Cinderella’s Handyman Service

Hello again from that
place where, you guessed it, the snow just keeps on comin’!

I wore girl clothes a
week ago. I bathed, shaved, fluffed and fussed, curled, puffed, painted,
arranged, bedecked (and bedazzled) myself for an official Nelson “function”. The
Kootenay Writing School was having its annual fou-fou-ra at the library and
this was my chance to mix and mingle with Nelson’s literati. This was also my
chance to get the heck out of my androgynous work attire and into something a
little more…girlie.

Here’s my morning dress
routine:

1. Cotton socks

2. Wool work socks

3. Light long underwear

4. Fleece long underwear

5. Work pants – 3 sizes
too big to accommodate #’s 3&4 and covered in various “goo”

6. Tattered work t-shirt

7. Light waffle-fleece
top

8. Heavy fleece top

9. Small Arcteryx jacket

10. Fleece vest with hood

11. Winter jacket

12. Toque (Canadian for
“cap”, FYI)

13. Gloves

14. Sorrel boots (the
king of boots)

The upside of all these
layers is that when I get home and undress I feel as if I’ve instantly dropped
25 lbs – probably because I have
dropped 25 lbs! The down side is that I spend every day of my life looking like
a bloated, hammer-wielding sausage.

Now, I have, on numerous
occasions, verbally “bashed” the female fashion industry and the nonsensical
idea that women must conform to a set of predetermined standards in order to be
considered beautiful but…BUT…I was practically weeping last Friday as I applied
my mascara (but I didn’t because then the mascara would run). Who was this stunning
ingénue staring at me from my bathroom mirror? This saucy vixen with her
sparkly lip gloss and hair spun like cotton candy – not plastered into a
ponytail as mine is seven days a week. I liked this girl; her perfectly plucked
brows said “I’m ruthlessly efficient”, her mango-scented skin whispered “Come
closer”, and her concave stomach growled “Hey, I haven’t eaten all day so let’s
get the show on the road!”

The show did get on the
road and soon I was sitting in a packed room full of other writerly types.
“Wow, you look great tonight,” exclaimed one of the members of my latest
writing group. “I’m wearing girl clothes!” I answered, not even trying to hide
my pride. Most of the evening was spent in near darkness, the light from the
podium being the only light as authors took turns reading their work. Perhaps
not the best environment to show off my single layer of highly impractical
clothing but I held out for intermission and wasn’t disappointed. Lingering
over the dessert table, I made sure to stand in the best light and turn
frequently so that everyone could get a good look. Sure they all seemed like they were interested in
talking about writing and stuff but I knew what they were thinking: “That girl
is so hot! She must be a model or something!!” Yep, that’s what they were all
thinking. Oh ya baby.

All too soon the night
was over. The room began to clear as I hovered around the stragglers, allowing
them one last glimpse of my splendor before I, too, shuffled out to the snow
covered street. It wasn’t even midnight and the ball was over. I could have, I
don’t know, gone down to the Hume Hotel to watch the salsa dancers in their
year end finale or, maybe, taken myself out for a martini but Prez was back at
home recovering from a hard week of work and, well, it’s damn cold without all
those layers. So I went home, took off the party clothes, put on my fleece
pajamas, and cuddled up next to my sweety on the couch.

“How was it?” he asked,
sprawled in much the same position he’d been in when I left.

“It was good. There was
some excellent writing,” I answered.

“I’m sorry I’m such a
stick in the mud.”

“That’s OK; it’s been a
long week.” I scratched his head. He turned to face me.

“Wow, you are so
beautiful! How’d I get you?”

He said it like a man
who’s just woken up and realized he has the winning lottery ticket. But it was
me who won. Dressing up in girl clothes and having a bunch of strangers think
you’re hot is fun but the guy who thinks I’m gorgeous even when I look like a
bloated, hammer-wielding sausage, that’s the only person I really want to
impress.

QUESTION: You’re favorite
knock ‘em dead outfit?

"I’m tired of all this nonsense about beauty being only skin-deep. That’s deep
enough. What do you want—an adorable pancreas?"

-Jean Kerr

Until next week, I hope this finds you healthy, happy, and lovin’ life!
The Princess

This entry was posted in Love. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Cinderella’s Handyman Service

  1. Glen says:

    LOL I should get Candice to answer your question of the blog… me, I go for the "homey" look with my best addidas HAR HAR
    Glad to hear the Writing Event went well! Hope Christmas is a good one for you two, merry merry-ness and all that.
     

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