Reason Number 8^2: Warmer Weather Than Previously Anticipated

Oh lord. Back in the city, which is slushier than I'd like, but at least the weather is warmer than it could be.

My black t shirt is coated in angora from my brand new sweater present, and my hearing is impaired from flying.

But naps are grand, and I will take one, along with a scone. Along with DayQuil. And potentially (!) a hot toddy if I can find some scotch in time.

New Year, New Sheets, and also I found a never-been-used memory stick in my closet in Georgia that I will use to transfer at least a few files to my new computer.

I also read a bunch of old, excruciatingly embarrassing letters I randomly found in the bowels of my desk, which probably hasn't been unlocked in seven years. I think, above most things, it's important to embrace whatever kind of lameness your past holds, never letting it keep you down, but also never letting yourself forget who you were, how much you've learned.

Reason Number JESUS: People.

Today, I am annoyed by humans. Very. Also, I have a cold that makes me sneeze every ten seconds or so and makes my nose and eyes embarrassingly red. Nothing like a handful of wet tissues and perpetual snot dribble to make me feel repulsive.

I did find suede pants in my size for a billion percent off, and they're not too long, and the perfect buttery color and consistency. And also very warm.

In spite of my extraordinary perfectionism in high school and (parts of) college, I've never once protested a grade.

But in spite of it all there are sphinx kittens spreading their slithery paws and batting at tepid bathwater with intimidating speed.

And a whole new year to look forward to, preceded by a lame annoying night of partying in the presence of assholes. Or, in my case, hanging out by myself, or possibly watching male strippers prance on top of a bar with a dear dear friend. The things we do! Especially on ridiculous, terrible holidays of death.

I'm grateful, though. And I appreciate the perpetuity of nasal cleansing, calcium supplement ingestion, and, when I get around to it, exercise.

Reason Number 100000: Story Balm, Overshare

"How would you write the perfect story of getting a pap smear?"

--Gynecologist, This Morning, upon my admission to being a writer

Hands down, the best question any doctor has ever asked me. It really made me think, how would I tell the perfect story of getting a pap smear? As I drove to make manifest my prescription for Nasonex, and also to purchase a Neti-Pot for the purpose of alleviating extraordinary nasal congestion--for those of you with sinus problems, I discovered today that this bizarre blue teapot works wonders, though it feels counterintuitively uncomfortable--I realized that because of one thoughtful physician I could go back and revise a years-old story, potentially with better results than I'd thought possible.

Thank goodness for no surgery. Daily nasal exercises, equalizing pressure. Perpetuity.

Today, after hospital overkill, I will grade. And also seek out antiques beforehand.

I would give anything to be in the library right now. Peace and quiet, the imminence of a low-hanging concrete ceiling, the soft mildewy odor of brittle Asian volumes. Rarely visited study spots. And more.

Reason Number 100: Eat, Pray, Suck

I got a very much needed new computer for Christmas, for which I am extraordinarily grateful.

Not worrying I'm going to lose my entire thesis is something to not kill myself over, that's for sure. I am knocking on proverbial wood as I type that. Because there is no wood in close proximity. But oh, if there were!

Ely ate a bunch of candy canes and puked like eight times all over the living room floor. There were little candy-cane colored puddles to prove it.

Sometimes I worry blogging is selfish, or self-absorbed, or not as edifying as reading the Canterbury Tales in the original Middle English, or singing to nursing home patients, or a number of other things that aren't sitting by myself in front of a computer generating sentences from random musings and a menagerie of neuroses. But I guess it's alright. It's like a less serious writing exercise, a form of release for a small audience, or not even.

Reason Number 666: Pnumonic Dervish

When I was in eighth grade, I employed a Third Eye Blind song* as a mnemonic device for remembering the polyatomic ions. It still winds its way into my head sometimes. Like today, I'm googling for ways to clean the insides of my shearling clog boots, the general consensus being sodium bicarbonate, which is actually a chemical compound, but bicarbonate is a polyatomic ion, at least it was according to Third Eye Blind, who also reminded us, please, to step away from that ledge. It sucks I don't actually know a damn thing about chemistry, but I do remember strings of words like crazy.

Especially song lyrics.

Incidentally, I always forget how to drive, but then my terrible driving skills haunt me when no one's around my mom's house and I NEED to drive to the Dunwoody Cobbler to have some shoes repaired, or purchase a large cup of highly-caffeinated coffee without killing myself and everyone in the process.

Embarrassing fact: I didn't realize exactly how to cut, copy, paste by keyboard until two days ago. For some reason I feel the need to admit this over the internet rather than with individual people. At least it's in the open and off my chest (cliche x 2).

Laguardia Airport has eliminated their Starbucks and replaced it with some kind of strange replica of hipstery Brooklyn coffee shops, complete with pour-over! I died a little, mostly in embarrassment over my excitement and relief that I could experience this brewing method before an overcrowded, uncomfortable flight full of crippling anxiety.

*I dare you to guess which one!!

Psst, I also used Celine Dion's "Because You Loved Me" to memorize the steps to the scientific method.

Reason Number KITTIES: Candy Canes

You know those multi-colored candy canes difficult to locate in your average pharmacy, and when you do manage to locate them are usually suffocating beneath some kind of reject sale candy batholith (BWAH geology plus edibles)? The ones that unexpectedly taste like the best cherry cough syrup, as opposed to peppermint?! I found some on a CVS outing the other day, the purpose of which was hairbrush-buying, because my hair at its current length has become increasingly prone to tangles, which makes me feel totally insane. Breaking from the process of determining potential hairbrush effectiveness, the exhaustive struggle to narrow down myriad offerings of spiral brushes and paddle brushes, I came across these incredible candy canes, because of their rarity almost exclusively reserved for private personal fantasies only, and ate one on the way home. I also bought some really ugly gloves that I'm almost embarrassed to wear because they are hot pink and my reservoir tip hat is RED. But fuck. Three dollars.

Caring for a cat is less difficult than finding a job, but more difficult than listening to Steely Dan's Greatest Hits, I'd imagine.

I never thought I'd become a nail biting person, but here we are. My middle finger is starting to embarrass me. The last time I got a manicure, which was not recently, the lady pointed to it and guffawed in a manner so sincere I couldn't even find myself angry.

Anger is unusual, but not persistent humiliation!

Pizza is never something to balk at.

I still need to knit a hat.

Everyone and I mean everyone should read Lydia Davis's collected works. Seriously, if you don't buy it immediately, or at least check it out of your nearest public library, you will never read about neighbors masturbating with oboes. A grave tragedy, and I'm not even kidding.

Reason Number Wha: ______

I've been teaching for over two months, and I still have searing episodes of undulating panic every night before class, and during the day before as well, which always ends up being a waste and involves a lot of pacing and drinking ten cups of coffee and twice as much cold water and trying to figure out what outfit is best for extensive fidgeting. People assume a lot of things about me (as they do about everyone, I'm told) but people have indicated I'm perceived as a non-shy, boisterous person, which is simply not true. I am like ice cream (or ice, or snow, or butter, or whatever else melts and turns into something grosser than it was before) when I'm the central focus, or even a focus at all. Unless I'm dancing or something, and there are a million people surrounding who are also dancing.

Story BREAK

Turning

Reason Number 0.5

A bicycle is a relatively uncomplicated machine that allows you to travel distances that are just barely not walkable. Mine has three gears, bouncing and clicking down intermittently cobbled, heavily pocked Brooklyn roads. Only one of the gears works, the middle one, which works out perfectly for my riding skills and moderate leg strength.

Unfortunately, I got a flat tire in the middle of a neighborhood with which I'm pretty unfamiliar, on my way to get my first haircut in TWO YEARS. My hair is very uninteresting, which makes me very happy, as I've now graduated to the stage in my adult life in which I crave follicular consistency over experimentation. After a billion not-quite-right yet exhilarating hairstyles I have finally found what actually works. I don't care about my hair at all. And I'm starting to not care that much about clothing, but not in a late-twenties-meandering-towards-pregnancy-and-therefore-flares way, more in a way like I've figured out what I need, I have most of what I need, I don't have the money for fun purchases, nor do I want to extend myself beyond what money I have. Simplicity. And I'm sick of having a closet that vomits clothing I hardly wear.

I don't want a Chanel bag. Not until I can actually afford one. Or maybe I don't want one at all.

I will always keep the deadstock Victorian boots I bought in Chamblee almost a decade ago, even though I haven't worn them once. I remember the lady I bought them from said "These aren't the perfect shoes for the fourth of July, but they'll be great other times." Paraphrased, for memory bias.

I think it's always important to question the things you think are unrelentingly true about yourself. I don't have to be the person who mixes patterns. Or, I am the person that mixes patterns, and I know that about myself when I'm wearing jeans and a grey sweater. What I choose to wear reflects my personality, but not so much that it actually matters.

Reason Number EEEE: Back to School Special

I love the Allman Brothers Band, and maybe it's partially because it reminds me of my dad and when I think of my dad I get c-r-e-a-t-i-v-e.

And don't tell anyone but whenever a reference to Georgia happens in anything I feel a small warm spurt in the depths of my rib cage.

Every time I think about teaching I feel nightmare nausea, and not because I'm not excited about it, because I'm THRILLED, but the most socially awkward person in the world aka me is not always ready to stand in front of multiple eye pairs, staring.

Not lying, I really will try to wear heels the first day.

I also want to purchase hand weights. Strength is not always so bad.

Reason Number 1: Back to Basics

I feel that this blog has lost its original focus. Which doesn't matter all that much, as I don't consider any of this good writing, but more of just an outlet (OUTLET MALL!!!! Is it bad that every time I think "outlet" I think shopping even if someone is talking about a wall socket? Braving the back racks of Off 5th for surprises like Lanvin parachute pants or Miu Miu wooden platform sandals, most of which I never even buy because it's still out of my price range, in the face of mean Asian ladies from Duluth and carpet cleaner and air conditioning so intense it makes me feel like I have a sinus infection???). I'm just going to stop.

Pie equals creative output equals writing-inducive thoughts while making churning crusts so HELP?

Conclusion:
I need to make a pie. There are a bunch of recipes I've found for summer pies. Strawberry rhubarb is what I've settled on.

Reason Number 69: How do you express to people that you don't mind taking a shit without being that girl who talks about poop?

Uninterestingly enough, I finally got a new computer battery. This enables me to travel to my nearest Dunkin Donuts* in order to write/blog sift/make purposefully low (but not too low) bids on Edwardian lawn dresses and Alaia sandals on eBay to fool myself into thinking I might win when really I don't want to pay because I can't/Max Hardcore/facebook stalk my mom's friends/search craigslist for puppy listings/cover my screen in denial and humiliation, all without worry that as soon as I unplug I'll lose it all in a second.

*At the risk of sounding like an elitist ("at the risk of" filler language for "I don't want to admit it but I AM" meaning I AM AN ELITIST) I wish there were another coffee shop in our neighborhood aside from Dunkin Donuts. I'm such an elitist that I don't even consider Dunkin Donuts a coffee shop even though coffee is their primary product (aside from munchkins, etc.). And I LIKE their doughnuts, I always have--even the Bavarian cream, the grossest, most horrifying to most people doughnut that's ever exited--but I think their coffee blows and I only get it if I'm about to keel over and die from caffeine withdrawal, which basically means every day.

Somehow, the misspellings of the dunking process and the doughnuts themselves do not bother me in the least. In general I don't want to spit bile into someone's face because (s)he mistakenly misspelled a word, nor do I care when a business purposefully misspells, as in this case. There are, of course, exceptions I'm sure I'll think of about five minutes after posting this.

But! I want to sit in a coffee shop that has chemex coffee, free trade coffee, an expansive collection of white teas and fizzy waters from which to pick. Or not even this. Just someplace with a couch and some outlets and tables that aren't covered in thumbprints and sprinkles.

Elitist? Am I? Well, sometimes. Sometimes I think you know, I'm not really much of an elitist at all. I don't automatically think my opinions are better than other peoples'. But maybe I do? Literarily, at very least. But then I like the dumbest stuff ever, like the Commodores and Lucky Magazine and every show on HGTV.

The things we love.

Reason Number 85&: Most Hated Expressions

brain fart

epic fail

I, myself, for one,

artsy!

grab life by the balls

examining the other

busting my balls

ergo

balls-out

the panopticon

vis a vis

cleansing

hubby

decolletage

can't see the forest for the trees

boo

I am a woman who speaks her mind.

raison d'etre

left-brained

vixen

toxins

tail

FML

deus ex machina

chick lit

because, clearly, you see,

girls' night

amigo

chinoiserie

je ne sais quoi

juice fast

ho's before bro's

ganja (gange, trees, smokes (n.))

takin' names

avant-garde

one cannot help but note

herstory

bro's before ho's

FIFY

ciao

chocoholic

guilty pleasure

I take no issue with the insertion of "like" into intelligent, well-meaning conversations. We all get anxious for filler now and then.

Reason Number 85: Writer's Block is for Idiots

I am plagued by adverbs. This is surprisingly (SEE!) difficult to overcome in writing, especially (GAH) energetic writing with a billion word pileups that render narratives so confusing readers wish they were comatose.

I like to think some of this is innate to me as a writer, innately (BAM) kind of okay about me versus other writers who write simpler, unadorned sentences. It's kind of like the difference between a straight-up chocolate cupcake and a cupcake made with spinach icing and topped with some kind of compote. Um, no?

There is always a time, usually in early spring, when I think "You know, Urban Outfitters really isn't that disgusting." This always results from seeing someone I respect wearing a darling dress and asking her "Where did you buy that darling dress?" to which she responds "Um, Urban Outfitters! Tee-hee! I know RIGHT?!" Then I end up having writer's block and looking at the $9.99 and under section on their website for two and a half hours while trying to think of the perfect way to describe a windowsill without sounding like a moronic half-wit Wordsworth-inspired dickface. Or Jhumpa Lahiri. But in spite of my best efforts to find something that doesn't look like garbage I always turn up empty-internet carted.

I hate the term "writer's block." Even though I have it. Often. It's just such a dumb idiotic excuse tossed around by people who don't know how to write, or don't care about writing, or think writing is glamorous and tragic. Writing is a nasty-ass crusty chore from hell while also being uproariously (here we go again!) fun and something I could easily not do with my time while remaining my most viable skill. Mostly it's just a shitty job I don't get paid for. Kind of like working at Brusters (RIP), but for free.

Reason Number 57: The Most Perilous Cod Disasters Can Be Resolved With Chickpeas

My mother got me a Costco membership as a gift. I went today for the first time, and oh. Not only can you buy Tupperware in various sizes (that all comes in one deceptively light box!), but organic chicken broth, Greek yogurt, a clamshell of blackberries, about six thousand grapes, and two hefty organic pork tenderloins can all be purchased for deals so excellent I want to fist someone's grandma.

But there is a catch, aside from the beyond stressful shopping experience, or the diarrhea I've experienced from eating about four of those six thousand grapes: the fish is so awful I am open-mouthed, and wordless (almost). Although this blog has a meager readership, I am earnestly begging those of you who are reading right now to never, ever buy cod at Costco.

I adore cod, in spite it its bad reputation. I always associated cod with pirates and forced stoned fast food runs to epicenters of breaded doom, as well as depressing jaunts to the Food Lion in College Park for my grandma (is this the second time I've referenced grandmas in this post? s-e-x-y). BUT David began roasting cod with tomatoes, fingerling potatoes, and olives, and my opinion was transformed by the meaty simplicity, the wholesome integrity of plain, unadorned fish accompanied by wholesome sidekicks.

At Costco today I saw the price--ten dollars for a piece of cod so huge it was actually frightening--and I HAD HAD HAD to buy it and bake it in the oven with paprika, sea salt, and olive oil and serve it atop a bed of sauteed spinach and tomatoes drizzled with sherry vinegar.

But unless you are fond of sniffing your (or your loved one's) sopping maxi pad, the subtle taste of condoms, or the unyielding texture of beachballs, I really wouldn't dare supplement Costco cod for Whole Foods'. Seriously.

Thank the dear lord I also bought a nine-can pack of Goya chickpeas for $4.99 (STEALIN!), which I mixed with the spinach/tomato melange and some brown long-grain rice.

You can't beat those little powerhouse nugs of stealth wonder.

Reason Number 52: Choosing Wallabees

My brother always gives me shit for my adoration (and adulation) of flats. Most of the shoes I've dropped significant sums for are definitively low to the ground. The idea of purchasing extraordinarily expensive heels feels counterintuitive to me, because cost per wear is still so high, and to me there is no mid-point--like, mid-high heels look atrocious, and if you're going to bother making yourself uncomfortable you may as well succumb to the rapturous extremity of the sky-high and make yourself five inches more commanding (especially if a built-in platform is involved, which facilitates much simpler and easier movements).

Not that I'm one of those women in denial about her height. Random Rant: women (especially under 5'7") who feel the need to wear heels at all times to provide the illusion of tallness. No thank you. I am five foot four and unabashedly content. Or at least resigned. It's the only body issue I've never had. I would never in a billion years want to be taller, and I definitely wouldn't want to resort to platform cork wedges and espadrilles to lengthen myself comfortably on a daily basis.

But in spite of my height confidence I do love the way supertall heels look, especially to occasionally elevate whatever outfit I'm wearing. But for everyday? What if I need to carry a bunch of paper towels up a flight of stairs? Or rush to get a sandwich on my lunch break at the awesome sandwich store that's twelve blocks away? The worst (as I addressed in my previous post) is not knowing how to walk in heels but wearing them simply because you feel you have to. Am I rambling?

It's strange because as a small child I was embarrassingly impatient for the day I could finally wear a pair of heels to the supermarket, or to get my emissions checked at the Jiffy Lube. My mother had very small feet, so by the time I was nine or ten I could almost fit hers--and she had some cool as fuck 1970's wooden platforms that I wish weren't too small for me now. Even in high school I was beyond thrilled to buy some Steve Madden black platform maryjanes (shhhhhh) rehashed by Miu Miu this spring. Not that there's any comparison between Miu Miu and Steve Madden (or that the designers at Miu Miu would do anything besides puke all over everything Steve Madden has ever envisioned. Ha! Envisioned. More like plagiarized). I'm just sayin. Is it really an opportune time to bring those back? (Though the print is pushing marvellous.) Pictured below is one iteration of these mildly underwhelming (though intriguing) shoes.

I wish I could find a picture of the (gulp) platforms I used to own, for comparison's sake. Though a part of me is very pleased with Google's inability to image-locate and thus implicate me on all style fronts.

In spite of my pre-adolescent lust for heel-wearing, at some point I was like, fuck it. I'm wearing the Clarks Wallabees I got for Christmas, and you idiots can suck my dick (I actually *am* wearing them right now, but I'm not imploring you to suck my dick for real, nor am I suggesting you are of below average intelligence). But. Like. I just don't know. I still don't have a pair of basic black heels. I know I would wear them if I did. Would I? Yes. Really? And put down my desert booties? I
just
don't
know

Reason Number 57: I have no idea.

In March, it's always excruciating to dig down and seek out life reasons, vital, exciting prospects that make me want to skip around East Harlem in broad daylight while wearing spandex. Winter has stopped being cozy. Summer is far. My bangs are overgrown. I have split ends. My skin looks waxy, my eyelids sag. My hair is always greasy, in spite of being washed every day. No matter how many times I floss/gargle/SoniCare, deep down I ooze perma-halitosis. I've exhausted my butternut squash excitement, my lust for burnished dying plants, rekindled each fall. Hot chocolate! Tea! Flavorless to me. My mittens are fucking pilling and and I'm ready to throw them away, and I'm ready to yank each of my teeth out with my crusty, nibbled fingers. I'm ready to dry-clean my eggplant sleeping bag coat and shove it into a deep, underbed dusty hole.

I have always hated March, practically since the day my mother forced me out of her vagina in Baltimore in 1983. Though growing up in Georgia, mid-March equals dogwoods and bluebirds and maybe even the daring to wear your sandals and eat ice cream, if only for a warm afternoon. Here, however, not. Although for some reason, I've been hearing the Mr. Softy truck round the block. What brave/stubborn manchild is ordering ice cream outdoors? Who forced Mr. Softy to drive his truck? Did he do it of his own volition? Was he so desperate to share his snowy cream with Upper Manhattan that he's braving real snow? Seriously.

I, for one, am still wearing my stupid ugly cumstain reservoir tip smurf hat that everyone on the street says looks like "Where's Waldo" but is so warm I can't bear to give it up.

This morning, a kitten pranced up to me as I bent down to pick up a carton of milk at my corner bodega. (After having already poured myself a bowl of cereal and wrongly anticipating the tiny amount of milk we had, it was a soggy, sloppy mess by the time I came home with the new milk, but I couldn't put it to waste because cereal is expensive, so I ate every gelatinous bite. And that sentence is so garbled not even I, the maker, can make true sense of it. I have truly lost my touch.)

At any rate, the kitten nuzzled me and my 1% (the perfect % for taste and texture and calcium absorption), attempted to ascend my arm, but I declined, exhausted by its cuteness as is. We are creepy, cats and I. It followed me to the register and stared at me as I walked into the dribbling rain to eat my unsatisfactory breakfast with my bitey handicat, who promptly scolded me for not having fed her earlier.

Reason Number %: Dried Cherries

Dried cherries are inappropriately delicious. I could eat them with (and between) every meal. I buy so many dried cherry packets when I go to Whole Foods/Trader Joe's/The Drugstore that I'm kind of embarrassed for myself and my specificity. Many are fond of dried fruit--apricots, apples, cranberries--but my level of adoration for dried cherries, to the exclusion of other dehydrated nutrition sources, is creepy and diarrhea-inducing.

Tart Montmorency, specifically.

I am very snobby about vintage. Don't ever tell me you love vintage clothing when really you love acid wash denim dresses with American Apparel headbands. Not that it's impossible to look flawless in an acid wash denim dress with an American Apparel headband. It's just not the same as loving vintage.

Though my attitude toward vintage has evolved, I think. As a sixteen year old, I was indubitably, wholeheartedly a vintage purist. Only wear one era at a time. I had my early 1950's silk posy day dress, which I wore with early 1950's red bow pumps and a red embroidered cardigan I bought at Express but that seemed to blend well enough into the outfit so as not to disrupt the historic balance (yes, I said Express. I did.).

And, lest I ever think of myself as cool in adulthood, my seventies obsession of 1998: pagoda-rose printed polyester button-downs with enormous Mudd bell-bottoms and worn-out converse with 666 on the toe, written in Sharpie. And white lipstick! (Mudd!)

AND my brief but impassioned Victorian phase: ankle-length turn of the century lawn dresses with appropriate (though, when necessary, anachronistic) t-straps. But even I felt uncomfortable taking that kind of insanity to the streets, or high school classroom.

I never was a sixties person. It's still one of my least-favorite decades, though I do have a blue velvet babydoll dress with a bib collar in my closet at home that I love to pieces and wear about three times per year.

I still love vintage as much as I always have--even the most ridiculous pieces can find a place in my closet--but I don't want to wear only vintage, and especially not only one era at a time. It's hard, though. It's hard to wear lame and destroyed cowboy boots without looking like a total hipster poser idiot. Sometimes I find myself treading that line.

And that's why there's Quoddy to keep me in check, even though I don't own anything they make.* And very basic denim. Some people can look amazing in neon paint splattered jeans, but I am not one of those people. The simplest pair of jeans grounds my Edwardian blouses in a way nothing else can.

*Oh but I wish I did. The inclusion of Quoddy into my wardrobe would suddenly make me a punctual, beer-guzzling, less frivolous person who means business.

Reason Number 50: Mrs. Manganelli actually was pretty awesome

Re: Mrs. Manganelli, who in spite of her puppy hair and Anne Klein loafers, really was an excellent math teacher. If only I could have appreciated her explosive mathematical prowess by having been good at math, being good at math, and continuing to be good at math (sorry SAT, GRE, SAT II, tipping in restaurants, calculating discounts on leather leggings at the Barneys Warehouse Sale). She was also a total heinous cunt, and slammed David with like eighteen demerits for cutting off Sara Gilli's hair when she fucking told him to cut her hair and he responded affirmatively. But extreme fear equals extreme love equals lust equals oh man teachertime, and I will never in my life forget the impact Nora Manganelli had on my fantasies, my songwriting, my home life, my effusive self-loathing. I feared her even in the confines of my playhouse, tumbling slideward wondering if I'd forgotten to staple a homework assignment yet again. Or did I miss a page on my pop quiz? Did I say the Lord's name in vain? OH YOU BET I DID (NOT) DID (NOT) DID I?

I also got in trouble for writing a Mother's Day Card haiku about fetal alcohol syndrome. But this was a different teacher with a manbeastier haircut and a labcoat.

I still don't know how to number pages.

The moral is, instead of inheriting the earth, as a meek person is wont to do, I am eating the earth with my cruelty and insensitivity, and then spitting it out a masticated disaster. I mean, not really. I'm not even remotely that important.

In the vein of our late friend McQueen, who will never design a pair of tartan drop crotch trousers again, other things I'm tired of, but delight in relating to you so much they make me never, ever want to pull a McQueen (and yes I said McQueen twice (now three times, count them!) in the same sentence):

-nondescript indie pop masquerading as something other than nondescript indie pop. Why why why are the Shins still played at parties? I do not get it. At. All.
-Taylor Swift (like wtf? Why is she famous?)
-The Sartorialist/Garance Dore/other short-sighted, narrow-scoped street style blogs

As soon as blizzardfest began last Tuesday night, I turned to Ryan and said: "I can't wait to see puppies jump around in the snow!"

So, here I am, forever lame and crying at meowing kittens and wee birds. If you're ever in New York, you should check out the wee bird (a parakeet, I think) at Assembly on the Lower East Side. You'll also find (some) really super awesome clothes. They have a leather shift dress that fits like a dream. If I were wealthy (cough: had any money whatsoever) it would be in my closet right now. With the Quoddy boots and over the knee Chanel boots I fantasize about on a semi-daily basis.

UGH what a mess. Hangover city.

Reason Number 34567#$@6: I count like a three year old, but Quoddy exists

Every time I post I miscalculate how many reasons preceded the post I'm working on, so lord knows (oh yes HE does) how many posts I've accumulated under improper numerical headings. I've never been good at math. Mrs. Manganelli, my seventh grade pre-Algebra teacher can attest to that. She wore tartan flannel shorts with opaque navy tights and had a frosted corkskrew permanent she obviously didn't care for properly because it was constantly fried, but unlike a rapturously delicious and crisp chicken leg and more like a cocker spaniel.

So, Quoddy. In spite of my sustained passion for all things frivolous in fashion (Marc Jacobs multi-strap white maryjanes anyone? authentic antique Victorian ankle boots? chiffon cocktail dresses with built-in scarves for additional flounce?) I have begun to take several steps backwards in evaluating my aesthetic, and the aesthetic I favor in general. This is not entirely a conscious thing, but perhaps a reaction to the crazy bright colors/mixed patterns I've been sporting for nearly a decade.

In addition to taffeta houndstooth electric wonderland, I also crave sturdiness and peace of mind. Khakis, button-downs, simple jewelry, unobtrusive wrist watches, very very basic haircuts. Shit, I haven't gotten a haircut in a year and two months. I definitely don't want to have mermaidtastic goddess hair (which would never happen with my hair texture anyways) but I'm taking it easy, seeing where things go, avoiding funky textured mess blonde punkface in favor of natural.

Too soon? Alexander McQueen equals snooze. I get it. I get that he made insane reptilian shoes and popularized skulls to such a degree that seeing one on a lightweight scarf makes me want to puke. I'm sorry for anyone who hates him/herself enough to turn to suicide (chortle). But how many butterfly gowns can one wear before losing his/her mind? How many his/hers can I toss in before becoming Julia Kristeva/some kind of suburban master bathroom?

Oh Quoddy. You represent the best in practicality, in gender neutrality. Your grizzly boots can be made for me, or my boat-footed husband. Your ring boots can be worn with liberty print, the Rodarte Gilt skirt I wanted so desperately but couldn't afford, and all manner of vintage.

Quoddy, rescue my sequins from unbearable girlishness and dislikeable frivolity. I love sequins. LOVE. THEM. But not all the time. And not with everything. No, I'm not becoming serious, or sensible. More like tactful? Tasteful? Malaprop central?

Quoddy boots are hand stitched in Maine. I spoke with the owner *on the phone.* WHILE HE STITCHED A PAIR OF THEM WITH HIS BARE HANDS. They have a lifetime guarantee. They don't showcase their designs on models.

(I hate models. But we'll get to that tomorrow.)

Maybe I'm yearning for a false reality, an unobtainable grittiness. Or maybe for a sense of rugged dimension heretofore lacking.

I do, after all, love my A.P.C. jeans.

Reason Number 21: Beverly Cleary is still alive!!!

This morning I woke up wondering is Beverly Cleary, esteemed American author of countless beloved classics such as Ramona Forever and The Mouse and the Motorcycle--is Beverly Cleary still alive?

The possibility of her death somehow making me extraordinarily anxious and I thought maybe in the J.D. Salinger/Kurt Vonnegut/Bea Arthur/Walter Cronkite/Bob Hope/Estelle Getty/Ronald Reagan/other super old people deaths occurring over the last approximate half-decade that Ms. Cleary had been forgotten, or that I'd neglected to notice her eulogy in Reminisce Magazine, which I obviously read every morning over lightly-sugared oatmeal with a sprinkling of dried cherries.*

Although dazed with motivation-annihilating dehydration from my insufferable radiator, I just HAD to know, so: wikipedia! And holy fucking crusty menstrual Virgin Mary she is still alive and well--or as well as you can be if you were born in 1916, which means she's either stark raving ridiculously crazyface or atrophying in a wheelchair somewhere in Oregon, I presume, because that's where she's from, and I read her biography in third grade and dressed like her for some inane elementary school contest, so, basically, I should know. I remember thinking of Oregon as one of the most exotic places I'd ever heard of, decidedly un-American because of its VOLCANOES (wtf), but yet Cleary is such an "all-American-what-a-pointless-term" person.

*I actually was obsessed with this magazine in junior high school. I especially loved the "Stirring Up Memories" segment, always involving life before proper refrigerators, and pot-bellied stoves, and waiting for a boy to ask you on a date while your dad (whom you call Pop) brines pickles in a hefty barrell. I'm probably the only person born after 1933 ever to read about this, and the only person born after 1933 to buy into the Golden Age of Perfection and Family Values so touted by the elderly. I was always like "why do I eat microwavable popcorn when people in the incredible early 1940's popped theirs on a white enamel STOVE while hand in hand with their multiple sisters singing Greensleeves and maybe listening to a radio broadcast on patriotism? Like, I don't even HAVE a sister and my dad is GAY?"

I still haven't been to Oregon.

People worth doing, soon to appear on my People Worth Doing Other Blog: Beverly Herself, and possibly the Rodarte sisters. Let's see!

Reason Number 20: My cat is better than some

I can't believe it's been like two years, and I've only come up with twenty reasons not to kill my(your)(one)self.

Fuuuuuuck.

Things:
-I accidentally took a three hour long nap and woke up with campfire throat and sweaty feet. I was wearing tights. And a rayon (ew! but no seriously it's awesome) dress. My special needs cat was curled in my fetal-position crook.
-As I noted on my sister-in-law's blog: I actually genuinely like Bud Light. Yet another reason why I'm not a yuppie, or a hipster for that matter. It's only been about two years (maybe even less) that I've enjoyed beer in any capacity, so I suppose you have to start small.
-Sometimes I feel like a horrible person because at every moment I'm looking around wondering how people put their outfits together. This is not always a judgmental thing but sometimes a curiosity thing.
-Default settings. What's yours?