Ode to a 5'5" Giant of a Man

Recently, dinner conversations have become more regular at the kitchen table.

I don't remember what led to it, but someone mentioned the long black socks I'd worn with my skirt to church today. I nonchalantly replied that I hadn't had time to shave my legs this morning, and my mom and little sister nodded their understanding. I got up to put my dishes away and thought the conversation was over, but little did we know that my dad had been listening and was now deep in thought.

A few minutes later, the silence was broken.
"Do you really have to do it that often?" he asked.

The three of us stared at him. Our female minds had long since wandered to other engaging subjects, like what to wear tomorrow, dessert, and whose turn it was to take the dog out.
"Do what, Poppy?"
"Shave," he answered innocently.

Here we all stared at him in disbelief. He's been living with 6 women for HOW long and he has to ask us this??? Oh my poor dad. It just goes to prove that there are certain things that men will never understand about women, no matter how many daughters he has.

It made me recall a distant memory, when mom was away and we were still 5 little girls. He had served us a dinner of soup (probably from a can) and we were all slurping away at it around the kitchen table, our long hair falling across our faces and into our vittles. He saw the problem and tried to fix it by grabbing a handful of rubber bands (the kind that come wrapped around the morning paper) and attempting to tie all of our hair up into ponytails. I think it was probably the first and last time he has ever done girls' hair. The result was probably a comedic sight that would have given 80's hair bands a run for their money. Well, the "guy"ness of my dad is one of his most endearing qualities.

The years have gone by and we have all done our best to live peacefully together, our dad occasionally driving us to the drugstore to buy tampons and putting up with our monstrous tantrums, while we try to keep him looking respectable in public by informing him when his outfit doesn't match or when he needs to cut his hair.

When people ask my dad how many children he has and he tells them he has five daughters, they always say, "oh, I'm so sorry." To which he always replies, "why?"

We love our Poppy.

Lachrymose Over Hose

I am currently in the process of modifying my entire wardrobe to accommodate the guidelines of an LDS Mission. (I'm a Mormon, for those of you who are already confused.) It's not that I'm a skank. As far as coverage goes, I've done an admirable job in my wardrobe selection. I think the reason why guidelines must be instated for the mission is that when fashion sense goes unsupervised for years, the results are often embarrassing, unbeknownst to the wearer. So this is the Church General Presidency's gentle way of saying, "we don't want people to think we've got a bunch of weirdos representing our church." OK, I admit that's a stretch. We are a bunch of weirdos, but we're trying hard not to look like it. And not everyone's fashion sense is that bad. I happen to own a Joan Jett and the Blackhearts T-shirt that is very chic.

The bane of my new wardrobe, no competition, is pantyhose. My mission checklist recommends having 24 pairs of pantyhose for a year and a half. That's not a typo... it really says 24. To give it a chance, I wore a pair of Leggs Tan Size B to church yesterday. I have never really understood what purpose they serve, or the logic behind them... everyone knows they are about as destructible as wet tissue paper. I hear they're supposed to make your legs look better, but I'm really skeptical about that. First of all, they make your legs look like they are covered with a thin layer of shimmery substance, like they are radioactive or something. Second, they make your legs a different color from the rest of you, no matter how hard you try to find a matching shade. (Personally, I don't think women need an excuse to artificially change their appearance any more than they already do.) Thirdly, after you wear them a few times, they always get stretched out, and then you look like you have wrinkly ankles and knees. Call me crazy, but having radioactive, fake, wrinkly legs has never been a very attractive idea to me, unless you're trying to disguise yourself as a log floating in the waste-water of a nearby power plant, or Joan Rivers.

I used to look smugly at other women wearing pantyhose, being proud of baring my own uncovered legs. I'd see runs running up the back of their legs and think, ha! Good thing I don't have to worry about that! However, it looks like my days of smugness are over, temporarily. Soon I too will fall prey to itchiness, inconvenient bathroom-going, and stuck-together toes. Well, pantyhose-inventor, you failed to achieve complete misery for womenfolk: At least now I only have to shave my legs half as often.