucking clue. The End.
Here's what I ended up purchasing:
Don't say I don't take risks. That's THREE different shades of khaki there, baby.
I also bought this:
I'm actually very pleased and happy with this purchase. Poor Jen was asked to drive to Ann Taylor Loft for the third time in one shopping trip because I was not going to buy this, then I was, then I wasn't sure...then I finally bought it.
Joel's take on all this?
Hey, Mom, quit yer bitching. At least you get to wear clothes.
As for Owen?
Don't mind me, I'm just making towers out of toothpicks and mini-marshmallows, because of my mother's spiritual crafts quest.
Now, really, THE END.