Weekend score, one won, one lost

Unplugged Sunday wasn’t too bad. I did get twitchy several times, and although I am a Person With Integrity, I grudgingly admit that the thought, “Who would ever know?” crossed my mind more than once. I remained pure, though. That is, I didn’t turn on my laptop. I didn’t extend Unplugged Sunday to the television, because, well, because that is Just Unthinkable. So even in its limited way, I’ll put Unplugged Sunday in the win column.

Attending a class reunion with your husband, on the other hand, not so fast. Let me advise you all right now, Just Don’t Do It. Sure, there’s a chance that his girlfriend from ninth grade has been pining for him for all these years and is willing to do unspeakable things to win him back, married or not (like shaving her legs, for example). Take that chance.

It started with the name tag table. Neatly lined up in alphabetical order were darling name tags with names and yearbook photos of the classmates. When I asked for my name tag, I was given a corner of a cocktail napkin and a felt marker to make my own. Whatever. I don’t care if those people know my name, anyway.

Next, the awkward silences. I was left standing alone while Rick made the bar run, and as soon as it was determined by one of these elderly classmates that I wasn’t One of Them, there was nothing left to say. Imagine me with nothing to say–I don’t know if that has ever happened before. I wanted to be witty and gay, I really did, but I knew that all anybody wanted to talk about was the distant past that I wasn’t part of, and why not? That’s what I would want if I were One of Them, too.

So I did what any surly teenager would do under the circumstances. I retreated to a corner booth and pulled out my iPod Touch. Thus did I spend the Class Reunion evening: Merrily watching the entire seasons of The Agency and How to Look Good Naked.

The Agency is wicked good fun, a VH-1 series about the inner workings of a season at the Wilhemina modeling agency, with all its shallowness and extreme bitchiness. You will love to hate Becky, the trash-talking agent who irritates everyone including her boss, and gets away with it time after time after time. I love when they photograph and measure some poor girl who looks as if she hasn’t had a good meal ever, and then berate her endlessly for having, gasp! 37-inch hips.

How to Look Good Naked is the polar opposite in terms of body acceptance. It’s a sweet show starring my boyfriend Carson Kressley, wherein week after week he makes some poor woman feel better about the way she looks, and while I have no dearer fantasy than to go shopping with Carson and have him tell me how fabulous I look in simply everything, the show gets a little repetitive when viewed one right after the other.

I have now finished knitting my Long Tube of What? and I’ll take a picture of it later for your perusal. For a while I really was considering the suggestion of making Barbie leg warmers with it, but it got out of hand. Which reminds me, have I introduced you to Whore Barbie yet? She was Merely Trampy Barbie when I plucked her from the shelf at Target, but after cutting her pants short and giving her a new hairdo, she became what you behold here:

Isn’t Barbie supposed to be a toy for 6-year-olds? It kinda makes you wonder how these girls get such poor body images to begin with, doesn’t it?

Discuss.