They say there’s some equation that calculates the "acceptable" grieving period after a relationship ends…something like one month for every year you were together. I love that "they", whoever "THEY" are, that nebulous throng of miscreants that determines societal norms, can dictate what we (the opposite of "they", apparently) feel. Anyone besides me feel that this is starting to sound like an episode of "LOST" with "The Others"?

Anyway, that’s well documented. You date 3 years, you break up, and after 90 days you should wake up one day magically over the other person, rejuvinated after some anger and tears and "woe is me"-ness and voila! All is right with the world. Birds chirp around your head Cinderella-style and the sadness in your heart has vanished. YOU ARE MOVING ON.

Except you’re not. That concept is bullshit. I’ve gotten over some people I’ve dated for a LONG time in mere days while others, a relatively short-term relationship, took the same amount of time that we dated for me to finally stop wondering what they were doing when they clearly weren’t with me (nor wanting to be, for that matter.)

To make matters worse, advice runs rampant. My friend has put up a Wiki page to try and compile this; everyone has a different opinion on what you should do. Some people ride the hard line and say you should delete them from your life entirely; after all, they’re not into you even if at one time you were nearly overwhelmed by their affection. Others opt for the "time heals all wounds – and wounds all heels" sort of advice, acknowledging that it does take time. As for me? I fall somewhere in between because I don’t think there is any ONE way to get over someone.

But at some point you will. You will because basically, you just have to, because he’s not moving/you’re not moving/he’s never going to change/you’re not changing either/ he’s not falling back in love with you. That pie-in-the-sky solution that can make things go back to the way they were is NOT HAPPENING and you can’t change it. Because one day, it just gets to be too much, gets to be too tiring and it takes too much effort to continue down the "What if?" path, takes too much effort to just care anymore.

Nothing is ever as good as it was

And what’s good for your soul

Will be bad on your nerves if you reverse it
– Jenny Lewis, Melt Your Heart

Until then, whenever that day comes, it’s not easy. You can’t will it to happen – try as you might – can’t wake up one day and say "Today is the day I am getting over John." Sure, there are things you can do to help that day come sooner – perhaps stop bringing him up in nearly every conversation as a way to remember and validate that there once was an "us", that he once did play a significant role in your life, a way to numb the pain resulting from the fact that those days have passed. You can take down pictures, delete his number from your phone, try to distance yourself from him. You can tell yourself and your friends how much better you are without him – You can wear heels now! You have the whole bed to yourself to stretch out! No more boring conversations about legal jargon you don’t quite understand nor could care less about – wahoo! But, like any habit, it’s hard, it takes an active effort, takes patience and strength for it to finally abate. But that’s just your body, your actions; your heart is on a different trajectory.

We sometimes have a hard time letting ourselves get over something, letting ourselves move on, because of the things that remain unsaid. I’d guess that few breakups actually provide you with the closure you need, at least at the onset, thus leaving you both unsettled and often times wondering ‘why?’ At this point, as much as it sounds harsh and cold and caustic and unfeeling, it doesn’t matter. I know, I know, it DOES matter to you – but it doesn’t matter in the healing process; if anything, it’s hurting you. And at this point, it’s time to be selfish, to just go with the details (IT’S OVER) instead of the reasons why. For all you know, he got The Ick™, he met someone else, he’s still in love with his ex or maybe he realized he’s gay. I’ll say it again: IT DOESN’T MATTER, the end result is the same. IT’S OVER.

I think it all may come down to desire and intention; both yours and his. This can be the biggest barrier because while you SAY you want to be over it, a part of you doesn’t really; it’s your subconscious grasping onto that feeling you had when things were good and continuing to associate it with that person. You may believe – really, truly believe – that you’re ready to move on, but in doing so you have to honestly admit that it is over. DONE. FINISHED. Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect $200, and do NOT, never ever ever, allow yourself for one second to think that there is any chance of getting back together. Until you can say that with 100% unequivocal confidence, you’re not going to be over the other person. The problem here is that you may – secretly or not so secretly – WANT to be over them because there’s some bizarre part of you that thinks that it could somehow work out. Again, until you’re ready to make this break, you’re not getting over him.

The other person can easily play a role in this as well; for all of us, attention is flattering. And as long as your ex isn’t acting crazy, doing stupid things like trying to make you intentionally jealous by hooking up with all of your friends, it’s still somewhat comforting and flattering to know that they still have feelings for you. If you, as the instigator of the breakup, are really certain you’re over it and positive that you’ve made the right decision, let them go. Let them move onto someone else and you go get your attention elsewhere in good conscience. You may not even know you’re doing it, but when you act the same way – even occasionally – as you did when you were together (and this includes flirting with them while drunk even if THEY are being flirty themselves) you’re sending mixed messages. Stop calling them. No more texts – even snarky mean ones. Birthdays, as hard as it may be, are off limits. Basically, if it’s over, let it be over. Let them go and move on…otherwise, neither of you are truly going anywhere.

So what’s the answer here? I don’t have it. You probably don’t have it. But suffice it to say that it’s not cut and dried, that time does help, that (some) distance does help, that even the old raunchy saying that "the only way to get over someone is to get under someone new" can sometimes help. So until they invent a breakup pill (or "Eternal Sunshine" becomes a reality) hold steady on the course, and join me for happy hour. At the very least, we’ll leave with a good story or two.

So for once, I’m WFC (Working From a Cafe) not due to laziness or a hangover or even due to frustration with my hour+ commute to Mountain View, shuttle or no shuttle, but because I had too much work to do and people kept coming into my office and talking about the "hot piece of ass" they got over the weekend. Good on ya, mates, but I’m up to my ears in work and listening to your prowess only reminds me that my suitors as of late have definitely tipped the scales into the stalker territory. (More on that later.) I honestly didn’t have enough time to risk the wireless crapping out on the shuttle today so I showered and plopped my weary ass on this chair here at 6:45am at the new coffee shop around the corner.  As such, I’ve been chugging away, and I’d call this 10 minute respite my lunch break if only someone would bring me a burrito. Since I don’t see that happening any time soon, I’ve decided to eavesdrop a bit.

There is a first date occurring on my table to the left; I’d say the girl – dressed in trying-too-hard business casual garb with a skirt that, given the length, HAD to have been purchased at Express – is in her mid-20s; the guy, with his telltale awkwardness and laughing at inappropriate times demeanor, works in the Financial District doing something inordinately boring and probably hasn’t been on a date in the last year of his likely 35 that he’s stepped foot on this Earth. I can’t decide if it’s a Match.com union or a set-up, but the "Are you [so-and-so}" conversation happened no less than two minutes before the conversation below. So, without further ado, I present "The Most Socially Awkward  First-Date Couple on the Planet."

Stupid Blonde Chick Who Clearly Needs Wardrobe (and Hair) Advice (aka, SBC): Have you ever had a dog?

Middle-Aged Dude who So Clearly Needs to Get Laid (aka, MAD): No.

SBC: Me neither. I had a hamster. We had houses for it. It was pretty funny. I love animals. I left it in Iowa when I left.

Eavesdroppers note: Oh, this is ALL making much more sense.

MAD: Yeah. Hamsters are nice.

SBC: Have you ever been married?

Eavesdroppers note: Yes, this is definitely a good segueway from the pets question, and certainly appropriate in your THIRD MINUTE OF THE DATE. OH, this is getting good.

MAD:  No, I tried to.

SBC: Yeah, me too.

Eavesdroppers note: You TRIED to!? You BOTH TRIED TO? OMG, maybe this is an eHarmony union and they found their soulmates. They like hamsters. They TRIED to get married. DING DING DING, I think we have a love connection.

Suffice it to say the rest of the conversation (that I could hear as I was trying to stifle my laughter) included fun, light topics like Cancer! Crohn’s Disease (she had it, he thought he might as well.) The time he almost peed himself waiting for the bus! And, I kid you not, making plans to go shopping at "The Victoria’s Secret" this weekend.

They say "Every Pot has its Lid", though in this case, I think I’d have to SMOKE some (pot) to not FLIP mine (lid) if I were in this relationship. Then again, maybe *THESE* tips will help fend off the stalkers…

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My pumpkin & Ali’s pumpkin, originally uploaded by Aubs.

Last night my lovely lady friends and I got together to dish the dirt, eat some tasty thai, watch Grey’s Anatomy and – the real point of the get together – to carve PUMPKINS! We uninvited the boys (much to their boredom) and had a classic girls’ night to prepare for the big holiday right around the corner. No, most of us still don’t have costumes, but we *DO* have pumpkins. In true rocktasticness, Ali did the “ROCK OUT!” hand and in true DebauchAubreyness I did a mudflap lady. (I love that when I asked for suggestions of what would be fitting for me, this is what I got. Whatevs…I agree.)

Anyway, costumes are still TBD, but in the meantime, it’s Indian Summer here in San Francisco, we’ve got a big week of parties and beach picnics ahead, and we’re feeling festive.

HAPPY ALMOST HALLOWEEN!

Because paparazzi would capture me walking the dog at 4am in my shorty-short pj’s with a long sweatshirt thrown over it to keep warm and see the homeless man propositioning me who apparently thought I was pants-less and thus a prostitute. Nothing like being mistaken for an unkempt hooker to make you realize that even at your worst,*SOMEONE*, *SOMEWHERE* will still want to sleep with you. And PAY for it!

Then again, if I was a celebrity, I don’t suppose I would be walking my *own* dog at 4am. Hmm…fame and fortune AND a dogwalker vs. no anonymity? I think I know the winner.

I’m trying to save money.

Ok, ok, I’ll wait until you stop laughing. I’m SERIOUS here. (You done yet?)

Since
I’ve moved here. I’ve been spending money like I had it, spending like
I wasn’t out an extra $400+ each month on my houses in Atlanta,
spending like I wasn’t living alone in the smallest apartment in all of
the Bay Area with no light and ventilation and a radiator that floods
my apartment. Is it any wonder that I am spending too much money trying
to stay AWAY from aforementioned miniscule-ment?

Anyway, now
that I’ve decided to stay here, I figured it’s time to start living
like a San Franciscan who isn’t a dot-com millionaire (which, for the
record, I’m not.) So I’m learning the joys of public transportation.
Except it has it out for me.

I’m writing this standing at a bus
stop**, already late for dinner, trying to understand where the FUCK the
N-Judah is. You see, we even have this handy trip planner that will map the route and tell me exactly
what bus to take, where to transfer, and even when the next one is
coming. Handy, right? And since I have a third grade education, I
jotted down all the relevant details, got my $1.50 fare, and set off on
my journey, EARLY even so I wouldn’t be late. Apparently it wasn’t
meant to be.

In the thirty minutes I’ve been standing here for
the train that "comes every nine minutes" I have seen twelve buses,
three – no, make that four – Google shuttles, two "F-Market" streetcars
and ZERO – count ’em, ZERO – N-Judahs. I’m only thankful that it’s not
a) raining or b ) freezing because seriously, I’m PROVING something
here in this journey. It’s me vs. The N-Judah in a battle royale, and
I’m going to win because really, I’m sick, I already took my Robitissin
with Codeine and it’s BYOB with no corkage fee at Zazie. And as if I
have any food at home.

Make that FIVE Google shuttles, sixteen
buses, three homeless men, and I’m sure any minute they’ll be a fucking
partidge in a pear tree. Just no N-Judah.

** Note that I *WAS* writing that at the bus stop, it didn’t post, and the N-Judah never came. NEVER. Daisy gave me a ride…love her. HATE N-Judah.

I keep saying I’m going to audition for a play. Since I got a lead part (as the Toy Scout Elf) in my 4th grade production of some stupid holiday musical and got to sing a SOLO (!!) I’ve always thought I was destined to be on stage. In college I took a class called "Theatric Interpretation of Literature" where you acted out short stories and poems howver you interpreted them, and I got to perform in front of hundreds for some interpretation I did. Sadly, I don’t remember what it was, though I do remember that ALL of my then-feuding-over-crumbs-left-on-the-counter roommates came to support me. I loved that feeling, loved stepping out of myself and becoming someone else, loved the release it brought. My teachers said I was a natural.

I haven’t done anything with it since. At least, not in the traditional sense.

But I’ve acted…oh how I’ve acted. I’ve acted ok when I’m not, portraying the bigger person when all I really wanted to do was climb out of my skin and get OUT OF  THERE. The bigger person, I know how to be, despite the fact that being the bigger person is rarely fun. Allthewhile playing the understudy, I wanted to be the lead.

I’m also a virtuoso of propriety at times (not always, as DebauchAubrey would convey. But sometimes.) I’ve feigned happiness when I was anything but, indifference when it was called for, callousness when I was raw. Saving face, protecting my vulnerability, was always the main goal, and it was only on occasion (read: after a few too many glasses of wine) when a select few saw how things really affected me, saw the indecision and unfettered and unwarranted embarrassment that was the reality of the situation.

And yet now, in this world where I’m trying to be honest with  you, with myself, I find myself wondering if I’ve been too convincing. When I pushed you away, maybe I wanted you to push back. When I left you alone, maybe I wanted you to come get me. When I told you what I wanted, maybe I was just telling you what you wanted to hear.

Maybe I wanted you to fight for me, something in all the years I’ve known you I’ve never seen you do. Or maybe it’s too late, maybe I’ve assumed my role as it was given to me, read the script that I wrote myself, recited the lines as only a true actress can. I’m just tired of my life being a stage and you reading the reviews…it’s time for my curtain call, and for once I don’t want any applause.

Cliches are overused because they’re so often true. After all, there’s a little truth behind every lie, so it makes sense that we find ourselves returning to the overused, uncreative platitudes. So it’s no wonder that a lot of romances end with the triviality of "It’s not you, it’s me." Because, really, it’s probably you, and as for me, well, I got The Ick™.

"The Ick™," you say. "What is The Ick™?"

Oh, trust me, you know it, you just may not have known that there was a name for it until now. Consider the following scenario:

You meet a member of the opposite sex, and ZING! Sparks fly! Say it with me, friends, CHEMISTRY. A firm believer of the "if it’s not there from the onset, it’s not going to happen" tenet, and though others may disagree, Chemistry is a must. Without Chemistry, there’s no basis for The Ick™ to eventually rear its fugly head as – statistically – it probably will. But back to the story.

You’ve got your new ‘friend’, you’ve got Chemistry, and you start hanging out. You call. S/he calls. You text, you email, you IM…and so do they. The two of you are conveying mutual Interest (the next stage here in our fun little dating – or NotDating™ story, as it may be) and flirting is at an all time high. I’d even go so far to bet that you get a little NervousTummy when they’re around, or when you know they will be. Interest=Excitement and let’s face it, we all need a little Excitement now and again.

It’s right about now when you start getting content, start forgetting that in life there are often rules that need to be followed even if you don’t necessarily agree with them. (I mean, I think I should be able to kiss Chase from Laguna Beach, but the RULES think that someone born in 1988 is too young for me. Fuckin’ rules. But I digress.) One of these rules that holds true universally is the concept of mystery and challenge. Now, before you get all self-empowered on my ass, I’m not quoting that book, The Rules, nor do I agree with it. But what I *DO* agree with is the fact that biologically, traditionally, and rationally, challenge inherently translates into worth; i.e., if it’s too easy to obtain, you won’t work that hard for it. I firmly believe that the one that loves the least controls the relationship, a direct result of the imbalance of affection and its associated challenge. As such, this "comfort zone" you’re about to enter into is the kiss of death.

Plainly speaking, you’re about to get The Ick™.

I don’t know exactly how, or when, it starts, but you’ll know it one day when the object of your about-to-be-former affection comes around and you just don’t feel it. That little thing they said that you’d normally think was cute is now somehow completely irritating. For the first time you notice that they have small hands, and holy shit, that is totally your dealbreaker. HOW are you hooking up with someone with GIRL HANDS!?

Welcome to The Ick™.

Unfortunately, this disease of distaste and annoyance is as uncurable as it is ridiculous in nature. In fact, many times when you have The Ick™ you don’t WANT to because despite that rawkish laugh and their newly-discovered, completely unattractive back hair that you completely missed for the first few months, they’re awesome. They may be great in bed, they may be good for you as a person, and you may think there’s potential there. But the LAUGH! The BACK HAIR! THE GIRL HANDS – oh Dear Lord – it’s all too much. The switch has been flipped somewhere inside, somewhere hidden and mysterious and  completely preposterous and unwarranted but it’s too late. The Ick™ – it’s terminal.

So as much as I wish it wasn’t the case – and trust me, I DO – It’s not me, it’s you. The Ick™ bares no mercy.

* Disclaimer: This is a true story only in the fact that it’s the
compilation of many, many years of experience and MANY conversations
with women who all agree on one thing, and that’s the experience related above.
It’s not about you insomuch it’s about you and you and you and you and
you times about forty-two. There’s no way to tell the story
without offending someone, so I’m just going to go ahead and offend
everyone. The end. Love, Aubrey.

"I’m not dark and twisty. And if I am, it’s because I live my life under a banner of avoidance. I avoid. I’m an avoider."

– Meredith, Grey’s Anatomy

My friend recently commented that if my life were a television show, they’d have to talk very fast about all sorts of deep, complicated, intense things like they do on Alias. The viewing public would have to concentrate very intently to get all of the nuances of the intricate plot, the subtle references that foreshadow future scenes similar to the connectedness of Lost, only with more making out and less Dharma Initiative foodstuffs. I suggested Gilmore Girls, but he disagreed, saying it was too light and not nearly as convoluted as the reality of my life was. Point taken (though I really like Lauren Graham and Alexis Bledel. And Matt Czuchry, aka, Logan. He’s hot.) But I digress…

My friend was right…as I’ve alluded to here lately, there’s been a LOT going on with me, and each day the story changes. On a Friday I’m moving across the country; on Monday, I’m staying put. Tuesday, I’m flying back twice a month; Wednesday, I’m starting up a new department. Thursday follows suit, so it’s no wonder that TNDC usually ends up with fabulous DebauchAubrey stories and Friday, an early trip to Bob’s Donuts while I spend the day dodging IM rumors about who I’m dating and who I’m NOTDating™, the courting ritual of us hipsters so confusing that someone really needs to write a book called "How to Date the person you are NOTDating™ – The Rules and Regulations for all Official UnRelationships™" just so we can keep it all straight.

Keeping it all straight is the least of my worries; keeping myself sane seems to be a much higher priority as of late.

I’ve always been one to deal well with stress, though I don’t think I’ve ever experienced this eight-pronged attack so consecutively such that my armchair therapist friend sat, perplexed, and asked me how I get out of bed each morning.  A question I ask myself nearly every day. While many are waiting for the other shoe to drop, I know that the entire sale rack of Nordstrom’s Women’s shoe department has already fallen and Neiman’s is next. And not if, my friends, but when.

In light of this, I’ve come to realize that behind this normally chipper, bright and cheery "devil may care" attitude there lies someone who actually DOES care, who IS affected, who is trying her best to get through things one by one and just come out on the top. Because, after all, there really isn’t another option, or perhaps I refuse to accept defeat on any of these fronts. Together, they may seem daunting (and even on their own, a bit scary), but one way or another,  anything else is unacceptable. Similar to a person who believes in God only because the alternative is too frightening, I can’t fathom the situations not improving because the opposite seems incomprehensible.

Apparently, I’m "dark and twisty."

And, like Meredith, I think it’s a result of many, many years of sweeping things under the rug, avoiding the real issues and dealing with the superficial ones, and the culmination of weeks and months and years of this is that at some point, you WILL have to deal with it. You can only live "under the banner of avoidance" for so long, which is unfortunate since I *KNOW* that banner, I *LOVE* that banner, that banner and I have "Best Friend" necklaces so that my side is "Be | Fri" and the banner completes me with "st | ends". That banner and I, we’re BFF 4-ever, yo.

There’s an upside of being dark and twisty, according to my friend, the same friend who likened my life to an intense weekly drama on ABC;  he postulated that guys are inevitably drawn to dark and twisty gals, that their damaged state makes them somehow attractive. "It’s like moths to a flame, Aubrey, moths to a flame." Well, given recent events, I found myself agreeing with him, though the concept of my fucked-upness producing some mysterious, intoxicating pheromone sending men straight into my (damaged) arms is more than a bit disturbing.

"But I’m not talking about you," he continued. "For you, the more fucked up you are, the more confident you get. You don’t give this off…you seem even more put together. And we know that’s not the case –  I mean, you’re REALLLLLYYY fucked up."

What the hell? If I have to be dark and twisty, if I have to abandon my banner friend, if I have to actually DEAL with these things, why can’t I get some added benefit out of it? If I have to be a flame, why the hell don’t I get to be swarmed by the moths?

Who knew I’d ever come to the day when I was depressed that I wasn’t getting hit in the face by flying insects? Say it with me, friends: I’ve reached new lows.

I must apologize. A sincere, honest, from-the-heart apology to whoever it is I offended so badly that put this hex on me. I feel like Lindsay Lohan in that horrible ‘Just my Luck’ movie only I’m a) not anorexic and b) have never been to a costume ball and anyway, that dude was dressed like a total douchebag. I *SO* would not have kissed him. (So yes, I saw the movie, but it was on a plane, where any and all Aubrey moviegoing happens. Shut it.)

Anyway, it *HAS* to be a karma payback, because I honestly can’t think of another reason why September (and hell, part of August) has been this awful. Not only did everything that could go wrong in every aspect of my life go horribly, tragically awry, but things I never even considered went kerflooey. My closet fell down not once, but four times. Hanging racks broke. Mirrors shattered. Pets got sick, again and again and again. Bills came in for triple the expected amount, romance took a turn for the horrificness and life was at an all-time low. (You should hear the things I’m *NOT* mentioning here, because if I did so I’d have to take a Xanax and I think I’m nearing the low-end of the supply. Suffice it to say they’re BAAAADDD.)

So yes. You? Yes, you, out there, who I cut off on the 101? I am sorry. Deeply, terribly sorry. You, ex-boyfriend who I called gay? Well, besides the fact that you are, I’m sorry I repeat the story of you leaving me standing in the street crying in a $500 dress by myself after you went off with someone else after a wedding. I should be more respectful to your asshole behaviour, or at least not repeat it this many years later since in the long run you’re actually pretty insignificant (though it *IS* a good story.) Shopgirl who I was short with, I apologize. I was having a bad day. Mom, Dad – sorry about adolescence. All I can say is hormones. And anyone who I’ve missed on this list, anyone I’ve wronged, whoever I’ve scorned with my sarcastic tongue, please, PLEASE accept my sincere apologies. It won’t happen again, really.

Because I believe in karma, the whole Golden Rule crap wherein you do good and good comes back to you. Granted, I may not show up in Mass nearly as much as I should nor do I volunteer enough, but I buy my friends dinner! I raise a completely rescued menagerie! I BRUNCH WITH FRIENDS! I’m SURE I’ve bought you a beer. Or twelve. I mean, that’s good, right? I listen! I social plan! I make out with boys that aren’t nearly as cute as I am, and seriously, THAT takes sacrifice. (For the record, that happens once in a blue moon. SERIOUSLY. High standards, peeps.) I think I’d be on the high end of karma, but for some reason, I must have done something to offend the Gods, and now I’m paying for it.

So please. Accept my apology, whoever you are, cosmically or otherwise. Because it’s got to get better…it just has to. My sanity is at stake…as is the organization of my closet. And really, I just got it all color-coordinated, and would like it to stay that way.

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Flashdance sweater AND ‘fro hotness, originally uploaded by Aubs.

With Halloween approaching, it’s only natural that I’m getting October Anxiety™, the seasonal pressure to create the BEST COSTUME EVER because, let’s be honest, I’m just a wee bit competitive. (And by ‘wee bit’, I mean you’re all going down, bitches.) I was going to resurrect my Kissing Booth costume from years back (which was a huge success, natch, even if I DID have to smooch a clown, though he DID pay $40 for that opportunity), but my friend reminded me that I may have to kiss someone I wouldn’t normaly want to (aak! the atrocity) so I’ll instead be sticking to my usual discretionary choices. Which we ALL know is the utmost of top-tiered hotties and NOTHING LESS.

Anyway, there went that idea. I left my hula outfit in Atlanta, and I’ve already BEEN a Starfucker so again, there went THAT. Not nearly as fun the second time around. Add the fact that we have not one, but TWO costume parties preceding Halloween where I have to dress up as a rock star, and basically, I’m lost.

So, interweb, you’ve helped me in the past.  Miss Lila Belle’s middle name is courtesy of one of you, y’all have always given good advice and suggestions, and basically, I’m at a loss. So, if you could help out just one last time, I’d be so grateful.

A few ground rules: I’m not opposed to wearing a wig, but probably can’t dye my hair for a few months after the brown-streaky experiment has caused it to be a bit weak. I actually LOVE wigs (see pic above) so that will work. Another rule – no face makeup, so I won’t be sportin’ Janet Jackson (as fun as the wardrobe malfunction would  be) or Kiss, and would prefer to be SEMI attractive as opposed to Courtney Love strung out. Last rule – needs to be recognizeable in some way.

So, gawkers out there who haven’t ever commented, NOW IS THE TIME! I’m giving away a FABULOUS prize (Googley, of course) to the winner of the winning suggestion. And my endless love, of course.

Bring on the comments, kids. My costume is in your  hands!