Tuesday, June 19, 2007

If These Models Could Talk...

"Mmm, the inside lining of the pockets of this romper is amaaazing. Seriously, it feels like lanolin. You know. Lanolin. SHEEPS' WOOL? God, you models really are stupid. Didn't anybody else go to night school? But honestly, this is the most supple romper lining I could ever imagine. It's like hearts and stars and moonbeams and the Baby Jesus's top hat and my landlord's beard all rolled into one. Come feel this pocket, you guys. No, FEEL IT. No, I am not coked out, I am the FUTURE OF AMERICA. Look at me. I am a shining goddess. And what is THAT supposed to mean? ARE YOU SAYING I'M GREASY? Stop throwing tweezers at me! I'll pluck when I DAMN WELL WANT TO! You guys! Stop! I thought we were friends! What are you DOING? I don't WANT a Pond's wipe! I happen to LIKE my face with a little MOISTURE! You guys! You guys?....Fine. I don't need you anyway. I'll just play with my LANOLIN."

"What up, BITCH? Yeah, that's right, I called you bitch. I called you OUT, man, what're you gonna do about it? I am STRAIGHT UP HOOD. Westchester County, REPRESENT! Holla to my playaz! I am so hood that I should be wearing a HOODIE. Yeah! Das RIGHT! That's what we call STREET HUMOR! No, fo' real, dawg, I can't believe those chicks in the bathroom at Hyde last night were clownin' me like that. What were they saying? They were all "You have BOY PARTS, get out of the GIRLS' ROOM, no TESTES allowed" an' shit. They be crizzazy, because CLEARLY I am a CHICK, and not just a chick but a STRAIGHT UP G of a chick. Just because I like to adjust my crotch once in a while, and I have a penis, don't mean I don't have FEELINGS, yo. The sensitive always be getting DOGGED, yo, straight up DOGGED.
Are you looking at me wrong, foo? What's that you're whispering about? Did I just hear you say HERM?
No, wait, dude, NOT COOL. You gots to let me roll it ALL THE WAY UP 'fore we start this up. I is not crazy 'bout no wrinkles, dawg. Shoot, this cost me MAD DOLLAZ at the Westchester County Mall. RESPECT THE SLEEVES, dude. You gots to respect the sleeves."

"Hi. My name is Tracey. Yes it is. Yes it IS! What? What are you TALKING about? I am not the Dark Lord! My name is not Lord Voldemort! It is TRACEY JOHNSON! What is the MATTER with you? Of COURSE I'm not on a mission to take over the wizarding world and destroy the half-blood boy who thwarted me sixteen years ago when I tried to kill him to prevent an ancient prophecy from coming true! I'm a MODEL! I live in Passaic, New Jersey. I commute to work on the PATH train. I have a Springer spaniel named Ulysses. No, for God's sake, I do not use Horcruxes to gain immortality! Look, STOP COVERING YOUR EYES! I am NOT THE DARK LORD! I know my eyes are a little slitty, but GOD. This is actually pretty rude of you. I'm just going to go HOME, okay? I DID NOT KILL ALBUS DUMBLEDORE, NOR DID I INSTRUCT SEVERUS SNAPE TO DO SO, so just SHUT UP.
No, look, I am not going to harm you. Seriously. I don't speak Parseltongue, and I don't have a trained killer snake. You're starting to PISS ME OFF now, you know that? Fine! Well, if that's the way you're going to be about it, then AVADA KEDAVRA!"

"Sigh. Hey, guys. Yes, it's me. Again. At least I'm out of that romper suit. That thing was starting to chafe. But you probably didn't need to know that. God, I hate this job sometimes. I should have just taken that job at Applebee's. At least I would be HELPING people. I mean, nobody here even knows my name, they just refer to me as "the third sister of those fugly twins from ANTM", which I don't think is very neighborly. And people on the street keep coming up to me and patting my back and asking me if I want a sandwich. No I do not WANT a SANDWICH, for God's sake I am at a perfectly fine and healthy weight. And on top of that, people keep trying to ADOPT me, because apparently I look LOST and my eyes look DEAD or something, and that's never really flattering to hear. I just need a niche or something, you know? Something to make me STAND OUT, besides the fact that I could cut someone with my collarbone. Seriously, the other night my roommate wanted a piece of pie and all our silverware was in the dishwasher so we just used my collarbone. It was very improvisational, you know? I should probably tell Martha Stewart about it."

"Maybe I'll grow dreads. I mean, I haven't washed my hair in like three weeks so that's a good start, right? Dreads would TOTALLY make me stand out. Yes. Here is the plan. I will grow dreads and start wearing big horn-rimmed glasses and paint my face kabuki white and only wear coconut shells and maybe some insane designer like that Lagerfeld dude will adopt me as his muse and I will become the new Ikeliene...Iliekene...Ielekine...well, you know, that Dutch girl who dresses all different. This is going to work out SO WELL and once I am a famous model I will be UNTOUCHABLE and I will absolutely be the most famous member of my graduating class back in Montana, even famous-er than that girl who does the traveling cat circus shows, AND that dude who makes all those late-night water-bed infomercials. God, this is so EXCITING!"

"Yeah, no, okay, that was embarrassing for me. I'm so humiliated. I went and told my friends about my dreadlocks plan and they laughed for like two hours and then they forced me to wash my hair, which makes me think that they are not really my friends because real friends love you unconditionally and don't make you bathe. But anyway. I'm just going to have to keep brainstorming. With my face turned to the wall, because I'm too ashamed to face anyone. DREADLOCKS? What was I THINKING? God, I want a Slurpee."

"I don't care what all those modeling agencies who didn't sign me said. Lazy eye is SEXY, because I MAKE IT SEXY. God, that one agency who told me that I resembled a "Eastern European cafeteria worker named Maude" was so totally out of line. I am kind of an inspiration to all those girls out there with twitches and beards and moles who dream of being on the Shopbop wrap dress page, aren't I? I should probably go on Oprah and tell my story. They could call it "Lazy Eye, Busy Schedule," and it could talk about all my achievements in the field of modeling. Maybe I could even go on Ripley's Believe It Or Not, or, hey! I could write a TELL-ALL NOVEL! It could be a SCATHING EXPOSE OF THE FASHION INDUSTRY'S HARSHNESS TOWARDS DISABILITY! And then I could have a BOOK SIGNING, and I could TWITCH A LOT during the reading and people would be SHOCKED yet AMAZED BY MY RESILIENCE.
But, what was I doing? Oh, yes, my big break in front of the Shopbop cameras. Okay, steady, I'll just make my come-hither face. Yeah, yeah, that's right, I know you want this, I'm a maneater, make you work hard, make you cut cards, I'm your dream girl, boys, I'll make you happy, (yeah-yeah), I'm too sexy for my twitches, too sexy for my twitches, so sex-y it itches...Oh my God, I just came up with that on the spot and now I think maybe I should have a MUSIC CAREER. Lazy Eye Records. But first...gotta finish the photo shoot. Okay, time for some Method Modeling. Remember what my old modeling coach said- tell a story with your face. Okay, here's my story. There's a horrible smell right under my nose...yet I'm kind of turned on by it, in an eye-twitching sort of way. Vogue! Vogue! Vogue! I'm ready for my close-up!"

"Oh my God. Oh, my GOD. OHMYGOD. I am going to KILL MY AGENT, and then I am going to BRING HIM BACK TO LIFE AND KILL HIM AGAIN AND STOMP ON HIS TOUPEE. "Oh, don't worry, sweetie, androgynous is sexy." "Oh, don't worry, sweetie, everybody loves a good tank top dress. It keeps 'em guessing! Dress? Shirt? Who's to know? It's all part of the mystery!" I will SHOW YOU A MYSTERY, HARVEY, and it is called NANCY DREW AND THE CASE OF THE MISSING PANTS. You can practically see my COOTCHIE! I'm just going to breathe...breeeaaatheee...and keep my legs squeezed together really tight and clench my fists and pretend I'm on a tropical island. Wearing BOTTOMS. When I see Harvey it is ALL OVER FOR HIM. I am dead serious. God, I look like I was sleeping at my boyfriend's and left my skirt there and decided it would be fun to show up wearing HIS OLD WIFEBEATER. Steady. I must calm myself. What would Jesus do?
At least HIS robes COVERED EVERYTHING THAT NEEDED TO BE COVEERED, if you know what I mean. I am up a creek without pants, so to speak. I am the girl who cried pants. I am the Pantsless Wonder. Yeah, I know it doesn't make sense, but I am VERY STRESSED OUT RIGHT NOW and it is actually pretty CHILLY IN HERE if you're not wearing CLOTHES, so SHUT YOUR FACE. Oh my God my mother is going to see this picture and have a fit. Maybe if I just edge away verrry slow-like...step by step..."

"All right. There is NOTHING degrading about this at all. It is...art. It is a work of art. It could be called "Still Life With Silver Lame Tube Dress". I will just splay out my hands on the wall like so, and "tooch that booty", as Tyra (my cult goddess) would say, and all will be well. As for the face...BLUE STEEL.
Are you smirking at me? You know, in my country we had a word for people like you. JEALOUS OF MY SILVER LAME TUBE DRESS WHICH IS A WORK OF ART AND WILL PROBABLY HANG IN THE LOUVRE ALONGSIDE THAT OTHER PICTURE OF THE GIRL. You KNOW. THIS ONE. She smiles, but you can tell she's thinking "This gown sure is constricting. I wish I had something really classy, like a SILVER LAME TUBE DRESS."

THE TV & MUSIC CORNER- Since I've been spending a very unnatural amount of time at the gym (i.e. actually going), I've been watching a bunch of VH1 while I'm on the elliptical, and I am falling into a deep and disturbing love affair with Charm School. It's so, so, so bad. It's like ANTM's bastard child with Flavor Of Love. But it is INCREDIBLY entertaining. 54th and Crenshaw? I know that actually happened on FOL, but still. I have the lovely Dilemma to thank that ever-entertaining link. Bitch, I don't live in Compton! I'm worried about our future as a society, if this is the relic we will leave behind for future generations. But on the other hand... I think Saaphyri might actually be a genius.
Okay, I haven't discussed the Paristitute's incarceration yet, but basically...people with AIDS are in jail and don't get let out for "panic attacks". I do feel bad that she got let out and then had to go BACK, that sucks, even for her, but basically, to quote the fabulous Boob Lady, "Hey Wonky Eye, don't drop the soap." I swear to God, though, if Nicole Richie goes to jail I will be PISSED OFF. I have to admit, I love her. We're all going to end up working for Nicole Richie one day, you'll see. Music-wise, I know it's been said before, but Regina Spektor is so far beyond amazing. She's the kind of musician who really gets into your soul because the lyrics are as good as the singing.

SIGHTINGS- A really, really cute guy in the street asked me for a lighter. Of course, I didn't have one, and instead of just saying that I practically choked over my own tongue because he was so gorgeous. He was like Holden Caulfield, only not such a whiny pain in the ass. I'm sorry, I loved The Catcher In The Rye but I never warmed to Holden as the "underdog whom every girl loves". But back to the guy- dark jeans, black suit jacket (you know, the fancy ones guys wear to dinners) over a bright purple T-shirt. Vintage-looking sneakers. Very much my type. And I am pleased to say I was out around NYC for three hours today and saw not ONE pair of Tory Burch flats. Progress, no? Last, I was walking in Central Park and caught sight of a girl wearing the most amazing eyelet white minidress (sort of Miu-Miu-esque), fab vintage-y purse and gladiator sandals which I am actually not fond of at all but I let it slide because of the amazingosity of the dress.

CURRENT ATTIRE- Two H&M tanks, Pucci-print boxers.


Thursday, June 14, 2007

So, when we're bored and feeling bitchy (ergo, a LOT of the time) my friend and I like to engage in rapid-fire IMs where we send each other pictures of the clothes and accessories we adore/abhor and exchange positive feedback/bile. For example, she could send me a picture of her younger sister's "My Boyfriend Is Out Of Town" T-shirt and I could snark back "What, attending the 'My Girlfriend Is A Style-Free Tramp With No Dignity' convention? Oh, BURN!" And I would probably write the "Oh, BURN!", because that's just who I am. Or I could send her a picture of these incredible green patent-leather Christian Louboutins, and she could say, "Sweet God, those are STUNNING, when you win the lottery you have to buy those immediately." And then we could have a five-hour conversation about what we would do if we actually won the lottery, and how much money would we have to automatically give to charity in this fantasy so that God will smile upon us at our act of altruism and actually someday let us WIN the real lottery. You know, like when those kids on daytime television donate all their fancy Christmas presents to the local homeless shelter because even though they're rich and privileged they're still selfless and noble and have a social conscience, and then it turns out some wealthy friend of the family is completely blown away by the kid's act of generosity and buys the kid like sixty NEW Christmas presents and they get left under the tree anonymously, and the kid is all "Wow, there really IS a Santa Claus!" And the parents exchange knowing looks, and chuckle and ruffle the kid's hair.
By the way, I would just like to state that this is not how it works in real life. If you donate your Christmas presents to the needy kids' toy drive...those presents are gone. Nobody is going to buy you a state-of-the-art computer and a mountain bike and a chocolate fountain as a reward for your good deed.
Anyway. What was my point? Oh right...
So the other night my friend and I were engaging in this IM discussion. We started out making fun of the shiny gold bike shorts (!?!) over at the American Apparel website, then gradually worked our way over to the canvas ankle boots (designed to swallow your calves and plunge you firmly into cankle territory, if you don't already reside there) at urbn.com. But then, a horrible thing happened. I came across these pink skinny jeans from Urban Outfitters. Of course, my instinct reaction was nausea followed by mocking. But as I attached the picture into the conversation and prepared to send it to her, an awful thing started happening. I began to...maybesortofkindof like them.
I will now transcribe (more or less) what happened after I pasted the picture in.

Me- So what do you think of these pants?
Her- Oh my God. It looks like someone painted two fire hydrants fuchsia, hollowed them out and stuck legs in them (Ed.- it doesn't make sense, but then, if you look at the pants and blink, it kind of does).
Me- But you don't even think they're kind of cute?
Her- Surely you jest.
Me- Je ne jest pas. I think they would work kind of well with my funky pumps? No? And that black shirt?
Her- No. Just...no.
Me- But how about in a different color, like blue? They have them in blue and light green, too.
Her- Do you actually not see the front-crotch-crease camel toe thing they're doing to the model? What is up with Urban Outfitters and camel toe lately (Ed.- I showed her the picture of the romper from my last post)?
Me- But you really don't think they'd be cute AT ALL? Just for when I'm bored with jeans?
Her- Who are you?

So, after that I went off into a little bit of a huff, as I am wont to do (I'm a sensitive girl). However, after careful consideration I realized that these pants are Those Pants. The ones that look relatively innocent and cute in the store, like you'd see them and think "Hmmm, those would inject some funky color into my wardrobe without making me look like a Crayola", but then when you try them on, your ass instantly becomes the size of the Grand Canyon and your thighs are twin giant Sequoias and you have to stand there miserably in the dressing room trying to sluice yourself out of them while gorgeous thin girls prance around in the same exact pants looking like the proverbial Carefree Skinny Bitch. It's not just that they wouldn't look good on me (although I don't think they would)- I'm just not sure if they're that cute in general. I don't know, though- they might be really nice on those super-slim, waify body-type girls. Feedback? Don't worry, I haven't bought them or anything, so you won't be offending me. Bitch away! Or alternately, tell me if you love them. But the bitching is always more fun.

Speaking of bitching-

I hate these shoes. I'm sorry if you own them (you probably do, since everyone in the English-speaking world appears to). But I hate them. In fact, I hate them so much that I have personified them.
If these Tory Burch flats were a person, they would be an Upper-East-Side-of-Manhattan version of Regina George. They would have violently blonde hair, and toast-colored skin straight out of the Clinique Radiant Bronze bottle, and their cashmere sweaters and calfskin stilettos would cost more than the average down-payment of a small three-bedroom house in Westchester County. They would spend so much time frantically stabbing at their Crackberry, you'd think it was providing them with oxygen. They would laugh at you, and whisper things to their bitchy brunette friend, and date milquetoast guys from good families and intern at upper-crust fashion publications. Le sigh.
I've seen the shoe phenomenon before, but is it really necessary for every girl in New York City to own these shoes? If I see one more toe-medallion, I don't know what I might do but I promise you it will not be good and ieui2jcfhe89qruw9djh8934239jchr7eqwryeiureqw8ruewijiojejdshjssaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh...
*Breathes deeply*
I'm sorry.
I'll be fine.
To get my mind off this very pressing and disturbing shepidemic (shoe epidemic. It's been a long day, okay?), I will be posting some pictures of stuff that I would give a firm online thumbsies-upsies to.

What is it about this Temperley London dress that makes me crave it so? It's so simple, yet it looks like it would befit a simple, beautiful milkmaid who wears it out to collect the day's milk with braided hair (only not gross trendoid Sienna Miller braids, real braids) and a glowing smile, making the hearts of cute lederhosen-bedecked farmhands everywhere churn for her. I just want to get my inner Fifi Lapin on and wear it with some funky wedges. The better to yodel and climb mountains with.

I am going to share with you all a story about a young girl of perhaps eight or nine years of age who owned a pair of cow-printed pants from Benetton. The young girl treasured her cow-printed pants above all other earthly possessions, so much so that she desired to wear them with everything, from her puffy Land's End vests to her The Children's Place sherbert-colored turtlenecks to her "My Grandma Went To Barbados And All I Got Was This Stupid T-Shirt" shirt. Please don't judge me, sweet readers, but- the young girl was me, and the Benetton pants were mine. It is not something I am proud of, but merely a fact. Personally, I don't understand how I went through two years of my life in those pants without at least ONE person shouting out "I could've used a little more cowbell!" or "You're gonna want that COWBELL on the track!" If I saw someone in cow-printed pants, the temptation would be too great. I eventually stopped wearing them, after repeated suggestions from loved ones that they were just not...well, not quite right. But they had great sentimental value. You know on "What Not To Wear", when the toothy bitch and the bitchy, somewhat awesome queen are raiding closets, and the fashion victim du jour is all, "No! Not my stretchy cougar-print tracksuit with the rhinestone enamel! I was wearing that when I met my boyfriend! It has PERSONAL VALUE!" That's what my pants were like. I was just a wee young thing, but I implicitly understood the value of a Favorite Pair Of Pants, even an ill-advised cow-printed pair.
The relevance of this story to the shoes is...er...oh, right. When I first saw these Stella McCartney wedges, my heart started to beat faster as I thought "Oh my God, are they COW-PRINT?" Alas, they are simply black-and-white floral print, and therefore bear little resemblance to my Late, Great Cow-Print Benetton Trousers. However, they are wickedly amazing, cow-print or not, and I want to wear them with a simple white cotton sundress and look all effortless and chic. I think they would be a fitting tribute to The Pants That Got Away.

This "Journalist" dress from Modcloth may look drab, dull, even frumpy. HOWEVER. It is nipped in the waist and the little keyhole opening at the top, combined with the sexy silky belt-facsimile, make it the epitome of Le Sex. If I for some reason decide to become a journalism major, I will wear this dress to class and feel very film-noir. In fact, even if I decide to major in pancakes at The University Of Nothing, I will still wear this dress ALL THE TIME. For it is a jolly good dress, for it is a jolly good dress, for it is a jolly good dre-ess, which nobody can deny...

There is only one passable reaction to shoes like these Miu Mius, and it is "Hot damn" followed by a sharp intake of breath whilst one admires their glories. They are both sparkly and shiny and T-strap and New-Years'-Eve and silvery and they are actually making me a little bit weak in the knees. I want to be married- and buried, as a matter of fact- in these shoes. I want to MARRY these shoes. I want to surgically attach them to my feet. You think I'm exaggerating? I will go and GET A SURGEON RIGHT NOW. And also, I'll need about three zillion dollars to buy the shoes themselves. And to pay the medical bills.

Gaah. Gaah! I must have this dress. It's one of those rare items of clothing that would appeal to both me and my mother. It looks like a sexed-up version of something that American Girl doll would wear. You know, the one with the grosgrain hair ribbon and the unwittingly chic flat velvet hat? Samantha, I think it was. I never liked her much. I liked the feisty one with red hair. Actually, I think she would probably wear this dress nicely as well. It would go great with that hair. I've always wanted red hair, and been so jealous of redheads- I once attempted to color my hair a L'Oreal Pulse shade of "Cherry", but let's just say that was not a time which anybody really needs to remember.

Pucci swirly cardigan-coat. Need I say more? Okay, I'll just say this- with dark gray opaque tights and black boots. Le fin.

Insert your own obligatory hacky joke about "I'm seeing red!" or "Red scare!" or "Scarlet fever"! I think we- and by we, I mean the fashion magazine industry- needs to come up with some better color-themed cliches. How about- "Red, you go to my head"? I think that's from an old M&Ms commercial, actually. God, this advertising business is no easy feat.
I very much want to be the kind of girl who wears red monkey earrings and ballet flats, maybe with an LBD or just a plain old boring pair of jeans. And I definitely, DEFINITELY think these two items should be sold together. Then there could be some embarrassing, hacky joke about "Double trouble!" or "Double the fun!" God, I hate the modern world of advertising sometimes.

Being somewhat anal-retentive and obsessive and controlling about clothing, a few years ago I went so far as to devise for myself a Rainy-Day Outfit- purty flowered hippie green tank, dark jeans, awesome Wellington boots, string of faux costume-jewelry pearls. However, I could never find the right umbrella...until today. C'est merveilleux, non?

Phwoarrr. Marc Jacobs, you incorrigible man, you. These shoes are the most perfect flats I have ever seen in all my born days. It's a little disturbing, how easily I am unhinged by a good pair of shoes. Especially ones that actually look like you could wear them without feeling like a tiny army of elves was digging a pickaxe deep into your heel and winding up sitting in the corner in a comfortable chair by the end of the evening, swearing like a fisherman and holding rapidly melting ice to your swollen feet in a most unladylike manner. Not that this happens to me. Much.

This Biba bishop-sleeve printed smock dress seems like it's one of those little dresses that look fabulous on skinny little sylphs, but do odd things to those endowed with a larger chest and stomach and whatnot. Still. It is perfect for wanton indulgence and basking in the sunshine listening to the Beatles.

No, your eyes do not deceive you. It is a Devo wallet. Whip it. Whip it good. When a problem comes along. You must whip it. Before the cream sits out too long. You must whip it. When something's going wrong. You must whip it. Now whip it. Into shape.

THE MUSIC, TV AND MOVIE CORNER- I have sinned. The other night I was sitting idly in front of my TV, and I found myself sitting through sixty full minutes of...brace yourself, boys and girls...ONE TREE HILL (cue the horror-movie thunder-and-lightning effects). It is disturbingly bad, and I find Chad Michael Murray as well as That Other Guy On The Show Who's Not Chad Michael Murray to be boring and vaguely unattractive, but there was kind of a sick fascination about it, like I HAD to find out what it was in order to loathe it appropriately. I also viewed a classic- Pretty in Pink- on the elliptical at the gym tonight. I think everybody was actually pretty freaked out by how my face looked when Molly Ringwald cut that f/n dress up into a sack. I mean, why? Just...why? Why, Molly Ringwald? Why? Why would one take a perfectly pretty- if overly pink- dress and unleash scissor hell upon it? Did you think it made you look good, Molly Ringwald? Because I'll tell you the truth, Molly Ringwald- it made you look like you were trying to hide a scoliosis brace under layers of pink fabric. And while I'm as much of a Deenie fan as any other girl, and I have nothing but utmost respect for scoliosis sufferers and Judy Blume characters in general, I'm pretty sure that's not the look you were going for, the whole scoliosis thing. So, in conclusion- shut up, Molly Ringwald. It's one thing to cut up your dad's old T-shirt in the hopes that you will concoct a stunning and avant-garde minidress and you can tell everyone offhandedly that you made it yourself from an old tee "lying around the house" and actually end up ruining a perfectly good tee. It's another to destroy a prom dress that doesn't belong to you. In non-John-Hughes-related news, I have discovered Goldfrapp and have been playing "Ooh La La" at top volume for twenty-three hours straight. My neighbors are probably starting to get pissed. Well, you know what, aging hippies? I have to listen to YOU blast AC/DC ALL DAY, DON'T I?

SIGHTINGS- Six hundred pairs of Tory Burch flats. And the demise of individuality and style as we know it. Also, I have an Overheard In New York worthy of the overheardinnewyork.com website. I was in Ricky's for sparkly false eyelashes (don't ask) and I saw a girl hold up a "Hebrew School Dropout" T-shirt and ask her friends "Am I Jewish enough for this shirt?" And one of the friends shook her head sadly and responded, "No." You can't make this shit up. Ooh, and some girl came into Cool Vintage Store wearing an excellent little veiled hat. It wasn't aggressively Carrie-Bradshaw-ooh-look-at-me; it was just sort of quietly amazing.

CURRENT ATTIRE- Feeling pretty good with my outfit in a pair of green opaque wool tights (not Peter Pan green or lime, sort of Kelly green), black flat slouchy boots, and a long-sleeved pale-green-and-white top under a short vintage black BCBG dress. It sounds weird, but I think it's cute. And it's been cold as hell here lately, so I can get away with the constant tights.

So, exams are over! And I somehow passed everything! I know my posting's been sporadic, but I'll work on it. And yes, I learned the definition of that word from Clueless. When are you people going to figure out that I learned everything worth knowing from Clueless?

Ciao, Roma.

P.S. Lipstick Lady, I'm sorry most of your blog got deleted! :^( That is a little sad emoticon man being sad for you.

Wednesday, June 6, 2007

So, like the true scintillating femme fatale that I am, I went to...wait for it... the dentist today.
An hour and a half of the dentistry nurse lady who takes sadistic pleasure in my agony doing incredibly painful things to my mouth while asking me, just like she has since I was five years old, what I think I might be when I grow up. I swear one of these days I'm going to turn to her, beam a big smile and say sweetly, "Well, I'm considering getting into the Internet softcore porn business, I hear there's good money in that."
But seriously, who makes small talk with you while there's a DRILL STUCK IN YOUR MOUTH? And then after the whole cleaning-probing scenario, she had the NERVE to ask me, all annoyed-like, what was wrong (I wasn't crying! Shut up. I have no pain threshold. The day I got my ears pierced I tried to bolt, and my best friend had to hold me down). You just spent the last hour STABBING me in the GUMS with a TINY SPEAR, lady, what do YOU think might be wrong? My teeth were incredibly sore from Crest Whitestrips, so when I first sat down I politely asked if I could get a little bit of numbing stuff before she started cleaning them.
She looked at me and said "You'll be fine".
And I know nobody reading this blog really needs to know about my sore and bleeding gums, but, yeah, I overshare when I'm pissed.
On top of all that delight, it's exam week, which is like a personal little vial of hell in itself.
I will refrain from talking about how a)tired, b)hungry and c)overstressed I am, for the sake of you nice people who deign to read this blog. You don't need any extra profanity in your day.
But please know that I am.
AND, I recently found out that THIS exists.

This was in the "Shorts" section of the Urban Outfitters website.
Not "Sleepwear", or "Heinously Ugly Things You Keep In Your House For When You're Running To Get The Mail Because Even Though They're Hideous They're Easy To Put On".
There are a lot of things I could say about adult romper suits, but I believe the proof is in the pudding, or in this case, the model.
Look at her. She's totally bored and mortified. And not in a cool, haute couture, heavy-lidded I'm Best Friends With Cocaine way. In a "Maybe if I slouch enough and hide behind my bangs nobody will notice the camel-toe, oh my God if this picture ever gets back to the kids in Montana I will NEVER LIVE IT DOWN, they think I'm in New York being a cool tall model girl with long bangs who goes to parties, not Tired Girl In Romper Suit On The Urban Outfitters Website. NOBODY MUST EVER KNOW. And also, my crotch itches," way. I mean, who enters a store and thinks, "God, I need to buy something to take my mind off my troubles. EXCELLENT! The new line of ROMPERS is in! I'll take ONE IN EVERY COLOR!"?

Needless to say, the combination of tooth pain, exams and romper suits has left me desperately in need of a pick-me-up. And I know most of the readers of this blog will appreciate it as well, at least if your taste in men is along the same lines as mine...
without further ado, I give you
*Editor's note- results are not guaranteed to be scientific, and are not in any particular order
**If a certain guy is listed with this asterisk *, that doesn't mean I necessarily think the GUY is that hot, but rather the character he played in any particular movie/TV show- for example, Colin Firth is not on the list, but Mr. Darcy of the wet white shirt most definitely IS. I'm not going to list him again since I just explained his main form of appeal (wet.white.shirt. I think freeze-frame was invented for that particular scene), but je love him anyway.

1. Heath Ledger in 10 Things I Hate About You*

In stress-filled times like the one I am currently enduring, I am apt to turn to my DVD of "10 Things I Hate About You" and just sort of watch it and watch it and watch it until I'm reciting Julia Stiles's immortal sonnet-list at the end with her.
In case you can't tell, I'm a dork.
BUT. If you are telling me that you don't kind of fall in love with Heath Ledger in this movie, you are a bad liar. I'm going to quote a very smart English teacher I once had on the subject of guys like this. We were discussing Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights during class and she told us, "I always envy the girls who don't seem to fall in love with Heathcliff when we read this book, because I know those are the girls who are going to have stable marriages with good guys." Deep, eh (yes, "eh". I'm Canadian now, apparently). I once spent an entire four weeks at summer camp besotted with a tattooed boy named Derek because he reminded me of Heath Ledger in this movie. But that's not the point. The point is, Heath Ledger is not one of my man-candy delights in real life- I think he's cute but not THAT CUTE- but in 10 Things he is Australian, and has a really great smile, and...phwoarrr, as Georgia Nicolson would say (Katie from Girl + Style once left me a comment telling me my blog sounded like the Georgia Nicolson books, and except of course for the always-charming "Hey, baby, how you feelin'?" I get from the crusty, gross ogler construction workers near my house- hey, what can I say, I'm a sucker for eloquent prose- it is the greatest compliment I have received to this day. Georgia Nicolson is pretty much my idol). So, yeah. Where was I? Oh, right. Phwoarrr.

2. Adrian Grenier

Dear Adrian Grenier,
I love you. Not in a creepy, stalking, Fatal Attraction, camp-out-outside-your-house, bake-you-cupcakes-with-Emma+Adrian4Ever-written-on-the-top-in-frosting way (although, incidentally, on a totally unrelated subject, what do you like better, rainbow or strawberry sprinkles? Let me know, there's no hurry).
Just in a healthy, normal, love-you-on-Entourage, see-everything-you've-ever-been-in-including-that-awful- movie-where-you-were-neighbors-with-
Sabrina-the-Teenage-Witch way.
I mean, look at you. You have such pretty eyes, Adrian. Do you expect to have those eyes and NOT attract stalkers? You little eye tease, you. Also, I love your hair.
And in that above photo at The Devil Wears Prada premiere (I'm assuming. Not that I was there in camo and binoculars, tracing your every move.), you appear to be holding out your arms for a hug. You big adorable suit-wearing pretty-eyed hugger, you.
So, to sum up- I love you. A normal amount.
Best Wishes, Emma
P.S. I was serious about those sprinkles. I NEED to KNOW, Adrian. I HAVE MY REASONS.
P.P.S. Call me.

3. Christian Bale

Some of you may know that I have a fondness for (obsession with) Christian Bale. Some of you may also know that I mention him in some (all) my posts. APPARENTLY, he has an alleged wife and an alleged daughter. Hmph. I bet they have beards or something.
Scroll up and look at that photograph.
Sweet GOD.
Almighty Jehovah.
Good gravy on a biscuit with a dollop of marmalade jam, that is one GOOD-LOOKING MAN. He's BATMAN, for God's sake. I'm going to refrain from saying the things I really want to say about him, because this is Not That Kind Of Blog.
But...did you know he is literally the ideal man?
Not to be alarming or anything, but he WILL be mine one day. Not that I'm implying...anything. Certainly nothing to do with kidnapping, or secret marriage in the woods miles away from where anyone can ever find us, or anything. I'm just saying- be on your toes, Bearded Wife. When you least expect it...expect it.

4. Gael Garcia Bernal

I'm actually kind of glad I don't know him in person, because guys this hot make me nervous and I would undoubtedly, upon introduction to Mr. Bernal, a)spill something on myself and start shouting expletives in not so much an endearing, charming, girl-in-Love-Actually-who-says-"fuck"-to-Hugh-Grant-and-they-fall-in-love way as a does-she-have-Tourette's way, b) stammer something about nothing while trying to reattach my jaw to my face, or c) start blabbering "IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou who said that? My sister, my daughter, my sister, my daughter!" and slapping my own face. None of those options are very sexy, per se. I mean, you never read womens' magazines with cover captions like "How To Twitch Your Way Into His Heart!" or "Top Ten Sexiest Nonsequiturs To Shout Upon First Introduction To That Special Someone".
But, back to the point. He's very, very, very hot. And whenever I see pictures of him he always looks kind of cool and geeky (but not in that I'm Such A Geek But I Love Myself Anyway, Worship At My Feet way, for which we have the insufferable Adam Brody to thank. I'm sorry, I just do not get his appeal). Ah, the wonders of Gael Garcia Bernal. Remember how hot he looked at the Oscars?

5. Paul Rudd

I know there's a lot of people out there who claim that Paul Rudd is their imaginary boyfriend and nobody else's. To them I say- hush your mouth. I have loved Paul Rudd since I was a wee girl watching Clueless and aspiring to be Cher Horowitz (except with better clothes- sometimes I can't believe the '90s actually happened). Then came The Object Of My Affection, with Jennifer Aniston (remember when she wasn't bland, and had a movie career?). I saw him in Anchorman (which only made me love him more, because that movie has more quotable lines than any other one of its sort), and in The 40-Year-Old Virgin. And I can firmly state that he is, in addition to being hot, a good actor and HYSTERICAL. And I just saw Knocked Up (more on that later), which plunged me even further into my Paul Rudd obsession. Movie ticket- $10. Bucket of buttery popcorn- $3.50. Paul Rudd high on 'shrooms at Cirque Du Soleil- priceless.

So, that's my list, make of it what you will. I was contemplating putting in that puffy-lipped Italian singer kid, Paolo Nutini, but then I thought better of it because I realized who he is. He's That Kid. The one who's really funny and does random stuff like smoke cigars and invent The Price Is Right drinking games, but is actually kind of an asshole and a poseur and knows exactly how cute he is. Or at least, that's kind of how I see him.

TV, MOVIE AND MUSIC CORNER- So, as I said, I saw Knocked Up, and I LOVED it. It's not, like, on my Top Best Movies Ever list, but it's very, very, very funny, and it doesn't bash you over the head with the whole "babies, babies, babies!" thing. It's one of those movies where you leave not only laughing but actually...feeling something, and you're like "How the hell did that happen?" There were so many good lines and moments, but...my favorites were "You weren't chosen for a reason", the whole Cirque Du Soleil 'shrooms thing (seriously, don't eat or drink anything during that scene, you'll be laughing too hard to swallow), and Kristen Wiig as the slyly bitchy Underminer who works with Katherine Hiegl's character- it was subtle, but HIGH-LARIOUS. I totally want to see this again. TV-wise- does anybody else out there love Ab Fab reruns as much as I do? No? No takers? Okay. My mother and aunt instilled a deep love of this show in me. Best line EVER- ''One snap of my fingers and I can raise hemlines so high the whole world's your gynecologist.''
Thoroughly awesome. Also awesome is Catherine Tate as Lauren Cooper. I just discovered these sketches (they're on British TV, I think) and they're awesome. "I ain't bovvered!" is my new catchprase. I don't know if anyone but me finds them funny, but... here's some anyway. Lauren Cooper English Class (with David Tennant),
Lauren Cooper French Class
For some reason it's not letting me load the other 2, but if you like those, Youtube-search "Catherine Tate Field Trip" and "Tony Blair bovvered". They're vair, vair amusant. In the second one, Tony Blair makes an actual cameo!
Seriously, Lauren is my idol. "Suis-je bovvered?" "Have you got Jesus in your heart, miss?" "Are we your flock? Izzit that we are your flock, miss?" "D'you fancy Billie Piper, sir?" "Amest-I bovvered forsooth? Be-eth this the bovvered face thou seest before thee?" Oh, and in case you don't know, David Tennant is Doctor Who. I didn't know until I Wikipediaed it.


SIGHTINGS- I think I saw a drag queen wearing the same top as me.

Obviously this picture of Jenny Lewis doesn't count as a Sighting, as I, shockingly enough, did not attend the CFDA award thing. But I just wanted to stick it in to send a positive message to the community, and that message is- things that would make one person (i.e. Lindsay Lohan) look like a crackhead, can look really cute on another (Jenny Lewis). And I covet those shoes.
Speaking of Lindsay, which brings me to the question of rehab, which brings me to the question of alcoholic beverage consumption which of course leads me to Paris...I saw the Sarah Silverman thing on Youtube, and while I have no problem with Paris getting bitch-slapped, I just didn't think it was all that funny. I much prefer The Sarah Silverman Program. I thought she seemed stilted onstage (perhaps because the MTV Movie Awards are a widely-renowned piece of crap).

CURRENT ATTIRE- Da-Nang silk cargo shorts, fitted pale gray tee, colorful bangles, white wedge-type shoes.


Saturday, June 2, 2007

There's something about the end of the school year that always gets me a little nostalgic.
And when I say nostalgic, I mean my own personal brand of nostalgia. Not sifting through boxes of old photographs, a single delicate tear running down my cheek while singing "Memories" softly to myself with a sob in my throat
I mean my special interpretation of the stages of grief (eat that, Kubler-Ross)- stuffing my face, moaning about the diet I'm supposed to be on, watching Tyrant Banks attempt to Oprah her way in to the Benevolent Martyr Of The Year award show by doing her "listening face" (which was so clearly jacked from The Big Book O' Winfrey that I can't even handle it), finally trying to get out a stack of photos and getting a papercut, therefore leading me to run around the apartment for three hours screaming "MY THUMB, MY THUMB, OH SWEET MOTHER OF GOD MY THUMB", and of course, reflecting back on my childhood.

Look, even Nicole Richie is like, "Hello? Hello? Can you even HEAR ME? Or are you just MESMERIZED by the REFLECTION of YOU in my T-ZONE?"
In one of my junk-food-entrenched reflections on the days of yore, I remembered something that played a very integral part of my early life- fantasizing about my Dream House.
Surely somebody out there knows what I mean. Back in my Popsicle-stained, muddy-kneed, red-overalls-wearing (I didn't pick my own clothes out, okay? So shut up) days, my similarly sticky little friends and I would convene on the playground to discuss the houses we would live in when we were all grown up- you know, pink fuzzy towels, lots of animals, only candy in the fridge, Prince Charming hanging out on the couch, that kind of thing. But my idea of the Dream House has been tweaked a little bit since I was seven. Now, the kitchen is filled with kitsch accessories and I've scrapped the whole animal-jungle thing (I'm not really a menagerie kind of girl- it turns out animals require food, water and unwavering attention, and hello, I can barely focus on my own hand for more than nine seconds at a time), but at times I still catch myself daydreaming about the kind of place I'll live in when I'm on my own. Therefore, I give you...
Emma's Dream House! Or at least, some of the amenities I like to think would be in there-

Voila, I give you The Orange Room. Please note the shoe Rolodex, the painfully awesome chandelier made out of GUMMY BEARS (I don't completely understand how it works- surely the lightbulb would melt the poor little bears? But I'm glad it exists), the awesomely tacky Hawaiian pineapple pitcher and glasses, the so-ugly-as-to-be-awesome Rococo-but-gaudier desk which I so sorely crave (and costs about $3,000 at the Conran Shop, but whatever, this is my fantasy apartment), and the curtains which I will so totally be buying in the near future if I ever stop spending all my money on bronzing powders and muffins. Heh, look at the little fish in the funky tank! Hello, Mr. Fish. You are as close as I will ever see myself getting to having a real pet- after all, "fish" ranks about one step above "balled-up Kleenex" on the responsibility

Ah, the Game Room. Come on, who wouldn't want to lounge in those ridiculously comfortable-looking chairs (seriously, that red dish chair is from Urban Outfitters and is so shamefully comfortable that I end up having to be pried out by the employees because I'm lying there in a trance), basking under the glow of that funky chandelier and propping their feet up on the awesome Union Jack light-up coffee table (maybe I'm a poseur for wanting that table when I'm not even remotely British, but hey, I'm a wannabe about that stuff. Note- the Brit-speak that's been slipping into my speech, both online and off lately- my friends have been mercilessly mocking me about my exclamations of "Bugger!" and "Bloody hell!" lately)? Then maybe I could mix a drink in the drink shaker with the recipes scrawled all over it, and prop it on the Amish coasters- you can't really see them, but they have little Amish sayings and cartoons and they're F-N hilarious, especially to a self-confessed quasi-Amish non-iPod-having girl like myself. Then, we could engage in some good-old-fashioned parlor games...Vegas, perhaps? I can only imagine what a Vegas board game entails. "You landed on a toothless prostitute convention...go back five spaces! Oh, but you won some of your money back in a game of craps- move up three spaces?" Or perhaps we'll even indulge in some Shenanigans™, wink wink, nudge nudge. And OH MY GOD. The Bible Game. I hope no very religious people are reading this and getting mad at me (I'm not making fun of religion itself, I'm making fun of whoever created this game)...but is that not the funniest thing you've ever SEEN? I mean, wow. Who wouldn't want to come over on a Saturday night and play a rousing round of The Bible Game? "Congratulations, you have just parted the Red Sea. Advance through the pearly gates to receive your complimentary rosary".

When I get a headache from the gaudy tackiness of the rest of my Dream House, I will repair to this, my Semi-Classy Room Of Relaxation. I love the aubergine couch- it's called a fainting couch, and I can totally see myself coming in and throwing myself across it, calling out, "Eet 'as been such a horreeble day, come and rub my feet, Hans, et s'il vous plait, avec le bon massage oil, oui?" The first thing is a little at-home garden which I think is very pretty, as is the weird twist glass flower vase and the totally useless but lovely glass perfume bottle. The suburst clock is from Plaid Pony Vintage, as are a bunch of other things in this post. The funky lamps, pillow and Gothic-beautiful black candle holder are from the Conran Shop, and the print of The Bar At The Folies-Bergere is one of my favorite paintings. I would probably end up hanging it in my first apartment no matter where I lived, amongst all the Seventeen Locker Pinup pictures of Hayden Christensen's abs and "REMEMBER- YOGA SUNDAY! DON'T SKIP IT TO GO SIT ON THE ROOF AND EAT POP-TARTS! ALSO, FOR GOD'S SAKE, STUDY FOR EXAMS! " Post-Its littering my walls. Not that those things hang on my current bedroom walls. Well, maybe they do.

I know I have about two million things here, but I LOVE KITCHEN CRAP. Mainly because it makes food, and we all know how I feel about food (I like it. A lot. Gluttony is the new black). In my Dream Kitchen, I would have appliances in all different pretty colors- aquamarine oven, apple-green mixer, red microwave, orange juicer, pale yellow toaster, pink dishwasher. I would also have a kitsch retro bread bin, fake Amy Sedaris cakes (they would totally taunt me, just like that Philosophy body lotion that smells like cinnamon buns taunts me- every time I take a shower it smells so good I just want to swallow a big gulp but then I remember that it's not, well, edible, per se- still, I love those cakes. And I use the delicious-smelling little tease of a body lotion), a cotton-candy machine, a CHOCOLATE FOUNTAIN (Oh God, I want that to appear in my bedroom right now), an awesome weird egg contraption that is both an egg timer and an egg cup, according to Suck UK, the off-beat company that carries it, heart-shaped measuring cups, a funky "Coffee-You'll Sleep When You're Dead!" coffee mug and of course an awesome fifties-diner-style straw holder. Also, in my Dream Kitchen (or should I say, Kitsch-En? Oh yes, I went there) I would eat everything and not gain any weight. I would just run around baking things in that '50s slip-dress-like apron from Ballyhoo Vintage.

In case you can't tell, this is my Random Awesome Stuff category. That washing machine is GOLD-ENCRUSTED, which would really take the sting out of having to do my own laundry. The Absolut Salt+Pepper Shakers are there because...heh. The pink flamingo lawn ornaments will surely be adorning any future lawn of mine, and that weird cumbersome lime-and-pale-green studded thing is a cute dresser. I generally hate sleep masks (I mean, come on, can't you just turn the lights off?) but this one is just so damn cute. Speaking of so damn cute, look at those Fred Flare patterned folders! They actually give me an urge to be the OCD kind of girl who turns in all her projects a month early perfectly folded and laminated. The little mod sewing patterns are perfect for me, a wannabe seamstress who's been trying to make her own clothes for awhile but usually just ends up sewing her jeans to her top or something stupid like that. If I ever make anything worth showing, I'll post a picture of it.

MUSIC, TV, + MOVIE CORNER- I'm writing this post from up on my roof; I recently figured out how to get up here, and it's really cool and comfortable in the sweltering NYC heat to have a place to "study" (blog, eat, listen to music). Anyway, I've been rotating between my "Old-Times Playlist"- Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Fred Astaire ("Strange Fruit" by Billie Holiday and "Satin Doll" by Ella Fitzgerald are so fantastic, and of course listening to Billie always calls to mind that quote from Clueless- "Do you like Billie Holiday?" "Oh, I love him!" Is it sad that I can quote that movie in its entirety? Probably. But not as sad as the fact that I could literally perform Heathers in its entirety if asked to do so) and my "Regina Spektor Playlist", which features- you guessed it- Regina Spektor. The songs I'm currently stuck on are "Music Box", "Baobabs" and "That Time". The latter, particularly, so perfectly embodies what I'm feeling right now in a way I can't explain. Her voice is so weird and freaky, but also beautiful. I also entertained myself the other day with...oh God, I hate myself- an SATC marathon on HBO. I hate this show so much, I publicly deride Patricia Fields' Quaaludes-fueled sartorial "brainstorms", and I personally find Carrie Bradshaw to be one of the most loathsome characters concocted in recent TV history, but I can't help it. It's a DRUG, I tell you, a DRUG. What woman (and maybe men too, though they won't admit it) doesn't occasionally have a guilty renaissance with this show?

SIGHTINGS- My friend and I were walking along enjoying Mr. Softee cones when our eyeballs were attacked by the sight of a girl in ankle boots, metallic blue leggings (STILL? REALLY! GOOD GOD! SWEET MOTHER OF THE APOCALYPSE! I FEEL LIKE MY EYES ARE GOING TO BLEED. ENOUGH NOW. PLEASE. PACK IT UP, LEGGINGS FIENDS! AM I GOING TO HAVE TO THROW PAINT ON YOU BEFORE YOU FINALLY PUT THEM AWAY? I'm sorry, that was involuntary), a tiny tee-shirt and a vest. Basically, Sienna Miller's bastard child. It wasn't good, to say the least. We shuddered briskly in a manner that is reserved for when we see gruesome car accidents, or Justin Timberlake. Also, on a happier note, this girl at my school was wearing totally real-looking, very funky retro cherry-shaped earrings which I really coveted. And I saw this very Face Hunter-y guy downtown in a pair of misguided black "slim-fit" hipster trousers which I did not care for, but he redeemed himself by being very cute and crisp in a Thomas Pink shirt and a refreshingly offbeat polka-dot tie (but not in a nerdy bio-teacher way, in a funky way).

CURRENT ATTIRE- Little printed sundress, wedges, bright-red vintage bangle bracelet from some shop in London, my usual Strand bag.