So I am going down to Marc’s grandparents’ farm for the next four days for the holiday weekend. There is a vineyard. There are sheep (possibly pet-able sheep, remains to be seen), chickens, and various other adorable and ultimately delicious fauna. There will also be grass and stars, neither of which I’ve seen in a hot minute.
In preparation for the festivities, I went and did a bit of shopping this afternoon. I got:
This dress is actually the most flattering thing ever with a tiny belt, and somehow is the perfect length to be flirtatious while still demure enough to be around grandparents.
Say whatever you want about pearl pink, slightly metallic linen jackets, but this thing breathes like a Kenyan long-distance runner and it’s a super-flattering color. Awesome for summer.
This is my new favorite dress. It is the greatest thing ever.
Anyway, so now I have a few new things to choose from when I’m packing my suitcase tonight. And, as if that wasn’t cool enough, drumroll please…I lost an inch and a half on my waist! All of my clothes are fitting so much better, I feel so energetic, and I’ve pretty much lost all my cravings for crap food.
I really haven’t felt too much like I’m on a diet or anything, but today when I was trying on my clothes in that unforgiving three-section mirror, I felt really happy looking at my shape. I looked taller, I think, just from some sort of optical illusion.
I’m going on a 5-day trip to a beach house at the end of the month with a bunch of friends, and my goal is to feel completely awesome in my bikini. So far, I think that goal is really within reach. And buying clothes of any kind feels so much more satisfying when you’re happy and proud of the body you’re putting them on.
Now to go pet the hell out of some farm animals.
I would feel like an utter ass spamming my Tumblr/Twitter with all of the incredibly sweet asks I’ve received over the past few hours, but just a general thank you so much to all of you who left a few kind words. I really feel like my grandmother would have said that anonymous commenter was being “fresh” and we all handled it like “fine young ladies and gentlemen.” Thanks so much, guys.
I’m doing a little early stocking up on my spring footwear—as I am savagely going through my current wardrobe and donating about half of it—and I’m somewhat in love with these shoes.
I really want pink heels this spring (to match the flowers TEE HEE), and these seem just the right shade for me. However, I do feel that they are SO CLOSE to being over-the-line when it comes to my “Disney Princess Soccer Mom” aesthetic. Do these just scream “I have a closet full of pastel cardigans and an affinity for Yankee Candle Co”?
Keep in mind, I am doing another one of my bi-annual “throw out all of my pants to ensure I only wear dresses and skirts and never get lazy” fits (because I really do feel more beautiful in them, and always feel like a schlub when I wear pants—no matter how great I think they look on other women). So this means that these shoes will only see knee-grazing skirts, floral prints, and sweaters draped over the shoulders.
First of all, can we please appreciate how ridiculous my eye is in that photo? It may be my greatest achievement to date.
So, I don’t know why I love this story so much, but bear with me.
For my birthday, Marc was his usual princely self, and in addition to the literal waterfalls of Champagne I was bestowed with, he decided to get me a dress from my favorite store ever of all time cross my heart hope to die, Tara Jarmon. Now, if you’re not familiar with Tara Jarmon, it has taken everything that was wonderful and feminine about 60s fashion and rendered it in all of the delicate cuts, pastel colors, and conservative hemlines that make Chelsea squirm in her seat. Tara Jarmon was, is, and always will be the greatest part of being a woman.
However, it is expensive enough to leave me licking the window glass in desperation every time I pass by a location as I dream of the day I am financially “successful” (a term to be defined by however much I need to make to shop in that store with complete impunity). For now, I’m relegated to a few choice pieces to pair with all of the beautiful things I inherited from my grandmother. To give you an even clearer idea of the aesthetic,
Just…I just can’t.
Anyway, needless to say, their aesthetic seems single-handedly designed to reach me and…old women. Snooty older women make up the majority of their clientele in Paris stores, as with most shops I like. This adds a certain pressure when trying on clothes there, it must be said, as no one is more hawk-eyed in their judgment than rich old ladies trying on 400 dollar dresses.
So we were in the store during the Soldes—the twice-yearly sales that render the store both infinitely more affordable and infinitely more crowded—picking something out for me. I come out of my little dressing room, walking past the clearly commission-based sales crow, and give a little twirl to get Marc’s opinion of a delicate little printed black number. Generally, I’m a 38 in dresses in Europe, but this particular one was a 40—which would have been okay, as the dress was cut a little slim, but the bow in the back hung down ever-so-slightly because it was at its most loose near the small of my back. It was obvious, just from that, that the dress was slightly too big. I turned around and asked Marc how noticeable the drooping was.
"What do you think?" I asked, holding up my hair to give a better look at the back of the dress.
"Herp derp derp," replied my boyfriend (or so I assume), as he proceeds to unzip the entire dress right down to my ass crack (which was so classily obscured by a blue thong).
"What are you doing?!?!" I squeal as everyone in the area is now staring at me, scrambling to zip my dress back up.
"What, what?! I thought you wanted me to unzip it for you!"
"In the middle of the store!?"
Needless to say, he had just fallen into boyfriend-shopping-auto-pilot and couldn’t have been less concerned about what I was actually asking him to do. And though I could be mad at him for embarrassing me in front of some of Paris’ more brittle Ladies Who Lunch, I appreciate that he makes the effort to at least come with me and give an opinion when pressed. (It should be said that he is actually more fashionable than I, and could die happily trying on suits and shirts at Paul Smith any day.) I know, however, that women’s fashion somewhat escapes him—especially my more picky tastes—and he does make the effort. Isn’t that what counts?
I love my derpykins.
Which surprised me a bit when I rode past its poster because, to my knowledge, every fucking issue of that magazine is “The Beauty Issue.” Every collection of paper they put out, on a pretty regular basis, seems to be pictures of beautiful people wearing beautiful clothes in beautiful places shot by beautiful cameras. Sure, there are articles…but there are articles in Playboy, too. But Hugh Heffner’s not doing an in-depth 2,000-word spread on what Lindsay Lohan looks like naked. We all know why people buy Playboy, and why people buy Vogue. Chainsmoking women in New York who often forgo eating to purchase a pair of leggings that despite (or perhaps because of) their absurd price tag will “change their lives” are not reading Vogue because of its hard-hitting reporting on Libya.
They like pictures of pretty people looking so super pretty. And don’t we all? I live vicariously through Anthony Bourdain, why shouldn’t they live vicariously through the models?
But let’s not patronize by referring to just one issue out of the whole entire year—perhaps several years—as the “Beauty Issue.” Call a spade a spade, “The Issue That’s The Same As Every Other” would be much more informative to potential buyers. And if Vogue is hell bent on doing something “special” to really shake things up, I recommend the following special issues:
- The “Look, We Put Adele On The Cover, Happy Now?” issue
- The “Is That A Black Person In Our Editorial Spread? LOL Just Kidding!!” issue
- The “Let’s Hear What Our Models Think About The Massacre In the Congo” issue
- The “We Explain Why Models Are Required To Hunch Over Like They’re At A Scoliosis Test In Every Fucking High Fashion Shoot” issue
- The “Karl Lagerfeld Becomes A Real Human Being For A Day, But Then Lies Too Much And Goes Back To Being Wooden” issue
- The “This Item DOESN’T Cost A Zillion Trillion Dollars! (Just Kidding, It Totally Does)” issue
I would buy all of those—and don’t you want my money, Vogue?
So yesterday I woke up and was doing my usual morning internetting, which includes (of course) a nice scroll-through of Tumblr, and I see someone has posted an audio of that song Gucci Gucci by Kreayshawn. I listen to it, and, as addressed in my previous post, finally learned where all of the white girls on my various social media networks were getting their quotes.
In any case, the song was pretty okay, but I’m pretty sure that it wouldn’t have gone anywhere if she wasn’t white—it’s a novelty thing, I guess.
So I creeped her Twitter and noticed that she was going to be performing in a “concert” at Colette, this famous store on the Rue St Honore, at 5 PM. Since I was going to an Opera, (Othello at the Bastille Opera House) at 7, I figured I could stop by since it was right on the way.
So I’m all dressed up in my new little black dress, nude pumps, ornate black ring—ready for an Opera. I go to this store, not really knowing what to expect, and arrive in what may be the worst retail establishment ever in operation.
The store, Colette, is apparently known quite well throughout Paris. I had never heard of it, but then, I don’t give two shits about “The Fashion World,” so I’m not really one to ask. But my boyfriend told me, upon his confused arrival, (his inquisitive “what the hell am I doing here” look and much-too-put-together suit still on from his work day were the definition of adorable) that most everyone knew of Colette. He also told me he’d sworn he’d never come into this store, but I suppose that’s neither here nor there.
If I had to describe this store, I would say an Ubran Outfitters for the millionaire jet setter crowd. The ground floor was all overpriced skater gear, Nike Airs designed by some Japanese guy, novelty coffee table books, and Swarovski-encrusted headphones. The upstairs was full of 16,000 euro jackets. If you can take a moment to appreciate the kind of douchebag you’d need to shop at this store, and the kind of money you would need to afford it—I think you might come close to the picture of the clientele.
Not to mention the salespeople with a permanent look of judgmental disgust as they eyed everyone perusing the sparse racks. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: WOMAN/GAY MAN, YOU WORK AT A CLOTHING STORE, YOU ARE NOT BETTER THAN ME. REMOVE THE STICK FROM YOUR ASS AND FOLD A TEE SHIRT, BITTER DISDAIN IS NOT A GOOD LOOK FOR SOMEONE MAKING 12 EUROS AN HOUR.
I’m not rich by any standards, but I also don’t spend my days sucking lemons and glaring at strangers.
So anyway, the concert started extremely late, so we were left walking around in circles semi-making fun of the whole ordeal. A little crowd (about 25 people) started to fill up around the makeshift stage, and the thing started up.
Cue the absolutely absurd gaggle (I think that’s the correct term) of sexagenarian gay men in next to me wearing the kinds of outfits I would expect to see in an avant-garde musical stage stage of Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood. It was all crazy colors, bowties, clamdiggers, sweater vests, and sparkly loafers. And who should walk up and join them but Andy Milonakis, Milla Jovovich, and this guy whose name I can’t remember but whom I KNOW is famous for something minor.
Andy Milonakis wears cool glasses. Milla looked…much older than I would have thought.
Anyway, the show itself was…exceptionally mediocre. The guy who opened is an AMAZING beatboxer, Kreayshawn was…unprepared. Possibly the worst singer I’ve ever heard; rapping was as good as it could be, I guess. Then there was the skinny chick in the Urkel glasses from her video who just kind of stood behind her and awkwardly threw up gang signs. The enormous black guy who DJ’d looked as though someone had put a gun to his head to be there, he was so half-heartedly swaying his arm back and forth in a lackluster, “let’s get this over with” kind of way.
Also, that awkward moment when no one knew any song but Gucci Gucci and she was just kind of like…”okay, let’s cut the foreplay, I know what you came here for.” But in a less clever way.
Meanwhile, we (Marc and I) were in what amounted to business casual, standing perfectly still as we sort of detachedly appreciated the music. Not really the average rap concert audience, I guess.
The Opera was exquisite, our seats were perfect. Truly a wonderful show.
We ended the night at this American-style restaurant in Bastille, eating bacon cheeseburgers and drinking beer in our opera clothes.
The definition of happiness.
the question for which I am not prepared to accept that “because” is a sufficient answer,
the question that nibbles and scratches at the reasonable, logical parts of my brain like a tiny rodent:
WHY IS THAT WOMAN NOT WEARING ANY PANTS?