#30 Never Have I Ever: Gone out of my way to dress up nicely for an ordinary day
Foreplay: I love fashion and clothes. Unfortunately, my wardrobe has a price limit (well hello Forever 21 and H&M!). However, my laziness knows no bounds.
Although I have my own personal fashion rules [some of which include: no sweatpants in public; leggings are not an acceptable substitute for pants unless both ass cheeks are completely covered; by pairing a denim jacket with jeans or a jean skirt you are giving me full permission to mock you, etc.], there are days where I will throw on a pair of black jeans and a hoodie and... that's it. No bra, no shirt underneath. When you're an A-cup, you can pull off shit like that. You can also use bandaids as ghetto pasties when you can't wear a bra.
But anyway, my general outfit usually consists of straight-leg pants, a nice blouse, pointy-toed flats, and maybe a cardigan or blazer. My hair is worn down and straight, and my make up is unfussy. All of which takes about 20-30 minutes in my murderous morning haze. I'm put together but I'm definitely not Sartorialist material.
The Down and Dirty: I had a meeting with my boss for my freelance design job in the morning. He's only ever seen me in jeans and quirky t-shirts so I decided to doll it up a bit. I throw on my striped cream shirt, a black knee-length skirt, and red kitten peep-toes. On a whim, I slap on some red lipstick for good measure. I am 20 minutes late for my meeting.
"Where are you going so dressed up?" he asks when I finally arrive. Nowhere, I puff still out of breath from running into the office, just felt like wearing something besides jeans.
All is going well until I notice that my desk is getting higher. No wait. I'm slowly sinking in my seat. What the hell? The luxurious material of my skirt keeps slipping in the leather chair, forcing me to clamber back up every 10 minutes.
But generally, things were great. My ego was thoroughly stroked when I stopped by a mall to make an exchange and felt the linger of eyes. This is freakin' awesome, I thought. Until, of course - of course! - things took a turn for the worse.
Later that night, Hermosa comes to pick me up for a concert at The Echo. However, I'm running behind. Way behind. This was a reoccurring theme throughout the day.
Earlier, I had decided that I needed a "night look" as Cosmo and Glamour often suggest -- something drastic and different but still stylish. So I showered, shaved, and wrestled my way into a vintage floral mini dress and heels. My makeup was painstakingly precise and I was determined to curl my naturally straight hair. After a ton of hairspray, a few burns followed by some carefully chosen expletives, and a 15 minute delay, I was finally out the door juggling my purse, cardigan, keys, and phone while frantically rubbing lotion on my legs as I scampered to Hermosa's awaiting car.
Parking in Echo Park is atrocious. We circled Sunset Blvd and nearby neighborhoods for a good 15 minutes before Hermosa questioned whether or not we should try sneaking into the Walgreen's lot. I don't know, I interjected, You might get a ticket. He decided a $70 ticket wouldn't be the end of the world and we rolled into a space. Despite the not-yet-Spring weather, I left my cardigan in the car since concert venue was only 2 blocks down.
Dressed to the nines and nursing my whiskey while standing next to homeless-looking hipsters and Urban Outfitter rejects clutching PBR made me feel so snazzy. To be honest, whenever I had to walk -- whether to the bathroom or up to the bar (my staple destinations) -- I was struttin' my stuff like it was a catwalk.
The whiskey was wearing off quickly and thus so was my drunk jacket on the walk back to the car. All I wanted to do was hop in the warm car and throw on my soft cardigan. I had had enough of freezing for the sake of fashion by that point.
Um... where's the car? Why is the parking lot completely empty? It was like some hipster version of Dude, Where's My Car? except with more hairspray and whiskey. Fuck.
Hermosa's car had been towed and we had the next hour to get to the tow yard before they closed for the night. We hailed a cab relatively easily (thanks to my short skirt?) and high tailed it there. The taxi took us down a dusty dead-end street with no street lights. Hermosa and I crawled out of the cab apprehensively. As we slowly approached the 15 ft. spiked metal gate, a flood light burst on and a rather large dog came charging at us from the distance.
I did not get dolled up to get mauled by a German Shepherd in goddamn rape alley.
Needless to say, we were in the car and out of there in less than 30 minutes.
The Afterglow: The German Shepherd turned out to be an absolute sweetheart but she was filthy. The sketchy tow yard owner asked if I wanted to wash my hands after our transaction. He unlocked a door in the back of the dingy office and then pointed at a doorway at the end of a unlit hallway. "Okay, she goes down there. You," he addressed Hermosa, "can go out there." He gestured at the garage outside of the office. Oh heeeeell no.
I mean, I appreciated all the compliments and extra attention but I was so frazzled by being late to everything. I don't think I have it in me to keep it up every single day. Dude, it takes a lot of time and effort to look good. Not to mention the pain of using a curling iron. Looks can kill -- or at least really, really hurt.
P.S. I wore the exact same outfit the next night (curled hair and all) and actually caused a saxophonist to stop playing mid song as I walked by. Ego, consider yourself boosted.
Showing posts with label appearance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label appearance. Show all posts
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
The Virgin walks a mile in her shoes
#12 Never Have I Ever: Spent a whole day in high heels
Foreplay: Although I can understand a crippling shoe addiction, I can't exactly say that I fancy footwear superfluously. Except for that time I ran through 10 different shoe stores on Melrose to hunt down an outrageous pair of Jeffrey Campbell flats that look like pencils. And once I remedied a brain-frying finals week by rewarding myself with metallic silver oxfords which I deemed my "Michael Jackson shoes". And I should probably mention that my fierce purple oil Via Spiga peep toe pumps are currently the most expensive piece in my wardrobe.
Alright, so I'm fairly infatuated with shoes but nowhere near Carrie Bradshaw status. I could never imagine blowing a whole paycheck on things that are meant for the ground nor could I ever subject myself to cosmetic foot surgery -- unfortunately, I'm much too familiar with my budget and my pain threshold. How can anyone live in those?!
However, I always ogle statuesque women sashaying down the street, equipped with sky high stilettos, looking like they own the whole sidewalk. I own a good number of pumps, why aren't I wearing them? Why can't I look as kick-ass on a daily basis? Gee, wonder if those shoes are comfortable?
The Down and Dirty: In our haste to a birthday celebration in Long Beach, Kamikaze and I managed to pack a handle of Bacardi and a fifth of Grey Goose but not a change of shoes (we all have different priorities, okay!?). I wore my brand new Naturalizer pumps for a good 28 hours this weekend. I'll let my foot notes tell the story:
1 hour - So far, so good. We just got to the club but the DJ sucks and Kamikaze told him so. We refuse to dance in protest of his bad taste. I'm convinced a couple Long Island Ice Teas will cheer us up.
3 hours - A Long Island Ice Tea, a Screwdriver, a pineapple vodka, and a vodka Red Bull later and we're putting our hands up to "Single Ladies". Feet are frolicking away.
6 hours - Stumbling back to the car while stuffing my face with a green burrito. I'm not wearing a jacket. Everything is numb except for my very happy taste buds. I take this as a good sign.
14 hours - I wake up at my parents' house in Long Beach to perfectly poised feet and no signs of a hangover. I call it a successful night.
18 hours - Kamikaze and I go shopping. Every outfit I try on looks freakin' fabulous with my heels. I'm convinced that every dressing room should come equipped with a pair of stilettos. I guarantee sales would double by the end of the week.
21 hours - Toes are pinching, balls are balding, and bunions are budding. My shoes have turned against me.
24 hours - I meet with Hitchcock to work on his film. First on the agenda: painfully extricating my poor feet from my traitor footwear for the duration of the meeting.
28 hours - As I limp towards my car, I concede that I will never speak ill of flip flops again.
The Afterglow: Here is the conclusion I've reached based on my notes and the slow return of sensations to my feet:
Pro: My natural pony legs look absolutely spectacular. My body almost looks proportional.
Con: My cowboy gait. And I guess the grimace on my face sort of detracts from the whole looking hot thing I had going on.
Old woman who lived in her shoes -- my ass. Bitch probably died in them.
Foreplay: Although I can understand a crippling shoe addiction, I can't exactly say that I fancy footwear superfluously. Except for that time I ran through 10 different shoe stores on Melrose to hunt down an outrageous pair of Jeffrey Campbell flats that look like pencils. And once I remedied a brain-frying finals week by rewarding myself with metallic silver oxfords which I deemed my "Michael Jackson shoes". And I should probably mention that my fierce purple oil Via Spiga peep toe pumps are currently the most expensive piece in my wardrobe.
Alright, so I'm fairly infatuated with shoes but nowhere near Carrie Bradshaw status. I could never imagine blowing a whole paycheck on things that are meant for the ground nor could I ever subject myself to cosmetic foot surgery -- unfortunately, I'm much too familiar with my budget and my pain threshold. How can anyone live in those?!However, I always ogle statuesque women sashaying down the street, equipped with sky high stilettos, looking like they own the whole sidewalk. I own a good number of pumps, why aren't I wearing them? Why can't I look as kick-ass on a daily basis? Gee, wonder if those shoes are comfortable?
The Down and Dirty: In our haste to a birthday celebration in Long Beach, Kamikaze and I managed to pack a handle of Bacardi and a fifth of Grey Goose but not a change of shoes (we all have different priorities, okay!?). I wore my brand new Naturalizer pumps for a good 28 hours this weekend. I'll let my foot notes tell the story:
1 hour - So far, so good. We just got to the club but the DJ sucks and Kamikaze told him so. We refuse to dance in protest of his bad taste. I'm convinced a couple Long Island Ice Teas will cheer us up.
3 hours - A Long Island Ice Tea, a Screwdriver, a pineapple vodka, and a vodka Red Bull later and we're putting our hands up to "Single Ladies". Feet are frolicking away.
6 hours - Stumbling back to the car while stuffing my face with a green burrito. I'm not wearing a jacket. Everything is numb except for my very happy taste buds. I take this as a good sign.
14 hours - I wake up at my parents' house in Long Beach to perfectly poised feet and no signs of a hangover. I call it a successful night.
18 hours - Kamikaze and I go shopping. Every outfit I try on looks freakin' fabulous with my heels. I'm convinced that every dressing room should come equipped with a pair of stilettos. I guarantee sales would double by the end of the week.
21 hours - Toes are pinching, balls are balding, and bunions are budding. My shoes have turned against me.
24 hours - I meet with Hitchcock to work on his film. First on the agenda: painfully extricating my poor feet from my traitor footwear for the duration of the meeting.
28 hours - As I limp towards my car, I concede that I will never speak ill of flip flops again.
The Afterglow: Here is the conclusion I've reached based on my notes and the slow return of sensations to my feet:
Pro: My natural pony legs look absolutely spectacular. My body almost looks proportional.
Con: My cowboy gait. And I guess the grimace on my face sort of detracts from the whole looking hot thing I had going on.
Old woman who lived in her shoes -- my ass. Bitch probably died in them.
Friday, February 26, 2010
The Virgin apparently does not look like a troll
#10 Never Have I Ever: Joined an online dating site
Foreplay: I'm convinced online dating is suited for: weirdos, pedos, perverts, hermits, freaks, losers, emotional train wrecks, and the occasional attention whore with self-esteem issues.
Sure, there are perfectly decent people out there in cyberland (just like there are perfectly decent people in prison) who simply don't have time to date in the real world but c'mon! Like I commented to my brother on the practice of matchmaking in China: If you can't find a mate in a country with 1.3 billion people, you've got problems, man.
I had met my last two serious boyfriends spontaneously and severely -- the sort of encounter where you just knew that you were meant to know this person in one way or another. In addition, I have great anecdotes to share about the respective original exchanges: I pushed one former flame in front of an oncoming bus but pulled him back to safety in the nick of time; I accidentally grabbed the other's man parts within hours of our initial handshake when he was still a minor at 17 (don't call Chris Hansen just yet; he became legal 5 days later and I was exactly one year older).
I wouldn't trade those memories for all the Warcraft experience points in the whole world wide web. Although I would never label myself a romantic, I'm a firm believer that chemistry is important and if you don't feel butterflies the first time 'round they're not going to come out of left field.
Laden with stories like that, I simply don't do online dating.
The Down and Dirty: So then why the hell did I decide to join an online dating site?! The short answer: Because I'm a glutton for pain.
The long answer: Because I read an article last month about a popular online dating website that had expelled members for holiday weight gain. BeautifulPeople.com is an exclusive community where members of the opposite gender vote whether or not candidates are "beautiful" enough to join the site based on their photos.
The masochist in me was practically writhing for a proper thrashing. I just couldn't not do it. It's like trying to drunkenly break into a zoo -- you know you're in for a world of pain but damn it'd be a blast if you could just make it past the tigers!
I established a profile and uploaded a nice albeit boring photo of myself. Yes, my lips curl skyward but Tyra would chastise me for not smiling with my eyes. I chalk it up to my lack of photogenicness (...that's not a word, is it?). Personally, I prefer quirky pictures of myself, ya know the ones where I'm making faces next to a bust of Bill Cosby or posing romantically with a Harlan's ground sloth.
Then I waited for the 48 grueling rating hours. It was absolutely torturous. Keeping my mind occupied wasn't working as I must have checked on my ratings every few hours. I'm a total coward when it comes to rejection but my crippling case of train wreck syndrome kept me coming back for more. I tried not to take it personally but dayum -- the internet is some serious butthurt business.
But lo and behold...
Well, great! I've been deemed not ugly enough by random dudes from all over the world that joined a site catered to narcissists who feed off approval from the opposite sex. Greeeaaaat.... After all the hoopla I might as well peruse the joint, right? I browsed the profiles on the site as one would poke around a dark, exclusive night club.
Hmm... didn't know receding hairlines were so common. Are ab shots a prerequisite? Wow, those are some bad nose jobs. Oh, well that's an interesting -- DEAR GOD! I guess they don't take their domain name that seriously after all...
The Afterglow: The concept of BeautifulPeople is one big circle jerk. A kinda-sorta-ish pretty one, but a circle jerk nonetheless. So far it's much less offensive than other dating sites but then again I have nothing of which to base it. Most of the comments are about how "nice" or "cute" another member's picture is. Their info sections are rarely referenced in emoticon-charged comments. And some random dude -- who I'm almost positive misspelled his own name -- just "kissed" me. I'll be damned if I know what that's supposed to entail.
This simply cannot be the future of dating. Feeling a warm, tingly sensation in your nether regions when you click on a profile picture does not equate to chemistry. An online profile is an overwrought, hyper-real representation. What good is a false sense of superficial utopia?
Why not log off, go out, and find something real? Yeah, it may be demanding but that's what life and love are -- hard. Life isn't effortless and if it is, then you're not living it.
Also, do you really want to one day relay a budding relationship in terms of, "Oh, it's a funny story! We both rated each other 9.5! Can you believe it? It was totally meant to be!"?
Me neither.
Foreplay: I'm convinced online dating is suited for: weirdos, pedos, perverts, hermits, freaks, losers, emotional train wrecks, and the occasional attention whore with self-esteem issues.
Sure, there are perfectly decent people out there in cyberland (just like there are perfectly decent people in prison) who simply don't have time to date in the real world but c'mon! Like I commented to my brother on the practice of matchmaking in China: If you can't find a mate in a country with 1.3 billion people, you've got problems, man.
I had met my last two serious boyfriends spontaneously and severely -- the sort of encounter where you just knew that you were meant to know this person in one way or another. In addition, I have great anecdotes to share about the respective original exchanges: I pushed one former flame in front of an oncoming bus but pulled him back to safety in the nick of time; I accidentally grabbed the other's man parts within hours of our initial handshake when he was still a minor at 17 (don't call Chris Hansen just yet; he became legal 5 days later and I was exactly one year older).
I wouldn't trade those memories for all the Warcraft experience points in the whole world wide web. Although I would never label myself a romantic, I'm a firm believer that chemistry is important and if you don't feel butterflies the first time 'round they're not going to come out of left field.
Laden with stories like that, I simply don't do online dating.
The Down and Dirty: So then why the hell did I decide to join an online dating site?! The short answer: Because I'm a glutton for pain.
The long answer: Because I read an article last month about a popular online dating website that had expelled members for holiday weight gain. BeautifulPeople.com is an exclusive community where members of the opposite gender vote whether or not candidates are "beautiful" enough to join the site based on their photos.
The masochist in me was practically writhing for a proper thrashing. I just couldn't not do it. It's like trying to drunkenly break into a zoo -- you know you're in for a world of pain but damn it'd be a blast if you could just make it past the tigers!
I established a profile and uploaded a nice albeit boring photo of myself. Yes, my lips curl skyward but Tyra would chastise me for not smiling with my eyes. I chalk it up to my lack of photogenicness (...that's not a word, is it?). Personally, I prefer quirky pictures of myself, ya know the ones where I'm making faces next to a bust of Bill Cosby or posing romantically with a Harlan's ground sloth.
Then I waited for the 48 grueling rating hours. It was absolutely torturous. Keeping my mind occupied wasn't working as I must have checked on my ratings every few hours. I'm a total coward when it comes to rejection but my crippling case of train wreck syndrome kept me coming back for more. I tried not to take it personally but dayum -- the internet is some serious butthurt business.
But lo and behold...
BeautifulPeople Network is pleased to inform you that the majority of members on BeautifulPeople.com found your application very attractive and granted you membership. Welcome to the BeautifulPeople community!
Well, great! I've been deemed not ugly enough by random dudes from all over the world that joined a site catered to narcissists who feed off approval from the opposite sex. Greeeaaaat.... After all the hoopla I might as well peruse the joint, right? I browsed the profiles on the site as one would poke around a dark, exclusive night club.
Hmm... didn't know receding hairlines were so common. Are ab shots a prerequisite? Wow, those are some bad nose jobs. Oh, well that's an interesting -- DEAR GOD! I guess they don't take their domain name that seriously after all...
The Afterglow: The concept of BeautifulPeople is one big circle jerk. A kinda-sorta-ish pretty one, but a circle jerk nonetheless. So far it's much less offensive than other dating sites but then again I have nothing of which to base it. Most of the comments are about how "nice" or "cute" another member's picture is. Their info sections are rarely referenced in emoticon-charged comments. And some random dude -- who I'm almost positive misspelled his own name -- just "kissed" me. I'll be damned if I know what that's supposed to entail.
This simply cannot be the future of dating. Feeling a warm, tingly sensation in your nether regions when you click on a profile picture does not equate to chemistry. An online profile is an overwrought, hyper-real representation. What good is a false sense of superficial utopia?
Why not log off, go out, and find something real? Yeah, it may be demanding but that's what life and love are -- hard. Life isn't effortless and if it is, then you're not living it.
Also, do you really want to one day relay a budding relationship in terms of, "Oh, it's a funny story! We both rated each other 9.5! Can you believe it? It was totally meant to be!"?
Me neither.
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