Tag Archives: sunglasses

Self-Importance, the fragrance for jerks

I wore my largest pair of sunglasses to brunch today, and I came down with quick-onset glamour poisoning. I hate that. I feel faint. I could barely finish my blinis.

Living in a small town is insane-o. In one quick trip to the coffee shop, I encountered my hair stylist, the local crazy person who prays for the souls of things in store windows, the guy who sells hot dogs at the ballpark, and my lawyer. I am on a need-to-know basis with all of them, it seems. We chat. And then people just walk up and ask you to do work for them because you are having a meeting with someone else, and they overheard. My hair stylist randomly decided she couldn’t live without search engine optimization. And really, who can? Vomitola is no longer #1 for Lindsay Lohan Panties. I am a poor example in all ways. Don’t expose me, please.

Celebrity skin

It occurred to me that I refuse to actually achieve anything in my life because I still consider fame a viable career option. One of these days, I’m going to get swept up in the current and deposited on Oprah. I swear. Certainly, this would be more difficult if I had the entanglements of a real career. Luckily, I am generally fancy free, although one client just accepted my ridiculous total whore price for what promises to be the most annoying job in history. I am going to word the contract so I can fire him at any time. And Mr. H can feed the cat if I am called to Hollywood.

I realized that I am ill-prepared for fame, so I decided to create a Learning Annex-style crash course on how to handle it.

Part One: Dealing with unwanted attention

I decided to stalk myself. I started by going through the trash. The bathroom trash is really not that interesting. It’s mostly dental floss, and tissues with odd stains on them. Is it blood? Makeup? What? You all have these tissues, do not try to act like you don’t. The kitchen trash was the motherlode. It was filled to the brim with liquor bottles, pregnancy tests, rubber gloves, and empty pill bottles. Great! Now I know the name of my pharmacist. I photographed everything. I left Zellweger a note to shred everything, even the banana peels.

Then I decided to practice my expression for when I’m photographed on the sly. I sat in the living room with a camera for what seemed like forever, but I didn’t spot myself. Finally, I caught myself in the bathroom mirror. Augh! I look so fat! The camera is adding ten pounds. Nevermind! Composure. Happy place. I took my shirt off and pretended I was on a yacht. Composure.

As I left for the grocery store, I put on my largest pair of sunglasses and a fur bikini top. I threw red paint on myself as I was distracted by fumbling with the car remote. That’ll teach me! Never again will I let my guard down.

Then I was recognized at Starbucks. “Your drink will be up at the bar, Licketysplit!” And then again, “I have a soy latte for Licketysplit! Have a good day, Licketysplit!” My God, can’t these people see I am just out for a quiet afternoon? There’s a time and a place for fawning over a celebrity. Composure! I smiled graciously and adjusted my sunglasses. I pulled out a Sharpie and signed the bar. I’m sure they’ll want to hang it on the wall in a glass case now.

Tomorrow: Part Two: Money management

Das ist Playboy

That’s what he said when I held up an enormous pair of vintage sunglasses. When Viktor says it looks good, it goes into my pocket. I love the fleamarket on the Akunerplatz in Berlin’s Prenzlauerberg. I love the rows of stands with all the shiny clothes and mod furniture, I love the fashionable people that get dressed up to browse and haggle there. But most of all I love Viktor, the fashion guy. He’s gorgeous, stylish, and delivers a snarky running commentary, “oh, that looks SO GOOD on you”. I have been buying things from him for years, and harboring a massive “he doesn’t know I’m alive” kind of crush. I can only share his stage for the length of time it takes for him to look me over, help me with a zipper, tell me I look fabulous and trade my admiration for 12 euros and a beautiful dress. Then I no longer have an excuse to remain, so I can only steal a glance at his gray eyes, and the fringe of long hair sweeping into them, and go.

Tomorrow morning I catch an early plane back to Boston. Ciao Berlin, ciao Viktor!

Yes, of course I realize he is gay! Shut up.