#1. Riot Grrrl-era Kathleen Hanna. For this, I would wear a cropped sleeveless shirt, draw a big black heart on my arm, write SLUT on my belly, and don a black wig. Also, I would smash the whiteboy patriarchy. I was going to do this one, but I don't want my belly to be ogled by party revelers.
#2. Team Dresch. The costume involves running shorts, tube socks, sneaks, and an athletic tee with DRESCH in iron-on letters in back. I was going to do this one, but I am too lazy to shave my legs and too stubborn to go as a lesbian band while simultaneously meeting the hairy-legged-lesbian stereotype.
#3. Vampire lady. I bought an Ulla Johnson black silk dress a couple of years ago, but I rarely wear it because I rarely have fancy events that require such a foxy dress. So I would wear that along with some glue-on vampy teeth, and then I'd paint my face pale with dark red lips. I was going to do this one, but I am afraid someone will spill Pabst on the dress.
#4. Harriet Miers. Eyeliner, frumpy outfit, jowls. I was going to do this one, but I think even fewer people would get it than they would Team Dresch.
#5. Jem. This truly outrageous costume would require a pink wig, glittery pink dress and a gay-vague boyfriend named Rio. I was going to do this one, but who wants a gay-vague boyfriend named Rio?
#2. Team Dresch. The costume involves running shorts, tube socks, sneaks, and an athletic tee with DRESCH in iron-on letters in back. I was going to do this one, but I am too lazy to shave my legs and too stubborn to go as a lesbian band while simultaneously meeting the hairy-legged-lesbian stereotype.
#3. Vampire lady. I bought an Ulla Johnson black silk dress a couple of years ago, but I rarely wear it because I rarely have fancy events that require such a foxy dress. So I would wear that along with some glue-on vampy teeth, and then I'd paint my face pale with dark red lips. I was going to do this one, but I am afraid someone will spill Pabst on the dress.
#4. Harriet Miers. Eyeliner, frumpy outfit, jowls. I was going to do this one, but I think even fewer people would get it than they would Team Dresch.
#5. Jem. This truly outrageous costume would require a pink wig, glittery pink dress and a gay-vague boyfriend named Rio. I was going to do this one, but who wants a gay-vague boyfriend named Rio?
I dreamed about Atlanta this morning, that a friend was going there for the day. There were eggs, too. Anyway:
I suppose models are always told that they are beautiful, and I assume that everyone hits on them. To ensure that I appear professional, I generally become buttoned-up, trying as hard as possible to not look at them lest they think I'm giving them flirty-eyes. Today I worked with a male model (who we will call Zoolander) at a shoot. He shook my hand and crushed it a little bit. I had to apply the makeup to his face, which is funny because I am clumsy with cosmetics. "As you can see, I am not big on makeup," I told him while dusting up his cheeks. "You don't need it," he said. "You have beautiful skin."
A normal lady might have blushed, assumed Zoolander was flirting, and made a saucy reply, but not me! Oh no, I am biz-a-ness all the way. Here was my response: "Oh, well, thank you. You know, that is nice to hear because after years of work, my skin is finally the way I want it to be, and I do face masks twice a week and I take special vitamins and I drink lots of pomegranate juice." Slick!
As it turns out, Zoolander recently graduated from my alma mater. When we discovered this commonality, it was as though we were best pals. We compared the quirks of our old dorm, talked about the church on Church, had a grand old time. "When did you graduate?" he asked. "2003?" Oh, sweet Zoolander, how you flatter me! I am old enough to be your big sister, if not your babysitter, but thank you all the same.
I suppose models are always told that they are beautiful, and I assume that everyone hits on them. To ensure that I appear professional, I generally become buttoned-up, trying as hard as possible to not look at them lest they think I'm giving them flirty-eyes. Today I worked with a male model (who we will call Zoolander) at a shoot. He shook my hand and crushed it a little bit. I had to apply the makeup to his face, which is funny because I am clumsy with cosmetics. "As you can see, I am not big on makeup," I told him while dusting up his cheeks. "You don't need it," he said. "You have beautiful skin."
A normal lady might have blushed, assumed Zoolander was flirting, and made a saucy reply, but not me! Oh no, I am biz-a-ness all the way. Here was my response: "Oh, well, thank you. You know, that is nice to hear because after years of work, my skin is finally the way I want it to be, and I do face masks twice a week and I take special vitamins and I drink lots of pomegranate juice." Slick!
As it turns out, Zoolander recently graduated from my alma mater. When we discovered this commonality, it was as though we were best pals. We compared the quirks of our old dorm, talked about the church on Church, had a grand old time. "When did you graduate?" he asked. "2003?" Oh, sweet Zoolander, how you flatter me! I am old enough to be your big sister, if not your babysitter, but thank you all the same.
On Thursday nights, I generally go home after the week's busiest workday and then have a nice little snacko on the couch. If I'm really feeling adventurous, I'll take a bubble bath or rent an old movie. But next week is different! I will be speaking on a panel about crafty culture and its intersection, if any, with feminism. Sharpen your knitting needles and come see me confront my moderate fear of saying "like" too much. Which is an unfounded fear, really, as I don't think I'm a giant like-er. See for yourself.
I remember an unseasonably warm Sunday morning back in April or May, just before Phil and I were finished. I woke before he did. I watched him sleep in my bed for a few moments, his hair tousled and his face slightly shiny. Even with his mouth awkwardly drawn open in a somnambulist silent song, he was beautiful to me. Every breath, every blood cell, every synapse in my brain, every part of my being was entirely focused on being in love with him.
I let him sleep, slipped into a sundress, and walked to the market at Chicago and Western to buy groceries. The sun was everywhere. When I returned home, I kissed him gently on the forehead before preparing little breakfast tostadas in the kitchen. He woke up, groggily hugged me while I scrambled some eggs, and then we ate on the couch while Mikan rested on his purple cat bed.
If you had told me that my heart was responsible for the city's warmth that morning, I would not have argued with you. But we are now not far from winter, and I do not have Sunday mornings like that anymore. Some of the aspects are still present, others are easy to add, and others remain an implausibility in my mind, like 90-degree mornings burning up the soft Chicago spring.
I let him sleep, slipped into a sundress, and walked to the market at Chicago and Western to buy groceries. The sun was everywhere. When I returned home, I kissed him gently on the forehead before preparing little breakfast tostadas in the kitchen. He woke up, groggily hugged me while I scrambled some eggs, and then we ate on the couch while Mikan rested on his purple cat bed.
If you had told me that my heart was responsible for the city's warmth that morning, I would not have argued with you. But we are now not far from winter, and I do not have Sunday mornings like that anymore. Some of the aspects are still present, others are easy to add, and others remain an implausibility in my mind, like 90-degree mornings burning up the soft Chicago spring.
Labels: emo spice
I woke up proud of myself for remembering about the 8:50 am doctor's appointment I'd had scheduled. Snacked on yogurt, caught the bus, got a seat, made it to the doc's on time. The sky was blue and the air was sweet, and I found myself enjoying the brief wedge of Lake Michigan that's visible from my doctor's building. Even the grumpy receptionist and the drooly toddler in the waiting room couldn't snap me out of my good mood. "I am taking care of my health," I mentally congratulated myself. "I am a responsible grown-up."
The nurse weighed me (114), took my blood pressure (100/60) and I read Allure while waiting for the doctor. She remembered me upon seeing my face, which I think is probably due to my memorable hypochondria. She looked at my chart while listening to my latest hypochondriac worry, and then she stopped and looked up. "You're due for a pap smear!" she announced. I groaned.
When you are wearing a paper cloth around your wobbly bits, there is nothing you can do to weasel your way out of a pap smear. I know because I've tried to talk my way out of various gynecological adventures, and every time the speculum wins.
The nurse weighed me (114), took my blood pressure (100/60) and I read Allure while waiting for the doctor. She remembered me upon seeing my face, which I think is probably due to my memorable hypochondria. She looked at my chart while listening to my latest hypochondriac worry, and then she stopped and looked up. "You're due for a pap smear!" she announced. I groaned.
When you are wearing a paper cloth around your wobbly bits, there is nothing you can do to weasel your way out of a pap smear. I know because I've tried to talk my way out of various gynecological adventures, and every time the speculum wins.
I can write in my head without a problem, but when it comes to pouring words onto paper, it's like hitting a dam. I've been crafting a story in my head, and it's surprisingly not cliche or maudlin. I like it. It flows well. But when the time comes to type it up, I am so terrified of it coming out wrong that I'll do anything to keep myself from trying.
This week: I cleaned out my closet. I took photographs of the no-longer-needed clothes that will go on eBay. I cooked dinner with Jameson. I saw Serenity. I scrubbed the floor, cleaned out the refrigerator and gave the cat a Wet-Nap bath. I painted a wall in the living room. Twice. But I did not write a word of the story.
I need to be more disciplined, but I worry that what I write won't be great, and then I'll feel like just another former English major who has a novel inside her—a very bad novel. I don't know how to become more motivated and confident. I feel stuck, but at least my house is clean.
This week: I cleaned out my closet. I took photographs of the no-longer-needed clothes that will go on eBay. I cooked dinner with Jameson. I saw Serenity. I scrubbed the floor, cleaned out the refrigerator and gave the cat a Wet-Nap bath. I painted a wall in the living room. Twice. But I did not write a word of the story.
I need to be more disciplined, but I worry that what I write won't be great, and then I'll feel like just another former English major who has a novel inside her—a very bad novel. I don't know how to become more motivated and confident. I feel stuck, but at least my house is clean.
