October 24, 2005

Christmas, Porn, and Shoes

I realize that, again, there was no Friday entry. I think I am busier than usual on Fridays because I want to have everything taken care of so I can enjoy my weekend—or I would rather spend the free time I get reading recaps on Television Without Pity. I am sorry. I was feeling unfunny on Friday, and I didn’t want to have a crap entry because you all deserve more. Today’s entry will not only be funny, but extra long. I will start off with my dreams, which are getting stranger.

Friday’s dream: Both of these had a Gilmore Girls theme, but the first is comparably tame. I was hanging out with Rory and Dean, but Dean really wanted to go out with me, so Rory just chattered on about stupid shit while Dean flirted with me. I could totally tell he was waiting for her to leave the room so he could ask me out, which she never did. The strange bit about this is that I never had a thing for Dean. I have a big thing for Luke, though. He was the second half of the dream. Which makes me a dreamslut. I wonder if I can make Webster recognize that word if I make it hip enough, like ‘dis’ or ‘bling-bling’. Everyone use dreamslut in a sentence today. Say it with style, and don’t bother explaining it, because people should just know what it means. You watch—all the kids’ll be sayin’ it tomorrow, yo.

Saturday’s dream: If I thought hooking up with two different fantasy boys on Friday was racy, I don’t even know what was going on here. I was in some kind of competition where all the girls had one big room full of dresses, and we all had to pick one and out it on, and get ready to meet… somebody… in like ten minutes (I think this was leftover in the back of my brain from the nights spent reluctantly watching Joe Millionaire with my college roommates). So I was racing around the room with my sister, trying to find something that fit, but all I could find was a tiny little red mini-dress that only had one sleeve. Even in my dream, I thought “What kind of bra could I wear with this? I guess I’ll need the convertible one. I can keep one strap on, that’ll hold up better…” I guess I wasn’t all that concerned that my ass would pretty much be hanging out all night long, as long as the boobers stayed up. Anyway, we get all kitted out and are led into the studio audience of some new show, the cast of which includes Orlando Bloom and Scott Patterson (aka Luke from, yeah, Gilmore Girls), and all the chicks start screaming, because hey, men. Then comes the dramatic reveal that both Orlando Bloom and Scott Patterson are gay. Women gasp. Then, not only are they gay, but they’re in love. With each other. And they demonstrate this with some pretty luscious man-on-man snoggery. The audience is torn between their disappointment in losing two stock fantasies at once, then get over it when they realize they’re getting those fantasies in real life in the form of really fantastic gay porn.

It is at this point that my alarm went off.

I don’t think it’s safe for me to eat after 9:00 pm. Or watch Gilmore Girls anymore. My dreams are just getting weirder. Maybe I should read something really boring for bed, like Pilgrim’s Progress, just to cleanse my filthy mental palate. I’d probably just have dreams about porn pilgrims. Speaking of which, anyone ever read The Scarlet Letter? Man, do I love that book. Come to think of it, it’s similar to pilgrim porn. That’s hard to say…I feel like there is a tongue-twister in there somewhere. Peter Piper picked a peck of pilgrim porn.

This is getting too dirty. I need to switch gears.

I am making out my Christmas List. I sound greedy. The last couple of years, I organized my list into several categories, like electronics, books, games, miscellaneous, and Ebay. This year I just made a straight list, and put the items in the order I most desire them. The trouble with this is, what do you do when you get past number twenty? If you want something that comes twentieth on a list, how much can you really want it? I decided to split it into a Top Ten and then the rest, but what do you call the rest? I don’t want to say Runners Up, or anything, because it’s still good stuff, I just don’t really have my heart set on it or anything. Dammit. I have also-ran gift guilt. It is these sorts of things that make me realize I am too picky. I vacillate for waaaay too long about things, usually things that don’t even matter. For example…

Beedoo goes boot shopping
I decided I need new boots for the coming evil winter. I have one pair already, but they have no traction, and basically just look pretty and make me an inch taller. I needed something functional. Practical, Nanook-like snowshoes. So I walk into my friendly neighborhood DSW, where there are about 300 pairs of boots to choose from.
I. Am. Doomed. This decision will never be made. After wandering around the store for about twenty minutes, just staring and occasionally hefting boots of all sizes, I sit down and realize I need a plan, or I will never get out alive. List. Must make list. What color do I want? Wait—I can’t start there. Start with the basics.

1. Heel or no heel?
Um, no heel. Heels are stupid and I’ll slip on the ice and die.

2. Now, how high?
Well, not all the way up to my knee; they’ll take forever to get off. But not ankle-length, because then I’ll get my socks soaked if (read: when) we have a ten-foot blizzard. So, I think I need something in between. Higher than socks, shorter than calves.

3. Ties, zips, or pull-on?
Ties take a long time to do up, plus they get soaked when your feet get wet. Pull-ons you have to be careful with, because they eat your sock when you pull them off. I had these kind when I was little, because little kids can’t tie shoes, so they make me feel like I’m five and I should be wearing snowpants and those mittens with the strings connecting them. So, zips are the way to go. Easy on, easy off, bada-bing, bada-boom.

4. Isn’t leather murder?
Shut up.

5. Color?
I dunno. The pink ones are cute, but what if I have like a winter funeral to go to and all I have is my long black trenchcoat with bright pink bunny boots sticking out? Impracrical. It’s safest to match. Either black, or whatever matches my furry winter coat.

I have a camel-colored corduroy coat. (Hee. Say that five times fast. Pilgrim porn!) So after trying on all the camel-ish boots in the place, I am not 100% sold on any of them. It’s not even the money—I can rationalize boot money. It’s just that none of them knocked my socks off… well, a few did, but, you know what I mean. (sigh) Why can’t I make a frickin’ decision, EVER? I’ll have to take someone with me. That’s why women shop in packs—they need another woman’s honest opinion, yes, but what they really want is an endorsement. They want someone to be the Lorax, and speak for the shoes. They want their own opinions validated, thereby assuring the right purchase is made. That’s why women will say “I love my shoes” for weeks after they’ve bought them; they’re still convincing themselves that these shoes are way better than the blue ones, because really, who wears blue shoes? They looked pretty in the store, but it’s not like I have anything that would go with them… and the red ones were tacky. They were hooker shoes. And white shoes belong on nurses and old women ONLY. So, yes, good decision. Two days later, and I’m still happy with them. I wonder if they would look right with my brown skirt… So, really, in appreciating the shoes, we are giving props to ourselves for being so smart, thrifty, and fashion-savvy.

I just re-read that. Women are crazy.

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