The 90s. What a great time. People were grungy, people were boy/girl bands, people were drinking Zima.
Also, people were taking many black and white shots of famous women with dark eyebrows and dark hair, faces in profile or slightly obscured by some more hair, giving lots and lots of emotion.
Hope Sandoval of Mazzy Star not only got me through all my hard days living in my parent’s house with my sibling, angst, but also taught me an important lesson in eyebrow-loving. Also, for someone creating dreamy, alternative feelings music she was always not giving a lot of fucks, which is tops.
Slash person (model/actress/Aerosmith progeny) Liv Tyler had some pencil-thin action going on early in her modelling career, but once she settled into a heavier, more luxurious brow she really came into her own as a person and a woman with hair above her eye.
Justine Frischmann was a badass, who rocked out in androgynous fashion, and seriously rocked serious rock hair. And of course, had some of the best 90s brows. Maybe even best of all-time brows. They were in their own universe.
And Winona Ryder. How could I forget you? I couldn’t. Never. Not even if it was great pate, but I had to motor to make that funeral. Those follicles still speak to me today.
As someone who wishes her entire body below her cheekbones was completely hairless I always look to the dark-haired women of the 90s to show me the way to body hair acceptance and also the way to give face, face, face with some of that face obscured.
These ladies were lush.
As I struggle to put clothes on (P.S. champagne problems) every single damn day like a regular adult who has her life together (P.S. I don’t) I often wish I had a robot (more like Rosie on The Jetsons and less like Vicki on Small Wonder)to help me get myself on track and out the door.
Then I remembered this gem of a game. Barbie. Commodore 64. This was the height of 2D gaming glamour. And pumped out one of the best soundtracks of all time. I used to play this at a friend’s house and basically I thought she was the coolest because she had a Barbie computer game and I did not.
Barbie would get a call from Ken asking her out on a date. And then, this is the best, the kicker, she would legit go shopping right away. Honestly, she would get in her yellow convertible and drive to stores, try on outfits and buy the ones she liked best. For a date. Just because she had somewhere to go! New outfits every time she went out.
Also, shoes and accessories and even hair were on her shopping agenda. Yup, Barbie had a full wig shop at her disposal before weaves were de rigueur.
And if she showed up in something that didn’t match the date, say a bikini for dinner, she would be denied!
Also, Ken always said, “Great! Pick you up in an hour!” So the high stakes situation was that Barbie had to purchase a brand new frock or outfit in under an hour. Not a single crime thriller can claim this kind of dramatic tension. Not a one.
That bitch was living the dream!
P.S. I think it’s cool if you want to wear a bikini to dinner. Life doesn’t have to be like a Commodore 64 game from 1984. Even though it held up the mirror to paradise.
So, winter is coming. Not in that Game of Thrones way. We totally have to wait 9 months for that nugget of dark joy to return to our lives. I mean the season. The one with cold, wet weather and soggy shoes and bone-chills.
I like to complain about winter. About it being cold. About feeling sad. About missing the glory days of summer. Summer, when it’s warm and wonderful and the sun shines, and the daylight hours are long and plentiful.
Other people like to “call me out.” As though I am some kind of moron, or child, or delusional being. People think the correct response is to tell me to get over myself because there is some worse winter somewhere else, they have it real bad, their car is frozen to their dog, etc.
To all those people: you are garbage. You are not awesome. Comparing your situation to mine is absurd. Don’t get selfish. Let me enjoy my winter sads.
Oh, you live somewhere that’s colder, snowy, horrible? Too bad for you! I don’t give a fuck! Did you also have to walk up and down 50 hills in -700 degrees to get to school everyday, carrying disease-ridden woolly mammoths on your back? I also have no fucks to give about that.
This is my shit to complain about. Do you see me complaining about the hot sun in August? Whining about allergies come spring? Crying my eyeballs out over the life of my phone battery, tablet apps, my latte being not hot enough? Just, come on!
And I complain because summer is great. It is greater. Than almost anything. So you can complain about your own things, but don’t take away mine. My fingers turn white with cold, my hair is sad and limp, my skin dry and not golden. These are my selfish things. Let me have them.
I am predicting haters piling on top of haters into some kind of hater pie made of hate flakes and hater wheat flour and hate berries, but this is The Shit. A classic cut evening gown done in darks and pinks mixing in a sky of sunsets and flecks of birds. Not boring. The Shit. End of story. Choke on your undercooked hater pie, haters!
I just want to look like this everyday. And be in the sun, sun, sun. And also maybe have a tense bodyguard with a sensible haircut with me at all times. I could probably do without the husband and kid (as adorable, sassy and fashion-forward as Valentina is). I mean, if I was wearing this Carolina Herrara Resort 2013 dress, and those shoes and shades while wandering around Venice the last thing I’d need is a kid and a husband. C’mon! Me and my CH Resort collection are going to be way too busy to take care of these two. I’ll leave them a note or something. Just point us in the direction of the Prosecco and we’ll be on our way.
It’s a rug.
That’s the level of passion that a rug warrants.
It’s a rug.
It doesn’t solve all my problems, but
it doesn’t make me angry.
It’s a rug.
It doesn’t smell bad.
It goes on the floor.
It’s not coated with AIDS,
and it’s not a portal to a nether-place.
It doesn’t make me come,
but it’s fine.
Season 3, Episode 7: Ikea/Piano Lesson
The online situation for this documentary has been taunting me for at least ten thousand months. At least. I hope it eventually comes to my city. When I say eventually I really mean in the next hour or so. Also, how can anything involving otters have a 2.9 rating on IMDB? Because the world is full of jerks. Jerks who hate otter documentaries and also want to keep otter documentaries away from me.
Growing up somewhere small and out of the way of things that weren’t trees or dirt bikes or drunk driving the options for shopping were few and far between for growing children. Aside from the lovely things made by my grandmothers, one a seamstress and the other a sewing wizard, my outfits came from the Sears catalog. Ordered by phone, I’d wait until the day those Sears catalog clothes arrived and our family would get in the old Toyota and drive.
We’d hit up the Sears storefront, most of it a giant warehouse full of other people’s orders waiting to be picked up or delivered. While our dad waited in line my brother and I could most likely be found pretending to ride the riding lawnmowers. The shiny ones right in the window with clearly marked signs asking children not to climb on them. Nice try, signs!
We’d leave with our slippery packages and drive home up the hill. At home slim, sealed plastic-wrapped clothes would slide out onto the floor and I would force my family to endure a fashion show, parade through the living room in my new, fresh skirts and tops, dresses, pants and blouses, in pastel or neon or earth or jewel tones depending on the season or style at the time. There’s no doubt in my mind that I recreated an exact look from the spring 1988 edition of that hallowed book, Sears catalog. Not the one on the right though, girl is sporting way too much plastic bling. Take off one thing, girl. Even then I was not one to over-accessorize.
There was something satisfying about it, about the unwrapping of things and unfolding of things and discovering things. It was the beginning of learning to love loving super frivolous things. Shopping was a way to make life interesting and, sickly, to get my pattern and colour mixing on. You saw something on a glossy page and then it just came to you and you could wear it around and feel fancy. So magical.
I still love the thrill of a shopping splurge, but now, I cringe at the idea of online shopping. It’s so boring. Click, click, click. Sure, I scout for things, I spend time mentally preparing for a trip to Anthropologie or even The Gap, but not to actually purchase. My few online shopping experiences weren’t like my youthful treasures. They resulted in clothes that didn’t fit, or me standing in the mirror staring at something horribly unattractive I would rather burn for heat than take time out to return via a trip to the post office.
The excitement of the catalog is gone. I have options now. I don’t need to relive those old days of vacuum sealed shirts and matching short suits. And there are no stationary riding lawnmowers involved. Lame. So, I guess it seems like online shopping is fancy and new, but to me it’s just old hat and I’ve moved past it. Unless I move to the sticks again, in which case I say, VIVA LA SEARS CATALOG!
Some internet people have been not nice to Mia Wasikowska and the nothing but good times sorbet dress and heels combination of girlish delight she wore at Cannes this week. Yes, some people have not been singing rainbows, or sunbeams, or even dainty white cumulus clouds. I will sing one million rainbows for this whole situation. You would have to be a pretty big jackass to not love this colourful concoction of joy. Do you not like this? Fine, I will punch you right in the taint. Honestly, did you eat a baby otter for breakfast?
Last night at a large group dinner there was a discussion about missing teeth. Teeth that had cracked, broken, slipped out shard by shard. Fallen enamel soldiers. We shared our experiences, laughter and tears and the pain of yanking, drilling and filling.
As I told my own story of a cracked tooth (which happened while I was eating a smidge of cookie dough, the least hard substance in the world) everyone had one question: do you drink enough milk? In front of me, like a stereotype of matronly worry, I imagined them all out of their stylish outfits and sitting at the table wearing aprons and pinafores. Honestly? Are people still playing this game? Who, but someone’s mother from an era gone by, asks such a question?
I was one of the only people at the table who found it odd that people drink actual glasses of milk. Over dinner they told me. Not wine? Not water? Not sparkling Italian soda? Milk. I felt like an outcast. But, I also felt mature. Surely, it’s childish not just to drink milk by the glassful, but also to believe it does a body good. It seems old-fashioned. And not in a fun way.
This is not going to be hard hitting, but I can’t help but believe that some Milk Council propaganda has brainwashed an army of healthy-body do-gooders to consume their product. And no, I’m not doing any research, but c’mon, isn’t milk just full or hormones and other gross, bad stuff we’ve also been brainwashed not to consume? How did milk skip past these people? Or am I alone in a creamy sea of milk-drinkers?
Sure, next time I make cookies I might sit down with a plate of hot, gooey treats and a glass of milk. But those things go together. Milk doesn’t really go with anything else. There are no books on the subject of milk and food pairings, because that would be ridiculous.
Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my daily milk intake. A teaspoon full, in a cup of warm tea.
*"Oh La vache", featuring cow model, Hermione, photographed by Jean-Baptiste Mondino.