The Wonder of Jeans

I know I know, I've become horribly adept at not posting, as of late. I find myself constantly distracted with art projects and laundry and dishes and cooking—and sex, lotsa sex—to the point where, while I'd like to blog about this or that, I just can't seem to find the time. Whatever. I'll get over it, eventually. So then, if my everyday life seems unworthy of a few spare moments to blog, what has so roused my interest in posting? My jeans. My godamned jeans. Grr.

There we sat, Makal and I waiting through insufferable movie trailers before seeing The Corpse Bride (more on recent movie viewings forthcoming), and I realized there was a hole in my jeans. Not just a hole, nor even just a tear, but some gaping slash across the expanse of denim, as if some crazed hook-handed maniac had tried to catch hold of me. I don't understand how this happened; you'd think I'd remember such an event as the tearing of my jeans, but no. No idea. It just appeared. Out of nowhere. And now where there was jeans, there is now none. Oi fucking vay.

The worst part of this sudden denim-death is that these are my new jeans, the size-smaller-than-the-ones-before-them jeans I so triumphantly purchased just a few months back. They are the only appropriately sized jeans I have, and until tonight, the only non-holy ones. Gah. Now, what's a girl to do?

I'm hoping I'll be able to catch the tale end of a back-to-school sale at the Preppy Store from Hell. (Yeah, you know the one I mean.) But, oooooh, how I loathe jeans shopping. I pity anyone—man or woman—who dares accompany me on a quest for jeans. Such a day can never consist wholly of joy and elation at the opportunity to try on many (so, so many) pairs of jeans. No, not good at all. What I really hate, though, is that that particular store's jeans, well, they're good. They last. They fit my ass like a tailor-made kid leather glove. And that's important. I mean, I have jeans from there that I bought four, five years ago that really held their own (although they are now equally holy). But this newer pair of jeans, which I ironically purchased from the cheaper-than-their-parent-company Preppy Store from Hell with Really Annoying Commercials, they should've lasted just as long. But no. Boo. So now I know, when dealing with any Store from Hell (no matter their social genre-affiliation), always go with the parent company chain, and not the cheap cousin.