First of all, a very happy birthday to Jo Rowling and Harry Potter. One is the author of my soul, and the other is the love of my life. So thank you, Jo. You've changed my life in so many ways I can't even begin to list them.
I went on a shopping trip tonight with a friend, in search of his Frank N. Furter costume for a showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show we're seeing tomorrow. I already have just about everything I need for Magenta: the dress, the apron, the capacity for gigantic hair. My friend, after seven different stops around town, now owns a corset-like vest, teeny tiny shorts, thigh-high fishnets, and patent leather two-inch heels. I watched as he tested lipstick after lipstick on the back of his hand, styled his wig, and asked the woman at Payless which pair of shoes made his calves look better. It was a ton of fun... and he thinks he's straight. It's adorable.
My friend was a costar of mine in high school, and he's one total drama queen of a physical comedian. Our excursion included a lot of hip-swinging and eyebrow-waggling on his part, and a lot of laughing on mine. Only after he begged, I reluctantly pulled my very recognizable truck into the parking lot of a sex shop. "Will they ask to see my ID?" asked my seventeen-year-old friend. "Should I say I'm your twin brother? Should I wear my sunglasses inside? Do my sunglasses make me look older?" I sighed, let out an exasperated "NO!" and dragged him through the red door.
Sex shops, for those who have never visited one, are like a wonderland of discomfort. The walls are adorned with all kinds of things that light up and spin, you can barely walk but through a sea of lingerie, lace, pleather and fur, the doorway is stacked with complicated objects that you can imagine being illegal. And all the while, you feel the eyes of the cashier on your back and pray that the large man in the front was stopping in for directions, and is on his way out.
The trip was anticlimactic; we came out of the sex shop dry and unsatisfied. (I am so sorry for that one, Mom. That's why you don't read your teenage daughter's blog.) He was disappointed, but my friend will have to do without the strappy garters. It hurts my heart to see a kid get his hopes up like that only to be let down.
On a note unrelated to disappointment, I'm currently on my sister Cori's couch, having a slumber party. My brother-in-law went out and bought each of us a personal carton of ice cream, and we're watching Wedding Crashers in true fatass style. I have big plans for playing on my computer, Pacey (after Pacey Witter of Dawson's Creek, a monumental influence from my early teenage years), all night, and starting the glorious Jaclyn Moriarty's fourth novel, The Spell Book of Listen Taylor. Verdict: awesome day.
Sexy: Though I know I'll take crap for it, Owen Wilson. I like his nose, okay? And I think he adds some kind of real-life charm to crappy romantic comedies. He can turn a chick flick into a guy movie. I respect that.
Unsexy: The fact that my brother-in-law just made a detailed reference to One Tree Hill when prompted for something unsexy. I said, "Ty, what's something that's not sexy?" He said, "Guys who look like Lucas Scott!" Another thing that's unsexy? The fact that I know who Lucas Scott is.
Chipotle burritos this year: 25
S'mores this summer: 6
Bye, guys! Hopefully I'll see you tomorrow. <3