If These (Male) Models Could Talk...

"Oh my God. Oh, GOD. Am I seriously doing this? Is this really happening? As if all my friends weren't giving me ENOUGH shit for trying to make it as a male model. Am I seriously posing in a belly shirt? I look like an Arizona Wildcats cheerleader. Okay, shhh, calm down, Greg, it's not that bad. Just...pick a spot on the wall and focus on it. Oh my God, when I go home for Christmas my brothers are NEVER GOING TO LET ME LIVE THIS DOWN. I feel faint. HOW AM I EVER GOING TO GET ANOTHER WOMAN TO SLEEP WITH ME AFTER THIS? You can see my BELLY BUTTON. Jesus, I understand now what it's like for all those poor objectified girls who have to pose in bikinis. When I get out of this hell-hole, I'm going to burn all my porn and subscribe to Ms. Magazine. Oh, GOD. I cannot believe this. I look like I borrowed this shirt from Paris Hilton's DOG. I look like a contestant in The Ultimate Coyote Ugly Search. I may pass out. Is that the floor? *THUD*"

"WHAT? What is your problem, dude? You think I look gay? You think THIS is gay? You wouldn't know gay if it stabbed you in the arm, BITCH. You ain't even SEEN gay. I will BRING THE GAY." "WHAT NOW, BITCH? Yeah, it's a V-NECK SHORTIE ROBE. You know who wears these? CLASSY LADY HOOKERS ON PARK AVENUE. And ME. I am representin' right now. Shit, man, I know you're jealous of my slender thighs and smooth chest. Who WOULDN'T be? Look at this hot-ass tat. LOOK AT THESE PUFFED SLEEVES, BITCH. ARE YOU LOOKING? I DON'T THINK YOU'RE LOOKING. YOU WANT I SHOULD CALL MY BOYZ?"

"Ah, bliss. Another day of just me and my manly, chiseled jaw out on the town. This espresso is simply exquisite. I think I will just let it linger here in front of my perfectly sized nostrils for a few moments to bring my nose to the highest level of olfactory ecstasy. My GOD, I'm smooth and handsome. My hair is like a buttered biscuit and even my cuticles scream with the passionate voice of l'amour. Oh, how flattered I was yesterday on the street when I passed that group of schoolchildren and they ran away screaming "THEY'VE COME TO LIFE! THE MANNEQUINS HAVE COME TO LIFE! SOMEBODY HELP!" Is there any higher earthly praise? I think not. Good Lord above, I'm jawdropping. As soon as I finish this coffee, I shall go buy a quill and some ink- my love for myself is the sort which must be forever preserved in the eternal beauty of a sonnet."

"MY HANDS WEREN'T IN MY PANTS. Jesus. The world is so cruel to me, you know? Just because I occasionally like to lug dead bodies to alleyways and stick them in dumpsters doesn't make me some kind of MENACE TO SOCIETY. What was it that cop was muttering about when she was stuffing me in the backseat of the squad car? Something about "Makes Kevin Federline look like Humphrey Bogart...pathetic pube 'stache...poor man's B.J. Novak..." blah blah blah. Them bitches, they never shut up, do they? Jesus, I wish this stupid mug shot was over with already. How the hell am I going to duck out of jail time? I KNOW! I'll win over the jury with my MUSICAL TALENTS." "I feel pretty! Oh, so pretty! I feel pretty, and witty, and briiight...and I pity, any convicted-felon-facing-five-to-ten-years-with-possible-time-off-for-good-behavior who isn't me toniiight!"

"DUUUUUUDE! Whazzap, my brotha? It has been TOOO LONG, man. TOOO LONG. Yeah, nothing's new with me; just, you know, playin' the FIELD, my man. I got the hos lined UP for a taste, know what I'm saying? Yeah, man, I got this sweet-ass gig at my dad's law firm, you know how I roll...drivin' the BMW, smoking up and getting WASTED, just like in college. Yeah, man, those were crazy-ass times.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN, WHO IS THIS? HAHAHAHAHAHA!
IT'S JARED, MAN! We were FRAT BROTHAZ at Duke! C'mon, man! What the hell? We hung out ALL THE TIME, man! Hittin' the TIZZOWN, BAMF-style!
What do you mean, you HAVE TO GO?
Oh, okay, what's that you say, you're in a tunnel? Yeah, man, tunnels can lick my...
HELLO?
Okay, man, catch up with ya later, then. PEACE, HOMEZ."

"Oh, my, look what's happened. Somehow, inadvertently, I seem to have wandered out into the garden in only my tight-fitting, ass-hugging board shorts. What a terrible coincidence! Well, I guess since I'm out here and all, we might as well admire my splendid areolae. Those things are GOOD. I mean, come on. Look at the PECS. Suck it, DAVID. Yeah, I wonder which one of us is more ripped? Hey, let's ask the audience. GUESS WHAT, DAVID, IT'S ME. YOU GONNA CRY ABOUT IT? Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an Abercrombie ad to shoot and then I have some fat girls to ignore at the mall. Time is money, Dave."

"Hi, ladies. My name is Mario. I drive a monster Harley and I like steak dinners and pomade. I'm looking for a lady with a refined taste in dudes, who loves romantic candlelight beach dinners and hardcore S+M. This shirt right here? One of my favorites. I think it says that I'm a caring and sensitive individual who likes women in bunny ears with huge breasts. What's that you say? You want a closer look at the goods? It's okay, all the girls do. You like? Of course you do, you are only human. My role models are Hugh Hefner, Fonzie and, of course, that dude who made the sex tape with Paris Hilton. Mad props. My forearms are sinewy, my cheekbones are pronounced and I can go all night. So call 1800-HUNK to talk to me now! Big girls need not apply. Actually, scratch that. I like a whole 'lotta woman."

"Sigh. Jesus, I'm so tired right now. I was out all night last night doing hipster stuff- you know, shoplifting skinny jeans, leaning against chain-link fences in headscarves waiting for my picture to be taken, graffiti-ing obscure references from every poorly reviewed art-house classic ever made all over town, all that sort of thing. This isn't even my shirt, is it? This shirt belongs to some chick. Some chick left this at my house and then I put it on and came here. At least my chest hair is nice and patchy, like an enchanted forest of hipsterdom. Oh my God, how much longer am I going to have to stand here? I have to go to lunch with Cory Kennedy in an hour. We're having a competition to see who can go the longest without bathing. She's totally beating the pants off me. It's embarassing. Watch it, Kennedy. I will take you OUT. I just have to finish up here first. Okay, I guess I should grimace in barely contained agony at some point. Maybe I'll land a cologne account. That could be kind of sweet, if it was, like, a super-ironic cologne account. Irony is the new dreadlocks. I love cocaine. Somebody call Cory, tell her I'm going to be late."

"Oh, YEAH! I am looking FLY. Future MBAs of America, in the hizzy! This sweatervest is pimp. In fact, I think this whole Brooks Brothers spit-shined thing is completely working. I am going to out-Duck-Duck-Goose the other kids to the millionth factor. I fully expect to take over the family company by sixth grade, at the latest. I am going to divide and conquer with this new look. If I play my cards right this year in the third grade, this could be my future. God, if only."

And now, for a new feature I like to call- Heh! As in, "Heh! That's incredibly odd/amusing/thought-provoking. I can't believe that exists. Wacky!". Or, "Heh! That guy in the apartment across from mine is wearing a lampshade on his head! Oh, those drunken neighbors and their hijinks...Wait...wait...now he's climbing on top of his kitchen table and performing a choreographed dance routine to "It's Not Right But It's Okay." Oh. Oh, dear. I should not have seen that."
Or, you know, something normal. Wherever your mind happens to go when you hear the word "Heh!"
Without further ado, I present to you this week's Heh.Yes. That is correct. Your eyes do not deceive you. It is a gigantic crocheted hamburger dress. All I know is, somewhere out there the Hamburglar is totally aroused and doesn't know why.

THE MOVIE, MUSIC, TV & BOOK CORNER- So, I think it's been pretty well affirmed that a) I am a snob and b) I have innate bad taste in almost everything, which I usually manage to suppress in polite company. Therefore, it is a secret I will be taking to my grave (and sharing with, er, everyone who reads this blog) that I sometimes (often) listen to the song "Chelsea" by Stefy in my room and bob my head poetically (dance like a wild biscuit). Listen, it is the most atrocious song ever. Case in point- it was apparently used in the movie John Tucker Must Die, which looked so bad and embarrassing to all parties involved that I didn't even see it. Still, I don't know what it is. Maybe when we were all Early Humans we did instinctual Rain Dances in packs or whatever and now whenever we hear a certain beat, no matter how atrocious the song is, we must dance. All I'm saying is that if you listen to this song, you will be Lost In The Catchiness. You have been warned.
All right, just so you don't all completely disown me for Lack Of Taste, I've also been listening to Regina Spektor's "Braille." Somebody (and I've been reading back through old posts trying to figure out who for the last three hours, but I CANNOT FIND THE COMMENT AND IT IS DRIVING ME BONKERS) once commented here asking me what my favorite Regina Spektor song is. It fluctuates constantly, but right now it's Braille (and you have no idea how long I've been waiting for someone to ask me that). It kind of gives me shivers. Thanks for asking, Anonymous Amazing Person!
Movie-wise...Jesus. I don't actually think I can handle the Sex and the City movie. I, like every other double-X-chromosome in the universe, have seen every episode of SATC, but that doesn't mean I don't want to hurt Carrie Bradshaw. I'm not going to say anything about how she looks like a foot, because I think Sarah Jessica Parker is probably a nice lady. But I hate Carrie too much to pay eleven dollars to look at her for two hours.
Get ready for me slinking back and admitting that I saw it two months from now. But for now, the official party line is "I Don't Want To See It, Ever."
Book-wise, I have two papers due this week and and a test to study for, so naturally I've been doing a lot of Reading For Pleasure. I just finished Memoirs of a Geisha, which was fantastic, and now I am secretly allowing myself to work backwards through the Harry Potter books because I can't sleep and God this is so totally embarrassing. Wow, I...I am saying a lot of things.
As another part of my Master Study Plan, I've been spending a lot of time on the "Are You That Person Who Bugs Everyone With 30 Rock Quotes?" thread over at TWoP. And, yeah, I am that person.
It's after six, what am I, a farmer?

SIGHTINGS- Well, like every other good American in the world, I was watching Gossip Girl, sighing over Rufus Humphrey (the always-awesome Molly just mentioned on her blog that he is, as the kids say, super-majorly-extremely-finger-lickin'-good-hot. Well, I think she used more normal words. But...word, Molly) the other week and trying to figure out the best way to silence Dan (SHUT UP, Dan. I don't find you cute, like, at all. You're even worse than Chuck "Large-Mouth" Bass and Nate "I'm A Pretty Little Girl" Archibald, because if you at least squint really hard they're attractive(ish) and Chuck is hilarious. You? You're just ANNOYING. Why don't you just take your "AWESOME" friend VANESSA and go sublet a loft in AWESOME-OPOLIS?) when I noticed that the dress our girl Blair was trotting around in was none other than the bitchin' Marc Jacobs I professed my love for here just a few short months ago. You know. This one. You see, I am like a prophet for our modern times. Perhaps I should invest in some stone tablets. And a beard. Yes, a beard.
I also saw a woman on the subway with the most intense weave I've ever seen in my life. I'm mentioning it here because I feel I need to transcribe it so that I Never Forget. It was half strawberry-pink, half bleach-blonde, with dark roots. It curled slightly at the temples, then graduated into a stick-straight thing down to the ends. It was...kind of magnificent, to be honest. I can't even do it justice within the confines of the written word. I would need to do a watercolor of it or something.
Oh, and to the four-hundred-odd people trawling New York City clad in Ugg boots? Look, I get it, I do. I've been kind of sort of maybe wearing my own fleecy fuzzy sheep-y wonderfully warm pair lately too, because they feel like a kind gentle hug for my feet and they are pretty much the embodiment of all that is good and true and I LOVE THEM, OKAY? GOD, IS THAT WHAT YOU WANTED TO HEAR? I AM OFFICIALLY COMING OUT AS AN UGG-WEARER. I LOVE MY DEAD GAY UGGS.
However.
If you are wearing special studded/adorned Uggs, I will scoff at you. I'm sorry, I have to. I'm having enough trouble dealing with colored Uggs right now. Look, Uggs are supposed to be a necessary evil, like tax-paying. You don't DRESS THEM UP with jewels and studs. It's like if you had an extra alien head sprouting out of your stomach. Maybe you wouldn't want to remove the head, because let's say the head is really comfortable and keeps you warm in horrible Arctic polar bear conditions or something. But you don't need to go sticking, say, a hat and a bunch of pearls on the head. Just...leave it be.
Do you all see my point? Let's recap.

SATAN.

Current Attire- Jeans, cute navy three-quarter-length-sleeve top, funky dangly necklace and my sparkly shoes. This is legitimately one of my favorite outfits ever. I also have my big purple Uniqlo jacket to top it all off with. It makes me look like a grape/Teletubby hybrid, and I love it.

My next post will probably involve all the things I'm craving for Christmas, like these

Mary Green underpants. God, so pretty!

Auf Wiedersehen, lovely readers.

If You Can't Think Of Anything Good To Write...Do A Survey!

Writer's block is a cold cruel bitch of a mistress, isn't it?
Usually I would do my best Buck Up Little General and soldier on through the fog and do my best to churn out something halfway decent and non-redundant.
But...no.
Has it become really transparent yet that I fill out quizzes when I can't think of anything else to write about?
I mean, what? I mean...nothing.
You are getting sleepy. Very sleepy. My ideas are original.
Here goes. I'll do my best to make it as painless and amusing as possible for you.

SURVEY
1. What’s your favorite children’s book? It's a draw between Eloise and The Roald Dahl Treasury. The latter, because Roald Dahl was the first author I ever really loved; when I was five my dad gave me a big old burgundy-bound abridged copy of his stories. I pored over it for hours at a time, and I would recite whole chunks of The Twits and Matilda and The BFG until my parents probably wanted to sell me on eBay (if it had, er, existed. God, can you believe eBay and Google and even our own sweet Blogger didn't exist at one point, like, fairly recently? It makes it sound like the generation before ours were practically Austrolopithecines and had to carve their witticisms into hunks of stone with flaming pokers. By the way, there is absolutely no way that I spelled Austrolopithecines correctly. My fifth-grade Human Evolution teacher is spinning in her Talbots sweater set right now). Back to my original point. This book contains a recipe for Snozzcumbers (yum yum) and hundreds of perfect illustrations, and every time I look at it I get a cozy feeling in the pit of my stomach and I just want to curl up in front of a stone fireplace somewhere in the British countryside draped in a tartan blanket, eat wine gums and read, perhaps smoking a pipe, as orange foxes and geese and sheep run around in my backyard while the sun rises.

Eloise, because...the girl is just cool. She lived in a hotel, and wrote on the walls, and she fed her turtle bonbons. She had a firm British nanny and an exotic mother who sent her fancy hats and a rocking hair bow. She's exactly the kind of quaint, brilliant kid we all knew (or wish we knew) at some point in our lives, the kind adults raise their eyebrows at and other kids want to be.
I still have both of these books on my shelf now. On either side of Catch-22, a totally important book that I will never read because I am too busy being jealous of Eloise and wishing I lived in a Roald Dahl story (in particular, the story Boy always made me want to be a young British schoolboy growing up in the 20th century, which I can tell you is generally not high on my list of day-to-day fantasies).
What a Catch-22, huh?
Or is it? Stuffed if I know.


2. What’s your favorite type of cake? Honestly? I especially like the really cheap, frantically iced kind from Gristedes in the plastic container with the colorful circles on top. You know, the uber-sugary kind where you start feeling as if your teeth are being drilled and your stomach is being stabbed with a piece of rusty metal after about three bites, but you persevere?
Like this little frosted madam right here. Mmm.

3. What is the last song you listened to? "Rose Darling" by Steely Dan. Don't judge me. I don't care if Steely Dan gargles Seth Rogen's balls- I love them. I listen to them in the car.

4. Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18, find line 4. Write down what it says- “By this time Jude and I were going ‘Shhh, shhh’ out of the corners of our mouths and sinking down into our coats- after all, there is nothing so unattractive to a man as strident feminism”.

5. What are your 3 best qualities? I can be quite amusing, or so I am told (...by my mother. Shut up.) Also, I'm a pretty good friend and I make a delicious stir-fry.

6. Do you think you're a kind person? Dude. What is this blog called? Think about it, and INFER, as my science teacher would recommend (she's big on INFERRING, and likes to shout this word at us accompanied by bright and spastic hand motions, as if to inspire us to go forth and learn. We mostly just sit there blankly).

7. What color is your toothbrush? Purple. What color is your parachute?

8. Who was your first TV crush? I think it was Uncle Jesse, actually. How embarassing! Especially in light of this picture. AHAHAHAHA
Da-na! Da-na! Dude looks like a lady! Or, more accurately, dude looks uncannily like my eighth-grade gym teacher. Who was a lady, I guess, in technical terms (although there were many of us who were of the opinion that she was the possessor of...how can I put this delicately?...man parts). STILL. This makes me feel a little better about my ardent prepubescent passion for him, I guess. I also think I had a crush on Jordancatalano (remember how you always had to run his first and last names together so it became Jordancatalano?) because I guess I had a thing for "pretty boys" in my naive youth. These days, however, Jared Leto is not so much pretty boy as "Please do not suck my blood! THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU! Where did I leave my garlic clove?"

9. If you had to choose one celebrity couple to hang out with for the holidays, who would it be? Amy Poehler and Will Arnett, in a heartbeat. They seem like they'd be fun to go out with and make fun of everyone you know and drink delicious Christmas beverages, and I am kind of in love with both of them in separate but equal ways. This Gap ad makes me want to marry the both of them right here and now in some kind of kooky Three's Company/bigamy arrangement. Is that legal?
P.S. Speaking of Gap ads, it is a testament to my love for John Krasinki that he is still my imaginary boyfriend even though he looks like SUCH a WOMAN in his own ad. Gaaah! What the hell IS that tucked-in scarf/sweater deal? Stacy the perky new Kappa Kappa Gamma pledge wants her cowlneck back.

10. What's your all-time favorite, most-repeated movie quote? Oh, don't do this to me, you saucy little minx of a survey. Why? I am not going to be able to choose one and my brain will blow a synapse from overstimulation and I will start twitching uncontrollably and my blood will be on YOUR HANDS. Do you think you'll be HAPPY THEN? DO YOU? Fine.
I find myself using "Lick it up, baby, lick it up" a lot. My favorite is constantly fluctuating, though.
The whole confrontation between Heather Chandler and Veronica after Veronica pukes? I have, on more than one occasion, recited it in a public place (i.e. the 59th St. subway station) with my friend. I must say, there's something awfully satisfying about shouting "Nobody at Westerburg is going to let you play their reindeer games" in front of a lot of busy and harried New Yorkers who all want to shoot you in the eye. It's very cleansing. I recommend it highly.


11. What was your least favorite class in school? Oh, sweet God. Computer science. If you enjoy being so bored that you start crafting elaborate plans to impale yourself in the eye with a fork and be rushed to the hospital just to avoid the rest of the class, then by all means take it. Sorry, if any computer-science aficionadas are reading this and plotting my death. But God. You sit there, and you make SHAPES. Out of NUMBERS. And if your shape comes out wrong, everyone speaks very softly and understandingly to you as if you belong in the Special Girls' Class where they wear helmets.

12. What was the last thing that made you laugh uproariously? The postcard I brought back from Florida for my friends with a picture of a tanned, extremely toned long-haired Fabio-type male model in a Speedo reclining on a beach. We named him Fabrizio and left him secretly on our teacher's desk. Trust me, it was extremely amusing at the time.

13. If you had to choose between a million bucks or the ability to fly, which one would you choose? Is this even a question? Who wouldn't shell out a million bucks to see a FLYING GIRL?

14. Where were you when 9-11 happened? School. I remember little pockets of it, like how incongruously sunny and beautiful it was outside, like the weather was playing a cruel joke, and how they started sending kids who lived far away home early that day, and nobody knew why, and how my dad picked me up in a town car, which he’d never done before. Memory is weird.

15. What do you do when vending machines steal your money? I cry for a while, crumple into fetal position, kick the machine vehemently and with blind, unbridled rage, retreat back into fetal position, seek help from a mental counselor, manage to collect my thoughts, and start to deal with what’s happened one day at a time.

16. Name three things that you have on you at all times? Hans, Roderigo and Lars. Quiet down, boys, I’m trying to fill out a survey here. Go dance in the other room- the scented oils are still in the bathroom cabinet. Frolic, Roderigo, frolic! [Ed.- when I was searching for this picture, I came across quite a lot of screensaver shots of shirtless guys. Sexy, yes, but most of them were just incredibly amusing. They all seem to be playing a little game of "You caught me putting on my pants! Oh dear! I guess I should SLOWLY BEND OVER!" with the camera. Also, more than one of them appeared to be Smell-The-Fart Modeling].

17. Can you change the oil on a car? Well, I never have. But in all honestly, probably not. That’s what I have Hans, Roderigo and Lars for. Boys, go change the oil on the car. Then convene back in the living room, and get ready to dance- I’ll go put on “It’s Raining Men.”

18. What did your last text message you received on your cell say? “Emma, you are the most stunning creature my eyes have ever beheld, your body is a temple and I want to worship at it, please let me take you out for a drink tonight- Christian Bale”.

19. Do you like to cook? I like making extremely simple and delicious food items- i.e. chocolate chip cookies, grilled cheese- because barring any smoke-alarm-setting-off incidents, they always come out well and I can dance around to Journey in my kitchen while they're cooking. I also like laboring for hours and hours and hours over a ridiculously complicated and overachieving dish that could be completely destroyed were I to add a pinch too much saffron or salt (and I always do, and the dish is always ruined and I hate myself for like a week). There is no middle ground (except for the stir fry I mentioned earlier in this little roller-coaster ride of a quiz). FYI- this lady is Paula Deen, and she has a strangely entertaining and hypnotizing cooking show that you should always watch while you have stuff in the oven or whatever, because she says things like "I wish I was an octopus so I could cook a million things at once" in an adorable Southern accent.

20. Would you rather wake up after surgery and find that they’ve accidentally given you Barbra Streisand’s nose or Dolly Parton’s breasts? Dolly Parton's breasts, for sure. I can then go to another, back-alley plastic surgeon and bewitch him with my Astrodome-sized hooters into doing a breast reduction. Voila. Plus, it might be kind of a hoot- no pun intended (well, okay, pun kind of intended) to have boobs that are roughly the size in square footage of my entire graduating class. Dolly certainly seems to enjoy it.

21. What shampoo/conditioner do you use? Herbal Essences Clairol, "Rose Hips" (doesn't that sound like a corny pickup line? Like "Hey there, Rose Hips, you must be tired 'cause you've been running through my mind ALL day heh heh heh big dirty chuckle"). NOT the stupid new cylindrical-bottle kind, the old-school kind with the dark green top. It smells so completely good and clean that I wash my hair like eight times a day. However, it's practically the Holy Grail in terms of availability in my neighborhood, so I have to search for it for about three lifetimes at various different locations until I can find it.
I'm looking at the back of my shampoo bottle right now, and much like those perfume and wine ads that spew about 93849328432 adjectives without ever actually telling you anything, it is completely incomprehensible and amusing. I'm going to transcribe it. "Enter a world of botanical bliss and unleash the power of your naturally beautiful hair. Embracing you like a meadow of fresh flowers, this luxurious shampoo, blended with 100% organic botanicals and essence of coconut and palm oils, will take your hair to a place it's never been before. Deeply quenched, radiantly restored and naturally flowing." Who writes those little blurbs? And how do I get that job? Let me tell you that tomorrow, if a gorgeous guy does not sit next to me on the bus, take a whiff of my newly quenched locks and promptly blurt "My God, your hair is like a MEADOW of FRESH FLOWERS. RUN AWAY WITH ME," I will be suing Herbal Essences for all they're worth.

22. What are you wearing? A barrel. It's very slimming.

23. What kind of bear is best? BLACK BEAR. [Ed.- the actual question was something stupid like "Where do you see yourself in ten years?" so I changed it. IDENTITY THEFT IS NOT A JOKE, JIM. MILLIONS OF FAMILIES SUFFER EVERY YEAR.]

24. What do you think of this quiz? I know what you're doing. You're seeking my approval by asking me semi-veiled question meant to hide your own innate insecurity. Shhh, shhh. It's okay to doubt yourself sometimes, Survey. But you have to love yourself from within and nothing I say can help you on that journey of self-love. Okay?

25. What’s the last book you finished? I actually just finished Lolita for the first time over Thanksgiving. I spent my Thanksgiving in Orlando, Florida (don't ask. Just don't ask. It was pretty great, though; lots of sun and IHOPS and Tony Roma's), and I tend to carry a book in my bag and whip it out when I'm bored, so I guess I must have looked like a New Yorker cartoon or something- sullen Manhattanite in black reading Nabokov in line for Splash Mountain at Disneyworld. My aunt took many pictures, and actually captioned most of them as "Sullen teen reading Nabokov at Disneyworld and hating her family- HOW ORIGINAL. GO SLAM A DOOR" on Facebook. Gotta love that.

26. What fictional character is most like you? Oh, this is a tough one. I'm going to have to really craft my response. Okay, here goes. In terms of my writing persona, I like to think I'm a strange hybrid of Kelly Kapoor (MINDY KALING SHOUTOUT. I was actually typing a first draft of this post that basically went "Mindy Kaling is sooo cool and I wish we were friends and I really like her blog and makeup and stickers and ponies and Myspace.com!", but luckily, Winona already talked about Mindy's bad-ass-ness in a much more coherent and interesting fashion, so you're all spared the agony. Suffice it to say that she's a whole lot of awesome), Liz Lemon and Georgia Nicolson. I got the Kelly Kapoor/Liz Lemon thing from some writer at TWoP, so don't flame me with righteous anger for stealing. It just works really well in my case too. Oh, and throw in some extra crazy/ranting/where was I-ness as well and serve on a platter of Nutbag with some curly fries on the side. Wait, some of those things are not fictional characters. Oh, I don't care.
ME

27. Do you like to dance? "If anyone ever saw me dance, they’d have trouble taking me seriously”- Christina Ricci. That said, yes, I do like to dance, but only when nobody is watching. And I don’t mean “dance like nobody’s watching even though you secretly know that everyone IS watching and is in awe of you.” I do sometimes dance in my room though. Shut up. I can dance if I want to, I can leave my friends behind, ‘cause my friends don’t dance and if they don’t dance then they’re no friends of mine.

28. What did you have for dinner LAST NIGHT?
 STEAK AND RICE! WHY ARE WE YELLING?

29. What’s your favorite painting?

30. If you could have any hair in the world, what kind would you want? Long, shining red curls, please, the really pretty ringletted kind. When I was a kid there was a girl in the Betsy-Tacy books (it might have been Tacy, come to think of it) who had this kind of hair, and whenever they described it I was always so jealous. Especially since my own hair looked like a mushroom cap.

FILL THIS OUT. Please do. Come on, just do it.

MUSINGS- I think Ashlee Simpson might be in the Witness Protection Program. Seriously, I got CosmoGirl in the mail today (look, I had a subscription to Ellegirl, okay? And then when it ceased publication, they started sending me CosmoGirl instead, and I didn't want to make the effort required to stop the arrival of the CosmoGirls, so month after month they come to my door and I sneer at them for a minute or two and then they're instantly sucked up by the old-catalog-and-magazine vortex that is my bedroom floor), and she was on the cover- I think. I say that because were it not for the enormous "ASHLEE-PLEASE CARE ABOUT HER!" headline, I would have absolutely no idea who she was. I mean, Jesus. This girl bears absolutely no resemblance to the Ashlee we were forced to tolerate for so long. Like, not even a little. She's not unattractive, but WHO THE HELL IS SHE? Is this her plan, to simply morph her face and hair whenever she realizes that the world is increasingly tired of her raspy little schtick? Which face is next? Jessica- Part Two? Marge Simpson? Sidney Poitier, for God's sake? "Cosmogirl Christmas Issue 2008 Exclusive- Ashlee's New, New Look!"

THE TV AND MUSIC CORNER- Oh, writers' strike, why? I mean, I get it, and I totally support you all, but...oye. How am I supposed to get through the holiday season without Very Special Christmas Episodes? EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT THE WINTER HOLIDAY EPISODES ARE THE BEST ONES, BECAUSE EVERYBODY IS ALL PROMISCUOUS AND DRAMATIC AND DRUNK ON EGGNOG AND THERE IS MUCH SHENANIGAN-ING AND TOMFOOLERY TO BE FOUND. Why must we be deprived of watching this joy unfold?
If you haven't watched Arrested Development yet, why are you reading this? Go. Go now. There's not going to be anything new on for some time, it looks like, so it's the perfect opportunity to hang out with the Bluths. Dangling my final carrot here- Liza Minelli totally guest-stars. That's all, folks. Enjoy.

SIGHTINGS- Florida was like one big massacre for my retinas. Leggings and fanny packs as far as the eye could see. There were some stylin' old dudes in pork pie hats, though, as well as some amusing Baptists on retreat with whom I shared a hot tub and a whole mess of hilarious old Jewish ladies in the hotel elevators who kept clucking at my hair. Really, they did.

CURRENT ATTIRE- A barrel. Didn't we already discuss this?

Bye, kids. Enjoy this ridiculously long post (I hope you do!)
-Emma

Let me ask you, the assembled, a burning question (what a weird expression. Do questions burn? A question is not a sexually transmitted disease or a scalding cup of coffee; ergo, how can it burn?).
Do you ever feel like you've been rambling on about something for decades and nobody's been paying the remotest bit of attention?
Sure, at times this happens to all of us- you launch into a "super-funny" and "brilliant" anecdote and realize ten minutes in that everybody around you is not listening, and is in fact wrapped up in their own thoughts while mindlessly nodding at everything you're saying as if you're a mildly interesting episode of E! True Hollywood Story that's really too much of a pain to turn off, so you just leave it on and vaguely absorb a word or two here and there.
But I'm talking about a more specific rant, one you launch into constantly and regularly.
My own personal Perma-Rant is the dicey topic of leggings.
I have stood atop my soapbox and preached endless sermons about the evil that is leggings. I have drawn diagrams, I have given mini-speeches, I have hyperventilated hysterically at the mere sight of a friend's legs shrouded in the evil things...to no avail whatsoever.
Look, I get it, okay? Sometimes you want to wear your cute little H&M dress, but it's a length that would look weird and disproportionate if you wore jeans under it, or you're a little insecure about parading your half-naked legs around town, or you don't want to risk an embarrassing Marilyn-Monroe-gone-wrong subway-grate fandango and show the world your undies when you're getting off the A train. Sometimes, you will need to wear a pair of leggings under a skirt or dress.
The operative word there being "under".
UNDER. Leggings, if you're going to wear them, go UNDER things.
Leggings.
Pants.
Two SEPARATE entities.
Pants are worn solo. They are loners. They are Lone Rangers. They traverse the desert alone, with only a didgeridoo, a hip flask and a trusty steed for company. They are single and proud.
Do you see where I am going?

Leggings need a COMPANION. They need something over them; some type of skirt, dress, shirtdress, really long sweater (but that last one applies only if you happen to like the whole Brenda-Walsh-goes-to-cardio-funk-class look). Otherwise, you are trotting around town in an extremely unflattering pair of thin pants facsimiles that announce to the world, "HEY WORLD! COME HERE AND LOOK AT THIS CELLULITE! AND PLEASE NOTICE EVERY SINGLE POCKET OF FLESH AND FAT THAT I AM DOING A REALLY BAD JOB OF MASKING!" I don't care how proud you are of your butt. Even the most Thumbelina-esque little Minnie McSkinny can't get away with Leggings On Their Own.
Anyway.
My point is that sometimes you can just rant on and on and on about something and all you get is a slightly sore throat and perhaps a headache from listening to your own voice blathering on for an hour and think, God, has my voice always been that high? I sound like Alvin and the Chipmunks going through pubescence.
But I digress.
In order to help the world at large grasp hold of a few simple fashion concepts that I believe everyone should be aware of, I have created some nifty little rhymes. And, yes, I just used the word "nifty" for the first time since the Crimean War.
DR. SEUSS'S GUIDE TO FUGOSITY, or TEN SIMPLE RHYMES TO HELP YOU NOT COMMIT CRIMES AGAINST FASHION.

1. Girls who wear leggings are cruising for eggings.


2. Formal shorts are like gross fabric warts.
=
3. I take a firm stance
Against harem pants.

4. When I see Uggs with a skirt
My eyes start to hurt.

5. If you think cankles are neat,
get some ankle boots, tout suite!


6. If it's rompers you crave
You might just be depraved.

7. Bra not providing the boob warmth you need?
By all means, wear a tiny vest; classy, indeed.

8. Extra! Extra! Read All About It!
Jaunty caps died with Marissa Cooper
So unless you're a newsboy from 1913
Kindly flush them down the pooper.

9. By the beard of Zeus, Nabokov, do you see what you've started?
These tiresome shades should be dearly departed.

10. High-waisted overalls are always hits
If you want to punish your lady bits.

Next time you open your Hideous Crap drawer (and, honestly, don't we all have one? Mine includes such couture garments as the "SAVE A ROMAN CAT TODAY" t-shirt with the decal of the big fuzzy kitty on it, the drab green pilly turtleneck that would make Gisele look like Danny Devito, and the mysteriously stained navy yoga pants that will never look either remotely flattering nor completely clean, no matter how many times they are washed) and think "Wow, these shiny leggings definitely need to be worn RIGHT NOW with my newsboy cap and tiny argyle vest", I hope you'll remember one of these mantras, resist the temptation and go put on something wholeheartedly fabulous.

This cat=adorable.
This cat on a T-shirt=creepy and unattractive and smacking slightly of Old-Woman-Who-Lives-Alone-And-Leaves-The-Apartment-Once-
A-Week-To-Buy-Cat-
Food-and-Bunion-Cream.
Nobody really wants that, do they?

THE MUSIC, MOVIE, BOOK AND (TODAY) OTHER RANDOMOSITY CORNER- I like the song "I Wanna Take You Out In Your Holiday Sweater" by Pas-Cal. It's just cool. And it makes me think of holiday sweaters, which makes me think of the fact that the holiday season is rapidly approaching, which makes me think of the fact that I have negative money and have to come up with gifts, which makes me perspire, which makes me need to purchase my favorite Secret Asian Pear deodorant (FYI, Asian Pear deodorant is amazing. I have not as such smelled an Asian pear and don't know if it smells different from a regular pear, or, for that matter, if a regular pear even has a smell, but it's still yummy. Much better than Jasmine Orient. Who wants to smell like Jasmine Orient?), which poses a problem, because like I said, I have no money. So that's an annoying little train of thought. But still, the song's good.

I, like so many others before me, refuse to get over The Princess Bride. In fact, I have now seen it...let me just tally up here...yes, officially too many times. Hello! My name is Inigo Montoya! You killed my father! Prepare to die!
Look, I realize that's not funny anymore. But let me have my moments, okay?

You know what's super annoying and insulting to my intelligence?
I was watching Gossip Girl (and, okay, some could argue that my love of this show is slowly draining me of said intelligence, but it is AD.DIC.TIVE) on the CW website and every time a song played, the site quickly told me exactly what it was and who sang it. Not so bad, you say? Maybe even convenient? Yeah, that's what I thought. Until the site also started telling me just what each character was wearing and how much it would cost me to obtain it. If the show had its way, I would have spent $540-plus after watching the first episode.
Nice try, SHOW. I've seen Josie and the Pussycats way too many times to call myself a fully normal human being. I know what you're trying to do.

A good book to read if you're sick of all the pink-jacketed, trite, loser-is-actually-beautiful-but-just-doesn't-see-it-until-the-hottest-guy-in-school-
points-it-out books is Meg Rosoff's How I Live Now. It's got relatable aspects mixed in with an absurd, yet not-at-all-cheesy storyline. I mean, I'm as much of a sucker for chick lit as anyone,
but eventually it just gets ridiculous. It's really refreshing to read a well-written book
about a teenage girl that isn't written entirely in italics and hyperbole and peppered with
self-deprecating comments and anecdotes about super-hotties.
Not that this here blog reads like Tolstoy, but, you know, I'm a teenage girl and there is only a very finite amount of years in which it is societally permissible for me to be a twit. I wouldn't want to waste them on intelligent thought, or anything. How gauche!

The cover's actually very nicely representative of the book- girlie elements mixed in with a much deeper, darker, magical thing.
I recently got in touch with my craftsy, hippie-girl, street-fair-beaded-smock-selling arty chick and endeavored to create earrings from these mini cassettes.
Result- or, as they say in warmer countries, Resultio! (I, taking French, do not know if that is correct Spanish. I hope it is, but I doubt it). Ta-daaa! I think Flower Desert Moon would be really proud (that's what I've named my crafts-fair alter ego). The other one is being fixed, so it's just the one on its owney for now. Still, I'm quite happy with myself, since everything else I've tried to make ends up looking like the aftershock of a glue tsunami. What do you all think?
I also need some bloggerly advice on this pair of shoes. My fabulous godmother snagged them for me at Annie Creamcheese, and they're vintage Marc Jacobs (phwoarrr) with the prettiest pale lilac soles you ever saw. However, shoes cannot be cute by soles alone, as the saying goes. They are much prettier in person, all sparkly-jeweled and fabulous. Still, is the pointed-toe cool or too Wicked Witch of the West? I don't want to start frightening tiny children away from me or cackling "I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too." It's one thing to take fashion inspiration from Dorothy (The Narcist, your comment about your "Naughty Dorothy" shoes was awesome. That's how I've started to think of my sparkly shoes as well! And, FYI, your World Erotic Arts Museum post made me pee with laughter). Do I really want to embrace the witch's style as well? One thing's for sure, I'll take Wicked Witch over Glinda any day. That cheery pink puffball always gave me a cavity.

What'chu smiling at, Glin? YOUR CROWN IS RIDICULOUS.

SIGHTINGS- A girl on the subway in a brown plaid mini-coat, dark brown leggings, Uggs and a pink-and-brown O'Neill backpack inspired my little ditties. JESUS. I am about three seconds away from having an apeshit, cuckoo-bananas rage blackout.
"NO...SPANDEX...LEGGINGS! EVER!"
I was also passionately jealous of a girl I saw in the halls wearing a gray dress similar to my beloved Suzabelle one. She wore it with a black turtleneck, tights and shiny black boots, which actually looked pretty great.
A boy I saw outside the Apple store was wearing one of those handmade tote bags you get on some specific website. It said "Bears, Beets, Battlestar Galactica." I fell a little in love.
And here I thought only girls made those bags!

CURRENT ATTIRE- Actually wearing clothes that aren't made of sweatshirt material for once. Purple tights, black boots, black vintage BCBG dress, darker-purple long-sleeve shirt under dress, indigo waist-cinching belt, black doctor bag. I feel a bit like a particularly moody purple Crayola, but I'm embracing it.

Ciao, bellas.