It's The Loose Change That'll Kill Ya

(January 25, 2002)

I just caught myself starting to put a spoon into my bra in the office kitchen. I stopped before anybody saw. Not because it isn't perfectly natural to me to put objects into my bra, but because I didn't feel like walking down the hall with a spoon sticking out of my bra at work. They already think I'm weird here.

Actually, my coworkers don't come right out and call me weird. They stop talking when I walk up to a pack of them in their natural habitat (smoking outside), and they ask me a lot of questions about my shoes and hair. This one woman describes me as otsy fotsy. (Artsy fartsy, for those of you who do not speak Bostish). I guess I understand the 'artsy.' It's the 'fartsy' that I take issue with, even though I have only the haziest idea of what she means. The most solid piece of evidence I've come up with is: if you don't have Billerica Hair you're otsy fotsy. Billerica Hair? If you've never seen it, all you need to do is drive to Billerica (the armpit of Massachusetts), stop the car anywhere, get out, and look around. Your chances increase if you enter a Burger King, a gas station, or a K Mart. To get the proper Billerica Hair flair you must grow your hair. Make sure it's flat and limp. Then, using the center of your forehead as a guide, gather your hair back, approximately to your ears. Cut that part as short as you want it. Get a perm on only THAT part of your head. (Alternatively, forego the perm and simply blow dry and feather that section each day when you get up.) (Alternative to the alternative, get a perm on your whole head EXCEPT for that top part and then blow dry and feather the top part each day when you get up). Make sure you use PLENTY of hair spray, and then take the can with you to work so you can spritz throughout the day. Bring the round little brush too. Above all, make sure you get this exact same haircut every month for the rest of your life. Color is optional, but if you do color your hair, make sure it's from the L'Oreal "Brittle 'N' Brassy" selection. Because you're worth it.

But about the spoon and the bra. I am almost never wearing a piece of clothing with pockets. Even my outerwear lacks pockets, except for this one black pleather jacket (I only bring that up because I wanted to write the funny funny word pleather) and one really roomy Banana Republic kind of army coat thing I took from my brother in high school. It's like, enormous. And it has pockets that are so big they almost cease to be pockets. It's more like somebody sewed a pillow case to each side of the coat, inside AND out. That's a coat for shoplifting, or for when your house is in flames and you're running for your life with whatever you can fit inside your coat.

Ha ha...pleather.

So no pockets. And I can't stand carrying a stupid little purse around. I see girls out in clubs with cute little chunky lunchbox-style purses, and it looks adorable. I think, "Oh, I want one too." So, with Purse Envy as my evil guide, I buy chunky little purses so that I, too, can carry them around and look adorable.

It isn't adorable.

I feel like the biggest idiot standing there holding this little thing, and now I have the added pressure to not lose it. It becomes "hold this while I pee" and "can you stick this in your shirt pocket?" or "Oh no, where is it?" Of course, when I'm out reviewing a show, I have this great big black bag of stuff. Notebook, tape recorder, camera, pens, and space for the inevitable CDs I get shoved at me all the time. I have no problem keeping track of this bag. It's the little ones that get away from me. Little purses and sunglasses, I lose all the time.

But then, and this was a few years ago, I realized that all I really need when I'm out is my license and money. Which both slip very easily into my bra. And when I get old enough to stop being carded, I won't even bring the license anymore.

The only time this method of storage and transport of documents and legal tender gets strange is when I forget to be discreet about it. Like, if I walk up to a bartender and ask for a drink, I usually have my money in my hand already. If I'm distracted and forget to prepare for the transaction, they look anywhere from interested to horrified as I dig around in my cleavage for their tip.

The OTHER time it becomes strange is when it's not my money or my license for which I need a pocket. Like in the kitchen at work today. With the spoon. I had no more HANDS, you see, seeing as how I had my coffee in one and a yogurt in the other and a notebook in the crook of my arm.

I stuck it in my mouth instead.

Pleather. BWA HA HA HA!