So we were at a friend's wedding.

Fine, it was technically the night before the wedding, and we were at a hotel. Details.

I don't know what your friends are like, but mine are generally drunkards. I imagine most people have very dignified ways of going about socializing. I imagine most people sitting up very straight while drinking tea, the corners of their mouths curling demurely around their cups as they exchange warmhearted pleasantries with dear pals, laughter as gentle as the tinkling of a spoon in a saucer. Then it's to bed by 8:30 p.m. sharp because goodness, one needs one's rest. Doesn't one?

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I feel like I need to tell you about the worst roommate I ever had. So. I'm going to... just go ahead and do that. If that's okay with you.

***

Like almost everything else in my life, it started with a Craigslist ad.

Room for rent in a two-bedroom apartment downtown. $500 per month.

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I hate foundation. I hate powder. I hate how every time I scratch my itchy face while wearing foundation and powder I end up with it caked under my nails. Little half-moons the color of my skin.

I hate how I only ever put it on when I'm feeling like I'm looking my worst.

I hate  how every time women post pictures of themselves on the internet, they have to make squeaky noises about how sorry they are for how awful they look. A picture of a woman's face, for example, is unfailingly prefaced with OMG please ignore all the crow's feet and those dark circles and don't even think about looking at the state of my brows!!!

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It's raining here.

Hold on. Just typing that makes me want to put on some Seventeen Seconds-era Cure and pour a tall stein of red wine.

Mmm. That's the stuff.

I don't want to beat a dead topic, but any rain around this time of year immediately takes me back seven years. I may have, oh, mentioned before that I moved back to California at the beginning of 2005.

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On two separate occasions in recent memory, I was called upon to act like a girl.

The first time came when we were visiting a quaint little town in Oregon with the beau's parents. The beau and his dad decided they wanted to go get a drink at a pub, and his mom decided she wanted to browse the shops. They all turned and looked at me, waiting to see which one I'd choose.

Honestly? The very idea of shopping makes me want to stab myself in the face with a carving fork. But as I quickly assessed the situation I noted that:

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