From the mouths of ragamuffins . . .

mgasLast night Devil Baby had a choir concert that required “church attire.” In this house that means whatever frock and leggings combo emerges from a frantic search through the closet twenty minutes before we need to leave. Rarely, aside from a family wedding, is a dress actually bought for a specific occasion. To do so would not only be outrageously organized and completely out of character, it would be an utter waste of money. My girls don’t do dresses unless they are under duress, so why wouldn’t I simply play my cards that a hasty search through the various hand-me-downs might yield something passable. And then, when they look perfectly cute on stage, I pat myself on the back just a little bit for having pulled it off.

So if this is the state of the dress, you can imagine the state of the shoe. Good thing I actually like the tomboy style of a dress paired with sneaks because we have a lot of that going on over here.

When we picked up Devil Baby’s friend to be dropped off at the concert, she swanned out of her house in a party dress, a knee length white faux fur and sequin-encrusted ballerina flats that sparkled when she skipped down the cold steps. She was a vision. She looked like a million seven-year-old bucks and quite some contrast to my girl in her beat-up black Chuck Taylors.

I told her she looked like a movie star and she thanked me sweetly.

And without missing a beat, I hear Devil Baby deadpan from the back seat in a weirdo quasi-southern accent: Ah was gonna shine mah shoes, but ah ran outta time.

Fuck, that girl is funny.

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