Friday, August 31, 2007

Fall Fashion Rundown: Further Proof That Someone Hates Women A Lot

I came across this ad in New York Magazine:


If I wanted to dress up for Halloween as an intrauterine device, or gastric bypass, this is what I'd wear.
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Thursday, August 30, 2007

Charlie Meyer I Fucking Love You!

Twenty-seven years ago today was born the sassiest, bestest boy there ever was: the one, the only Charles D. Licious Meyer. Charlie (as I call him, along with Calista McFuckface and Chilera ... long stories, all) is the only man that I list among my closest friends, which seems to confirm his mother's suspicions that I am , in fact, in love with him. However, Charlie and I can never express our forbidden love because Charlie is (gasp!) a gay. Not that that stops him from ogling my boobies from time to time, and not that that stops me from grabbing his butt whenever I get the chance ... it's just how we show our affection.

Here is Charlie riding his "big boy" bike:


True story of the day I first met Charlie: It was the first day of college, and as I made my way to the front door of my dorm, I noticed a white-blond boy in the back of a truck. I wish I could say that he fell off the back of the truck, like stolen goods, and that he had been smuggled into the country by German spies, but sadly he just came from Georgia with two normal parents. He looked happy in the truck, and cute in a California boy kind of way. Later, after many similar experiences, I would realize that my instant attraction to him was my form of "gaydar".

Charlie instantly established himself as loud, funny, and willing to moon just about anyone, which is a mark of character in my book. On our second day of school, irnonically and without provocation, he nicknamed me "slut" and proceeded to make up a song about me sung to the tune of The Lion King's "Hakuna Matata":

Una Matata, what a wonderful lay
Una Matata, ain't no passive play
She means no STDs for the rest of your days
She's your disease-free
Sex machine!
Una Matata.


And the rest is history. Pretty soon we were inseperable. We pretty much wasted a year and a half, but it was fun. Our activities included:

- Smoking pot
- Drinking truly heinous mixed cocktails
- Videotaping ourselves watching TV (often preceded by smoking pot)
- Dancing to Madonna, Lauryn Hill, and Blur
- Making lists of our best features and attributes
- Talking about boys
- Me watching Charlie play Final Fantasy 8
- Going on road trips in his Toyota Land Cruiser
- Dressing up like Anne Heche and Madonna for Halloween
- Charlie getting almost naked and me chasing after him trying to keep him from putting his childhood doll, Beargo, in his underpants

Good times. It goes without saying that neither of us sustained a relationship during this time. We were essentially lovers, without the sex.

Here is Charlie drinking tea:


Hmmm.... that's a little too gay. Here is Charlie being manly with tools:


Charlie lives in Virginia now. As he likes to say, Vagina is for lovers! He lives with his sister and her husband and works at Starbucks. Charlie is the best person you will meet. You should go to his Starbucks and sexually harass him. He will like it.

I miss Charlie all the time, but I know we'll be together again soon. The truth is, I have not been great about keeping in touch with him, even though he is one of my very favorite people. So I guess this blog is to begin to pay him back for all of the unreturned phone calls and too-short emails. Charlie, I love you. And I hope you have a very happy birthday.

In closing, here is a photo of me and Charlie, taken last year. We decided to go through a series of motivational poses. This one is us pretending some bitch just cursed us out from across the bar:


OH NO, SHE DIDN'T!
(Happy birthday, love).
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Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Just A Few Of The Things You Never Thought You'd Find Yourself Purchasing For Your Impending Nuptials:

1. 12 cups of freeze-dried flower petals;
2. A small pillow wrapped in a big gold bow, which looks like something a gay midget might sleep with but is actually meant to hold your wedding bands;
3. An aisle runner (just in case it rains and you have to get married indoors, and if it doesn't rain you are stuck with a fucking 50 foot burgundy runner which, just to tell yourself you got your money's worth, you will have to use to stage pretend red carpet events in your living room);
4. Blue underpants bedazzled with rhinestones spelling out "Mrs. Poo Pants"

Yeah, I was debating whether to post that last one. The explanation is even worse than you might imagine -- it doesn't have to do with poop, but it does have to do with Ronald Reagan.
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Nice.

Why is there an ad for "Butt Fat Solution" on my blog? Should I take this personally? I think I will.
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Another Wedding!

This post is a few days late, but my soon-to-be sister-in-law, Cyndi, just got engaged to her boyfriend Chris! They live in San Diego, have a cat, and are supercute:


Congrats to my new big sister!
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Tuesday, August 28, 2007

Tuesday (Voice)mailbag

Message from Bryan:
Hey Una, it's Bryan. I have an amazing idea for you, so you can think about it. Basically, for my karaoke thing in September [Editor's Note: Bryan has made it to the semi-finals of a Spin magazine karaoke competition]-- I'm going to do "Like a Prayer" like I told you -- I want to have a few people there who will put on, like, choir costumes really fast when I start the song, so when I say "Let the choir sing" they'll come out of the audience and come up to the stage and it'll freak everybody out, it'll be amazing. And I want you to be one of the choir people, because you have a good voice and all. Anyway, so call me, OK?

Message from Dad:
Hello, it's your sick Daddy. You smoked marijuana on my birthday?
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Monday, August 27, 2007

Hey, Mom, funny story ...

Jeff and I have been house-sitting for my Mom for the past week while she's been in Block Island. The pros are: cable, dishwasher, laundry, and general sense that we are much more well off than we are. The cons are my mom's two cats, one of whom is spastic and the other of whom shits all over the place. Look, they're nice cats. I just don't like cats. I'm an asshole. Anyway, the important part to remember for the following story is that their names are Dinah (spaz) and Callie (shitter).

Yesterday was the last day of our occupancy, so Jeff and I spent the better part of the morning cleaning. Then, during a lull while we waited for the laundry to finish its spin cycle, we got stoned. And then I decided to make my mom a welcome home banner. I got to work, taping two pieces of notebook paper together. I wrote WELCOME HOME MOM! in black Sharpie. I wrote a message from me and Jeff on one side, and then started to write a message from the cats on the other. "We missed you!" I scrawled, in my approximation of cat penmanship. "Love, Fifi--"

Jeff was looking over my shoulder. "Fifi's dead." he said.

He was right: Fifi had been a beloved cat from the late '80s until 2005, when her declining health forced my mom to put her to sleep. In my altered state, I had unwittingly reincarnated her. My banner almost finished, I tried to troubleshoot.

"Well, Fifi probably still misses my mom." I offered.
"Yeah, but it's creepy to write a message from a dead cat," Jeff reasoned.
"What if I write 'the ghost of Fifi'?"
"That's even creepier."
"Maybe this is Fifi's way of contacting us, through my Sharpie."
"Um, no, I think you're high."

Finally I decided to start over, because, I reasoned, a message from a dead pet is probably not the best way to welcome someone home after a long journey.
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Friday, August 24, 2007

Fall Fashion Rundown: Are You Kidding Me?

I was sick yesterday, and the cable was out (it froze right in the middle of a VH1 special on Britney Spears, which, by the way -- totally depressing. She was so pretty once upon a time...), so I caught up on my fashion magazine reading. I have subscriptions to pretty much every magazine out there (no, seriously: Elle, Glamour, Vogue, Lucky, Jane, Vanity Fair, InStyle, Self, Entertainment Weekly, UsWeekly, Harper's Weekly, New York, and The New Yorker), and still end up buying all of the 'B List' (Star, InTouch, Life & Style, Marie Claire, People, Harper's Bazaar, and even, God help me, O - The Oprah Magazine) when I have nothing to read on the subway, so I am pretty well steeped in all things fashion (and pop culture, and useless celebrity minutae, and, occasionally, actual news!)

Let me take a moment here to say that I have never been particularly enraged by the fashion world. Yes, they use increasingly emaciated models and dress them in things they call "couture" (which, I think, given the yearly parades of oversized tarpaulins, jagged metal belts, and tartan bloomers, must translate roughly into "May Cause Corneal Bleeding"), and yes, all of the designers are batshit crazy and hail each other as visionaries for finding yet another way to force crocodile into the lives of unwitting consumers, but in general I just dismiss the fashion world as kind of ... kooky, and leave it at that. I never thought that it was an evil empire until the arrival of the skinny jean.

Okay, first of all? I do not wear a jean. I wear jeans. Secondly, seriously, what the fuck? I am five foot three and petite, and when I go to buy pants (again, say it with me -- "a pant" does not exist) everything is about five inches too long and about two butt sizes too tight, insinuating that someone of my weight (in the low-to-normal range for my height) should be five foot eight, with an ass the size of two silver dollar pancakes. To add insult to injury, the fashion machine decided to make jeans even skinnier, and to suggest that women of all shapes and sizes should flock like lemmings toward the unforgiving taper of "the skinny jean". I wore tapered jeans in 7th grade. They had zippers on the bottoms, and my legs were like toothpicks (this was pre-puberty, the body ideal as far as the tastemakers are concerned). Oh, if only my cursed period had never arrived! If only I could be flat-chested and 80 pounds forever, my nonexistent hips hidden under the my billowing XL Bart Simpson tee shirt and leggings! Oh, I would have been the toast of Fashion Week in my skinny jeans! I hear Doc Martens are coming back, too.

Anyway, just when I thought it couldn't get worse than the skinny jean, I see this all over the place:



That, my friends, is Dolce and Gabbana's metal corset. Yup, a hard piece of metal wedged right between your ribs and your hips, like a chastity belt for your belly button. It even has locks! Wow, that looks comfy, doesn't it. You can almost hear Jennifer Lopez thinking 'This will do wonders for my scoliosis!' I'm sorry, but if I saw a woman wearing this on the street, I would think she had probably just escaped from solitary confinement and/or a strict S&M master, and was running from the law. I would also think that she is a moron for spending over $3,000 for something that you can get from the hospital for free, provided you injure yourself badly enough to necessitate a brace.

My other major qualm with this fall's fashion offerings (seriously, y'all, when did a simple cardigan go out of style?) is the "hot" shoe of the season, which is the oxford bootie. I know that makes no sense to normal people, so I'll use a visual aid:




I do not judge these shoes based on looks alone (hey, to each his own, right?); rather, I take issue with the fact that they are, to put it quite simply, canklemakers. There, I said it. No one with normal (read: unskinny) legs can wear a bootie without looking like their ankles have the approximate girths of tree trunks. Booties are to ankles as capri pants are to calves, by which I mean they are painfully unlattering. Why, fashion? What is wrong with a normal boot? Why must grown women wear booties? Look, with jeans (I'm sorry, "a jean"), fine. But wear those things with a skirt and you are suddenly two inches shorter and ten pounds fatter. Who put you up to this? Was it that crazy pirate John Galliano? Was it Naomi Campbell? Did she hit you? Was it Janice Dickinson? Did you give her a breathalizer first?
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Monday, August 20, 2007

Moment of Zen: Monday Edition


I swear, this gets oddly soothing after a minute or so.
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I Got Nothin'

I'm sorry for not posting. I have been at work all weekend. I got nothing left. Or, to quote my favorite Richard Gere line (well, the only one I remember, anyway), "I got no where else to go!"

More soon, I promise.
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Thursday, August 16, 2007

Ahoy, matey. Have ye buns of steel?

So I really don't have time to write today, being as it is closing week for the magazine (for those of you not familiar, each month the issue "closes" or "goes to bed", meaning a full week of crazed, coffee-fueled deadlines, mercurial tempers, and greasy take-out. I like to refer to it as the office getting its period).

Regardless, last week I was walking to meet some friends for brunch, thinking about how I had to start getting in shape for the wedding (typical me moment: planning an exercise regime while on my way to gorge), and I looked over and this was staring out at me from someone's throw-away bin:



It's the closest thing to a sign from God I've ever experienced, as I normally hate exercise but I HEART old '80s workout videos, and actually own a vintage Kathy Smith VHS tape from 1985. So, even though the book was large and unwieldy, I took it.

Later that night I rolled out my ratty old yoga mat, cracked open the Jane Fonda Workout, and discovered -- to my delight -- that the model (not Jane, sadly) was wearing not only full-on leg warmers and a fertility-damaging, snap-up leotard, but
also HAD AN EYEPATCH.

If this isn't the best thing I've found on the street, then I don't know what.
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Wednesday, August 15, 2007

I Love BI


The greatest thing about Block Island, aside from it being the only place that can ease my city summer-induced homicidal rage, the only home that's ever made me want to cry every time I leave, and the place where I someday want to die, old and withered and leathery tan, is that its initials are BI, so everyone drives around with BI stickers on their bumpers. For someone who was raised to accept -- nay, embrace, and hopefully one day become -- all things homosexual, I have always enjoyed that Block Island, a tiny, mellow beach town, gives a little unwitting shout-out to bisexuals everywhere.

It monsooned when Jeff and I arrived and again when we left, so the difference between rain-soaked, crap-ass New York and sun-dappled, breezy Block Island was depressingly stark. I can't even describe the weather there -- so I'll quote myself, from an essay I've been working on:

It is early morning and I am the first one up. This feeling has always been a favorite of mine, and unique to Block Island, where waking up early has rewards far beyond catching your subway train on time. Dark night sky gives way to thick morning fog, houses slowly coming into view on the horizon as if being built from the ground up by the rising clouds. The sea, too, unfolds gradually, making its way toward the distant shores of the mainland. It is not quiet; birds chatter, the wind whistles, leaves rustle in tandem with the muted crashing of waves. It is not quiet, but it is peaceful in a way I have never experienced anywhere else.

It was sunny and gorgeous on Saturday, and Jeff got up "butt early" (he is a wordsmith, that man of mine) to photograph the sun rising over the North Light, one of the two lighthouses on the island. At 9 am, we went down to the -- get ready, I'm about to coin a phrase -- retardedly quaint Farmer's Market. Seriously, there is no better way to describe it. It's like ... well, there's a mom-and-pop duo who play a jug band version of "Ob La Di, Ob La Da", there are farm stands run by cute old people wearing overalls, and there's a bell that gets rung when it's time to start shopping (before 9, you have to line up in front of your "first pick" booth, which is almost always the muffin and scone stand). It's held in a little dell off the road, called Negus Park, and walking into it feels like finding a wormhole into a sweet fairie town, or a Nick Jr. cartoon circa 1988 (David the Gnome, anyone?).

We went to Mansion beach, so named on account of the giant mansion that used to overlook it, until it burned to the ground some year that Google apparently doesn't know. Jeff and I were easily the whitest people on the beach (I'm pretty sure tanning is Rhode Island's national pasttime, as my relatives always make fun of me for my cancer-free complexion, and my father's sunburn mantra, which he passed down to me, is "Don't worry! It will fade to tan"). We frolicked in the waves, fell asleep in the sun, offering up our alabaster flesh to the UV gods, and collected rocks. After the beach, we cleaned up and walked down to Dorie's Cove, a rocky stretch of beach near our house, with the intention of taking a flattering portrait for our New York Times Weddings bid. Instead, we ended up taking a series of artsy photos for an imaginary Abercrombie and Fitch campaign:






When we got back to the house, my mom's friend Karen was nice enough to take a more Times-friendly portrait. Look, we're WASPs!



A brief aside: I read the Times wedding announcements weekly, being as they are, quoth Carrie Bradshaw, "the straight woman's sports pages", but I always make fun of them. Why I want to be one of those poor assholes is beyond me. I just do. (Note: check out how our eyebrows are on exactly the same line. One of the NYT's aesthetic regulations.)

The rest of our vacation was spent beaching, drinking, eating, and nature walking. The latter I have finally come to enjoy after years of reluctance, though I still have yet to display an interest in bird watching, to my mother's dismay. What I can enjoy is my mother's favorite game, which I like to call "Imaginary Renovations". She lusts after a house to call her own on the island, and practically every house we pass inspires a reverie beginning "If I owned that house ...", followed by descriptions of wrap-around porches, re-painted trims, and the violent removal of garden kitsch and/or property name plaques reading "Tidely Idely" or "Mellow Yellow". I hope one day that one of the imaginary properties becomes available, and that my mother is there to snatch it from its negligent owners and make it beautiful.

I was sad to leave on Monday, sadder than I think I've ever been. A back-breaking, sanity-testing work week loomed in New York, and as I stared out at the shore from the deck of the house, watching the boats pass on a languid sea, I tried to breathe it all in, to suck enough into my blood to last me the twelve months until I would see it again. As I do every year, I looked out at the horizon and imagined what my life would be like the next time I stood on this deck. I knew that I would be a married woman, but the rest of the year floated out among the clouds, a great, delicious unknown. So many things can happen in a year, in a life. So many changes can happen in a person, in a heart. But Block Island is always there, always a constant, always a comfort. And knowing that is the only way that I can bring myself to leave.
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Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Wish We Were Here


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A Taste ...

I need to upload some photos before posting the full (and, be forewarned, LONG, but of course hilarious and poignant so you have to read it all ... pop an adderall if you have ADD) entry. But, since my few readers tend to complain when I'm silent for too long (this is probably the least well-known blog with regular hecklers), here's a little bit to sate you till tomorrow.

The greatest thing about Block Island, aside from it being the only place that can ease my city summer-induced homicidal rage, the only home that's ever made me want to cry every time I leave, and the place where I someday want to die, old and withered and leathery tan, is that its initials are BI, so everyone drives around with BI stickers on their bumpers. For someone who was raised to accept -- nay, embrace, and hopefully one day become -- all things homosexual, I have always enjoyed that Block Island, a tiny, mellow beach town, gives a little unwitting shout-out to bisexuals everywhere.
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Thursday, August 9, 2007

Go Block Island



Tomorrow Jeff and I leave for 4 days on Block Island. We couldn't really be more in need of a vacation; Jeff -- having felt sick for weeks -- is convinced he has cancer, and I am so cranky that I tried to fill in a clue in the New York Times crossword with ASSFACE ("A personal request for help?" Maybe not.) So I'm hoping that a long weekend of sun, sand, and bluefish pate will cure what ails us.




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Tuesday, August 7, 2007

Literary Boob(s)


So, the book I’m reading now is called Bleachy Haired Honky Bitch. My friend Beth gave it to me (the title made her immediately think I would like it, which I find both flattering and rather sad), and actually I really love it so far. Its author, Hollis Gillespie, is brash and bawdy and hilarious, and I think that if I had been raised in a trailer park in the South I might actually have become her. As it is, I grew up on the streets of Park Slope – which, though my block did have prostitutes and drug dealers in the early ‘90s, cannot by any stretch of the imagination be called “mean streets”, no matter how much I would like to sound tough, unless I am talking to an Amish person or a reealllly slow gas station attendant in the Midwest, in which case they always ask me if I carry a gun, and oh my Christ this is the longest sentence I have ever written and it needs to die -- without a dysfunctional bone in my body (those grew in later), and so I am playing catch-up late in life.

I’ll give you a sec to recover from that last paragraph. Ooooo-weeeee!

Anyway, the book is awesome, but as I sat reading it on the Q train this morning, folding the neon yellow-and-pink cover over in shame, it got me thinking that any book with a title and cover that entices me to buy it is probably also a book I would not like to be seen reading. I am an advertiser’s muse; if it’s bright and bold and has a catchy name, I will consume it. This goes for everything from USWeekly to Confessions of a Video Vixen. What can I say? I like my reading to be salacious and funny. In fact, I think I need it to be. The only thing worse, in my opinion, than being stuck on a stalled R train in the middle of summer, packed in like a sardine next to fat, grab-assy men with sweat stains and women whose fake nails dig into your fist as you vie for a spot on the pole is to do it while reading Faulkner. That would create a situation that would end, for me, with the phrase “…before turning the gun on herself.”

I happily tote my gossip rags and lite lit onto the train to read as I go to work, but once I get to the platform I tuck the cover between my fingers so that passersby can’t tell what I’m reading. Since I make snap judgments about people (the woman on the train reading The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People is a sucker; the hipster reading Foucault is pretentious), I assume they make them about me, too. Therefore I only display my reading material when it does not prominently feature neon colors, half-naked celebrities, and/or saucy titles. ‘Ah,’ I imagine some fellow rider might say, ‘Look at that young woman reading the New Yorker. She must be an upstanding young citizen.’, as opposed to ‘Why is that girl looking at pictures of Tara Reid’s ass?’ Only once did this strategy betray me, when the New Yorker I was reading featured a full page collage of vintage Playboy centerfolds. I unknowingly revealed what looked like porn to a whole group of older women, and had to hold up the magazine to cover my face for the rest of the ride, partly to hide my shame and partly to show them LOOK! I’m reading the NEW YORKER. I am VERY LITERARY, and SO ARE THE BOOBS I AM LOOKING AT.

I wish I weren’t so concerned with what people think of me, but I am. So, with apologies to the delicious Ms. Gillespie, who defused my subway rage all the way to 14th street this morning, I will have to be a closet fan, until I get up the guts to accept that Bleachy Haired Honky Bitch is, well, just my kind of title .
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Friday, August 3, 2007

Pants Status: Cranky

I am cranky. No, more than that. I am pissy, I am irritable, I am lethargic and mildly depressed. I am also having a "fat" day. Thank you, progesterone! You fucking suck.

Is PMS a self-fulfilling condition, I wonder? Every time I get to the dark blue pills in my flesh-colored birth control orb, I think 'PMS a-comin'. Then I put on my little engineer's hat and blow a train whistle. No, just kidding. But I do think, 'Oh, no, I'm going to be bloated and mean in a few days.' So, when something inevitably pisses me off, I feel just a teensy bit justified in unleashing the full force of my wrath, because, hey, you know -- I'm on the rag. What am I supposed to do about it? Hormones make the best fall guys.

Of course, I'm not just making other people miserable -- I'm making myself miserable, too. I'm eating crap -- not even enjoying it, just shoveling it down to keep myself occupied. I'm isolating myself, slumped in my chair, wearing headphones so that no one will talk to me. I'm feeling so sorry for myself that I picked a fight with my boss -- never a good idea. I almost cried, and then I spent the whole afternoon watching "The Office" on ITunes in silent protest.

TGIF, though? I guess? All I want to do is sleep and read USWeekly. Jeff never understands that I mean that quite literally -- my weekend will consist of: bed, magazines, possibly a cocktail if you bring it to me so that I don't have to get up. Jeff is one of those "get the most out of the day" types. He gets upset if we "waste" our weekend indoors. I, on the other hand, feel cheated out of precious weekend time when we "waste" an afternoon at a museum. I like my weekends like I like my movies: dark, indoors, with popcorn.

In my defense, sun gives you cancer. Popcorn, on the other hand, is simply delicious.
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Thursday, August 2, 2007

Will Someone PLEASE invent unscratchable DVDs?

Seriously, I never thought I'd get nostalgic for VHS, but you could roll over a 10-year old cassette tape of "Willow" with a Zamboni and it would still play fine. Every time I open a new Netflix or BlockBuster rental, it looks like someone keyed their initials on the back of the DVD, and I have to sit with my finger poised over my remote like a NASA engineer, ready to frantically pound the FF button should the disc start to skip.

Someone get on this.
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Wednesday, August 1, 2007

Fun with the Fashion Closet!

When 3 pm rolls around, some people's blood sugar gets low, so they eat a granola bar. I prefer to wander around seeing how I can best amuse myself. Sometimes I find someone who's willing to give me a cookie, and sometimes I make myself useful sorting the mail. Most of the time, though, I play with the fabulous props contained within The Fashion Closet.

Today's question: Metallic, shoulder-length gloves: What are they good for?

Results:

They are not good for typing on a computer ...



They are not good for using Post-Its ...



They are not good for dialing phones ...



They are okay for talking on the phone, but add nothing to the experience.



"Hello, I am on a very important call!"

Finally, a breakthrough! The gloves are good for ...



... posing in the bathroom! Success! I guess that's what they're for (minus the bathroom).

Tomorrow, maybe I should just have a granola bar.
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Candybar! Candybar candybar candybar!



I went to the dentist on Friday. I've always been a good, docile dental patient, even without nitrous oxide or novocaine, but my teeth are shitty because I am kind of ... whimsical about flossing, let's say. Let's also say, just for argument's sake, that I often eat M&Ms in bed after I've already brushed my teeth, and I rationalize not brushing a second time because, I mean, who brushes twice in one night? Therefore, it wasn't a huge shock that the dental hygienist told me that I was on the road to gingivitis.

She was, as she spoke, hacking at my gums with what felt like a miniature scythe, scraping at my teeth with a fervor that reminded me of sophomore year of college, when my friend Charlie and I would hysterically carve the resin out of the bottom of his aged pipe in a desperate attempt to get high before sociology class. When I rinsed and spit, the sink looked like a murder scene. I thought of my favorite scene in "Little Shop of Horrors", when Steve Martin gleefully sings "I thrill when I drill a bicuspid! It's swell thought they tell me I'm mal-ad-justed." That's when she said it.

"Healthy gums don't bleed."

Well, yeah, normally they probably don't. Were my gums to spontaneously display stigmata a la Lindsay Lohan, I would be worried. But after twenty minutes of localized hacking with a sharp metal tool? I'd say my gums put up a pretty good fight.

Oh, well. At least I got a free toothbrush.
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