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20

There can be no such thing as too many hyphens

July 20, 2006

I was feeling unusually spiffy today in a semi-crisp white button-down shirt paired with a flouncy black skirt and heels (and sporting a rather cute necklace to boot); until, that is, I bit into my lunchtime sandwich and splurted a big old money shot of tomato all over myself.

I feel like the Fashion Gods have spoken. (”HEY SLOBBY! GO BACK TO T-SHIRTVILLE.”)

Lately I’ve been thinking about clothes more than I normally do; mostly because every time I go looking for a couple summery shirts to add to my pitiful wardrobe I get infuriated by the current styles, which in my personal experience can be described as “Suitable Only for Boobless Amazons”. Seriously, what is with the long, long, narrow-ass shirts – the preppy polo-y things, the Old Navy “perfect fit” t-shirts (perfect for rolling into a ball and being used to cram up the lower intestinal tract of the designer, maybe), the ruffle-fronted frothy button-up sleeveless blouses with high necks which are apparently meant to convey the confusing message “I am both contemporary and vaguely Victorian in my ensemble”, the plethora of horizontally-striped monstrosities – they all seem to hit at the same uber-unflattering top-of-thigh area on me, and I am of average height goddamnit, I can’t be the only one who doesn’t want to wear a fucking nightgown over my jeans, and don’t even get me started on the fact that nothing can be worn over an actual pair of human breasts unless you don’t mind walking around with 3,000 psi of strain happening at chest level, which as everyone knows could totally result in an eye injury.

I was at the Gap yesterday, in the Annoying Mall near my office (the Annoying Mall is so named because of the overabundance of chichi young mothers it attracts, I know this just makes me sound obnoxious but whenever I go there I see so many Gucci-clad urban hipsters pushing their bling-rimmed strollers around and half-watching Junior clambering on the baby gym while they shop for Abercrombie & Fitch tank tops that perfectly fit their macrobiotic-dieted frames and buy their children $78 onesies from Kid’s Club, I want to bite them all on their freshly waxed and tanned calves. Which probably means that YES, when it comes to these Pilates-toned iPod-stroller-holder Puma-shoe-wearing women whose husbands apparently hand them a pile of gold ingots every morning and tell them to have a good time, I probably AM bitter and jealous, JUST A LITTLE), and I think they had maybe 5 styles of shirts in stock. All Amazonian, All Boobless. I don’t get it.

Man. Wearing heels and tomato stains all day will make a girl ranty.

In other news, I had dinner with my friend Chiara yesterday. It was her last night in town, because she’s moving to, holy shit, New Zealand. For like a year at least, which I found impossible to believe as we ate mounds of italian food and talked nonstop about blogs and journals and writing and all the stuff we always talk about, but the proof that she’s really going was in the back of my car: two of her stuffed octopuses, given to me and Riley for safekeeping while she’s away.

Chiara! I’ll miss you, girl. Your octopuses – um, especially the really fucking huge one, because he or she is awesome – are in good hands, okay?