Over at Life As A Human, some musings from my first 100 miles of running.

NTKOG Year 2, #8: The kind of masochistic utter slave to hair removal who, not content with using specialty products to rip off fifteen layers of epidermis (and attached hair), gets a little, uh, weird with it.

I am: a sucker for test-driving pretty much every item I see at CVS with that alluring little “As Seen On TV!” sticker. Vidalia Chop Wizard? Couldn’t live without mine. Ove Gloves? Practically have erotic dreams about ‘em.

I am not: surprised, therefore, that I finally gave into the allure of SmoothAway: a revolutionary hair-removal system, consisted of a pad “covered with superfine crystals that buff away unwanted hair, leaving your skin so soft and incredibly smooth”.

The Scene: Sprawled out on my bed, of a Thursday evening, giggling with girly mad scientist glee while opening the SmoothAway box and gazing at — sandpaper. I mean, it’s sandpaper, right? That’s what we’re talking about here.

The contents of the box were unimpressive. A flexible pink plastic mitt with a few ovals of extremely micro-grit sandpaper meant to attach to its face. But it’s no secret that I’m into painful body hair removal — heck if there were a spa in the city that specially trained, like, Argentinian swallows to peck out errant chin and nipple hairs, I’d be there — so pasted the microcrystal paper to the mitt and started a-rubbin’.

$14.99 -- plus $6.99 in Shipping and Handling. Or, uh, eight bucks at CVS.

The thing I like best about As Seen On TV products is, gosh, the thing I like best about most endeavors: that first moment — the lean-in, as it were — when what you’re about to experience exists simultaneously in the realms of fiction and reality. The exhilaration of infinite potential. A phrase that sounds a little too elegant to describe the actual tableau: my too-large bearpaw awkwardly crammed into the flimsy pink mitt, lowering tentatively over my sun-bleached arm hair (the last memento of summer!), rubbing five times clockwise then counter, and then –

Holy frig! It totally, totally worked!

Is it possible? An As Seen On TV product that works as well as advertised?! …well, sort of. Fifteen minutes of fierce rubbing left my arms weirdly (but not unattractively) hairless, and exfoliated within an inch of their lives.

Alas, though, the hair-removal panacea was not to be. Sated with the initial glee of the experiment, moved the mitt to attack the few days’ of accumulated stubble on my legs, and — nothing. Glued a new pad on the board, in case my excessive vim had already dulled the microcrystals and — ouch! More painful nothing. In a fit of grim curiosity, more than anything else, decided to test the packages claims that SmoothAway could quickly and painlessly remove armpit stubble.

And I don’t know if you’ve ever spent upward of ten minutes vigorously rubbing your armpits with an abrasive pad, but if that’s what the marketing specialist qualifies as “quick” and “painless,” then I have a feeling she spends most of her professional life writing copy for ballgag disinfectant. On the bright side, though, the treatment did detract from the appearance of stubble on my pits. ’cause who’s going to notice a little underarm stubble when the whole region is inflamed seventeen shades of fire engine?

Yes, I did test SmoothAway on my bikini line. No, we’re not even going to talk about it.

After spending something like an hour experimenting with my new toy, came to the conclusion that it works by more or less disintegrating hair into a  fine powder with said microcrystals. Also, because of the broad-swath application method, while SmoothAway was decently effective at clearing areas of thin, fine hair, it doesn’t have the same brutally effective nuclear-winter-for-all-body-hair results as more exacting methods, like shaving or waxing.

That said, if your arms make it look like you’re turning into a werewolf, or if you want to, like, thin out peach fuzz on your stomach (is that a thing people do? feminine grooming puzzles me — I honestly have no idea), and dip a baby toe into s&m at the same time, there are worse solutions.

Also, for what its worth, if you ever get the idea: “Hey, if super-fine grit sandpaper works on my super-fine hair, maybe regular hardware store sandpaper will work on thicker hair!”? Don’t — don’t follow that inclination. Unless you want to experience the rare thrill of developing a bruisy rash on the back of your calf.

No comment on how I know that.

The Verdict: Every time an As Seen On TV product doesn’t work as I’d always dreamed, a little sliver of my hope for humanity withers away. At least I still have my Ove Gloves.

What “As Seen On TV” products always send you guiltily reaching for your debit card?

NTKOG #250: The kind of bold, optimistic adventurer who — fortified by a year full of uncharacteristic experiences — leaves her fate for a day entirely in the hands of her beloved blog readers.

I am: amazed and thrilled to announce this is the last official day of my project year.

I am not: afraid of anything anymore. Thank you, guys. Thank you.

The Scene: All over my fair adopted city, my love for which courses through me with the intensity of a volcano, yet the tenderness of a hiccuping kitten. For the last day of this strange, amazing project, decided to chance fate and let my truly beloved readers choose my adventures. And, dudes, you took the task seriously.

Adventure #1: “Write haikus! About things that you do today. Especially trivial things.” (from @xoxonatalie on twitter)

Perfect! I may have just the slightest tendency to get lost in verbal fireworks (nooooooo, really?!) slash lengthy descriptions of passers-by’s messed-up teeth, so let us approach this Choose My Adventure Day via haiku-cap.

Choose My Adventure:
it seems you conspired for my
ultimate delight

Adventure #2: “Swing on the swing set in Ringer Park in Allston. (If there still is a swing set and/or a Ringer Park).” (from commenter Mominlaw, who went on an early date with her husband there and who, ps, I hope is having a lovely birthday!)

Packed up and walked to Ringer Park in the drizzle, and was delighted to find I had the place more or less to myself! Then was even more delighted to get on a swingset and remember just how friggin’ fun that is! Uh, someone remind me why I haven’t done that in sixteen years?!

Dude, what is a swing? / Lever? Pulley? A machine? / Frig it, I'm swinging.

Adventure #3: “I would say joining kids’ games. Cartwheels anywhere there’s a spot of grass, hopscotch anywhere there’s chalk and sidewalk.” (from @PepperJess on twitter)

You don’t want to see an oaf of my caliber attempt a cartwheel (hint: destruction imminent), but — muddy grass and cute skirt be damned — still swing-dizzy, I found a hill on the playground and rolled right the way down. Afterwards, took chalk to asphalt and learned: 1) why professional hopscotch players don’t carry heavy messenger bags; 2) that my feet have apparently grown considerably since the last time I played.

Not great cardio / but it's still good for the heart. / (Is that too cheesy?)

Afterwards, a young couple strolled up to the playground, obviously on a date, and watched me attempting to make the perilous third-square hop. “Wanna play?” I asked them, then handed them each a stick of chalk. When I left, a few minutes later, he was drawing her portrait on the asphalt and I was meltier than the rainy chalk.

Adventure #4: “locate the toy that you loved most as a child/feel some attachment to and play in a park” (from Kelsey)

Although I’m a sucker for Slinkies, Play Doh and Creepy Crawlers, as a kid I was most obsessed with arts & crafts, and one item in particular:

Sammy D. Sapling / always keeps both his eyes peeled / seeking hot dryads

Swings, hopscotch, tree eyes.
Whoa, did I just take myself
on the perfect date?

Adventure #5: “What if you paid the bus or T-fare for a random person?” (from commenter Jessica)

Harmonica dude
with the sign by the bus stop,
stop playing and ride.

Adventure #6: “Stop at an animal shelter and play with the dogs or cats that looks like they need attention the most (usually the old guys)” (from commenter Erin)

Couldn’t find a local shelter I could public transit to on time, but stopped by a local pet store as they were packing up all of the weekly rescue kittens, and complimented a dignified former feral tabby on his glossy coat.

Fistbumps for kittens!
Love you temporarily;
hope you find a home.

Adventure #7:  ”i challenge you to buy and eat one cash register candy you wouldn’t ordinarily eat” (by @whowantssoup via twitter)

Adventure #8: “Please lie down on a busy sidewalk for a couple of minutes, and if anyone asks, tell them that you’re just looking up at the sky…” (from SapioSlut [warning: link nsfw])

Adventure #9: “take [your] reading outside to an iconic plant in your neighbourhood (Canadian sp) and, for good measure, bring some cold black tea to pour on its roots.” (from Naomi)

Adventure #10: “Bike to the Arnold Arboretum, find a secluded patch of grass and share a bottle of wine with yourself and Thoreau.” (from Neal Simpson)

Is it just me, or do these combine into one delightfully eccentric picnic? I had forty-five minutes to kill before free late admission to the Museum of Fine Arts, so I stopped by a local diner for a to-go Earl Grey, then spread a fleece blanket on the wet sidewalk and gazed at the grey-wooly sky while tourists hopped over me in confusion. Occasionally as I looked up, they would peer down anxiously and, for a moment, we would lock eyes. I smiled up warmly; they twitched away and kept hurrying on.

After ten minutes, I really gave them something to edge away from, when moved onto the lawn, nuzzled my face in the grass and read it excerpts from Walden while sneaking sips from a tiny bottle of Merlot. Maybe it was just the wine, or the luxury of getting soaked on a rainy day, but I was Thoreau-ly entertained. (Oh man. Oh man. That was awful.)

Rain came in buckets / Dude asked what I was doing / "Reading, sir. And you?"

After I fed the grass some of my cooled tea, headed into the Museum of Fine Arts for late afternoon admission:

Adventure #11: “should be lots of art students @ the mfa today. Could pay one $1 for a 1-minute sketch?” (from @kharied on twitter)

He captured my smirk / my rosy cheeks, crooked nose / and my lack of limbs

Adventure #12: “Give a high-five to all the cyclists you can.” (from @teeheehee on Twitter)

Good day, fair cyclist!
Kudos on braving the rain!
Knock and/or lock it.

Adventure #13: “Tell three strangers you like their outfit/hair. Yay for compliments!” (from Scarlet)

Well what a cute skirt!
Where did you get that necklace?
Those shoes are divine.

Adventure #14: “get a mimosa! Yum!” (from @scarls17 on twitter)

Adventure #15: “challenge a random dude or dudes to a game of buckhunter at a bar.” (from ohhayitskk)

Adventure #16: “I want you 2 walk up to the next hot guy you see hug him, tell him you love him and then walk away, preferably into a crowd.” (from @katiedeniselee on twitter)

Ducked into a sports bar near where I work to pick up an unfashionably late-in-the-day mimosa (yummy!) and stake out the console game situation. Although they didn’t have buckhunter, they did feature a game whereby you — and I’m so glad I live in a world where this exists — emulate throwing beanbags with a roller control.

Found a trio of dudes who had obviously been drinking since the beginning of the Sox game, and singled one out. His slight squiffiness was absolutely key to this mission.

Sir, let’s toss some balls.
The loser hugs the winner?
(My wager is love.)

Yes, for the first time in Boston, I told a dude I loved him. Not for the first time in Boston, a dude in a bar laughed at me. Awesome. (He also completely kicked my ass in the game, but this was to be expected.)

Adventure #17: “Pick 5 things from your apartment that you no longer need & give them away to 5 people. Uncluttering + charity!” (from @ericfriction on twitter)

I purchased sweaters
in all the colors I hate.
Well, some need the warmth.

And into the Whole Foods drop box they went! Freeing up more drawer space for me to, I’m sure, buy more clothes I’m going to immediately tire of. I … I might need a make-over.

Adventure #19: “Drink a Hot Toddy.” (from Toddy)

Adventure #20: “please have a sweet snack and a cup of tea before bed if you can.” (from commenter Susie)

Earl Grey and brandy:
ghetto toddy burns so good,
with bacon cookies.

Yeah, you heard me, bacon cookies, because a year as enchanting and bizarre as this one deserves to end on a sweet but weird note, don’t you think?

The Verdict:  You guys! My last NTKOG of the project year! I — I don’t know what to think! There’s a lot happening in my head right now. What I can say for sure is that my epic and exquisite Choose My Adventure Day was the pitch-perfect end to the experiment that has made this past year undoubtedly among the greatest of my life.

Thank you guys for sticking with me through it! And trust me, this blog isn’t going anywhere. Give me a few hours to catch my breath and still my heart, then come back tomorrow for some schmaltzy reflections and news about what’s happening to the blog now that I’ve (oh my goodness!) finished the 250!

Reminder: on Sunday, August 22, from 12:01AM to 11:59PM, my life is a Choose Your Own Adventure. Except you’re choosing my adventure. Tell me what to do via Twitter or blog comment and, as long as it isn’t illegal or too expensive, I’m all over it, dudes.

NTKOG #249: The kind of immaculately groomed pain-scoffer who — assuming women actually had armpit hair — would shell out the big bucks for a complete stranger to rip hers out by the roots.

I am: a complete wimp about wax-induced pain, which isn’t doing much for my future as a Career Dominatrix.

I am not: sure why women are so grossed out by their armpit hair anyway. We’re sexually mature mammals, dudes. Hair is a genetic factor here.

The Scene: Total Skin Care, a family-run waxing and skin salon in the ever-glamorous Allston. After a few weeks of angsting, breezed into the salon after work on Thursday and asked if they had any appointments for underarm deforestation. The charming woman at the counter penciled me in for an appointment forty-five minutes later then — as I dashed out to find the nearest DIY anesthesia center (ie: bar) — called out anxiously: “Wait, are you sure your armpit hair is long enough to wax? How long has it been since you shaved it?”

Uh, will six months do?

Guys, let’s talk about armpit hair. I realize this is a completely TMI admission, and verges on societal unacceptability, but — I kind of like it. I know, as women we’re total failures unless we pluck, pinch and alter every square inch of our bodies, but, dude, what’s so wrong with a little underarm foliage? About four years ago, I made the aesthetic decision to grow mine out; because The Ex and I were of one mind about the allure of a little spray of hair, I haven’t really looked back since.

The way I see it, my armpit hair is who I am. I’m not vain, I love my body, and my primary goal in 98% of social interactions is to weed out dudes who don’t have a high tolerance for personal eccentricities. Plus, whenever I contemplate shaving, I always think: dude, what if I’m stuck in some sort of missile-launching scenario with half a dozen foreign leaders, all locked in an underground bunker in our shirtsleeves for eighteen hours a day until we reach a final decision and, just at the fever pitch of military negotiation, I’m asked the single most important question of my life — if I shave under my arms, what the hell will I have to stroke contemplatively?

TKOG: greatest sex symbol of our time? Or of all time? Discuss.

Regardless, it was with the heavy heart of Sampson lowering himself into Delilah’s barber’s chair that I wandered down the salon’s steps and thrust myself into my fate. Not ten minutes later, I was folded into the embrace of Barbara, a woman a little older than my mother. Flowing skirt, unfussy hair, radiantly sarcastic grin — you know, like the cool aunt who takes you out whenever she’s in town and talks cute strangers into salsa dancing with you in the middle of taquerias.

Within the first five seconds in the waxing room, she told me to take off my top. Um, okay, I hesitated, waiting for her to leave the room. She didn’t. So off came the shirt and I splayed myself on the chair, arms up, my whole body clenched like a fist to protect me from the awkwardness and pain that was about to come. Except that didn’t happen either.

As she spread the hot wax on my first ‘pit, she launched into a hilarious diatribe about her gay dog and his heterophobia. Dude, you should lend him to me to take on dates, I laughed, then started to warn her that I’d probably scream when she pulled the wax out — except when I looked down at my underarm, it was already shorn. Magic.

“Dude, how’d you do that?!” I yelped. She beamed, almost coquettishly, the sly guru of hair removal, and admitted the secret was in her stories.

“Which one do you want to hear next, honey?” she asked, squirting lotion into her hand. “Wanna hear about my porn stars?” She massaged the lotion into my armpit, firmly, while gazing into the distance. “Some of the ones that come to me are gorgeous. I wouldn’t mind having one of them myself…”

From there, she described trade secrets about removing testicle hair, then told a story about a conservative judge and his hair-removed junk so uproarious that I had to beg her to stop because my abs were cramping from laughter. Big improvement from my last hair-removal experience, which I left shrieking like a freemason during the Inquisition.

By the time my ‘pits were soft and hair-free, I was too in love with Barbara to just let her wander out of my life. Uh, hey, I asked, trying to drag out the interaction, you know those, like, hairs on your toe-knuckles?

“Oh honey, say goodbye to ‘em,” she grinned, dribbling hot wax on my much maligned feet. “This one’s on the house!”

Too soon after, I got properly dressed again and followed her to the counter, where I paid the (incredibly reasonable) fee, volunteered to ghostwrite her memoirs, and promised to be back soon. And, between us, I definitely will.

The Verdict: Wow! Glad I retried waxing! Turns out that the sum of your experience has almost nothing to do with wax types or salon quality — the right warm, radiant personality can turn torture (literal torture!) into a deliriously delightful experience. Frankly, the fact that my armpits look great (and socially acceptable, for once) was just a bonus. I would have paid her just to stand there and listen to her stories.

Also, for what it’s worth, Sampson may have been shorn, but isn’t altogether powerless. I’m still nervous about my lack of meditative strokeability in a nuclear winter scenario, but, that aside, forgot that shaven ‘pits look pretty okay. I may or may not keep it up, but if I do, waxing all the way.

NTKOG #244: The kind of besotted transit enthusiast who, once you catch her eye, turns the traincar into a make-shift angsty calc class and, gosh, passes you a love note.

I am: forever falling in love with people on trains and busses. Those are the best moments, I think, when a strictly theoretical interaction hovers in the realm of infinitely possibility before you inevitably pass from each other’s lives forever.

I am not: in the habit of actually informing momentary eye-catchers how lovely they are. There are national registries for dudes in said habit, guys.

The Scene: A Brooklyn-bound L Train last weekend, returning home from a lovely evening with Muscles and Justice. And while trains fascinate me even in the mildest of times, this particular car was especially alive with possibility, thanks to a magical urban anecdote Muscles had shared with me a few days prior.

Apparently he had been riding the train, as usual — standard T-shirt, ratty jeans, reading an Evelyn Waugh novel — when an anonymous woman brushed past him and dropped a note in his lap. I don’t usually do things like this, she more or less said, but you’re extremely handsome and — what if? Justice, Muscles and I reread the note a number of times, exclaiming over how cool and ballsy it was of her, and how in an alternate universe, we would have had a killer real-life rom-com on our hands.

From this discussion, two lessons: 1) See, gentlemen? This is what happens when you read Waugh novels in public; and 2) even though the note didn’t result in a love connection, and she must have been terrified to write it, nothing bad happened. Her note was the delight of all — including the girlfriend of the gentleman she’d approached.

I’d had this idea a few times before, but doing it in my hometown seemed with awkward possibility; however I was determined that before I left New York, I’d drop off a similar missive.

Unfortunately, it seems that train cars are only filled with cute guys on the days you couldn’t care less. For miles of train car between Williamsburg and Manhattan, my searching gaze was met only by homeless dudes, awkward tweens and pale, fanny-packed tourists.

As I was about to give up, on the last subway ride of the weekend, I saw him. Mid-thirties, maybe; fantastic blazer, dark-wash jeans, buttery navy loafers; riding home at midnight on a Saturday, he looked exhausted, but — more — disappointed in himself for feeling so tired. He looked the way that I always feel: like he’d tried his best and wasn’t going to take another step until something magical happened.

Oh whatever, I'll bet Robert Browning got his start scrawling ambiguous missives on the back of bakery receipts.

For three stops, hopped anxiously out of my seat every few seconds to make sure I didn’t miss his auspicious exit. Finally, saw the crown of his head rising above the thronging passengers, threw myself through a couple that was making out in my path, and extended the note. Sir! Sir!

Goddamnit, HEADPHONES! With one foot out the train, he hadn’t heard me. Desperately, I grabbed the train pole — my fist mere inches in front of a twelve-year-old’s face — and swung myself across it like a manic Gene Kelly just close enough to his path to tuck the note into the breast pocket of his blazer.

Unfortunately, just as I started tucking, he spun around to look back into the car, causing me to awkwardly stroke the smudgy receipt across his chest, then, paralyzed with horror, watch him retreat.

Another successful social interaction with another human being.

Afterwards, had only one stop to figure out how to dispense of the note. It wasn’t a proper love note, I reasoned, and surely there’s another jeans-clad man with excellent shoes who could use a pick-me-up! As we got off the train, I spotted a snappily attired gay Asian guy on a date with his cute-but-unkempt boyfriend, ran fifteen feet after him in the tunnel, tapped his shoulder and pressed it into his hand.

After which, because they were apparently walking the same direction we were, I had to run back in the tunnel and hide behind Muscles for the whole way out. As we walked aboveground, though, I hovered in the stairwell long enough to see him pause in front of the ticket machine and read the note out loud. The guys were laughing but, uh, I hope they were smiling too?

The Verdict: Argh I am terminally awkward. This anecdote is slowly receding from mortifying to hilarious, though, and in the worst-case scenario, at least I’ve secured a footnote on yet another Loonies Not To Lunch With list. Can’t argue with that, eh?

So, as you might have gleaned from my body-positivity rant yesterday, I am: just barely on the right side of don’t-sit-next-to-me-on-a-plane level feminism. I am not: an internationally ranked style maven.

That said, a secret from TKOG’s vault? I used to be into fashion. Like, really, really into it. Through the last two years of high school, my only dream was to get a job on the editorial side of a national fashion magazine. I had Deep Thoughts about tweed. I owned thirty-seven pairs of pink high heels — one for every Shakespeare play (sorry, Titus, you don’t count), because y’all know I’m that kind of girl.

And while my personal attempts at style are abortive and embarrassing, I still feel a flutter when I see a woman in an exceptionally sharp suit or life-changing gown. Despite it all, I still like fashion. The good kind, that is. The art kind.

A phrase, coincidentally enough, that serves as the tagline for Laundry Magazine. The synopsis, loves: a digital and print fashion magazine based out of New York and Chicago, but with international coverage, featuring the work of established and up-and-coming designers, stylists and photographers.

Exquisite clothes! Worn by beautiful people! Shot against breathtaking backdrops! Check out a sneak preview of an image from the September mag:

Are you — are you a little bit in love? My high school friend Kelsey is one of the awesome crew who’s spent months sweating fashionably iron-rich blood to get this project out, and she gave me the low-down on some cool stuff in the September issue:

• A photo shoot with Chicago artist (Via NYC) Timothy Bergstrom, who is also designing a limited edition tee-shirt for LaundryMagazine
• Collaboration with some of Chicago’s young designers from the Chicago Fashion Incubator
• Coverage of the London College of Fashion’s top graduates
• Interviews with FIT/Parsons graduates
• 8 editorial photoshoots, shot in Chicago and New York, with the Chicago team being composed of entirely under 25′s
• Clothing for a shoot at the Indiana Dunes, handmade and tailored by the LaundryMagazine team

I know I don’t usually do shout-outs like this, but take that as a sign of my faith in the project. When Kelsey emailed me these pictures, I got goosebumps.

Plus, can we stop for a moment to think about the sheer ballsiness of the undertaking? Being an artsy dude in your early twenties so often feels like a world of No. There are no jobs, there’s no money, there’s no time, no more than a microscopic chance of success — wouldn’t it be safer and easier to get good at your awful desk job and bide your time until the world feels a little more yes-ful?

Except that will never happen. Not only does fortune favor the brave, but it’s got a pretty terse two-word rebuttal to everyone else.

So a tip of the hat, Laundry Magazine, for giving me a much-needed shot of inspiration today. You’re doing something brave, and beautiful, and — oooh, look, more pretty dresses!

NTKOG #240: The kind of unabashed glamour puss who spends half the morning primping before she deigns to run to the convenience store across the street.

I am: the lowest-maintenance person you’ll ever meet. As in, 95% of the time I am growing out my armpit hair. On purpose.

I am not: opposed to other people going to extraordinary lengths to look gorgeous – in fact, I’m glad they do it, as it gives me something to look at on the bus. I’ve just never felt the urge to go there myself.

The Scene: A perfectly ordinary lazy Sunday, with a hint of pizzazz. After my morning run (week six, baby!), took stock of myself in the mirror: drenched with sweat, PMS acne clusters dotting my cheek and forehead, dark circles under my eyes, erratic tanlines, squishy bits, body hair – to your average glamorous girl about town, I looked like a down-market Picasso. So, I set to work changing that. All of it.

At 10:30am, I hopped into the shower, armed with an arsenal of clay-based microscrubs, scented soaps, fresh razor, and nerves of steel. On a normal day, I spend a quarter of an hour getting ready: shower essentials, comb through the hair, dry off enough to throw on clothes without them sticking, then out the door, ready to electrify the world.

By a quarter hour into my GlamorBot primping? Tsh, I’d barely even shaved one leg.

I was halfway through my Empowering Ladies playlist by the time I’d finished all the hair removal (damn you, toe knuckles!). Afterwards, scrubbing, soothing, moisturizing – I was exfoliated within an inch of my dang life. (Seriously, have you ever exfoliated the inside of your belly button? If you haven’t then, uh, don’t.)

And that was just the pre-show! Afterwards, played some Peggy Lee and flipped through all of the candy colored silks and chiffons and laces in the “don’t even think about it” section of my closet, before settling on a black lace cocktail dress that wasn’t totally inappropriate for daytime.

Then the eye shadow, how it glimmered; the earrings, how glitzy. If I did this every day, you’d have to fucking commit me.

After a solid hour and a half of work, took a deep breath and looked at myself – made-up, coiffed and perfect sartorially attended for the first time in my life since, I kid you not, senior prom.

Quick twirl in front of the mirror, then met my eager eye and I looked – good. I looked, y’know, perfectly nice. Pulled together and even a teensy bit stylish. But I felt kind of underwhelmed.

Still, I reckoned, maybe when I ventured out into the world, I’d begin to feel that glossy halo I always imagine around Girl With Great Shoes And Store Credit Accounts. Ran to CVS, took myself out to a decent lunch, and spent a while perusing the sale bin at a book store and, dude, nothing. No one treated me differently, I didn’t feel any more or less confident about myself. It was just a normal Sunday with the only exception being that I was wearing a dress I was afraid to get grass stains on.

Eventually I gave up on the whole glamour game and walked to the Common, where I threw myself down on the ground (grass stains be damned!) for an afternoon of writing. At one point, before I packed up to head into Starbucks, the light was such that I caught a reflection of myself in my MacBook screen.

Glasses on, make-up melting down one cheek, grass in my hair, shoes kicked off – an hour and a half of primping totally undone, but it was the first time that day that I looked at myself and felt great about what I saw.

The Verdict: I know there must be a reason that some women go through this torture every single day, but damned if I can figure out what it is. I think this probably has something to do with the fact that my body isn’t the source of my superpowers. In fact, I look at myself in the mirror, on average, three times a day, and the time I’m happiest about what I see is almost always the same: after my morning jog, hair up in a disgusting frizzy pony tail, shapeless tank top liberally bibbed with sweat and all of my skin flaming seventeen shades of fire engine. It’s not People Magazine cover material, sure, but for some reason, it speaks to me.

In fact, I think I’m breaking all the rules when I say this but, dude, I just straight up like the way I look. I have since I was a teenager. I’m not gorgeous or even particularly good-looking, and the laziest photographer would find a dozen things to PhotoShop in every quadrant, but I just don’t understand the insecurity the world seems bent telling me I should feel. I like my thighs, I like my belly, I like my stress-acne and the stupid toe knuckle hair and the fact that you could see me randomly on the street and just know I’m the kind of girl who’s going to breast-feed her own kids. I truly cannot understand on even the most basic level why anyone else would feel differently.

I like my whole package, and time and make-up are expensive, so fuck it. Not that kind of girl with a bullet.

That said, you other ladies are more than welcome to keep spending hours getting yourself gorgeous before work, ‘cause the rest of us need something pretty to look at on the bus.

NTKOG #234: The kind of friendly — over-friendly — stranger who, at the slightest provocation, encourages strangers to treat her body like the hands-on kinetics display in a friggin’ children’s museum.

I am: getting much better about my fear slash revulsion for physical contact but, fundamentally…

I am not: a touch-and-be-touched-er.

The Scene: Yesterday, on the B-Line headed home from an unsuccessful evening’s writing at the library. I’m not well: over-loud music has left me with a migraine that’s making me cry aimlessly out of my left eye; every few seconds, my body’s getting zapped with inexplicable internal electricity. Not a pretty sight. I’m basically sitting there staving off a panic attack.

Then, as more passengers crush on at Hynes, l stare uncomprehendingly at the dude whose meaty forearm is pressed against my chest. He doesn’t look like much of anything — not like someone you’d look twice at. Early thirties, maybe; red trucker cap, blue Sox T-shirt cut off into a facsimile tank top, reddish porn ‘stache of questionable irony. And peeking out of one of his arm holes, a masterpiece.

A tattoo of a squid lying on top of an antique clockface, its tentacles wrapped around. The squid is translucent, and the curves of its body distort the numbers and scrollwork below it in a way that is both whimsical and faithful to physics. Black and white etching, about the size of a man’s palm, wrapping around the left side of his ribcage.

After the train thins out a bit at the end of the underground line, I turn to him (after surreptitiously wiping away my migraine tears): “Sorry to be nosy, but your tattoo, dude, it’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.” He smiles, genuinely but in a nothing-to-see-here way. “Can I ask? Did the tattoo artist come up with that design, or…?”

He looks at me again, for longer this time.

“I came up with the idea, but my friend made the design. He’s a real artist.”

“Dude, anyone who could come up with an idea like that is an artist. You’re an artist.” A fleeting, ridiculous thought that — why not? — I go with. “Hey, can you do me a favor?”

I tell him that I’ve occasionally toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo but know in my heart I will never get one. But maybe if I found the right design! Would he mind — taking the Sharpie out of my bag and drawing one on me?

I’ve actually asked people to do this a very few times, under the influence of alcohol, and never has anyone said yet. Maybe it was our tattoo bond, though, or surprise at the request, but dude accepted the Sharpie I put in his hand, with a warning that his stop was coming up soon. I started to raise my forearm for him, but he leaned in toward my neck, so I pressed my collar bone toward him.

A few moments of scraping against my skin, then, as the train began to pull into the next stop, he stepped away and capped the marker, squinting at his work. “Dude, dude, what is it?!” I asked, but he just shook his head. “You’ll see.” So I pulled out my phone and took a few snaps to see:

…no, seriously, what is it? He rolled his eyes like, dude, there are none so blind as who will not see, and sighed: “It’s a ninja eye.”

Oh. Duh.

The Verdict: Other people can be fun. That’s all I’ve got today. Give me a break — I’m beginning to suspect I’m serious-sick and not just complain-on-Twitter-sick.

In lieu of a heartening, masterful conclusion from me today, let’s talk about you. Specifically, let’s talk about your tattoos. What are they of? Where are they? Do you have regrets? Do you have better ideas for your next one than a ninja eye? Spill.

Did I mention I’m defending my Mortified series Worst Teen Poet In Boston title on Thursday? Club Oberon in Cambridge; Thursday, August 5 at 8:00pm; tickets are $15 (boo) and you can buy them here (yay). If you happen to go to the show, come say hey and I’ll buy you a (much-needed) drink.

Over on Life As A Human: my long history of falling for Catholic priests — and why it might not be such a bad thing after all.

NTKOG #233: The kind of serious friggin’ hippie who, not content with the radiant beauty of a perfect summer day, tries to plant a little joy with the help of overpriced flora.

I am: a bit trigger-shy about interacting with people on the street, after my foray into motivational poetry canvassing.

I am not: fond of foisting anything on the general populace. Even summer joy by way of a Whole Foods rose bouquet.

The Scene: The major thoroughfare in front of my apartment. This weekend, I was trapped in the apartment by a vicious headcold, and felt a bit insular and grumpy about all the lovely summer joy going on around me. During my funk, though, read through some NTKOG activities suggested to me in December, and found one perfect to combat my mood: “Give a flower to a stranger.”

Simple. Sweet. Summery. How perfect is that?

Lumbered up to the Brighton Whole Foods and picked out a bouquet of a dozen crisp yellow roses. As I stepped outside, immediate saw a middle-aged woman helping her elderly mother up onto the pavement. I reached into the bouquet — imagining myself suave like Clark Gable, presenting a perfect specimen to the happily tittering ladies, then walking away with a grin — and … nothing.

Turns out they package bouquets pretty firmly. Just, like, a heads-up, in case you’re planning on trying this.

After a few minutes’ work unbanding the roses and discarding the plastic wrapper, re-hit the streets, bearing twelve perfect loose roses. In a masterful stroke of timing, it was apparently Official Brighton Cute-Couple Promenade Hour. Within a minute, three couples passed me and I held out roses to them, feeling like a slightly worse-dressed Little Matchstick Girl.

Two rejections, but the third woman took one with just a smile, then promptly buried her nose in it. He bloomed a little bit, watching her, then took her other hand as they walked away.

As I walked back toward my apartment, stopped to offer flowers to everyone I passed. “Flower?” A few thank yous, a few embarrassed people pointedly avoiding my gaze. A fast-walking Asian man took one out of my hand the perfunctory way you’d take a restaurant advertisement then, a few steps later, looked down at the flower in surprise.

Four flowers left, I detoured in the block around my apartment and ran into a cute guy, my age-ish, leaning against his car. Want a flower? I have a girlfriend,” he answered immediately. That’s cool. You can take one for her too.

To my surprise and delight, he actually did.

Later, I waited with the last flower outside of the laundromat where my clothes shook in the final spin cycle. Tipsy Blonde Aviator Shades rejected it; Sox T-shirt blew smoke a little too squarely in my face for it to be an accident.

As I was about to give up and go rescue my clothes, a pretty Pin-Up Hipster wearing bubble-gum pink sunglasses and leading an ice-white teacup poodle walked into my range.

“Want a flower?” I asked. She asked why. “Pretty day, pretty flower,” I shrugged.

She grabbed the rose out of my hand, raised it to her mouth, and gnawed through the stem, a little bit vicious. Let the rest of the stem drop to the sidewalk and planted the flower into her up-do, where it shone against her black hair. “What do you think?” she asked, flashing a huge grin.

Perfect, dude. Just. Just absolutely perfect.

The Verdict: Well if this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.

NTKOG #232: The kind of college honors graduate who — wait a minute — actually learned a lesson in kindergarten?!

I am: allegedly an adult, but still playing house at a pre-kindergarten level.

I am not: good at cleaning up after myself, what can I say? That, and most of the junk scattered around my apartment is totally kindergarten appropriate: chalk, fingerpaintings, googly eyes, plastic beads, and toy robots of every description.

The Scene: My apartment which, I realize now, I’ve often referenced but always refrained from describing in this blog. My reason? Sheer, unadulterated shame.

It’s mortifying to have to admit this in a public forum, but I’m an absolute slob. I mean, really beyond the pale. Up until a month ago, my apartment looked like Frank and Charlie’s in Always Sunny: plates, clothes, plastic bags scattered around, peppered liberally with broken glass (I have a thing about broken glass). After spending a year as the obligatory neat-freak zookeeper for four boys, I made a little deal with myself: “You never have to clean. Ever.” And, uh, I stuck with that.

To be fair, I think it’s hereditary. Ever since I can remember, my mother’s proudly displayed a refrigerator magnet that reads: “Dull women have immaculate houses.” Funny the stuff that sticks with us from childhood, eh?

I had a pretty simple routine: as long as I was spending my time writing, I didn’t have to clean up my apartment. Once it got so bad I had literal nightmares about it, I’d spend four feverish hours tidying. Repeat as necessary. (Hardly ever necessary.)

However, as part of my recent-ish monastic schedule, as well as a general desire to de-clutter my life, spent a full weekend a few weeks ago genuinely cleaning the ol’ place. In just six hours, it was downgraded from crackhouse to frat house. Six hours after that, it almost looked like a real apartment.

Then, to top off the transformation, I came up with the GREATEST CLEANING TIP EVER DREAMED UP BY MAN. I mean, this shiz is powerful. Patent pending, so don’t steal it from me:

After I use something? I put it back!

You guys, if any of you steals that advice and gets a book deal, prepare to feel my dang wrath.

It’s been a little over a month now, and for the first time in my life, I actually live somewhere clean. Not spit-shined, not hastily swept under rugs — actually, legitimately organized. (Sort of.) I like to think of myself as a young urban Lorax, except, instead of speaking for the trees, I’m just trying to protect against the desecration of their hardwood floor brethren.

To celebrate this extremely uncharacteristic lifestyle change, I am — deep breath — hereby giving you the grand tour of my apartment. A big deal to me because, despite the 900+ pages of blog prose suggesting otherwise, I’m a very private person, and rarely let other humans into my personal universe. Like, for context, before this month, only six people had seen my apartment. Four were out of town guests. One was my super. And now, all of you get to.

My front door and -- light of my life -- my Wall of Rejection, where I paste all of my rejection letters. As you can see, I've been busy.

Fun fact: I've had an Attack of the 50-Foot Woman poster in some form in every room I've lived, even temporarily, since I was 18. I want a nice lithographed copy as a wedding gift. If slash when that time comes.

Nichka couldn't be bothered to wake up from her nap for me to photograph the bed.

Wall across from the couch. I like that the Lenin / piggy bank arrangement is kind of an Animal Farm tribute. Although I guess the addition of my grinning monster bowl makes it a ... Great Monsters Of History thing?

My kitchen, viewed larger than lifesize. Note: there is literally no built-in counter space. That's what the tops of microwaves are for, I guess.

My messy bathroom. Or, as I like to think of it, the second bedroom. Heck yes, clawfoot tubs.

The Verdict: Huh. Turns out the floor isn’t just the biggest shelf in the house. I’ll admit I haven’t done a perfect job keeping this up since it was moved from active NTKOG status, but it’s nice having an apartment that can be made company-ready in twenty minutes instead of a week and a half.