Sunday, October 08, 2006
fashion
(from my site, May 5, 2005)
I'm getting dressed to go meet Rain for coffee. I don't actuallly drink coffee too often (see Brawny Story) but it's more of a description of our social activity, not an inventory of what we're actually drinking. I will drink decaf herbal tea, as I always do. But saying that I'm meeting someone for tea makes me sound 1) English, or B) like a little old lady. I am neither. On top of that, to say "I'm going to meet Rain for tea" sounds like something else, maybe that I'm collecting raindrops for a really natural beverage, or that I've been drinking bongwater.
Going through my clothes as I'm looking for something to wear to meet Rain for, errr, coffee, I found a pair of pants I accidentally bought a while back. You know the ones, the low-rise jeans that threaten to show off your hoohaw. I want to show off my hoohaw even less than other people want to see it. They should really come with a warning label. "Warning, you will randomly flash your ass at strangers when you sit down" would be a good one. I only wear them with a really long shirt. I'm not knocking the people who actually look good in this style of pants, but shouldn't there be a weight limit on these things?
This leads me to a few strongly-held beliefs I have about fashion. First, a really good rule of thumb when shopping for a skirt is not to buy one that is wider than it is long. You would think that was common sense, but we've all seen the belly fat and stretch marks spilling over the tops of all the low-waisted pants like over-filled muffin pans, so obviously common sense isn't always a factor. I keep my unsightly business hidden safely under my Levis, thank you.
There is a Mediterranean restaurant in Pasadena that has the most amazing Sunday brunch. One weekend my friends and I noticed they only bring out the really voluptuous belly dancer for the brunch buffet. She's beautiful and talented, but she really must keep the cost down for the restaurant owners. As soon as I see that belly jiggling my way I always put down my fork. I can barely squash down my buffet guilt as it is, I don't need a visual reminder vibrating in my face.
I can just see Gary and Harry in the kitchen.
"The kabobs are going fast! There is hardly any poached salmon left! Quick, bring out Katya!"
The silent alarm goes off, Katya rushes into her garb as she slides down the pole and quickly takes her place on the floor.
(I don't know that her name is Katya, but I think that's a pretty good name for a belly dancer.)
I would like to explain something to all the Hot Topic shoppers out there. Buying clothes that already have safety pins neatly sewn into them, with pre-made reinforced holes so they don't rip, is the lamest shit in all of creation. It defeats the purpose of wearing safety pins in your clothes at all, and makes a mockery of the hard work of your punk and new wave predecessors. Listen here, sonny boy, back in my day we put our own damn safety pins in our clothes and we liked it.
Since I've dyed my hair red (Rubine by Manic Panic) more people talk to me on the street than they used to, at least now the comments aren't about my boobs anyway. Two men have asked me if it's my natural color, but most people say some variation of "I like the red." When I see another person who has colorful hair we are now immediately obligated under some unwritten rule to stop and talk to each other.
My brother, who has an affinity for tattoos, often stops to talk to other people about their tattoos, so now I know what their conversations are like. Where did you get it, how do you like it, that's some nice work there, look at mine here, I'm thinking of having this done, that sort of thing.
There is one guy I talk to sometimes at the mall. He has a pink mohawk. Our conversations were pretty benign until one day, when we were talking about the endless upkeep, he said "Yeah, it's a lot of work letting people know you're cool."
Excuse me? I thought he was joking, but no, he was serious. I quickly scanned his clothes to check the status of his safety pins. Dying your hair a certain color doesn't make you cool. It doesn't automatically make you uncool. But dying your hair so that other people will know you're cool is defininately uncool.
Hey, it just occured to me. Rain is from New York, I'll have to ask her about the pizza.
I'm getting dressed to go meet Rain for coffee. I don't actuallly drink coffee too often (see Brawny Story) but it's more of a description of our social activity, not an inventory of what we're actually drinking. I will drink decaf herbal tea, as I always do. But saying that I'm meeting someone for tea makes me sound 1) English, or B) like a little old lady. I am neither. On top of that, to say "I'm going to meet Rain for tea" sounds like something else, maybe that I'm collecting raindrops for a really natural beverage, or that I've been drinking bongwater.
Going through my clothes as I'm looking for something to wear to meet Rain for, errr, coffee, I found a pair of pants I accidentally bought a while back. You know the ones, the low-rise jeans that threaten to show off your hoohaw. I want to show off my hoohaw even less than other people want to see it. They should really come with a warning label. "Warning, you will randomly flash your ass at strangers when you sit down" would be a good one. I only wear them with a really long shirt. I'm not knocking the people who actually look good in this style of pants, but shouldn't there be a weight limit on these things?
This leads me to a few strongly-held beliefs I have about fashion. First, a really good rule of thumb when shopping for a skirt is not to buy one that is wider than it is long. You would think that was common sense, but we've all seen the belly fat and stretch marks spilling over the tops of all the low-waisted pants like over-filled muffin pans, so obviously common sense isn't always a factor. I keep my unsightly business hidden safely under my Levis, thank you.
There is a Mediterranean restaurant in Pasadena that has the most amazing Sunday brunch. One weekend my friends and I noticed they only bring out the really voluptuous belly dancer for the brunch buffet. She's beautiful and talented, but she really must keep the cost down for the restaurant owners. As soon as I see that belly jiggling my way I always put down my fork. I can barely squash down my buffet guilt as it is, I don't need a visual reminder vibrating in my face.
I can just see Gary and Harry in the kitchen.
"The kabobs are going fast! There is hardly any poached salmon left! Quick, bring out Katya!"
The silent alarm goes off, Katya rushes into her garb as she slides down the pole and quickly takes her place on the floor.
(I don't know that her name is Katya, but I think that's a pretty good name for a belly dancer.)
I would like to explain something to all the Hot Topic shoppers out there. Buying clothes that already have safety pins neatly sewn into them, with pre-made reinforced holes so they don't rip, is the lamest shit in all of creation. It defeats the purpose of wearing safety pins in your clothes at all, and makes a mockery of the hard work of your punk and new wave predecessors. Listen here, sonny boy, back in my day we put our own damn safety pins in our clothes and we liked it.
Since I've dyed my hair red (Rubine by Manic Panic) more people talk to me on the street than they used to, at least now the comments aren't about my boobs anyway. Two men have asked me if it's my natural color, but most people say some variation of "I like the red." When I see another person who has colorful hair we are now immediately obligated under some unwritten rule to stop and talk to each other.
My brother, who has an affinity for tattoos, often stops to talk to other people about their tattoos, so now I know what their conversations are like. Where did you get it, how do you like it, that's some nice work there, look at mine here, I'm thinking of having this done, that sort of thing.
There is one guy I talk to sometimes at the mall. He has a pink mohawk. Our conversations were pretty benign until one day, when we were talking about the endless upkeep, he said "Yeah, it's a lot of work letting people know you're cool."
Excuse me? I thought he was joking, but no, he was serious. I quickly scanned his clothes to check the status of his safety pins. Dying your hair a certain color doesn't make you cool. It doesn't automatically make you uncool. But dying your hair so that other people will know you're cool is defininately uncool.
Hey, it just occured to me. Rain is from New York, I'll have to ask her about the pizza.
