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04.27.2003 - 4:07 p.m.

Sunday

The ominous tickle that has lurked in the back of my throat for the last few days has finally emerged as a full-fledged cold. Joy. Thank you, fate, for sending a virus my way right before I go on vacation. I sure hope it's the nice long lingering sort of cold, I mean I wouldn't want to be healthy on our cruise or anything. Oh no, I'm sure being driven away with sticks at boarding time from SARS-fearing officials would be ever so much more fun than lounging around drinking banana daiquiris for a week.

Fuck.

Well, as of 3 PM today I've had:

- Odwalla "C Monster" drink
- 4 zinc lozenges (mmmm, ass-like!)
- 3 echinacea capsules
- some weird cold medicine JB bought in China
- 1 raspberry flavored "Emergen-C"

Plus I bought a lime for our beer later. Shut up, it's fruit.

So it's a beautiful day outside and all I'm doing is shuffling around blatting into handfuls of kleenex. At least I got my shopping done yesterday. Which, I would like you to know, was a lengthy and festive experience I intend to repeat quite soon, such as perhaps the year 2430.

I went to the Bellevue Square Mall, and entered through the Bon entrance - where I had to walk by an enormous swimsuit display. Now, I have two swimsuits, which, if you're thinking in terms of Number of Swimsuits One Truly Needs If One Is Not Say An Olympic Swimmer, is probably enough. But in the light of these new swimsuits, these cute frothy little concoctions that just begged to worn while beckoning for yet another daiquiri, pineapple this time please, it really seemed like one might need three swimsuits to really enjoy a vacation.

At this point I can only say that shopping for swimsuits must be like childbirth. It's so unpleasant, so completely painful and horrid, that afterwards you block the memory and eventually start thinking "Hey, Junior could really use a sister." DUMBASS.

I tried on four hundred and fifty thousand suits, all of which revealed my body in an utterly unique and appalling way. My boobs need major support, so that strikes about 99.9% of all bathing attire in existence. The remaining suits alternate between having inexplicable teensy tennis skirt type things for a bottom, which may look cute on Anna Kourniwhatshername but not on me, or they expose weird poochines under the arms that I swear was not there before, or if they are tankinis the emphasis is more on the "ini" than I would like - etc etc etc.

I bought one that frankly I am not very fond of, simply because after having put so much effort into the process - struggling in and out of suits, feeling frighteningly close to bursting into loud howler-monkey sobs of frustration - I couldn't bear to walk away without having purchased something.

So that was a good solid hour and a half of sheer hell. Then, in what I can only attribute to a latent streak of masochism, I walked directly to the dress department. And I embarked upon a mighty search, to weed out the tasteful black cocktail dresses from the spangled horrors hanging everywhere.

The Bon was having some big dress sale, so there were about 50 other women rooting around like truffle pigs with me. Many of them had teenage daughters in attendance, popping gum and whining "Moooom? I don't liiiiiike that one." (Graduation outfits? Is it prom?) I piled dress after dress over my increasingly aching arm, because I knew one thing - once I had entered that dressing room there was no way in hell I was going to come back out and try to find something else.

Trying on dresses isn't quite as traumatic as bathing suits, but it IS tiring. Wrangling with zippers, dragging yards of fabric on and off while your hair snaps and hisses, Medusa-like, with all the static. I ended up liking the neckline and bodice of one dress very much, while lusting after the hemline of a completely different dress, and stood there staring at my disheveled self in the mirror wondering vaguely if I could rip them each in half and sew them to each other.

It was then that I realized there are two different kinds of shopping: Fun Shopping, where stuff fits and looks good and is totally affordable and whee! And there's Shitty Shopping, where the fluorescent lights and the fat-exposing mirrors and the slyphlike salesgirls and the general demographic of the mall all get to you, until you're left standing forlornly in a little room surrounded by a pile of ill-fitting dresses, contemplating some kind of fabric Frankensteining procedure.

Well, I bought the one with the cute hemline, and modeled it for JB when I got home. "That looks awesome," he said, earning a Blowjob Point (which he later blew, so to speak, by refusing to watch Sex and the City with me).

Bring on the formal night! Hopefully I won't be sporting a steady rivulet of SNOT as an accessory by then.

 


Just because I'm all cruise-focused - a picture of JB and me totally eating like a vat of food on our honeymoon cruise. Like my hat? It's because my hair looked like ass the whole entire time. I'm bringing that mofo on this trip, too.

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