Monday, October 31, 2005

Halloween Horror Story

Last Monday I went to the dentist to have an old crown replaced. Regular readers of this blog may recall the horrors I used to endure at the hands of a deranged dental hygienist named Arcadia. Well I've since switched dentists, and I'm a lot happier.

At least I was until Monday, when my new dentist -- Dr. Seidman -- informed me, after removing my old crown and gasping, that the tooth underneath was "severely necrotic and desiccated," two words you don't ever want associated with any of your body parts. Upon further examination, scraping and drilling, he informed me I would need a root canal.

I've never had a root canal, but everyone says it's like the worst possible experience. I don't quite get it, but apparently they shove wires down into the roots of your tooth and then screw some metal post in. And it takes several appointments to complete.

Obviously, Dr. Seidman couldn't finish the job on Monday, so he welded a temporary, plastic crown to my tooth -- I guess, so I wouldn't have to walk around exposing my severely necrotic desiccated tooth to the world. The hygienist, a far gentler lady than Arcadia, advised me to avoid crunchy or sticky foods, and to chew on the other side of my mouth until my next appointment this coming Thursday.

Which I've done -- scrupulously. (As I'm on a very low-carb diet, I don't eat much in the way of crunchy or sticky, anyway.) So my week was going well, aside from a few nightmares where people were ripping my teeth out with pliers. I sat down in front of "Seinfeld" tonight with a lovely dinner of leftover kielbasa and a bowl of tuna salad.

Then I decided to slice myself a piece of cheddar cheese. And I'm chewing it, and all the sudden I bite down on something hard... IN THE CHEESE! And I'm totally freaking out: What could be hard in cheese? Surely something awful that shouldn't be there! And I reach into my mouth and gently extract the hard item. And you guessed it -- it's my temporary plastic crown, covered in yellow cheddar.

And my severely necrotic desiccated tooth is exposed!

I ran to the bathroom and brushed and gargled, but now I don't know what to do. Does this qualify as a dental emergency? Can I make it another two days until my appointment, or do I need immediate care? And if I do go two days with this severely necrotic desiccated hole, what am I supposed to eat? And since when does cheese constitute a crunchy or sticky food?!

In other horrifying news, I did a set Saturday night at a club that shall remain nameless. It was a barker show, and I never do barkers, but I've done this room before, and it's a good room, and not one where the performers are required to bark; they just do it voluntarily to increase their audience size.

Being that it was Halloween weekend, I dressed up in my cop uniform -- the same pathetic costume I drag out every year at this time -- and stood on the side of the street telling passers by I'd arrest them if they didn't come to the show. Amazingly, I got a group of eight out-of-towners to go in.

It was just about 9, and the show was starting, so I left my sidewalk post and headed down to the performing space. With my group of eight, the small room was just about full. But the one waitress was nowhere in site. And my eight were getting restless; they wanted food and booze now.

Just as I was about to get up and take their order myself, the woman running the show leaned over to them and said, "Well, if you want, you can go to the bar upstairs and order drinks there."

I was like, "Are you out of your fucking mind?! You're sending them AWAY?!"

Sure enough, they left... and never came back. Now there was a gaping hole in the front of the room (much like my severely necrotic desiccated tooth), and it was a hole that was never filled.

So the opener gets up. And he's doing his best warming up the crowd, all of whom are concentrated in the back-most tables. But everyone keeps going, "What's that smell?!" I look up and see smoke wafting past the floodlights. About five minutes go by, and now it really smells like we're being chemically gassed. As the opener continues, a couple of the bar employees determine it's one of the hanging speakers that's on fire, and they quickly remove it.

Now the sound is totally distorted -- nobody can hear what the opener is saying. But I can make out the following: "Ladies and gentlemen... Adam Sank!"

I go up in my cop uniform, which includes a hat and sunglasses. A very poor choice of outfits, it turns out. I might as well have been doing material with a bag over my head, a la the Unknown Comic.

So just to recap: The crowd can't hear me, they can't see me, and they're sitting in the back of a smoke-filled, half-empty room. You can probably guess how my set went.

After limping off the stage, I wandered over to Rose's Turn, hoping to drown my sorrows in a song or two and some Tanqueray and tonics or five. But guess what? Michael Isaacs was off for the night. And fill-in piano player Blind Bill Graves still has no idea who I am, let alone what songs I sing, even though I've been coming to that place for 10 years.

So after downing two T & Ts, I headed home, tail firmly planted between legs.

Sunday night turned out to be lot more fun. Seth and his friend, Stephen, came over and we ate kielbasa, watched "The West Wing" and drank Captain Morgan and Diet Coke while admiring the little pumpkin I had carved. We were then joined by our friend, Jeff, his straight, Mormon brother from Colorado and the Mormon's wife. More Captain Morgan and Diet was consumed, and we all ended up at Barrage. Let me just tell you: You haven't lived until you've been to a gay bar with two Mormons. At some point Pedro, the bartender, sent us over free shots. Messiness ensued. I collapsed sometime around midnight.

So tonight, as little ghosts and goblins and big drag queens run amok outside, I am lying low, nursing my severely necrotic desiccated tooth and watching Madonna's new documentary, "I'm Going to Tell You a Secret," for the 10th time. It's a bit heavy on the Kabbalah crap, and I do have the occasional urge to beat that fake English accent out of her. But she is still a genius, and if you don't admire her work ethic and the fact that she continues to reinvent herself and remain relevant at the age of 47(!), you're an ass.

Still kickin' it at 47.

And for you gay boys who haven't seen it, brace yourself: There's a scene from her concert where she sings Evita's death montage while strapped in an electric chair:

The choice, was mine, and mine completely.
I could have any prize that I desired.
I could burn with the splendor of the brightest star.
Or else... or else I could choose time.

Remember: I was very young then.
And a year was forever and a day.
So what use could 50... 60... 70 be?
I saw the lights, and I was on my way.

And how I lived!
And how they shone!
But how soon the lights were gone.

I swear, I soiled the sofa.


Friday, October 21, 2005

Thursday Night TV

Had a rather mediocre set tonight at an otherwise terrific show, "Coming Out: The Lighter and More Amusing Side of Coming Out of the Closet," hosted by Shawn Hollenbach and Allen Warnock. I was the first one up; started strong, ended on a fizzle. Who can say why, other than the show came at the end of a rather shitty day for me.

At the very least, I thoroughly enjoyed listening to the coming out stories of the other performers. Particularly strong were Tara Clancy and Victoria Scroggins, neither of whom I had ever seen before. Just brilliant.

Came home and settled down for a long night of prerecorded television.

First up was "Joey."

Full disclosure: I have always loved -- and will always love -- the show "Friends." I know, I'm a standup comic, and I'm supposed to be all jaded and edgy and hate conventional sitcoms. And the only TV shows I'm supposed to enjoy are "Stankervision" and "South Park" and "The Andy Milonakis Show." Well you know what? I love "Friends," and I'm not ashamed to admit it. "Friends" has been there for me through a helluva lot. In fact, there have been times when I had no friends, but I had "Friends," you know what I'm saying? I watch "Friends" in syndication an average of three episodes a day, and as far as I'm concerned I could keep watching it forever.

So it was with the highest hopes that I tuned in to "Joey" last season. Was I disappointed? Of course. Did I keep the faith? Yes. Maybe the show was still finding its sea legs. It had a terrific cast, including the always fabulous Jennifer Coolidge. And if it wasn't particularly funny, at least it wasn't cringe-inducing.

Then came this season. And I'm sorry, Joey, but there's no getting around it: Your show sucks ass. There's no hope. You've jumped the shark so much you can't even see the shark anymore. Tonight's episode, in which Joey enrolls in an English-as-a-second-language course to win over a hot foreign chick and battles over movie trailers with guest star John "Where Did I Go Wrong" Laroquette was, in a word, execrable. As in excrement. As in pure shit.

Farewell, "Joey." As of this moment, you are deleted from my DVR menu.

'Wow. If I didn't have $100 million in the bank, I'd be really depressed by your comments.
By the way -- how much did you make for that show you bombed at tonight?
You know -- the one attended by 30 people?
Yeah -- I thought so.'

Next up was "Will & Grace." While no "Friends," W & G has also long occupied a special place in my heart. I still maintain the first couple seasons were among the funniest of any TV show ever. But the show has been drifting toward Suckville for some time now -- what with the endless celebrity cameos, Grace's tedious marriage and divorce to Harry Connick, Jr, and the devolution of Jack's character to the point where he is now an infantile cartoon.

But as with "Joey," I kept the faith. Even after the 2005 season finale's absurd revelation that Karen's husband, Stan, was still alive (as if we're supposed to care about the fate of a character we've never seen), I remained hopeful. Maybe the good writing would return.

It hasn't. In fact it's worse than ever. Tonight's episode, so insipid it doesn't even warrant a one-line plot summary, did not elicit a single smile from me. The steam room scenes, in fact, made me cringe. And I usually love steam rooms.

"Will & Grace" gets one more chance before it joins "Joey" in my TV trash pile.

Finally, desperate for entertainment of any kind, I clicked on today's episode of Oprah. I don't normally record "Oprah," but I had seen a promo for this one -- in which a straight, conservative Christian man lives with a gay guy for 30 days -- and couldn't resist checking it out.

First let me say, this "Oprah" was all over the place. In a single hour, the show covered the following segments:

° Supermodel Tyson Beckford has a brush with death.

° A husband gets amnesia hours after his wedding and can't remember who his wife is.

° The straight guy/gay lifestyle thing.

° The father of a severely disabled kid runs triathlons.

If this were the S.A.T., and you were asked what the topics above had in common, your brain would explode.

In any case, I skipped over Tyson Beckford altogether. (It looks like he was in some fiery car crash, but whatever, he's fine now.)

The amnesiac husband thing was mildly interesting at first. This guy claims his memory was so obliterated, he forgot what an orange --
let alone his wife -- tasted like. ("Ooh," says a giggling Oprah. "So you had to learn the whole sex thing from scratch.")

But then the guy says, "Well you know, Oprah, by the time they found me, I had lost 30 or 40 pounds. And I had only been missing for three days."

Um, excuse me. I'm no doctor or anything. But that is FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE! I wait for Oprah to call him on this ridiculous statement. But instead, she turns to the audience and says, in that fake-ghetto voice she does from time to time, "Hmm... 30 pounds in three days? I gotta try the amnesia diet!" The audience nearly wets itself laughing at Oprah's genius ad-lib.

By the end of the interview, it's clear this guy is a total nut-job and his wife, who has stared at the ground for the entire segment, would have been better off had he never regained his marbles.

Next up, finally, is the gay switcheroo segment. Of course, the straight conservative Christian dude is incredibly hot, and the gay guy is soft and doughy. The Christian is also in the military (mmmmmm) and has only known two gay people his entire life. (He's from Michigan, ya see.)

The homo lives in San Francisco -- how original -- and seems to only associate with other trolls.

So Christian Hottie moves into Bloated Homo's apartment -- Oprah doesn't explain why until after the commercial break -- and immediately puts his foot (but unfortunately nothing else) in his mouth. He equates homosexuality with murder, and he tells his host he finds the local gay bar "disgusting." In his defense, it is.

Commercial break. Oprah welcomes us back and explains this "experiment" was for a show on the FX channel. That's FX, as in Fox, as in the same company that owns Fox News. Go figure.

Anyway, Christian Hottie decides, for some reason, he wants to give the gay bar another chance. Inexplicably, he winds up dancing shirtless among a crowd of admirers.

Then he goes to a P-Flag meeting and listens to an elderly couple talk about coming to terms with their daughter's lesbianism. His heart melts.

Oprah makes sure Christian Hottie has learned his lesson -- that gay is good and everything your religion teaches you is wrong, wrong, wrong. Then she actually high-fives him. The segment ends. Of course, nobody asks the gay guy what he's learned because, well, he's ugly.

Finally, naturally, we turn to the severely disabled kid and his triathlete father. I tell myself, no matter what, I will not end up crying.

To summarize a complicated story, kid is born in Boston. Doctors tell parents he won't ever talk, walk, function, should be institutionalized, etc. Parents reject that advice and raise him as a "normal" child, public school included. He never walks or talks, but when he's 12, they hook him up to a special computer that allows him to speak, Stephen Hawking-style, using his forehead to type words into a computer. His first words: "Go Bruins!" (At least he's not gay.)

The father, who's never been an athlete, decides to start running and biking with the kid strapped to him. Together, they compete in marathons and, ultimately, triathlons.

"When we're racing," the father explains in a pre-taped segment, "he makes a sound. I can't describe it. But it's the most beautiful sound in the world."

I'm bawling.

Back in the studio, Oprah welcomes father and son. It turns out the son has gone to college and gotten a degree in special education. He still can't walk or talk, but his computer voice reads a statement in which he says his father is the wind beneath his wings.

Show ends. I am in a puddle on the floor.

Just another Thursday night.

Monday, October 17, 2005

There is a (Gay) God

This is a lame-ass excuse for a blog, but I can't go to bed without expressing my profound joy at how the Therapy show went tonight.

Finally, at long last, I broke through the homo barrier and made those queens laugh. It didn't hurt that Karith Foster and Matt Taylor both delivered top-notch sets, nor that my good friends, Dan Rosenblatt, Dean Kurth, Michelle Brier, Robert Keller and our own Robin Fox were in the audience yukking it up at full volume. Nor that my cousin, Scott Lipton, in town on business from Austin, TX, caught the last 10 minutes.

No, the bottom line is, six weeks in, it looks like I may finally be able to get laughs at my own show. Praise Allah.

Unfortunately, I also found out tonight that next week, Therapy is hosting some lesbian fundraiser in place of my show, followed by a private Halloween party the following week.

But I'll be back Nov. 6 with Randi Kaplan and Nancy Richards, and after tonight, will approach the stage with a great deal less dread.

Thank you and good night.

Sunday, October 9, 2005

Shameless Self Promotion

I've enjoyed a bit of free press lately. First, a web site called listed some shows I did the weekend of Oct. 1-2, apparently gleaning information from Friendster, gawker, and my own site. Sadly, they, too referred to me as "'self-proclaimed gay comic hottie.'" I fear I may be stuck with that moniker for life.

That same week, HX listed my Therapy show as one of their Homo Musts. Then they were nice enough to send a photographer to the show, snapping pictures of Erin Foley, Colin Kane and I throughout.

Which is why I was more than a bit disappointed when the new issue came out Friday and there was a nary a photo. They did, however, include a very nice write-up:

Our last stop of the evening was therapy, where we got some in the form of comic relief at the all-new Electroshock Therapy Comedy Hour, hosted by Adam Sank. Though straight bad boy Colin Kane and headliner Erin Foley had us cracking up (Foley on the challenge of performing in front of her fellow lesbians: "Wait, does that last joke further the gay cause?"), it was Sank's one-liners about poor Kate Moss that had us truly shedding tears of laughter. "She may have lost all those fashion endorsements, but think of all the new endorsements she can pick up now," he joked. "Hello, I'm Kate Moss. And after a long night of blowing rails, I sometimes have trouble getting to sleep. That's when I reach for Lunesta." Us too. Thanks a lot, ladies and gentlemen, you've been a fabulous audience!

Not to be outdone by the competition, the city's other fag rag, Next Magazine, jumped on the bandwagon this past week and listed the show in its Week Ahead:

Double or Nothing
Double Dosage Sundays: Desperate Housewives and Comedy at therapy, 348
W 52nd St (btwn Eighth/Ninth Aves), 212-397-1700, Doubling the pleasure and doubling the fun equals double the men as Hell's Kitchen gets a dual dose of theatrics and intrigue with their new Sunday night. The ladies of Wisteria Lane get desperate at 9pm and new nut-job Adam Sank gets certifiable with his comic guests afterwards as the Electro Shock Therapy Comedy Hour brings a hilarious end to your weekend. $5 Cosmos all night. Free.

Sweet -- I'm a nut-job (though not self-described).

Then yesterday, a soon-to-be-launched Las Vegas-based comedy site called interviewed me over the phone. They plan to feature me as one of the site's "Up and Coming Comics." (I'll refrain from the obvious crude joke.)

The guy who interviewed me, Jason Dinant, was as nice as could be. We had a great, fun chat for about 15 minutes. Then he began recording... and I froze up like Ashlee Simpson without a vocal track. For about an hour, I rambled on about God knows what in response to his questions. I have no recollection of what I said -- only that is was painfully unfunny. (I do recall discussing the upcoming New York City mayoral race at length. That's comedy gold, people.)

Hottie or Nut-Job? You Decide.

In my weak defense, I think it's difficult as a comic to give a good interview. Either you come off sounding like you're performing shtick the whole time, or you take the other tack, which is to be deadly serious.

I've been on the other side a number of times. I remember pre-interviewing Caroline Rhea when she was a guest on Fox and Friends. "Do you often come to New York?," I asked.

"Oh, yes, I love New York," she shot back immediately. "It's the only place where if you watch somebody for long enough, they'll spit."

"HA HA!," I had fake-laughed into the phone.

Fast forward to show day, and Steve Doocy says, "Welcome to New York, Caroline."

"Oh, yes, I love New York..." and so forth.

Then again, Caroline Rhea hosts her own reality show on NBC, and I host a show at a gay bar. So maybe I should take a lesson from her.

In any case, I apologized profusely to Jason and offered to re-do the interview if he finds the audio really unusable. I'm also sending him a DVD of my set in hopes he can splice in some ha-ha material amidst the lifeless corpse that is my endless droning. I'll link the audio if and when it goes up, so you, too, can laugh at my misery.

Oh, and one last bit of self promotion: The Esquire book I contributed to, "Things a Man Should Never Do Past 30," is now available at a bookstore near you. It's currently ranked No. 711,025 on Suck on that, Da Vinci Code.

Speaking of Caroline Rhea (huh?), I find myself inexplicably still addicted to "The Biggest Loser." This season it's the men versus the women. Some of the men are truly enormous, so it's not unusual for them each to lose 40 lbs (!) in a week. On the season opener, the producers stuck all the fatties in a room filled with every kind of junk food imaginable -- pizza, cheeseburgers, chocolate fondue -- and told them to have one last scarf-down before their weight loss program began. What followed can only be described as pornography for bulimics. One of the women actually began licking the sides of fondue pot.

Meanwhile, Caroline Rhea's own struggle with weight continues to go unmentioned. The genius of the show, in my opinion, is that by the team the season ends, she's the fattest one in the room. This is in stark contrast to, say, "The Swan," where no matter how much plastic surgery the women had, they could never look as good as that stupid bitch Amanda Byrum.

'If you watch me for long enough, you'll spit!'

On that note, I gotta go get a haircut and write some comedy for tonight's show. Special belated birthday wishes to my most excellent friend, Seth Gilmore.


Sunday, October 2, 2005

I Love Straight People

Last night at the Lantern, I had a set I really needed to have. At the risk of sounding like a conceited asshole, I destroyed that room. I was in the zone. I had total control of the crowd. I said laugh, they laughed. I said applaud, they applauded. The microphone felt like a giant joystick in my hand. I lost myself in the material -- material I had done countless times before -- and let it flow out of me and onto their happy, smiling, laughing, straight faces.

As I said, I needed this. If I'm being honest with myself, I haven't had a truly great night since the Hal Sparks shows back in June. That is an AWFULLY long dry-spell. I was seriously beginning to wonder whether I had lost the ability to entertain people, or whether I ever had it to begin with.

I had forgotten the way people look at you when you kill; like you're somebody who matters -- somebody of stature -- somebody they'd like to hang with. It's the opposite of how people look at you when you bomb. They don't. They avert their eyes like you're the victim of a disfiguring tragedy. It's soul-crushing.

Tonight, I'll head back to Therapy and spend an hour trying to get blood from a stone -- a big, jaded, bitchy, gay stone, dressed in 2(x)ist and Abercrombie and Fitch. But maybe, just maybe, when I'm up there tonight, throwing out my best lines and watching them bounce right off their bored faces, flop-sweat drippping from my forehead, I'll remember that somewhere out there, in a little basement performing space in the West Village, there are some people who think I am funny.

Saturday, October 1, 2005

Joan No Phone Home

It's been almost 4 days and Joan Rivers still hasn't called. I think it's safe to assume I'm not going to hear from her. (Sigh.) At least I got to sit at the front-and-center table (thanks to Robin Fox, who camped out early to snag the best seats) and hand Joan the flowers as she took her bows. She seemed genuinely touched. Then again, it's hard to tell what she was feeling since she can't move her face anymore.

It was actually kind of a tough room. Aside from our table -- which consisted of Robin and me, a fun-loving mother-daughter-team from New Jersey, and two women of a certain age who have been following Joan since her early Greenwich Village days -- the crowd was rather subdued. Granted, Joan was work-shopping new material, so I didn't expect every joke to kill. But come on: The woman is 72 years old and has been working her ass off since Kennedy was in office. She deserves a little more love.

'You do bring me flowers...'

My favorite bit hands-down dealt with Anne Frank: "Anne Frank was a complainer. I'm sorry, but I hate complainers. 'Oo, I have to dance, I have to dance.'

'Shh, Anne, the Nazis will hear us.'

'I don't care -- I have to dance!'

She should have gotten a nose job, too. If Anne Frank had gotten a nose job, she would have sold a lot more books."

I love that kind of stuff.

Afterwards, Robin and I waited next to Joan's limo like the obsessed stalkers that we are. Robin grilled the driver: "Is she nice? Is she a good boss?" He assured Robin that Joan was extremely generous. After about 10 minutes, Joan came out with a younger blonde woman she introduced to the waiting fans as "my therapist." She was still holding my flowers, but I noticed the letter was still tucked inside, unopened.

"Ms. Rivers, I'm a comic, and you've always been an inspiration to me!," cried Robin, as Joan leaned over to kiss her.

"Ms. Rivers, make sure you read the letter inside the flowers!," cried I, as Joan nodded wearily and got into the limo.

But since then, nothing but silence from the Rivers camp.
Oh well -- I knew it was a long shot.

I have yet to mention last Sunday's Therapy show, and here it is almost time for the next one. This past Sunday, instead of a movie, the bar managers had opted to show the season premier of "Desperate Housewives," which was a good call. Unfortunately, many people thought the comedy show started at 11 p.m., like it had on Emmy Night the week before. So as we wrapped up, a number of confused queens were just wandering in.

Susannah "Goddess" Perlman and David Hodorowski both gave strong sets in front of an otherwise tough crowd. As for me, I did OK -- about the same I always do there. But I made a discovery at once horrifying and exhilarating: When it comes to the crowd at Therapy, it doesn't matter one whit whether I do brand-new, untested material or my greatest hits. The reaction is more or less the same to every joke: Slight smile, muted chuckle, and then silence.

All hail the Goddess

What this means for me is, the whole "Don't-do-new-material-in-front-of-a-club-crowd" rules goes out the window. If they're never gonna love me, and they're never gonna hate me, I'm free to do basically anything. So now I sit in front of the television set at night with a note pad. When ANYTHING strikes me as a comic possibility, I write it down. Then, come Sunday night, I throw it out to those gay lions and see if they bite.

Not that this new mindset is doing anything to alleviate my anxiety. Last night, I stayed in to get a good night's sleep: No Rose's Turn, no Tanqueray and tonics, no cavorting with my homo homeboys. Instead, I was in bed by 11 and asleep by midnight.

And I had a dream -- a nightmare, really. In the dream, I've come up with the perfect costume to host the Halloween edition of my Therapy show. (In real life, I've been thinking I should do the show in drag, since the crowd is notoriously drag-loving and Halloween would be the one time I could feel justified in doing it.)

So it hits me in the dream: I'll host the show dressed as Miss Piggy. I'll strap a prosthetic pig-nose to my face, don a wavy blonde wig and lavender dress, and do my best Miss Piggy voice the entire night. (I actually do a pretty decent Piggy.)

'And what, pray tell, is so funny about moi?'

So the next scene in my dream, I've decided to show some of my friends how I look in my Miss Piggy costume. For some reason, I've decided to do this while we're walking up a dark street, at night, in a very rough neighborhood. There I am, lavender dress flowing, going, "Oh, kiss-kiss. Where is my Kermie?," etc. in the loudest, most feminine voice ever. Of course, within moments, a dark sedan pulls up beside us. The windows roll down and the business end of a shot-gun appears. We scream and start running up the street (which is not easy for me, as I keep tripping over the hem of my dress).

Then I woke up. It was only 4 a.m., and I was wide awake. Considered taking an Ambien but opted instead for the new issue of "Entertainment Weekly." Read it cover-to-cover. (And wouldn't you know it -- another glowing review of "A History of Violence." I DON'T GET IT!)

Still awake, I flipped on one of the HBO channels and found the original film version of "Barefoot in the Park," with a very young and glamorous Jane Fonda and Robert Redford. Watched nearly the entire thing until my eyelids began melting into their sockets and I finally slept.

So much for my plan to get up early, work out, and write out all my bits for Therapy Sunday night. It's now 12:22 and I'm still in my underwear.

And I haven't even thought about where I'm going to get a lavender dress.