pull this string and I'll walk away

Dudes, break out the Congressional Medal of Honor. I have made it through the rain this week without inflicting harm on myself or those around me, for one thing. I have also gone all Aunty G, and set up two of mah girls on dates. B*tches, I need some good karma. While I have been toiling away at this truly tiresome task, I questioned why I was doing it besides trying to get a few steps ahead on the path to nirvana. I thought to myself: hey, it's not like these girls ever set me up with anyone. Then I remembered: oh yeah, I hit people with deathray vision when they talk for more than two minutes about dating. That got me back on track.

In my ongoing list of things I love about San Francisco, let me add the flexibility in attire requirements. A cousin who lives in Manhattan presently bemoans San Francisco's lack of attention to dressing up. He says it encourages women to dress like slobs. Did I mention that most of the men in my family are a$$hats? Anyway, I can attest to the fact that San Francisco has contributed to my dishevelled dress code. But I must point out that I think this is actually my natural state. I did force myself to don more formal (read: black) threads when I went out in NYC. However, I found that caused me undue stress. Come to think of it, my cousin used to cause me undue stress. I would walk into his penthouse apartment having femmed up as much as humanly possible (for me), and he would respond with "Is that what you're wearing out tonight?" Thanks, dude- like living with my mom for 18 years didn't cause enough scarring. It's actually ten times worse when you hear such words uttered by a man, even if he is related to you.

I think of this because I have on a pair of jeans and a sweater, and these clothes truly contribute to my happiness right now, I sh*t you not. This sweater is one of the two sweaters I brought to Peru. There is no other word for it but ugly. Truly. I'll take a picture of it and show you all just to prove it. The colors are garish. The body is variegated in such a way that it probably gives people vertigo. My brother has called it the grossest thing he's ever seen in his life. But this well-worn rag makes me so blissful right now that I refuse to change, even though I am supposed to go to some trendypants lounge in order to introduce one of the girls to her potential suitor. So, suck it, Manhattan. San Francisco is for slobs, and that's how we like it. Self-humiliating proof:



(See, now this picture is a toss-up- is it my camera skills that are crappy, or is the sweater really just this ugly? Or worst of all, is it just the inhabitant of said sweater that is the problem? You make the call.)

** Disclaimer: the views expressed herein regarding San Francisco attire do not include the Marina or Pacific Heights' neighborhood, where, I am told, fashion is a bit less forgiving.