formerly a fearless temp

Because complaining about it all day to everyone withing shouting or e-mailing distance isn't enough, I must whine here: Dudes, my knee is killing me! I twisted it getting out of the shower today and now it hurts every time I bend it or put weight on it, which forces me to walk around like I've borrowed Frankenstein's left leg. V. annoying! Especially since I drive a standard and am supposed to go cavorting around the tri-city area tonight picking up my altered bridesmaid gown (moment of silence for "Please God let it fit" prayer) and wedding-related gifts. I loathe pain so much that I'll likely throw it in one gear and keep it there, which will wreak havoc once I get off the highway and start handling all of the secondary roads in fifth gear.

And I've been *so good* this week exercising, and was actually looking forward to going tonight, but I can't if my knee hurts! Will I have to actually break the protective plastic wrapping on my Pilates videotape? I've only had it...oh, three months or so now.

I also forgot my shoes for the dress and am afraid the Intimidating Eastern European Seamstresses will scold me when I go to pick up the dress, as I assume they make you try it on before you leave.

In other wedding-related news: Am in a quandary regarding Big Fat Republican Wedding, which is taking place next weekend. The question is -- To get my hair done or not to get my hair done? And I just wrote like four paragraphs on my internal debate and deleted them because they were painfully boring, even for me! The point is: I would likely look more polished but it would cost money! And I can't really justify throwing more money into the gaping maw of suckiness that is this bridesmaid experience.

I'm sure there will be further hair-related chapters in this bridesmaid bonanza. Like: To flat iron or not to flat iron?

So exciting!!

My latest thing: I cannot stop eating. I mean, CANNOT. And all bad things! I think I ate like five mini candy bars at work today. And some potato salad from yesterday's luncheon. And then a regular lunch, and tonight for dinner I had like four tacos and roughly eight pounds of chips and guacamole.

And I know it's ALL BECAUSE I went to get my dress for the July 5 Big Republican Wedding fitted on Wednesday and they ended up pinning to take it in on the sides and up top (not a surprise, as my chubbage has never really manifested itself in the chest area), and now I can't stop eating, making it a definite possibility that I will bust out of the unexpectedly tasteful bridesmaid's gown in the middle of the ceremony. V. nice.

Must control self. Am thisclose to raiding the freezer for ice cream. Must control self!

In other news: Friends threw the loveliest little birthday gathering for me tonight. I used a scooter! And fell, of course, shoulder-first into a wall. But I sense no lasting injuries, as I am tough! Tough!

And now it's waaay late. Bedtime for Jessers.

Tonight my father suggested that we have Chinese food for dinner. Or, to be more accurate, he bellowed "JESS!! CHINESE??" up the stairs to me from where he was watching baseball on TV.

"What do you think?" he asked when I came downstairs. "Do you want some?"

"You mean, do I want to go drive to the Chinese restaurant and pick up your dinner and, while I'm there, maybe get something for myself?"

"Something like that," my father said. "I have your change from last night."

"I'm buying again?"

"I have seven dollars change from last night," he said, ignoring the question. "But I have two more that I keep in my wallet for emergencies."

"Two dollars for emergencies," I repeated.

"I'm not stupid," he said. "I don't walk around with nothing!"

Because we do so often run into make-or-break situations where two dollars are the deciding factor.

Anyway, so we had Chinese (FYI: Chicken with Cashews for me, Sweet and Sour Shrimp for him), and I had to go pick it up. I raced over there and arrived, as usual, ten minutes after I had said I would, and raced through the door to the restaurant realizing a second too late that I should have zipped up my coat so that portions of my sweet ensemble (black capri yoga pants, sneakers, red white & blue T-shirt, unkempt hair, etc.) would be concealed.

Friendly Counter Guy: 8:15 pickup!

Me: Yes! Right! That's me!

InternalMe: Either he's eerily psychic or we picked the wrong Chinese place. Do they only have, like, one pickup order for the night? Let's not think about this. Positive things. Like...no visible health code violations! Eyes away from the kitchen. Away. From. The kitchen. Look at the posters! I was born in the year of the monkey. Fascinating.

Friendly Counter Guy: [Unintelligible friendly banter]

Me: Um....what?

FCG: [Unintelligible friendly banter]

Me: Um...I'm sorry, I didn't catch that.

InternalMe: Oh God. Please let me understand this the next time, I can't ask him to repeat something again. He's being so nice and friendly and I'm too dumb to understand people with thick accents! It is my cross to bear! I will just have to do the Pretending to Understand Nod if I can't understand again.

FCG: You just getting home from work?

Me: Yes!

InternalMe: Comprehension! Yes! Wait! I didn't just get home from work. Why did I say yes? That makes no sense. I'm not dressed to be coming home from any kind of work other than...well, any kind of work at all. Oh God. What if he asks me something else, do I have to be all "Actually, no, I wasn't coming home from work, I just said yes for no real reason at all"? Can't do that. Okay, so I was coming home from work, and if he asks me what I do, I will say...the truth. And I'm wearing this outfit because...oh! There is a gym at my office! Yes! That's it! I'm coming home from the gym at my office!

FCG: Soy sauce?

Me: I was just using the gym at -- what?

InternalMe: What?

FCG: Soy sauce?

Me: That's okay! But thanks.

How I long to live in a universe where I'm not perpetually socially awkward.

Anyway. Obligatory Work Annoyance of the Day: Someone sat at my desk while I was downstairs getting copies at Kinko's (because the copier broke this afternoon! Bastard!), and spilled coffee! Everywhere! And didn't tell me! So I sat down and went to use my hand cream and noticed all of these little wet brown splotches on it and realized that it -- and the rest of my desk -- smelled like coffee. And I don't drink coffee. So I made someone come over and smell my hand cream (am I a fun coworker or what?) and got confirmation that it was, in fact, coffee! And then I reached down to get a paperclip I dropped and there was this wad of coffee-stained Kleenex under my desk and ew! Gross!

Anyway. I have to go to bed because, you know, work tomorrow, blah blah blah, and THEN I get to go spend most of the evening helping set up for Wedding Shower No. 2. I know you're all jealous, don't worry about hiding it.

Note to self: Remember to buy baked goods (you were supposed to bake) to bring to said shower. Options include (a) Lots of delicious, expensive cookies; (b) Lots of cheap, somewhat yummy cookies; and (c) A few delicious, expensive cookies for you to eat with your friends while everyone else eats the lots of cheap, somewhat yummy cookies you bought to go with them.

Tomorrow's Friday! Wheee!

It's almost 1:30 and I JUST NOTICED that I'm wearing my shirt backwards. BACKWARDS! Even four year olds know that the TAG GOES IN THE BACK!

Oh my God. I need to go to a special school for college graduates who can't dress themselves.

And all day long I've been thinking I look cute. Such an idiot!

My winter wardrobe is almost entirely black and grey. Like, the clothes most often in my rotation were, as follows: black pants, grey pants, long black skirt, grey skirt that hit around the knee, grey and black vertically striped skirt, and black corduroy skirt that hit around the knee, with a variety of shirts and sweaters on top. I came to work every day looking like I was on my way to/from a wake.

Now I'm segueing into springier clothes and have discovered that I'm buying tons of brown. And own tons of brown. Could I be more boring? The problem is (and I know this is riveting, really), I'm not sure all my browns match. Today I mixed and matched this brown sleeveless shirt with a tan button down over it which I usually wear with this long brown skirt I got with it, but today I'm wearing it with these newly-purchased brown pants. And I'm not sure the browns match perfectly. My mother says it's no big deal but I'm obsessing. Anytime anyone looks at me I'm tempted to screech, "I know! I don't match! STOP STARING AT ME!!!!"

Now, I just don't get why my mother thinks I'm neurotic and obsess over stupid things. Silly mothers.

Anyhoo. Obligatory Embarrassing Lunch Episode of the Week: Today I went to my regular lunch place, where I have become a regular and thusly have a "usual" which is really kind of thrilling. I feel like a recurring character in some show about a deli. Oh God, how lame am I. Must get out more and stop equating everything to TV shows. Anyhoo! I go there every day and today it was raining and, naturally, I had left my umbrella in the most convenient place possible (in the backseat of my car on the fourth level of the parking garage located in the opposite direction from my office of the lunch place), and so I'd resigned myself to being Drowned Rat Temp for the rest of the day when I was saved! By the office accountant, who lent me her umbrella for the lunch hour. Some gentle ribbing ensued from other office staff, all "don't lose it!" I hadn't realized that the office is already so completely aware of my flakiness.

After assuring everyone I would not lose the umbrella, I dashed off to lunch with this massive umbrella that could shield the Jets' offensive line from the elements, happy and dry, if feeling a smidge of muscle strain from keeping the wind from whipping the umbrella off to the heavens. And then I got to lunch, ordered, and when I had to pay, placed the umbrella down on the counter next to the cash register and thought to myself, "Now Jess. Don't forget you put that there! You can't lose someone else's umbrella!"

Lalala, fast forward through delicious lunch (seriously, this place has the BEST SALAD EVER -- lettuce, dried cranberries, almonds, shredded carrots, tomato, pear slices, and almonds with orange-cranberry vinagrette) spent reading Dostoevsky (ok, ok, a young adult novel). I got up to leave at the end and -- horror of horrors -- THE UMBRELLA WAS NOT WITH ME! Proceeded to have traumatic wavy-lined flashback to placing the umbrella next to the cash register, and whipped my head around to look at the counter and saw how totally not there it was. !!! Did someone steal it? I was dying.

Before I made it to the register, I spotted it out of the corner of my eye leaned up against the wall and raced over to grab it, all "Oh my goodness! Is this anyone's? I think this is mine!" The kindly deli staff were all, "It's YOURS?!" with an amount of surprise in their voice that kind of threw me off because, hello, yes, I'm a customer, is it really that unlikely that it would be mine?

And THEN the deli owner says, "I sent my son running out of here after people when we noticed it lying here! We thought someone had left it behind and when no one here said it was theirs, he ran around the block trying to find these two men who had just left! It was yours?"

And then I died. Seriously. Died of embarrassment. I'm posting from beyond the grave here (little did you know there was an LJ kiosk by the pearly gates).

How did I not hear this? Or notice this was going on? I mean, okay, I wasn't sitting right next to the door. I was sitting a FULL THREE FEET AWAY. There was one (1) small table for two between me and the door and I didn't SEE the guy race out there with MY BORROWED UMBRELLA?! I should be placed in a special school, with courses like "Common Sense 101: From Clothes Coordination to Simple Social Graces" and "Paying Attention for Dummies".

It's a family trait, though, so it's not completely my fault. My aunt went on vacation with my family once and was blown away by how much we talk without hearing each other. We're all very good at tuning the world out, to the point that it takes three to five minutes to get any conversation started (I don't think I've ever had a conversation with my father that did not involve calling his name seven times).

Anyway. I felt so bad! He ran out in the rain! And I totally missed it! It was so embarrassing. Not embarrassing enough to keep me from going back, though. I enjoy the yummy salad far too much.

In other news: Tonight I go out with the Nana, who wants to go see Bringing Down the House because she's a big fan of Queen Latifah. My Nana's the best.


( and an interesting lotr/virtue quiz behind the cut tag )

Breaking news: I broke the toilet.

Not, blessedly, by sitting on it. Though I have developed a nasty candy-cane habit and my stint as a receptionist upped my time-spent-sitting-on-my-ass quotient a great degree, my girth has not gotten such that it is a danger to bathroom fixtures. But! Apparently I do not know my own strength. All I wanted to do was flush the toilet! And I BROKE it! The inside of the handle thingy, that is. I cracked it! I so felt like Clark Kent first realizing his superpowers. "Able to break plastic rod toilet fittings with a single flush!"

Now in order to get it to work, one must pry off the back and lift the rod manually. Fun times! I tried to repair it with a Band-Aid already, proud of myself for thinking of such a MacGuyver solution, but. Well. It kinda didn't work. Which is why I'm a sucky MacGuyver.

In other news: Have finished up receptionist's assignment and now again join the ranks of the unemployed. My last day was crazy busy, with lots of insane phone calls. None from the local psychiatric facility like yesterday, but I did have my suspicions about one: A man called, said that he was a neurosurgeon who had just had his hands severed by a city bus and was looking for an attorney for a potential lawsuit. Turned out to be one of the Boss Attorney's friends, and there was laughter all around.

The Big Boss ATtorney at the firm I just finished up at is rather known around these here parts as a rather skeevy defense attorney. Meaning, he fights hard for his guy and is the one you want in your corner should you be put in such a situation, but on a personal (and often professional) level, he's kind of an asshole. I got to witness this firsthand as he engaged in a battle with another local attorney, also of the skeevy persuasion (he did a will for a wealthy woman and when it was read, he and his children were in it and got bunches of money), via the mail. Which I was to open as part of my duties. Lots of tossed barbs, like "I have never spoken ill of you behind your back. Nor have I lied about you, except for when in the past clients asked me what I thought of your professional abilities. I'll be honest from now on" (from Mr. Will) and "[Mr. Will] has never even won a case!" (from Mr. Big Boss) and "This is WAR!" (Mr. Will). It was very exciting.

On my way into work today, the guy in the parking garage gave me a Christmas gift for paying for monthly parking. This was very nice since I didn't pay for parking at all and have only been there nine days. And the gift was truffles! Should I have handed them back because I don't deserve them? I argue that it was the beginning of the workday and it would have been doing greater disservice to humanity by handing the bag back and tying up the line of cars for the parking garage. The more difficult question: Why did I not tip him on my way out, after getting the gift in the morning? I was probably supposed to! And I didn't. I suck. Oh well. He'll never see me again.

The people at the temp job were very nice to me, complimented me muchly. They all remarked at my speed-reading. I wonder if they were trying to make a not-so-subtle comment that I shouldn't have been stealth reading books in the first place, but hey! I asked permission! I got the all-clear! Anyway. Mr. Big Boss came out at the end and wished me well and it's funny, no matter how many times he called me "Dear" and "Sweetheart", my Asshole-O-Meter wouldn't stop ding-dinging. YOu know how some people do that? No matter how overtly nice they are to you, you know there is assholeness lurking beneath the surface? Whereas another big partner, Mr. Decent Boss, was not quite as overtly friendly but gave off much more of a worthwhile-human-being vibe.

In other news: I need to get a new hairdresser. I went on Wednesday and she spent a solid ten minutes bad-mouthing attorneys in general. Saying that they're all crappy individuals, that she's probably known one in her whole life who was a decent individual, that they've got to basically be an asshole to go into the field and I just sat there, horror-struck, trying to hedge around her comments, all "Well, it's a very difficult job," etc etc, without blurting out "I know plenty of nice attorneys! Like, say, MY FATHER!" But I knew that would make her feel horribly awkward and so I couldn't.

But still, it annoyed me! And also she's expensive, and I have to pay for parking, and I don't really like how she cuts my hair anymore, and that was just The Last Straw. Don't be dissing my Dad! I will stop using your services! I am just that much a badass.

Anyway. I'm absolutely distraught over the Firefly cancellation, but I won't dwell on it here. That's an LJ entry for another day.

I had a dream about MIchael Vartan wearing a tuxedo last night, which would have been fabulous had it not ended with him telling me that I smelled. !!! It was so upsetting that I think the horror of my massive BO offending Mr. Vartan caused me to wake myself up. I have had dreams where I fell off cliffs and kept the dream going, but Michael Vartan thinking I smell? That's where I draw the line.

I worry that the massive BO is not just a dream thing, as today when I was on the phone with a friend, my father walked over to me and started rubbing a perfume insert all over my shoulder and hair. Now whenever I turn my head I get a massive whiff of some Calvin Klein scent. It's kind of disconcerting.

I swear I don't smell. Or I hope I don't. I bathe regularly and am a faithful user of both deodorant AND cheap body spray/perfume.

Today there was an unexpected boon of girlie movies on TV, and I indulged myself by watching Clueless, Ten Things I Hate About You, and Never Been Kissed, starring the no less adorable because he found my dream self offensive Michael Vartan himself. I remember going to see that movie a few years ago in the theater and swooning in my seat. I think the whole reason I started watching Alias was for him. I am a pathetic Michael Vartan fangirl. And my dream projection of him found my dream self smelly!

It is oh so very tragic.

On the topic of things that do smell: Scout. My cat. Scout is quite possibly the most adorable cat to ever grace the planet, but she is also on occasion so smelly that I think Phoebe's "Smelly Cat" was written expressly for her. When she was a kitten, Molly used to bat her around and her only means of defense was to stick her butt in the air and back into Molly's face. I swear, I watched her do it, and Molly, who was an adult cat at the time and at least five times Scout's size, would RUN in fear. Such was the wretchedness of Scout's flatulence. We had to put her on special kitten food.

She's still got a bit of the Smelly Kitten in her, and will sit adorably in your lap, gaze up lovingly at you, and then yawn in your face and release such heinous halitosis breath that oxygen supply to the brain is severely compromised. But she's so adorable while she does it that you can't really hate her.

On the topic of things that do not smell: Me. Seriously. I swear. Dream projection of Michael Vartan be damned!

I so do not enjoy doing the resume thing. I have to send an updated one to my temp agency so they can get me more work so that I can obsess over JC and Co. in the manner to which I have become accustomed. But I don't want to work on it! It is so boring! The last resume I sent out was for that newspaper job and now I have to switch things around so it's less writing-specific and more centered on office skills and the like. I know, isn't this just riveting?

Moving on!

Today I went to the library and discovered that they had BOTH Swordspoint and The Dreyfus Affair in stock. Very exciting! Except for the part where I had over thirty dollars in late fees at this library. I had to go up to one of the stern-looking librarians and explain that I wanted to work off some of my fines in the form of a nicely-scripted check and after she'd given me the Obligatory Stony Glare of the Angry Librarian, she typed my info into the computer and then stared at the screen for like three minutes.

Me: It's under my name, Jessica. There might be another J for my brother James.

Librarian: (Reading under breath) Notice: Came in to take out books, wasn't able to pay late fines, set books aside. Later shelved them because she didn't return to pick them up.

Me: (dies of embarrassment)

Oh my God! They had an angry note on my account! I was persona non grata at the library! I was a Known Crappy Person! They hated me!

It was terrible.

See, last year, in the midst of my thesis-induced psychosis, I went to this library to take out books, hoping that they would have forgotten that I owed them cash. Of course, they hadn't. And I was a mad po' college student at the time, where those late fines would have made up half of my weekly income and so I told them to hold the books until I could come back and pay the fines. And then I COMPLETELY forgot about it. Apparently the library didn't!

I ignored the note the first time I went up to the desk to pay the late fines, but the second time (taking out the books), I wasn't able to maintain my cool, unaffected exterior and disintegrated into a pool of rambling apologies. Because! I did feel bad! And I couldn't deal with an entire library system hating me!

Me: (calm. cool. collected.) I'd like to take out these books.

Library Dude: Ok. Hmm.."Came in to take out books, wasn't able to pay --"

Me: (frantic. spastic. borderline incoherent.) Oh my God, I just have to tell you, I am so sorry. I totally forgot about that, I really meant to come back and take care of that but I completely forgot! It was the middle of my thesis! I was crazy! I could barely remember my name! I am really so sorry. I totally meant to come back. And I paid off my late fines now! I'm so sorry.

LD: (kind of frightened)...It's ok.

Me: I'm really sorry.

LD: (still with the vaguely frightened) How about we get you out of here as quick as possible?

Anyway. Paid off late fines, took out books, am hopefully no longer Hated Entity at the library.

And now I should really finish this resume thing so I can go to bed. And rest up so I can be fully energized for tomorrow, a day I will spend obsessing over the varied Senate races and Justin Timberlake. A worthy split of my time, I think.

I got my college yearbook in the mail yesterday. It showcased my loser tendencies by having only two (2) images of yours truly in the whole dealio, which is actually my own fault because none of my friends, myself included, submitted candids for the yearbook. I actually don't think anyone in the whole school contributed candids, as the yearbook editor and her best friend appear on, no lie, every other page of the candids section. Seriously. It's like the Gina and Sue show. Kind of funny. So, either she's got egomaniacal tendencies and used her position as editor to plaster herself throughout the book, or no one submitted anything. I prefer to think the latter.

My first appearance in the book is my senior photo, which is, to be honest, not that heinous, though I do think I have a particularly stupid look on my face. But the second! Oh God, the second. It's this photo taken at commencement of my section of the graduating seniors. I'm in the second row and oh God, you simply cannot look away from me because (1) I am the only person looking in the general direction of the camera, (2) I have the most surly expression on my face, and (3) My massive, pasty white face sticks out like a beacon among the commencement black. It is, without a doubt, The Worst/Funniest Picture of me ever. No, wait, hold on, I think it's tied for that honor with the photo taken while I was moving out of my dorm room junior year. I was under the bed pulling stuff out and Joanna decided to capture that moment for posterity, so it's basically a shot of my Massive Pasty White Thighs. Truly terrifying.

Anyway, the commencement photo is really funny. I showed my parents, expecting them to be all "It's not so bad! What are you talking about?" They both took one look and doubled over laughing to bad that they couldn't speak! I wish I had a scanner so I should show you guys. Words simply can't capture the horrific nature of this photo.

In other news: Three more days left at the temp job. After that, undetermined. Temp agency isn't giving me anything, and no massive financial windfall as of yet. Fortunately, my cloistered, boring life where a good number of my social engagements are with my parents (meaning they often pick up the tab), I've been able to squirrell away some dough so I can take a couple weeks to find something.

Also, it's fall and it's simply beautiful, crisp cold weather and breathtaking leaves. It's like the trees magically turn into huge, oversized flowers for one month a year. It's so cool! I never get tired of it.

I wish it could be like this all the year round. Except with baseball! And in honor of the end of the baseball season, I will break out my sadly-underused icon of Joe McEwing, my favorite Met. Due to the crappy year he in particular and the Mets in general had, I didn't get to use it much, which is sad. Because I heart SuperJoe!

That is all. Back to work.

So, my brother has this annoying habit of ripping holes in the seats of his pants. He does this with alarming frequency and it's not like he walks around wearing painted-on jeans a la the Bee Gees, he's a typical teenage boy and all of his pants are of the extremely baggy variety. The thing is, his favorite chair in his bedroom, this old wicker contraption from approximately 1978 (no, really, it is), has all of these loose sharp edges that he keeps catching his pants on. And yet he continues to sit in it. Actually, he's home for the weekend and I can peek down the hall into his room and, yes, he's sitting in it right now. Now, since rips in the seats of people's pants is pretty much InstaHumor, the question becomes: why do I find this annoying? Especially since the embarrassing event is happening to my brother, and we all know that the humor of any situation is increased tenfold when said situation involves either (a) a sibling, (b) embarrassment, or (c) both.

The reason it's annoying is because I'm the one who always ends up sewing the pants. My mother has no sewing skillz and, mind you, neither do I, but I am not farsighted as she is and so I can thread the needle better, and so the sewing duties get tossed to me. For ages I've been harassing my brother about his Atomic Ass, which has yet to meet a pants material it cannot destroy. You know, just doing my sisterly duty.

And then today! Karma City! I was outside playing basketball with Emma at the family party (being the designated family babysitter often means that half of any family gathering is spent watching the younguns, which is alternately annoying [there's only so many times one can chase after runaway basketballs] and nice [five year olds rarely ask you how your boring temp job is going and, oh, when is it up and do you have any other plans?]) for a while this afternoon. We were horsing around, racing each other, trying to make baskets, etc. And then!! I grabbed the basketball and was dribbling around the basket, trying to do this fancy sideways-dive thingy and I heard this unmistakable, loud RIIIIPPP followed by the frightening sensation of a breeze in my pants. I froze in complete horror and then quickly recovered before I thought anyone would notice, thanking the Gods that I'd decided to wear my new long sweater-coat thingy so that my ass would not be hanging out for all to see for the rest of the day. I thought I was home free. But then!

Emma: What was that noise?

Me: (oh-so-innocently) What was what?

Emma: That noise! Did you rip your pants?

Me: What? No! Of course not!

Emma: Yes you did! (makes move to lift the Ass Obscuring Sweater)

Me: Hey! Stop! No I didn't! I -- Ok! I did! Look! (Points to different, ages old, small rip in leg of jeans to distract her)

Emma: No, that's not it! Here! (Moves toward AOS again)

Me: Hey! Hey hey hey!

And then there was a twenty second interlude where I spun around and she chased after me, trying to lift up the sweater until she finally did.

Emma: There! See?

Me: Dammit.

Except I didn't swear, at least not out loud, because I'm a well-trained babysitter by now.

No one noticed, thank God, due to the grace of the Ass Obscuring Sweater and, also, my cousin's silence (how she kept her mouth shut, I'll never know. I had horrible visions of her running into the house and screaming "JESSIE RIPPED A HOLE IN HER PANTS, COME SEE!" and then chasing me around the backyard trying to lift my sweater up). But let this be a lesson to you: do not mock others for ripping their pants for the same fate could befall you, even if you, like I was, are not wearing super-tight Bee Gees-esque jeans (though they were mad old and on their last legs). And always, always, have an Ass Obscuring Sweater on hand.