Today I changed my name, bought a dress on sale, and fell in love. With a probably 22-year-old gay man of color, who sold me said dress at the Ann Taylor, there.
My friend TinaDoris is getting married this Saturday, within stumbling distance of my house, and for that I am delighted. TinaDoris owns Penny, the dog who sometimes comes over and plays with my dogs. Penny, who manages to actually wear Edsel out. Penny, the little Miracle Worker who Could.
The point is, I haven't been to a summer wedding since 2006 or something, and I have no idea where the last dress is that I purchased for said wedding. Anyway I'm probably too fat for that dress, wherever it is, although I have lost a lot of weight doing my Tracy Morgan workout, and today in the dressing rooms of various dress stores throughout North Carolina, despite the depressing lighting that makes me look as though I inserted spray cheese into my hips with a nozzle, I did note I have new arm muscles. So as much as I curse and bemoan the syphillitic whore that is Tracy Chapman or whatever her name is, she has brought results.
I still hate her. At the end of the cardio portion she says, "If you feel you still have energy, you can do this workout again."
Oh, eat my potato pancakes, you rotten hard-assed slut. If I still have energy. I can barely work up resentment at that moment, much less anything resembling energy. She also, near the end of the DVD, says, "At this point you should be really sweating." Oh, should I? Should I? Because I have gone from solid to liquid, you giant giant lily-livered festering bitch.
I get a little cranky at workout time.
What was I talking about? Oh, the dress. Yes. So I went to the Banana Republic, and tried on a really pretty melon-colored dress that had a collar that made no sense. It went around your neck but for some reason it was really twisty, but just in one spot, and when I got another of the same dress that collar did the same thing. I did not want to show up in an Isadora Duncan twisy-neck look, so I went to The Loft.
I tried on a teal dress that was absolutely lovely and flattering from the front, but the back of me looked like I had decided to line my ass with gravel. What gives back there? Because I have been doing 3949549393939 leg lifts and kicks and hydrants and what-all with that workout, and yet Neil Armstrong is back there on my buttockal surface, taking one giant leap for mankind.
Finally I went to Ann Taylor, and I don't know why I don't just always go there first, because I love all their stuff. I must be their demographic. Old, unemployed, gravel-arsed women. Come to Ann Taylor!
So this tall thin elegant drink of water helped me, and oh! He was lovely. He made me try things I'd have never tried otherwise, including a yellow maxidress that was surprisingly flattering, had ...friend wished to attend the wedding with him as Curious George and me as his master.
It was way on sale and no, I did not get the cheetah-striped slingbacks to go with it. The GMOC (gay man of color) managed to sell me a $7 necklace, too, marked down from $950. Why in the Sam Holy Hill are Ann Taylor's jewels always so costly? It's not like they're real. Well. They exist. They aren't hologram necklaces. You know what I mean.
After leaving Ann Taylor and desperately wishing I'd had the nerve to ask GMOC to be my best friend, I screamed on over to the efficient, not-at-all-annoying courthouse to change my name. I am now Violetta Spray.
I totally just went on Random Name Generator for that name, and it's an excellent one.
Really, I went back to my maiden name, is all, and after parking, paying to park in the courthouse parking lot--which shouldn't that already be covered by my taxes?--being led to completely the wrong door, walking 80 miles to the RIGHT door, walking ALL OVER YONDER and being directed to the wrong room not once but twice, then finally getting there and being told I need $10 cash, going to the ATM upstairs and getting lost all over again while being stared at hungrily by the many courthouse n'er-do-wells that seemed to be hanging about, I finally got my damn name changed back to its rightful self.
"Thank you, Miss Spree!" the clerk called after me. My whole unmarried life, people been mispronouncing my actual maiden name, which I am not revealing here but it makes as much sense as someone whose last name is spelled s-p-r-a-y being called Spree, and AS SOON AS I GOT MY NAME CHANGED, AS SOON AS I DID, someone went ahead, there, and mispronounced it. First time out.
Then I got to my car and had a parking ticket. IT WASN'T MY FAULT THAT YOU PEOPLE HAVE NO ORGANIZATION! Why do IIIIIIII have to pay for the part where you made it impossible to know where to go and what to do?
...It occurs to me that June Gardens got the ticket, so does Violetta Spray have to pay it?