Happy Monday!

Three reasons this is a kickass Monday:

1. My power has come back on.

I have been without power since Thursday night (the night also known as "The Apocolypse: Beta Version"). If you live in a cave in Montana you might not know that one of the worst storms in Seattle's history touched down pretty much squarely on top of my house that night, with winds reaching 90 miles per hour and approximately 1 inch of rain in 45 minutes (flash flooding, anyone?). Because it is a frigid fall here this year, lack of power translated into a 39 degree, dark home all weekend. Well, at least I presume that's what it meant. You see, the moment the rain began to fall and the lights to flicker, I was out of there faster than a white man in a French Quarter "PopEye's Chicken" restaraunt. I spent all weekend and the end of last week crashing in various people's houses -- smart people with generators or poor people who live in Tacoma (where the power did not go out) -- eating their food, sleeping in front of their fireplaces, showering, and generally wearing out my welcome.

And when I got home last night, lo and behold, power had been restored! And I, ever the consumer-whore, took a 45 minute hot shower and then got into my electric-blanketed bed, leaving the christmas lights on all night long, just to make up for all the energy I hadn't used over the weekend blackout.

[74.2 percent of the above is exaggeration. Except for the wind speed and temperature parts. Oh, and the racial slur, which I am excusing myself for, because I've actually seen a white man necessarily quickly exiting a PopEye's Chicken restaraunt in the French Quarter. That man was my dad, and he almost got his ass kicked for being a "Yankee". Either that or the confederate flag on his shirt. No, no, I am only kidding. Sorry. I'm just not that funny today.]

2. This video has solved my long-standing dillemma as to what to put on my Christmas list this season..

{UPDATE: I have now watched this probaby about 63 times, and have determined that, though Saturday Night Live has been slacking for some time now (did you see that one with McDreamy? Terrible.), this is possibly the best shit that's come out of that show for a while. Also, props to JT. He's actually quite funny.}

Warning: this is somewhat explicit. If you work in a cubicle or next to your boss, a nun, or a Mormon, I advise clubbing them with a heavy stapler until they slip into temporary unconsciousness before viewing. Or you could just wait until home. Either way.

3. Tis the season for everyone I advertise with or manage to kiss my ass.

This year, I've gotten particularly awesome Christmas gifts from vendors, ad account reps and business associates, including three kick-ass presents today alone, including this, these, and this (in white)!

I expect this will continue through the end of the week, which makes me very very happy. The only thing better than getting gifts is giving them.

No, I lied. Getting gifts is pretty much the most awesome thing ever.

[I used to be a Giving-is-better-than-Getting type, but last year, after gifting everyone I know including two ex-boyfriends and one homeless person and being pretty much crippled by debt, I've decided just to allow myself the pleasure of a short shopping list and lots and lots of recieving this year.

I'm sending out extra Christmas cards to make up for it, of course -- cards that feature my head superimposed as the top ball on a snowman -- but my gift list is refreshingly short. Fuck it, I figure. Once in a while, we're all allowed just to sit back and recieve.

I've even been practicing my "thank you's" and "it's PERRRFEEECCCT!!!" squeals in my bathroom mirror every night before bed and after flossing, just to be sure I'm prepared. Now I'm just waiting for my Mercedes in the driveway with the big fucking red bow on the top. Oh, wait, those commercials are completely retarded and impossible. And I don't have a driveway.

Eh, whatever.]

Happy Monday, all!

Searchterms, visitors and playlist: December 2006

Searchterms leading to Legwarmers so far in December:

- convince my parents i have meningitis (Thanks to THIS post
- connie chung web hands (Can you think of anything more disturbing?)
- true enema experiences (Well, okay, there's ONE thing that's more disturbing.)
- pauly shore punched texas (Somehow, this doesn't surprise me. If anyone is stupid and bitter enough to try to punch the country's largest state, it's Pauly Shore. Poor scrawny, greasy bastard.)

My favorite, though, is the fact that so far this month my two largest search engine terms leading to Legwarmers that weren't obviously people trying to find Legwarmers (the blog) or legwarmers (the footless socks) were:

1) "condom instructions" and, thanks to my last post
2) "first lesbian encounter"

Quality content here, people. It scares me a little, though, that people who don't know how to use a condom might actually land here while searching to the answer to their... uh... most pressing of questions.


Shoutouts to three illustrious visitors this month:

1. Goodyear Tire Co. (Hey! Guys! It's about time for a rotation... show some love, already.)

2. Jones Soda Co. ("Run with the little guy." Such a great tagline. I have a warm place in my heart for these guys - after all, they're a local company. Plus, their marketing message is crystal clear: angsty tweens, misfits and liberals of the world, UNITE in brightly-colored, cool-labeled, soda-guzzling uniqueness!)

3. The US Patent and Trademark Office -- the only one of these three, by the way, who has a good reason to visit me during business hours: to hunt me down and punish me for the recklessly unattributed images posted throughout. Perhaps I should send cookies to make amends.

My former employer/colleagues are also regular visitors, which is funny because through the grapevine I hear they still refer to me only as "The Bitch" for leaving them for my current job. Which is, like, something out of Seinfeld.

Legwarmers' December Playlist:

"The Last Kiss" Soundtrack.

I got this months ago after seeing the film, which I actually liked, and it has since become part of my oft-played collection of CDs in the visor of my car. There are only about 10 CDs that make this cut. The requirement is that the CD has to be one you can listen all the way through without getting sick of - and it can't get super old after a dozen plays. This eliminates pretty much all mainstream music, as it tends to be pretty lyrically and musically formulaic which translates into audio boredom after about the fourth play (and its second month in the top 40).

Other albums that make the "Visor" cut include:

Fiona Apple: Extraordinary Machine
A Rage and Audioslave mix
People Under the Stairs
Nelly Furtado: Folklore
Ray Lamontagne
A jazz greats mix (think jazz standards ranging from "Blue" to "Birdland")
Psapp
Gorillaz
and Tribe Called Quest, among a few others.

Get it. It's good.

Have a great rest of the week. More coming soon...

The best I ever had

Oh, hello, ex-boyfriends of the world. Sorry to dissapoint -- this blog is not about your sexual prowress.

[Did you hear that? The browsers of... both... my ex-boyfriends closing in disgust? Me too.]

Thanks all for your well-wishes for my full recovery, though regardless of whether I do, in fact, heal completely and with full range of motion, none of you will be getting a handjob. Sorry to dissapoint... again.

Which brings me to my next story of medical discomfort: the gynecologist.

[I know what you're thinking, and yes -- this IS just another cliche post from a female blogger talking about the **eeewww** gyno. The reason this formula is cliche is because it works. Sorry, true. Cliches are cliches for a reason. Just like stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason. For example, I saw yesterday a cop walking into a Dunkin' Donuts. See? It's science. Don't fight it.]

I'd better get to the point of the story first, as after that paragraph I'm lucky if you're still with me:

I recently went to the gynecologist and got a Pap Smear (is that capitalized?) so good, my friends worried I was a lesbian for a week.

[See? It will be a moderately bad story, I promise.]

At first, it was a normal Pap.

Go in, try not to breathe in the waiting room for fear of contracting an airborne illness, be led back to the doctor's office, where you're weighed, rated, listened to and poked before you're told to strip down, put on a gown that doesn't close in the back, and wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait more, while envisioning the Pap -- awful, violating, and that cold metal "duck". On a cold, noisy paper-lined bench that makes you feel like an old person in a hospital.

It's like torture, honestly.

And then: the doctor enters, like royalty.

I ended up in Dr. Price's office on the strong recommendation of a family member who urged me to see her for reasons she did not go into detail about. But she seemed certain Dr. Price was good, and I trust her opinion, so there I was.

Dr. Price is about a 5 foot 6 female. Shortish sandyish hair, a plain but pleasant face, a lowish voice and a soothingish personality. Basically, if she wasn't a doctor in a lab coat, you would probably never notice her at all.

Dr. P went about her business exactly that way, too. Sneaky, almost, how comfortable she got you. After a bit, I suddenly found myself on my back, talking about all sorts of personal things, half-naked, with a manly woman who was touching my woman parts. As you can imagine, it was a very confusing encounter.

As she did the breast exam part (for men, a mental picture: imagine the first time you groped a girl. Now imagine that same action, only minus the squeezing -- same motion, just with stiff fingers. That's it...), we continued our chit-chatting.

I had been caught off-guard, unprepared for the doctor to ask me all sorts of personal questions (not medically personal, more sexually and intimately personal) and was, therefore, feeling a bit put on the spot. And when I wasn't responding to her, I was doing a lot silent commentary on how bizarre the situation felt, and how if I didn't know she was a female, I might mistake her (via personality, conversation, etc.) for a man. I felt like I was hypnotized -- hyper self-conscous and self-critical, a constant stream of inner dialogue, but also so comfortable I almost couldn't control my bizarre behavior or turn off the commentary in my head.

"So, not married yet?"

"Me?" (Inner self: No, moron... the other half-naked unmarried woman in the room.)
"Oh, nah." (I was focusing on being nonchalant about that -- you know, trying not to get defensive, even though pretty much everyone I know is married and 26 and single is starting to lose its appeal).

"Why's that?"

"Gosh, you know, I guess it's just not a priority right now," I said, cool as a cucumber. "I'm, you know, married to my job." (Inner self: WHAT? Did I really just say I'm MARRIED to my JOB? Nice one. Fuck, you're retarded.)

"Oh, come on. Married to your job?" I started to sweat. She was on to me. "You're young, and in great shape," she continued. Inner self: Why, thank you sir--err--ma'am. "I'm glad you enjoy your work, but so do I and I still think it's important to nurture more... personal relationships." Inner self: Okay, weird. Personal like how? "...At least to relieve some of the stress in my life. It gives me perspective. And you want kids, right?" she concluded, from somewhere below my tormented head and between my legs.

I had no idea how she got there or what she was doing, and I didn't care. Suddenly I had been propelled into some sort of bizarre couch conversation -- and I couldn't figure out if the good doc was trying to be my psychlogist or my boyfriend. Either way, I was so preoccupied by my running inner dialogue about the weirdness of the situation that I continued to be... weird.

"Oh, kids? Sure. Absolutely. Eventually."

"Good. Well, you're fertile now, but you will be for some time, so that's nothing to rush in to."

Inner self: AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!

It was like she was a manipulative man, and she wanted to be my baby's daddy.

I can't explain it now, and I couldn't explain it to my girlfriends, either, later on that night during drinks.

"You guys? I think my gyno is a lesbian, and I think she was maybe hitting on me during my Pap."

This elicited a wide range of responses. By wide range I mean a shrill cackling to a full-on silent-gasping-for-air laugh.

"Liz, c'mon," they said, more or less. "First of all, every gyno isn't a lesbian. Second of all, every lesbian isn't going to hit on you, you crazy narcissist. Third of all, did you like it?"

I was stuck between a lesbian encounter and liking a lesbian encounter.

Oh, and being a narcissistic lesbian-encounter lover.

To be clear, I'm cool with lesbianism, [You guessed it: the PC disclaimer one must include in any blog rubbing up against, proverbially, controversial topics including homosexuality, black nail polish-wearers, Hello Kitty, racism and hot dog ingredients.]

Hey, I can appreciate that women are a lot prettier to look at than stinky, hairy, fat, scary men. But as much as I can sort of see where lesbianism is an attractive concept, I could just never ever go through with it. I would have to be a celibate lesbian in order for that whole prospect to work.

But the point is that in this context of my conversation with the girls, after two martinis each, and facing the "did you like it?" question, I had nowhere to go. Backpedaling was futile.

So I was honest.

"It was the best Pap I've ever had."

A week later, after the "Do you think she's secretly considering lesbianism?" whispers reached a deafening roar, by which I mean I was constantly and publicly the butt of jokes about my apparent sexual confusion post-Pap, I finally had to make the phone calls -- to ALL of them -- confirming once and for all that I was, in fact, NOT a lesbian, and that although the Pap was a good one, the goodness of said pap is relative to the typical badness of them. Meaning a good pap is just not a bad pap. And also that my confusion was mostly focused around the fact that while I was busy analyzing the conversation in the exam room, she was sneakily busy analyzing my.. ahem... and I was so preoccupied I didn't even feel it.

The harder I try to explain, the worse it gets. So I will leave you with this in an effort to get out before it's far, far too late:

For a Pap so good it will temporarily convince your friends you are gay, call Dr Price: (425) 555-7662.

About surgery, under the influence of narcotics and daytime television

The doctor entered the room to find me sitting in a reclining patient chair in a pale blue back-tying gown, legs curled under me, wiping away nervous tears.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

After reading 10 pages of disclaimers, risks and complications that may or may not kill me during the shoulder surgery I would be undergoing in 20 minutes, as delineated by a series of very precise ratios (heart failure: 1 in 10,000, infection: 1 in 4,800) I wanted to run screaming out of the office. But instead, I collected byself and muttered “Yes, oh, yes. Just… nervous.”

“Well, that’s perfectly normal,” he said softly – almost fatherly (or at least I imagine that’s what fatherly is like. I wouldn’t really know, as my father is a fucker).

“Oh, good. So odds of pre-op tears are what, then? 9 in 10?” I was trying to be funny. He was trying not to look at me like I was crazy.

After a series of questions (he must have asked me 5 times when the last time I ate was) and an overview of what he was about to do to me, he stood to leave, assuring me the anesthesiologist would be here shortly to poke needles into me. On his way out, he patted my knee.

“We’re going to take good care of you,” he said, causing my eyes to well up again under his sypmathetic (feigned sympathetic?) gaze. I felt like a total wuss. “I’ve done a few of these before, you know.”

He had. He is the former Mariners’ shoulder surgeon. I knew he was good, but goddamn was I still nervous. Doc left me to gather myself while he readied the operating room.

As promised, prick-man entered shortly later (prick as in stab as in stab me with sharp pointy objects) and gave me first some sort of pokey thing in my left arm (I didn’t look, but in the end I was attached to a clear tube and a baggie of liquid which made me feel a little like an 80 year old, particularly when I factored in my bareness under the thin robe and the shuffling steps I would have to take while pushing the baggie-cart attached to my arm down the hall to the operating room).

He then ran through my options for anesthesia during surgery. Either way I’d be out, but he said I could opt in to having what he called a “block” – a needle in my neck that would cause my neck, chest, shoulder, arm and back to go totally numb for up to 24 hours – through the most painful parts of my recovery.

“Yes, please,” I whimpered. “That sounds nice. Numbness. How does it work?”

“Well, we put a needle in your neck, and then give you a series of shocks through the needle to make your arm and neck twitch so we know it’s in the right spot,” he said. I shuddered. He continued. “The shocks last a minute or two, and then when it’s in the right place, we put in the medicine and your affected body parts go to sleep.”

He launched into some risks, while I fantasized about how horrible the shocking part and needle in my neck part would be. He then assured me I’d be asleep when it happened, which sealed the deal.

“I’m in,” I said. “When do we start?”

Shortly later I was strapped down on a bed in a mostly stainless steel room. The sterility of the room was more than just clean, it was almost morbid. There wasn’t as much as a nice framed photo on the wall. It, and the observation window on one side of the operating bed, reminded me eerily of the vet’s office in which I recently had to put my cat to sleep. More shuddering and some positive self-talk barely drowned out visions of a surgery gone wrong, a Kervorkian doctor, etc.

Once I was settled, Prick-man said “Here comes the don’t care drugs. They’ll take about thirty seconds to work.”

Of course, I took that as a challenge. I started to count to thirty in my head but was interrupted at eleven by a blissfull giddy feeling.

I felt myself start to grin and giggle, which was the last thing I wanted to do – grin and giggle while going under like some imbicile. But I couldn’t control it. The drugs were good, and my filter was overcome.

Embarrassed and smiling like a dope, I went out.

....

“How are you feeling?”

I blinked, seeing only two blurry figures. Blinked again. Two became one.

Third blink, and finally: focus. There was the nurse, peering down at me, smiling.

I grinned back, and immediately realized I was through surgery and high as a kite. And it started again. I couldn’t help myself. Filterless, I opened my mouth to respond.

“Waaassted!!!” I slurred, googling and giggling.

I got dressed with some effort (and help), and home with more help, where I crashed on the couch immediately after calling every one of my friends on speed dial, leaving most of them euphoric, slurring messages about how awesome I felt and how much I loved them. (So pretty much just like I do every Friday and Saturday night, really, but this time I was on a delightful narcotic high, and couldn’t feel one whole side of my body.)

That block was the best thing I ever did, because the first night and half-day went by with no pain, just a weird tingling in my hands and a few moments in the night when I woke up realizing I was holding my own hand, even though it felt like someone else’s.

The second day, though, is here and now that the numbness has worn off, I’m in a good amount of pain. Plus, I can’t change my shirt or button my jeans on my own, which means I’ve had a series of friends and family members swinging by to make sure I’m fed and clothed.

That said, though, I’d have to say thus far my verdict on surgery is that it’s pretty awesome. I get 30 vicodin, 30 oxycodin, and about four straight days of babying, sleeping, movies, and one-handed writing, by blackberry or computer.

Oh, and daytime TV, which before this surgery I didn’t even really know existed. Great, trashy stuff. After about my fifth hour of Matlock reruns, Judge Kathy, Judge Mills and Judge Franklin, I switched to Oprah, where I learned a little tidbit that I immediately called pretty much everyone I know to share, through hysterical hiccups and a few exchanged anecdotes about ex-boyfriends:

For every 35 lbs a man loses, he gains one inch in penis length. How about that?

I mean, one INCH! I suppose that must taper off a bit at a certain point, like once you can actually look down and see it, instead of doughy, hairy flab, don’t you think? Good stuff.
Just thought I’d share.

Okay then, back to the drugs. It’s about time for Judge Judy and some applesauce. Also, it took me probably an hour to type this with only one good hand. Backspacing is a virtual impossibility. So if you find typos or decide this is poorly written, please excuse me and keep it to yourself. I’m pretty proud I made it this far.

Have a great day working, suckers. I’m going back to the couch. (Oh, and I happily accept get well gifts, so feel free).

The Thanksgiving tree

"I don't want that thing in my car," he said.

"What? Why? It's just a fake Christmas tree!"

"I just don't. It's weird."

The weirdness of my grandmother's oversized fake Christmas tree was causing some packing delays last night. As I was busy with my overnight bag, I was also pulling out decorations I had borrowed from my grandmother last year (when my family was convinced she might not see another Christmas -- morbid, I know) so I could return them to (alive and well) her, allowing her a proper celebration this year.

Z, who would be driving us both across the pass this afternoon so we could celebrate the holiday with my relatives, wasn't really having any of the fake Christmas tree.

And although I'd never admit it, I got it.

It was huge and scratchy and dusty, and most of all, fake. His reaction to that tree was something like my reaction to every silk plant on the planet or that lunchmeat with the pimentos in it.

It is just plain unnatural.

And being a Christmas purist, I honestly believe in the value of marching aimlessly around a Christmas tree farm, sharpened hand-saw dragging behind you, pointing and arguing over which is the most perfectly symmetrical tree. Of course this is followed by the cutting down of the tree (which is usually almost impossible and always results in pine needles in parts of your body you really prefer not to have pine needles) and typically ends with at least one person lying pinned under a large near-symmetrical tree yelling

"There's SAP in my EYE!! OH GOD!! SAAAPPP!!!"

Unfortunately, sometimes the real world gets in the way of my principles, and in addition to my Grandmother's full-size fake tree, I also have a fake tree, though mine is miniature in size and pre-strung with lights (my second most favorite part of Christmas -- by which I mean most likely to result in someone's death -- is untangling Christmas tree lights). I had to stand my ground, if only to avoid hypocrisy.

"Look, it's not weird. It's a tree. Explain to me why my Grandmother's Christmas tree can't ride in the trunk of your car."

::silence::

"Really. I won't even argue. Just explain it to me."

Z, smiling in resignation: "I can't. It can come. It's fine."

Victory!

"Are you just saying that, or are you admitting you were being completely uptight?" (I needed to clarify in what manner exactly I had won this argument.)

"Yes."

"Which?"

"Honestly," he said, "Don't push it."


The Christmas tree, Z and I will all, apparently, be making it across the pass this afternoon. My grandmother will be delighted. (Well, would be, if she could remember why.)

And last night, I put up my second fake tree in my house. It took 20 seconds and once it was erect, I just plugged it in and watched it stand there, glowing.

Yeah, I missed out on the whole chopping, sapping, pine needling, arguing, hauling, trimming experience, but it brightened up the place just the same.

Happy holidays, all. If yours are anything like mine, they will consist of one long bender, punctuated by meals that could be mistaken for death-matches with your own stomach capacity. Quite frankly, that's just the way I like it.

I'm bringing umbrellas back.

Being a Seattleite, I’ve always turned up my nose at umbrellas. There’s something about them that seems... so high-maintenance, I guess. I’ve long said there are two surefire ways to distinguish real Seattleites from transplants. One is the umbrella. True locals hardly ever carry them, opting instead to run from building to building or – heaven forbid – just let their hair get wet. The second way is look outside on a sunny, but 57 degree, day. All those people with shorts—usually khaki—and sandals—often Birkenstocks or flippies—on? Born n’ raised.

But over the past week, we’ve seen storming like I haven’t seen in years. The rain is at times horizontal, and always coming down in torrential sheets, flooding roads, driveways, highway ditches. It pools over arterials, bringing cars to silent standstills in feet of water, their befuddled drivers sitting in the fast-cooling passenger seat, weighing the options: sit still and wait for the water to seep in, or open the door and get it over with.

There are farms north of my childhood home that flood every year, stranding cows on raised bits of field – like lonely, obese people on very soggy, very small deserted islands – where they moo and low and shuffle and sleep standing awkwardly in circles like they’re waiting for the ark.

Everywhere the world is covered in brown and green reflective surfaces – stretches of still water lying like cold, mirrored blankets over acres of pasture, miles of freeway, hundreds of feet of baseball fields, tracks and mid-suburb playgrounds.

Kids delight in world-class puddle-splashing, as would I if I had a single pair of practical shoes. Instead, I have opened my closet every day for a week considering what I own that won’t leak, bleed, become see-through or smell like a dead sheep if it gets wet, as I have the aforementioned lifetime disdain for umbrellas, the practical but sissy savers of clothing, hair and laptops.

But it’s been seven days and I have had enough. I’ve battled nobly, but I’m just getting too old for this “too good for umbrellas business”.

After I spent last Sunday spent sloshing around downtown “shopping” (seemed more like swimming, honestly) in pointy flat Chanel shoes, I turned a corner. After finally taking refuge with a herd of friends in a bar, I first drank pint after pint while squirming my feet around in their wet shoes and pondering the likelihood they would actually rot, Vietnam soldier-style. Once they dried and thawed, I weighed my options for exiting the building and navigating the wet on a go-forward basis, as I was totally over this whole “soggy’s just a state of mind” thing.

Option one: retain my pride and remain umbrellaless, spending the next three months being slowly drowned alive – a poor option if you consider the associated pain (90 straight days of frizzy hair and runny mascara). Also, with this option, wool sweaters are out, as they are completely horrible-smelling when wet, as is anything white or cream-colored because of their tendency to reveal more than I wish to reveal on the way to work.

Option two: Stay inside until June. In theory, a great concept. That is, until it comes time to pay rent.

Option three: forsake pride, buckle, and buy a goddamn umbrella already.

After about a football game worth of beer and commiserating, my friends and I were prepared to step back out into the gale force winds and two-foot deep puddles.

“Uh, guys?” I said.

They turned.

“I think I’m going to buy an umbrella.”

Openmouth staring. Like I’d just said “I think I was anal probed by an alien life form – and I liked it -- last night”.

But I’d suffered long enough. My flatiron missed me. As did my little cream tweed wool jacket. And although my shoes would remain impractical, I knew the umbrella would save me from the most uncomfortable part of rain of all: that nearly ice-cold raindrop that insists on falling right in that hollow part of your neck where your shirt gaps enough for it to drip, cold and unexpected, onto your collarbone and then trickle down your chest or under your arm, where it leaves a trail of goosebumps and an uncomfortable violated feeling.

I love Seattle, and the rain, and I’m a native if ever there was one. I’m not afraid of plaid or flannel or bums or beards. I have three square cups of coffee a day and would check “athletic” in a box that describes me. I understand the ferry system and I’m proud of the bio-fuel buses. Traffic doesn’t faze me, but I don’t know how to drive a stick shift, and I like to hike, fish, and pet strangers’ dogs. And if I found a wallet, I’d return it to its rightful owner.

But damn it, I’ve walked my last block in the rain. It’s not like it is in the movies, where people are all warm and sexy and beautiful when wet. They’re not. They smell weird, and are clammy, and most of us women, try as we might to make wet look irresistible and carefree, just look like someone gave us a swirly.

So now, I am the proud owner of a gorgeous little polka-dotted umbrella that goes perfectly with my pointy, wet, impractical flats. (And that newly smooth, dry, shiny hair). And you know what? I like it. I feel a little mysterious under an umbrella, like at any moment a stranger might approach me and duck under for a quick makeout session, or tuck a note into the pocket of my trench. It’s that feeling of hotness that comes from being completely and stylishly buttoned up – like that headmistress all the Catholic boys obsessed about in junior high, or the slightly dangerous but undeniably sultry femme fatale in those noir films.

And I like it.

Halloween and my new shower curtain

"I don't know," I whined. "I don't like Halloween."

"Yeah," he said, the picture of a convincing friend itching for a party, "but there will be candy. And beer."

I wasn't initially planning on making much of a fuss about Halloween because I'm lazy. Then, I was enthusiastically planning on going as Bob Ross for a couple days, for a few key reasons including comfort and humor, as well as the fact that I am the only white girl I know who looks smoking hot in a 'fro wig, but also to protest the number one reason I hate Halloween and all my guy friends love it: Costumes like this.

I dunno, I guess I just feel like a girl's options are limited on Halloween. Limited, I mean, in the sense that there seems to be some unwritten rule that anything you dress up as must include the word "dirty" or "slutty" in front of it, and must therefore appear "dirty" or "slutty".

Dirty Nurse. Slutty Schoolteacher. Kinky Parole Officer. It's all exhaustingly predictable (and restrictive!).

"Oh, all right," I relented. "But I'm not being slutty anything. In fact, I'm not dressing up at all. Take it or leave it."

"Sold!" he said. "In fact, I won't dress up, either. We'll come as "tuesday night"."

While that concept was mediocre at best, I was glad I wouldn't be alone in un-costumed glory. We were off.

House party, in Fremont. Many friends and strangers there, huddled around two freezing cold kegs. Many, many slutty fill-in-the-blanks, and me -- tall, long, straight hair (recently dyed back to its natural very dark brown), glasses, jeans, heels, and a military-style button-up jacket.

"What are you supposed to be?" I was routinely asked.

Glare, hair toss, then response: "Daria."

It was all very "My So Called Life".

At the party, I counted 6 doctors (six! Well, one surgeon in all-white, but the rest were doctors.) and two cowboys riding strap-on horses and both carrying capguns, which are incredibly irritating. There was also one ninga with very creepy stick-on long moustache things, carrying "safety numchucks", which I immediately removed from his costume and began swinging around like a retard.

There were some so-so movie characters, but one Shaft that was priceless. And there was a girl dressed in all-pink with cotton batting wrapped around her head who shuffled and itched and sweated all night who said she was a Q-tip. Funny, but also a little weird and very uncomforatable-looking. Overall, a general costume so-so-ness, which I am partially to blame for.

Oh, but the house had a sweet-ass showercurtain printed with cute little inspirational "positive self-talk" phrases like "I love naked!" and "I am so clean!" and "Look at me!" all over it. The funny part is the house was rented by four very masculine men. By the end of the night, everyone was talking about the shower curtain (It was a CRAZY party, you guys. Off the hook, or whatever. Clearly.), and we'd tracked down the owner, Paul, a tall, muscular guy in a Fireman outfit who confessed he got it at Target.



He blushed, drained his keg cup, and tossed it through a plastic basketball hoop velcroed to the wall above the living room door. (Very grown up.)

"Girls love it," he said.

He was right. The thing is totally frivolous and adorable. I bought one yesterday.