Power scarf

I made this scarf for a dear friend who has breast cancer. If you're inclined to click on the image, you can see a much bigger version.

I designed it to be a power scarf. I put a lot of positive energy into it, and I'm hoping the boldness of color and all of the elements help her feel powerful.

It started out white, and first I dyed it fuchsia. Then I clamped CDs down the one side, because one, I like the pattern, and two, they look like breasts - don't you think? And then just scrunched and clamped the other side, so it looks like it has a long lifeline running down it. Next I overdyed it in a warm red.

Because she has spent so much time in Southeast Asia, I screen printed an Indian design that I particularly like on top.

Powerful? I hope so.

To be filed under things I do not understand

I just don't understand peep-toe boots.

Tej IMed me to ask me where I stand on the peep-toe ankle bootie. And I had to admit I hadn't given it any thought.

So I Googled. To form a concrete opinion.

Nine West is a brand I like. And yet, they say on their website, about this peep-toe bootie to the left, "This ankle bootie is ready to be the life of your closet!"

Um, no.

It could be that I am entirely wrong about this. But I think they're just plain ugly. And unflattering. And dumb.

Boots? They are for winter. For warmth.

Poking a hole in the toe? Opening up the back? This makes them the opposite of warm.

It's more of a shoe bootie. A shootie?

So I recognize full well that one could call me the opposite of trendy. Which would be, well, I don't know what.

The truth is, I haven't been trendy since Reagan, or maybe Bush senior. The last time I can remember really trying was high school. When, at various points, I had: a Cyndi Lauper criss-cross shaved into the side of my head; pegged jeans; a short on one side, long on the other bob; a neon green "Relax" t-shirt; bright blue mascara; neon orange nailpolish; and jelly flats.

I think you could genuinely have called me trendy back then.

And even then, I didn't have a pair of ankle booties. I wanted some, though. But we lived in India, and there weren't any to be had. I did covet this bright blue pair belonging to one of my French classmates.

So my taste was questionable. But trendy!

But I digress.

What's with this peep-toe bootie business? I'd like to know. Is it that designers get bored of making pretty things? Or they want to see how far they can push people?

They aren't attractive on their own, and they flatter pretty much nobody. I think it's one of those things that women will buy because it's trendy, and men will hate because they aren't hot, and after a few wearings those booties will be shoved to the back of the closet, sad, lonely, and partying all by themselves.

Or maybe men do think they're hot? I don't presume to understand what fires men up, and sometimes it's things I truly don't understand. Maybe men love the peep-toe ankle bootie? And not in a cross-dressing kind of way?

I'd say no, all around no, but I've been wrong about these things before.

Shopping at Costco, or why I am glad I haven't given up profanity

If you have ever spent any significant amount of time at Costco, you know that profanity can make you feel better.

Also, if you are remotely prone to ECD, do not shop at Costco in a vulnerable moment. You should know that nothing will make you feel like you lead a more pedestrian, hopelss existence spending than a large portion of a Saturday there.

Perhaps they aren't all like this. But the one at Pentagon City, while a bargain, just makes you want to stab yourself in the eyes.

Particularly if you buy tires. Because for one thing, even if you get there when it opens, it is an eternal process. Not necessarily because the line is so long.

More because people will get to the front of the line and be all, "Hi. . .I'm here for. . .tires? What kind? Well, I think I need. . .round ones. With. . .treads? I suppose. . .black ones?"

And then the guy at the counter walks the person around to the tires. While the rest of you wait.

If you've never said the fuck word before, this would be a satisfying time to start. Because it sucks an immense amount of ass.

And then, if you come back later in the day to pick up your car, which they did a perfectly nice job on - it's not that the service isn't good, because it is - you might decide to get some bulk shopping done before you leave.

Which you will instantly regret. And which pulls out even more profanity.

Because your fellow Costco shoppers? They are probably perfectly nice human beings, but they careen around in slow motion like they've had head injuries. It's like that movie where the zombies come back to life and eat living people. They stagger around slowly and confusedly, but hone in on live flesh.

Nick asked if I'd rather spend a day covered in beetle larvae or walking around Costco barefoot with ingrown toenails. It's a hard choice.

If this doesn't pull out fuck, fuck, and more fuck from the least profane among us, I simply don't know what will.

Heckfire? My ass.

Which would just be so awkward if you ever got arrested

So, I don't know how much you know about zebras. And really my knowledge of them is very slim.

But here is what I learned last week. You tell zebras apart by their buttprints! Actually, they refer to them as rumps rather than butts. Rump-prints!

If you click on the image, the sign explains how they tell Benjamin, Conrad, and Gao apart. Look at their cute little stripey zebra rumps!

And so then of course, in the same way that while I was reading that monkey sex article I wondered how that might work with people, I started thinking, "Thank goodness it's our thumbs and not our butts!"

I realize most of us don't get fingerprinted all the time. In fact, I'm trying to remember the last time I did. Maybe for a passport?

But don't they have fingerprint swipe machines at the airport? Nick's laptop has one, instead of having to type a password. You could never have butt-swipe machines in the airport or the office without huge liability.

There'd be the constant threat of a lawsuit for indecent exposure. Someone would complain that their colleague flashed them. And the guy would defend himself, saying, "I was just logging in to my laptop!"

And then I was thinking how much harder it would make things for detectives. Instead of being able to match the fingerprints on the drinking glass with those on file, I suppose they'd have to get buttprints off toilet seats?

"This buttprint, found on a toilet at O'Hare, matches the one the FBI has on file..."

Plus, at the police station, it would be all, "OK, look at the camera. Now pull down your pants and gently place your left cheek on the ink pad."

Awkward. Very awkward.

So on the one hand, it really sucks, but if you're not actually a terrorist, it does seem to have its perks

My flight to San Diego was out of Dulles at 8:23 on a Saturday morning.

I'd checked in online the day before, and got to Dulles about 7:10. The line for people who had already checked in but had to check a bag was only marginally shorter than the other line. And it crawled. Which makes you feel like really, what's the point?

Usually I try to only bring a carry-on, but this time I'd simply packed too many shoes. The price of vanity.

The line was painfully slow. I zoned out and shuffled along as the line progressed.

There was a thin, blonde, twitchy woman in front of me with her thin, blonde, bored teenage daughter. The woman kept craning her neck and scanning.

"Do you see Daddy? Where did they take him?"

You could tell they'd had this conversation before. The daughter had very calm responses.

"I don't know."

"I just can't believe they have him on that terrorist watch list."

"It's because of his name."

"He doesn't have a terrorist name. It's not like he has a Middle Eastern, terrorist-sounding name."

"No, Mom. You know it's because he has a totally cheesy ordinary name that terrorists like to use as aliases."

"I know. I know."

I was itching to ask what Daddy's name was. But didn't.

Time passed. The line barely moved. The woman looked around every few seconds.

"Here he is!"

Daddy - an innocuous looking white guy - appeared. Empty handed.

"Where are your bags?"

Daddy replied, "They put them through."

"Well, clearly it's a better deal to be on the terrorist watch list."