Fashion Sense Made Easy

My wife coordinates her clothes. This means that she does not know what she'll wear on any given day. I don't know about you, but I would find that stressful. Not to mention it would add time to my morning routine. That cannot happen.

I've observed her behavior now for quite some time. She starts with her pants. If her class is going on a field trip, it's jeans. If not, it's pants. However, it gets more detailed than that.

If the field trip is to be outside (hot), then she'll go with the cropped pants that don't go all the way to her ankles. Then, the type of jean, meaning the material, comes into play. All the jeans look the same to me.

Same with the pants. Many of them are black. Just black. Most go from her waist to her ankles which, as one would expect, most pants do. At least, all my jeans and pants do. Despite the fact that women's pants are all made of different materials -- cotton, plastic, wool, titanium, polyester, steel, spandex, iron and the like -- black pants are black pants!

Then there is the whole matching thing. The shirt has to match, or complement, the pants color-wise, style-wise, material-wise and seasonal-wise. And the shoes? Whoa! What do you mean they have to match the outfit? Pure craziness!

I'd have to get up at 4:30 a.m. if I wanted to make it to school before my students!

I prefer the easy route. I have jeans and I have khakis. Every shirt I own matches my pants, no matter which pair I'm wearing. I line my shirts up in the closet in the order that I plan to wear them. And my shoes? I have one pair of work shoes and they match every one of my shirts and pants.

If GQ, Vogue, L'Official Hommes, Elle or any other fashion magazines would like to interview me on my fashion sense, please feel free to shoot me a message at the offices of Fuzzy, Black Dogs.

Fuzzy, Black Dogs... Plus One

An interloper has infiltrated the ranks of Fuzzy, Black Dogs.

This interloper sports a full, blonde coat. She, as she is a girl, is a bit younger than Bob. She also has energy to spare. She has a very shrill, loud bark, and she's not afraid to use it. She goes by the name of Roxy (which I sometimes spell Roxie, but my inconsistencies aren't what's important here!)

The dynamic, running duo.

Roxy, as it turns out, is a teacup size Pomeranian. Except she's not. Roxy was not supposed to exceed ten pounds, but someone forgot to tell her that. She may be as much as 26 pounds, give or take, which puts her about the same weight as Bob.

Though she is not black and does not have a white spot on her chest, the actual fuzzy, black dog constituency in my household seems to have accepted her. Roxie's eccentricities have allowed her to assimilate into our merry band of misfits.

My main worry is that the fuzzy, black dogs may harbor some resentments toward the newcomer. Roxy likes to run. I like to run. I often refer to her as my blonde running partner. This, of course, causes confusion until I explain that my running partner is, in fact, a quadruped.

Technically, Roxy belongs to my father-in-law, who I normally refer to as Pop pop. My wife and I recently moved in with Pop pop. Somehow, all doggy care seems to have fallen squarely into my lap.

I haven't yet shared the news with Pop pop that I am in search of some doggy dye. After all, if Roxy is to be fully incorporated into Fuzzy, Black Dogs, she will simply have to go Goth!