First, before introducing blow pony in it’s finest and bitching a bit about how horridly nerve wracking getting in a car crash can be, I give you this picture, which my friend Julie sent to me this morning. She was Dog’s “other mother” for two years in college, and she may have been part of the cause of Dog’s small weight gain. Dog doesn’t really put up with costumes very long. Our brilliant idea to tie a normal sized hot dog bun around her for a Halloween picture backfired several times before we gave up. Dog’s diet food, which must taste nearly as bad as hyper-processed packaged cakes, has dropped her down in weight a tiny bit. We’ll see how that progresses.
Car accidents suck–especially when they’re unavoidable and you’re left without a vehicle while your insurance company runs about in circles like a headless chicken on LSD instead of just resolving the claim. My only injury was bruising on my chest from the steering wheel. I recovered while babysitting a diabetic cat (that I affectionately re-named Beetus for posterity’s sake ) and watching movies. I’ll have to run today.
Last night was Blow Pony, a monthly gay dance party in Portland. Coming from such a small town originally (and going to school in another, equally small town), seeing so much glittery gay concentrated in one room feels absolutely fabulous. I had people grabbing my ass on the dance floor, drag queens complimenting my dress, bears asking me what I could possibly eat, and beautiful androgynous girls opening doors for me right and left. So. Much. Gay.
So. Many. Sequins.
I’m feeling a bit slow today because of a mild hangover, but life goes on. I’ve spent the last hour or so looking up prom dresses and hair styles for my younger sister. Her junior prom is coming up so her vanity has been a little heightened recently. I went to my junior prom looking like a sausage that had been messily cased in blue tulle. As a size 16, dress shopping was exhausting and tiresome (not that I think I would enjoy it any more now). I tried on the blue monstrosity last time I went home–just for kicks. It made me look like a pregnant hooker. Oh, prom. Where was my vintage fashion sense?
Finger waves anyone?