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Shadow Divers, Robert Kurson

This book continues to freak me right the hell out.

The Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club, Laurie Notaro

Not as awesome as I Love Everybody, but hey, that's okay. I heart Laurie Notaro.

DV8: Neighborhood Threat, Warren Ellis

Teenagers with superpowers. Bleah. Not even Sir Ellis's name on this could made it good.

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Fog on Lake Washington

Why won't the birds eat my peanut butter cone? WHY?

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January 5, 2005

When I was at the hair salon last weekend, I spent some time with a copy of Glamour magazine - you know, the one with the really stupid Do's and Don'ts that always portray the size 12-and-above crowd in the Don't section. Fuckers. Anyway, I had nothing else going on, being as how my head had about fourteen metric tons of tinfoil on it and I was partially wedged under a dryer that was slowly microwaving my neck, so I read this article on underwear. Glamour had found several women who were willing to talk about their feelings on the subject, and even have their headshots posed titillatingly near a photo of their underwear of choice.

One of the women liked wearing frilly things under her work clothes, for the "element of surprise". Another absolutely had to wear matching underwear at all times (like some people I know). Yet another claimed an affinity for thongs.

There are times when I feel sort of spectacularly prudish, like when I watch Real Sex on HBO and it's an episode on "pony play" and I find my mouth dangling open and cat fur collecting on my lower lip (I mean, have you SEEN where they insert the leather "tail"?); reading the panty article was one of them.

Right now I am wearing a stretched out, greyish bra that has seen better days. Hell, it's seen better years. All along the seams and straps are little pills of fabric, and the back hooking mechanism is one of those three-clasp jobs, so it's not just ugly - it's wide and matronly too.

Are you filled with revulsion yet? Let's move on, then, to my underwear. It's Jockey brand, black, and mostly benign in appearance - except for the fact that the thin piece of elastic in the waist has snapped, and so the entire thing is now saggy and shapeless. They aren't quite granny panties, but they are damn close. Since I am wearing jeans with a low waist, I've shoved the Jockeys down on my hips so they doesn't peep over the top of my pants.

Ho HO, I bet Glamour is reading this right now and wondering how they missed out on including ME in their very interesting and journalistically sound article!

After my hair appointment and subsequent lunch date with Chiara, we wandered through the mall and found ourselves in Victoria's Secret, which was having one of those sales where they put out huge tubs of old inventory and women become panty-digging beasts. While I don't want to go so far as to call myself SCANDALIZED by some Victoria's finest, I can only excuse my reaction to the thong with a feather attached to it by asking you, who wears that? I mean, seriously.

If you happen across a thong with a feather attached to it, may I suggest that you do not point to it across a crowded room of lingerie-shopping women, and sing out "Aaaaaaaand they called it macarooooni!" in a loud, trumpeting tone. I can tell you from experience that people will look at you as though you have suddenly transformed into a palmetto bug. Oh, and if you hold up a lacy merry widow thing and remark scornfully to everyone within earshot that god, it would totally show dog hair - well, that's not good either. My friend Chiara, she is patient and kind.

It's not that I have a thing against nice underwear, I guess I'm just a dedicated case of laziness that is already maxed out at cobbling together the clothes that are actually visible to other people - the articles that cling against my tender bits, well, I just don't care much what they look like. I care that they do their job, because no one wants to trot through the day with wildly flailing hooters that threaten to plunge out the armhole of their shirt, and I care that they are comfortable, because I do not want to floss my colon, but my bra and panties need not be the same shade of delicate periwinkle blue for me to leave the house.

This is probably something I should work on, because I already struggle with feeling dowdy and boring appearance-wise. I bet if I wore nicer underwear, underwear with cute patterns that matched each other, I would feel sexier - underneath, where it counts! Or, wait, that's supposed to be inside, where it counts. Damn.


In other non-undie news, it is cold as fuck here in Seattle. It was 23 degrees this morning, and tomorrow may bring snow and ice. If you're in the area, or hell, wherever you are, be careful out there. I saw a nasty accident yesterday that resulted from a patch of ice just a few blocks from my house - it didn't look like anything someone walked away from. Stay safe!


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