Show of hands: Have you, personally, missed the tomboy’s delightful little entries here at FFAF?

U H – H U H.

I knew it. Sweet readers, consider this an early Christmas present, because M is back to tell us all about this outstanding holiday party ensemble of hers now:

“First things first, company holidays parties are the worst. You can’t curse anyone out, you can only bring one guest (if you’re lucky!), you feel like you HAVE to attend and the food is always so-so. On the other hand, there’s an open bar, the venue might be really fantastic, you don’t hate everybody and it’s free!

After dragging the femme to several of my company holiday parties, it was time I attended one of hers. Of course, her affair is ultra- fancy and black tie ‘optional’ at a museum (not just any museum, y’all, the Asian Art Museum, which used to be the former main library for the city of San Francisco, with a Beaux-Arts exterior to die for. – Skinny), whereas mine are business casual (at best), and held at a “sports club” – which is really just a gym that still smelled kinda sweaty – made to look like a casino, or a small restaurant/bar (we software engineers like to keep it classy). I was worried it was going to be unbearable, but fortunately, we have finally mastered the art of showing up, enjoying ourselves, and leaving before any of the embarrassing dancing takes place. It’s a lot of fun because you know shit is already going to hell in hand basket, and someone will surely be fired before the night is out, and you see people lining up for more free drinks, and you quickly say your goodbyes before anyone gets too sloppy or (heaven forbid) forces you to dance. Then you head to a real bar, where you pay real money, but you get much better drinks and much better company! That’s the holiday spirit.”

M is leaving out that last year’s holiday party was held at an aviation museum, which I thought was pretty cool.

(Important note: These and subsequent photos were taken after free drinks AND purchased real drinks at a real lesbian bar. In our garage. Because I haven’t had the time to develop my “studio” and the show must go on in the interim, mustn’t it?)

Slacks: Express
Dress Shirt: Kenneth Cole
Black Velvet “Nerd Band Jacket Action” & Tartan Plaid Tie: H&M
Tie Clip: Vintage
Belt: Calvin Klein
Albino Zombie Stag Brooch: Etsy
Boots: Lounge by Mark Nason
Ridiculously Adorable Dogs: Conor “Bird” Bennett, Chipotle or “the fucking dingo” (crazy courtesy of rescue shelters)

S W O O N.

Palettes! THESE ARE A LOT OF COLORS. But it works.

I’ve had this really fabulous Kenneth Cold necklace forever and as far as I can tell, it’s made a single, sad little appearance on this blog.

I still remember buying it!

M & I were at this amazing, super industrial outlet store near our old place – in its heyday, I’d leave with an armful of shoes, and its slow decline saddened me – and I saw it in the glass case. The brown leather is unbelievably supple and buttery, and the little pearls randomly strewn through out this textured silver, well, I died. Of course, I took it home, never once suspecting it’d end up around my waist one day.

I love it this way and probably ought to have more faith in its construction, but I was a little afraid all my rigorous running around and climbing up and down rickety old stepladders might break it. It turns out fate would take care of that for me, when I spilled a shitload of cooking oil all over the front of the dress whilst preparing for dinner with poor scientist. will blog for food, requiring a head-to-toe wardrobe change.

It happens to the best of us, right? Or maybe just me. Hm.

Hey, are you voting daily? You know, to help FFAF win a richly deserved 2009 Lezzy Award? WELL, GEEZ, GET VOTING ALREADY!

Saturday began innocently enough. We woke up, put a batch of cinnamon rolls into the oven for breakfast, watched a bit of BBC’s Pride & Prejudice and set out for the East Bay to find M some skater shoes. While I found an excellent new jacket and an adorable ski cap with hearts on it, M ran into one dead end after another with the shoes. To add insult to injury, Buffalo Exchange sent her into a homo panic and some persnickety baby dyke with no manners and a lot of attitude looked me up and down obscenely (and repeatedly) enough to solicit M’s wrath. It wasn’t pretty, but no blows were exchanged. Having had it with Oakland, we returned to SF and freshened up for our date.

Contigo Kitchen + Cava, a cozy tapas restaurant in Noe Valley with a strangely appealing lime green and firewood motif, didn’t open until 5:30PM, so we popped into a few shops and grabbed a warm-up round of pleasant enough cocktails at Bliss bar. DINNER WAS AMAZING. We had the pork belly, lamb shoulder and patatas bravas, and M & I both tried hazelnuts for the first time. They were delicious, as well as the cheese plate and prosciutto (the sheep’s milk was my favorite). It began to rain and as we wrapped up dinner, a few friends invited us out for drinks at a lesbian party at a gay club in the Castro. Much debauchery ensued, and I almost immediately stripped off the cardigan, leggings and coat when we walked in, it was that hot.

Strangely, we seemed to know everyone there. It was like one big, unending jovial reunion of sorts, and boozy texts to have even more friends join us were successful, making everything that much more epic. We woke up in relatively little pain this morning, but were USELESS in our attempt to gather coffee and other supplies, and yet managed to procure M some skater shoes. FINALLY. They are Vox (and from an awesome skate shop called Cruz on Mission) and she is pleased, so I am pleased. As promised, after lunch (desert fries, yum) she took me to see Nine at the Castro Theater. Neither of us had ever been there before, so it was extra-dreamy and romantical. (I wish I could say the same for the movie!)

The storms kept us from a spontaneous trip to the snow, but hopefully y’all have had equally exciting holiday weekends. One more day to go! Whee!

Little Miss Panda Pants from The Not tagged me for a Blog Meme which, as far as this version is concerned, means that you select six victims friends to reveal six embarrassing interesting quirks to the masses, and then go crawl into a dank space somewhere in shame, or thumb your nose Pippi Longstocking-style because you gives a fuck, sucka! After this, I will be doing some of both.

Thus, I have selected six areas of my closet that bring me at least small amounts of shame or sheepishness:

1. The studded white leather belt. I have many belts, as you can see. Some are brown and folksy, some are made out of sequins, some are skinny and some are wide, some have superior buckles of a violent nature. However, no belt draws as much guilty, red-faced disgrace as the studded white belt (we can’t leave vegan lesbians out of this, but mine is, in fact, genuine leather). I once went dancing (yes, it was a tea dance, shut up) at a place where there sat an entire table of white belt wearing lesbians. Sad. Just sad. I don’t know why they are so pervasive amongst young Sapphic ruffians, but I do know I’ll likely never wear it again, but I just can’t seem to let it go.

2. The Tetris Stiletto. My girlfriend fucking adores these shoes. She can’t get enough of them. Perhaps it’s because she’s a handsome MIT nerd with an undying penchant for Tetris. Perhaps because some hard-wired instinct to mate with a creature donning a dizzying array of color makes them irresistible. I don’t know, but I know that I’m rather ambivalent about them and that my best friend cannot stand them, but so far, M has won this fight. The shoes stay. They are, by the by, from Bakers. Yes, Bakers, people. Christ on a stick.

3. Gunne Sax. Y’all, Gunne Sax. This dress winked at me from the Belle Vita window on College Avenue one fine evening and M just couldn’t help herself, so she was mine, all mine. Beneath the black netting overlay dotted with nacreous sparkles is a satiny layer of black polyester and black, lace-trimmed crinoline. It’s like cocktail-hour-meets-saloon-girl chic! OK, so it’s not chic at all, but heaven help me, I love it and I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU THINK! I even wore it to our fancy box seats at the opera with a black fur once. Classy.

4. Little gorgeous things, darling. Speaking of classy, pls. to meet some of my corsets. While there is absolutely nothing at all wrong with a little corset action for those special bodice-ripping hours in the boudoir, or the fact that some of them are very practical undergarments as well as achingly pretty, the real crime here is that I have been known, in days past, to wear them in public. [CRY.] To goth clubs or dark wave nights, for instance. [CRY CRY.] Wiggling around in little else but a vamp pencil skirt or black satin cigarette pants or whatnot. [CRY CRY SOB CHOKE CRY.] Please to note the VINYL version with all the severe buckles and matching hot pants. Or, you know, erase it from your memory for evermore, amen. The real, tragic truth is that I probably will, at some point, do it again, like an abused wife back to her drunken, rage-filled husband. He said he was sorry! Lies.

5. So many clutches. I own a despicable number of clutches. Here are some of them. Do you know what clutches are good for? Fitting FUCK-ALL. LOSING shit when transferring items from one clutch to another. LOSING period, because they are small and forgettable after 84,000 Ketel One cosmos. I’ve spent many minutes stuffing a clutch like a goddamn Thanksgiving turkey but so that it still snaps or zips or whatnot. Can y’all tell that I’ve got one hell of a hard, stubborn ass head yet? I love a clutch. I can’t say no to them. I don’t believe in having too many. M will slap them out of my hands when I screech to a halt in a store because they are practically jumping into them like so many adorable little Mexican beans. Give it.

6. The cry sweater. You guys, this is the grand finale. This used to be my mother’s hoodie. It is at least 20 years old. M calls it my “Cry Sweater” because, for some odd reason, I cry in it a lot. We used to stay in a cabin up at Trinity Alps Resort every summer, and they had lots of bears, a rickety old bridge made from nothing but wood and rope over a thrashing, ice cold river, all the Shirley Temples and ice cream a girl could ever want and, of course, ponies. I stole this hoodie from my mom at some point. It’s got holes everywhere – including one right over the left nipple – and paint from when I painted my old living room purple. It says “For the rest of your life!” under the bear napping in the hammock. I will never, ever, ever give or throw it away, no matter disgusting or useless it gets. Aw!

I hope that was enjoyable for y’all. Now, I tag:

NADARINE

BREAKING BLUES

JENNA’S MODEL LIFE

MYRTLE BEACH BUM

CHIC STYLE GEEK

BUBBLEGUM CULTURE