I am in a terrible mood today. For no apparent reason other than yesterday was kind of a pointlessly frustrating day and that I had bad dreams last night where all of my friends hated me and right now the music at Starbucks is much more conducive to group suicide than to writing funny things on the Internet. (Can you write on the Internet? Or is this like skywriting?) Seriously, Cannonball? This music makes me want to stab things.
For a full two years after I stopped teaching I had horrible nightmares and would wake up screaming in the middle of the night. This was wildly disastrous to my daily life for obvious reasons. A friend of mine gave me a sample of her prescription sleeping pills (I know, terribly illegal -- it's a good thing I do not actually like medicine or this would be a story of rehab.) to help me make it through the night. She had been a teacher in a similar situation to me (read: multiple police reports) and had similar sleeping difficulties post-classroom. So I tried them. Well, really I broke one of the pills with the handle of a knife and took the smallest piece. I'm not sure I really thought this through beforehand, or if I just hoped it would work like a "sweet dreams pill" instead of a "knock you out cold pill." It did not. So I was essentially stuck in a nightmare for longer than I normally was and woke up fully un-rested like I normally did.
The nightmares have subsided for the most part, although I continue to have much stranger dreams than anyone I know. I think this must just be the downside of an overactive imagination. Anyway, last night did not consist of nightmares per se - it was more just a fairly miserable situation to live in for a few hours. Imagine a night-world where everyone pretends not to know you and runs away when you talk to them. This will leave you feeling annoyed in the morning. I am now craving something happy the way that some people crave potato chips or jelly beans. (I say these because I am neither of those people. I crave chocolate and steak.)
Having terrible dreams always makes me wonder if I just answered badly to one of those Book of Questions scenarios. (Would you rather have a mediocre life and wonderful dreams, or have a great life but terrible nightmares? I take it back! I want the mediocre life!) But I don't take it back. In fact, I don't take it at all. I refuse to answer that question because I wouldn't rather either of those situations. I am impossible to play the Hypothetical Game with. I choose non-existent answers or analyze the scenario out of plausibility. For example, my mom's favorite question to ask (of anyone really, but she seems to ask it most of my brother and I) is what is your fantasy car? To which I generally respond:
"Well, how old am I? Where am I living? Do I have kids? I mean, right now, my own car is totally perfect. I couldn't afford anything better, plus I park on the street. Even if I could afford it, it would get ruined and I don't need anything fancy."
M gets similarly frustrated with me when we have Hypothetical Conversations. His favorite example is "Theo Epstein walks into a bar..." This went as follows:
M: "So say you and I are sitting at a bar and Theo Epstein [totally adorable GM of the Red Sox] walks in and starts hitting on you. What would you do?"
Me: "Why would he be walking into a bar here in Chicago?"
M: "I don't know, maybe he's recruiting or something. Whatever, just what would you do?"
Me: "I think he's married anyway, so this would be really inappropriate."
M: "OK, fine, say he's not married."
Me: "Well, did you just make him divorced or are we pretending he never was married?"
I don't remember why this even came up or what the point was, but clearly I am a weird combination of imaginative and strictly literal. Also, notice that nowhere in this hypothetical scenario do I find it weird that THEO EPSTEIN is hitting on me. That I can apparently accept with ease.
Since I have so much trouble with these questions, I typically do not buy things for other people like games called What If..., or The Book of Questions or anything that requires people to imagine two unpleasant situations and decide which one is better. (My new favorite blog describes this better than I can here.) I think this is like playing the Why Are You Hitting Yourself Game. (Also one of M's favorites.) I DON'T WANT TO BE HITTING MYSELF. (Although this one is really funny if you are not the one being smacked in the face repeatedly.)
This is not to say that I don't buy gifts that are hypothetically useful. Recently, I found something at Wal-Mart and had to buy it for my brother, under the guise of Valentine's Day. But it is only hypothetically awesome.
My brother does not cook. His entire repertoire consists of grilled cheese, pseudo-Egg-McMuffins and Easy Mac. Otherwise he will wait for you to make something or he will eat a protein shake and cheese and crackers. (In full disclosure, I wasn't much of a cook until recently. I could do it, but until a year or two ago, I mostly lived on frozen peas and Odwalla bars.) This Christmas, when we were both home at our parents' house, we had a twenty minute deliberation over the ease of making a grilled cheese over an Egg McMuffin to determine which one he would have for lunch.
So when M and I went to Wal-Mart for a griddle (because as part of a much longer story, M does not have a working stove or a very powerful microwave,) I saw the best gadget ever. An "Egg Muffin Maker." (They can't say "Mc" because of the fast-food reference. But I can, apparently.) A round plastic container that opens from the top, the Maker holds a raw egg that you microwave, take out, place the bottom of an English muffin back inside the Maker, the newly cooked egg, slice of cheese, top of muffin and then re-microwave until cheese is melted. Genius. And $1.50.
Obviously I had to buy it for my brother so he could make one of his three gourmet items even easier. Clearly this would decisively end the grilled cheese vs. Egg McMuffin debate. However, this gift is only hypothetically awesome because I don't know if G has access to either microwaves OR eggs. I know that he could go to the store and buy the ingredients, and probably use a microwave somewhere in his building. But I could have also just made using this gadget HARDER than buying a pre-made McDonald's version. This is the danger of the Hypothetical Gift. You have to suspend reality for a minute and get to the heart of your intention. My intention was that this was A.) Hilarious as a concept and B.) Indicative of G's cooking. It is truly the thought that counts with the Hypothetical Gift.
Now excuse me, I must get ready for my hypothetical date with Theo Epstein.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The Crazy Gift
Maybe I shouldn't be excited about this, but two people hit on me on my way into the gym today. Now, before I get too far ahead of myself, let me clarify a couple of things:
1.) Person number one was a homeless man inexplicably carrying a rake.
2.) Person number two was a stoner driving a cloud of pot smoke disguised as a car.
So I definitely shouldn't be excited about this. BUT, you should also know that I looked EXACTLY the same as I always do on my 3.3 mile walk (yes, I just used mapmyrun.com to figure that out which is totally not the point of their site) to the gym, specifically, wearing my blood-stained Uggs, workout pants and my oversized ski jacket. (That I apparently bought thinking that when I moved to Chicago at 22, I would continue to grow outwards AND upwards, and that appropriately earned me the nickname "Old Man Winter.") I did, however, change two things:
1.) I brushed my hair.
2.) I wore my sunglasses.
Now, given the positive events post-sunglasses at AE on Saturday, I am clearly attributing my increased hotness to the sunglasses over the improved hygiene. I think they are magic glasses. I am tempted to wear them indoors or at night as well, à la Jack Nicholson, or various Rush and Division douchebags, but I think this might cause people to confuse their magic powers with a mental illness (like narcissism, which this blog is not helping) and treat me kindly for the wrong reasons.
This isn't the first time I have been tempted to do something that ends up making me look nuts.
M was in Arizona this weekend, and brought me back a fantastic present. A candle that makes green shamrocks on the outside glow. I am really excited about this and plan to try it out while watching the women's free skate portion of the Olympics tonight. Super nerd, I know. But the real crazy is WHY M knew I would love this present. I look for four-leaf clovers constantly. It's a little obsessive and a lot childish. I have also found over a hundred four-leaf clovers, so I feel validated in this search. When I was little, I would tape the found clovers on the inside covers of a book series called Value Tales. And then I would write something like:
"Found at Bryan Park on 10/13/88! Saw it in the grass without even looking!!!!!!!!!"
I really loved finding clovers. And exclamation points, apparently. Why I felt the need to document these inside books instead of something more collection-worthy, like between panes of glass, I have no idea. I must have seen some kind of permanence in books. Even in books geared only to seven-year-olds.
Anyway, M supports my mild clover craziness and when we are walking and I stop and look at the ground, he knows that I have spotted a clump of shamrocks to comb through. Last summer, we were at the lake with M's parents, and sitting in the grass lazily chatting. While everyone else was talking, I became distracted by hundreds of clovers carpeting the earth and started picking out four-leafed gems. I had already found two by the time I noticed M's dad staring at me. I don't think my explanation assuaged anything, and he now obviously thinks his son is dating a girl who also wears a hat of tin foil while blowing spit bubbles off her tongue and petting her own shoe.
To M's credit, at this point, he began searching too. For which I should have been grateful for but with which instead became instantly competitive and kept searching until I had more four-leaf clovers than him. I am not the best advocate for my own sanity.
But, gifts that celebrate a little bit of crazy can be a good thing. Like the candle. Or like tiaras to wear on a birthday. Or like giving one of those found clovers away to someone else. I have done this a few times, mostly to wish someone good luck or as a congratulations gift. I will tape the clover to a blank card or leave it pressed inside a frame to preserve it. Sometimes I will write something underneath it:
"Found in Lincoln Park on 7/21/09!!! Good luck!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
(Just kidding.)
For M's birthday this year, I used one of the four-leaf clovers I found at the lake to make a card, wishing him a year filled with luck. The kind of luck I had, not his kind of less-clovers-than-me luck. I am insufferable. I am going to go put my sunglasses on and walk home in the dark.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
The Reduction of Hate Gift
There are only three people in the world that I have ever fully hated. And every single one of them is for good reasons. Like they were mean to me. Or they pulled an earring straight out of my friend's ear. Or they are stupid beyond reasonably stupid standards.
Anyway, I ran into one of those three people at Target and I acted like a complete and utter ass-clown and maybe now I can only hate two people.
Hated person number three (HPN3, for the purposes of the rest of this post) falls into the "stupider than dirt" category of people-I-hate. I hate ignorance in general, but specifically hate the source when it interferes with my daily life and gets turned back around on me. For instance, I worked downtown for the central offices of the Chicago Public Schools for a year, (which is laden with examples of idiocy) and to get to my cubicle on the second floor, I had two options - elevator or inconveniently-located-behind-the-security-belt stairs. I took the stairs. And was stopped by the security guard. Every morning. Clearly I am not memorable or I pose a high level of threat that cannot be demonstrated in the elevator. Whatever. This I can chalk up to total dedication to the job of maintaining security, even if it is just stupid and tempts me into taking an elevator up one floor. (Which is not only a waste of electricity, but also I hate elevators. They freak me out like the idea of doing heroin freaks me out.)
Anyway, HPN3 was also fired from the bar, which makes hating her even worse because now I fall into the same category as her. Except she was fired for being exceptionally stupid, and I was fired for no apparent reason. Which makes me feel stupid. So now I am paranoid that we are the same. HPN3 was maybe the worst server ever in the history of bars. I won't go into details because the details of her fuck-ups are not important - it's the totality of her incompetence that matters. So suffice it to say that she sucked at life in a way that made you question how she even made it into work. Amelia Bedelia would have made more tips.
It was no secret that I did not care for HPN3, mostly because I have a terrible habit of eye-rolling. But also because I do not believe in fake-nice. I think it's mean to be nice to someone's face and then talk about them as soon as they walk away. It's lying. I much prefer to just avoid them entirely. Which is what I did with HPN3 and which is what got me into a long conversation with the manager over not "being nice." Technically, though, I just "wasn't being mean." Plus if you want a commune-hippie-love atmosphere where everyone gets along, DON'T HIRE MORONS. Eventually management began to see the validity of my argument and fired HPN3. I haven't seen her in two years.
Until I went to Target. (Why, Target? Why must you betray me so?) Between the kitchen aisles and the furniture, I spotted her. Well, not so much spotted as heard her familiar cackle crashing down the tiled floor. I ducked in between aisles and immediately became engrossed in the plates. If there is anything at Target I don't need, it's plates. I mean, this couldn't have happened amongst the shoes? Really, Target? But apparently HPN3 really needed plates herself, because she and her friend stopped at the end of the aisle for a good seven minutes. My thought process was as follows:
"I could duck around the back of the aisle...but she's on the end. I'll just turn the other way and now I am looking at this bowl. I wonder if this bowl is microwave safe. What is the difference between microwave safe and dishwasher safe? Which one is stronger if, say, they both were run over by a car? And is she still there? Seriously, it's a plate. Pick one and move on. If I were registering for a wedding, I would pick none of these plates. Would I even need plates? Maybe I could replace plates with something more urgently needed, like spoons. Can you even register for spoons by themselves? I mean, people register for board games. I could register for new books! Oh, thank God, she's gone."
At no point in my tangent-riddled thoughts did I think of just saying hi and moving on like a normal person. And since I totally, obliviously engrossed myself in thinking about wedding registries, I'm sure she probably saw me. Talking to myself and staring at plates. Like I said, ass-clown. And with this ridiculousness that is me-in-public, the hate has become greatly reduced.
I wish I had a gift that relates more to giving someone I formerly hated a nice, un-mocking present. But as demonstrated above, I do not think in straight lines like this. Instead, the Reduction of Hate Gift includes a gift for my best friend K - something she used to loathe but has now embraced. Running. I can sympathize because running and I used to not be friends either. (Much the same way Target and I began a falling-out over the plates.) Running is a weird brand of being in that it takes a lot of mildly awful experiences to actually be friends. If running were a person, it would be the guy in the romantic comedy that you HATE and keep bumping into at parties and roll your eyes about because he is SO obnoxious. And just like in the romantic comedy, there is no explanation for why this changes, other than you stop feeling nauseous halfway through and you can't stay away.
Running is that guy.
So K started running recently, and she is just about at the run-in-where-the-girl-sees-the-guy-and-he-smiles-at-her-and-she-stops-mid-eye-roll part. She's getting used to it but doesn't LOVE it yet. As part of her Christmas present this year, I found a set of red laces - fun, beautiful red laces that double as a donation to help AIDS relief efforts in Africa. (See how we think alike without planning it?) It's my contribution to her reduction of hate in running.
As for me and Target, that guy made it up to me by offering me the Muppets Take Manhattan DVD for $4.75.
Anyway, I ran into one of those three people at Target and I acted like a complete and utter ass-clown and maybe now I can only hate two people.
Hated person number three (HPN3, for the purposes of the rest of this post) falls into the "stupider than dirt" category of people-I-hate. I hate ignorance in general, but specifically hate the source when it interferes with my daily life and gets turned back around on me. For instance, I worked downtown for the central offices of the Chicago Public Schools for a year, (which is laden with examples of idiocy) and to get to my cubicle on the second floor, I had two options - elevator or inconveniently-located-behind-the-security-belt stairs. I took the stairs. And was stopped by the security guard. Every morning. Clearly I am not memorable or I pose a high level of threat that cannot be demonstrated in the elevator. Whatever. This I can chalk up to total dedication to the job of maintaining security, even if it is just stupid and tempts me into taking an elevator up one floor. (Which is not only a waste of electricity, but also I hate elevators. They freak me out like the idea of doing heroin freaks me out.)
Anyway, HPN3 was also fired from the bar, which makes hating her even worse because now I fall into the same category as her. Except she was fired for being exceptionally stupid, and I was fired for no apparent reason. Which makes me feel stupid. So now I am paranoid that we are the same. HPN3 was maybe the worst server ever in the history of bars. I won't go into details because the details of her fuck-ups are not important - it's the totality of her incompetence that matters. So suffice it to say that she sucked at life in a way that made you question how she even made it into work. Amelia Bedelia would have made more tips.
It was no secret that I did not care for HPN3, mostly because I have a terrible habit of eye-rolling. But also because I do not believe in fake-nice. I think it's mean to be nice to someone's face and then talk about them as soon as they walk away. It's lying. I much prefer to just avoid them entirely. Which is what I did with HPN3 and which is what got me into a long conversation with the manager over not "being nice." Technically, though, I just "wasn't being mean." Plus if you want a commune-hippie-love atmosphere where everyone gets along, DON'T HIRE MORONS. Eventually management began to see the validity of my argument and fired HPN3. I haven't seen her in two years.
Until I went to Target. (Why, Target? Why must you betray me so?) Between the kitchen aisles and the furniture, I spotted her. Well, not so much spotted as heard her familiar cackle crashing down the tiled floor. I ducked in between aisles and immediately became engrossed in the plates. If there is anything at Target I don't need, it's plates. I mean, this couldn't have happened amongst the shoes? Really, Target? But apparently HPN3 really needed plates herself, because she and her friend stopped at the end of the aisle for a good seven minutes. My thought process was as follows:
"I could duck around the back of the aisle...but she's on the end. I'll just turn the other way and now I am looking at this bowl. I wonder if this bowl is microwave safe. What is the difference between microwave safe and dishwasher safe? Which one is stronger if, say, they both were run over by a car? And is she still there? Seriously, it's a plate. Pick one and move on. If I were registering for a wedding, I would pick none of these plates. Would I even need plates? Maybe I could replace plates with something more urgently needed, like spoons. Can you even register for spoons by themselves? I mean, people register for board games. I could register for new books! Oh, thank God, she's gone."
At no point in my tangent-riddled thoughts did I think of just saying hi and moving on like a normal person. And since I totally, obliviously engrossed myself in thinking about wedding registries, I'm sure she probably saw me. Talking to myself and staring at plates. Like I said, ass-clown. And with this ridiculousness that is me-in-public, the hate has become greatly reduced.
I wish I had a gift that relates more to giving someone I formerly hated a nice, un-mocking present. But as demonstrated above, I do not think in straight lines like this. Instead, the Reduction of Hate Gift includes a gift for my best friend K - something she used to loathe but has now embraced. Running. I can sympathize because running and I used to not be friends either. (Much the same way Target and I began a falling-out over the plates.) Running is a weird brand of being in that it takes a lot of mildly awful experiences to actually be friends. If running were a person, it would be the guy in the romantic comedy that you HATE and keep bumping into at parties and roll your eyes about because he is SO obnoxious. And just like in the romantic comedy, there is no explanation for why this changes, other than you stop feeling nauseous halfway through and you can't stay away.
Running is that guy.
So K started running recently, and she is just about at the run-in-where-the-girl-sees-the-guy-and-he-smiles-at-her-and-she-stops-mid-eye-roll part. She's getting used to it but doesn't LOVE it yet. As part of her Christmas present this year, I found a set of red laces - fun, beautiful red laces that double as a donation to help AIDS relief efforts in Africa. (See how we think alike without planning it?) It's my contribution to her reduction of hate in running.
As for me and Target, that guy made it up to me by offering me the Muppets Take Manhattan DVD for $4.75.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
The Normal Gift
I did a bad thing yesterday. OK, technically I did a bad thing Saturday. This weekend I slipped and accidentally went jeans shopping. Normally this is an event reserved for extremely skinny-feeling days or when I have something coming up. Like a paycheck. I did, however, receive a gift card to American Eagle for participating in many time-wasting online market research surveys. (To which questions I am not altogether honest. Particularly about how many things I own or have insured. If I "own a laptop" but "do not have it insured" and also enter my zip code, are you going to come steal it from me??)
Anyway, I set out yesterday on a trek to AE with my gift card to look for two things, only one of which would likely be covered by the free $25:
1. A pair of sunglasses. (Because it is snowy and bright here in Chicago and because I typically throw my sunglasses in the bottom of an overlarge hobo pack and crush them within a season. This season I forgot which of the many homeless-man-bags I threw them in until they were covered in gum and lotion.)
2. A super-adorable and flattering shirt to wear out to a bar. Or dinner. Or anywhere other than my couch.
I found a decent pair of sunglasses that do not eat my entire face (or otherwise make me look like I have a tiny head) within 4.7 seconds and with $10 to spare. Naturally I had to use up the full value of the gift card and while picking out some shirts to try on, I realized that I was wearing jeans that do not make their way out to dinners or bars EVER because they are four inches too long, have holes and may land me on What Not to Wear. I needed some model jeans to show me the full potential of the new shirts. And at this point I face-planted off the shopping wagon - something I have been dutifully riding for a full six months. I greedily grabbed up pairs and pairs of jeans and sale tops and did two full turns through the store to check for shelves I missed the first time through.
Arriving in the dressing room with a full wardrobe, I realized the errors of my ways in this process. Error number one was wearing giant giraffe socks over a pair of tie-dyed leg warmers under my jeans. This made trying on skinny jeans nearly impossible. Error number two was wearing a non-bra, or a uni-boob-enabling device. This made me look like I had stepped out of pioneer days and had made a conscious decision to retain my matronly figure, shelf-chest included. Error number three was clearly coming into a clothing store thinking that it would sell clothes made for humans instead of paper dolls.
As someone incapable of sewing, I expect that when I buy a shirt, it will be sewn into shirt-shape. I can cut holes in my pillowcase just fine on my own. I need you to make me look like I am not wearing a pillowcase. I was so confused about the recent trends I even called the dressing-room assistant over to help me.
Me: (Pulling at pillowcase-shirt that extends far beyond waist.) "Is it supposed to look like this?"
Evil Attendant 1: "Yes. It's the Bohemian Look. If you can imagine it, think of it paired with khaki shorts, sort of billowy."
Me: "Oh, ok." (Looking at self in mirror to avoid eye-contact so as not to let on that I have NO IDEA what she is talking about. Also cannot fathom when I would wear khaki shorts. Am I going to summer camp this year?)
Evil Attendant 1: "You could even go up a size."
Up a size? Are you kidding me? The actual shirt I am trying on could swaddle four watermelons with room to spare. Am I supposed to look like I am wearing clothes formerly worn by a large man, save for the fact that it has been bejeweled? While I am pondering whether or not to take her up on this offer, two things happen. One, I try on a pair of jeans in my numeric size that refuse to come up over my hips. Two, while I pull at the belt loops, I hear a woman two doors down ask for a pair of jeans in size double zero, extra long.
So now I am sweating in my leg warmers under the shriveled pants and bed-sheet-inspired top and feeling like a big fat loser. So I did what any normal person would do. I put on the sunglasses. I tried on the rest of the clothes in a brown haze and posed in that Victoria's Secret/impossible-to-do-in-real-life-without-falling way. I gave myself a pep talk via the sunglasses - namely that without stilts implanted in my legs, my bone structure does not allow for me to be a size double zero, extra long. Plus I don't actually want to have the silhouette of a rubber band. Revived, I tried on the remaining pants. And called the dressing room assistant over again.
Me: "Are these supposed to look like this?" (Standing in a cropped jeans and shirt combo that makes me look like a starving farm boy after a growth spurt.)
Anyway, I set out yesterday on a trek to AE with my gift card to look for two things, only one of which would likely be covered by the free $25:
1. A pair of sunglasses. (Because it is snowy and bright here in Chicago and because I typically throw my sunglasses in the bottom of an overlarge hobo pack and crush them within a season. This season I forgot which of the many homeless-man-bags I threw them in until they were covered in gum and lotion.)
2. A super-adorable and flattering shirt to wear out to a bar. Or dinner. Or anywhere other than my couch.
I found a decent pair of sunglasses that do not eat my entire face (or otherwise make me look like I have a tiny head) within 4.7 seconds and with $10 to spare. Naturally I had to use up the full value of the gift card and while picking out some shirts to try on, I realized that I was wearing jeans that do not make their way out to dinners or bars EVER because they are four inches too long, have holes and may land me on What Not to Wear. I needed some model jeans to show me the full potential of the new shirts. And at this point I face-planted off the shopping wagon - something I have been dutifully riding for a full six months. I greedily grabbed up pairs and pairs of jeans and sale tops and did two full turns through the store to check for shelves I missed the first time through.
Arriving in the dressing room with a full wardrobe, I realized the errors of my ways in this process. Error number one was wearing giant giraffe socks over a pair of tie-dyed leg warmers under my jeans. This made trying on skinny jeans nearly impossible. Error number two was wearing a non-bra, or a uni-boob-enabling device. This made me look like I had stepped out of pioneer days and had made a conscious decision to retain my matronly figure, shelf-chest included. Error number three was clearly coming into a clothing store thinking that it would sell clothes made for humans instead of paper dolls.
As someone incapable of sewing, I expect that when I buy a shirt, it will be sewn into shirt-shape. I can cut holes in my pillowcase just fine on my own. I need you to make me look like I am not wearing a pillowcase. I was so confused about the recent trends I even called the dressing-room assistant over to help me.
Me: (Pulling at pillowcase-shirt that extends far beyond waist.) "Is it supposed to look like this?"
Evil Attendant 1: "Yes. It's the Bohemian Look. If you can imagine it, think of it paired with khaki shorts, sort of billowy."
Me: "Oh, ok." (Looking at self in mirror to avoid eye-contact so as not to let on that I have NO IDEA what she is talking about. Also cannot fathom when I would wear khaki shorts. Am I going to summer camp this year?)
Evil Attendant 1: "You could even go up a size."
Up a size? Are you kidding me? The actual shirt I am trying on could swaddle four watermelons with room to spare. Am I supposed to look like I am wearing clothes formerly worn by a large man, save for the fact that it has been bejeweled? While I am pondering whether or not to take her up on this offer, two things happen. One, I try on a pair of jeans in my numeric size that refuse to come up over my hips. Two, while I pull at the belt loops, I hear a woman two doors down ask for a pair of jeans in size double zero, extra long.
So now I am sweating in my leg warmers under the shriveled pants and bed-sheet-inspired top and feeling like a big fat loser. So I did what any normal person would do. I put on the sunglasses. I tried on the rest of the clothes in a brown haze and posed in that Victoria's Secret/impossible-to-do-in-real-life-without-falling way. I gave myself a pep talk via the sunglasses - namely that without stilts implanted in my legs, my bone structure does not allow for me to be a size double zero, extra long. Plus I don't actually want to have the silhouette of a rubber band. Revived, I tried on the remaining pants. And called the dressing room assistant over again.
Me: "Are these supposed to look like this?" (Standing in a cropped jeans and shirt combo that makes me look like a starving farm boy after a growth spurt.)
I expected her to say, "Yes, but you could go up a size." But instead,
Evil Attendant 2: "Yes. The jeans are supposed to be loose, but fitted in the waist."
Hearing effectively that I should NOT be able to pull the waist away far enough to shove a cat in there, I asked for a size smaller. Needless to say, I totally bought those smaller jeans. And the sunglasses.
The point is that sometimes you just need something that makes you feel normal. Or closer to the idea you have of yourself. (And more attractive than a daily dose of ratty jeans and leg warmers would allow.) Last year, as part of the terrible year my parents have had, my family had some major financial setbacks. By "setbacks," I mean "devastating fiscal earthquakes." They have had to do without a lot and disposable income is obsolete. I know we all think we have it bad, and even though I had to borrow money for groceries after being fired, (yes, it's true, thank you M for buying me food!) even I can now enjoy a dinner out every now and then. At least until the government stops paying me or M breaks up with me for being a freeloading sack of shit. Anyway, my parents' situation was closer to my initial grocery loans than my recent jeans-shopping-free-fall.
When I was little, my family was in a similar situation. This is how I learned A.) to manage my finances and B.) specific tricks of surviving broke-dom. Like buying cheap liquid hand soap and stretching it to last twice as long by mixing it with water. When I moved into my current apartment, my parents bought me a couple of fancy hand soap pumps that they love. When I went home to visit a few months later, I saw cheapo hand soap in their bathroom. Granted, I'm not sure you can do much better than Black Raspberry anything, let alone Softsoap, but you could tell it wasn't their first choice. It was a symptom of the setbacks -- a constant reminder of how they had been effectively squeezed out of having what they deserved. It wasn't their normal.
For Christmas last year, since I had three jobs at the time (and since I spend my extra money on sunglasses and gifts, which might explain why I had to mortgage my food,) I bought my parents a couple of their favorite hand soaps. I also got them a gift certificate to their favorite restaurant in town and included a separate envelope with a cash tip. (I'm sure this is common practice to most people, but I learned this from my friend KZ. When we bought a massage gift certificate for one of our other friends, she suggested sending along the cash tip as well. This way your gift sidesteps that whole awkward recipient question of whether or not they just got screwed into spending their own money. Brilliant, KZ.) Anyway, my parents saved this gift certificate and used it to go out to dinner for their anniversary.
Dinner out is a luxury item in much the same way that designer hand soap is. And if you are in a position to enjoy either or both without thought, then you should consider yourself lucky. But everyone should be able to enjoy both, even with a little thought. Everyone deserves their first choice scents and an evening off. Just like I totally deserve those jeans. For the record though, last night I wore the same shirt I have worn every weekend for the past six months. And I just washed my hands with the lovely combo of Dial and water.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
The Superhero Gift
Sometimes after yoga on Saturday mornings I watch cartoons. Mostly this is because I don't have cable and cartoons are the ONLY things on the basic channels you can get with a free cable box and rabbit ears on Saturday mornings. Unless you count Cindy Crawford's AMAZING skin care secret, but that is not as much fun to watch while eating. (And doing sudoku. I tend to multi-task at mealtimes.) Anyway, having sampled several different cartoon series, I think that the quality of cartoons has gone downhill in the years since I was an avid watcher. Not that the Smurfs were best example, but here are some of the shows I've come across recently:
1. A show about pieces of sushi with superpowers and their side-kick, Wasabi.
2. A show about girls and THEIR OWN HORSES. The main girl is White, with blonde hair and blue eyes, of course.
3. A show about animals from various continents and biomes getting themselves into easily fixable scenarios. Example: a hippo, a duck, a mouse, an elephant, a pelican and a bunny all get stuck in a pond (I know, it sounds like a bad joke) and have to figure out how to get out. First of all, how are the duck and the hippo even stuck? They LIVE IN THE WATER.
4. Several remakes of old shows, like Spiderman, but this time he's in high school. Lame.
I know that some of these elements have always appeared in children's shows, and are designed for kids to use their cognitive skills to figure out solutions before the plot does. I get that. But the difference between the dumbest-animals-ever-who-coexist-in-the-wrong-climate and something like Sesame Street is that these animals have NO sense of humor. It was like watching Samuel Beckett throw his characters into a pond. You could argue that My Little Pony was about horses as well, but they also had flying horses and no blatant race issues, so I hold firm on that point as well. And superhero sushi? Really? How does a flying piece of eel get anyone fired up? I'm sure people felt the same about Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but at least turtles are real things that move. Sushi, in case you weren't sure, is supposed to be dead. Because you EAT it.
Anyway, the real kicker for me was when I saw Power Rangers on TV this morning. Like, the actual show from 1995, not like an updated version. The only difference is that they added 1960s-Batman-style action words and superlatives during some sequences, like CRASH, or WOW! Keep in mind that this is a show that was essentially stolen from Asia and not changed at all then either. So at least they're consistent. When they brought it to America, they looked at the evil characters and tried to make English sentences to match the mouth movements and then created a plot-line based on those nonsense phrases. Watch the show - this is totally what they did. Clearly they tried to keep costs down, and if they can now recycle the same shows without actually paying to change them, then all the better for them. But it's weird to see it on TV now. In today's show, Billy was wearing what can only be described as a capri janitor's uniform. In the culture of Saturday morning cartoons, where the goal is really for kids to come away from the screen asking to buy things, I'm not sure if Power Rangers can repeat their original success. Unless short-alls really do make a comeback. (In which case, Megasaurus it up!)
I wasn't even all that young when Power Rangers enjoyed their heyday. But my brother was, and he was a superfan. I mean, he watched the shows in full Ranger regalia, helmet and all. Holding his Red Power Ranger action figure and activating the power belt during appropriate fight sequences. He would also perform fight sequences, or at least his closest approximation. (This included lots of kicks and spinning, but mostly included him puffing his cheeks and whooshing his breath through clenched teeth. I think this was supposed to be either a ninja technique or the sound of fast-moving limbs.)
This is the same kid who made up new lyrics to Disney's The Lion King. G's version is as follows:
"The LI-on King.
The LI-on King.
I-love-it-in-my-heart-I'll-never-for-GET-it."
I can't even read the words Lion King without singing this song now.
I mention all of this to give you a sense of how into cartoons my brother was. We both have a slight over-active imagination, as mentioned before, and there are pictures of each of us, eight years apart, dressed up in weird gear for dinner. Me in red swimming goggles, him in a Batman mask and cape. The cape was actually a Christmas present for G one year from "Santa." My mom designed and sewed it herself out of black and blue flannel. My brother wore it EVERY DAY until it permanently smelled like applesauce and sweat.
My brother and I would watch Batman: The Animated Series every day after school. I was slightly too old to fall in the target audience, but Batman is my favorite superhero, and this series was the first to really do him justice. You can disagree, but to me, Batman is way better than Superman or Spiderman because he's human, without mutant improvements, and driven to effect change because he was thrown a tragic curveball. He made himself into a badass.
So G in his cape and I in my self-conscious, pre-teen way would watch this show and dream of being badasses. I don't think it's any surprise that now we both like working out so much. So for Christmas last year, in my brother's stocking, I got him two things:
1. A jump rope to train with.
2. A DVD of The Dark Knight.
We have seen both of Christopher Nolan's new Batman re-imaginings together and love them in the way that we used to love the animated series. I know that DVDs aren't super creative gifts, but in this case, all the imagination exists in the movie itself. They did all the work, and we are just appreciative. The jump rope is how to shape yourself into a badass. Plus, G is studying to be an actor, and every actor needs a collection of roles for motivation. I think he has created a better fight sequence because of it.
1. A show about pieces of sushi with superpowers and their side-kick, Wasabi.
2. A show about girls and THEIR OWN HORSES. The main girl is White, with blonde hair and blue eyes, of course.
3. A show about animals from various continents and biomes getting themselves into easily fixable scenarios. Example: a hippo, a duck, a mouse, an elephant, a pelican and a bunny all get stuck in a pond (I know, it sounds like a bad joke) and have to figure out how to get out. First of all, how are the duck and the hippo even stuck? They LIVE IN THE WATER.
4. Several remakes of old shows, like Spiderman, but this time he's in high school. Lame.
I know that some of these elements have always appeared in children's shows, and are designed for kids to use their cognitive skills to figure out solutions before the plot does. I get that. But the difference between the dumbest-animals-ever-who-coexist-in-the-wrong-climate and something like Sesame Street is that these animals have NO sense of humor. It was like watching Samuel Beckett throw his characters into a pond. You could argue that My Little Pony was about horses as well, but they also had flying horses and no blatant race issues, so I hold firm on that point as well. And superhero sushi? Really? How does a flying piece of eel get anyone fired up? I'm sure people felt the same about Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but at least turtles are real things that move. Sushi, in case you weren't sure, is supposed to be dead. Because you EAT it.
Anyway, the real kicker for me was when I saw Power Rangers on TV this morning. Like, the actual show from 1995, not like an updated version. The only difference is that they added 1960s-Batman-style action words and superlatives during some sequences, like CRASH, or WOW! Keep in mind that this is a show that was essentially stolen from Asia and not changed at all then either. So at least they're consistent. When they brought it to America, they looked at the evil characters and tried to make English sentences to match the mouth movements and then created a plot-line based on those nonsense phrases. Watch the show - this is totally what they did. Clearly they tried to keep costs down, and if they can now recycle the same shows without actually paying to change them, then all the better for them. But it's weird to see it on TV now. In today's show, Billy was wearing what can only be described as a capri janitor's uniform. In the culture of Saturday morning cartoons, where the goal is really for kids to come away from the screen asking to buy things, I'm not sure if Power Rangers can repeat their original success. Unless short-alls really do make a comeback. (In which case, Megasaurus it up!)
I wasn't even all that young when Power Rangers enjoyed their heyday. But my brother was, and he was a superfan. I mean, he watched the shows in full Ranger regalia, helmet and all. Holding his Red Power Ranger action figure and activating the power belt during appropriate fight sequences. He would also perform fight sequences, or at least his closest approximation. (This included lots of kicks and spinning, but mostly included him puffing his cheeks and whooshing his breath through clenched teeth. I think this was supposed to be either a ninja technique or the sound of fast-moving limbs.)
This is the same kid who made up new lyrics to Disney's The Lion King. G's version is as follows:
"The LI-on King.
The LI-on King.
I-love-it-in-my-heart-I'll-never-for-GET-it."
I can't even read the words Lion King without singing this song now.
I mention all of this to give you a sense of how into cartoons my brother was. We both have a slight over-active imagination, as mentioned before, and there are pictures of each of us, eight years apart, dressed up in weird gear for dinner. Me in red swimming goggles, him in a Batman mask and cape. The cape was actually a Christmas present for G one year from "Santa." My mom designed and sewed it herself out of black and blue flannel. My brother wore it EVERY DAY until it permanently smelled like applesauce and sweat.
My brother and I would watch Batman: The Animated Series every day after school. I was slightly too old to fall in the target audience, but Batman is my favorite superhero, and this series was the first to really do him justice. You can disagree, but to me, Batman is way better than Superman or Spiderman because he's human, without mutant improvements, and driven to effect change because he was thrown a tragic curveball. He made himself into a badass.
So G in his cape and I in my self-conscious, pre-teen way would watch this show and dream of being badasses. I don't think it's any surprise that now we both like working out so much. So for Christmas last year, in my brother's stocking, I got him two things:
1. A jump rope to train with.
2. A DVD of The Dark Knight.
We have seen both of Christopher Nolan's new Batman re-imaginings together and love them in the way that we used to love the animated series. I know that DVDs aren't super creative gifts, but in this case, all the imagination exists in the movie itself. They did all the work, and we are just appreciative. The jump rope is how to shape yourself into a badass. Plus, G is studying to be an actor, and every actor needs a collection of roles for motivation. I think he has created a better fight sequence because of it.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
The Recycled Gift
About three weeks ago I had a major meltdown that included me throwing an Ugg across the room and lots of pouting. This meltdown was for two reasons:
1. Obvious lack of control over employment.
2. Obvious blame of this lack of control on my Uggs.
Obviously. I love my Uggs. They may be the best thing to ever happen to short people with jeans that are too long and drag in the snow. Circa three years ago, I used to sport pants with salt sunsets that would spread from the hems to the backs of my knees. Not anymore! Plus they are warm and cushy and when I sit at Starbucks typing, I am way less freezing. I also enjoy leg warmers, and Uggs are like leg warmer shoes. The problem with my Uggs is really a problem with me, and that I try to shove too much jean material in them instead of fully succumbing to the leggings trend. (A problem I blame on being too short for my jeans AND somehow having mutantly large calves disguised as normal calves.)
Anyway, pushing boot-cut jeans inside boots results in a bunching around the ankle that rubs uncomfortably. This is what I was obviously trying to explain three weeks ago.
Me: "UGH!!! I CAN'T GET IT!"
M: "What is going on over there?"
Me: "I can't get my stupid jeans under my feet."
M: "Your jeans are not supposed to go under your feet."
Me: "I KNOW. I'm trying to get them under so I can step on them inside my boot and they won't BUNCH UP! UGHHHHH!!!" (throwing Ugg)
There may have been more throwing and more Ughs (pun intended, thank you very much,) but M was completely ignoring me at this point.
This demonstration may seem like an overreaction to a stupid problem and just a delayed response to being unfairly fired. Which it was. UNTIL TODAY. When, on my four mile walk home, I felt that familiar rub at the back of my ankle. Reflecting upon the events of three weeks ago, I decided to suck it up and just keep walking. (In all honesty, what else was I going to do? It is one thing to throw a tantrum in front of your boyfriend. It is another to throw an Ugg into traffic.)
So I walked. And after a while my ankle felt fine. I got home, put my bag down, turned on the TV, checked my phone (because I can't hear it while I am walking) and then pulled off my boots. To find my ankles covered in blood. COVERED. As in, I had to WASH MY FEET TO FIND THE WOUND so I could apply bandages. I now have a dark stain on the outside of my left Ugg to prove the validity of my childish tantrum. So there, meltdown.
However, I am also scared that this is karmic retribution for my MOON BOOT rant yesterday. (FYI, the all-caps is not just because this should be read in a loud voice, but also because the actual brand is all-capped. Feel free to read it in a yelling voice though.) So, I'm sorry MOON BOOTS and MOON BOOT owner. You are less ridiculous because your footwear is large enough to account for even bell-bottomed jeans without injury.
I would like some more karmic gold stars to sway things back in my direction and avoid more blood, so bear with me as I talk about reincarnation on Ash Wednesday...irreverent? (I am raising my hand again and pointing to myself.) Anyway, if you can overlook the fact that the first time I saw It's A Wonderful Life, I shouted that they had stolen my idea that we all become stars after we die, I have always been partial to the idea of reincarnation. I like that what we do in this life informs the challenges we take on in the next, and that we are working towards perfect, but are never quite there. I like that elements from one life may be repeated or recycled in the next and we wouldn't even know.
For Father's Day a couple of years ago, I recycled some junk and made a reincarnated wind chime. Both of my parents are partial to wind chimes. If you are friends with my parents and you move into a new house or a new city, my parents will most likely give you a wind chime as a housewarming present. As mentioned previously, my dad is both an artist and a carpenter. He routinely gives new life to old elements. On several visits to Chicago, my dad wanted to visit a certain store near my apartment. This store did not even have a storefront. Or windows. It looked like a forgotten factory for things-no-one-wants-to-buy. On one visit we finally went in, and inside it looked like a warehouse for things-no-one-wants-to-buy. Like old nails, wood with holes in it, pieces of glass. My dad was in heaven.
A couple of months after this visit, I went back to the Forgotten Factory and bought a few old keys (the kind that might unlock the Secret Garden, not the kind that might unlock your neighbor's apartment) and a round piece of beveled wood. I drilled a few holes in the wood and painted it various colors in an abstract sort of design that I wasn't particularly happy with, so I painted the underside in happier yellow colors in a Pollock-esque abstract. I strung the keys on thread at varying heights through the holes and made sure they made noise when a wind came through. Or a fan. Or my breath at birthday-candle-wish speed.
The wind chime now hangs in my dad's home office. It is a musical reincarnation of several lives at once. The keys from cabinets or treasure chests or garden gates make notes beneath the wood from a banister or a table or a door frame. The Forgotten Factory closed a few months after my visit. It is now an Anthropologie. And every time I sift through their door knobs and hooks, I wonder if any of them came from that warehouse of things no one wanted.
So, karma, I believe in you. And so do my ankles.
1. Obvious lack of control over employment.
2. Obvious blame of this lack of control on my Uggs.
Obviously. I love my Uggs. They may be the best thing to ever happen to short people with jeans that are too long and drag in the snow. Circa three years ago, I used to sport pants with salt sunsets that would spread from the hems to the backs of my knees. Not anymore! Plus they are warm and cushy and when I sit at Starbucks typing, I am way less freezing. I also enjoy leg warmers, and Uggs are like leg warmer shoes. The problem with my Uggs is really a problem with me, and that I try to shove too much jean material in them instead of fully succumbing to the leggings trend. (A problem I blame on being too short for my jeans AND somehow having mutantly large calves disguised as normal calves.)
Anyway, pushing boot-cut jeans inside boots results in a bunching around the ankle that rubs uncomfortably. This is what I was obviously trying to explain three weeks ago.
Me: "UGH!!! I CAN'T GET IT!"
M: "What is going on over there?"
Me: "I can't get my stupid jeans under my feet."
M: "Your jeans are not supposed to go under your feet."
Me: "I KNOW. I'm trying to get them under so I can step on them inside my boot and they won't BUNCH UP! UGHHHHH!!!" (throwing Ugg)
There may have been more throwing and more Ughs (pun intended, thank you very much,) but M was completely ignoring me at this point.
This demonstration may seem like an overreaction to a stupid problem and just a delayed response to being unfairly fired. Which it was. UNTIL TODAY. When, on my four mile walk home, I felt that familiar rub at the back of my ankle. Reflecting upon the events of three weeks ago, I decided to suck it up and just keep walking. (In all honesty, what else was I going to do? It is one thing to throw a tantrum in front of your boyfriend. It is another to throw an Ugg into traffic.)
So I walked. And after a while my ankle felt fine. I got home, put my bag down, turned on the TV, checked my phone (because I can't hear it while I am walking) and then pulled off my boots. To find my ankles covered in blood. COVERED. As in, I had to WASH MY FEET TO FIND THE WOUND so I could apply bandages. I now have a dark stain on the outside of my left Ugg to prove the validity of my childish tantrum. So there, meltdown.
However, I am also scared that this is karmic retribution for my MOON BOOT rant yesterday. (FYI, the all-caps is not just because this should be read in a loud voice, but also because the actual brand is all-capped. Feel free to read it in a yelling voice though.) So, I'm sorry MOON BOOTS and MOON BOOT owner. You are less ridiculous because your footwear is large enough to account for even bell-bottomed jeans without injury.
I would like some more karmic gold stars to sway things back in my direction and avoid more blood, so bear with me as I talk about reincarnation on Ash Wednesday...irreverent? (I am raising my hand again and pointing to myself.) Anyway, if you can overlook the fact that the first time I saw It's A Wonderful Life, I shouted that they had stolen my idea that we all become stars after we die, I have always been partial to the idea of reincarnation. I like that what we do in this life informs the challenges we take on in the next, and that we are working towards perfect, but are never quite there. I like that elements from one life may be repeated or recycled in the next and we wouldn't even know.
For Father's Day a couple of years ago, I recycled some junk and made a reincarnated wind chime. Both of my parents are partial to wind chimes. If you are friends with my parents and you move into a new house or a new city, my parents will most likely give you a wind chime as a housewarming present. As mentioned previously, my dad is both an artist and a carpenter. He routinely gives new life to old elements. On several visits to Chicago, my dad wanted to visit a certain store near my apartment. This store did not even have a storefront. Or windows. It looked like a forgotten factory for things-no-one-wants-to-buy. On one visit we finally went in, and inside it looked like a warehouse for things-no-one-wants-to-buy. Like old nails, wood with holes in it, pieces of glass. My dad was in heaven.
A couple of months after this visit, I went back to the Forgotten Factory and bought a few old keys (the kind that might unlock the Secret Garden, not the kind that might unlock your neighbor's apartment) and a round piece of beveled wood. I drilled a few holes in the wood and painted it various colors in an abstract sort of design that I wasn't particularly happy with, so I painted the underside in happier yellow colors in a Pollock-esque abstract. I strung the keys on thread at varying heights through the holes and made sure they made noise when a wind came through. Or a fan. Or my breath at birthday-candle-wish speed.
The wind chime now hangs in my dad's home office. It is a musical reincarnation of several lives at once. The keys from cabinets or treasure chests or garden gates make notes beneath the wood from a banister or a table or a door frame. The Forgotten Factory closed a few months after my visit. It is now an Anthropologie. And every time I sift through their door knobs and hooks, I wonder if any of them came from that warehouse of things no one wanted.
So, karma, I believe in you. And so do my ankles.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
The Ridiculous Gift
Apparently Buzz Lightyear works out at my gym. How else would you explain these sitting next to the coats? Seriously, I'm sorry, but who wears ridiculously giant snow shoes with MOON BOOT written in equally giant letters and then skins a poor defenseless Muppet to trick out the top? WHO??? (In case my carefully researched Internet picture does not do them justice, they are just massively huge shoes. I almost pulled them out just to take a picture of them next to my legs. They come up over my knees.)
I also seriously considered awkwardly staking out the coat rack area until the owner showed up just to see who this deranged fashion victim was, but I thought better of it. What would I do when he/she showed up?
"Aha! You are wearing crazy shoes," I could yell. With which they could then kick me a full 89 feet.
The thing that really gets me about these ridiculous boots, which I understand have been around since 1971 and should have gone out of style when consumers stopped doing acid, is that they retail for around $135. Here are the things I could do with $135:
1. Pay my electric bill.
2. Pay my cell phone bill AND my gas bill.
3. Buy at least seven gifts for assorted friends and family.
4. Buy half of a plane ticket to see my brother.
5. Buy two pairs of NORMAL boots.
Even if I weren't underemployed I wouldn't pay $135 to look like a goon. I can do that all by myself. I do not need the help of neon green fur to make me look unqualified for anything other than jumping. Not that I haven't spent money on needless things in better times. Here are the top five ridiculous purchases I have made in the past few years:
1. A piece of green fabric from American Apparel that promised to be versatile-y shaped and twisted into strapless shirts, beach-ready skirts and wraps. I have not been able to do anything with it other than use it as a belt. All other combinations slide and unravel and generally expose more of me than necessary.
2. A pair of purple Steve Madden peep-toe heels with a jeweled accent that are a full size and a half too small, but that I bought because they were on sale for $30 and I could get them on my feet. I have worn them exactly 1.25 times. (I may have hurled them across the room after the second attempt.)
3. A bottle of rose-scented lotion, which smelled perfectly fine in the store, but which makes me smell like a musty weed.
4. A bright blue wallet, which fell apart exactly 10 days after purchase. It also did not accommodate regular money, requiring me to fold my dollars just at the ends to make them fit, like it was made for die-hard Monopoly players.
5. A pair of fire-engine red linen dress pants. Don't even ask. I have no idea.
Even still, these five purchases add up to about $100, which is STILL LESS THAN THE MOON BOOTS.
Anyway, in addition to decking myself out in tasteless gear, I'm sure I have given many ridiculous gifts, too. (I just remembered the gold hair-mascara I gave to a friend in high school. *cringe.*) But sometimes, ridiculosity is exactly the perfect gift.
A couple of years ago, my very best friend K went through the very worst-kind-of-break-up. The kind where you have to stop wearing a very sparkly type of ring. (It is important to note that K is absolutely the sweetest person ever and the worst thing I have ever heard her say about anyone is that they are mean. Everything about this situation was unfair and horribly, terrifyingly mean. And yet, she retained every ounce of her own personality. Teaching made me impatient and bitter, and this ordeal made K braver and better.) As her several months of awfulness were transitioning into the first few months of recovery, she giggled that the worst part of all of it was that she had to stop wearing that sparkly jewelry.
So for Christmas, I got her a ridiculous assortment of sparkly rings to "replace" it. At the paper store down the street from me, they have a beautiful array of what you might call "costume jewelry." Or what I might call "awesome." I picked out a few that I though K might like and told her to dress up her ring finger as much as she wanted. At least now she could match it to her outfit.
It is ridiculous to assume that anyone would confuse awesome costume jewelry with crazy-expensive diamonds, but they are not for other people. It is those awesome pieces that represent liberation and happiness in a time of ridiculous confusion. So sometimes an over-the-top look is perfectly in style and not ridiculous at all. And sometimes it makes you look like a cartoon astronaut. Ridiculousness is a fine line not to be walked in MOON BOOTS.
I also seriously considered awkwardly staking out the coat rack area until the owner showed up just to see who this deranged fashion victim was, but I thought better of it. What would I do when he/she showed up?
"Aha! You are wearing crazy shoes," I could yell. With which they could then kick me a full 89 feet.
The thing that really gets me about these ridiculous boots, which I understand have been around since 1971 and should have gone out of style when consumers stopped doing acid, is that they retail for around $135. Here are the things I could do with $135:
1. Pay my electric bill.
2. Pay my cell phone bill AND my gas bill.
3. Buy at least seven gifts for assorted friends and family.
4. Buy half of a plane ticket to see my brother.
5. Buy two pairs of NORMAL boots.
Even if I weren't underemployed I wouldn't pay $135 to look like a goon. I can do that all by myself. I do not need the help of neon green fur to make me look unqualified for anything other than jumping. Not that I haven't spent money on needless things in better times. Here are the top five ridiculous purchases I have made in the past few years:
1. A piece of green fabric from American Apparel that promised to be versatile-y shaped and twisted into strapless shirts, beach-ready skirts and wraps. I have not been able to do anything with it other than use it as a belt. All other combinations slide and unravel and generally expose more of me than necessary.
2. A pair of purple Steve Madden peep-toe heels with a jeweled accent that are a full size and a half too small, but that I bought because they were on sale for $30 and I could get them on my feet. I have worn them exactly 1.25 times. (I may have hurled them across the room after the second attempt.)
3. A bottle of rose-scented lotion, which smelled perfectly fine in the store, but which makes me smell like a musty weed.
4. A bright blue wallet, which fell apart exactly 10 days after purchase. It also did not accommodate regular money, requiring me to fold my dollars just at the ends to make them fit, like it was made for die-hard Monopoly players.
5. A pair of fire-engine red linen dress pants. Don't even ask. I have no idea.
Even still, these five purchases add up to about $100, which is STILL LESS THAN THE MOON BOOTS.
Anyway, in addition to decking myself out in tasteless gear, I'm sure I have given many ridiculous gifts, too. (I just remembered the gold hair-mascara I gave to a friend in high school. *cringe.*) But sometimes, ridiculosity is exactly the perfect gift.
A couple of years ago, my very best friend K went through the very worst-kind-of-break-up. The kind where you have to stop wearing a very sparkly type of ring. (It is important to note that K is absolutely the sweetest person ever and the worst thing I have ever heard her say about anyone is that they are mean. Everything about this situation was unfair and horribly, terrifyingly mean. And yet, she retained every ounce of her own personality. Teaching made me impatient and bitter, and this ordeal made K braver and better.) As her several months of awfulness were transitioning into the first few months of recovery, she giggled that the worst part of all of it was that she had to stop wearing that sparkly jewelry.
So for Christmas, I got her a ridiculous assortment of sparkly rings to "replace" it. At the paper store down the street from me, they have a beautiful array of what you might call "costume jewelry." Or what I might call "awesome." I picked out a few that I though K might like and told her to dress up her ring finger as much as she wanted. At least now she could match it to her outfit.
It is ridiculous to assume that anyone would confuse awesome costume jewelry with crazy-expensive diamonds, but they are not for other people. It is those awesome pieces that represent liberation and happiness in a time of ridiculous confusion. So sometimes an over-the-top look is perfectly in style and not ridiculous at all. And sometimes it makes you look like a cartoon astronaut. Ridiculousness is a fine line not to be walked in MOON BOOTS.
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