Sleeping arrangements

Yesterday morning, when Sarah and I were packing our stuff, Al was helping us put everything from her house back where it belongs, and she came into the room after returning some blankets to a closet. "You know, I was looking at those Todd Oldham sheets" (those being the sheets she bought for the bed that her couch made into, the couch she and Sarah had last year that Sarah and I have now) "and I remembered you saying you didn't need them because your mother bought you some, Holly." (My mom actually just gave us a set of old sheets from our house, that are not nearly as cool as the ones Allison bought, oh well.) "And I wondered," Al went on, "what she'd think if she knew that you and Matthew were sleeping there."

I had been squatting down to rearrange things in my backpack, but, struck by this new and curious thought, I laughed until I lost my balance and fell over.

I's not that we're doing anything terrible--the humor of the situation seems to stem from precisely the fact that we're not doing anything terrible, and my mom would hate it anyway.

This summer, Matthew and I went to visit Darren and Ali one evening. I ended up staying the night, and then Matthew did too (even though it meant he'd have to get up really early to go to work the next morning). So Ali let us sleep in her bed, and she slept next to Darren in his. The next day, when I got home, my mom did not ask me twenty questions about my excursion, which is what she often does and so it's what I've come to expect. No, all she asked me was "Where did you sleep last night?" In Ali's bed, I told her. "Well, where did she sleep?" Mom asked. This is where I should've said with me, but I wasn't thinking; I answered truthfully: with Darren. There was a pause (we were in different rooms; I'm sure she had an interesting expression on her face at this point), and then my mom said, "She really has changed, hasn't she?"

Allison, especially, laughed when I told that story. She's in the habit of saying that she'll never cease to be amazed at my mother.

Tess should be proud; I'm having fun with my gender

I went over to Jenn's and we talked a little. She picked up her curling iron--which was either on or near her desk, because that's where it goes when you're Jenn and you live in a dorm--and told me she has to do something to some girl's hair for a scene she's acting in. She's been told to "do something different" to the girl's hair, and apparently this girl has really short hair. Jenn does not have short hair. Guess who does, though.

She sat me down in her desk chair and tried curling my hair. I warned her it doesn't much like to be curled, but of course a sufficient amount of hairspray and gel will subvert the will of any strand of hair. That just made my hair look fluffy, though. She put it in a couple of little pigtails, which looked cute and girly and silly ... in other words, completely hilarious on me. She got more elaborate, saying she should twist it all up and put bobby pins in it to make it stay that way. This is how people make ringlets, really, but my hair isn't good for ringlets. We took a couple bits out of the bobby pins and could tell I'd have some horrible, fluffy afro-looking head explosion going on if we tried that, so she left it all twisted in little knots on my head.

(I smell really good now, because there's a ton of hairspray on my head, and it's Herbal Essences hairspray so it has a more pleasing scent than most hairsprays.)

We were surprised by how much we liked this, and she kept saying I looked cute, that she should take a picture or something. By this time, she had to go to class, but she told me "You look all cool now; you should dress up or something."

I looked down at my clothes--the new corduroys, my favorite tank top, and a button-down shirt over it. "I'm wearing two shirts, this is as dressed up as I get," I said.

"Oh come on," she said. "Wear your skirt or something."

"I only have two," I pointed out. "And they're dirty." (I really should do laundry. Soon.)

So she gave me one of hers, this cute denim skirt that's about mid-calf on me, which probably means it goes to her knees. And suddenly the orange tank top isn't good enough any more; she gave me a blue and green striped one--she said she was trying to match my shoes.

And I must say I feel cool and fun now, even though no one will see it. (And even though my legs are funny looking.)