Right now I'm wearing my STAFF/ASK ME shirt, my fat pants, my comfy shoes. Hair up in a messy pony, no makeup, glasses on.

What does this say:

1. I'm on day 10 of 12 consecutive work days.
2. My shirt is hideous, therefore why bother trying to pretty up the hair/makeup situation? I'm an all or nothing kind of girl.
3. I have to be on my feet. Comfy shoes.
4. I feel grumpy and full of yuck - fat pants.

I have two days off this weekend before another riveting week of mandatory overtime, and if I work up the energy to do something social and I don't feel too stabby about The World At Large, I might shave my legs and wash my hair and stuff.

Maybe.

At least two years ago, I bought a pair of L.A. Gear Mary Jane flats from Mervyn's. They were originally $14.99, but they were on sale for $10. And then the sales girl inexplicably did not charge me for them, so actually they ended up being free. They sort of look like Keds mary janes, black with white rubber soles. There's a hole right above my left big toe. They're dingy. That's putting it mildly.

I'm wearing them because I black shoes are what goes with my outfit, and I wanted to wear flats so I'd be comfy, and I threw away my really beat up pair from Target because I got a new, similar yet different pair from Target, but those ones aren't really broken in yet, and also they make my feet sweat and it's going to be hot today, so these are my other pair of black flats.

So what do they say?

Well they say that I buy shoes made by L.A. Gear, which I'm pretty sure throws me out of the A-List Fashion Circle.
And that I'll wear a pair of worn out, $10 shoes for two years straight. And that I'm wearing purple toenail polish.

I think that they say that I'm scrubby and I don't care, but I also think (hope?) that's contradicted by the fact that I'm wearing an otherwise cute outfit, and I showered this morning.

I am a walking contradiction.

Aside from Maurice Sendak holding the exclusive title of favorite children's author and illustrator, Where The Wild Things Are is one of my favorite young people books.
I'll spare you all of the geeked out youth services librarian analysis of why this book is a work of unbridled genius.

I remember my mom reading this book to me. I remember reading this book to my brothers. I remember reading this book to my cousins. I remember reading this to my nephews. I read this book to my son. It's his favorite.

Gabriel is not Max. Gabriel is a Wild Thing. Anyone who's ever heard him roar his terrible roar knows that I speak truth. This is Gabriel's book.