I mean, the wallet and the colorful pajama pants that I spent a good few minutes wearing over my jeans. Unfortunately, the photo of that experience didn’t come out, so you’ll just have to imagine how awesome I looked.

First, you call up all your lady friends. It’s important to call ALL of them, because this kind of party requires lots and lots of people to be successful. In fact, not only should you call your lady friends, but they should call all their lady friends. Best size for this kind of party: over 10 people. The more the very much merrier.

Second, every person who is coming to said party goes through their closet, their shoes, their jewelry box, their drawers…you get the point. And at this point, it’s time to be ruthless. Any clothes/jewelry/handbags/shoes that you:
Have not worn in months (or years)
Don’t feel good in
Are too big for
Are too small for
Are hoping to fit into someday in the future when you suddenly feel like eating no more sweets ever again
Etc.

Any of those items…items that you no longer wear (or shouldn’t wear) go into a bag or a box or several bags and boxes. These items are then carted to the party location. In this coming case: my house.

Third, everyone dumps their clothes in one pile, shoes in another, bags in another and jewelry in still another. Then it’s ready, set, rummage!

Basically, you bring all your old stuff and watch people with different styles and body shapes take it home with them and you go through all their stuff and find things that look better on you. Everyone wins.

Of course, there’s also lots of wine and snacks and partial nudity. And someone always ends up bringing something hilarious. One year there were rainbow-colored crotchless panties. Another year, a bright orange mini skirt. Etc.

So, as I said, this year’s party (I throw one every year) is coming up in just over a month, which means that it’s time for everyone to go through their closets. And because I’ve been re-imagining myself this year anyway, I gave myself some more brutal rules than usual. I piled everything on my bed and went through it piece by piece…trying each piece on (except pieces I wore in the last couple weeks and knew I loved). And I followed these (ruthless!) rules:

1. Anything with a hole goes (lots of people can patch and sew their holes, but despite my best intentions, I never get mine fixed…they just sit in the closet and/or I wear them with the holes…shameful!).

2. Anything with a stain goes! (same logic – I’ve totally been wearing this stained black shirt for years. Bad, bad.)

3. Anything that creates a muffin top goes (obviously).

4. Anything that makes me look like I’m twenty-one goes (this is a new one. Owning my own business makes me feel like I should look my age–or even a tad older).

5. Anything that doesn’t make me feel sexy GOES (uh oh, there go my fat-day clothes and half my underwear drawer. And no, the underwear isn’t going to the naked ladies. It gets to live in the garbage.)

And so there goes a large portion of my wardrobe. And soon comes the Naked Lady Party. And then shopping for whatever I need and don’t find at the NLP.

He was somewhat handsome, though wearing dirty cutoff clothes, and started out with some easy questions, like what kind of dog is Luna and did I just get her groomed. We chatted for a moment, and then the big old sign on my forehead that says “PLEASE BE AS CRAZY AS POSSIBLE” appeared (as it always does).

First, he started to gain momentum on the topic of unemployment. You see, he’d had a hard, hard last few years. And once you’ve been out of work for a while, it gets harder. And, really, should it get harder? Shouldn’t he be able to land a job, any job?

Yes, I agreed. I’m not sure why you can’t land a job.

He kept going: saying that if you didn’t have a permanent address, no one would give you a job. He was sleeping at the homeless shelter, he said. So how is he supposed to get a job?

I suggested that he make a friend and give that friend’s address. Employers aren’t magic; they don’t know that you don’t own the house.

Then I politely asked what kind of job he’d like.

“Making babies,” he answered.

After a long pause, I offered, “oh.” And he went on to explain how he didn’t have any kids and would really like some.

I refrained from pointing out that having kids usually requires you to A. also have a lady-type who would like to sleep with you and B. also requires that you support said kids. Also, having kids usually doesn’t pay well. Just sayin’.

I will take this whole interaction as a sign that I’m having a good hair day.

That’s all.

.One.
After a long few weeks of working every day for varying amounts of time, I finally took almost three whole days off. I went to the gym. I replaced my embarrassingly holey tank tops at the mall (with BonBon as fashion support). I made shrimp sauted in truffle oil and covered in freshly grated pepper. That, my friends, is the good life.

.Two.
The second draft (and by second draft, I mean major rewrite that took the book from a 32,000-word short story extravaganza to a 70,000-word memoir. Still with lots of craziness. But now also with lots of heart. Today, I sent it off the the potentially-interested agent from two years ago. We’ll see if the interest has grown or faded in that time.

.Three.
Pookie the Raven introduced me to his handsome, kind, scruffy friend. Did I mention that he’s handsome? I win.

.Four.
After going through my wardrobe and significantly diminishing it by tossing out anything that looked garish, had holes, had stains or had been sitting for a year with the intention of finding a tailor, I found myself with very little to wear. For the past few weeks, this has been a source of stress for me, particularly as some of my staples (black tank tops and t-shirts) had made it into the toss-out bin due to holes. This week, I partially rectified the problem by replacing the tank tops (the rest of my wardrobe becomes so much more wearable when I have tops to wear under things!) and buying two cute little jackets.

I’m still holding out to replace the rest of what needs replacing (waiting until after my annual Naked Lady Party, which I’ve planned for early October – and waiting until this gym membership gets me in the shape I A. want to be in and B. can maintain). But at least I don’t have to run around naked. I consider this a win.

First, of course, there was college. I started my “independence” in the only all-girls dorm on campus. They called it the home of the Harley Hos–not because the girls in Harley slept around more (I daresay they slept around less), but because you could TELL when someone was sleeping around. When a man walked out of the mixed dorms, you didn’t automatically know he’d been there for a sleepover, but when he walked out of Harley, it was a fair assumption that he’d been snuggling up with a lady.

My roommate that year was Yvonne, a quiet freshman from Ghana (West Africa), which, of course, made me miss Africa. She was mostly quiet and studious–the latter a characteristic that we shared, making for a productive and A-filled first year.

My second year at college, I moved into the larger dorms–the ones full of Juniors and Seniors, since getting in was based on how many credits your group of roommates brought to the table. Our little suite–The 217–offered a large common area with a TV and a Foosball table (both provided by my roommates) and two large bedrooms, each housing three girls. It’s a lot of people to have living in one small space (unless you’re in Manhattan, in which case you can call it The Palace), and with our open-door policy the rooms were usually even more crowded. Full of people who got stuck with Crazy Roommates, girls who unexpectedly lost their apartments and had to sleep on our couches and the men who wanted to woo said girls.

On the left side of the suite was my room, which I shared with Tana and Teresa, two future schoolteachers. Tana was the most conservative of the group. She made colorful charts depicting who should be vacuuming the common spaces (an action that somehow never seemed to happen) and spent lots of time talking to her long-time-boyfriend (now husband) on the phone. Teresa and I took advantage of Tana’s conservative and modest personality by constantly having half-naked parties in the bedroom and frequently jumping on Tana’s bed in our underwear. We were so grown up.

My third and final year of college, I moved on again, asking for a Freshman roommate and landing myself in a co-ed dorm at the back of campus. It was delightfully close to the back road out where I frequently went for long, frustrated runs in the rain–often followed by our cutely-concerned-for-my-safety RA, Jeremy. When I first moved in, the bed by the window (which I wanted very much) was covered in giant spiders. This is what happens when your window is just over the light fixtures on the back of the building: the light attracts bugs and the bugs attract giant possibly-man-eating spiders. I have no idea how I slept the first few nights, because it took them a week to send in the exterminator.

My roommate that year was Jamie: cute, naive, happy, thin and blonde, which ensured that our room was always full of boys pining after her. It was amusing to watch. Sometimes they would come by drunk and tell me their woes while they waited (in vain) for Jamie to return to the room. Sadly for them, Jamie was much more interested in the sports-playing Seniors (isn’t that how it goes, though?) and usually didn’t get back to the room before I kicked the sad-faced Freshman boys out so that I could study.

After graduating, I moved into a local family’s basement where I had a makeshift room blocked off by screens and featuring a cute little bed and dresser, as well as hundreds of stuffed animals that the little girls would inevitably place around my room when I left the house.

There were four little girls (and, of course, their parents) in the house: Rae, the oldest, who was sweet and beautiful and helped give me an up-do for the Senior Semi-Formal the year before. I knew Rae (and the family) because I volunteered with the youth group for the three years I’d been in school, watching these kids grow from somewhat awkward 13-year-olds into the strapping 16-year-olds just about ready to take on the world. Rae was one of these.

The second of the girls was Becca, the storyteller. She loved to talk when I was home and would sneak into my room and re-make the bed and clean up when I was gone, putting my things away in somewhat random drawers for me to find at my leisure. Then there was Lizzie–my favorite little troublemaker without a filter. She frequently embarrassed her mom (and brought me to tears of mirth) by pointing out the painfully obvious flaws in everyday life: “mom, LOOK, that guy has a HUGE wart on his face!” Finally there was Emmie, not yet walking or talking, but often smiling and exploring by crawl. Now that I’ve been around other babies, I truly appreciate how content and quiet little Emmie was.

When I finally landed a job in town, I moved myself into the top half of an old farmhouse. It had been listed as a one-bedroom, so I was delighted to find a very small second bedroom at the back of the house and a Very Large attic where I could store things as long as I didn’t mind the Enormous Wasps of Death who would dive bomb anyone who went up there in the summer months. I was also delighted to find that my living room window opened onto a little roof space where I could sit and have lunch and watch the cars mosey by.

About a month into living there alone and liking it, a friend of a friend had a roommate emergency. She needed a place to live, and quick. I let her move into the smaller bedroom.

She wasn’t around much, as she often traveled to see her family or her fiance, but when she was around, we spent a lot of time laughing and/or laying around in our bathing suits, hot as hell without air conditioning.

To be continued…

11:00AM: Relaxing in the backyard. It’s unfortunately going to be a scorcher. Yuck.

12:00PM: BonBon calls to tell me that it’s too hot and she’s going to come to the Cherry Creek Arts fest naked. I reply that she’d probably get a lot of free stuff, but would probably also get arrested. Also, Pookie the Raven might feel uncomfortable.

12:05PM: My conversation with BonBon turns to the Crazy People who live in Florida and think it’s okay to import Anacondas and Pythons as pets. Obviously, illegally importing predators from Africa and South America is a FANTASTIC idea. I’m moving to Europe.

3:35PM:
Gigi – I think I’m going to put on the sprinkler and just run around in it like a little kid.
Pookie the Raven – Or we could have a cold beer on the back patio.
BonBon – I’m wearing a g-string.
[Long pause.]
Gigi – And, what does that have to do with beer on the patio?

6:45PM: I boil some round pasta in chicken broth, water and spices, heat up garlic tomato pasta sauce, add artichoke hearts and red onions, saute some chicken in truffle oil and mix it all together. Served with a baked piece of sourdough brushed with truffle oil and a little Gouda on top…and viola! There’s your dinner.

10:30PM: BonBon heads for home while Luna and I get ready for bed, reading just a little of C.S. Lewis’ Great Divorce before drifting off.

On one of his first stops–in Pittsburgh, PA (which, SIDENOTE, happens to be one of my favorite east coast cities), he stayed with a young man whom we shall call Puppy Dog. The reason that we’re calling him Puppy Dog is because of the Girl Next Door, whose complete and stunning beauty caused him to follow her around like one.

Another of Puppy Dog’s friends was a man whom we shall call The Talker because he says whatever is on his mind. Filter or no filter. I probably should leave some mystery to this tale, but I do feel the need to tell you that you have just been introduced to THE VILLAIN.

So, Travel Man, Puppy Dog, Girl Next Door and The Talker went out for drinks that night. While Puppy Dog was busy following Girl Next Door around with his tail wagging and his best puppy dog eyes on, our hero was left to deal with the eloquations of The Talker.

“Um, stop that, you’re annoying me…” The Talker said to an unknown woman as she took pictures of a birthday party two tables away.

“No, you’re just fat,” he told a man at the table.

And so on and so forth throughout the night.

Finally, Girl Next Door returned to the table (and, by default, here comes Puppy Dog) and the group headed toward home, running through a rain storm and arriving drenched to the bone.

After drying off, Puppy Dog and Girl Next Door went upstairs so that he could plan their long, lustrous future and she could get some. The Talker took the couch and Travel Man took a small one-person air mattress. And this is where the villainy begins.

Drifting towards sleep, Travel Man was suddenly awoken by a loud, strong thud beside him on the air mattress. A thud which turned out to be The Talker, not wearing clothing.

“Kiss me,” said The Talker.

Uhhhhh, thought our hero.

And here I will interject a quote from our hero regarding the one article of clothing that The Talker still retained: “And they were like…not Speedos…but boy shorts…something girls should wear and not guys.”

Finally, regaining his wits, Travel Man replied “What? No.”

This should have been the end of it. But, no, The Talker tried again: “Kiss me.”

“No.”

“Kiss me.”

“Not going to happen.”

At this point, our hero heard a strange noise beside him. A noise which turned out to be sniffling, coming from The Talker. Not knowing what to do, Travel Man remained silent for a few moments and allowed The Talker to compose himself, at which point, The Talker rebounded with:

“Make out with me.”

Travel Man was stunned: “what makes you think that I am going to make out with you if I don’t want to kiss you? You need to respect yourself.”

The Talker paused–which was a moment very much like the eye of the storm–and Travel Man thought it would be safe to scoot over, close his eyes and attempt to sleep. Alas, this was not true.

THUD.

This time, instead of propelling himself onto the air mattress, The Talker managed to propel himself on top of our hero and request to be F-ed, while lauding the merits of his beautiful nether regions.

He was, of course, thrown off and rejected. But, as we now know about The Talker, rejection is not something that needs to be heeded or considered in his mind.

Another long pause followed this rejection, in which our hero stayed still, uncomfortable and ready to inflict damage if The Talker should see fit to jump back on top of him. But Travel Man could never have anticipated what came next.

“Hit me,” said The Talker.

Travel Man’s only response was a shocked stare.

“Hit me. You’ll feel better.” Said The Talker, all the while sniffling.

This is the point in the story where we will reveal that our hero is not entirely perfect. There was some very serious consideration that went into this request.

Instead of acquiescing, however, our hero took the high road and used his words: “you’re really damaged, The Talker.”

The Talker began to cry harder, “I don’t know what game you’re playing!”

“Whoa, I’m not playing any game. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why are you being nice to me–I don’t get this!”

So our hero decided to stop being nice and said “dude, you have no idea how unattractive this is.”

And as suddenly as it began, said villainy was over. The Talker stood up in a huff and removed himself back to the couch where, in between sniffles, he managed to berate our hero for calling him unattractive and explain that it took YEARS and YEARS for him to feel attractive and know that he is beautiful and WHERE IN HELL does our hero GET OFF telling him he isn’t attractive.

A moment later, soft snores wafted from the couch.

Our flabbergasted hero took this opportunity to wonder at the fact that self respect and shame did nothing to save him from this situation. But ego–ego was the way out all along.

The last thing our hero did before drifting into an uneven sleep was look at the clock. Five A.M. A whole night stolen. And by stolen, I mean totally worth it for this blog entry.

Shallow F, 25, WLTM man with rippling pectorals,
dark features, scruffy face, cute smile, nice eyes.
Conversational skills optional. Email above, send picture,
don’t be a smoker.

It resulted, somewhat predictably, in a number of scary propositions, a penis picture and one very unhappy man’s fuck you. Less predictably, it also resulted in a marriage proposal. And two of the men who responded are EXACTLY what the ad asked for. All I can think is holy crap–is that all we have to do? Specify in the looks department and call ourselves shallow? This makes the fuck you totally worth it.

This ad also, as it happens, got flagged. For those of you who don’t know: that’s when people on CL say that your ad is inappropriate and should not be posted. Clearly it’s because of all the mentions in those three lines of my tuckus and libido.

Said master bedroom has a few select items in it: several dog toys, a lighting fixture on the closet shelf and a dustpan propped up on the windowsill.

One day (this actually happens a lot) I forgot to take my towel to the bathroom. It usually lives on a hook on the back of my door (this may be an old habit from when there were three of us sharing the bathroom and only two spots for towels). If this has ever happened to you, you know that there are only three options:

1) Head out of the bathroom and down the hall to your room.

2) Put on your dirty clothes and head to your room.

3) If you have your clean clothes with you: put on your clean clothes and head to your room.

I chose option one. Mostly because no one else was in the house at the time. And secondarily because I am a big fan of nakedness.

So, I walk out of the inner bathroom and turn to walk through the doorless doorway, when I see straight ahead of me, through the window: a man. Perhaps it is telling that I didn’t run, move to cover myself or do anything else, really. I just stared at the window.

And then I realized that it wasn’t a man. It was the dustpan. (Really, Gigi, how tall would that guy have to be to be standing outside the second story window peeping?)

Later I was telling my Beloved Roommate the story. This is the conversation that ensued:

BR: Really, you just stood there? I probably would have charged the guy.

Me: Awesome. He would be like, “sweet, a naked girl running at me! Those Axe commercials were right!”

The feature about OK Cupid that is most prominent is the instant message feature. Every time I’ve been on the site so far, I’m bombarded with all of the online men asking the same question. What is my book about. Not a bad question and I can’t fault them. But when it’s up on your screen seven times, the logical reaction is close, close, close.

In particular, there is one gentleman who seems to spend his evenings waiting anxiously for me to get on the site. Once I am on, he proceeds to have long, drawn out conversations with himself on my IM screen. I’d block him, but it’s kind of amusing.

Another particular favorite was the second IMer from tonight. He began with a question. The basic what is my book about question. He then graduated to another question. Equally acceptable, but also equally not unique. And then another. And then another. I guess he was hoping to hit the question jackpot. With the one major, important, interesting, compelling question that would take me from casual observer to his object of love.

Clearly, that’s what happened. At the onset of “what is a strategist” I just up and took off my pants.