... i'm not going to eat tomorrow 'cuz i'm going to be a supermodel

I was lucky enough to go to the Marc Jacobs show on Monday night courtesy of my amazing friend, El Oso. He's so awesome, you guys.

The Lovely Jess was there too and she was good enough to recap our cool evening/early morning out.

I've been slammed with work so I don't have time to do the same, but I did take some pictures. Sadly, Debbie Harry wasn't there this time around. Or, if she was, I wasn't lucky enough to see her. However, for you followers of MJ, I did manage to snap a rather scandalous photo of his skinny ass reaching into a McDonald's bag. My guess is that there wasn't a salad or one of those bullshit yogurt parfaits inside.

More photos here. Photos from the Fall show can be found here. Enjoy!

oh, i could write a sonnet...

Parents of young boys are faced with a very tough decision this Easter...

Click to enlarge

Do they go with the staid lavender get-up, the plaid pimp suit or the "Mambo No. 5" ensemble?

Tough call, but I vote for the Lou Bega look.

fashionistas

Okay, so in answer to your burning question about how the hell the likes of me was out hobnobbing with the legendary Debbie Harry, the answer is duh, I'm simply fabulous and it's high time the rich and famous started noticing. Obviously!

Actually, because of the awesomeness of the Ursine Calamity, I got my grubby mitts on a pass to the Marc Jacobs fashion show last night along with The Lovely Jess and AZ.

Jess was kind enough to recap our amazing evening over on American Midol, complete with pictures I took of lots of cool celebrities. Look how close I was to Magenta, er, I mean, Joss Stone!

My recap is coming later. In the meantime, read all about it here.

in the flesh

Um... so I was just THIS close to Debbie Harry:

I took this picture of her at close range, no zoom needed.

Why was l'il ol' me rubbing elbows with one Ms. Debbie Harry, you ask? Check out American Midol tomorrow for all the details. I'm not being a tease, really I'm not. It's just that I'll need a good night's sleep to help me process the fact that I was standing within inches of the lead singer of mofo Blondie!!!

You have NO idea what this did to me. I don't get misty in the presence of celebrities but my knees buckled a little bit when I saw her. No joke.

I can die a happy girl now.

we are the goon squad and we're coming to town

Dear Grown Men and Women Who Wear Denim Shirts (or Any Article of Clothing, Really) Adorned with Embroidered "Looney Tunes" Characters:

Um, could you not?

Thank you,
Curly McDimple

couture schmouture aka fuck jeffrey and his tattooed giraffe neck

:: Spoiler alert for fans of Project Runway who haven't watched this week's episode it yet.::

Reason #492 ¾ Why I Clearly Don't Understand Fashion:

Um, seriously... can someone in-the-know please explain to me how/why the fuck this abomination won last night's challenge? I am perplexed. Uli got robbed, yo.

a minor breakthrough

I am what you'd call fussy. And impatient. I like things to be just so. I am very particular about what I eat, where I'll eat it and where I'll buy and prepare what I eat. Shades of Lloyd Dobler, no?

I'm sure that sounds dreadful to you and you're probably pitying anyone with the bad sense and misfortune to get mixed up with me. To that I say, fuck off, you judgmental asswipe!

But I kid the judgmental asswipes... I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm a pain in the ass because I do try to keep my neuroses contained. I don't expect others to work with or around my quirks. I will ask that people not slather my portion with mayonnaise and/or leave the cole slaw off the plate entirely, but beyond that, I don't issue When Harry Met Sally-like directives to family/friends/waitstaff about how things should be prepared. I keep it simple. And I stick with what's safe and tested. It works for me.

When it comes to shopping for clothes, I'm just as fussy and narrowly-focused. I have a handful of stores that I am very loyal to. I know without even trying things on which size I am in each of them. I utilize the wonder that is online shopping whenever possible. Rarely do I have to return anything because it's too big or small. I've got ecommerce down to a finely-tuned, anti-social science.

I favor the organized, crisp layout of the Gap's, Anthropologie's and J. Crew's online offerings. Their actual stores are decent... provided you go at the right time of day. Ideally, everything is folded or hung on a rack according to size. It makes for a convenient and thus, pleasant, shopping experience for moi. If the stores are looking at all bombed-out, I leave and come back at an off-peak time. For me, a quiet, orderly store is pure bliss.

Neat stacks, organized loose-fitting racks and logically-located size stickers are a requirement for me. Stores that don't adhere to this policy do not get my business. I don't peruse jammed, bursting-at-the-seams racks nor do I sift through comingled bins. If the layout isn't clean and ordered, I get quite pissy. Before you protest, I fully realize that I miss out on many a bargain because of this. However! My disdain for disorder is far stronger than my desire to save 20 percent on famous maker goods. Ew, I just said "goods." I hate that word.

Shopping is not a sport for me. There is no thrill in the hunt. No satisfaction from a bargain gained. Well, that's not true. I loves me a good sale but I'm not going to throw elbows and stampede the less fit to get it. If I happen upon something reduced in price, awesome. Bargains come my way through happenstance, not through strategy or effort. God forbid.

So yes, I miss out on bargain blowouts but that extra money I don't save ensures my sanity. Those few dollars (and 15mg of Paxil) go towards keeping me stable and good-natured. I don't see the value in paying less for a designer top or some shoes when I'm guaranteed to be wearing ill-fitting cranky pants for the rest of the day. It does not compute.

Yesterday I ventured out from behind the computer and did a bit of actual shopping. I left the satisfying and safe confines of virtual stores and went face-to-face with people who don't know how to say "Excuse me" or yield to the right of way. Fucking bastards.

Oh and what's this business with cashiers saying, "Can I help the following guest?" Following? What's that about? Is that supposed to make feel better than the cashier yelling "NEXT!"?!?! 'Cause it doesn't. They're still snotty about the whole thing. For me, it's the tone of the cashier, not what he/she says. The phrasing is secondary to the 'tude that presents it. Apathetic rudeness is apathetic rudeness no matter how fancy and calculated the spiel is. I'm sure tons of market studies were done and training sessions held so that the employees of Bath and Body Works would robotically utter this statement but I'm still not sure why. Anyone? Anyone?

But, as usual, I digress... As I was saying, I did a bit of shopping in the 'hood yesterday. Against my better judgment, I went into Daffy's. I surveyed the scene, turned around on my heel and walked right out. What the fuck are T-Fal pots and pans doing right next to the shoe racks? And why are smelly candles and pot pourri kissing the clothes racks? That store (at least the one in Brooklyn's Atlantic Center) is a complete shambles. It made me instantly irate so I fled the scene.

I then engaged in a bit of retail therapy at the nearby Target. The savage inner beast was soothed and my appetite for materialistic possessions was satiated. At very reasonable prices, I might add. God, I would fuck Target if I could.

I'm in the market for some new jeans and some cute summer-y tops so I walked over to Old Navy to see what they had to offer. I've got money left on a gift card and it's positively scorching a hole in my pocket. But nothing really jumped out at me and the line was ridiculously long so there was no danger of an impulse buy. I tend to buy stupid stuff with gift cards, you see. It's like a sickness.

Despite my aversion to that breed of retail, I went into Marshall's, which is right upstairs from Old Navy. I'm on vacation this week so my temperament has been recharged and restored to near-calm levels. I've also got time to burn so I figured it couldn't hurt to go outside my comfort zone and take a quick gander at the discount merch in this much-ballyhooed store. I'm in need of a cute pair of sneakers and I thought I might score a nifty pair of Pumas or some such. I don't want running ones or anything practical like that. I just want some cute kicks to finish off some of my more casual ensembles. Which is, um, all of them.

So I walked in and it was like my worst nightmare come true. Shoes and sneakers bound by those plastic cord things in overflowing, randomly-placed bins; row after row of garments practically popping off of the overstuffed racks trying desperately to contain them; the aforementioned illogical juxtaposition of housewares and clothing. It was chaos. There was no rhyme nor reason to it. I was appalled but I decided to brave the mess and see what was what. My desire for sneakers was surprisingly resilient.

My will, however, was not. It held strong for a total of five minutes and then I wanted to leave. Really bad.

This particular Marshall's is a bit of an anomaly. I know stores spend millions on market research. I know that the music that is pumped over the speakers, the temperature and the colors on the walls and floors combine to cast a psychological spell on consumers. We are subliminally enticed to stay and spend. I don't think this Marshall's got the memo from corporate headquarters. I was not in a comfortable mental space in this branch and I wanted out tout de suite.

As I made my way towards the exit, mismatched hangers clung to me and boxes fell from their sloppy piles as I tried to squeeze through the tight quarters. My exit was hindered by this disorganization. I guess that's the genius of it. The merchandise comes alive in a sense to trap you there.

Because I'm a conscientious customer (and because I worked in retail and had to clean up after asshole customers who went through the aisles like a mofo tornado), I always pick up what I knock down... even in disgusting, hellish environments such as this where it makes no difference whatsoever.

I was in quite the snit as I tried to force the woeful culottes back into their presumed rightful place and then... What's this? Oooh! A white, lacy blouse covered with eyelets! I fell instantly in love. It was just like macrame only with short sleeves, pearl buttons and a Mandarin collar. It looked JUST like one I saw in the window of a fancy schmancy Lower East Side boutique (remember that one, Jess?) And now, here was its doppelgänger hanging haphazardly from the end of a whatever-the-fuck-the-employees-decided-to-stick-here rack in the Petites section of Marshall's in Brooklyn.

It totally didn't belong on that rack! Score! For a moment in time, I applauded disorder. Someone's second thought on the way to pay (and sheer laziness to hoof it back to the "proper" rack) was my good fortune. I gasped at the ridiculous price ($14.99) and practically squealed when I saw that it was my size (none o' yo damn biznatch).

Mark this down: May 18, 2006 was the day I made my first purchase at Marshall's. I'm feeling so emboldened that I might even take at crack at T.J. Maxx. Loehmann's is a bit of a stretch at this point. I'm going to have to work up the energy and courage to battle that behemoth.

Baby steps, people, baby steps.

cavorting with the coworkers

All week long I looked forward to Friday night. It was Girls Night Out, after all. Actually, this one was Girls (and Michael P) Night Out. He was the lone boy amongst a gaggle of acid-tongued dot-com chicks and he most definitely held his own. To adequately illustrate my adoration of this boy, let's just say the he played air keyboard right in my face and I didn't strangle him. I really detest when one pantomimes the playing of a guitar, drums, etc., you see...

Random tangent: I was on a date with a stupid girl once and she knew of my distaste of air instruments. Or at least she thought she did. We met up the night before St. Patrick's Day and the sound of bagpipes could be heard in the distance. My Scottish-Irish pride compels me to stand at attention and swoon when I hear that familiar, comforting wail. I expressed my pleasure at the sound and she said, "I'm surprised you like the bagpipes. You hate air instruments, remember?" Now I'm no musician but even I know the proper classifications. I was like, "The bagpipes are a WIND instrument. I have nothing against horns and tubas and stuff. But if someone was pretending to play one of these instruments by blowing into their thumb or something, it would annoy me." Dumbass.

But back to Friday's festivities -- some of us have since moved on from the job and some are still hanging in there. We still meet up every couple of months because our past and present job-related misery was such a powerful bonding agent. Our wit, sarcasm, empathy, sympathy and all other coping mechanisms served as the grout in our disgruntled mosaic. Actually, The Lovely Jess and the equally lovely Sheila are two of my most prized possessions from that otherwise-awful stint. Unfortunately for us, Sheila couldn't make it to our latest bash but fortunately for her and certain counties in Ireland, she's in her ancestral land tearing it up. Go read her gorgeous account.

So we drank margaritas and Hoegaarden at Cowgirl. Okay, I drank Hoegaarden and everyone else enjoyed the establishment's highly-regarded margaritas that come served in wee Mason jars. We ate lots of things smothered in cheese and talked lots of smack. Oh, how I adore these outings.

Some of our group hails from Long Island and New Jersey and had to leave early because of their unforgiving train schedules. I remember the days of hauling ass and sweating bullets in the hopes that the subway or PATH train would miraculously defy the rules of the universe and slow down time to get me to my connecting train. Sometimes it worked but most times I found myself cursing at the conductor of the departing train at the Hoboken station. Apparently, they have to "stay on schedule." Bureaucratic bastards that they are.

Eventually our numbers dwindled until only Jess and I remained. Our conversation went a little something like this:

"Um, do you wanna go home now?"

"I dunno, do you?"

"I mean, I could go somewhere else and have like one drink or something."

"Okay, let's go."

So off we two enablers went and had way more than one drink. Just for shits and giggles, we walked up the block to Rubyfruit. I had never been there before but I knew of its old lesbo granny bar reputation. And the reputation was well-earned. It was a karaoke-singing softball coach convention in there. There was a lot of bad fashion on display including a woman with pre-Doc Billy Ray Cyrus hair. Come to think of it, there were several Doc-era Billy Ray Cyrus hairstyles too. And lots of high-waisted jeans and vests. The girls hit the clothing department at Sears before going to Rubyfruit apparently.

Elsewhere on the dance floor, a geriatric with nary an ounce of rhythm was shaking her polyester-encased rump with two very young chippies. And she kept trying to sing along to the song but clearly didn't know the words. I give her a 1 for accuracy but an 8 for effort.

Jess and I were visibly shaken by the sight but what was most upsetting was the bony lady wearing an oversized red Tweety bird t-shirt. My back was to her but Jess tipped me off to her alarming choreography. I turned around to take a gander and was NOT prepared for what I saw. Admittedly, my dancing will never get me invited on Soul Train but Jesus, this was bad. It was like she was doing The African Anteater Ritual while having a seizure in between occasional bouts of finger snapping.

And then we got distracted when an androgynous figure walked past us. So we spent the next few minutes playing Guess the Gender. This individual looked like The Amazing Jonathan but without the facial hair. It remains the night's unsolved mystery. Well, it's actually a toss-up between that and a discarded car door wedged in between some trash on Hudson Street. However, I definitely think the unidentifiable gender was the more perplexing of the two.

Next up: Cubbyhole. For those of you not in the NYC area, this bar is nestled in the labyrinth otherwise known as the West Village. I've been to this place a dozen times and can get there from the subway, no problem. Trying to get there from points north or south when slightly inebriated is another story. So we tramped around a bit until we got our bearings and found our destination.

Jess managed to snag a seat at the bar and within minutes, a woman was talking to her. I thought I would have to step in and play girlfriend to discourage the prowling lesbo but it turns out, it was just a very drunk girl pleading with Jess to watch her seat while she went outside to smoke. She promised to buy her a drink in exchange for the favor. However, she never made good on it. Bitch.

That girl was a sloppy drunken mess with a really unfortunate hairdo. Out of nowhere, she of the burnt perm and crunchy bangs started arguing with a bunch of unsuspecting women to her left. The exchange of slurred words culminated with her hurling a GO NYC magazine at her rivals. I feared drinks being thrown and a fist fight so I dusted off my diplomacy skills and distracted the messy drunk with a request to clink glasses and just enjoy herself. It worked. She stopped trash talking and flinging reading material... and then set her sights on befriending me and Jess. Oy.

Oh, but she was frightening! She had a crazed look in her eyes and sounded like Coalminer's Daughter. I resumed chatting with Jess and another friend but Coalminer's Daughter kept poking her nose into the conversation. Literally. She didn't say anything necessarily but she repeatedly jutted her face into our little circle and stared at us all creepy-like. She'd then lose interest, walk away and wander back. At one point she asked me who I was and I answered, "Oh, nobody." She stuck out her hand and said, "Well, Nobody, it's nice to meet you." And then she declared her love for me, asked me to save her seat and staggered away. She swung by a few more times trying to remember where her seat was. She'd point at us, begin to say something, stop, then shake her head in confusion before resuming her patrol. Perhaps it was wrong of us, but Jess and I never tipped her off to her seat's location. Truthfully, it was a rather enjoyable floor show.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go apply a soothing balm as the flames of Hell are licking at my feet.

...somewhere in the swamps of jersey

It appears that the fabulous Jake has a gripe with the residents of New Jersey who have unceremoniously invaded his tranquil upstate haven. While I proudly hail from the land o' smoke stacks, corrupt politicians and an inordinate amount of people named Pinky, I do not feel compelled to take Jake to task for his blistering take on my home state. He makes a lucid and compelling argument that a lot of my former neighbors are, well... complete and total assholes.

I used to get really worked up and defensive about it but well, why fight it? I was born to be the butt of jokes. I'm a Catholic dyke from New Jersey, for fuck's sake. Have at it. But be warned -- the fact that I did grow up west of the Hudson River and east of the Delaware means I'm well-equipped to curse like a motherfucking trooper. I don't use this skill often but when necessary, I can lash out at critics in a most colorful and original fashion. I have used the term "ball sack" preceded by an active verb, folks. More than once. And while I won't utter the "c" word, I'm not above calling someone a "twat." What's my take on obscene gestures, you ask? The Finger is for pussies. I pretty much abstain from gestures altogether but every now and then I opt for the rather distasteful yanking motion with one hand. But mostly I curse. I mean, why resort to sign language when I can emasculate men and make women cry with my salty vocabulary alone?

I really have no choice but to lower my defenses about NJ. It's exhausting otherwise... especially after this weekend's viewing of MTV's True Life: I Have a Summer Share. This particular episode followed the exploits of Tommy, a construction worker from northern Jersey, as he made his way down the Garden State Parkway to Seaside Heights each weekend. Sigh... Normally, I would have an issue with the laziness of MTV for picking on Jersey in the most obvious ways but sweet Jesus, the folks in my old area code don't exactly make it too difficult. Unfortunately, the walking Jersey stereotype is not an elusive species. I mean, why would MTV go elsewhere when they can fix their cameras on the Seaside boardwalk to showcase a neverending parade of teased hair, stretch pants, airbrushed "100% Bitch" t-shirts, copious amounts of camel toe, hot pink talon-like finger nails and gold crucifixes suspended from herringbone chains?

And naturally, Tommy was the guido to end all guidos. He wore a Don Corleone cap ALL THE TIME, drove a Cadillac, drank Coors Light and got into a fight EVERYTIME he went out. Even worse, he spoke of Seaside as his "territory." Yeah, that smell of urine you get down there is not from the drunks coming out of the bars late at night. Rather, it's from when Tommy threw open the door of his Caddy and left a trail of piss from the Parkway to the Atlantic Ocean to mark his turf.

I've been to many parties and bars in New Jersey where I've encountered the likes of Tommy. And I have to say that I hate the likes of Tommy. When I'm met with this sort of a man, I thank God I'm gay. Nine times out of 10, the likes of Tommy is flanked by a glitter chick who is his best platonic girlfriend. She always feels compelled to say, usually in between puffs on a Parliament or Marlboro Light, "[Guido's name] is a total sweetheart. He would give you the shirt off his back. The shirt off his motherfucking back!!" She will stab at the air with her cigarette for emphasis and will declare that she wants to cry when she thinks about "the amount of heart that guy has." As proof, she will usually cite the example of a brutal beating the Guido threw some poor slob who had the audacity to look at the Platonic Glitter Chick. I never know what to say in response to this. I think I'm expected to go, "Awww! Ain't he sweet! You're lucky you have him looking out for you." As if. At least I've since learned to not cup my hand over my mouth and gasp in horror.

Now lest you think I'm totally embarrassed about my upbringing and land of birth, I would have to say that I disagree. I'm proud to hail from the same state as Jack Nicholson, Meryl Streep, Susan Sarandon, Philip Roth, Allen Ginsberg, William Carlos Williams, Joe Piscopo... (I was just making sure you were paying attention with that last one.) But anyway, unlike Tommy and his ilk, I display the appropriate amount of shame and humility. I will readily admit where I'm from, albeit with some sort of qualifier. "Yes, I'm from New Jersey but I don't use Aqua Net or anything. Seriously. I haven't touched the stuff in years." While I'm on the subject, you won't ever catch me making devil prongs while yelling "Jerrrrrrrrrrrrrsey!" when the state's name is mentioned at a public event. I will never threaten to fuck anyone up in an argument over a parking spot. I don't call all pasta "macaroni" nor do I refer to carbonated beverages as "soder." I know one person named Louie... and I don't like him. I enjoy The Sopranos for the intriguing storylines and compelling characters, not because I can name where most of the exteriors are shot. Furthermore, I've never set foot in a Camaro or any tricked-out car with mudflaps, spoilers, chain-link license plate covers or other accoutrements that are not factory-installed. So there.

on bridal showers and bad fashion sense

I spent the weekend in New Jersey because I had to attend my sister's bridal shower. The second oldest will be taking the plunge in October. Showers are always boring but when you're assigned to assemble the bow-and-ribbon hat, time sure does fly at one of these things. Glass after glass of sangria also helps.

I made sure the hat was an extra obnoxious-looking bonnet with a tulle train hanging from the back. I considered it payback for all those years of torment at the hands of my older sister. I feel vindicated especially since she had many pictures taken with that ridiculous thing perched on top of her head. That'll teach her to give me Wet Freddies. Mwahahahahahahahaha!

My mother thought it would be a lovely idea to assemble a photo album of the soon-to-be-wed sister from infancy through present day. It was indeed a moving gesture but there's a big chunk in the middle with LOTS of bad hair, untweezed eyebrows and unfortunate 80s and early 90s ensembles... mostly mine. I was not pleased that this album made the rounds from table to table. We were able to view the album the night before under strict orders from the mother that we were not to remove any pictures. That was asking a lot. Oh man, there's one in particular that was beyond horrifying. I'm not going to go into detail but I will say this: bi-level hairdo, Umbro shorts, a Mickey Mouse shirt and a red and black POP Swatch. Imagine, if you will, that wardrobe on me while I was smack-dab in the middle of my gawky, awkward phase. Good God, I was an ugly fuck at that age.

My low self-esteem was well deserved mostly because of my ridiculously bad fashion sense. Those clothing choices were mine and mine alone. I'm going to lay partial blame with my hair stylist at the time because she could have told me that the curly mullet wasn't doing me any favors. Jesus Christ, on the days when the Jolen wore off, I resembled one half of Hall & Oates. Sigh... it's going to take a good few weeks before I can rid myself of the memory of my early teens. And even worse, I've got "Private Eyes" ::clap clap:: stuck in my head now. Looks like today's lunch is going to be a liquid one.

the snowsuit

Frank was this really cool older guy from Jersey City who often hung around in my neighborhood. His girlfriend Donna lived around the corner from me and everyone in the neighborhood thought they were just the most awesome couple ever. She had mountains of teased curly hair on her head, caked-on makeup, fuck-me pumps and a fire-engine red Trans Am. I wanted to be Donna. All the younger kids often sat on Donna's front stoop and talked to her and Frank while we nursed our sexual and non-sexual crushes alike. My younger sister and I hung on Frank's every word. One day he told us a joke that we thought was the funniest thing ever. "Hey girls, how do you spell diarrhea?" We attempted to spell it and he stopped us and said, "No. It's D-I-dash-two-farts-and-a-splash!" I didn't think I'd ever stop laughing. I nearly gave myself a case of "the cha" from all that abdominal heaving.

The next day I went shopping with my younger sister, my cousin, my aunt and my mother. For some reason, the younger sister and I thought it would be cool to have full-length snowsuits. Yes, you read that right. I was about 11 and she was 9. I had no business wearing a snowsuit at that age. Yet, I wanted one. The cousin was seriously into hunting so he came along with my aunt to stock up on layered clothing at the factory outlet. I picked out a red snowsuit and the younger sister got an identical one in blue. There was a diamond-shaped patch on the left shoulder with an embroidered skier on it. I felt like Suzy Chapstick with my new ensemble. We were pleased with our purchases and left.

I don't remember why but my mother and aunt had to go back into the store. We were left alone in the car with the cousin who, I might add, could be a real prick when he wanted to be. But he was older and the younger sister and I were always in a bid to make our older siblings and cousins think we were cool. So the sister said to him, "Hey, do you know how to spell diarrhea?" I didn't want to be left out so I joined in and we squealed and laughed our way through the punchline. We saw the aunt and the mother approaching and quickly squelched the raucous giggling and swore the cousin to secrecy since our mother did not like that kind of talk. In our family, getting caught telling a joke with the word "fart" in it was just as damning as getting caught snorting a pound of coke. In my mother's eyes, the two crimes were equal in severity.

The car doors opened and the aunt and the mother immediately asked us what we were up to. The younger sister and I were as thick as thieves and were used to forming a united front. "Nothing!" we chimed in unison. I looked over towards the cousin and saw the evil glimmer in his eye. I knew we were doomed. He said through a wicked grin, "Guess what joke I just learned?" My sister and I looked panic-stricken. We begged and pleaded with our eyes for him to shut up. But with much pleasure and gusto, he repeated word-for-word our new favorite joke. My mother was incensed because not only were her two wee girls dealing in crude jokes, but she was made to look bad in front of her gossipy sister-in-law. She said, "I have a good mind to march you back into that store and return those snowsuits!" NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! We protested, apologized and groveled profusely and the mother soon relented. We did get a severe talking to when we got home though but the snowsuits were at least safe.

A few weeks later we had a significant snowfall. The younger sister and I were thrilled to put on our snowsuits and go out and play without getting all cold and soggy. We weren't out the door 10 minutes before someone made fun of our outfits. I wanted no part of mine anymore. After lunch I tried going out with my old jacket and pants but my mother ordered me back inside to put the snowsuit on. The younger sister was equally pissed to be wearing such an obvious target for ridicule. What were we thinking when we asked for these?!?! At least that time when we convinced the mother in the supermarket that we liked Kix, we were able pawn off the cereal on the two older sisters when we realized that it wasn't all sweet and sugary. Otherwise, what's the point of eating it? But we were stuck in this case. A snowsuit is not edible. We not only hounded our mother to buy these things but we even rescued them when they were nearly taken from us!!!

I don't know if there were two more miserable-looking kids out there on the snow piles. I had to wear it a few more times before I outgrew it but I did try repeatedly to ditch it. But the mother wouldn't allow it. It didn't occur to me then but the younger sister and I should have just banded together and said, "Hey ma! How do you spell diarrhea?"

cotton/poly blend: comfy couture or dating disaster?

There's been a bit of activity in the dating department this past week. I had been talking to two different women but today I discovered that it ain't gonna happen with either of them. The first one was a sweet, laid-back bisexual lass who lived in my neighborhood. Out of the two, she stood a better shot of getting in my drawers. Something about her charmed me. Case in point: We were discussing musical tastes via email and it didn't even bother me that she wrote, "The Pixies? Are they that Australian folk band?" A lesser person may have clicked delete right then and there but there was a certain je ne sais quois about her unabashed ignorance of such things. After proposing a get-together for drinks, she had second thoughts today and backed out. With much maturity and class, she wrote me an email explaining that things were starting to heat up with a boy she met recently and she didn't think it wise to get involved with anyone else. Regardless of the reason, I respect and admire that she nipped it in the bud early on. No hard feelings and I wished her well in her quest.

On to bachelorette #2. I've had my concerns with her throughout our brief correspondence but none were substantial enough to sever relations. Until today. She wrote to me and described her day's activities which included a trip to the movies. All was status quo until she mentioned what she'd be wearing while out and about... white sweatpants. Oh my eyes! My eyes!!! If she hadn't used the modifier "traditionally gender-rigid" in an earlier email I might have automatically assumed that the sweatpants were of the Juicy variety with a sassy cut to them. But I think she's more of the Land's End type of girl. And I'm SO not. Her pants could very well be fashionable for all I know but I can't help but think of those really thick Champion sweats with the elastic around the ankles. And what if she pulls them up to reveal portions of her calves?!?! Oh the horror! That settles it -- she's bounced. I won't tell her why but since bachelorette #1 was decent enough to cut me loose early on, I should do the same with White Sweatpants. Oooh, maybe I'll offer to fix her up with the The Belcher. After all, someone with that much gas and bloat could benefit from a pair of pants with a bit more give around the waistline.

no gas shortage here

So I replied to a woman through Craigslist this past week and she immediately wrote back and gave me her phone number. Truthfully, the immediacy of her response and the request to be called right away set off some alarms in my head but I ignored them. I proceeded because I haven't had much dating success lately and I'm making a concerted effort to be less of a fussy pants. So I called and left her a message. I didn't hear from her for a day or two and actually, I was glad. I received her picture after I called her and well, she's just not my type. She dresses like a suburban mom. I'm no fashion plate but even on my worst day, I could never be confused with someone who shot out three kids and regularly attends PTA meetings.

When I hadn't heard back from her, I thought I dodged a bullet. However, I returned home last night to find a message from her on the machine. D'oh! She rambled on for a good 10 minutes and left several phone numbers and spelled out her email address to ensure that I'd call or write back. Halfway through her blather, her voice sounded rather muffled. I thought it was the machine or a bad connection but then she said, "Excuuuuuuuuuse me! I just burped. Well, actually, burped is the polite word. Belched is more like it!" Um, is she TRYING to make me hate her?!?! If I'm in a love with a woman, she can fart and belch up a storm and I'll think it's charming. If a woman does that during the getting-to-know-you stage, she's finished. I was beyond grossed out.

A few years ago a woman contacted me through an online dating site. We emailed back and forth a bit and decided a phone call was in order. She sent me a picture on the day we had scheduled our chat. She was wearing a baseball cap and Tevas. I believe both should be worn for function, not fashion. If you're not on a beach or near a marina, take them sandals off before I strangle you with the Velcro straps. She was already at a disadvantage but I went through with the phone call anyway. The conversation was as dry as toast. Boooooring. Also, I don't know if she had recently consumed soda or what but she did quite a few of those barely audible burp-and-blows. I was horrified. "So I live on ::burp-whew!:: Long Island ::burp-whew!:: and I ::burp-whew!:: like to ::burp-whew!:: go the movies ::burp-whew!:: and watch ::burp-whew!:: Ally McBeal. What ::burp-whew!:: about ::burp-whew!:: you?" That girl is lucky the answer wasn't a dial tone.

I didn't think I'd have to say this, but to all potential suitors, if you're feeling a touch gassy, kindly press the mute button. If one does sneak out, as in the most recent case, just keep talking and don't even acknowledge it. I know I said I wanted to stop being so particular, but courtesy -- and an appropriate level of shame -- will forever remain mandatory.

primate couture

My friend Vera sent me this picture today. She couldn't bear to look at her stuffed monkey in the buff so she whipped out the knitting needles. "I was really bored, so I made the hippy monkey a dress. It looks weird naked." Vera lives in Ogden, Utah. 'Nuff said.

I love a monkey in a dress. I think the only thing cuter is a chimp wearing a diaper or suspenders. Yes, I was a big fan of B.J. and the Bear.