fitforafemme.com

It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to!

TOTALLY KIDDING!!!

On Saturday, M & I met some dear friends (and one each of an adorable baby and dapper, tie-sporting puppy) at a fancy Irish pub near our house, to celebrate my 30th birthday over delicious, summery cocktails, appetizers, and ridiculously femme cupcakes. Somehow the soiree took on an indoor garden party theme! We nabbed a sunny corner and tried to keep the festive din down to a reasonable level, and of course not to leave any pink and silver traces of glittering gay fun behind, but I cannot make any promises…

While I was too distracted to take any proper FFAF photos, here’s a sampling of the fun (and my outfit, of course)! I wore this pretty summer dress by Fire – I love the swiss dot, super soft cotton fabric and the dainty yellow floral – and pinned my curls into 40s twists (inspired by the latest episodes of The Pacific) with these dreamy flower pins, which I picked up at a fabric store for $2!

CONFESSION: Oh, oh, oh. Where to begin? We’ve moved, the dust settles slowly but surely, work is thrilling but overwhelming at times, the tomboy is happy, the petite is happy, the pups are happy. I am happy! The sunroom has turned into storage and an awesome little puppy pen but I have designs on it for more. The built-ins hold all of the books (we purged 2/3 of them, after all), so the big handsome black bookcase has become The Beast Redux. We also somehow found me a matching shabby chic dresser and vanity and I’ll post pics once the bedroom no longer looks like perhaps a small Canadian band just moved in or something. We also found the creepiest, most fantastic black birdcage lamp, a mug tree, old-fashioned hand mixer and the best, best, best part about ALL OF IT? Under $80. All of it, y’all, including the dresser and vanity, which are in pristine condition.

There has got to be some way for me to make a living doing this.

In the meantime, M & I are thoroughly enjoying her much shortened commute and talking walks to explore our fantastic neighborhood(s). Just yesterday I bought freshly made ravioli and mushroom marinara from Lucca’s, down the street. We’ve yet to decide which of the 84,000 Mexican markets we like best. We’ve had excellent tapas, pizza, Chinese. There are two places to let the dogs romp around in within walking distance. We’re totally getting fucking mopeds. The birds sing, butterflies literally fly all around me whenever I’m in the park and everywhere I look I’m inspired to grow flowers and things. There are a few other little girls who play out on our block. It’s brilliant, every last bit of it. Life is very good indeed in FFAF-land!

Confession: Here is my outfit for the local fashion show. Guess what? NOT GOOD FOR KNEELING IN THE PHOTOG PIT TO TAKE PHOTOS OF THE MODDLES, GUYZ. Also? Why was I the only one in the photog pit not just in a dress, but FEMALE?!?! Plus, I held hands with a woman on stilts, clad in a flaming red costume with so many sequins. She insisted. There were also people roller skating in head-to-toe spandex with little flashing light tubes twisted around every inch. It was like someone threw up Burning Man into a giant convention center, right into the khaki laps of its attendees. Like, there was actual fire and I didn’t like it, y’all. ACTUAL FIRE FLAMING FIERY HOT AND I WAS YAAAAAWWWWWWWNNNNNNNN. So bored.

The fashion part was stellar, for the most part, like red carpet, hand-beaded Bollywood madness. I wanted to snatch every dreamy tunic off those skinny models and wear them scandalously, without pants, and sky high heels. Plus, I got to pop backstage and meet the designer.

Oh, and I was forced to drink a Jack and coke (I know) and now plan to NEVER go out to one of these things without at least two bottles of mini-booze in my bag. To be on the safe side. Like a grown-up version of a Girl Scout.

PS. M took these photos of me. Didn’t she do a really, really good job? Isn’t the one with two faces awesomely creepy?

PPS. I love love love my new haircut. It is exactly what I wanted and I got it all wavy like this just by scrunching. SCRUNCH.

Confession: Seeking fresh air and the smell of new books, M & I took the petite to the bookstore in between bouts of late afternoon rain at Jack London Square. I settled on a copy of Mirage and Fashion Now 2, inwardly cringing at the neglected stack of books back at home (The Gift Of Fear, Infinite Jest, The Doors Of His Face, The Lamps Of His Mouth). We strolled through the bookshelves while the petite browsed the YA section (she ended up with Pretties, the 2nd book of the Uglies trilogy for all you YA fans), and after taking some FFAF photos we passed a display of little squishy baby toys. I instantly lunged for the Max doll, from Where The Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak.

Right then is when I learned that M has never read this book. M HAS NEVER READ WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE. “What is that little thing?” she asked, almost distrustful. “He’s Max! It’s Max! You know…Max is very, very naughty and gets sent to bed without supper and then he goes on WILD adventures with the wild, wild things,” here is where I grab the little monster wild thing doll and shove it right into M’s furrowed brows, “THIS is the wild thing,” I say, “Remember?” “No, she says, “I’ve never read that. That one looks like a wild thing, too,” she pointed at Max accusingly. I gasped and shook my head sadly. I was beside myself, flailing both dolls around and hissing about how is it even possible that she’s never read nor seen nor heard of the book because HELLO!?!?

The petite wandered over, probably to tell us to shut up as we were embarrassing her a great deal, but she was 100% Team Skinny on the matter once I informed her. She just rolled her eyes and sighed as if the burden of M’s lifelong deprivation of this tale was simply too much to bear and left us standing there. I put Max into my pocket and followed M into the travel section and tried to explain the significance of the beloved book to M.

It’s just that M, in so many ways, is Max. All dressed in wolf’s clothes, a stubborn, brooding little thing, wears a crown and makes mischief? Likes boats and a good rumpus and bossin’ folks? Good grief!

Scent: In keeping with today’s sartorial theme, I chose Heeley’s Cardinal for review. Look for notes of incense, cistus, grey amber, patchouli and vetiver. It does loom rather ominously both out of the decant and upon first application, and perhaps it’s because I’ve not spent much time in cathedrals thick with incense, but this is definitely less gothic and more…well, it’s sharp and like hearing the soprano-only section of what is obviously a richly tectured choral arrangement. It seems like folks enjoy this layered with other types of fragrances, but I’m having a little bit of difficulty imaging something that deserves to be punished by this. Sorry, Heeley! FAIL!

M simply says this smells “musty.”

Confession: I confess that I would like to share more self-defense tips with you. I am also very pleased to announce that I am taking the 3 hr. mini self-defense session next month. I can’t wait! Keep in mind these are techniques that are taught in the classes, but after my friend took the 3-day course, some of the good-to-know tips she shared that ANYONE can do without much training can be found below. Practice ‘em, cowgirls!

• ELBOW STRIKE: The assailant is behind your right shoulder. Reach forward with your right hand, then step back with your right foot, bringing your elbow up and striking the face or throat. Always keep your striking arm close  to your body, look at your target by turning your head only, as the strike follows through your whole body turns and you end up facing your assailant, ready for the next move. Practice on the left side also.
• EYE STRIKE: Keeping your thumb and fingers tightly together and your elbows in close to your body. The strike is quick and sharp, with the hands coming back immediately.
  
• HEEL PALM: (Stance) Feet shoulder width apart, dominant foot back, toes facing forward, knees bent, hands up, elbows in. Striking hand (dominant) stays in the center of your body and the strike comes straight from there, a quick upward movement to the assailant’s nose, coming back to ready position. Strike using the heel of the hand, fingers pulled back.
• KNEE TO GROIN: A classic. (M often wonders why women don’t knee men in the groin more often. Like, ALWAYS. She’s right. Motherfuckers deserve it, more often than not from what I hear from some of y’all, and God’s honest truth is I’d probably say that more if I were straight, so you can just take your goddamn man-hating dyke stereotypes and shove ‘em right up your ass!) Anyway, on to the knee-to-groin move: Striking leg back, hands up in protective position (elbows in, hands up, palms out). Using the top of the thigh, just a little above the knee to strike the testicles, bring the back leg up sharply and step through the target. You can also do this to the head of the assailant, with even greater stepping-through motion.

When: Sunday, October 12th, 2008.

What: Gentle Fawn romper, pretty Peruvian scarf from a Bodega Bay skate shop (you just never know!), thrifted yellow sash tied into belt, Nocona cowboy boots. Embroidered, beaded clutch with purple leather trim by Dolce Vita.

Confession: I haven’t washed my hair since Friday morning. The TJ’s Mango shaving cream just might have beat out the TJ’s Tangerine Sugar Scrub. I really, truly am sick to death of this goddamn heat – you tell me – when is summer going to finally get it that it’s no longer wanted around here? Yesterday was so dry and so cold, like it is on Thanksgiving almost, with a swift, mean wind and today was just this sick, steady heat.

Thank heavens this is a four-day work week for me. The service was yesterday. I wore the same exact black dress I wore the last time Norton and I danced together. The tomboy has taken such good care of me, y’all. Last night she called our friend from Memphis for her fried chicken recipe, and she whipped it up from scratch with some homemade french fries, too. I needed comfort food real bad. Not long after eating I fell asleep on the couch and slept for 14 hours straight, though M moved me to the bed eventually. Tonight, for the first time since I’ve met her, she made me her ridiculously delicious chicken enchiladas. That’s right. In nearly four years, she hasn’t once made ‘em, but you bet they were worth waiting for.

Thanks for reading, kittens. I really do heart. ???

PS. So, Angel Island is on fire. Like, really on fire. All campers are evacuated, and no one lives there but state park rangers. It’s isolated, so it can’t spread anywhere where it’ll hurt anyone. All of that is good, though fire in general is bad, but goddamn it:

When: Friday, August 29th, 2008.

What: Black cocktail dress by Fire. Vintage Sheeba belt. Patent leather and pony hair peep-toe pumps by Linea Paolo.

Confession: My flight into JFK was delayed for over an hour. Instead of heading to my friend’s condo in Prospect Park, I had to get a car straight from the airport to the Babeland in Soho. The occasion? A private bachelorette party. HELL YES. Complete wardrobe, makeup and hair change in a tiny airport bathroom? HELL NO.

I’ve never done anything like that before in my life, unless you count the time that I changed in the car at 80mph from my Guys & Dolls costume into my Miss Teen San Francisco casual outfit on my way toward the Bay Bridge (hey, an overachieving girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do). I missed the informative demo, but still had time to get flogged, buy some pretty Andrew Blake porn and peruse the vibrator selection. Also? GOODYBAGS.