(1) I need to wash clothes like a mofo.
(2) I need to iron clothes like a mofo.

So instead of wearing fantastic pants or my favorite skirt (khaki colored, fitted just right, and the perfect length for a midget like me), I�m wearing grandma frumpy black skirt (four inches too long, three sizes too big, two slits on the sides, and a partridge in a pear tree) with a tank top being covered by my regular cutie sweater since I�m not allowed to show my bare shoulders in the office.

I originally had on a midriff tank top that required me to button my cutie sweater, but I looked more like a funeral go-er than a work go-er. I made the change rather quickly while repeating, �Work is not a fashion show. Work is not a fashion show. Work is not a fashion show.�

I looked into the mirror, kept that mental mantra on repeat, pulled on my thigh-highs, and slipped on my shoes as I hustled out the door.

I was feeling so frumpy that I had to go back to put on underwear.

Argh.

I�ve decided that I�d like a boyfriend. My active dating life has been full of NGNWs, and I think I�m ready to downshift to speedy-speedy down a different path.

No more nice guys. No more guys with potential. No more �you�re great and I�d like to spend time with you�-s.

I want an Escalde-driving, Nautica-sporting, so-much-cologne-it-makes-me-dizzy-wearing, American Express Gold Card-holding, Franklin-spending man to treat me like the princess I am.

I figure if I�m going to avoid all real relationships at this point, I should at least get some pretty things outta it.

Cirque du Soliel is Friday night. I�m looking forward to the acrobats and whatnot. I glanced at the schedule, and I saw jugglers on the agenda. There were links to find out more, but I refrained. For 90 friggin� dollars, I want a bit of a surprise.

Why is it that almost every girl in Chicago dyes her hair? Why must they all be blonde too? Ya know, not everyone looks good as a blonde.

Chicago has a bunch of head-full-of-highlights, looking-for-a-husband, insecure-shell-of-a-person kind of women.

If there was no maintenance, I�d prefer that pinkish-purple hair color. I�m very obviously not looking for a husband. And if there�s ever been someone who doesn�t compromise who she is because of someone�s pretty face (or butt), that would be me.

I guess this is why I�m so popular.

It�s either that or all of the handjobs I give.

There were these hippies doing a survey during lunch, and they didn�t even approach me. I know that I would have declined involvement and continued eating my cheese-less onion-less bean burrito, but I was still a bit offended that they didn�t ask my opinion.

Do I look so anti-hippie that I�m unapproachable by those wishing to save the Earth, animals, air, water, or starving children?

I�m a vegan. I use Tom�s of Maine toothpaste. I got all hot over a man who undoubtedly considers wearing Birkenstocks �dressing up�.

Must be the damn frumpy clothes that threw them off.

Here are the plugs for those who filled out the survey and entertained me while I should have been writing about how to create communication plans across large corporations: