B E B E R E

My chronic crankiness has more to do with the having to disinter flannel from my winter wardrobe than anything else (zen number wave and hormonal spikes included).
Seeing the department head in her bright, gladiolus-colored suit, however, brought to mind a bird of paradise sighting during my morning commute today.

A startling vision of pink confronted me on my walk up Highland Ave. As I got closer, I could make out a statuesque figure, meticulously coiffed platinum hair, perfectly tanned legs. Even closer, I noted the outfit of little substance (way too lacy and clingy for the grim, cool, damp day) and the lack of stockings. Immediately, I thought - hmm, has to be a guy. Please turn around, you vision - I have to know. Perhaps she felt my eyes, perhaps she heard my steps, but she did turn around to give me an unobstructed view of her adam's apple.

I've heard that men have a harder time telling transvestites from real women, but for me, at least, it's always been obvious: only a guy would be seen dressed so darn...impractically.

God love 'em, I guess someone's got to be able to wear those outfits.