Tuesday, July 24

This Week, In Things That Kept Me Clothed: Summertime Edition

Four things I covered my body in this past week, ranging from learning that the best part of putting on a dress that's too tight is that it forces you to have good posture, a pictorial explanation for why i can't stop shopping at Aritzia, an exploration in how I'd dress if I was an actual working person with an actual desk job and actual places to go that necessitate large umbrellas, and sluttin it up' with lace cutouts for a trip to the museum.

I still can't figure out if that black dress is skank-o-rama or not, though a seventy-year-old woman in the Met's bathroom complimented me on how see-through it was, which I believe was a sign from a higher female power that I've been given the green light.

My indoor uniform for this past week. Couldn't believe how much better it looked in a pile on my bed than on my body while slumped in a posture-corrective desk chair.

Before: What I intend to look like all night at Young The Giant's Central Park show
After: What I looked like after ten minutes of standing in the sun.

Thus, a field guide to not looking like complete shit when at an outdoor concert:
1. Side ponytail to give the illusion of what your hair looked like at home, which will only fool yourself
2. Sunglasses to hide the look in your eyes that says "c'moooon, please stop thinking about how much I'm sweating"
3. The thinnest, low-cut dress you can find in your closet, to distract from your organs cooking inside your too-warm torso
4. An elephant purse, because why wouldn't you bring an elephant purse everywhere??? Oh, and it's a great distraction from that whole face situation.
5. An oasis to popsicle-ize yourself in. A Trailer. Dressing room. Shade. Beer-over-head. Anything.

Stick to those and you could look like, well, a girl who vowed to stop eating the guys' catering every time she goes to a show and wound up swiping an old, soggy cheese sandwich from the lunchtime delivery as well as the crew's pizza. So, by now, I should probably just be banned from anything involving direct sunlight, amps and (debatably) free food.

Got my new Of A Kind Baggu edition in the mail! As per normal crazy behavior, I'm already doing that thing where you don't want to destroy any of your nice stuff so you use your crap instead and "save it for another day," which I beg you, friends and higher ups at reality television programming, to set up a Rosie Pope-style intervention for. I literally purchased it for the sole purpose of having something nice and ladylike instead of the "clutch" i got for $3 in a Southern Illinois dig-for-the-goods community garage sale years ago, and have used that sack of brown, ripped trash twice since since Monday while this sits on my desk in pristine shape. I should probably go put a few sticks of gum, a credit card and a handful of receipts and loose bills in this bad boy to break it in before I leave it on a dirty table in two week's time and stain it like crazy anyway.

Was trying to figure out if I'd look better next to the root beer float we made in my ice cream class or worse. Better? Worse? Who wore it best?

It's my dinner party and I'll dress like a deranged second grade teacher if I want to. And so I did! I had a few friends over last week for a potluckaroonie, and while I'm fairly certain Martha Stewart should have a clothing line for this occasion if she doesn't already, this schmate is the best of both worlds — it's vintage enough where it looks like I intentionally chose to dress like I work with children all day, and resourceful enough (pockets! baggy!) to work as a big ol' apron.

And, speaking of chefs, I made a fucking bundt cake! Feel like volunteering at the church charity drive and picking up my children at soccer practice are right around the bend considering I've lived with Jewish people for the majority of my life and NO ONE has EVER made fucking bundt cake, but I did it! And, actually, burnt the shit out of it, which now all sort of makes sense. No worries — it's nothing a little manic, late-night icing-making couldn't fix. I'm a regular Paula fucking Deen...if Paula Deen had to run to the grocery store ten minutes before it closes because she dyslexiced up the ratios and accidentally made sugar water instead. Gloop gloop gloop.

1 comment:

Shir said...

I am highly amused by you, though I do wish you'd be a dear and tell me where some of your clothes are from haha.

I look forward to seeing more of your style.

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