This season's lipstick
◊ Bay Area springtime spends way too much time trying on different outfits and reading Cosmo. Right now it's vacillating between intellectual, Seattle-type weather — gray skirt, black pumps and a tailored, button-up shirt — or a fun 'n' flirty little spaghetti-strap sundress that just about screams L.A. I've been pointedly looking at my watch and saying "Honey, you look great!" to spring for a couple of weeks, but it looks like it's more worried about impressing the other seasons who might be there at the party than making me happy.
The mixed signals aren't making my life any easier, of course. I can't decide if right now I want to be curled up on the couch reading Madame Bovary and eating Cadbury chocolate or waking up at some disgusting hour to run laps around the block.
My Salvation Army trip today didn't clear things up, either: Margaret Atwood and Raymond Carver came knocking on my door with their sad stories of maturity and loss, and I've spent an hour chasing Hunter S. Thompson away from my front porch, doing my damnedest to ignore the shotgun he's waving with one hand and the bottle of whiskey he's brandishing with the other. If I could figure out how to get the three of them to behave together, I'd invite them in for tea, but somehow I think it ain't gonna happen.
I'm busy, anyway, having coffee and talking pussy and soul with Tom Robbins. Anyone who can reference Pee-Wee Herman, Zappa and Rimbaud in the same book gives me a serious moistie. (A "moistie," for those of you who don't get 'em, is the girl equivalent of a hard-on. Yum. Or yoni. Whichever.)
Today's saving grace is Marty McFly: I found an old Back to the Future jacket in the racks at the store, and that, I think, will be my armor today.