It's too bad we chicas can't make tips whilst walkin' down the street in our barely-theres, cuz we sure are taking a pay cut at the downtown clubs, which are all but deserted while the sun's out and long tanned legs parade by in microminis GRATIS.

"You gotta love all the pretty birds
mincing around in tiny skirts and
oh-so-NOT-Portland
non-chunky heels."

So, sans the singles I'm accustomed to accumulating for baring flesh, my reveries have been centered around the important charitable work we women do, merely by beautifying ourselves and walking around amongst the masses. It really is a public service, a morale booster, as much an affirmation of life as a garden of rose bushes or a statue of Abe Lincoln.

Being attractively turned out when the heat is on is not as simple as it appears, either. Boys, with their more limited dress code, might never comprehend the generous service the ladies perform in the summer. It may even appear to them that we are merely gluttonous in our shopping habits and unbearably impractical and whiny when our little stiletto mules cut into our tender foot flesh after only two city blocks. But you gotta love all the pretty birds mincing around in tiny skirts and oh-so-NOT-Portland non-chunky heels.

My litany of complaints inspired by my summer wardrobe starts with the most obvious. Lasting from fifteen to twenty warmish days, Portland's summer is hardly long enough to wear every pair of cute summer shoes I collect over the course of a year. I find myself changing outfits three or four times a day, just so I can be sure that every outfit gets its time in the sun. It's a miracle I leave the house at all. If I actually have to leave the neighborhood, I need to wear shoes or boots made for walking, or I need to drive the half mile downtown and deal with parking. And driving a stick with six-inch platform heels is tricky (and illegal in Japan). Guys, are you appreciating this? Anyway, it's a pretty tortuous process, really, and I feel some kind of remuneration might be fair.

There is an entire category of complaints reserved for the short skirt. For instance, the day may appear sunny and hot on your porch, but once you're downtown, you may notice for the first time the wind tunnel affect created by the rows of tall buildings. However, I do LUV to see ladies walking around holding their purses, cell phones and myriad parcels all in one hand while nervously clutching their flyaway skirt to their thighs with the other. It didn't feel that short at home, did it?! And best of all, I like looking for glimpses of panties.

Also on the "curse this skirt" list: if it's short enough, sitting down gracefully presents a problem. Twice this summer I've found myself hurrying along a conversation or meeting, all the while perched precariously on the very very edge of my seat so as not to have the chair's pattern follow me around the rest of the day in seemingly permanent pink welts. And you really start to notice the age and quality of certain movie theaters when parts of you that are normally covered come cheek-to-cheek with upholstery that's seen a lot of popcorn and Pepsi.

Finally, most groovy summer wear has no pockets. You have to take a purse. Or a boyfriend. And I hate carrying a purse! But I do it. And get that sorta sanctimonious feeling, like, "How generous of me, to be inconveniencing myself just to decorate Portland's Clean and Safe streets; what a valuable function I am performing in society." Heads turn, guys holler and whistle, and I may wish I were wearing a trench coat atop my white miniskirt and crocheted bikini top and maybe some speedier kicks... But then I think, "What would Charlie's Angels do?"

Here's lookin' at you, ladies.

p.s. Always, always reapply lipstick in public. It is so super hot when you do that!