People Watching

I read this lovely post on the Hairpin, and decided to semi-copy it because I am so thrillingly original. In case you’re too lazy to click the link you love my blog so much you can’t bear to be away from it for one second, it’s all dreamy descriptions about girls the author remembers in these poetic little slices of time. Which is nice, and a good read. But since I’m me, I decided to ditch the poetry and the love, and write accurate descriptions of people I have noticed recently.

Bus Lady. I am waiting for the bus and a tall, thin woman is bouncing up and down and shivering. She asks a girl near her when the bus is coming, and shakes her head and laughs when the girl says it is late. I think she seems normal until we get on the bus, and she spends the next twenty minutes pulling chunks of hair and systematically ripping the ends off. I almost puke.

Stupid Bar Guys. I am sitting alone at the bar, waiting for the Man to come back with drinks, and two men sidle up. They “casually” move closer, then closer, like I’m a cat they don’t want to scare away, and then one of them finally sits in the Man’s now-vacant seat next to me. “Hey, how are you?” he says,and his friend leans in and whispers, “He’s a predator, watch out for him.” I almost puke.

Ghetto Mom. She is standing in front of the Laundromat with two little kids. They don’t want to go inside, and she shouts, “Fine, then stay out here, you little [racial slurs]!” I saw her two weeks before at Wal-Mart,and she said the exact same thing. I almost puke.

Awww, aren’t these sweet? What lovely people I run into! (No, you gorgeous city-dwellers, I do love lots of you, but I didn’t want to totally rip off the Hairpin post so I couldn’t say anything nice. Really, it’s that, and not because I’m a total bitch. No, REALLY. Fine, just to prove it I’m going to do one nice one.)

The Boy. He is sitting in the hipster coffee shop and I see him through the window, reading a Steig Larrson book in a cozy flannel shirt and faded jeans. I can’t tell what he’s drinking but I decide to pretend it’s hot chocolate. He smiles at a part in the book (which probably means he’s a psycho, since 90% of those books involve rape and murder) and it is nice. I don’t puke.

I Hate Your Face

Have you ever been dating someone, and you either don’t really care for them or you’re falling out of love, and all you can see are their flaws? One day they’re handsome and charming, and the next day you squint at their face in total disgust and think, “Well, fuck me, you’re positively revolting!”

That’s mean, I know. But I can’t help it. My first serious boyfriend and I were that awful couple that never loved each other at the same time, so for the first year of our relationship I ignored him and flirted with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who smiled in my direction (which, let’s be honest, is a lot of Toms and Dicks). And then I finally started to like him as much as he liked me, and then BAM, he wasn’t feeling it as much, and then we both were matched in our misery and broke up. Boo-hoo, it happens, life goes on.

But let me tell you, during that year, all I could see was his Stupid Ugly Face. Due to the virtue of our locations I only saw him once a week, less if I could avoid him, but his mug was still a horrible shock whenever it came swimming into view on our weekly rendezvous. He had these horrid–tiny, miniscule, possibly the size of an atom–white dots near his eyes. And a giant nose that probably weighed 700 pounds. And his pores, his pores! His stupid rough hair and by GOD was his smile unpleasant, and why did his nostrils flare when he BREATHED?

You get the idea. I would literally sit in his crumbly apartment and stare at his face with confusion. But I guess this makes sense, because I didn’t really care for him and I had tried to dump him and blahblahblah.

The real problem lies in that I do this with everyone. Yeah, you heard me. Everyone. Close friends and my current beau get a pass, because my heart is fully of warm squishy feelings for them and therefore my brain cannot produce enough hatred to formulate mean thoughts about them. But strangers? Oh holy FUCK do I scrutinize you.

It’s not that I mean to. I fully realize what a shallow bitchbag I sound like, and in the interest of fairness, I do it to myself too. I could stand in front of the mirror with professional makeup on and just think about my face until I’ve magically morphed into a drooling, deformed troll. Blame the media or fashion magazines (or, if you want, my keen and observant eye) but it’s like looking at words and trying not to read them: your brain just does it. At least, my bitchbrain does.

So you know how your acquaintance asks if the hideous pimple on their face is noticeable, and you say no, because maybe you didn’t even look? Yeah, well, I saw it. And since I’m as sweet as apple pie, I won’t say a thing, but holy God is that a zit. And as for you, I see those bags under your eyes and the lint on your sweater and that weird tooth and the place by your jaw where the foundation isn’t blended right. But weirdly, I still think you–and most everyone, even after my brain rips them to shreds–is beautiful! It’s a rare gift. (Now fix that foundation, gorgeous.)


When you hear the word “Lolita,” you probably think one of these things:

  • Oh, the book written by Vladimir Nabokov.
  • Oh, the movie by Stanley Kubrick.
  • Oh, the girl’s name.
  • Oh my, I have no idea what this person is talking about. I’m going to pretend I got a text.

When I hear Lolita, I instantly think of boots with lacy ankle socks. Say what you will about the supremely creepy Humbert Humbert, but Lolita herself had some style. Red heart-shaped sunglasses? Adorable socks? Little dresses? I never saw the film, but H. H. here goes into ridiculous detail over what his stepdaughter/mini girlfriend wears in the book. And she might be twelve, but girlfriend knows how to put together an ensemble.

So I say, take some style cues from Dolores “Lolita” Haze. Who cares if you’re twelve or twenty, this smashing style can work for anyone!

However, I am so not talking about that weird Asian lollicon nonsense. I know that in Japan they have a whole “Lolita style” thing going on, but it’s so bastardized that I like to pretend it doesn’t exist–if you read the book, Lolita is not a 19th century ten-year-old who wears giant poofy dresses and carries a parasol. She is your average skinny little girl who runs around in regular kid clothes and has a really good tan, according to Humbert Humbert’s creepy moaning over her.

So how can I dress like a twelve-year-old so that creepy old men get sprung over me, you ask? Why, it’s simple! To add an edge of Lolita sexiness without looking like a weird cosplaying Asian  one of those people who sleeps in a crib after they get home from practicing law wanna-be kid, the key is to keep your outfit mostly age-appropriate and then mix in some innocently sexy pieces.

Think a cute dress you’d wear normally, with my Lolita favorite: ankle socks with heeled booties. Or an oversized sweater over a short, flippy skirt. Or, you know, you could just walk around dressed in too-small clothes and suck on a lollipop and see how that works out for you.


The New, New Sexy?

There is this really awkward battle that all magazines seem to be waging about what is sexy. Splashed across every Cosmo and Vogue are “sexy secrets” and tips on how to look sexy this season and blah blah blah. That’s good. That’s great! I love sexiness, and advice about how to have more of it is always A-OK with me.

But. I’m just saying, I think somewhere in the past forty years or so, what actually constitutes “sexy” has changed. For the worse. Take a look at this month’s Runner’s World‘s cover girl, for instance.

Now, before you get all up in arms saying that Runner’s isn’t a fashion magazine and isn’t touting sex appeal and you break a key from slamming on your laptop so hard, relax. I fully and totally agree with you, but I am just using that as one of many examples of how the standard of what looks good has changed. The editors at Runner’s picked someone they obviously thought was attractive and had a good, fit body. Similarly, Miss Wintour’s bella counterpart threw Karlie Kloss in her latest edition of Italian Vogue, and she might not have the jogger’s creepy six-pack, but she is one hell of a string bean.

OKAY. So now we have established that people–specifically, media moguls, since most guys I know would still rather date a curvy girl than a stick–today find no-waisted, four-pounds-and-fit girls attractive, but for the love of God, what about the fine felines of the 50s and 60s? What happened to my girl (as ever) Brigitte Bardot? What about everyone’s favorite sexpot, Marilyn Monroe? Betty Grable? Sophia Loren? Anita Ekberg? I mean, I fully admit that I have a total love for all things vintage, and that includes the way-sexier, thirty-thousand-times-more-appealing stars of the past, but come on. Scroll up and look at Ms. String Bean, and then have a gander at BB here. (Ooh, I just realized, it’s KK vs. BB!)

Right? Right. Brigitte (and Marilyn, and Betty and seemingly every other famous lady in the past) had a waist and hips and breasts and didn’t look like you could draw her body by tracing a ruler. If I’m not mistaken, most people don’t find rulers sexy. All I’m saying is that I think Ye Olden Days had a higher class of woman–sexier, better-dressed, and all-around more attractive than the stabby-boned/overly-toned celebrities who are popular now. And I miss it, and fuck all of you, I’m going to wear vintage skirts and Bardot eyeliner until the end of time.

*Disclaimer: 1.) There is nothing wrong with being skinny. I know plenty of girls who are not naturally born with curves and could eat a horse and still be Ruler Girls. Not their fault, and it doesn’t mean they’re ugly. But…I’m just saying, I’d take Brigitte Bardot’s body over theirs any day. 2.) There are plenty of curvy, gorgeous women today, but to be frank, I don’t really trust that 90% of them are REAL in the Age of Implants. To the other 10%, kudos.

Shoes That You Could Wear Instead of Uggs

It’s winter. Your poor little feet are cold, and you want some adorable boots that go with everything. There’s snow on the ground, and you need to buy some shoes, stat. So what do you do? You snatch your mom’s credit card, bop on down to the Ugg Emporium, and spend $150 on these things.

Now, there are worse shoes. Crocs, for example. Or those boots made out of denim that JLo used to wear back when she was Jenny. Uggs are actually kind of adorable, like little fluffy puppies you shove your feet into, only without the animal abuse. (Unless you count all the dead sheep used to make le Uggs.)

This might be abuse-ish if no one takes down their laundry, but awwww!

But. $150? $150?!!?!? I have a friend who owns about ten pairs of the things, and you aren’t supposed to get them wet, apparently, because it ruins the outside (unless you buy their $20 Care Kit!). She said hers came also with a slip that told her not to wear them with socks, because it’ll wear out the fluffiness of the inside. So, in summary, Uggs are $150-$350 winter boots that you can’t get wet or wear with socks?

WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY. Why. I don’t understand. They are casual and comfortable and you just plop your tootsies in there and go, and the colors are nice, and from what I understand they’re fairly well made. These things all make sense. But there are so many better options! If I’m going to spend $150 on shoes, I’m going to spend them on shoes that don’t look like a 5-year-old girl’s galoshes.

Here are some great alternatives to making your feet look like fat sheepskin pillows buying Uggs: these Steven Madden boots ($150), these gorgeous heeled ones from Mod Cloth (only $50!), these classy J. Crew boots ($350), these two-toned platforms from Clark’s ($210), or these Guess boots ($105).

Pick any of them! Just, for the love of God, if you’re going to spend some people’s weekly paycheck on shoes, at least make them beautiful boots that will make you look sophisticated and sexy, instead of I’m-a-fashionless-drone-whose-Uggs-perfectly-match-my-ripped-Abercrombie-jeans-and-hoodie!

See, Sophia Loren can rock a pair of boots.


Girls Just Wanna Have Pun

This is pretty:

Also, there are no puns in this post. I should just tell you right now. The title was a blatant lie.

Now, can I just say, I love being a girl. I FUCKING LOVE IT. Boys really drew the short stick (well, not boys I mess around with, but you know what I mean). You know why? Because I get to do pretty makeup like that, and I get to wear dresses (so freeeeee!), and I get drinks–gratis!–when I go to the bar.

I mean, there are other good reasons, obviously. Like, um, blah blah blah something about female empowerment. But seriously, dressing up and getting all hair-done-nails-done-everything-did is pretty fun. Especially since there are just so many options. What can a guy do to change his look? Grow a beard, cut his hair different, maybe switch it up with some man-jewelry (gauges, not bling, for God’s sake). But girls? You can practically paint on a whole new face if you’re so inclined. Which is always a good time.

In fact, my makeup skills are so good that I robbed the same bank three times in a row thanks to just a tube of mascara and a lipstick! (No, not really. It was four times.)

Style Schizophrenic

I like flip books. I also like clicking through my Facebook pictures and watching myself change; it’s like a flip book, except weird and creepy.

Seriously, though, it’s interesting to watch your own looks and style and all those shenanigans morph over time. (Okay, it’s not, I just wanted an excuse to say, “Shenanigans.”) My face is pretty much the same, but my hair went from a long stick-straight middle part, to a stick-straight side part, to straight with side bangs, to shoulder-length, to messy-wavy with side bangs, to now (medium-length wavy). (ALSO, WASN’T THAT FUN TO READ? OBVIOUSLY THE INTERNET LOVES TO HEAR ABOUT MY HAIR. OBVIOUSLY.) As for my clothes, phew. It’s like a style clusterfuck.

So that got me to thinking. If someone from Teen Vogue ran up to me and asked me to describe my style, what the fuck would I say? “Eclectic,” probably, because that’s the clothes equivalent of a crazy old rich man who everyone calls “eccentric.” I.e., “I have no idea, I just buy things.” I think I finally have started to put together something that could be described as “a look” instead of “a closet full of random shit,” but it’s like three different people live inside me when I go shopping.

Sometimes, I am preppy Hollister girl. Which explains why I own six pairs of Hollister jeans, a Hollister miniskirt, Hollister shorts, and way too many shirts and tank-tops and hoodies to count. And some Abercrombie, which is exactly the same except more expensive and less colorful. And yes, Hollister is lame and blah-blah-blah and the only people that buy clothes there are blah-blah-blah yawnnnnnnnnnn. (Who gives a fuck? It’s a store, like any other store. Do I judge you for buying hideous man-like capris at Banana Republic? Actually, wait, I am calling you mean names inside my brain when I see you in those pants, so feel free to retaliate; it’s only fair.)

Other times, I dress like a Playmate. As in, cute slutty pink things. It is the bomb dot com, since I feel like a sexy little tart but it is retarded comfortable. Knee socks, short skirts, little Hello Kitty t-shirts. I know this “style,” if you can even call it that, is about as adult as, um, a very young thing. But never underestimate the comfort level of short-shorts and thigh-highs. And the Guy likes it, so it’s a win-win.

Also, this is a tranny. I just thought I should let you know. It is really hard to find pictures of non-whores in knee socks, and I got bored, so I settled on the tranny.

I guess the last element of the ol’ closet would best be described as “hipster,” although any time someone calls me that I kind of reflexively gag. I dunno why, I don’t really care one way or the other about hipsters, but it just makes me feel like I’ll look down and have a triangle tattoo on my wrist and be ironically wearing a bow tie, or something. (INSTANT HIPSTER.) Think skinny jeans, fringed scarves (I fucking love scarves), plaid button-downs, and lots of cardigans.

But I mean, I guess it doesn’t really matter, since I like all of those things, right?

Or not. So now you know. I am a style schizophrenic. I have let you, the Internet, in on my dirty little secret. Don’t tell anybody or I might just choke you with a pair of leggings.


Going Lesbian

So, I love guys. A lot. Mostly what I like about them is their guy-ish-ness–stubble and arms and tallness and that guy smell that is so delish. But sometimes, I think it would be so much easier to be a lesbian.

I mean, I know it wouldn’t, in the civil rights/getting married/telling Mom sense, but seriously, sometimes it just seems like guys and girls don’t go together.

Take lingerie, for instance. Women wear it for men, but every guy I’ve been with has expressed appreciation before promptly ripping it off a second later. Which is nice, but still, maybe they could actually just look at it for a second before it gets tossed on the floor. And whenever I asked why, the guy responded, “Well, ’cause I like you best naked.” Le sigh. I feel like another girl would appreciate all the pretty bows and thigh-highs a little more.

Also, as far as touchy-feely bullshit goes, I bet that’s easier with someone else who’s also on the mushy side. Someone who also appreciates the distinction (because there is one, God damn it) between, “Love ya,” and “I love you.” And then I wouldn’t feel like such a tool for crying at The Notebook. And Moulin Rouge.

Plus, if I was gay, I could coordinate with my girlfriend:

Sadly, I just can’t bat for the other team. I appreciate girl prettiness the way I appreciate a nice dress. Er, wait, no I don’t. ‘Cause when I see a nice dress, I want to get inside it. So no. Like…a work of art. I guess the simplest way to put it is that I can objectively see the attractiveness of a girl without feeling any attraction to her. Whereas I can objectively see the attractiveness of a guy, but then objectivity falls out the window and I want to jump him.

Oh, lucky lucky lesbians. We straights have it hard. (I kid, I kid.)