It is days like today that make me thankful for the order and unshakable patterns of human existence. Afternoons like this one, when the sun is out but remnants of harsh weather still linger in swampy puddles beneath my storm drain, remind me why disorder equals chaos…and why in reality, chaos is only good for horror film dialogue and Britney Spears lyrics.
Today is one of those days when nothing is wrong, but nothing is quite right either. It is a day of funk; it is a day of unease. But just as things always work out in this endless cycle of hours and days and of months and years, my weary mind can find solace in this day in particular. For my day of restlessness has fallen on God’s day of rest. It is Sunday, and in 2009 secular terms, it’s the international day to recharge one’s battery.
So recharge I will. Rest I will, and pray a little I definitely will. I’m off to take my Sunday afternoon nap, people. I hope you get yours, too.
Much love.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Does your URL say Dooce.com?
Yeah...I didn't think so.
I made a detrimentally huge mistake today.
So I’m perusing Facebook, as is my nightly ritual...peel an orange, pop in a season of Friends (as disc 1 of Arrested Development is tragically MIA), grab the Macbook and stalk. Oh stop it, you do it too.
But as Facebook has recently decided to be a Big Fat Failure and Twitterfy it’s homepage, I find it increasingly uneventful to stalk in this forum. So after several minutes of out-loud-to-myself complaining about the newandimproved Lamebook, I decided to take my stalkery in a new direction.
I decided to read other people’s blogs.
This will probably seem quite hypocritical (ahem, narcissistic) to you, but for the most part I’m not a blog consumer. I have a few close friends who blog in a manner I can tolerate; they’re adept writers, and they talk about familiar things/people so I that I feel like an unspoken VIP when reading their posts. I’m also a faithful follower of Dooce.com, as she makes me laugh about some of the more pathetic aspects of being a female. Better than crying about them I suppose. But beyond that, I view most blogs as the mindless prattle of people who couldn’t (and shouldn’t) construct a written sentence if it weren’t for the ease of the keyboard.
And today that view was entirely and painfully justified.
My first mistake was browsing the Facebook profiles of former college acquaintances. Perhaps the term “acquaintance” isn’t poignant enough; these were the people who were not necessarily my enemies, but who did for reasons yet unknown vandalize my apartment 12 times in one semester (and this was at a religious school, but we won’t get into that mess of weeds). So when I say “acquaintances,” I mean people who I secretly wish great misfortune upon. Kidding, only kidding…(but really only kidding a little bit).
Mistake 1: stalking people whose very existence seems to me like a waste of perfectly good oxygen.
Mistake 2: following the Queen Bee of My Loathed College Peers’ link to her blog. Ohh, how I wish I hadn’t done that…
For it was like opening the very gates to my own personal Hell.
Something you need know about my college frenemies: they all, ALL went to university for the sole purpose of receiving their MRS degrees. And now that many of them have achieved it (thank you Jesus! Old Maid Syndrome is evaded once more!), they’ve moved onto ultimate life goal #2.
Reproduction.
Don’t get me wrong - I think marriage and child-rearing is all well and good, and I plan to do it myself one day if I can manage to get my act together. But some things about being a wife and mother should absolutely-without-question be left to the imagination. Example:
In a matter of mere moments I knew all about one girl’s, uhh…well, period. I can’t figure out a way to make that more discrete. I knew when it was and how it affected her relationship with her husband, and I also knew about her new baby’s diaper deposits – frequency, consistency, color and smell.
I am not kidding.
Then another blogger informed THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE of her massively unreasonable mood-swings, and how she cries 4 or 5 times a day. Sad, yes. Postpartum depression is a bitch I’m sure, and I feel for anyone who has to endure it. But ON YOUR BLOG? REALLY? Then she too described her baby’s bathroom habits, and concluded with a description of her after-baby-jelly-belly.
This kind of offensive exchange continued for blog after blog after blog after blog…it was like being sucked into a vacuum-world of people whose entire lives revolve around the digestive habits of another human being. And truthfully, that’s a pretty accurate description of early motherhood.
I spent several hours this weekend holding/feeding/burping (I masterfully avoided changing) an 8-week-old baby. He was CU-U-UTE, and it was fun to play caretaker…but new babies seriously don’t do a whole lot. At one point he started gurgling in his sleep, which prompted me to have a minor freak-out that I was inadvertently drowning him in his own baby-spit (I wasn’t, thank God). But besides that brief outburst of involuntary noise-making, he essentially just laid there.
Point being, I understand that new Momdom must get pretty monotonous, and I can’t imagine the sleep-deprivation and the hormonal tidal waves. I sympathize…really, I do. But if I still have this blog when I get overconfident enough to procreate, this is my solemn vow: you will NEVER read about my mini-me’s dirty diapers on God Willing and the Creek Don’t Rise. I care about you, and I'd never do that to your delicate psyche.
So to my college frenemies I address this plea: you are not Heather Armstrong (and I’m not either, although I’m a damn bit closer as I know the difference between YOUR and YOU’RE). If you want to talk about your uber personal bodily issues, that’s your prerogative…but do it through an email. Do it by phone, do it by text. Hell I don’t care if you do it via Facebook note, as long as I’m not tagged in it. Just leave it out of the PUBLIC FORUM that is your blog, where innocent eyes can be unwillingly traumatized by the detailed account of your issues with breast-feeding. Discretion, people. It’s a beautiful thing.
I know that karma will probably come back to haunt me for this post, and when it is my time to birth a baby I’ll be the next Octomom in all the tabloids. That would be just my luck. But it’s alright, because I’ve got a plan…if that happens, I’ll sell the suckers on eBay (and as I’ll have cute kids, people will definitely want to buy them.) Then I’ll be so bloody rich I’ll purchase blogger.com…
And shut down my frenemies’ failed attempts at Mommy Blogging.
Much love.
I made a detrimentally huge mistake today.
So I’m perusing Facebook, as is my nightly ritual...peel an orange, pop in a season of Friends (as disc 1 of Arrested Development is tragically MIA), grab the Macbook and stalk. Oh stop it, you do it too.
But as Facebook has recently decided to be a Big Fat Failure and Twitterfy it’s homepage, I find it increasingly uneventful to stalk in this forum. So after several minutes of out-loud-to-myself complaining about the newandimproved Lamebook, I decided to take my stalkery in a new direction.
I decided to read other people’s blogs.
This will probably seem quite hypocritical (ahem, narcissistic) to you, but for the most part I’m not a blog consumer. I have a few close friends who blog in a manner I can tolerate; they’re adept writers, and they talk about familiar things/people so I that I feel like an unspoken VIP when reading their posts. I’m also a faithful follower of Dooce.com, as she makes me laugh about some of the more pathetic aspects of being a female. Better than crying about them I suppose. But beyond that, I view most blogs as the mindless prattle of people who couldn’t (and shouldn’t) construct a written sentence if it weren’t for the ease of the keyboard.
And today that view was entirely and painfully justified.
My first mistake was browsing the Facebook profiles of former college acquaintances. Perhaps the term “acquaintance” isn’t poignant enough; these were the people who were not necessarily my enemies, but who did for reasons yet unknown vandalize my apartment 12 times in one semester (and this was at a religious school, but we won’t get into that mess of weeds). So when I say “acquaintances,” I mean people who I secretly wish great misfortune upon. Kidding, only kidding…(but really only kidding a little bit).
Mistake 1: stalking people whose very existence seems to me like a waste of perfectly good oxygen.
Mistake 2: following the Queen Bee of My Loathed College Peers’ link to her blog. Ohh, how I wish I hadn’t done that…
For it was like opening the very gates to my own personal Hell.
Something you need know about my college frenemies: they all, ALL went to university for the sole purpose of receiving their MRS degrees. And now that many of them have achieved it (thank you Jesus! Old Maid Syndrome is evaded once more!), they’ve moved onto ultimate life goal #2.
Reproduction.
Don’t get me wrong - I think marriage and child-rearing is all well and good, and I plan to do it myself one day if I can manage to get my act together. But some things about being a wife and mother should absolutely-without-question be left to the imagination. Example:
In a matter of mere moments I knew all about one girl’s, uhh…well, period. I can’t figure out a way to make that more discrete. I knew when it was and how it affected her relationship with her husband, and I also knew about her new baby’s diaper deposits – frequency, consistency, color and smell.
I am not kidding.
Then another blogger informed THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE of her massively unreasonable mood-swings, and how she cries 4 or 5 times a day. Sad, yes. Postpartum depression is a bitch I’m sure, and I feel for anyone who has to endure it. But ON YOUR BLOG? REALLY? Then she too described her baby’s bathroom habits, and concluded with a description of her after-baby-jelly-belly.
This kind of offensive exchange continued for blog after blog after blog after blog…it was like being sucked into a vacuum-world of people whose entire lives revolve around the digestive habits of another human being. And truthfully, that’s a pretty accurate description of early motherhood.
I spent several hours this weekend holding/feeding/burping (I masterfully avoided changing) an 8-week-old baby. He was CU-U-UTE, and it was fun to play caretaker…but new babies seriously don’t do a whole lot. At one point he started gurgling in his sleep, which prompted me to have a minor freak-out that I was inadvertently drowning him in his own baby-spit (I wasn’t, thank God). But besides that brief outburst of involuntary noise-making, he essentially just laid there.
Point being, I understand that new Momdom must get pretty monotonous, and I can’t imagine the sleep-deprivation and the hormonal tidal waves. I sympathize…really, I do. But if I still have this blog when I get overconfident enough to procreate, this is my solemn vow: you will NEVER read about my mini-me’s dirty diapers on God Willing and the Creek Don’t Rise. I care about you, and I'd never do that to your delicate psyche.
So to my college frenemies I address this plea: you are not Heather Armstrong (and I’m not either, although I’m a damn bit closer as I know the difference between YOUR and YOU’RE). If you want to talk about your uber personal bodily issues, that’s your prerogative…but do it through an email. Do it by phone, do it by text. Hell I don’t care if you do it via Facebook note, as long as I’m not tagged in it. Just leave it out of the PUBLIC FORUM that is your blog, where innocent eyes can be unwillingly traumatized by the detailed account of your issues with breast-feeding. Discretion, people. It’s a beautiful thing.
I know that karma will probably come back to haunt me for this post, and when it is my time to birth a baby I’ll be the next Octomom in all the tabloids. That would be just my luck. But it’s alright, because I’ve got a plan…if that happens, I’ll sell the suckers on eBay (and as I’ll have cute kids, people will definitely want to buy them.) Then I’ll be so bloody rich I’ll purchase blogger.com…
And shut down my frenemies’ failed attempts at Mommy Blogging.
Much love.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The Ultimate Douchetard
Good God, I’m the dumbest person alive.
So Edward and I walk into my house yesterday, and we’re doing that thing where you talk idly about the weather just for the sake of making noise.
“It’s so nice out...I’m so glad it warmed up.”
“I know; I can’t wait for summer.” (We say this to each other at least once daily; if we were to have a motto, this would be it.)
Then we’re inside, and Edward says
“You should open up some windows!”
To which I reply that I was just about to do that very thing…because I was, and GOD HELP ME if he thinks he thought of it first. So I go to the front living room window and I slide it open with great skill and caution (the house is 89 years old and could quite possibly collapse upon me if I cause too much disturbance). And then I stand back, look at Edward, and make the “ahh, such a beautiful, breezy day” face at him.
He smiles and looks outside, and then his face scrunches up and he bends down to examine the window. A look of understanding quickly flashes in his eyes, and he turns slowly to look back at me.
Then he reaches out and taps the glass…of the storm window. Which is still closed.
“Did you know you have storm windows?”
Silence.
He turns and opens said storm window, letting in the breezes I was only just imagining before.
“This is a storm window, Frankie. There are two panes of glass here.”
More silence.
I look at him, sheepish and wide-eyed. The wheels are turning in my head, and I make a little “Op!!” noise as I realize what I’ve done.
“There are two panes of glass here”…so I have to open two windows. Not just one.
“Frankie. Did you know about the storm windows?”
I glance back at Edward, who clearly hopes I did know about them but also obviously recognizes I did not. I start to grin and admit that no, I didn’t realize there was ANOTHER window to be opened. I mean, WTF.
Then he looks at me in a tragically piteous manner, and says
“So…so let me get this straight. You’ve lived here a year, and every time you’ve opened this window…”
He lets the sentence die, because it’s all too pathetic to be voiced out loud.
I’ve lived here FOR A YEAR, and I always open that particular window when it’s nice out. And not once has the damn thing actually been open. Not. Once.
Good GOD.
Edward laughs at me, and I join in to show how unphased I am by my retardedness. I mean, the guy now knows I’m a dumbass; he needn’t know I’m humiliated too. Then after lots of incredulous head-shaking, he asks
“Haven’t you ever noticed that you weren’t getting a breeze?”
Long pause. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut in an attempt to make myself or the entire world disappear. And when that doesn’t happen, I sigh and admit (and this is true)
“I just always thought it was a reeeally still day.”
…I am the ultimate douchetard.
Much love.
So Edward and I walk into my house yesterday, and we’re doing that thing where you talk idly about the weather just for the sake of making noise.
“It’s so nice out...I’m so glad it warmed up.”
“I know; I can’t wait for summer.” (We say this to each other at least once daily; if we were to have a motto, this would be it.)
Then we’re inside, and Edward says
“You should open up some windows!”
To which I reply that I was just about to do that very thing…because I was, and GOD HELP ME if he thinks he thought of it first. So I go to the front living room window and I slide it open with great skill and caution (the house is 89 years old and could quite possibly collapse upon me if I cause too much disturbance). And then I stand back, look at Edward, and make the “ahh, such a beautiful, breezy day” face at him.
He smiles and looks outside, and then his face scrunches up and he bends down to examine the window. A look of understanding quickly flashes in his eyes, and he turns slowly to look back at me.
Then he reaches out and taps the glass…of the storm window. Which is still closed.
“Did you know you have storm windows?”
Silence.
He turns and opens said storm window, letting in the breezes I was only just imagining before.
“This is a storm window, Frankie. There are two panes of glass here.”
More silence.
I look at him, sheepish and wide-eyed. The wheels are turning in my head, and I make a little “Op!!” noise as I realize what I’ve done.
“There are two panes of glass here”…so I have to open two windows. Not just one.
“Frankie. Did you know about the storm windows?”
I glance back at Edward, who clearly hopes I did know about them but also obviously recognizes I did not. I start to grin and admit that no, I didn’t realize there was ANOTHER window to be opened. I mean, WTF.
Then he looks at me in a tragically piteous manner, and says
“So…so let me get this straight. You’ve lived here a year, and every time you’ve opened this window…”
He lets the sentence die, because it’s all too pathetic to be voiced out loud.
I’ve lived here FOR A YEAR, and I always open that particular window when it’s nice out. And not once has the damn thing actually been open. Not. Once.
Good GOD.
Edward laughs at me, and I join in to show how unphased I am by my retardedness. I mean, the guy now knows I’m a dumbass; he needn’t know I’m humiliated too. Then after lots of incredulous head-shaking, he asks
“Haven’t you ever noticed that you weren’t getting a breeze?”
Long pause. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut in an attempt to make myself or the entire world disappear. And when that doesn’t happen, I sigh and admit (and this is true)
“I just always thought it was a reeeally still day.”
…I am the ultimate douchetard.
Much love.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Madness is like gravity...
all it takes is a little push.
Perhaps it’s the moon or the unpredictable ebb and flow of my hormone levels, but every few weeks I reach a point of actual, Merriam-Webster-dictionary-definable hysteria.
(Just so we’re clear, Merriam Webster defines hysteria as: psychoneurosis marked by emotional excitability and disturbances of the psychic, sensory, vasomotor, and visceral functions. Save for the fact that I don’t know what “vasomotor” or “visceral” means, I do believe this to be my current state of being).
Typically this misfire of my psyche comes and goes in a matter of days; I may be seized with fits of inexplicable grumpiness and/or joy on Tuesday and Wednesday, but by Thursday I’m back in my right mind and am once again capable of interacting with the general public. But for reasons only known by God and perhaps Obama, this month has provided two long weeks of the Crazies for me.
It all started last Monday when I realized everything upon everything was remarkably bothersome. The traffic on Lindsey street, the cowlick in my hair, the ridiculous water pressure in my shower and the way I can never seem to not flood my bathroom: all these issues cause me minor strife on an average day, but last week they nearly made me off myself with my Schick Quattro for Women. One particularly bad morning I knocked my open box of cereal off the counter…and next thing I know I’m thumping my head on the door-frame and wailing WHY GOD WHY IS THE ENTIRE WORLD AGAINST ME? The moment soon passed and I recognized I may have overreacted just a smiiidge, but for the next 5 days it was all I could do not to mow down lackadaisical pedestrians or scream profanities at Oklahoma’s relentless winds (actually, the wind thing isn’t solely a crazy issue; on any given day it has the power to turn me into a SheDevil. I think if the wind was a person, I would shoot it point-blank…but I digress). For the most part however, my rage was dreadfully unwarranted.
For those of you who think this is clearly a post-PMS blog update, I say to you NOT SO. My neuroses are more complicated than that, thanks very much. For every day of irritable bitchiness is matched with one of equally bizarre hilarity; there are times when I find something so amusing that I simply cannot contain myself, and these situations rarely merit my overjoyed reaction. It may sound like fun, and indeed sometimes it is…today my fellow hot librarian commented on the delectable manliness of one of our patrons, and when he later approached her for a simple librarian-task I was made physically incapacitated by fits of giggles. Luckily she was also hysterical due to severe stress and sleep-deprivation, so she too found the scenario extraordinarily funny. For the next 7-9 minutes we were red-faced and unable to speak, doubled over behind our hot librarian desk in semi-silent laughter. The poor man-candy must’ve thought we were wretchedly mean for laughing at him…I briefly considered explaining myself, but my friendship with Hot Librarian #2 is far more important than some undergrad’s ego (and he wasn’t even my kind of man-candy, anyway).
So, on occasion mania can be fun, especially if you have an equally manic buddy. But when you’re going about your business trying to behave like an adult human, bursts of laughter or uncontrollable smiling just makes you look like a dumbass…or worse, like a raging lunatic.
Today I believe I’m coming off as a raging lunatic, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I’m not sure when this onset of hysteria will end as it’s already outstayed its usual duration, but I hope to God I can get it in check by class this evening. My Wednesday class is my No-Bullsh*t-Actual-Studying-And-General-Grown-Upness-Is-Required grad course, and if I’m still acting this way at 6:30 tonight…well, I may need to fake sick and make it a mental health day. If you could be in my head right now, you would understand.
I guess it goes without saying that you should disregard my behavior for the duration of this week. I swear to God I’m trying to regain composure, but with funny people doing funny things all about me I feel I’ll have little success. Earlier a girl tripped while walking up the stairs; it was possibly the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. I am a lost cause.
I’ll bet there’s a pill I could take to combat my hysteria, but with the second half of it being so enjoyable I really have no desire to self-medicate. Plus, the irritable bitchiness affects you more than it does me, and if I’m bitchy to begin with chances are I won’t care about upsetting you. So the next time you see that glean in my eyes that says I’M DANGEROUSLY IMBALANCED AND WILL BE PISSED OFF BY WHATEVER YOU SAY OR DO, steer clear for a little while. Just be sure to come back in a few days, because by then I’ll be like that one friend who can’t stop giggling when she’s drunk…
Only I promise not to throw up on your shoes.
Much love.
Perhaps it’s the moon or the unpredictable ebb and flow of my hormone levels, but every few weeks I reach a point of actual, Merriam-Webster-dictionary-definable hysteria.
(Just so we’re clear, Merriam Webster defines hysteria as: psychoneurosis marked by emotional excitability and disturbances of the psychic, sensory, vasomotor, and visceral functions. Save for the fact that I don’t know what “vasomotor” or “visceral” means, I do believe this to be my current state of being).
Typically this misfire of my psyche comes and goes in a matter of days; I may be seized with fits of inexplicable grumpiness and/or joy on Tuesday and Wednesday, but by Thursday I’m back in my right mind and am once again capable of interacting with the general public. But for reasons only known by God and perhaps Obama, this month has provided two long weeks of the Crazies for me.
It all started last Monday when I realized everything upon everything was remarkably bothersome. The traffic on Lindsey street, the cowlick in my hair, the ridiculous water pressure in my shower and the way I can never seem to not flood my bathroom: all these issues cause me minor strife on an average day, but last week they nearly made me off myself with my Schick Quattro for Women. One particularly bad morning I knocked my open box of cereal off the counter…and next thing I know I’m thumping my head on the door-frame and wailing WHY GOD WHY IS THE ENTIRE WORLD AGAINST ME? The moment soon passed and I recognized I may have overreacted just a smiiidge, but for the next 5 days it was all I could do not to mow down lackadaisical pedestrians or scream profanities at Oklahoma’s relentless winds (actually, the wind thing isn’t solely a crazy issue; on any given day it has the power to turn me into a SheDevil. I think if the wind was a person, I would shoot it point-blank…but I digress). For the most part however, my rage was dreadfully unwarranted.
For those of you who think this is clearly a post-PMS blog update, I say to you NOT SO. My neuroses are more complicated than that, thanks very much. For every day of irritable bitchiness is matched with one of equally bizarre hilarity; there are times when I find something so amusing that I simply cannot contain myself, and these situations rarely merit my overjoyed reaction. It may sound like fun, and indeed sometimes it is…today my fellow hot librarian commented on the delectable manliness of one of our patrons, and when he later approached her for a simple librarian-task I was made physically incapacitated by fits of giggles. Luckily she was also hysterical due to severe stress and sleep-deprivation, so she too found the scenario extraordinarily funny. For the next 7-9 minutes we were red-faced and unable to speak, doubled over behind our hot librarian desk in semi-silent laughter. The poor man-candy must’ve thought we were wretchedly mean for laughing at him…I briefly considered explaining myself, but my friendship with Hot Librarian #2 is far more important than some undergrad’s ego (and he wasn’t even my kind of man-candy, anyway).
So, on occasion mania can be fun, especially if you have an equally manic buddy. But when you’re going about your business trying to behave like an adult human, bursts of laughter or uncontrollable smiling just makes you look like a dumbass…or worse, like a raging lunatic.
Today I believe I’m coming off as a raging lunatic, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I’m not sure when this onset of hysteria will end as it’s already outstayed its usual duration, but I hope to God I can get it in check by class this evening. My Wednesday class is my No-Bullsh*t-Actual-Studying-And-General-Grown-Upness-Is-Required grad course, and if I’m still acting this way at 6:30 tonight…well, I may need to fake sick and make it a mental health day. If you could be in my head right now, you would understand.
I guess it goes without saying that you should disregard my behavior for the duration of this week. I swear to God I’m trying to regain composure, but with funny people doing funny things all about me I feel I’ll have little success. Earlier a girl tripped while walking up the stairs; it was possibly the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. I am a lost cause.
I’ll bet there’s a pill I could take to combat my hysteria, but with the second half of it being so enjoyable I really have no desire to self-medicate. Plus, the irritable bitchiness affects you more than it does me, and if I’m bitchy to begin with chances are I won’t care about upsetting you. So the next time you see that glean in my eyes that says I’M DANGEROUSLY IMBALANCED AND WILL BE PISSED OFF BY WHATEVER YOU SAY OR DO, steer clear for a little while. Just be sure to come back in a few days, because by then I’ll be like that one friend who can’t stop giggling when she’s drunk…
Only I promise not to throw up on your shoes.
Much love.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Invasion of the Spider Monsters
Living alone, for the most part, is a necessity of life I’ve come to enjoy.
(I use the term “necessity” loosely…I could go to Craigslist and fetch me a roommate, but my packrat piles of nick-nacks and randomass crap all but dominate my spare bedroom where said stranger would expect to sleep. Plus, I waltz around in various degrees of undress most of the time, and I fear this particularly freeing form of expression would be squelched by the presence of an Other.)
For the first 22 years of my life I shared a bathroom with at least 1 and sometimes 15 other girls. That is a long time not to have one’s own stash of tampons. Therefore, once I graduated college and could no longer be required to wear shoes in the shower or wait my turn to spit in the sink, I committed myself to a living situation of solitude.
And like I said, I enjoy it…for the most part.
But spring is now eeking its way around the corner, and though I’m elated for warmer weather and thunderstorms I’m reminded of the terrors of March/April/May 2008.
You should first know that I, by strict definition, am not a girly-girl. I love being outside, I don’t mind my clothes being mussed or drooled on by dog or horse or what have you, I’d go barefoot and braless everyday if possible, and I’ve never chipped a nail in my life (as I have no nails to speak of). But there is a certain point where I draw the line, where I say TO HELL WITH IT to being brave and ballsy and surrender to my more feminine instincts.
And since my move to the Nomptom bungalow, that line has manifested itself via an infestation of Spider Monsters.
I do not like spiders. I do. Not. LIKE THEM. They move too fast, they have too many legs, and just when you think they’re going to scurry right they scurry left (or they leap from within your sock drawer and scurry up your arm, which marked the beginning of my arachnophobia). So it was with great displeasure that I realized my precious little home is a hotspot breeding ground for eight-legged mini-aliens.
Most of you have heard the tale of the tarantula in my living room…it was 6 in the morn one day last April, and the mother of all disgusting creatures flitted across my floor just as I stumbled out of bed (barefoot, of course). The War of the Worlds thus commenced, with me hopping from couch-to-chair-to-coffee-table while the Spider Monster followed at rapid speed (I swear to God the thing was chasing me). I screamed a lot that morning, and I called many people who became overly distressed about my well-being as all they could hear was OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD HOLY HELL on the other end of the phone. I daresay you’d be no more articulate if put in the same position. I eventually killed the bastard, but only after discovering it was actually a bastardette. After drenching said Spider Monster (and most of my living room rug) with multiple types of poison, I watched in horror as it exploded…into majillions of baby Spider Monsters. Apparently my little friend was in delicate condition.
Unfortunately for me (and for those whom I call when massively freaked out), this did not prove to be an isolated incident. Far from it - I found so many spiders in my house last spring that I began a daily count…at one point I was killing at least 6 every 24 hours. Finally I had enough, and I employed the assistance of both a professional Spider-Monster-killer and my father (who set off so many bug bombs that I’m sure my death will be a direct result of their fumes). For the next few months my critter numbers dropped to a tolerable point. Sure I still had tree bug thingamajigs and rolly-pollies, but the potentially blood-sucking-people-killing arachnids seemed to have moved on.
But alas it is once again March, and my floors and walls and ceilings are no longer soaked with spider kryptonite. I’ve smashed 3 already this spring…they were easy targets as the lethargy of winter had not yet warn off, but the very sight of their prickly legs and squishy bodies made me momentarily regret being Miss Independent. If I had a roommate, I’d have someone to run to and shake and holler at when I discover a wolf spider in my dryer (an occurrence I became all too familiar with last year). And with any luck, I could make said companion partake in some of the arachno-killing; I’m a bad aim anyways, since I refuse to get close enough to the Spider Monsters to guarantee a hit. Half the time the damn things get away, and then I get to wrestle with the thought of going to bed with angry spawns of Satan roaming my halls.
I’ll make it through. I’m no sissy-pansy, and I have too much pride to ever surrender to my irrational fear of creatures 1/200th the size of me. But take this as a word of warning; if you are a new add to my speed-dial, you best be expecting some frantic calls from me in the near future. Try to identify the word SPIDER within my stream of howling, and once you do you’re welcome to sit down the phone and go about your day. For I know you can’t save me from the Spider Monsters, but at least you can recognize my bravery and/or stubbornness for residing by myself in the true 8th circle of Hell (trust me – Dante’s scorpion-man is no match for my army of arachnids).
Indeed I am quite valiant for living alone. Plus if you think about it, at least I won’t be living alone for long…there are thousands of future roommates just waiting to hatch within my bedroom walls.
Much love.
(I use the term “necessity” loosely…I could go to Craigslist and fetch me a roommate, but my packrat piles of nick-nacks and randomass crap all but dominate my spare bedroom where said stranger would expect to sleep. Plus, I waltz around in various degrees of undress most of the time, and I fear this particularly freeing form of expression would be squelched by the presence of an Other.)
For the first 22 years of my life I shared a bathroom with at least 1 and sometimes 15 other girls. That is a long time not to have one’s own stash of tampons. Therefore, once I graduated college and could no longer be required to wear shoes in the shower or wait my turn to spit in the sink, I committed myself to a living situation of solitude.
And like I said, I enjoy it…for the most part.
But spring is now eeking its way around the corner, and though I’m elated for warmer weather and thunderstorms I’m reminded of the terrors of March/April/May 2008.
You should first know that I, by strict definition, am not a girly-girl. I love being outside, I don’t mind my clothes being mussed or drooled on by dog or horse or what have you, I’d go barefoot and braless everyday if possible, and I’ve never chipped a nail in my life (as I have no nails to speak of). But there is a certain point where I draw the line, where I say TO HELL WITH IT to being brave and ballsy and surrender to my more feminine instincts.
And since my move to the Nomptom bungalow, that line has manifested itself via an infestation of Spider Monsters.
I do not like spiders. I do. Not. LIKE THEM. They move too fast, they have too many legs, and just when you think they’re going to scurry right they scurry left (or they leap from within your sock drawer and scurry up your arm, which marked the beginning of my arachnophobia). So it was with great displeasure that I realized my precious little home is a hotspot breeding ground for eight-legged mini-aliens.
Most of you have heard the tale of the tarantula in my living room…it was 6 in the morn one day last April, and the mother of all disgusting creatures flitted across my floor just as I stumbled out of bed (barefoot, of course). The War of the Worlds thus commenced, with me hopping from couch-to-chair-to-coffee-table while the Spider Monster followed at rapid speed (I swear to God the thing was chasing me). I screamed a lot that morning, and I called many people who became overly distressed about my well-being as all they could hear was OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD HOLY HELL on the other end of the phone. I daresay you’d be no more articulate if put in the same position. I eventually killed the bastard, but only after discovering it was actually a bastardette. After drenching said Spider Monster (and most of my living room rug) with multiple types of poison, I watched in horror as it exploded…into majillions of baby Spider Monsters. Apparently my little friend was in delicate condition.
Unfortunately for me (and for those whom I call when massively freaked out), this did not prove to be an isolated incident. Far from it - I found so many spiders in my house last spring that I began a daily count…at one point I was killing at least 6 every 24 hours. Finally I had enough, and I employed the assistance of both a professional Spider-Monster-killer and my father (who set off so many bug bombs that I’m sure my death will be a direct result of their fumes). For the next few months my critter numbers dropped to a tolerable point. Sure I still had tree bug thingamajigs and rolly-pollies, but the potentially blood-sucking-people-killing arachnids seemed to have moved on.
But alas it is once again March, and my floors and walls and ceilings are no longer soaked with spider kryptonite. I’ve smashed 3 already this spring…they were easy targets as the lethargy of winter had not yet warn off, but the very sight of their prickly legs and squishy bodies made me momentarily regret being Miss Independent. If I had a roommate, I’d have someone to run to and shake and holler at when I discover a wolf spider in my dryer (an occurrence I became all too familiar with last year). And with any luck, I could make said companion partake in some of the arachno-killing; I’m a bad aim anyways, since I refuse to get close enough to the Spider Monsters to guarantee a hit. Half the time the damn things get away, and then I get to wrestle with the thought of going to bed with angry spawns of Satan roaming my halls.
I’ll make it through. I’m no sissy-pansy, and I have too much pride to ever surrender to my irrational fear of creatures 1/200th the size of me. But take this as a word of warning; if you are a new add to my speed-dial, you best be expecting some frantic calls from me in the near future. Try to identify the word SPIDER within my stream of howling, and once you do you’re welcome to sit down the phone and go about your day. For I know you can’t save me from the Spider Monsters, but at least you can recognize my bravery and/or stubbornness for residing by myself in the true 8th circle of Hell (trust me – Dante’s scorpion-man is no match for my army of arachnids).
Indeed I am quite valiant for living alone. Plus if you think about it, at least I won’t be living alone for long…there are thousands of future roommates just waiting to hatch within my bedroom walls.
Much love.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Insomnia, BlogCritics and the Addy's
3 AM is an excellent time for blogging, no?
Urrg, I’m doing that thing where your mind is so busy you can’t sleep; I did this at the start of last semester too, and it was just as disturbing then as it is now. I am a sleeper; if there’s one thing you can count on me to do it’s sleep (and not much else, as I’ll probably accidentally sleep through whatever it is). Therefore, this new-found desire to check my email at 4 AM (and send responses, which results in “why were you emailing at 4 AM?” phone calls the next day) is severely mussing my whole system. Asleep before 12, awake as late as possible. This has been my tried-and-tested pattern since high school, and I’m more than a little freaked out by my adult-esque new habit of staying awake to worry about unimportant things.
Damn you, 25. Damn you, sense of personal responsibility. Damn you, crows feet (do not tell me they’re not there because I CAN SEE THEM.)
But if I’m up, I might as well use this opportunity to splatter some words on the ol’ weblog. I have broken my self-imposed post a week promise, and for that I am truly sorry. I’ve actually had people ask me to update; this makes me feel both special and like I need cooler friends, all at the same time (I don’t mean that…please keep reading…I crave your validation).
First order of business: I am now also publishing on Blogcritics.org, which is a slightly more credible/less narcissist writing outlet as my pieces must first be approved by an editor before venturing into CyperSpace. I’m excited for the opportunity of portfolio padding, but it also means God Willing must be good and patient for its updates. I have to give Blogcritics first publishing rights, so if I seem to be slacking (like this week, for instance) that’s probably why. Just don’t panic; I will keep posting as I’m too OCD not to, so take a deep breath and peruse my archives. Or better yet, go to http://dooce.com (but please don’t leave me for her. I need you more than she does).
Second order of business: Addy’s. This topic was actually requested by an aforementioned uncool friend, so don’t blame me for crossing the TMI line by posting about my dating life. Take it up with Lola, aka Team Park…I’d provide more info on her identity, but she’s remarkably scrappy and frankly I’m afraid.
Ahem. So the Addy’s are an advertising competition. Prior to January I knew nothing of them; to me, “Addy” was a girl in my high school show choir and nothing more. Then I met my dating partner, and as he’s an Ad guy I was quickly caught up to speed. (“Dating partner” is a funny little quip said Ad guy and I originated, but as I realize it’s not actually that funny I’ll drop it. For the purpose of this post, DP now = Edward.)
Edward asked me to be his date for the Addy’s about a month out, and I proceeded to react with far too much enthusiasm…we’d only been dating for a few weeks, so it was imperative that I still act cool and nonchalant. However, he said “cocktail dress” and it was a lost cause; I immediately began making prom-like-shopping-plans and wondering if my tanning contract had expired. Luckily for me Eddie powered through and didn’t spazz out at my gusto, and one week out from the Big Night I embarked upon my journey for the perfect dress.
For this outing I required more estrogen than I alone could produce, so I asked for the assistance of the one woman genetically obligated to accompany me on such a trip: my mother. She kindly agreed to tag along, and by 11 on a Saturday morn we were chin-deep in corset-tops, empire-wastes and chiffon-overlays. Ahh, what sweet perfection!
Now, I misspoke earlier when I said I could be counted on to do one thing (sleep). I can actually be counted on to do two things: sleep…and shop. You don’t become Best Dressed 2002 without first memorizing the layouts of both local malls (and I should know, as I was Best Dressed 2002…or have I mentioned that?). So I was absolutely certain that this particular excursion would end like most of my trips to Penn Square; with a few too many dollars spent and a bag of glorious Fashion Fabulousity in hand.
When store #1 didn’t rock my world, I lost very little heart. There were still several stops to make, and I didn’t really want to find it that easy anyway (because half the joy is in the hunt). Store #2 was a disappointment as well, as it was riddled with prom-dress-shoppers who tainted both the ambiance and the dresses themselves. But not to worry, it was still barely past noon.
So we continued on to store #3, and 4, and 5…my mother vigilantly maintained her “I’m so excited to be trudging through the crowded mall with you” façade, but as the hours passed a bit of the life behind her eyes began to die. Even I became disheartened as the failed attempts piled up, and when the stores finally started to close I was left with a throbbing head…and no dress to call my own.
The pains-in-the-ass didn’t end there, but I’ll spare you some of the details (especially the part where my mom went shopping on my behalf and sent pictures of dresses to me via cell phone…yeah, I’ll leave that out as it’s kind of horribly embarrassing and makes me seem like a wretched child). I’ll pick up a few days later; I’d almost come to terms with the fact that I had failed at shopping, and I’d decided to just wear a dress I already had (siiiiigh, how great the trials of my life). Then just as I was coming out of my no-dress-deep-blue-funk, I remembered a sassy little number at shop #2.
My mother had immediately loved the dress; it was royal blue, which she’s been saying is “my color” since I emerged from her womb. I opted to try it on for that reason alone, and once I’d wiggled my way into it I swiftly used my veto power. It was strapless - as a rule, I don’t do strapless. Ever. They’re dreadfully uncomfortable, they make breathing nigh impossible, and they squish up one’s side-boob in a most unappealing way. So, once I realized what I was dealing with I turned to Mother to say “uhh, NO.” But to my surprise, she had a peculiar look on her face.
“You look like a movie star!”
Wellllll crap. Somewhere deep inside every woman is an intense desire to please her mother, and when mine said those words I knew I was about to experience a great internal struggle: to appease, or not to appease? I gaped at her, then turned back to the mirror…I had to admit I liked the color, but no. This girl does not wear strapless dresses; I am nothing without my principles, and no innate need for my mother’s approval was going to change that. I am strong. Damn straight I’m strong.
Much to your surprise I’m sure, that all changed when I realized the serious anorexia of my options. I ended up in the blue, utterly strapless dress, and by the weekend of the Addy’s I’d gone from hating it to tolerating it to liking it to loving it. Never doubt the power of a mother’s opinion. So I set out on my first advertising-awards-ceremony-evening, and I daresay I did a fine job. I don’t remember saying too many stupid things, and even if I did I was in a fabulous dress that with any luck distracted everyone from my babbling.
The night was a lovely blur of fine wines, good food and new faces, and I’m pretty sure Edward still liked me afterward. So, mission accomplished. And the real star of the evening-The Dress-survived without spill, slippage or tear (and received several compliments to boot). One gentleman seemed notably taken by my attire…he asked me in apparent awe what color I was wearing, and when “blue” didn’t satisfy him he asked me again…and again...and again. I eventually bowed out of the conversation mumbling something about needing to find my seat, and clung just a bit more tightly to Eddie’s arm from that point forward.
So there you have it, Lola-my-uncool-friend: this is my account of the Addy’s. Don’t act surprised that it revolves almost entirely around the dress, as you know me well enough to realize what a prisoner of fashion I truly am. It was several weeks of preparation for a few hours of display, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Dressing up is a high for me; keep your cocaine, I’ll take the couture. So say what you will – I think it was worth it…
Afterall, my mom said I looked like a movie star.
Much love.
Urrg, I’m doing that thing where your mind is so busy you can’t sleep; I did this at the start of last semester too, and it was just as disturbing then as it is now. I am a sleeper; if there’s one thing you can count on me to do it’s sleep (and not much else, as I’ll probably accidentally sleep through whatever it is). Therefore, this new-found desire to check my email at 4 AM (and send responses, which results in “why were you emailing at 4 AM?” phone calls the next day) is severely mussing my whole system. Asleep before 12, awake as late as possible. This has been my tried-and-tested pattern since high school, and I’m more than a little freaked out by my adult-esque new habit of staying awake to worry about unimportant things.
Damn you, 25. Damn you, sense of personal responsibility. Damn you, crows feet (do not tell me they’re not there because I CAN SEE THEM.)
But if I’m up, I might as well use this opportunity to splatter some words on the ol’ weblog. I have broken my self-imposed post a week promise, and for that I am truly sorry. I’ve actually had people ask me to update; this makes me feel both special and like I need cooler friends, all at the same time (I don’t mean that…please keep reading…I crave your validation).
First order of business: I am now also publishing on Blogcritics.org, which is a slightly more credible/less narcissist writing outlet as my pieces must first be approved by an editor before venturing into CyperSpace. I’m excited for the opportunity of portfolio padding, but it also means God Willing must be good and patient for its updates. I have to give Blogcritics first publishing rights, so if I seem to be slacking (like this week, for instance) that’s probably why. Just don’t panic; I will keep posting as I’m too OCD not to, so take a deep breath and peruse my archives. Or better yet, go to http://dooce.com (but please don’t leave me for her. I need you more than she does).
Second order of business: Addy’s. This topic was actually requested by an aforementioned uncool friend, so don’t blame me for crossing the TMI line by posting about my dating life. Take it up with Lola, aka Team Park…I’d provide more info on her identity, but she’s remarkably scrappy and frankly I’m afraid.
Ahem. So the Addy’s are an advertising competition. Prior to January I knew nothing of them; to me, “Addy” was a girl in my high school show choir and nothing more. Then I met my dating partner, and as he’s an Ad guy I was quickly caught up to speed. (“Dating partner” is a funny little quip said Ad guy and I originated, but as I realize it’s not actually that funny I’ll drop it. For the purpose of this post, DP now = Edward.)
Edward asked me to be his date for the Addy’s about a month out, and I proceeded to react with far too much enthusiasm…we’d only been dating for a few weeks, so it was imperative that I still act cool and nonchalant. However, he said “cocktail dress” and it was a lost cause; I immediately began making prom-like-shopping-plans and wondering if my tanning contract had expired. Luckily for me Eddie powered through and didn’t spazz out at my gusto, and one week out from the Big Night I embarked upon my journey for the perfect dress.
For this outing I required more estrogen than I alone could produce, so I asked for the assistance of the one woman genetically obligated to accompany me on such a trip: my mother. She kindly agreed to tag along, and by 11 on a Saturday morn we were chin-deep in corset-tops, empire-wastes and chiffon-overlays. Ahh, what sweet perfection!
Now, I misspoke earlier when I said I could be counted on to do one thing (sleep). I can actually be counted on to do two things: sleep…and shop. You don’t become Best Dressed 2002 without first memorizing the layouts of both local malls (and I should know, as I was Best Dressed 2002…or have I mentioned that?). So I was absolutely certain that this particular excursion would end like most of my trips to Penn Square; with a few too many dollars spent and a bag of glorious Fashion Fabulousity in hand.
When store #1 didn’t rock my world, I lost very little heart. There were still several stops to make, and I didn’t really want to find it that easy anyway (because half the joy is in the hunt). Store #2 was a disappointment as well, as it was riddled with prom-dress-shoppers who tainted both the ambiance and the dresses themselves. But not to worry, it was still barely past noon.
So we continued on to store #3, and 4, and 5…my mother vigilantly maintained her “I’m so excited to be trudging through the crowded mall with you” façade, but as the hours passed a bit of the life behind her eyes began to die. Even I became disheartened as the failed attempts piled up, and when the stores finally started to close I was left with a throbbing head…and no dress to call my own.
The pains-in-the-ass didn’t end there, but I’ll spare you some of the details (especially the part where my mom went shopping on my behalf and sent pictures of dresses to me via cell phone…yeah, I’ll leave that out as it’s kind of horribly embarrassing and makes me seem like a wretched child). I’ll pick up a few days later; I’d almost come to terms with the fact that I had failed at shopping, and I’d decided to just wear a dress I already had (siiiiigh, how great the trials of my life). Then just as I was coming out of my no-dress-deep-blue-funk, I remembered a sassy little number at shop #2.
My mother had immediately loved the dress; it was royal blue, which she’s been saying is “my color” since I emerged from her womb. I opted to try it on for that reason alone, and once I’d wiggled my way into it I swiftly used my veto power. It was strapless - as a rule, I don’t do strapless. Ever. They’re dreadfully uncomfortable, they make breathing nigh impossible, and they squish up one’s side-boob in a most unappealing way. So, once I realized what I was dealing with I turned to Mother to say “uhh, NO.” But to my surprise, she had a peculiar look on her face.
“You look like a movie star!”
Wellllll crap. Somewhere deep inside every woman is an intense desire to please her mother, and when mine said those words I knew I was about to experience a great internal struggle: to appease, or not to appease? I gaped at her, then turned back to the mirror…I had to admit I liked the color, but no. This girl does not wear strapless dresses; I am nothing without my principles, and no innate need for my mother’s approval was going to change that. I am strong. Damn straight I’m strong.
Much to your surprise I’m sure, that all changed when I realized the serious anorexia of my options. I ended up in the blue, utterly strapless dress, and by the weekend of the Addy’s I’d gone from hating it to tolerating it to liking it to loving it. Never doubt the power of a mother’s opinion. So I set out on my first advertising-awards-ceremony-evening, and I daresay I did a fine job. I don’t remember saying too many stupid things, and even if I did I was in a fabulous dress that with any luck distracted everyone from my babbling.
The night was a lovely blur of fine wines, good food and new faces, and I’m pretty sure Edward still liked me afterward. So, mission accomplished. And the real star of the evening-The Dress-survived without spill, slippage or tear (and received several compliments to boot). One gentleman seemed notably taken by my attire…he asked me in apparent awe what color I was wearing, and when “blue” didn’t satisfy him he asked me again…and again...and again. I eventually bowed out of the conversation mumbling something about needing to find my seat, and clung just a bit more tightly to Eddie’s arm from that point forward.
So there you have it, Lola-my-uncool-friend: this is my account of the Addy’s. Don’t act surprised that it revolves almost entirely around the dress, as you know me well enough to realize what a prisoner of fashion I truly am. It was several weeks of preparation for a few hours of display, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Dressing up is a high for me; keep your cocaine, I’ll take the couture. So say what you will – I think it was worth it…
Afterall, my mom said I looked like a movie star.
Much love.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Don't mess with the Fashion Master
As we age, there comes a time when it is necessary to pass the torch of Things We Once Were to younger generations (I'm 25 now...I'm old...I can talk like this). Previous pageant queens relinquish their crowns to newer, shinier Plastics; former record holders surrender their titles to stronger, springier athletes. It's a short distance between Late-Breaking Story and Yesterday's News, and the older we get the harder it is to be a headline.
Fortunately for me and my naiveté, it wasn't until my Sooner Land arrival that I realized this truism would soon apply to me. Perhaps I've made mention of this before, but I was Best Dressed in high school. Hold your applause. I took my position quite seriously; throughout college I vigilantly maintained my unique albeit impractical personal style (and I ruffled more than a few feathers with said style, which is always a good indication that one's Look is working). Despite my less than desirable fashion-locale (Shawnee, America = shopping-barren-wasteland) I kept up on the trends, and I graduated still feeling like a fashionista, regardless of my age.
That all changed when I came to OU.
Beyond the fact that I'm a haggard grad student now and thus am too jaded and exhausted to care, I simply cannot keep up with the apparel of my Debutant Sorority Princess counterparts. These girls must shop 23 hours a day (the other hour being reserved for parties at the Fiji house)...and they most certainly have more cash to burn than I, what with their Daddy-provided expendable incomes. Ahh, to be the offspring of a Texas oil baron. Louis Vuittons, Dior sunglasses, and UGGs (ugggggh) are a dime-a-dozen here; if you don't have these basic accessories, you do not register on the Fashion Radar. And I, a former fashionista and Best Dressed title winner, have none of the above.
Therefore, when I waltz into my undergraduate Journalism History class (a course I now have to take as it was not required for my BA, which further supports my suspicions that I went to a pretend school...but I digress) I drop my bags, silence my phone, and settle in for an hour and 45 minutes of Couture Research ala Undergrads. No, I do not pay attention in class; it's a 4000 level course, so it is my right as a Master's student to feel I am above listening to the lectures. Trust me, it's science.
Typically I marvel at the ever-evolving styles to be observed; I saw a girl in a magenta sequined-beret last week, I kid you not. The clothes kids are wearing these days are retro, throwback, vintage, not a bit sensible...and utterly fantastic. Most afternoons I lust over designer pieces that I will never own, and I almost always leave feeling like I need a "come to Jesus" talk from the God of Fashion (Dolce or Gabbana; either one will do). But last Thursday, as the lecture began and I thus prepared to zone out, I noticed something startling. As I scanned the room, a new trend was evident to me amid the sea of heavily peroxided heads of hair. And as this new style seeped into my fashion conscience, I became quite deeply disturbed.
Baby bows.
I saw baby bows.
Pinned to the perfect quafts and intentionally messy ponytails...were baby bows.
For anyone currently confused by this terminology, think of it literally; baby bows are exactly that - bows for babies. They're tiny, cheapy, cheesy bows that people glue to bald baby-heads presumably to alert the world that "hey, this slobbering bundle of rolls is a girl, and God help you if you call her a 'he.'" (New moms are weirdly protective of their children's gender integrity.) These bows are dumb and unnecessary for babies, as they don't make newborns look any less like pinkish old men, but for sorority sisters...they're creepy.
And I mean creepy.
What kind of message are you trying to send with an infant child's bow stuck to your head? Hmmm? What twisted daddy-complex does that address? I also noticed that some girls had branched out beyond the baby version, and were wearing those suuuuper tacky cloth headbands that have giants bows on one side. I wore one of those once...when I was 5. It was a fashion faux pas then, and now - if I were to wear one now, well it would be an atrocity for which I would invite you to lock me up at Griffin Memorial and throw away the key. Hold me to that, please; I'd rather be trapped in a padded room as a crazy patient than walking the streets as a fashion victim.
But back to the issue at hand; I was incredibly demoralized by this clear disregard for actual style. If Gianni Versace saw what I saw - Gucci bag and True Religion jeans, topped off with a pink satin hairbow from Gymboree - he'd roll over in his grave, twice. I swear to it. There is no excuse for this trend. I bought into the return of fluorescents and I'm almost on the plaid-shirt-dress bandwagon, but baby bows are an outrage...and I will not stand for it.
Therefore, as I teeter on the cusp of handing the Style Baton to these young sprites, I've decided to hold my Best Dressed Fashionista title for awhile longer. It is a vital role, being a trendsetter, and I just don't think these kids are ready. So in the spirit of being an inspiration to others, I've once again begun perusing the pages of Vogue magazine, and I've made return voyages to my old shopping stomping-grounds. This weekend I bought a dress I daresay I do not need; the rebirth has already begun. And until I see a complete extinction of the horrific baby bow trend, I will dutifully adorn myself in skinny jeans and Free People hippie shirts (and I'll carry my fake Louis Vuitton...but if you tell anyone it's fake I will cut you). I have to do what's best for society. I have to be me. And I am Best Dressed 2002, bitches.
Now leave your baby bows at the DOOR.
Much love.
Fortunately for me and my naiveté, it wasn't until my Sooner Land arrival that I realized this truism would soon apply to me. Perhaps I've made mention of this before, but I was Best Dressed in high school. Hold your applause. I took my position quite seriously; throughout college I vigilantly maintained my unique albeit impractical personal style (and I ruffled more than a few feathers with said style, which is always a good indication that one's Look is working). Despite my less than desirable fashion-locale (Shawnee, America = shopping-barren-wasteland) I kept up on the trends, and I graduated still feeling like a fashionista, regardless of my age.
That all changed when I came to OU.
Beyond the fact that I'm a haggard grad student now and thus am too jaded and exhausted to care, I simply cannot keep up with the apparel of my Debutant Sorority Princess counterparts. These girls must shop 23 hours a day (the other hour being reserved for parties at the Fiji house)...and they most certainly have more cash to burn than I, what with their Daddy-provided expendable incomes. Ahh, to be the offspring of a Texas oil baron. Louis Vuittons, Dior sunglasses, and UGGs (ugggggh) are a dime-a-dozen here; if you don't have these basic accessories, you do not register on the Fashion Radar. And I, a former fashionista and Best Dressed title winner, have none of the above.
Therefore, when I waltz into my undergraduate Journalism History class (a course I now have to take as it was not required for my BA, which further supports my suspicions that I went to a pretend school...but I digress) I drop my bags, silence my phone, and settle in for an hour and 45 minutes of Couture Research ala Undergrads. No, I do not pay attention in class; it's a 4000 level course, so it is my right as a Master's student to feel I am above listening to the lectures. Trust me, it's science.
Typically I marvel at the ever-evolving styles to be observed; I saw a girl in a magenta sequined-beret last week, I kid you not. The clothes kids are wearing these days are retro, throwback, vintage, not a bit sensible...and utterly fantastic. Most afternoons I lust over designer pieces that I will never own, and I almost always leave feeling like I need a "come to Jesus" talk from the God of Fashion (Dolce or Gabbana; either one will do). But last Thursday, as the lecture began and I thus prepared to zone out, I noticed something startling. As I scanned the room, a new trend was evident to me amid the sea of heavily peroxided heads of hair. And as this new style seeped into my fashion conscience, I became quite deeply disturbed.
Baby bows.
I saw baby bows.
Pinned to the perfect quafts and intentionally messy ponytails...were baby bows.
For anyone currently confused by this terminology, think of it literally; baby bows are exactly that - bows for babies. They're tiny, cheapy, cheesy bows that people glue to bald baby-heads presumably to alert the world that "hey, this slobbering bundle of rolls is a girl, and God help you if you call her a 'he.'" (New moms are weirdly protective of their children's gender integrity.) These bows are dumb and unnecessary for babies, as they don't make newborns look any less like pinkish old men, but for sorority sisters...they're creepy.
And I mean creepy.
What kind of message are you trying to send with an infant child's bow stuck to your head? Hmmm? What twisted daddy-complex does that address? I also noticed that some girls had branched out beyond the baby version, and were wearing those suuuuper tacky cloth headbands that have giants bows on one side. I wore one of those once...when I was 5. It was a fashion faux pas then, and now - if I were to wear one now, well it would be an atrocity for which I would invite you to lock me up at Griffin Memorial and throw away the key. Hold me to that, please; I'd rather be trapped in a padded room as a crazy patient than walking the streets as a fashion victim.
But back to the issue at hand; I was incredibly demoralized by this clear disregard for actual style. If Gianni Versace saw what I saw - Gucci bag and True Religion jeans, topped off with a pink satin hairbow from Gymboree - he'd roll over in his grave, twice. I swear to it. There is no excuse for this trend. I bought into the return of fluorescents and I'm almost on the plaid-shirt-dress bandwagon, but baby bows are an outrage...and I will not stand for it.
Therefore, as I teeter on the cusp of handing the Style Baton to these young sprites, I've decided to hold my Best Dressed Fashionista title for awhile longer. It is a vital role, being a trendsetter, and I just don't think these kids are ready. So in the spirit of being an inspiration to others, I've once again begun perusing the pages of Vogue magazine, and I've made return voyages to my old shopping stomping-grounds. This weekend I bought a dress I daresay I do not need; the rebirth has already begun. And until I see a complete extinction of the horrific baby bow trend, I will dutifully adorn myself in skinny jeans and Free People hippie shirts (and I'll carry my fake Louis Vuitton...but if you tell anyone it's fake I will cut you). I have to do what's best for society. I have to be me. And I am Best Dressed 2002, bitches.
Now leave your baby bows at the DOOR.
Much love.
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