Seeing as I was redicovering old albums, I thought I'd pull out some oldies this morning - hello, Elvis Presley (50's era, not the white flight suit era). I found myself starting to dance the jive as I showered, until it dawned on me that the stupid combo of water, soap and jumping around might result in a few broken bones. I guess I was just keeping with the whole retro theme, since last night Maggie came shopping with me and she helped me find a great dress for the wedding I'm attending on Saturday. The top is a halter that ties around the neck, a big sash around the waist, with the material flowing in a nice fluffy way around my knees. Oh, did I mention that it's black with pink polka-dots everywhere? The look will be completed with a new pair of fancy black leather heels that I bought yesterday (ahhhhhhh - the shoe addict gets her fix...). All I need to find now is a fella with greased jet black hair in a white t-shirt, a leather jacket and wearing a cool sneer.

Speaking of clothes, it's a good thing I like this new dress - it almost consoles me about the awful outfit I'm currently wearing. It's one of those days where half your wardrobe ends up in a pile on the bed and still you end up wearing the worst possible choice. I'm wearing my Desperately Need To Do Laundry pants, the ones that only come out in total exasperation and complete lack of clean clothes. The ones that just don't feel like me. The ones that are bright coral. These pants are the worst Need to Do Laundry pants. At their worst yet most typical, Laundry Pants should be the conservative, demure pair that don't fit as well as they used to, but will do the trick for the day. Instead, my laundry pants turn out to be the brightest colour in my closet, the flashiest design and the hardest to match with anything. So you end up feeling like there's a spotlight on you as you're walking around in what feels like a clown suit of crazy pants, a dirty t-shirt, mismatched shoes and a frown. Half the people around you try to sneak a glance without revealing their amusement, and the others awkwardly feel forced to say something like, "Um, I really love your pants, wow are they colourful... no really they're - great." I have problems with pants. I just find myself coming back to the dream of my old tattered jeans, which I wore in near ecstacy at the cottage last weekend. "Hey Cams, nice bikini top - but aren't you still really hot in those jeans? It's thirty two degrees out here." "No, I'M FINE and VERY HAPPY right now." Anything for my dear old jeans, anything!