That's My Bix!

Garg, I planned to write the second half of the San Francisco entry, but then my computer rebooted itself with a half-written entry sitting there in Word so here’s the short version: Wake up, books, cute smart boy, nap, cute smart Pie, cute smart Fu, sing songs, get bitten, Saved by the Bell, surreal pantscakes, sleep, shit I didn’t do anything I was supposed to do why isn’t this plane leaving what the hell hey Esteban can you pick me up in Chicago the end.

I totally suck.

My weekend was spent either showing Kari, up for the weekend, the sights of glorious Green Bay, or editing a very high priority piece of freelance stuff that actually gave me nightmares. And then I finished that and curled up into a fetal position on the chaise and watched the first DVD of The Tomorrow People, which I think makes me a little dorky (A LOT) because it’s almost like having a Doctor Who habit stuffed beneath the mattress along with a cum sock, but I just do not care because I love me some John, even though I now feel like a pedophile but then I looked him up on IMDB and he is older than my mother, so now grrrowl John you jaunting homo superior you. Even though he bears a striking resemblance to the least understood but most artistically angst ridden Monkee Mike Nesmith. Only with a British accent, which absolves me of all shame.

Did I really just type the words ‘cum sock’?

So yeah, there you have it, Internet. That will teach you.

You know what’s interesting about being extremely busy? You start negotiating with yourself on things that are really not negotiable. I’ll do the (fucking) laundry on the weekend so that I can spend more time on this article. I’m too tired to go to the store, so I’ll do it tomorrow. Except that tomorrow never comes, baby, and guess what? You’re out of toilet paper and have nothing to eat for dinner but gummy worms and malternative beverages. At some point, I made this about ‘you’ rather than about ‘me’ but yes, the inevitable happened. And every spare moment of my evenings were already spoken for (the payment made for wasting one evening with Liz and TIM the sexiest biological computer ever, and did I mention that TIM cooks? Because I think I might put TIM on my list of potential second husbands. I’m sure that he’s fully functional. Oh god help me, I just made a Star Trek joke. This is such a cry for help) we planned to go grocery shopping immediately after checking out two three houses with my sister Mo, who is on her happy way to indentured servitude, not to mention owing her soul to the Hundred Dollar store. The homes were nothing incredible, although one was incredible in that the inhabitants seemed to require at least 40% Febreeze in their atmosphere in order to live happily. Note to home sellers: overdose on the Febreeze and prospective buyers speculate that there is a body decomposing in the crawlspace. Also, repaint the entire cupboard, not just the area around the handles, which just looks stupid.

One cool house was directly across the street from one of the houses we had lived in growing up. It was also my favorite, if only for the sheer number of porcelain dolls this post-menopausal woman had in her home. I am not making this up when I tell you that an entire 16-foot long wall was covered in at least two hundred porcelain dolls, including some that were extraordinarily creepy. They all faced her bed. I owned a few porcelain dolls when I was a kid (and still have them, in a box somewhere), and I’m not one to talk about trying to buy your childhood back, but man, I can’t imagine trying to go to sleep with eight hundred sets of little unblinking eyes staring down at you, little frozen hands itching to scrabble across your throat. Has this woman never seen Poltergeist? And we will not speak of the sleeping infant doll that looked a little too ‘life’like.

However, after traipsing through three versions of different air fresheners, back into the ungodly swampy heat that makes me think Wisconsin is the new Georgia, I was wiped out. Esteban drove to the grocery store, but once we started trolling for a parking spot, the idea of walking through the giant supermarket chasing after a bunch of things I didn’t care about in order to get the two things I did (toilet paper and god help me, Oreo ice cream sandwiches) I declared ‘No Mas’ and regrouped with a suggested trip to a convenience store for the barest of essentials and then go home where I would take a shower and then crawl betwixt my cool crisp sheets and watch whichever reality show my Tivo decided to show me. So Esteban stopped at a convenience store and left me swooning in the car while he checked out the toilet tissue options at our local BP. It’s sort of like camping, shopping at a convenience store (or any ‘grocery’ store in a major metropolitan area, since their grocery stores are a fourth the size of our convenience stores, while our grocery stores are the size of football stadiums), and he came out with two minute packs of Charmin, declaring that it was either that or the industrial grade Scott kind, which is wrapped in paper and sold by the roll. Ah yes, the toilet paper of desperate people. I was happy that we got Charmin and not, I don’t know, some kind of horrible tree bark reminiscent generic kind. I have mentioned before that Green Bay is the toilet paper capital of the Midwest, and perhaps even the country. I seem to remember that when Walter Mondale visited during the 84 election, he was given packs of toilet paper as a welcome, which turned out to be appropriate, since his bid for election was as successful as a goose struggling with incontinence. My great grandfather worked for the mill that made Charmin, while Esteban’s father works for a competing paper company. Suffice to say, two houses divided cannot stand, and for the first ten years of our cohabitation, we used Esteban’s father’s brand. I prefer Charmin, personally, I wasn’t about to make a stink (aye! See what I did there?) about it, since it really didn’t matter since the other brand came in double rolls, and the rare triple pack that I could only find at one location of one store in the city.

Then Charmin made the gargantuan There Can Be Only One roll that needs a special adapter unit or it will not fit in the dispenser. A roll that comes with its own hardware. When they unleashed the commercials for these behemoths, Esteban started laughing, mocking the American people who will not be satisfied until they only have to change the roll once a month. I said nothing, but just looked at him as he disserted an entire psychological profile and then summed up by saying ‘Oh god, we have one of those right now, don’t we?’ Well, how could I resist? And honestly, if the man ever changed a roll of toilet paper in his life, maybe he would have known that we were on the cutting edge of toilet paper technology? I’m surprised he hadn’t noticed that the cupboard which holds the spare rolls could no longer close all of the way, due to the girth of the asswipe held within. Leagues of toilet paper spinning into infinity, that is what I see when I close my eyes. It is, I suspect, the entire reason our forefathers brought forth this great nation of ours.

The convenience store’s Charmin was a standard roll. One might say ‘normal’. Or maybe ‘wee’. (SNORT! Ok, I’ll stop) It’s like a single-serving pack. You spin the roll and it visibly decreases. You can actually measure the rate of your own toilet tissue consumption, right before your very eyes. It’s stressful in the same way as the car I drove in high school was stressful: a 1978 Grand Prix, whose gas gauge would actually sink when you accelerated. When I look at it, hanging there so small and forgotten, like Gwynneth Paltrow’s breasts in that one horrible dress, it makes me sad. Buck up there, little toilet paper. You’re special in your own way. Even though you look like you are an accessory for the guest bathroom in Barbie’s Dream House. But the thing that amazes me is how quickly we’ve grown accustomed to double, triple and quadruple sized rolls. This will be one of the things we tell our spoiled future grandchildren, who will be dialing their friends on cellular implants while instead the womb. This along with 40mb hard drives and life before microwaves and the internet. And they’ll roll their eyes, hardly comprehending not having their own reality television show and having to blog it themselves. And we’ll go back to our retirement communities, where we’ll tell the same Lollapalooza story to the nurse, who has heard it forty times already and still doesn’t know who the Pixies are.

Dooooooom.

Doom!

Oh, Doom.

And have I mentioned doom? That’s right. DOOM.

Here I am, sitting in Sweetabix’s hotel room, seconds away from death. DOOM. I ate a Jello Fruit Snack! So I can die happy. But then there’s that death part, and death is not so happy.

Doom.

We are waiting for a Kelly Clarkson video to download. No, wait. Kelly Osbourne. She is not Kelly Clarkson. But somehow, somehow, that doesn’t make it any better.

Aha! The video has downloaded, and the doom recedes into the night. But here comes another emotion, as I notice that Kelly Clarksbourne is awfully pretty. Here is the shame, coming rushing at me like a freight train driven by an old friend. Hello old friend.

Weetabix says hallo. She says many things about you all out there in ReaderLand, the magical place from which emails come. Hallo!

She is here in San Francisco, and she is having a marvelous time. Also, she has fruit snacks.

Now I am off to take Sweetabix to the place she was born to visit, Viva Las Gaygas. Yowza!

Love and rockets,
Foo

p.s. (a second guest entry tagging along by Ian) There is much banging of the head in the Hotel Suiteabix, also incredibly artificial froot candies. But when Weetabix left the room for a moment, we became much more relaxed and mature. Love to all! –Ian

Wake up early. Make yourself toast. Be a chef. Eat a cold hotdog out of the package. Unwrap a cheese single and fold it into four squares, breaking them into raggedy-edged bite size pieces. Think about putting Cool Whip on the pieces. Pad around the green kitchen linoleum with bare feet. Burn the toast. Use a butter knife to scrap off the black stuff onto the countertop. Sit on the couch. Watch Captain Kangaroo. Shake your butt. Go to the bathroom. Leave the light on. Flip through the thick book of your mother’s, the one with the scary faces on the black glossy cover. Look for words that you can read, words like ‘cat’ and ‘fox’ and ‘Dick’ and ‘see’. Watch how the other words have letters you know, but arrange themselves in confusing ways. Feel like this is another language that maybe you used to know but forgot. Sound out a word but then realize that blowd has double oh’s like ‘look’ and it’s really ‘blood’. Get scared and shove the book under the couch so hard that it slides across the carpet and hits the wall, so that your mother will tear her hair out trying to find it later. Put on a halter-top and shorts, no underwear. Tie a shoelace. Jump over cracks in the sidewalk. Kick a ball. Catch a toad. They hang out in the window wells of the basement in the cool mornings. Pretend the reflection of your face in the window is a kidnapped child trapped by a witch. Laugh at the kid across the street, who is outside in his pajamas. Sneak into your parents’ bedroom and listen to them breathing. They sleep naked. Their bodies are hairy in unexpected places and their breath smells like bad milk. Never want to grow up. This is how you turn six.

Wake up early. The house smells like ashtrays and spilled beer and pot smoke. Stay in bed, reading a Narnia book, until your sister wakes up. Make scrambled eggs and throw the hot pan into the sink. Run cold water on it and listen to it sizzle. You love to do that, even though you’ve been told not to. It’s bad for the pans, but it feels good, that sizzle. It forgives all sins. Eat eggs and turn on Nickelodeon for your sister. Put on the same shorts you wore yesterday. Don’t brush your hair. Make Kool-Aid. Forget to put sugar in it. Put too much sugar in it. Drink four glasses. Call your grandma and tell her good morning so that she will tell you that she loves you and happy birthday. Talk to your grandpa and he will ask how old you are. Tell him that you are sixteen and have a boyfriend and a car. Tell him that you are four hundred and have a Guinness Book of World Records. Tell him that you are one and are the smartest baby in the world. His laugh sounds like whiskers and flannel. Peek into your mother’s room. There is some new body in there, one with a shock of red hair. The snoring sounds like a pig. Go back to your bed and pick up your book. Flip to page 69. Pretend Prince Caspian is your boyfriend and you are sailing away on the Dawn Treader. You are Lucy. You are pretty and a princess and have a god for a pet lion. This is how you turn ten.

Wake up early. Sweat. It’s four hundred degrees. A thousand. A million. Your bedroom is a kiln and if you put your foot down it will sink through a puddle of hardwood floor. Run through the hallway naked and slam the bathroom door before anyone sees you. Fill the big Victorian tub with cool water and jump into it. Slosh cool water onto the cold white mosaic floor. Outside, you can hear the neighbors, their brother is named Stevie and he is cute. Very cute. Dorky with dark hair and glasses. Roll your eyes at him a lot but also secretly hope that he’s watching your darkened bedroom window, and maybe you leave your light on so that he can see you reading at night. Think about calling your friend Erika. Think about the party you’re having later. It’s a toga party and you can pretend that there is alcohol in the punch. Maybe really put alcohol in the punch. Some kids would get crucified for that but not you. Still, it wouldn’t be a good idea to flaunt it, because your mom might act the way she’s supposed to in front of the other kids. Demand a birthday cake from the grocery store, like normal people, not that carob shit. You’ve begun saying shit around your friends. You like how it sounds. Shit. So compact and succinct. You throw on a pair of white shorts and a white tank top. Later, wrap yourself in your grandmother’s white sheets, but not now, not so early that it would be dorky. Act like this was someone else’s idea. Roll your eyes when your mother’s boyfriend walks through and says he can see your underwear through your shorts. Go back upstairs and change into something else. Call your grandmother and grandfather and thank them for the birthday card with money in it. Your grandfather will fall down in his backyard exactly one month from today and never get up but you don’t know this yet. Put on an old pair of your aunt’s sunglasses, ones with giant 70’s lenses. Take them off. Take out the James Taylor cassette and pop in your Madonna cassette. Sing ‘Dress You Up In My Love’ under your breath, because you are way too cool. Think about the toga party in Animal House and wave your hands in the still cloistered air of your bedroom, ruffling the oriental dragon kite that weaves its way around the ceiling. This party will be nothing like the one in Animal House, mostly because the only boys will be your ex-boyfriend (who is still your friend) and his dorky dorko dork loser friends. Wonder if he’ll wear a toga. Wonder if he’ll have a shirt on under the toga. Wonder if he still likes you. Wonder if he’s shown IT to anyone else. Wonder what Stevie’s thing looks like. Tell your sister that she’s a loser. Tell your sister that you’ll punch her if she dorks out today and embarrasses her. Bribe her with Garbage Patch Kid cards. Look up when you hear Erika talking to your mother, who has just come out with a blue flowered sheet bikini. Roll your eyes at your mother’s boyfriend when he tells Erika that she has sexy legs. Answer the neighbor lady when she asks how old you are and beam when she says that she thought you were maybe sweet sixteen. Wonder about her brother’s thing again and then feel like a dork. Your mom orders pizzas and then realizes that she spent so much time constructing her bikini toga that she forgot to pick up the birthday cake, so she will stick the birthday candles into the sausages and they will get soft and flaccid from the heat. Sausages are not good for candles. Say ‘Shit’ under your breath, because this is just another way in which you are cool. It’s reassuring, this shit. Roll your eyes so hard that you may actually die from embarrassment. This is how you turn 14.

Wake up early. Open your bedroom door and listen to your psycho roommate screech at you because you used her toothpaste. Explain that since she had been using your toothpaste for the last four months, when it ran out and she bought a new tube, you assumed that you were sharing. Open your eyes in disbelief when she remarks that she hadn’t been using any of your toothpaste, that she hadn’t brushed her teeth in four months. Roll your eyes and say nothing until she slams the door on her way to work. Call your boyfriend. Tell him that his friend is a psycho. Make plans to move out with him. Make plans to go to the music fest at the university. Open your report card. Throw Barchester Towers across the room. Call your lit professor and ask if he’ll let you hand in the Trollope paper late and revise your C grade. Call the pizza parlor where you work and find out if you’re on the schedule for the next day. Throw a load of laundry into coin ops. Wash your face. Weigh yourself. Make a pitcher of Sugar Free Kool-Aid. Make your bed. Put away the laundry. Dial into five different computer bulletin board systems to check your email accounts. Balance your new checking account. Wonder how to balance a checking account. Decide that it can’t be that hard to balance seventy dollars worth of comings and goings. Wonder if you’ll ever have enough money to cover everything. Wonder if you’ll like your new job at the marketing research firm. Wonder how long you’re going to be with your boyfriend after you start shacking up together. Wonder if you’re going to turn into an alcoholic or end up pregnant. Wonder if it’s going to rain and fuck up the music fest plans tonight. This is how you turn 21.

Wake up when the sun falls on your face through the courtyard window. It’s early. Or late. You don’t know. You’re still jet lagged. The birds in England sound funny here and yet, like home. You’re not used to this much daylight. Light at 4 am, light until after 10 pm. You can hear your male flatmates lumbering around the hallway, making boyish sounds. You’re happy that you’re rooming with four boys to offset the other three girls. They tell jokes about penii and stay up all night on the terrace, drinking hard cider and trading stories on how to get laid. They value your insight, for some reason, and listen with rapt attention to your theory about argyle socks. The next day, they will all be wearing argyle socks. Their bedroom smells like an old wine cask. The night before this one, they led you through Mayfair, past Edwardian townhouses and Madonna’s place, swearing that there was a great Thai restaurant somewhere. Just around that corner, they swore. An hour later, you found it and had late Thai under the stars, seated on patio furniture, and now your head pounds, as it is every morning after a night with these boys. You decide to hang out with the girls today instead. Yes. The girls. You’re a little bit sad that for the first birthday ever, there will be no cake and no birthday calls from your family. Instead, you go to the British Museum and say ‘Meh’ at the Rosetta Stone and then try to lose them at Madame Tussaud’s. Later, they demand to take you out, so you put on a skirt and a white v-necked top and walk down to the pub and be amazed when for the first time in ever, a car doesn’t try to kill you when you cross the street, instead slowing and then giving you a little wave and a smirk. You feel pretty, maybe. You’ve put on make up and used your tiny travel blow dryer, which has seemed like too much of a hassle so far. At the last minute, your dining companions decide to instead go to Caf’ Rouge, so you shrug and go along, worried about being spotted by Alex, the French guy who practically molested you at the last underground party you went to. He works at Caf’ Rouge, but maybe a different one. You suspect they are like French McDonald’s here in London. You left your engagement ring at home, worried about theft or just losing it like a clutz, so you wander around trying to mentally project the ring on your left finger. Because it would be so easy to make out with a cute English boy here. Or a cute French boy. Or a cute German or Welsh or Irish or Scottish or Lichtensteinian boy. They all seem to want to make out with you. It is like being surrounded by thousands of desserts that look delicious but you’re on a diet. When taking your order, the tall dark waiter with the random Italian/Romanian/Something accent leans in close to point to his favorite salmon dish, and you can smell his breath, manly and sweet like a humidor. You’re beautiful and for the first time, you’re far enough away from the familiar to understand this. He allows his hand to rest just a little long on your shoulder, grazing your hair, and your tablemates roll their eyes. They don’t comprehend a fat girl getting attention when they are present. It is inconceivable. You chuckle and announce that you’re having a tartlet for dessert too. Engaged or not, you fucking love England. This is how you turn 26.

Wake up at your usual time. From the living room, you can hear the sounds of your spouse working. The cat nuzzles your hip. Wake up and pad through the kitchen and grab a white nectarine, then sit cross-legged on the chaise to wake up. Open the presents left for you there. Check your email. Read a dozen birthday greetings. Decide you will mope all day. Decide that you don’t have to do anything. Decide that you should really shake yourself out of the funk you are in. Accept an invitation to dinner with your mother. Ride out your apathy like a wave, like you are surfing. Instead, solidify travel arrangements and write things into your planner. Things become real if they are written on the calendar. Fill in the squares of your summer. Throw peanuts on the floor at the restaurant. Go for a drive along the Bay with your spouse, roof open, sun sinking into the far shoreline, white pelicans come in low and skim the water into their gullets as you cheer them on. Forget what day it is by bedtime. Go to sleep and dream of ships and mermaids. This is how you turn 34.

While I wish instead that the past week I’d been captured by the (fucking) laundry and held ransom for Tide Cold Water and a new Maytag, it’s really just been a trying time that I hope to laugh about later.

Barb at work drives me insane. Barb and I do not get along. There is no hostility, merely two women who think the other is crazy. She hates my wallets, my shoes, the fact that I own a purse that cost more than her outfit galls her every day I bring (which is more often just to bother her) I can’t even think about her without getting all up in her grille. And so I’ve been avoiding her. Last Tuesday I was running a little bit late for work from lunch, knowing that she had to leave early to care for her sick brother, and not wanting to hear about it (or worse, have her email my boss). Being late all the parking spots near the building were full, and so I circled around, wasting precious minutes trying to find something that wasn’t in BFE. Finally giving up I pulled into a visitor spot at the front. Let them tow the M. I’ll just pay the ticket as if it was nothing, which will add up the points in my favor. While I find it distasteful to blame others, it was really the line at Starubck’s fault for my tardiness (although one could argue that it was Barb’s fault to begin with that I needed an iced mocha bracer to make it through the afternoon). So, I’m pulling in, trying to scoop up the iPod and the sunglasses and the purse, and the door is dinging, so I use my foot to kick the door open. A little more forceful than I originally intended, but it got the job done. And by job I mean knocking Barb onto her well padded ass and chipping her tooth. She was up like a prize fighter, stuttering ‘You did that on PURPOSE!’ at me and calling for help. The receptionist came running outside to weigh in on what had happened, apparently after calling for security, who arrived shortly thereafter, to a gaggle of women and men taking sides on the issue. Barb’s lip was swelling, and it seemed that it was bleeding inside as well. Realizing she had an audience, she tried swooning, though no one was really quick on the uptake to catch her, not wanting to be pinned by 200lbs of whiny. I explained what happened, though Barb took it poorly, demanding that the police be called, that I had assaulted her, and how was she now to go check her brother out of his group home? I merely sat there dumfounded, unable to defend myself against a deranged woman who I had given a fat lip (and chipped tooth) with my Chrysler. Barb drives a Mazda, so perhaps it was fitting. By now the crowd had swelled to include people from other buildings and probably people from the street, who thought perhaps we were grilling braughts and stopped by to see what the ruckus was ’bout in so? Suddenly Barb burst into tears, wailing, ‘I don’t know why she would just attack me like that, I’ve never done anything to her’ and I knew that the police had arrived. We were separated, taken to different corners to talk to the officers. My officer, Denise, was very friendly, listened to me compassionately, went to confer with her partner, and then came back to escort me to her cruiser. Yes, it seemed that Barb was pressing charges. The ride down to the police station was surreal. Denise asked me where I got my blouse (Chicago), complimented me on my makeup (Prescriptives) and loved my nail color (Bruise). Once at the station I desperately tried to reach someone, anyone. Esteban was in New Mexico, Ward and June on a cruise, and my mother was not answering her cell phone. So I called Mo, who picked up on the first ring, ‘OH MY GOD YOU JUST DID NOT KILL BARB!’ and I had to relate the story. The sergeant? Across from me merely rolled his eyes as I started blubbering to Amy that I needed her to come down and bail me out, that everyone was gone. It was a moment of weakness. It also seemed that I had jumped the shark a little bit and needed to go before a judge. Anway, Mo showed up a couple hours later, out of breath and flush with cash. It seemed that she too thought that I would need to be bailed out and had gone and pawned her car at a title loan place. It seems they do a brisk business of Mercury Sable’s across the street from the courthouse. The first thing Mo said to me was ‘You’re paying me back!’ before gloating about the big sister that suddenly found herself in trouble. She wouldn’t let me get into the car until I gave her a check. Though I questioned whether it was really her car anymore. And so I’ve been sulking about the house. Figuring out which lawyer to hire, and catching up on my Six Feet Under. I should be doing some of my freelance work, but instead it was summer sloth girl getting all the attention, while the usual me screamed uselessly in the back of my mind. Chauffi was no help, as he kept telling me that I could make a living writing Penthouse Forum type escapades from prison. The Darling, Darling Mare promised to send me Canadian drugs baked into cakes, while William pointed out that Orange wasn’t my color and that if I had to pick up trash on the side of the road it was much better than dealing with prison food after they went with that Pride Pyramid. Esteban has been doing dishes and cleaning out the litter box without any passive aggressive prompting while June has mustered up her Garden Club to help me fight this. It’s nice, how everyone is working hard to keep my spirits up.

Now, if only someone would do something about the (fucking) laundry.

I’m having a weird shopping crisis.

Yes, yes, I know that I just went shopping two weeks ago and got shoes and a tapas shirt and a weird turquoise tank from Torrid that was surprising because I was pretty sure turquoise got convicted of grievous crimes against humanity back in the 80’s and was deported to a small European country where women named Nadia pelt it with rocks. And yet, there it is. Turquoise tank with pink flowers on it that looks very cute under a black hoodie. Who says there’s no such thing as rehabilitation? However, the thing is that had I found totally cute Weetabix clothing, I wouldn’t have been venturing into the Land of Turquoise and Ethnic Shirts With Fleetwood Mac Sleeves. I could have simply clung meekly to my standard of ironic baseball tees, boot cut jeans and black shoes with a hint of heel. But no. These were all hiding, carted off by chicks much cooler than I, savvy women with hips like yoked oxen and I presume a fetish for perfectly polished fingernails. These fashionista doppelgangers haunt me, or rather, I haunt them, always arriving in stores a few hours after they’ve stripped the shelves of anything remotely interesting. They leave behind horizontal stripes, capris with frightening scarf-like appendages and tight tees with a two-inch sleeve that look at my meaty grandma upper arms and laugh. I covet their closets, for they apparently have everything I’ve ever desired in my life. A nice pair of shoes. Black pants that sit on my ass just so. A v-neck that somehow shows enough cleavage to be interesting but not so much that I feel like a St. Pauly Girl poster.

It’s just not fair. I walk into the stores, clutching credit cards and wads of cash and supplicate myself to the racks of unimpressive clothing. ‘Look! I have money to spend! See? Money! Just have something that doesn’t remind me of vomit, ok? Or maybe just a shirt that buttons over my boobs. Or just another Dayam!Bra. Ok? Please?’ And yet, nothing. Nothing.

I’ve just spent two hours searching the internet. The bitches got to the internet too, apparently, as I’ve exhausted my normal venues. Sure, I could buy another version of my titillating black dress, perhaps in a plum or cherry (why named after fruits? I mean, aside from the obvious reason?) but truthfully, that’s just not any fun. But one day, I’ll beat those bitches at their game.

I started writing this entry earlier this week and apparently all I had to do was complain, and the world gave me the right pair of Seven jeans in exactly my size. However I’m not going to exhale until I know if I can inhale while wearing the jeans, as I have not yet tried them on. I’m afraid to, actually. I no longer trust the fashion gods. I suspect they are under the influence of Karl Lagerfeld.

Also, I did order some more cuteness from my favorite San Francisco design house (creator of the Black Dress of Hotness unveiled at the Bad Bar this March), despite claiming above that it would be no fun. But, instead of simply pushing the limits of my propriety by displaying almost-too-much cleavage, when I put on the new top, my bosoms actually fall completely out of it. Which could be considered “fun”, I guess. And with bosoms like mine, that’s a pretty impressive feat. It takes commitment, nay, raw intent to make that happen. I suspect that it’s mammogram couture. Because god knows those sheets they give you aren’t doing you any favors. Sure, cancer, schmancer! If they’re going to press my girls between two frigid plates of glass, the least they could do is attempt to make me feel pretty. So yeah, that shirt’s going back. But the ruby red cousin to the Black Dress of Hotness (this one may be christened ‘Lawdy Yes Miss Scarlett’ or maybe just ‘The Hoor’s Dress’) is going straight to my closet, where it will intimidate the hell out of my hoodie and Tinkerbell t-shirt collection.