September & New Jeans

Somehow, being the techno-boob that I am (can I text? Noooo), I've managed to either erase or disappear my second post about jeans, called, "It's the Jeans Thing." It was mildly amusing but not over the top, and this gives me the opportunity to do more with it.
September always meant new jeans at our house. We'd set out, appropriately attired for a shopping trip, and go to a department store which was my idea of heaven: sweet-scented soaps for beloved grandmas; hosiery (say that three times slowly--it sounds sexual or at least connected to food) folded in crisp tissue paper in sleek boxes; lawn furniture, assuming one had a lawn; glassware; classic coats for women; and jeans. You'd try on one or two pairs, seize one, pay in cash, and drive home. I'd put the folded pair in my bottom drawer and wake the next morning, full of anticipation, padding over to the drawer to push my nose into the new jeans. Besides the scent of brewed coffee and a clean baby's neck, is there anything more evocative than new jeans? It speaks of beginnings, starting over, the next grade in school where you would actually get to be a "big kid," and the comfort of after school clothes once we came home. You'd wear said jeans until you either outgrew them or wore them out, which I did frequently due to my wild habit of sliding down the slate roof of our tall barn. My mother must have channeled Bruno Bettleheim, for she never took me to task for my shredded jeans.
But, I ask you! The Boston Globe Magazine a week ago featured a fashion section (why does that word make me feel weary and in instant need of a glass of wine) on jeans designed to flatter your odd body; disguise those thick thighs, the pooching-out stomach, the short legs, the flat butt, or whatever appendages this society deems unacceptable. That's why the word "fashion" makes me want to drink wine, because it is a cover word for--"you are unacceptable as you are. Let us fix you up, baby!" But, get this: the jeans ran from $138-$158 dollars PER PAIR. That would have bought us enough jeans to see us through to adulthood in the old days. Do you know anyone who can afford that for jeans? And in this time of deep recession, no matter that the pundits tell us we are scooting out of it? Tell that to the jobless people, to the woman who is losing her home down the street. Don't get me started.
By making jeans so damn expensive, our culture has taken away the joy of new jeans--the sweeet smell, the crisp folds, the sense of promise inherent in that blue color. It's more like investing in a stock portfolio than enjoying your five senses.
So, here's to new beginnings; here's to September with the swallows massed on telephone lines, ready to sail south; here's to children waiting for schoolbuses, their feet tapping in anticipation; here's to parents heaving sighs of relief at gettting their houses back.
Enjoy September--enjoy your new jeans at a reasonable cost--and Bite Me, Fashionistas!

Bite Me Life #1

Is anyone else out there as frustrated as I am by modern life and the things that are supposed to make it easier, better, sexier, and more fulfilling? Just on a small note: making rice tonight for stir-fried bay scallops with Asian sauce, I stuggled to open the damned rice. What happened to the good old bags which you opened and then fastened with a twist-em? But no! Some suits in a dimly-lit office decided to do away with a perfectly good system and substitute something meant to be an improvement. Now it has a slide-em opener and closer. You know how it goes: You seize the rice bag firmly in your left hand, get a grip on the scissors (rather dull), and cut away at the rice bag. Try and open it. Nope! Cut again, lower, and still no result. By now I am beginning to sweat and wishing I knew some wild Croatian swear words which which would insult the parentage of this particular rice bag. Finally, in a sweaty rush, I pull open the rice bag and grains scatter onto the floor. The mad Jack Russell terrier appreciates this and cleans them up. Then I try and close the bag again. No score. Nada. Get out that green twist-em and whip the bag into shape, stick it into the closet, and pour myself a glass of chilled Chardonnay.
It's just that I feel I have failed--not majorly--but still failed in mastering rice bags. I think life is hard enough--what with growing kids, in-laws, various insane relatives, cars which spew carbon, houses which slump when I am not looking, not to say my retirement fund and the need to pay for college education. Do I NEED to worry about my prowress with a rice bag? I ask you.