Not My Genes

A couple of weeks ago, when we first moved into the hell hole, it became obvious that I would need some clothes I didn't really care about that I could do extreme cleaning and DIY in. This was a problem. It turns out I don't own any clothes I don't like.

If something is to old I either throw it away or give it to charity. If it's too ugly I don't buy it in the first place. If it's the wrong size the same is true, and since I've been the same size for clothing since I was about 14 the only way anything might not fit me is if I managed to shrink it in the wash. Too large isn't a problem for DIY, too small is.

However, I do own a lot of clothing, so after much deliberation and rooting-through of my wardrobe I discovered a couple of items that I don't wear much and wouldn't really miss. Especially if their destruction produced an opportunity to go shopping.

Among these items was a pair of dark blue, plain, straight leg jeans. From Gap. I worked at Gap for a while last Summer, and the discount they provided me means that it's not unusual for the odd piece of their produce to be in my wardrobe, even if it's not the kind of stuff I'd normally buy. So finding them did not shock me, I even seem to remember buying them.

What is shocking is that they're plainly not mine. They're about 6 inches too long (I like my jeans a little long for me, but that's just silly). They're too wide at the waist and practically skinny fit at the calf (I assume they're made for someone who's a weird shape, rather than assuming that I am, and I'll thank you to do the same). They're also suspiciously... male-feeling. There seems to be more than the necessary quantity of fabric in... certain regions.

Now, I don't know many guys who wear that style of jeans. I'm certainly not good enough friends with any to have them drop by my flat and change, or to borrow jeans from them. I'm not in the habit of borrowing clothing from guys anyway - I might borrow a belt if mine broke, or a pair of gloves if it got cold, or maybe like a hoodie or something, but always with the intention of washing and returning the next time I saw them.

But Jeans? No. I almost never leave the flat without jeans or the equivalent (read: skirt, trousers, shorts or whatever). So I now don't know what to do. I have somehow acquired these, I am quite certain they are not mine, and I have no idea who they belong to.

If you left a pair of jeans at my flat, or know someone who did, or indeed, if you're in the habit of breaking into people's flats and hiding your clothing in their wardrobe, like some kind of demented fashion-cuckoo, then tough. I wore them for painting, as such, they have been painted.

Guys jeans are weird though. It gave me an unusual perspective on what it must be like to be a guy. I suspect it feels a little...unbalanced.

Domesticated Violence

I am exceptionally handy around the flat. I can change all the light bulbs I can reach (read: the one in my desk lamp). I can get things from high shelves if I stand on a chair. I know how to clog up a drain. I do most of the washing up out of the goodness of my heart, OCD and having found beetles in the past has nothing to do with it.

I cannot wear a skirt again until the giant bruise on my knee heals. Unless I go out and buy more dark tights. All my dark tights got holes in them, I don't know how his happened, but I suspect that drinking more rum would help make sure it never happened again. I hear these things cancel out.

I finally got my bravery back after the last kitchen fiasco. I had cleaned the curtain, dried it, and folded it up neatly in one of the cupboards. But it bothered me, it needed to be back in its proper place.

I knew the step ladder was not safe for people who weigh more than the average seven-year-old, but I'd skipped breakfast and lunch. I figured it was worth the risk. In hindsight I should probably not have tried it with heels, but they're so slimming.

I got to the fourth step before the ladders started to slip. I froze. It stopped. I took a deep breath and slowly started to move back down. Our windows are huge and the curtains are long. It caught round my heel and I missed the step completely. I twisted like a cat (only much more elegantly) and attempted to jump forwards off the ladder. My ankle caught the last rung. I landed on my knees.

Two seconds later, the ladders landed on me. I doubt my knee is the only thing that's bruised. But at least I didn't break a heel.

You'd think one of the guys would be a gentleman and fix this for me, but only if you'd never met them.