when i was a girl scout, i went with my troop to a nuggets game (back in the mcnichol's chapter of denver basketball sucketry), and they were beating the utah jazz so bad that i felt so sorry for the jazz because they must have been so embarrassed losing in front of all those people. so i started secretly wishing they would get some more points - and then they did. and then they won. and then i felt bad for cursing a loss on my home team. thus is my internal adolescent struggle.

on that same note, i sort of feel bad for valentine's day because everyone hates it so much. it's mass produced and capital and puts retail robotic rapping stuffed animals in pink ruffles on the shelf at rite aid, and beyond the realm of 5th grade, has the capacity to ostracize people who aren't in a (public) romantic relationship. but it sort of makes me laugh when people get so personally offended by valentine's day's existence: do they put up the same stunt on father's day if they're not a father? mother's day? veteran's day if they're not a veteran?

this is really all just a segue into an awesome story:

my dad has always been very good about sending me flowers on a valentine's day any year that i was single on the forsaken holiday, and this year i did not get flowers from my dad, presumably because i'm not. so yesterday, after a late-day trip to the eye doctor and having my eyes dilated, and having bought a new shirt (i realize it might not have been the best afternoon to do some clearance sale shopping since i couldn't see anything, but i can't ever justify shopping retail, and i found a white blouse in my size for like $15 and i was like, score, i'll wear a pretty new shirt to dinner), i was getting ready for a lovely valentine's day thai food and champagne dinner out with the new bf.

as an aside, white clothing an i have a very long-standing, special, destructive relationship.

after getting home, eyes still dilated, i'm almost ready to go and figure, listen, if i'm getting fancy, i'm getting fancy.

so i reach into the bottom drawer of my built-in loft bathroom vanity where the red nail polish stays, and set it next to me. a moment later i grab the top of the lid to shake the bottle, and must've forgotten i loosened the lid, as i sent the entire, full bottle of red nail polish summersaulting in the air - flinging a massacre of red nail polish in every direction in the room - mirror, floor, foot wall, shelf, towels...and landing back in the open drawer from which it came, sideways, spilling it's entirety onto it's contents.

mind you, i still can't see very well, but i can clearly make out that it looks like a scene from 28 days later.

i stand very still for a few moments muttering a few ohmygods (still trying not to swear), and swiftly grab the bottle of acetone and first, wash off my lacquer-covered hands as not to make matters worse. i take off the new shirt and move it to safe-keeping, and get to dousing my entire bathroom in nail polish remover (thank god for cement loft floors and veneer bathroom shelving), all while my vision is slowly returning to normal.

when it gets to a manageable, non-shock-inducing resemblance of a murder scene, i leave to get fresh air and check the new shirt, totally pre-forgiving myself if i let loose any expletives should i discover the new shirt is ruined.

alas, not one drop of red nail polish landed anywhere on the shirt. my feet? all over. my jeans? yep. the walls which will have to be sanded and repainted? all. over.

but not the new, white shirt - so i immediately pick up the phone and call one person who knows well my tenacity in ruining white cloths and telling her the story, to which she responded, "congratulations, anne. today you are a woman."