And so begins the hilarious adventure of a flutter-brained vixen named Poppy Buxom

Did you know that Sunday was Rose Sunday, i.e., the Sunday you light the pink candle in your advent wreath? (Not that I lit mine, because I can't find it. I grabbed this picture from the Internet. It was from the website of The Sisters of St. Joseph of Toronto. Yes, that's the kind of scumbag I am. I steal Internet images--from nuns.)

Anyway, Rose Sunday. It's the week we all lighten up. We realize we don't have to exist in a purple Advent gloom for ever. We see the light at the end of the tunnel. We realize that Christmas is coming.

So there I was, at church.

I was wearing a red wool suit not because I feel the need to dress nicely to sing in a choir, because I don't. After all, my clothes are going to be covered in a robe and surplice. The only thing that will show are my feet, and if I wear black shoes, I'm good.

No, I dressed nicely because I can't find most of my clothes. Many of the woolen ones are still stashed deep in closets, swathed in dry cleaner bags, or reek of mothballs. On top of that, a lot of the ones I can find are too big. Looking even halfway decent involves a lot of digging around and trying on. I settled on a red wool boucle Tahari suit. The fit wasn't great--both jacket and skirt were a bit loose--but I thought it passed muster. And it didn't reek of mothballs.

When I got to church, I realized I was going to broil under my choir robe and surplice. Broil. I decided to remove the suit jacket. And so I went to the tinkletorium, went wee-wee, removed my jacket, and put on my choir robe and surplice. And everything went well! The readings were about John the Baptist, the choir sang a Palestrina motet incredibly well, we sang two different versions of Veni, veni Emmanuel--even the sermon was interesting.

And! Wonder of wonders, when it came time to take my choir robe off, I managed to remember that underneath it, I was stripped down to my bra. And therefore, I hid myself in the bathroom to take my choir robe off and put my suit jacket back on. I sauntered out of the changing room feeling very smug.

Within seconds, one of the sopranos rushed over and was standing behind me, tugging at my skirt. And it wouldn't come down. My skirt was all bunched up, and it was stuck that way.

I don't need to go into too much detail about how embarrassing this was. I'll just reiterate what you already know--that pantyhose are evil. And even more evil than usual when you accidentally tuck the lining of your skirt into them, thus forcing the skirt fabric to bunch up.

And most evil of all when you decide to do the Underalls option. Yep--the Commando chorister.

Boy, are my cheeks red.

Just one of the many things (New England heritage, incredible egotism, and an irrational love of turtlenecks) Kate Hepburn and I have in common: