Tag Archives: fashion

My girl is the queen of the savages

I bought a lovely pair of ballet flats in early 2005 and promptly ruined them two months later. When we toured the construction progress on our Indian Burial Ground, the ground was a bit marshy, and one shoe got sucked entirely off my foot. Foolish me, thinking a hard hat paired well with kicky flats. Where are Stacy and Clinton when I dress myself each day? They might have put the kibosh on the three shirts plus Nanook boots and rubber gloves joint from the other day. What can I say? I am always cold.

I found out that I have a vata problem. I used to be a nice corn-fed pitta with the moon eyes of a kapha, but now I am cold and crackly and speedy and have trouble falling asleep. I forget as quickly as I learn. And don’t get me started on how hard it is to be an Alpha. At least I am not infested with imaginary bugs, like my poor father.

Losing my slipper was only fitting though, since sucking and my real estate forays go hand-in-hand, hoof-and-mouth. I tried to sponge the mud off, but it didn’t really work. So I left the shoes in the back of my closet for two years. Duh.

Yesterday, I cleaned and polished them, and whaddya know, instant Spring! I also added up all our debt before I did this. All of it. I wrote it on a big piece of paper and stuck it on the fridge. Shame works wonders. I love to be shamed, don’t you? I’m your secretary. In summation, we owe every cent we take in before the end of the year to that piece of paper on the fridge. No, I can’t have new shoes. I am putting tiny human diminutive former primate to work on making me some, though. She is handy with an awl. She climbs the couch like a little ape and hangs upside down from my chest. One day I will give her power of attorney, and she will have to make decisions about my welfare. Until then, we Make Do and Improve.

Mommy drinks because you cry

Today a baby went out of the house dressed like an Olsen twin yet again. Perhaps we will get better at matching when someone stops soiling various parts of her outfit so frequently. Until then, we remain “boho.” Or around the house, “naked and easily hosed down.”

In another two years, I expect to be able to discuss things that do not relate to a baby. That’s not totally true. If you’d like to discuss consolidating student loans or car insurance discounts, I’m your huckleberry. Would you like to talk about how my wretched, wretched condo won’t sell for what I paid for it? Also, I had a dream that I bought a bunch of bananas housing a tarantula.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, a baby is teething, so I have to put some whiskey on my gums.

It’s nice to be reminded I have no idea what I’m doing

A baby is feeling poorly. She’s having a growth spurt and sprouting some teeth. Perhaps she is also humilated because she wore a sleeper that read “Babys friends * Pets” the other day. These pet friends are a line art dachshund named Pascal and a bunny named Colette. At any rate, her psychic disturbance has netted me a day of screaming whenever she is awake and not eating. This coincides nicely with my house being torn apart from our rearranging binge of the past few days. I’m also supposed to be shipping my worldly possessions to Australia today, and if I don’t make it to the post office, I will get OMG negative feedback times a million! I’m going back to bed.

Why is a cat stuffed in a Canali suit?

A: She wants to host a gameshow

A: She has an irrational grudge against Hugo Boss because of an imagined slight

A: Once a cat goes I-talian, she can’t be happy sitting on American clothes again

A: All the suits are on the couch because the guts of the closet are ripped out thanks to EasyCloset.com not being as easy as alleged

Any of these would be OK and reasonable answers, relevant to life as we know it.

In other news, I have a giant scary-looking envelope from the IRS that I do not wish to open. I can’t wait until the parasite gets here. She’ll open my mail and learn to run the fax machine. It’ll be a regular Dickensian workhouse around here.

Excuse me, a cat looks totally stupid in a cashmere sweater. Mr. H’s clothes are much nicer than mine since he gets to leave the house sometimes, and I am secretly jealous. So I will let her continue wallowing around in there. I see nothing!

Fashion Police Update

I have been encouraging the receptionist on my floor to not only Inform on those who violate the dress code, but to prepare a full Joan Rivers style report every day, on everyone’s dress. Why stop at simply policing open-toed shoes and corduroy pants (strictly VERBOTEN)? We should report the magenta blazers, the bulky shoulderpads, the cheap perfume, and the continued presence of holiday sweaters. Just this morning I saw some cellulite hugging oatmeal pants in the copy room! We should also give commendations for snazzy eyewear and slimming pencil skirts. I shall be preparing a full review for HQ!

I have not seen that old plastic faced gorgon, Ms. Rivers, do her thing at the Oscars. I have not seen an award show, or a star-studded tribute of any kind while I was in Berlin. So I actually plan to have a Grouch the Oscars night at my house. Which will involve champagne, tiaras, and lots of jeering. I suppose it will also involve watching the oscars.


Dressing for Excess

I have just heard that dress code infractions at the ol’ McJobby Job le Job are to be noted by the receptionist and reported to HQ. Does this mean no more feather boa? Is my tweed cap to be silenced? So I am working on my resume, which causes me to think in bulleted lists of the Things I did Yesterday:

*eat a canoli

*watch a film about noodles

*read a book about waiting, entitled “Waiting”.

Buy a copy of Wired magazine and note that the aforementioned trio Freezepop have a full pager in there. I am preparing myself for them to be hugely famous so that I can write a tell-all. I better start stealing their underwear.

I asked everyone at dinner if they were to be inducted into the Make a Wish Foundation through clerical error and not, say, leukemia, for what would they ask. We had two Bowie-related requests (I would do an exhibition with the Man in Pants. Picture me quaffing wine at our opening, full of mutual adulation!) One wish was to go on tour opening for Duran Duran. Another would modestly wish for a house. Asians are so practical!

And strangely of all, one of us would like to be nine years old. Permanently. Which sparked a lively discussion on the value of consciousness and creativity versus an unconscious sort of happiness.

Personally, as much as I am avoiding adulthood, I would never return to the age of nine. My paintings are better now. Oh, and so is the sex.



I am taking my cue from a skilled eurotrash impersonator of my acquaintance and prefacing everything with “Extrem.” I also like to say “Super-Cool” (pronounced SoooPAIR) and “Giga-Cool.”

The new Air cd, Talkie Walkie, is indeed Super-Cool. Extrem-Sexy. I can’t stop listening to it. It works for making out, for drinking wine, for driving, for staring out the window, for ironing, you name it. It makes me turn up the collar of my jean jacket and muss Mr. H’s hair.

I also bought Hai! by The Creatures, and ees giving me Super-Mega-Goth flashback. I am this close to cutting really short bangs and buying tons of used clothing again. I find myself missing the days of velvet blazers and poppy red hair streaks, of tattered prom dresses and stripper heels. That and hearing “I Dig You” in that Monster.com ad. I must admit that my knowledge of the Cure’s catalog and side projects is shockingly extensive. I’m also going through old CDs and sighing, “Alien Sex Fiend, AWWWWW!”

Aw, screw it, I don’t have a job! I can have interesting hair yet again! Where’s the Manic Panic?


Queer Eye Hit and Run

So I was in the thrift store today, squeezing into some pants and a tacky one-dollar belt. I was eyeballing them in the mirror when a handsome, gay man strides by and intones “that’s HOT” in that dry, world-weary mary-way. And was just as suddenly gone. Hot, eh? Aren’t gay men by definition not supposed to find things hot on me? I had more or less made up my mind not to buy anything. But apparently, Lambchop is powerless to resist the endorsement of a gay man. No wonder nice boys don’t like me.


Huzzah, huzzah!

Unfurl the gossamer banners, and don your t-shirt featuring dogs having a tea party! Pipe lurid pink icing flowers on a solid slab of marzipan, and flood the streets with confetti, for it is Lambchop’s birthday! And not just any birthday, oh no. It is a special number, but I shall leave that for her to reveal in her own good time.

To celebrate, I have quite the surprise. I let us get pregnant a few weeks ago when she was passed out! No, kidding, kidding. But I did pick up a few gaudy do-dads, and when I purchased one of them the sales-slattern said “Oh, your daughter is going to love this!” What is more alarming: our truly infantile taste, or that this shrew thought I looked old enough to have a six-year-old?

Now I give you photographic proof that we are two heads sharing one body. This was taken in Barcelona a few years ago, atop a bus. Luckily we never forget which one of us is on the right in photos (Lambchop!).

Now what more can I say about my splendid pal? Hmm… no matter what I come up with, I am sure that ABBA has said it better at some point.

There was something in the air that night

The stars were bright, Fernando

They were shining there for you and me

For liberty, Fernando

Though I never thought that we could lose

There’s no regret

If I had to do the same again

I would, my friend, Fernando

Yes, if I had to do the same again

I would, my friend, Fernando…