Read Online Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase by Jen Lancaster - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jen Lancaster
Tags: Humor, Literary, General, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Literary Criticism, Girls, American, Biography, Essay/s, Authors; American, Art, Form, 21st Century, Fashion, Jeanne, Clothing and dress
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is the one who told us this, but he used to tell us all kinds of outrageous lies. For years I actually believed that Moon Island was a real place, housing the contents of every flushed toilet. And alligators. Lots and lots of alligators.
Auntie Abba has kind, crinkly blue eyes, and when she kisses us there’s a vaguely scratchy feeling above her lip, but it’s not weird. Actually, it’s kind of comforting. She’s also got these huge earlobes, which are supposed to be a sign of the aristocracy from which she’s descended. Her dad was an earl but he left his title to marry a commoner. My mom thinks that was such a romantic gesture. I say he should have kept the title and lived in sin.
Anyway, my auntie is so happy to see us! She serves us hot tea with sugar cubes and a crystal dish of bridge mix while my mother frantically paces to the kitchen to dial and redial her parents’ house. We don’t stay long and Auntie Abba tears up when we go. My heart hurts as she stands in the doorway waving good-bye to us.
We finally hook up with my grandparents and go to their house, where my lungs promptly protest, allowing me a cocktail straw’s worth of air each time I breathe. Perfect.
On our second morning in Boston, my mother realizes she hasn’t got enough underwear, probably because she packed in a snit. (I do not actually offer this opinion. But it’s totally true.)
Having been a Girl Scout, I am Always Prepared and brought almost a dozen pair of underpants with me. This over-preparation in no way should be interpreted as a desire to share my bounty with my mother, even though I’m now as tall as she is and we fit into the same size. But since there’s no functional dryer in my grandparents’ house, she doesn’t have the option to wash her own and I am forced to open the coffers.
She wears my favorite pair of underpants and snags my cute terry-cloth top, too. Let’s just say I am less than gracious about the whole matter, but I comply. I do, however, put my foot down when she tries to snag my super-short Three’s Company -esque jogging shorts. 41
My father takes uncharacteristic sympathy on me and gives Mom some money to buy me school clothes. And then he runs off to hang out with his friends from childhood. I’ve seen him for maybe ten minutes since we’ve gotten here. (He’s no fan of the facilities, either.)
We take Todd and Grampa to the shop, where they’ll spend the day talking about the Red Sox and the Patriots, and Mom, Auntie Pammie, and I drive my grandfather’s white Thunderbird (with red leather interior!) to Marshalls.
My mom picks out for me white pants cut like jeans and a brown pair made from some space-age material. I suspect they were the cheapest items on the rack and I don’t want them. Auntie Pammie intervenes, assuring me they make me look like Debbie Harry, which is excellent because I really love Blondie.
For good measure, I use my candy cash to purchase a pair of underwear that say “Bloomie’s” across the butt in dark, bouncy letters. Auntie Pammie says it’s lucky to find stuff from Bloomingdale’s at Marshalls. Auntie Pammie works in the city and dresses like the women in Glamour magazine, so she’s a credible source.
When we get back to my grandparents’ house, I roll my great prize into a ball and stuff it into a sneaker. Maybe my mom can seize my horse-and-fudge vacation . . . but she’s not taking my first status symbol.
All my friends in the neighborhood are my age but they’re a grade younger than I am and still in elementary school. Because I was born in Massachusetts and I was right on the age cutoff, my parents had the option of sending me to kindergarten at four. Mom figured I’d be fine starting early because I was tall. Not mature, not advanced for my age, not a prodigy in any way, just tall. However, rules are different in Indiana, and a lot of kids didn’t begin kindergarten until they were close to six. Not only am I the youngest person in my class,
Auntie Abba has kind, crinkly blue eyes, and when she kisses us there’s a vaguely scratchy feeling above her lip, but it’s not weird. Actually, it’s kind of comforting. She’s also got these huge earlobes, which are supposed to be a sign of the aristocracy from which she’s descended. Her dad was an earl but he left his title to marry a commoner. My mom thinks that was such a romantic gesture. I say he should have kept the title and lived in sin.
Anyway, my auntie is so happy to see us! She serves us hot tea with sugar cubes and a crystal dish of bridge mix while my mother frantically paces to the kitchen to dial and redial her parents’ house. We don’t stay long and Auntie Abba tears up when we go. My heart hurts as she stands in the doorway waving good-bye to us.
We finally hook up with my grandparents and go to their house, where my lungs promptly protest, allowing me a cocktail straw’s worth of air each time I breathe. Perfect.
On our second morning in Boston, my mother realizes she hasn’t got enough underwear, probably because she packed in a snit. (I do not actually offer this opinion. But it’s totally true.)
Having been a Girl Scout, I am Always Prepared and brought almost a dozen pair of underpants with me. This over-preparation in no way should be interpreted as a desire to share my bounty with my mother, even though I’m now as tall as she is and we fit into the same size. But since there’s no functional dryer in my grandparents’ house, she doesn’t have the option to wash her own and I am forced to open the coffers.
She wears my favorite pair of underpants and snags my cute terry-cloth top, too. Let’s just say I am less than gracious about the whole matter, but I comply. I do, however, put my foot down when she tries to snag my super-short Three’s Company -esque jogging shorts. 41
My father takes uncharacteristic sympathy on me and gives Mom some money to buy me school clothes. And then he runs off to hang out with his friends from childhood. I’ve seen him for maybe ten minutes since we’ve gotten here. (He’s no fan of the facilities, either.)
We take Todd and Grampa to the shop, where they’ll spend the day talking about the Red Sox and the Patriots, and Mom, Auntie Pammie, and I drive my grandfather’s white Thunderbird (with red leather interior!) to Marshalls.
My mom picks out for me white pants cut like jeans and a brown pair made from some space-age material. I suspect they were the cheapest items on the rack and I don’t want them. Auntie Pammie intervenes, assuring me they make me look like Debbie Harry, which is excellent because I really love Blondie.
For good measure, I use my candy cash to purchase a pair of underwear that say “Bloomie’s” across the butt in dark, bouncy letters. Auntie Pammie says it’s lucky to find stuff from Bloomingdale’s at Marshalls. Auntie Pammie works in the city and dresses like the women in Glamour magazine, so she’s a credible source.
When we get back to my grandparents’ house, I roll my great prize into a ball and stuff it into a sneaker. Maybe my mom can seize my horse-and-fudge vacation . . . but she’s not taking my first status symbol.
All my friends in the neighborhood are my age but they’re a grade younger than I am and still in elementary school. Because I was born in Massachusetts and I was right on the age cutoff, my parents had the option of sending me to kindergarten at four. Mom figured I’d be fine starting early because I was tall. Not mature, not advanced for my age, not a prodigy in any way, just tall. However, rules are different in Indiana, and a lot of kids didn’t begin kindergarten until they were close to six. Not only am I the youngest person in my class,
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