Winter storm #4826. Empty office. Apparently I’m the only one who didn’t realize working from home is in vogue today? It doesn’t matter, for I have lost the ability to emote. My boots are two rubber leg-and-foot-shaped portable pools of sloshing half-frozen mud water. My heart is the same.
Bejeweled scarf, $40, Ann Taylor LOFT
My mother warned me this would happen someday. She said, if you think being obsessed with clothes is bad, just wait till you have your own place. You’re done for, she’d say, mourning whatever insidious strain of materialism DNA she passed along to me. And now the day has arrived.
Joe and I put a deposit down on a thrillingly perfect little love nest in Clinton Hill yesterday, and the moment I signed the check I started decorating. Just kidding, the moment I walked into the charming vintage-touches-with-modern-renovations one-bedroom, I started decorating. Just kidding, the moment I realized Joe was a good-smelling dude with no sociopathic proclivities, I started decorating.
Gloriously, we have a couch, which simply needs a new slip cover. And we have a bed, mine, which is the best thing on earth, so naturally my next move is what anyone’s would be: Upholstered Accent Chair. The living room is small-ish and sweet, so furniture must be tiny but mighty. Thank GOD we live in a retail era where clever chairs generously padded and covered in delightful geometric-patterned fabrics can be purchased for under $200 at the same places we buy our fresh produce, batteries and period underwear. Thank you Bangladesh. Thank you China. And thank you Jonathan Adler-of-10-years-ago, without whom Target wouldn’t have the quatrefoil club chairs they have today.
Guys, I thought the embellished sweatshirt trend was overwhelmingly fruitful. I had no idea what was waiting for me in the cosmic realm of accent chairs. Just look.
1. “Caelie” linen chair, Baxton Studio via Amazon, $200
So this is a liiiiiiittttttle more baroque-ish than the casual, threadbare, sorta-seaside-but-also-sorta-fashion-barn-esque vibe I have already decided the entire apartment will have, but I also love it more than I love most ankle boots. Also I feel like the beige linen makes it less of a contender for Lady Edith’s imminent hip German tryst loft that she will be buying herself in no time at all, and more of a contender for me to buy, love, eat sloppy joes upon, and throw a real sweet pillow just-so upon.
2. “Hudson Swoop” red geometric chair, Target, $200
I’ve already told Joe no bright red. He told me no florals (too bad so sad there will be some florals I HAVE CHRONIC MIGRAINES AND $60K IN STUDENT LOANS PLEASE GIVE ME THIS 1 THING) and when I thought what Joe might try to do that was tantamount to florals in no-no territory, I thought, he will want to paint a wall bright red, or he will want cartoon sheets. I am not as scared of red now that I’ve met Chair, here. Look how kind and gentle Chair looks. Look at Chair’s elegant arms and great pattern. I love Chair? And what was I thinking—a pop of red is like, the PIZZA of furniture. Always great to have. Especially when Perfect Little Coffee Table is around. Which he will be. He. Will be.
3.”Dana” floral arm chair, Wal-Mart, $190
Woke up on the Walmart furniture website sayin how the hell did this ambitious chunk of furniture happen oh babe, because wow, Wal-Mart, you punched in and you worked. This is a thoroughly pleasant chair from the people who, mere weeks ago, had dedicated roughly 60% of their Auburn, Maine location to various vintages of Duck Dynasty wares. I would curl up on this chair and read, for fuck’s sake! I’d call my mom from this chair! I’d also use this chair to cry endlessly over Joe leaving me, which he would do, because this chair is so girly I half expect to find a set of fallopian tubes under its dainty cushion. Anyway, I’m ordering 7.
Every young woman in our generation has had an evening like this. It’s a Wednesday. You are alone. No one will give you their HBO Go password, you’ve eaten your evening DIY salumi board, you’re drinking the boxed wine that’s probably past its prime but says it’s good for a month after opening so you’re running with it, and you’re in your bedroom, staring open-mouthed and unblinking into your 18th consecutive YouTube hair tutorial.
Every woman. Has had an evening like this.
And yet we all go about our normal lives, carrying out daily business, acting toooootttallly normal, as if all of the hair tutorials on YouTube weren’t TOTAL AND COMPLETE PIECES OF BOLDFACE ASS CRAP LIES.
Because WHEN DO THEY EVER WORK. WHEN? DO THEY WORK FOR YOU? If they work for you I want you to email me at firstname.lastname@example.org and tell me the exact MERMAID-COWGIRL-MOTORCYCLE BABE TRIBE YOUR MOTHER WAS A PART OF WHEN SHE MET YOUR FATHER, ZEUS, AND MADE YOU, A GIRL BABY WITH ANGELIC PLAYDOUGH HAIR THAT DOES WHATEVER THE FUCK YOUR COMPUTER TELLS YOU TO DO WITH IT.
Because I am a daughter of two French-Canadians. My hair is made of polyester. Like you know when you buy a blouse at H&M and the hem unravels and it starts fraying and the individual fibers reveal themselves? That’s my hair. Also I have, like, 24 hairs in total. So, no, I do not have great fucking hair.
But I figure, every now and then, I’ve gotta be able to do the milkmaid braids by now. “It’s been, what, six months since you last tried it?" I ask myself, running my green scaly witch hands through my grimy headnest, removing juicy maggots as I go and popping them into my mouth. "Give it a try again, girl, you’re older and wiser now, it’ll work." And I chug the last of my crocodile-human umbilical cord blood cocktail and try it again.
This time I used the first video that popped up—this one. Looked harmless enough. Posted by an account called “BeautyDept” and clocking in at a cool 2:31, it seemed p chill. P chill. Of course right off the bat there are those HAIR TUTORIAL VID STAR PLAYERS—the cheerful banjo improv soundtrack, the waify French-soap-complexion model, the hair that just floats there as if each strand is being held at the perfect level in the universe by its own goddamn marionette string.
I will kill this bitch. Look at her dumb perfect everything.
And then she goes along and just does THIS.
hahaha look at me I’m a milkmaid just kidding I’m a junior at Barnard and can you believe they’re paying me for this hhaaaa look how the light just seems to find all the best parts of my face and just soak into it hahah
OH BUT WAIT BUT WAIT then they go:
YES OK LET ME JUST FIND MY CROCHET NEEDLE AND JUST PICK AT MY HEAD WITH IT BITCH I HAVEN’T EVEN GOT THE DAMN BRAIDS DONE YET
Who has a crochet needle RESERVED SPECIFICALLY FOR HAIR anyway, you ask? Prob the same girl who has ARTISANAL RIBBONS of textiles just laying around in her Kaboodle waiting to be SEWN INTO HER HAIRSTYLE WITH A SECOND, DISTINCTLY DIFFERENT NEEDLE.
I don’t want to be fancy. I just want to live.
So at this point I’m basically having a meltdown and I have two pathetic braids that are like, pencil-thin and miserable, and the banjoman is still GOIN’ IN THE BACKGROUND while our girl in Ängelholm is just sewing away at her thick, shining, unshakeable, rope-like braids.
And here’s what I get. The same thing I aways get.
I don’t. Get it. We are all WOMEN. WE ARE ALL HUMAN. HOW CAN ONE WOMAN do the milkmaid braids before MY VERY EYES, with no apparent VOODOO, and look like that blonde dairy goddess, but when I do the exact same series of steps, I turn out like a weird strawberry-head wearing a bad Olivia Benson-doing-the-cropped-hair-thing toupee.
The inequities of our world are vast and nebulous and churning like a fiery vitriolic stew. All I can ever do is ponytails and we’re all gonna die anyway.
Sunglasses, $16, Ron Jon Surf Shop, Cocoa Beach, FL
Has there ever been a winter so bone-splintering? So skin-flakening? So eyeball-shattering? So hair-crisping? I grew up in Maine, which, yaaaa, northernmost state in the continental union, and like, no—never has there been a winter like this in my life. Not in my life. It’s like the entire city of New York is a bathtub full of ice water. No one is happy, everyone is miserable, toddlers are rolling around all over the place in their crazy parkas and snowsuits, like Nerf footballs—no agency, no autonomy, nothing, no one.
Joe and I escaped to Florida this past weekend for a minute. We were only there two full days and only one of those days did the weather really bleed Florida. Saturday was sunny and 70 and breezy and we spent it lolling through a parallel universe called Islands of Adventure. It’s incredible to me that some people live in Florida and California and places like that, and winters aren’t a reality for them. As we waited for 50 minutes in the coiling queue for The Whateverthefuck Harry Potter Ride, and the sun streamed all over everything, and I was in my brand new Jurassic Park t-shirt and it smelled like warm light, I thought about how only a few hundred miles away, NYC was being brutally fisted by another glass-cracking cold front. It was laughable. Joe and I laughed. We slurped on our ice creams and laughed. This is why we all laugh about Florida.
Anyway, later I bought these sunglasses at Ron Jon Surf Shop, which, idk, is another Florida thing that we norths don’t understand. My goal is to make them last till summer—like, not break the fucking shit out of them like I have every other pair of sunglasses I’ve ever owned or even looked sidelong at—and they’ll serve as some ritual relic of 2013-2014, The Winter that Murdered Souls.
The only thing keeping me clinging to the grille here is that while winter in New York is a dark, howling nightmare, summer in New York is practically paradise. And it’s gonna happen. We’re gonna get there. To all my girlfriends who have been corrupted by totally unexpected bouts of weeping this winter, it’s gonna happen. To my hairdryer, back for a second year as a secondary source of warmth when my heat just doesn’t feel like doin’ its thing, it’s gonna happen. To my romper collection, feeling lonely and forgotten and destitute at the bottom of my storage trunk, it’s gonna happen. I’ll see you there.
And in the meantime, these idiot sunglasses are coming with me every day for the rest of this fuckin’ winter. We’re gonna fake it.
u say breakfast
i say melted American cheese dispenser
Yeah haha except one tastes like boring virginal fruit and the other tastes like salty bloody rage tears and sometimes comes with bacon and shrimp shoved into it so haha yeah thanks buzzfeed but no thanks ok
also if portion control was a concern i think we’d not be ordering breakfast cocktails at all right and at that point why even go to brunch or even have weekends why not just work all the time and then die
… for the first time since I got fired from a call center for tweeting about it in 2009.
Outfit GIFs are back, y’all! i finally bit the bullet and got a new MacBook to replace my 2007 one which has been dying of consumption for the past 18 months or so. And by “bit the bullet” I mean I afforded myself zero financial preparation, applied for a Barclay Card on apple.com, was approved within seconds (thanks, student loans!), charged a $1200 computer to it, and picked it up in the Chelsea Apple store a few hours later.
We did it, economy! I’ve never used a credit card before, and my plan is to never use this one after yesterday. As whimsical as I can be with money, there’s something eerie about credit cards that even I am not attracted to. Charge some dumb blouse because I feel depressed some rainy Wednesday and run the risk of paying 30% more for weeks later, long after I’ve stopped even liking it? That is literally the opposite of a Sale. No. Not gonna do it. Wouldn’t be prudent.
But if I pay off my computer within a year I won’t pay any interest on it. That’s a decent deal for all-new totally-HD outfit GIFs, isn’t it? Stop judging me. I HAD MY PARENTS’ BLESSING.
Peter Pan collar sweater, $20, Forever 21, Winter 2013. Heart-print skirt, $17, H&M, Fall 2013. Lame hair, free, genetics.