Sounds of the seventies have been getting louder every day if you're subscribed to as many women's magazines as I am (Looking at you, Orlando Bloom), and tonight while I was flipping through InStyle the din was deafening. Vanessa Hudgens is featured in a photo spread in her best role yet: an exotic knockout girlfriend-type inspired by Bianca Jagger (my third favorite of Mick's girlfriends, if you don't count Samantha from SatC) with a variety of jumpsuits, plunging v-necks and the turban, insha'Allah the turban! "Getting a taste of Bianca's style made me want to dress like this all the time," she says, and I simply can't wait. When fashion dictates, magazines editorialize with celebrities, and when these celebrities borrow those clothes the average American can finally fucking catch on to the change after they read US Weekly in the checkouts at the grocery store.
I've been really into the excessive sassiness and bravado that seems to come with 70s style in the past year or so. It stands to reason since after all, when you're wearing platforms and wide-legs pants in a world of cocktail dresses, you can't really blend in. I went with a friend to her sorority's formal in April when her boyfriend couldn't make it wearing black wide-leg and high-waisted trousers, a black silk scoopneck tank and my highest heels, and even in a sea of Lilly Pulitzer prints I felt like the Bi(anca) of the ball. Check Gettysburg's society pages from that month for photographic evidence, and be sure to check out the picture of me stacking eight pieces of cheese in my palm "to save for later." Where those cheeses ended the night I cannot say, but I'm sure they were delicious.
This love of seventies style is definitely buttressing my infatuation with Exile on Main Street, the Rolling Stone's 1972 masterpiececlassicpieceofartalbumofalifetime recorded in the south of France that I've listened to for about three weeks straight now. My love for the Stones has been with me since birth, thanks to my classic rocking dad, but I'm not sure I really appreciated them until I really appreciated getting drunk. Unless you've had a few regrettably sloppy nights of your own, you really have no business doing anything that involves Keith Richards in any way (single exception: reading a review of his autobiography in The New Yorker, but only if you're doing it with a lot of disdain and pity).
So you're drunk in the alley with your clothes all torn
And your late night friends leave you in the cold grey dawn
That line's been sticking with me lately, because if you're anything like me (somebody with a few friends and no sense of her own alcohol tolerance levels) you've found yourself on the wrong end of a long night, and probably more than a little worse for the wear. For every hundred incredible nights you have, you're bound to have at least a few that end with you walking down a street in Aix-en-Provence yellcrying "I don't want it I don't want it I don't want it" into the sleeve that's now housing your rerung Sex on the Beach. Reringing is a term that JUST came to me for the implications of overindulgences, which for me most often appears in the form of vom -- since your drink is already paid for, this is just you paying for it again.
ex: "I just rerung my tequila shot in the bathroom."
"Yeah, this morning I got rung up again for the pitchers at the bar last night."
"I got so wasted last night I told my girlfriend's mom she's probably better in bed, guess the breakup text I just got is me reringing my drinks."
I just learned I can put French dubs and English subtitles on episodes of Sex and the City, so I think I have to run. In the spirit of the post, maybe I'll throw on a sequined nightgown (of which I have deux) so I can feel like I'm passing out in a dark corner of Studio 54 instead of sipping a white russian in a basement.
Yours in being totally high-waisted,
Thursday Girl
08 February 2011
08 July 2009
Fuera de Servicio
I left work a little late before vacation a few days ago and needed to grab a quick dinner. Gettysburg, like most towns in PA, somehow found enough business to justify two McDonald's locations within 2 square miles of each other (confession: I don't actually know how to measure distance, but these McDonald's are definitely within 20 minutes walking distance of each other - I know this for a fact because 9 out of 10 Pennsylvanians will still opt to drive).
I chose to go to the one on Rte. 15 (even though it's by far the worst of the two locations) because it was on my way, choosing to ignore the following conditions:
1. It requires two left-hand turns, and Pennsylvanians have a unique talent for driving down roads with enough space between each car that you have to wait to make your turn as long as possible, while not leaving enough for you to actually make your turn.
2. The staff routinely glare at paying customers, as if to say, "I really hate you. I hate everything about you, and I resent you for making a purchase here today." I guess I can understand their feelings, because without me interrupting them with my ridiculous need for a cheeseburger they could be fondling each other in the breakroom. Sorry guys!
3. They installed two drive-thru speakers, which confuses a Pennsylvania driver every time ("Should I go to the first one? Should I use the one closest to me? What do you think, kids? Should I sit here and discuss it with you guys? Don't worry about it - the people behind us are probably just as confused as we are"). Also, neither of them work.
4. You have to order AND pay at the same window, putting both of these burdens on the same individual! Man just wasn't made to handle such taxing demands on their physical and mental state, so it takes them a little bit longer to handle each transaction.
5. It's a McDonald's in Pennsylvania! What was I thinking!
I waited in line sandwiched between two men in trucks (what are the odds?). The one in front had a vanity license plate - OCEANLY. Ocean LY, like Ocean Love You? Oceanly, as an adverb like She moved oceanly through the crowd? I considered the different options the whole time I was behind him, these were the best I could come up with so if you know him please get the word to me.
I couldn't identify the driver behind me because PA doesn't think two license plates is necessary - you really only need the one in the back. Why bother giving people two chances to get a license plate number, even in an emergency? He was definitely coated in a fine layer of dirt, and absolutely sniffed his armpits at least four times.
The young girl at the order window/cash register was clearly overwhelmed by those responsibilities. She had hardly any time to herself, so she had to dig dirt out from under her fingernails after taking my money before the next person got to the window. I think if I had taken any longer she would have worked on her toenails too, but I'd hate to be presumptuous.
As I waited for my bag o' food, I pondered the people I shared this experience with. They don't care about their appearances, the use of their time, not even their health. They waited in line for ten minutes of their life for this food. They eat garbage and by the dirt on their cars and bodies they live in it too. They live in a state that had to make catching fish with dynamite illegal.
And then I realized.. I am one of them.
I chose to go to the one on Rte. 15 (even though it's by far the worst of the two locations) because it was on my way, choosing to ignore the following conditions:
1. It requires two left-hand turns, and Pennsylvanians have a unique talent for driving down roads with enough space between each car that you have to wait to make your turn as long as possible, while not leaving enough for you to actually make your turn.
2. The staff routinely glare at paying customers, as if to say, "I really hate you. I hate everything about you, and I resent you for making a purchase here today." I guess I can understand their feelings, because without me interrupting them with my ridiculous need for a cheeseburger they could be fondling each other in the breakroom. Sorry guys!
3. They installed two drive-thru speakers, which confuses a Pennsylvania driver every time ("Should I go to the first one? Should I use the one closest to me? What do you think, kids? Should I sit here and discuss it with you guys? Don't worry about it - the people behind us are probably just as confused as we are"). Also, neither of them work.
4. You have to order AND pay at the same window, putting both of these burdens on the same individual! Man just wasn't made to handle such taxing demands on their physical and mental state, so it takes them a little bit longer to handle each transaction.
5. It's a McDonald's in Pennsylvania! What was I thinking!
I waited in line sandwiched between two men in trucks (what are the odds?). The one in front had a vanity license plate - OCEANLY. Ocean LY, like Ocean Love You? Oceanly, as an adverb like She moved oceanly through the crowd? I considered the different options the whole time I was behind him, these were the best I could come up with so if you know him please get the word to me.
I couldn't identify the driver behind me because PA doesn't think two license plates is necessary - you really only need the one in the back. Why bother giving people two chances to get a license plate number, even in an emergency? He was definitely coated in a fine layer of dirt, and absolutely sniffed his armpits at least four times.
The young girl at the order window/cash register was clearly overwhelmed by those responsibilities. She had hardly any time to herself, so she had to dig dirt out from under her fingernails after taking my money before the next person got to the window. I think if I had taken any longer she would have worked on her toenails too, but I'd hate to be presumptuous.
As I waited for my bag o' food, I pondered the people I shared this experience with. They don't care about their appearances, the use of their time, not even their health. They waited in line for ten minutes of their life for this food. They eat garbage and by the dirt on their cars and bodies they live in it too. They live in a state that had to make catching fish with dynamite illegal.
And then I realized.. I am one of them.
22 June 2009
State Beverage: Milk
I decided to start this blog on my nth trip from my home in NJ to my temporary residence in Gettysburg, PA. As I screamed at drivers doing 50 in the left lane of a major highway, read countless billboards for sheepskin'd products, saw billboards telling me there's no way I'm making it to heaven with my current views on taxes, and smelled things that may or may not be a government experiment on subtle torture methods, I noticed a common theme.
Pennsylvania sucks. I've known this for most of my life - I live close to PA and have gone to school here for the past three years (minus one semester abroad, and if you're wondering, the rumors are true. Southern France looks JUST like Bucks County). After years of being confused and irritated by virtually everything and almost everyone the Keystone state offers, I've decided to record these thoughts and offer them to you, the sympathetic public. If you visited PA, if you know a Pennsylvanian, if you've driven behind one, or if you even live here, you know I'm not making this up.
It's fitting that I visited the waking nightmare that is Walmart today, it's a nice entrance into the culture. A nice entrance with a mentally retarded man standing near the carts, just waiting to say hello. Walk ten more yards and you can pick up an "OUR COUNTRY ROCKS" t-shirt for $5. I know I'm going to run out of ways to say "disgustingly fat" sooner rather than later, so I'll have to come up with my own nomenclature for the morbidly obese men and women who call this state their home (Tubettes? Rude'n'Plenties?).
One of them is leaning on a cart, a 15 year old boy wearing a "NON-EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH" t-shirt who has apparently eaten the rest of his family. Within the next fifteen minutes I spot a grown woman, missing a tooth and actually using a Scrunchie, wearing the same t-shirt. Pennsylvanians don't know this, but these two diverse demographics were not meant to shop in the same place. That shirt shouldn't appeal to anyone, but of course it seemed like a good purchase to these two people.
A woman walks by, begging for the un-invention of capri pants. Later on, she will yell at me because I picked up THE ONE FREEWEIGHT WITHOUT A BARCODE. She will have to call an associate to find it for her, and she will glare at me when I apologize for being such a careless tramp. She will enter the number wrong four times, and it will be on my conscience. It still haunts me, and I hope she finds this so she knows how heavy it weighs on my soul.
A mother and her two sons walk by; they appear to buy their pants in threes and share them amongst each other. These two boys, with their DC from head to toe, are the reason Rob can afford Big. The younger actively stares at me, and it's days like this that taught me how to ignore people checking me out for extended periods of time. Please don't misconstrue this as 'bragging' - he's deep into the awkward stage, for Pennsylvanians it lasts well beyond their graves. It should also be noted that I'm not special - the women I mentioned above (Scrunchie-Face and Capri-Bitch) were each checked out by at least two dudes as well. It doesn't take much to be a pretty girl in PA, especially if you need something at Walmart.
At some point, "She's Just Being Miley" starts playing on the speakers - only it's not Miley Cyrus singing, it's a sneak preview of the newest KidzBop CD. It's Kidz singing a song originally performed by a kid, and it's disconcerting. I pick out what I came for, trapped in an aisle momentarily as a young mother and her boyfriend/maybe-baby's-daddy/Social Studies partner argue about which candy to get for the two young children with them. "Get the fucking Milky Ways, I don't care if you hate them." Like most other people in the store, they're shorter than people from better places, which is probably a result of a diet heavy in Doritos and root beer. It's not a well-documented fact, but the average Pennsylvanian today is shorter than the average peasant from colonial times.
I think about all of these people as I walk to my car, and I see more of them walking towards the store. Herds shuffling towards the watering hole, with their young, in their Dallas Cowboys t-shirts, trailing behind. They're coming for the carpet cleaner, the Wet'n'Wild nail polish, and the Alli. They need detergent, Cheez-Its and milk. They'll vote for the next American Idol, and they're the ones who keep the "Drive It Like You Stole It!!!" bumper sticker industry in business. They don't get Bravo, and they don't want to. I don't understand them yet, but I can try.
Pennsylvania sucks. I've known this for most of my life - I live close to PA and have gone to school here for the past three years (minus one semester abroad, and if you're wondering, the rumors are true. Southern France looks JUST like Bucks County). After years of being confused and irritated by virtually everything and almost everyone the Keystone state offers, I've decided to record these thoughts and offer them to you, the sympathetic public. If you visited PA, if you know a Pennsylvanian, if you've driven behind one, or if you even live here, you know I'm not making this up.
It's fitting that I visited the waking nightmare that is Walmart today, it's a nice entrance into the culture. A nice entrance with a mentally retarded man standing near the carts, just waiting to say hello. Walk ten more yards and you can pick up an "OUR COUNTRY ROCKS" t-shirt for $5. I know I'm going to run out of ways to say "disgustingly fat" sooner rather than later, so I'll have to come up with my own nomenclature for the morbidly obese men and women who call this state their home (Tubettes? Rude'n'Plenties?).
One of them is leaning on a cart, a 15 year old boy wearing a "NON-EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH" t-shirt who has apparently eaten the rest of his family. Within the next fifteen minutes I spot a grown woman, missing a tooth and actually using a Scrunchie, wearing the same t-shirt. Pennsylvanians don't know this, but these two diverse demographics were not meant to shop in the same place. That shirt shouldn't appeal to anyone, but of course it seemed like a good purchase to these two people.
A woman walks by, begging for the un-invention of capri pants. Later on, she will yell at me because I picked up THE ONE FREEWEIGHT WITHOUT A BARCODE. She will have to call an associate to find it for her, and she will glare at me when I apologize for being such a careless tramp. She will enter the number wrong four times, and it will be on my conscience. It still haunts me, and I hope she finds this so she knows how heavy it weighs on my soul.
A mother and her two sons walk by; they appear to buy their pants in threes and share them amongst each other. These two boys, with their DC from head to toe, are the reason Rob can afford Big. The younger actively stares at me, and it's days like this that taught me how to ignore people checking me out for extended periods of time. Please don't misconstrue this as 'bragging' - he's deep into the awkward stage, for Pennsylvanians it lasts well beyond their graves. It should also be noted that I'm not special - the women I mentioned above (Scrunchie-Face and Capri-Bitch) were each checked out by at least two dudes as well. It doesn't take much to be a pretty girl in PA, especially if you need something at Walmart.
At some point, "She's Just Being Miley" starts playing on the speakers - only it's not Miley Cyrus singing, it's a sneak preview of the newest KidzBop CD. It's Kidz singing a song originally performed by a kid, and it's disconcerting. I pick out what I came for, trapped in an aisle momentarily as a young mother and her boyfriend/maybe-baby's-daddy/Social Studies partner argue about which candy to get for the two young children with them. "Get the fucking Milky Ways, I don't care if you hate them." Like most other people in the store, they're shorter than people from better places, which is probably a result of a diet heavy in Doritos and root beer. It's not a well-documented fact, but the average Pennsylvanian today is shorter than the average peasant from colonial times.
I think about all of these people as I walk to my car, and I see more of them walking towards the store. Herds shuffling towards the watering hole, with their young, in their Dallas Cowboys t-shirts, trailing behind. They're coming for the carpet cleaner, the Wet'n'Wild nail polish, and the Alli. They need detergent, Cheez-Its and milk. They'll vote for the next American Idol, and they're the ones who keep the "Drive It Like You Stole It!!!" bumper sticker industry in business. They don't get Bravo, and they don't want to. I don't understand them yet, but I can try.
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