Fashion Anaylsis 101

A few friends of mine (who I also refer to as my fans) have been quite upset with my lack of blogging as of late. It's just that I have this little thing that supports my shopping habit ... it's called a job and it's keeping me really busy right now. However I'm going to stop drinking for a few evenings in order to free up some time and address the following picture of a transvestite hooker that a friend emailed me:

Let's discuss...

1) The white bra under a white dress. NO. NO. NO. I realize I'm notorious for wearing black, red, hot pink, lime green bra's under white tops but for normal chicks a nude bra is common sense. White under white??? Please. Not to mention this particular BRAZZIRE is something that only an 87 year old lactating grandmother would wear. Most bitches know better than this, so I'll move on. (Although I would like to know what surgeon did his tits)

2) The makeup: This guy is over the top even for a tranny streetwalker. The rule is the eyes OR lips ...not both.

3) Love the bag. Love the jacket.

4) The nude colored fishnets: If he's going to wear a skirt that short, he may as well just go all the way with bare legs. What's the point? It's not like he needs the fishnets to give the ensemble more edge.

5) The hair: It's so cliche. He'd be much more mysterious and wholesome with a darker color.

My comments may be bitchy but I don't feel bad.

He is beautiful. Words won't bring him down.

BFF: What's Yer Twenty?

It's strange... getting to work yesterday was almost TOO convenient. No shinsplints, no sweaty layers of sweaters and scarfs, no ingenuine smiles at strangers as I shove them out of my way trying to catch the train. Just people invading my personal space and touching me inappropriately, two things I've grown used to and have almost learned to enjoy on my daily commutes.

But perhaps my elation went a little overboard this morning when I boarded the northbound train. As I was reading the Metro (their political cartoons kill me) I caught glimpse of the girl standing next to me. God, she looks so familiar. Staring at people on the train can be dangerous territory. There's only so much side-glancing one can do before they end up with a mouthful of fist that is likely laden with various fecal-and-pube-ridden germs.

I turned back to my reading, but really -- I know this girl! I slowly shifted my gaze to my right. Oh my god... it's Marisa Palumbo! My best friend from middle school! "MARISA!" I shouted in my brain. "MARISA IT'S ME! REBECCA! MARISA, LOOK OVER HERE!" Silently, I returned to my paper, barely able to contain my exuberance. Marisa P. got me through some hard times in middle school. I had just come out of probably the most traumatic years of my life in elementary school (which, once again, I'd like to thank my parents for allowing their underdeveloped daughter to have a skater-boy haircut and a retainer at the same time .... especially when "Pat" was such a huge hit on SNL).

An artist's rendering of me in 7th Grade.

Our friendship came to a sad end the summer before high-school when my family moved, and I had to start 9th Grade the next year sans a best friend. I remember that day so well: The doorbell rang and we walked out front and started BAWLING. Just crying so hard ... even her Dad cried. We gave each other a farewell hug, and that was that: No more Marisa. We kept in touch for a couple of years, and then somehow fell out of touch.

Whenever I think of her now, I picture her as a successful wife and mother for some reason ...but I always wonder .... does she have kids? Is there an anonymous god-child out there I've never met? So you can imagine how overwhelmed I felt on the train when I thought THE Marisa Palumbo was standing next to me. Same long thick hair, heavy eyelids, skin tone, height, weight, everything. Even her fingernails were the same -- bitten to near extinction ... which I think I may have made-up because I really don't remember what her fingernails looked like.

OMG ... Had she seen me? Wouldn't she recognize me? Is it weird to ask a strange woman on the train "Excuse me, is your name Marisa P.? ..." as I slowly pull out the 14K Gold Best Friends half heart necklace with a sparkle in my eye. Then she would pull out her half of the necklace, and we would embrace and cry, then Montel would board the train and the entire car would clap and sing "This Little Light of Mine."

I couldn't help myself. I slowly turned my head as the car approached Bloor, and "Marisa" turned to let someone by.

Oh sweet mercy. Oh God no.

Not standing profile anymore, the girl turned to me directly and I saw her face head on. .... it was not Marisa.

A little raincloud formed over my head, small cartoonish lightning striking above. Here I was, thinking my saddness would be temporarily lifted and my long lost friend was RIDING THE TRAIN next to me -- and alas, it's just some girl in a puffy coat going to work.

So no tearful reunions that morning. But Marisa Palumbo, if you're out there Googling yourself and you come across this, DEF get in touch. I'd love to know how you are.

And if you're the girl who rode next to me on the train: Stop biting your nails. It's massively repulsive.

A Little Friday Flavor

Nice body? Check.

Hot face? Check.

Messy hair with 5 'o clock shadow? Check.

Alcoholic chain smoker? Check.

Dead cold expression that says, "You are going to put me through community college and like it"? Check and check.

For some reason I feel like I know this man. Let's say, for example, he wasn't a multi-million dollar movie star BUT just your regular run of the mill dude who pumps gas. This is the Collin I know. And if we had met at the local dive-bar before he became famous, he would immediately have known that I was going to give him my undying devotion and an interest-free loan. I, in turn, would know that he was going to forget my birthday and steal my prescription medicine for his own recreation.

But seriously, just look at him. This is the guy who will sleep with your sister and tell you to stop being so sensitive about it.

So bad he's good, ladies. So bad he's good.