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.