East Coast Style

The other night Ron and I were going to an event. A kind of place where my writer's attire – jeans, t-shirt, flip-flops – wouldn’t be acceptable.

I slipped into a dress, a black shawl/sweater type thing, and a pair of heels.

Then I realized it was freezing outdoors (55 degrees – but go easy on me, I’ve lived in SoCal for ten years).

Something terrible dawned on my shivering little legs. Now that I lived on the east coast, would I have to start wearing . . . Eeek! . . . pantyhose?

Haven’t touched those suckers in eons.

As a kid, my mom used to make me wear them to church. I cheated with knee highs. One Sunday I picked up a single knee high and referred to it in what I thought was its singular form: a panty hoe.

My mom roared with laughter and ever since then, that’s what I’ve called those nylon creatures: the panty hoe.

Even with a zillion goose bumps on my legs, there was no way I was wearing them until I confirmed they were still in style. Sure enough, at the event, I saw one pantyhoe-d leg after another walking by.

Hoo-Boy.

Know what else I saw? A turtleneck.

The reasons to move back west keep piling up.