With over seven years of content on my website, it’s no wonder I don’t revisit the past as often as I should. (Which probably is a good indication as to why I keep finding myself somewhat repeating it…) And yet when I do, I’d better save at least an hour to go through old posts and – more time-consuming than anything – old photos. Which, on yet another day where I have VERY little to do (only because I’ve been up since 6am and already went climbing, read/watched the MacWorld keynote, and accomplished EVERY LAST THING on my to-do list!) is exactly what I’ve been doing for the last half-hour. Prompted by Daisy’s question of whether or not she should cut her hair (I directed her to my old post showing the aftermath of my Locks of Love donation) I found myself sucked into my pre-Flickr Typepad photo gallery days. Which has caused me to question the important things: my taste in men, my taste in drinks and – most importantly – my taste in fashion. To note:

   

       

   
            

       
               
       
            

            

               

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WHAT THE HELL AM I WEARING? If there was a fugly contest where users had to design the most hideous of dresses, I’m sure I would have been the grand prize winner. Keyhole neck? ZEBRA PRINT-slash-PALM LEAF PATTERNED? For God’s sake, this was what I wore to the going-away party I was throwing my then-boyfriend! That whole "moving to Chicago, going to B-School" reason for dumping me was a farce; CLEARLY he was appalled by my taste in clothing.

   

       

   
            

       
               
       
            

            

               

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I honestly can’t believe that I am putting this photo up, but I think the world is a much safer place if people know my shortcomings (and can prevent me from ever doing something like this again in the future.) We were at my friend Val’s 26th birthday party – the theme was Ghetto-fabulous – and for some reason I decided not ONLY to wear a one-piece velour jumpsuit, but also dress up as Eve, replete with the paw print tattoos on my chest. AND THEN UNZIP IT TO MY NAVEL. I’m starting to understand why I’m still single…

   
   
   
   
   
   

   

       

   
            

       
               
       
            

            

               

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I have nothing bad to say about this costume – I made $50. (Note that I had a flippable "cost" sign so that I could determine how much I should charge per kiss. That, and the $40 I got for smooching a clown helped.