Diary of the Unemployed Housewife: Shopping for the interview suit

We managed to find several suits for me try on: brown plaid, black and purple tweed (yeah, I know, bad idea). First, I appeared in the brown plaid: drab, drab, drab, not a winner. Then I tried on the black: fit perfect; I wasn’t crazy about the blouse, but I could pick out a different one. The purple tweed, well, I’m not even going to go there. While I was trying on the black one again to make sure it was “the one," my loving and ever helpful husband trotted off to find something with a “wow factor." I could tell he wasn’t wild about the black suit that I liked, so he was determined to find something different. He returned with a cream-colored suit and a white blouse. I thought to myself, “Well, this can’t be that bad, I’ve never tried on anything like this before, why not?”

Holy mother of frogs, when I got suited up and gazed at the vision that was me covered in head-to-toe cream polyester, I could think of nothing else but a lesbian gangster. Think Ellen Degeneres if she had a Tommy gun and a matching fedora. Now I LOVE Ellen, but that just isn't the look I was going for. After I expressed this feeling to my husband, and waited for him to pick himself up off the floor, I ducked back into the dressing room and made my decision.

Needless to say, I went with the black.

Note: Plus-size brunettes with ample cleavage should avoid cream-colored suits at all costs.

Leaving you with yet more reason to be glad you have a job and don’t have to bother with any of this “interview suit” business,

The Unemployed Housewife

I may have mentioned previously that my dear and gracious husband went shopping with me this week in pursuit of a new interview suit. The one I had in the closet was a bit on the shabby side and kind of thrown together — you know, two blacks (of different shades) don’t always make a right. We embarked on a slightly time-crunched outing as my interview was taking place at 8:15 the next morning. We headed to International Mall and the search was on.

I will say this first just to put it out there: I love my husband, I really, really, do. He is one of the few straight men  I know of who loves to shop. The frustration lies in our differences in taste. Sometimes we can agree on many of the items I pick out; however, most of the time he picks out something black, lacy and extremely skin-tight — and as we all know, I am no size 0, or 8, or even 12 for that matter. This is generally how it goes: “You look great!” he says as I’m gaping at the nightmare reflecting back at me in the mirror. “Really, which part of me would that be? My high foot arches or my earlobes? Because this is doing absolutely nothing for the rest of my body."

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