God I hate my life

To: Dad
From: Meg
Subject: So take that

Guess what I'm wearing as I type this? Yep. Pleather bomber jacket. Can't tear ME down.

To: Meg
From: Dad
Subject: Re: So take that

I didn’t raise a little girl in the DC suburbs to wear … pleather!?!?! I don’t even know what pleather is, but it sounds like something worn in “stag movies” in the 40’s in place of sensible undergarments. I think I’m going to have to wash my computer screen as a result of even typing the word. I will no longer type the word.

Of course, I also didn’t raise my little girl to assume that I would buy her an actual leather jacket. There are limits. However, I might buy Evie a leather jacket. She would kind of have a Michelle Pfeiffer vibe from Grease 2. Only Evie can dance.

Finally, I’m assuming that you must be out, since sitting in your apartment wearing (you know what) seems just a little … weird. Unless of course you’re reading something by Tom Robbins, which, come to think of it, would also be weird. No, anything connected with (you know what) is just weird and I’m not going to talk about this anymore.

Love,
DAD

To: Dad
From: Meg
Subject: Re: Re: So take that

Well, truthfully I am just sitting around in "It". I mean, I'll eventually go somewhere, but, you know, it gets drafty in here. And I'm reading a biography of Unity Mitford, not anything by Tom Robbins, thank you.

To: Dad
From: Meg
Subect: Re: Re: Re: So take that

Actually, I immediately regret admitting that I'm sitting around my apartment at 11:15 in the morning wearing imitation leather and reading the biography of a BIG 'OLE Nazi. I guess that doesn't paint a very flattering picture of me.

To: Meg
From: Dad
Subect: Re: Re: Re: Re: So take that

Painting a flattering picture of yourself? We're long past worrying about that. Your mother and I just tell people that you're "literary". We tell them there's a whole "scene".

Love,
DAD

Well, fuck. Oh and nothing in the entire world would shock me less than if my parents actually bought that cat a leather jacket. And not like an ironic cat-sized one either—like a nice, Meg-sized Michael Kors bomber jacket with a rib-knit hem and exposed zippers to wipe her paws with when she's done in the commode and plush lining to curl up on when she's listening to my dad read aloud from historical biographies in their precious little Panamanian Relaxation Room.

...Slash, people don't bring up Grease 2 enough in day-to-day life. I could do with a little more of that.