I have this stuck in my head today. So it’s “Fill in the Blank! Fuck, Yeah!”

ANYWAYZ.

On Friday my sister came to dinner and we ate too much food from House of Crazy and decided to walk afterwards. We wandered and wandered, until we finally realized we were headed to Greenwood, home of the last Fred Meyer in town that is not so big it could swallow you whole. I like to go out with my sister with my tiny jerks in tow, but it was really nice to go off on our own.

We stopped at the really friendly comic book shop in Greenwood, Dreamstrands. I gave up comics when I got married four thousand years ago, because it felt kind of geeky and I felt like I was too old for it. I also felt like I hit the point where I couldn’t find anything I liked. I felt like maybe I should be spending my money on “adult” things, like colostomy bags and bailbondsmen.

When I started dating my fella back in 2003, I was pretty thrilled to see that he had stacks of comics laying around, and I thanked the Giant Head of Brandon Davis that none of them were Captain America, or something like Catrina, Queen of the BoobieMonsters. (To be fair, there was some Fred Perry.) But, he had more “literate” and funny titles, and ones with female protagonists who could see around their breasts. So I’ve gotten sucked back into it. Franny is very interested, too, and sometimes we read Amelia Rules! together.

I always like to see the guy who runs Dreamstands. He is very pleasant, a font of information, and usually has a little bit of that “GIRLS. There are GIRLS in my comic shop” thing going on, which is adorable. I like him. He gave us free movie passes for tomorrow night for Little Miss Sunshine. Woot!

Finally we traipsed over to Le Fred and bumbled around in the cosmetics section. I grabbed a tester can of Sally Hansen “Airbrush tan” and gave my lower left leg the business, to see what it looked like.

“Huh,” I said to my sister. “This stuff’s not showing up.”

“Hmm,” Morgan said, peering at the nail polish.

“Oh, wait,” I said. “This is the stuff that lasts a week. Shit!” I thought it was the instant stuff that washes right off.

“It says you’re supposed to blend it,” my sister said helpfully.

“But then I’ll have it on my hands. Crap.”

“Well, you are not supposed to wash yourself for six hours, so you can scrub your leg when you get home,” she said.

“Great. I are so dumb.”

Of course I forgot to wash my leg. And of course this stuff is bimbo-scented, so I got to taste bimbo scent as I walked around all night. When I woke up the next morning, I had the most interesting orange pattern on my leg, as if Lindsay Lohan had snuck in the middle of the night and humped my poor calf whilst it innocently slumbered.

Fake Bake: 1
SJ: 0

God, that turkey looks good. Now I want to go to Marie Callender’s tonight and get their roast turkey meal which is disgusting and delicious all at the same time and never has enough cranberry goo so you have to ask for more. I love Thanksgiving in July, especially when it’s 55 crapping degrees here. I am having special issues today. I just asked my fella to make me a peanut butter and bacon sandwich. I have PMS. Somebody please kill me. Or feed me. Whichever.

My consolation prize for my orange leg and my PMS-pica is my NEW BOYFRIENDS! How I love them. Back off, Ladies, they’re MINE.