One of my friends works in student services for a major university. Her stories of hapless college kids and their hovering parents are a source of great amusement, and I suspect that the only way she can get through some days is with either (1) prayer or (2) a bottom drawer that houses a flask.
On the topic of bottom drawers, today she reported that a female faculty member asked her if she thought another female faculty member wore panties under her knit dresses. Apparently the first professor didn't notice any panty lines and figured that my friend had spent an equal amount of time looking (bad enough) and caring (even worse), or perhaps even had some inside information, if you'll pardon the pun.
When I first moved to Houston from Minnesota, I couldn't believe how many times I was asked what seemed to me an inappropriate question or how often I was privvy to a conversation I imagined would never occur in the North. In the Midwest, where folks are more reserved (ok, aloof), 'How are you' is considered on the cusp of being overly personal. My experience there was that women didn't discuss their baby's bowel movements at the school bus stop, as they did in my neighborhood here. And it never occured to me that the first question I'd hear from a co-worker when I returned from maternity leave would be, 'Did you have an episiotomy?'
Granted, I wear my heart on my sleeve and I'll tell you more than you probably want to know about almost any topic that springs into my head. (And I know I ask a lot of questions, but that's my training as a print journalist. When my daughter was younger, she complained that I interview everyone. I can't help it and I am truly interested.) On the other hand, I will respect your privacy and honor your secrets.
But there's something I haven't been completely forthcoming about. Sure, you've seen a bin of Kona cottons and maybe a stack of plaids. Well, in the interest of full disclosure, here are some shots from my fabric closet.
The top photo is my plaids, stripes and batiks. The second is assorted juvenile prints; the pink bucket barely visible underneath them is filled with flannels cut into 5" squares. The third shot is inside my closet. The three baskets contain prints, organized by color. There's one shelf of flannels, one shelf of larger, assorted prints, one shelf of miscellaneous fabrics. The bottom bin is stuffed with yardage -- at least one yard of each of wonderful, glorious prints.
My goal was to sew through all of this by the end of 2012. Unlike the knit dress-wearing prof, I don't think we'll be reaching this bottom any time soon.