Date Archives May 2007

It’s as bad as showing butt crack.

Since it’s nearly 5 weeks until Elegant Swan Day, I’ve had to start getting serious about getting my things together. On Saturday, I went shopping for Shoes I’ll Never Wear Again to go with the Dress I’ll Never Wear Again, and promptly discovered that zero shoes on the market today are the correct color of cream to match the aforementioned dress. On a whim, I went into another store filled with dresses of the Never Wear Again style, and found a different one made of lighter material that is more Wisconsin-summer-heat-wedding-appropriate, in the same shade of blue, with white trim instead of cream. The clincher was that this dress will cost nearly $100 less in alterations, so even with the additional expense of the dress (marked down 80%!), I’m saving a much-needed $75. So now I own one Dress I’ll Never Wear Again and one Dress I’ll Never Wear And Maybe Never Even Look At Again So Hopefully My Closet Eats It.

I found a pair of white shoes immediately and was excited to be done with my shopping so quickly.

Of course, something was destined to go horribly wrong.

That something, ladies and gentlemen, was toe cleavage.

You might be asking yourself, “What in the Sam Hill is toe cleavage?”

Toe cleavage is the horrible, horrible practice of cutting the tops of shoes low enough to show the tops of your toes and the gaps inbetween. It ruins the clean look of a formal shoe and makes it appear concurrently that:

1)Your shoes don’t fit properly and 2)You’re ready for the beach, you rebel, you! and 3)You have toes long enough to join your simian ancestors in swinging through trees and picking bugs out of fur.

This scourge is apparently quite fashionable right now, which is a shame as it is so utterly disgusting. It must be quite a boon to the foot fetishists, but other than that, I feel confident that the rest of us can strongly band together against the nastiness which is toe cleavage. Furthermore, when I see toe cleavage, I am overwhelmed by the idea that the person wearing the shoes must inherently smell like sweaty feet, even if that is not the case.

These shoes are going back to the store with a quickness not unlike superman chasing a cheetah.

How do I know I’m right? Well, Saturday night, I went out with Amy to the Rickshaw in cute shoes that did NOT show toe, and while I was talking with Chuck outside, some guy was looking at me instead of watching where he was going, and at the exact moment he was trying to be slick and drop me a wink, he walked into a car’s sideview mirror.

THAT’S how I know.

In which I mention unmentionables

Last night I went shopping for some new unmentionables. For as rarely as they’re seen by eyes other than mine, you wouldn’t think I could possibly be as picky about the whole process as I am. But you would be wrong. Oh, how you would be wrong!

In the course of events, I came up with a few suggestions for the manufacturers of funbag containers, over the shoulder boulder holders, titsacks, turret covers, “oh my god, I can’t believe this tiny piece of lace costs $60″, etc:

1)If a woman is 36 inches around, she’s probably going to have a cup size larger than an A or a B. It would be very helpful if you made bras to accommodate these needs. 36” around is not a specialty store size. Please stop treating it as such.

2)If you happen to actually make a bra with the requisite cup size, please make it the same style as the A and B cups. Cute, feminine, sparkly, lacy, whatever. I should not think of artillery when I look at your bra. I do not want to think of artillery when I take off my shirt unless I happen to have a gun strapped on under there or some sort of bitchin’ Howitzer tattoo.

3)Furthermore, if you happen to make a bra with the requisite cup size, please stop adding additional padding. If a lady is rocking a C or larger, she probably doesn’t need your foamy/gel/waterpack boost, as she’s got enough of her own material to work with. Also, foam/gels/waterpacks are totally cheating and smaller cup sizes shouldn’t get them, either.

As a side note (speaking of racks), I found some Pirates of the Caribbean pajamas on the clearance rack. What is better than waking up in the morning with Johnny Depp’s face on your crotch? NOTHING.

Dance, magic, dance

On Saturday, Carrie and I got gussied up and went downtown to the Fifth Avenue Theatre to see Edward Scissorhands: The Play.

Earlier in the week, Carrie’s barista had led her to believe that this wasn’t a play in the strictest sense, but more of a musical. So when Carrie and I sat down, we expected something along the lines of ‘all singing, all dancing’. It turns out we were only half right–this would’ve been far better billed as “Edward Scissorhands: The Ballet” or “Edward Scissorhands: The Interpretive Dance”. Which isn’t to say it was bad–just that it was surprising! For a while, my mind kept trying to reject it–“You are NOT arty enough to appreciate this, you are NOT arty enough to appreciate this” but when I shoved that part of me back, I found it truly enchanting.

It definitely made me wish I had seen the movie more recently, as I felt I would’ve appreciated what was going on more if I had a clear memory of the progression of the narrative. Still, the show did an amazing job of telling a story quite clearly without words, and it’s quite possible that it was an adaptation that was better served without words.

The scenes between Edward and Kim were breathtakingly beautiful; not only was it easier to focus on the dancing when there were only two people onstage instead of twenty or more, but it seemed that extra efforts were made with their choreography. Immediately before the intermission, there is a scene where Edward shows Kim the topiaries he’s made, and as they dance together, what initially appeared as set pieces came to life and started dancing with them. It was gorgeously done, but that didn’t stop the gigglefest between Carrie and I come intermission. “Oh mum, I’m so excited–I got the part I’ve always dreamed of playing–DANCING BUSH NUMBER THREE!” “It’s so cute, it’s like a little bush dinosaur!” “I’m going to sign programs with XOXOX, Topiary Lizard!”

Half the people around us were highly entertained by our little intermission show, and half of them were giving us the stink-eye. The girl on my right, in particular, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen, gave me the stinkiest stink-eye in the history of the world. But come ON now, it’s not as if I was talking/giggling/making jokes DURING the show, and it truly cannot be expected that I’ll be stifled for many hours running!

It certainly didn’t hurt my enjoyment of Edward Scissorhands: Dance-O-Rama to note that the actor who danced Edward had an amazing ass. I think I missed a decent portion of the action just because I couldn’t take my eyes away from his hindquarters. It’s ok, though, as when you’re staring from a distance, it just appears that you are a VERY attentive theatre-goer.

Many, many thanks to Carrie for taking me to this show-I truly enjoyed myself, and I don’t think I could have enjoyed seeing it nearly as much with anyone else.

This theatre review brought to you due to an emotard post I had made a while back. If this is the sort of birthday gift one receives because one whines about one’s friends being too busy, I’m going to have to be an emotard more often.

 

The honey tastes sweeter when you anger the bees

On Friday I decided to throw caution to the wind and drive to Portland to see Mike, against my better judgement regarding the condition of my car to make such a drive. It went remarkably better than my last trip to Portland to see him perform, as there was no torrential downpour to cause me to skid across the road.

I found Dante’s without too much trouble, and gave hallucinas a call as soon as I pulled into a parking lot. She wasn’t home, so the best I could do was leave a message and hope she got it before I left the city.

Dante’s was a really nice venue–good atmosphere, plenty of seats, eager-to-please staff–if I lived in Portland, I could easily see myself spending a lot of time there. Incidentally, it was one of the places where the Comedians of Comedy recorded part of their DVD; I recognized it the second I stepped inside.

The people there were very friendly, and I got to chat with quite a few before the bands started performing. After the first set, I saw I had a voicemail–Relish had called and said she wasn’t going to be able to make it out, but that her couch was open to me, should I need a place to crash.

Mike’s show was even better than the previous evening, though personally a majority of that had to do with the absence of the Most Annoying Couple In The World. Again, I got to spend some quality time with him afterwards, but cut it a bit short as it was already 1:30 and I knew it would take me approximately 2.5-3 hours to get home, and I was already starting to drag.

In retrospect, I should’ve taken Relish up on the couch offer, as my lids started to get heavy the second I got back onto the highway. It didn’t help that I absolutely, positively did NOT want to stop at a rest stop. The reason behind my resolve was due to a movie I had rented a few days earlier–a french family drama (A Ma Soeur), which I felt was fairly decent…up until the point where they are all senselessly murdered/raped at a rest area. No purpose to it, whatsoever. When I watched it, I thought surely it was a dream that someone was having, and that they’d wake soon, but the scene kept going and getting increasingly uncomfortable to watch. Now I knew I couldn’t go to a rest stop because even if I tried to get some sleep, it would be fitful and in my mind I’d see someone with an axe coming at the windshield the whole time. I also remembered all too well the semi-prophetic, mostly terrifying dream/reality thing that happened the last time I slept in my car.

So I drove straight home from Portland. At one point, a car in front of me slammed its brakes–I snapped to, hit my brakes, and hit my turn left turn signal to avoid an accident, only to find that there WAS no car in front of me. And also, that there was a state trooper on my left. I mentally prepared myself to be pulled over, but for some reason, the cop passed me, got into the far right lane, and exited. I expected him to come screaming up the onramp behind me, but apparently this cop had bigger fish to fry.

The really scary thing–the trip was about an hour shorter than it should have been. It seemed like an incredibly fast drive; I’d look up and 30-40 miles had passed in the blink of an eye. This points to two things: 1)Alien abduction, which only exists in the pages of the Weekly World News, and 2)I was sleeping behind the wheel for a large portion of the trip, and was apparently speeding an insane amount as well.

It’s scary to think that I could’ve easily killed someone or died behind the wheel out of pure stubbornness. Next time, I’m taking the couch, or risking axe-death, rather than taking the lives of other people on the road into my careless hands.