Waiting for My Real Life to Begin

The life and times of a girl named Swishy.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Ra, ra, ra, random!

Well, I had all the makings of a funny--nay, HILARIOUS!--post today, but unfortunately my IM crashed before I could read it all over again. It crashes all the time at work (where I use a Mac), because I refuse to give in and use iChat and that is Apple's way of sticking it to me. Well, I'm sorry, but I will take Apple's punishment any day over the potential train wreck that is sending IMs to the wrong people. Which I invariably manage to do every time I use iChat.

So, in lieu of funny, a fistful of random:

Good news! The next time you're picking up your emergency pack of toilet paper and midnight chocolate fix at Rite-Aid, you can buy a paternity test, too. I am SO relieved. Because, you know, I was going to go on Maury Povich to find out, but first the producers wouldn't return my calls, and then I had to talk the baby daddies into coming on the show, and I couldn't get the time off work ... but now I don't have to worry about any of that! I can just go to Rite-Aid!

Seriously. $29.99 paternity tests at the corner drugstore. And you're telling me there are people who still doubt that America is the greatest nation on the planet?


Funniest line from Project Runway tonight: "It's so ..." (wrinkles nose) "David Beckham."


Time for a question from the book. From page 69, as selected by the one and only Manic: If you could only use one cosmetic item for the rest of your life, what would you choose? Well. I am assuming things like shampoo and deodorant don't count, so I'll say concealer. Because it's the only way to fake eight hours of sleep on five.

The other question was, if you could eliminate one odor from the earth, what would it be? Bad milk. TOTALLY. Even more than poop. I smell bad milk, and literally, I start dry heaving. I am, like, dry heaving right now just thinking about it.

Well, not really. But practically.


Conversation between higher-ups during a lull in a meeting today:

Person A: I don't like Captain Crunch.
Person B: How come?
Person A: It tears at the roof of my mouth.
Person B: Really? (Pause.) You know what's worse is generic Captain Crunch. It just gets soggy too fast.
Person A (very seriously): Sometimes, you really can't go generic.

And no, it wasn't precipitated by a single thing. Personally, I prefer Golden Grahams and Cheerios anyway.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Hit me baby, one ... actually, please don't

OK, so I went out the other night and it was sooo fun, but I'm having two problems recounting it. 1) I'm not really sure how many details to divulge (not naughty details, just, you know, identifying ones), and 2) it was SO one of those "you had to be there" nights. Which means ... you had to be there.

But listen to this. You will die, oh, you will die, and even though you'll be dead you will be SO glad you didn't see this. So one of my friends was in town, and I met her and a couple of her friends at this bar. One of her (completely awesome and funny) friends checked out my blog before he met me and came to one conclusion about me: I like taking stalker pictures of people. I like to think I am many other things, many other wonderful, heartwarming things, but if we're all being honest here that's probably as good and accurate a thing to take away as any. (See exhibits A, B and C.)

It's right around the time we establish I am a crazed stalkerazzo that we notice the couple sitting near us. They're ... I don't know. Late 40s? Early 50s? And with every sip of red wine they get a little more touchy-feely. She keeps undoing his shirt buttons, he keeps snaking his hand up her skirt, they keep making out, her skirt keeps getting higher, and I know I should turn away--I KNOW it--but I can't.

And then it happens. She leans back, swings one leg across the other and ... you know what I'm about to say, don't you? Well, I'm going to say it anyway: She leans back and--HOLY SHIT, SHE'S NOT WEARING UNDERWEAR!!! SHE'S TOTALLY PULLING A BRITNEY! AND SHE'S OLD ENOUGH TO BE BRITNEY'S MOM! I saw everything, and I do mean everything. I am actually writing this post blind, because my retinas were singed off.

The worst part? Despite us joking all night about my stalkerazzi tendencies ("You've probably taken 10 pictures of me already tonight," he said), I DIDN'T TAKE A PICTURE OF THEM! I don't know why. I don't know! I feel like I have failed all of you, but most of all, I have failed myself.

Just please don't sentence me to a lifetime of crotch flashes. PLEASE.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Scenes from Thanksgiving

On the shuttle at the airport:

Woman next to me: I cannot believe much luggage I have. We're going to New Zealand for seven days, and then Fiji for seven days so ... it's a lot of stuff.
Woman across from me: You're going to New Zealand? I'm from New Zealand!
WNTM: No way! Are you going there now?
WAFM: Oh, no. I'm going to Maui.


Me: Yeah, well, I'M going to Michigan, so ...


Conversation at Thanksgiving dinner:

Mom: Who is this Tila Tequila, anyway?
Me: She has, like, the most friends on MySpace or something.
Mom: She has a dating show on MTV. A BISEXUAL one.
Me: Yeah, I know. I don't watch it, though.
Mom: FRIENDS. (Harrumphs.) So friends, huh? That's what they're calling it now?
Me: Mom, it's just the word they use. Saying someone has a lot of friends doesn't mean anything.
Mom: I don't know about that.
Me: Like, if I friend Danny (my brother) on Facebook, it doesn't mean it's sexual.

(Long silence.)

Dan: Ew.


Brother: Get up, I'm going to Best Buy.
Me, shoving my face deeper into the pillows: I just went to sleep, like, 15 minutes ago.
Brother: Shut up. It's already 6:30. I waited, like, a whole hour just so you wouldn't whine about it.
Me (muffled): I can't move.
Brother: Get up.
Me: Five more minutes. Give me five more minutes.
Brother: FINE.

(Five minutes later.)

Brother: It's been five minutes.
Me: Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I'm tiiiiiiiiiiiiired.
Brother: You are SUCH a baby.
Me: But I'm waaaaaaarm. It's cooooooold outside.
Brother: GET UP.

(Five minutes later.)

Brother: Why aren't you up yet?
Me: I can't do it. I don't even know where I am right now. I'm delusional. I can't shop while I'm delusional.
Brother: You are so pathetic.


I'm at the airport, coming back home. I sit on the floor near my gate, look up and ... oh, my gosh, is that Matt Saracen? It totally looks like Matt Saracen. I LOVE MATT SARACEN! (Matt Saracen = just the cutest piece of jailbait ever on Friday Night Lights.)

All right, you know what that means (if you don't, just ask my friend the CIA operative). I sneak my camera out of my bag and surreptitiously position it so Matt Saracen can't tell I'm about to take his picture from across the terminal. And then I capture the moment for posterity.

Hi, QB1!


All right, I can't help myself, I have to rant a little. Despite not being a super-patient person in general, I am a very patient traveler in many ways. I don't mind layovers and I don't mind delays, and I don't even mind getting stranded overnight as long as I don't have to sleep on a hard, nasty floor. What I do mind, however, are people who act like they have never seen the inside of an airport before (kind of like the people who look at ATMs they're like something from another planet). Like, really? You're surprised you have to take off your shoes? You're surprised you can't waltz through the metal detector, laptop in hand, with your cell phone, keys and wallet chain dangling out of your pocket?

Also, I know this may not be a popular opinion, but it is REALLY worth reclining your seat the extra two inches if someone's sitting behind you? Someone who's TRYING TO USE A LAPTOP? And finally, I need someone to explain to me why a person would voluntarily choose to sit in a middle seat between two people instead of walking back a few more feet to any one of the several empty rows in the middle of the plane. Is it about being in the front of the plane? Because I don't get what's so exciting about that. I'm not on the Amazing Race. It's not going to get my bags on the carousel any sooner, it's not going to get me my peanuts and Dr Pepper any faster. So ... why? What am I missing? Someone? Anyone?


Matt Saracen just got on the ... oh. Oh. False alarm. It's not really Matt Saracen.


The guy getting on the plane behind me starts whistling the Gilligan's Island theme song. Forgive me for my limited knowledge of '60s sitcoms, but didn't they, you know, CRASH ON A DESERT ISLAND on that show? Like a ha-ha funny version of Lost, minus the plane and the mysterious monster and the Others? Just WHAT is he trying to say?


Girl behind me: Southwest just, like, totally took our word for it that our bags weren't overweight.
Boy behind me: Yeah, Southwest is cool like that.

We are SO going to crash.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson

They have this saying in journalism about burying the lead. So in the interest of not burying the lead, I give you this:

(There used to be a photo here ... now, you're gonna have to use your imagination. OK? OK.)

So! What a weekend. On Friday night, I went to a Jimmy Eat World concert, which was SO fun. I love Jimmy Eat World (no matter WHAT you say, F). They played 23, which I LOVE, and Sweetness and a gorgeous version of Hear You Me, and basically every song I wanted them to except for Kill. (Which I LOVE love!)

And then Saturday ... oh, Saturday. If you haven't figured it out yet, I was with my lovely BBFF Manic and our friend Jess (whose book comes out in May! Buy it!). The hijinks always ensue when we get together, oh, do they ever. You know when you start talking over dinner about lap dances and what goes on in certain New York City alleys that it's gonna be a night for the books (or blogs).

So: movie (Lars and the Real Girl). Dinner. Then upstairs to a bar where a band named ED was playing. (My guess? It stood for Erectile Dysfunction.) ED, supposedly, was a bunch of doctors moonlighting as musicians, but I think only one of them turned out to be a doctor. I think the rest of them just liked to PLAY doctor. After determining which of the guys on stage was the most you-know-whattable (I actually think the lone girl in the group got a few votes, which should tell you what we were working with there), we decided to go downstairs to a different bar. And it was perfect timing, because just then, the fabulous Kristabella and her equally fabulous friend Darcie showed up. Unfortunately, I didn't get to talk to Kristabella as much as I would have liked, because I was a little distracted ...

(I know I'm being a little bit of a tease, but we'll get back to that picture in a second, I promise!)

So. We go downstairs and get some drinks and all of a sudden, this old man blows into the bar. He's waving neon glow sticks through the air and grinding up on a bunch of girls who are seriously young enough to be his granddaughter. And THEN he rips open his shirt and ... ta-da! A t-shirt underneath that says DRINK TIL YOU WANT ME. We grab him for a picture, he grinds up against a few more girls, and then he runs out. I seriously think it was truth or dare night at the nursing home, and he picked dare. It was HILARIOUS.

So we're laughing and talking, and then a few guys walk past us on their way to the bathroom. They look at us, we look at them. And then a minute or two later, one of the guys is standing next to me and saying in my ear: "Look, I know I'm only 22 years old, but I just have to tell you you're the hottest girl in this whole bar."

Ohhhhhh, boy. Are we in trouble.

Me: "You're a little charmer, you know that?"
Him: "I'm not. I'm a really shy guy, I never do this, but I had to tell you."
Me: "Oh, you are SUCH a liar."
Him: "You are, though. You're so hot. You think you could handle a 22-year-old?"
Me: "Can I handle you? I think the question is, could you handle me?"
Him: "Oh, yeah. Yeah. I've got a lot of energy."

Needless to say, we found our new friends for the night.

So a couple hours later, it's down to me, Jess, Manic and two of our new friends, who I'll call F and J (the 22-year-old charmer). And holy shit, was it one of the funniest conversations of my entire life. Those boys were sharp. And FUNNY.

On sex:
F: "I like to pretend that I'm sick, and the girl has to figure out what's wrong with me and then cure it. I'm totally into role play."
J: "I like to pretend that I'm a refugee and she's the U.N."

On the pros of a younger man:
F: "We're spry." (Spry was a big theme of the night. And yes, they were spry. Very.)
J: "Here's the difference. An older guy comes home, he asks, 'What's for dinner?' We come home, and we're like, 'All right, where are we going?'"

I wish I could remember everything we talked about, because it was SO funny. Showers, feathers, spring break trips, a little truth or dare ... that picture? That's J. In his boxers. At 3:45 in the morning.

We did catch them in a fib or two (or 10), because as experienced older women we know that all guys lie a little at bars (six sisters? nice touch, J). But remember, F, what we were talking about later that night? And what you said? You're right, there will be. By all three of us.

So here's to you, cute college boys. Until next time, whether it's in New York or Chicago or Stroudsburg, Pa. Whichever city you pick that day.

Monday, November 19, 2007

I am shaking my head

If you could have seen us sitting around at breakfast this morning, ohhhh, how you would have laughed. What a weekend. The full report later ... when I recover.

Friday, November 16, 2007

T to the GIF

So I work on the third floor. Sometimes I take the elevator, sometimes I take the stairs. This morning I took the stairs. As I clomp my way up the steps, I'm thinking a few things:

I want to go back to bed.
I freaking hate taking the stairs.
I need to check my hair.
I freaking HATE taking the stairs.
MY THIGHS ARE BURNING! I know I haven't worked out as much lately, but HOW OUT OF SHAPE AM I?!?

And then I look up, and see the reason for the burn in my thighs: I'm on the fifth floor. I completely bypassed my floor. Somehow, this is very much something I would do. I sigh, turn around and clomp back down the stairs.

After work, I go to pick up some dry cleaning. Here's the thing about the dry cleaning: I usually go to this place by my old apartment, where they know my name and call me sweetie and tell me to stay out of trouble. But I haven't been able to get over there before they close, and I HAD to get some stuff done, so I dropped it off at the dry cleaners across the street from where I live now. I was a little paranoid about it, but I was like, look, it's not like cheating on your hairdresser, it's JUST DRY CLEANING.

Just dry cleaning, my ass. Can I tell you how much they charged me? Can I? I'm going to. 45 BUCKS. 45 DOLLARS for something that would have cost me TWENTY at the other place. Thanks to me, the owner's daughter, grandaughter and great-niece are now going to college.

It was definitely not my finest day.

But! I am going on a big adventure this weekend, so all is happy in Swishyville! There will be music, there will be mayhem--maybe even a little, say, manic mayhem ...

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Where the HELL is my chiffon?

I've realized something the past week or so, which is: I don't care how many times I've seen an episode of Project Runway, I can always, always watch it again. Bravo has tested me, oh how it has tested me, running marathon after marathon after marathon of the same episodes over and over. And I am such a sucker for the catty comments and the make it works and Heidi's lilting pronunciation of "Neeena Gahcia" that I fall for it EVERY SINGLE TIME.

In honor of the LONG-AWAITED, MUCH ANTICIPATED season premiere tonight, I give you a few lessons learned from hours of watching Project Runway:

* Gay men can call each other "baby" with absolutely no sexual connotation whatsoever. (See: Nick, Andrae and Daniel V. from Season 2.)

* Whereas straight men can be completely turned on by an otherwise ordinary outfit. (See: Vincent "It gets me off" Libretti from Season 3.)

* Gay men also, apparently, like to dine at Red Lobster. (See: the cutest imaginary couple ever, Andrae and Tim Gunn.)

* Tim Gunn is about a million kinds of awesome. No one can get away with the snark like he can. I totally forgot about him calling one of the models an elongated marshmallow! AND he said she had Gumby legs!

* Finally (of course): Don't bore Nina.

And a few of my favorite all-time lines (other than, naturally, the subject line):

* I grinned myself a headache. (Michael)

* I hate everything associated with her. I hate her mother. I hate her father. I hate her house and her car. I hate the toilet she has and the plastic furniture in the back yard. I hate her. (Jay)

* Designers! Designers, look out for Andrae. He's our little lamb. (Santino, impersonating Tim Gunn)

* I'm not trying to be Captain Save-a-Ho. (Michael)

* If you get us cut, Daniel, I'm going to snip your pee pee off. (Kara)

* She looks like Barefoot Appalachain Lil' Abner Barbie. (Michael Kors)

* I even made a WHITE girl look like she had some ass. THAT'S how damn sexy my dress is. (Michael ... white girls with ass thank you, Michael)

* Tim: I'm not sure about this jacket. There's something about it that's a little too ... precious.
Daniel: That's the idea. You put it on, it says, "I'm not going home with you." But you take it off, and it says--
Tim: "I just might."
Daniel: "I might let you buy me a drink."

And my absolute favorite, just because of the look on his face:

It's a mother(bleeping) walkoff! (Daniel)

The best Project Runway moments ever are Santino's impersonations of Andrae and Tim Gunn at the Red Lobster, which had me CRYING I was laughing so hard, but apparently RED LOBSTER doesn't think it's funny, because those clips have all been taken down. So we'll have to settle for this:

Happy Wednesday!

Monday, November 12, 2007

Morbid Monday

Hi, everyone! So. You know those books full of questions you can ask people at a party or on a road trip or something? Questions like, "What food best describes your personality?" I love those books. I decided last night that I would pick a question and answer it today on my blog. And since I am the queen of indecision, I had my friend pick a page number for me (he picked 112). Easy, right?

Right. Of course I would get this question: "If you had to secretly dispose of a dead body, how would you do it?"

Ha ha.

Well, I learned on Friday Night Lights and Dexter that it is bad to dispose of dead bodies in the water, because they will ALWAYS be found. And you should never put a body in the trunk or backseat of your car, because the fibers will get trapped in the victim's zipper and then your cop dad will have to torch the car in a quarry somewhere to destroy the evidence. And if you hide a body in the basement or under the floorboards, it will slowly turn you insane. (Thank you, Edgar Allan Poe.)

I'm officially stumped, so I turn to my friend Google for advice. If you never listen to one thing I say, listen to this: Do NOT do a Google search on how to get rid of a dead body! Unless, of course, you want to be completely freaked out. Or if you want to never see the words lasagna, dog food, butcher, incinerator or carpet beetles the same way again.

Google did give me one good suggestion, though: Hide the body in the morgue. It's genius! Slap a tag on the toe, and no one will ever know it doesn't belong there!

Unless you've got something better ...

Friday, November 09, 2007

Memory lane

OK, I saw this somewhere the other day, and I had to laugh. Ohhh, how I laughed. Everyone thinks the '80s has the market cornered on embarrassing fashion and regrettable hair, which ... OK, it does. But in response, I give you the often overlooked early '90s, captured in fine form on the classic "Voices that Care" video. Do you remember this video? I do. Do I ever. Would you believe that, 15 years later, I still remember every word of this song? I'm not sure if I should be admitting that, but I do. And I am not above singing along.

Anyway. The video is an absolute cornucopia of unfortunate '90s pop culture. A super-young Celine Dion! A perfectly coiffed Peter Cetera! A rapping Fresh Prince! The one-hit wonder Nelson twins! Kenny G! And, of course, Michael Bolton, who is worthy of a whole post of his own.

My favorite part, however, is the end, when a camera pans across a sea of earnest celebrities singing in unison. It's the funnest game of "Name that Celeb" ever. A bespectacled Alan Thicke. A pre-tattooed Mike Tyson, wearing a patterned sweater. And in the front row, a pubescent Fred Savage sneaking glances at older woman Alyssa Milano, who actually looks quite terrible but nevertheless is undoubtedly fulfilling every one of young Fred's fantasies all the same.

Happy Friday, everyone!

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Do not shop at New York & Company!

I hate that store right now with the passion of a million crazed Hannah Montana fans. They were very, VERY snotty to your friend Swishy and now I think they're going to come to my house and throw eggs at my windows and cut the brake lines in my car.

So. They have this newish return thing where your receipt expires after 60 days and then allegedly you can't get your money back anymore. UNLESS you say you don't have a receipt. Then they'll give you money. The whole thing is completely backward and stupid.

Well, I had a receipt that "expired" in October. BUT ... I had been told that I could take back the clothes with the expired receipt and, while I wouldn't get actual money back, I could get store credit instead. Fine with me. So that's what I try to do. The girl starts doing it, and then is like, "Um, it calculated the sales tax wrong on your receipt. So I can't do it anymore."

I don't really get how their machine calculating my sales tax wrong is my problem, but I'm like, fine, give me your customer service number and I will call them and find out what to do. So she does and I do. I explain to the customer service rep what the deal is, and she's like, just return the item without your receipt and you'll get your money back. OK. I really want to go home, but I'm like, I'm already here, the bag's been sitting in my car for three weeks, just go back and do it.

So I do.

Me: Hey, I'm back. She told me to just return it without the receipt.
Girl at store: But you HAVE a receipt.
Me (flashing big smile): Not anymore!
Girl: But I KNOW you do.
Me: Look. Give me a lighter, and I'll burn the receipt right in front of you. Will that help?
Girl: But ... but ... you HAVE a receipt!
Me (still smiling): Not anymore, I don't.
Girl: I need to call customer service.

So she calls customer service and whispers into the phone. Then she asks me my name, which I REALLY don't think is pertinent here, but I tell her anyway, because I am trying to be pleasant and agreeable. And then she whispers some more and the whole time I am thinking, this is SO NOT WORTH THE TWENTY BUCKS. But there is a principle at work here, and I am a woman of principles, so when she hands the phone to me I take it and begin speaking to the person who shall be known henceforth as the Bitch on the Phone (BOP).

BOP: We don't do returns.
Me: You don't do returns at ALL? Really?
BOP: No.
Me: At ALL.
BOP: Well, not if you have a receipt.
Me: I don't have a receipt.
BOP: We still can't do it.
Me: Why not?
BOP: Because you have a receipt.
Me: OK. Let's say, for the sake of argument, I DON'T have a receipt. Can you do the return?
BOP: No.
Me: That's not what they just told me on the phone.
BOP: Well, you called the wrong number.
Me: No, I didn't.
BOP: Yes, you did.
(I read the number to her and we confirm that, yes, in fact, I called the right number.)
BOP: Well, we still can't do the return if the item doesn't have tags.
Me: It DOES have tags.
BOP: Are they attached?
Me: No, but they're in the bag.
BOP: Then we can't do the return.
Me: OK, can you read me the part of your return policy where it talks about tags?
BOP: No.
Me: No, you can't, or no, there's not a part that talks about tags? Because I just read your policy, and I didn't see anything about that.
BOP: This conversation is over.
Me: I'm sorry?
BOP: I'm done talking to you.
Me: Are you serious?
BOP: I have nothing left to say to you.
Me: Well ... what should I do?
Me: OK, I really don't appreciate the attitude you're getting with me right now.
BOP: What's your name?
Me: I'm sorry, how is that relevant?
BOP: I need to know who I'm talking to.
Me: What's YOUR name?
BOP: I don't have to give that information out. (Pauses.) Swishy Swisherstein? Is that right?
Me: That's none of your business.
BOP: I am done talking to you.
Me: You know, for someone who supposedly works in customer service, you have a lot to learn about customer service. This is absolutely ridiculous.

And that's when she hangs up on me. And now, because I am completely paranoid, I am convinced she got my name to a) access my credit card info, which she will now use to buy rainbow-colored vibrators and boxes of Chippendale calendars for all her friends or b) find out where I live and hire a scary man in a Scream mask to hide in my closet and slash my pretty little neck when I get home.

Either way, it's not good.

Monday, November 05, 2007

Weekend update

A quick look at the latest pop culture headlines:

* The latest celebrity baby was born over the weekend. Milla Jovovich and Paul Anderson had a girl and named her Ever Gabo Anderson. I don't even know what that means. What does that mean? I feel like they took a handful of Scrabble letters and just arranged them to form approximations of two words. I just don't understand that at all.

Also, I love when I can't tell the gender of a child by the name. I understand that there a lot of unisex names out there, many of them very cute, but shouldn't the middle name, at least, be a tipoff?

* So Katie Holmes ran the New York Marathon. That was a little bit random, but I mean, good for her. She did it in 5:29:58, which I love. That would be my time. Give or take like two or three hours.

But the real story of marathon week was the nasty, nasty, gross, disgusting news that Lance Armstrong was making out with Ashley Olsen all over town. Siiiiiick! I mean, for real. Take your classic little girl/dirty old man story and make it a million times nastier, and you've got Lance Armstrong and Ashley Olsen.

* Christina Aguilera admitted she was pregnant. Borrrring.

* For those of you who don't obsessively read things like Variety like I do, the writers in Hollywood are going on strike today. I am sort of Zen about the whole thing for now. Like, OK, there's enough in the can to get me through sweeps and they always show a million reruns in December anyway. And reality shows are safe and two of the best--Amazing Race and Project Runway--are just starting. So I think it will be OK for a little while, but I will be TICKED if it goes on for too long. Really, seriously ticked. There are only so many episodes of Deal or No Deal this country can handle.

* On Friday, one of my favoritest magazine issues ever comes out--People's Sexiest Man Alive issue. In honor of that, People has a Guess the Chest quiz on its website. It's exactly what it sounds like: You have to guess which male hottie's chest you're looking at it, although it is MUCH harder than you might think. Still, I am very (irrationally, pathetically) happy to tell you I got seven out of eight correct. If I know anything, it's beefcake beach bums.

Aaaaand, on that note ... happy Monday, everyone!

Thursday, November 01, 2007

Happy Halloween!

I am so tired I think I might die so I will have to do a proper post tomorrow, but really fast, Happy Halloween, everyone! I was a Swishy for Halloween (aka a fugitive from the law). What were you? And what was the best costume you saw?