Hillary Clinton shops for PJs

Thank heaven I don't travel as much as Secretary of State Hillary Clinton.  I've got two trips this month, so I'm experiencing pajama stress.  Sure, I should be worrying if the American Airlines bankruptcy will impact my flights, but last December's knit jimmy-jams from Target are looking mighty bankrupt, too.  Don't want to traumatize my daughter-in-law or my old library storytime buddy.


Surely I could pop into Kohl's and pick up a nice flannel floral-print granny nightgown with the discount coupon that came in the mail....and don't call me Shirley.  A flannel nightie for a Victorian B&B girlfriends' chat and art show weekend seemed just right.  But, hey, no, Aung San Suu Kyi, no such thing at Kohl's.  Instead, racks and racks of 

• neon-colored microfleece woven from fur of tiny sea monkeys forced to live their entire lives in black light.
• cutesy doggie-woggy prints.
• knits that hint at way too much middle-aged anatomy when the bed-headed wearer creeps toward the coffee-maker in early a.m. mixed company, but probably okay if one lives alone.
• dreadful Gypsy Rose Lee Designs Exclusively for Montgomery Wards creations showcased for male gift-shoppers.
• sleepwear made in China, Cambodia, Vietnam.  Probably Myanmar, too,  if I kept looking.

Poor Hillary.  She has to sleep on airplanes across time-zones.  Wherever she wakes up there are members of the press between her and the coffeepot, then diplomats and foreign heads of state.  She goes home to Bill, and/or Chelsea and Marc.  No wonder she has those bags under her eyes.

Time is short, and I still have to pick out an umbrella in the Totes department.  I choose some pajamas, check out, and go spoon-feed Dad alleged ground-up sweet & sour chicken.  Dad doesn't have to choose his PJs since aides help him into those sleeve-snapping/back-tying hospital gowns way before dark.

Once home, I try on the pajama set.  Dang!  Hillary and I need to save the receipt.  I look like a cross between O, Brother Where Art Thou and an overstuffed bagpipe.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder