Monday, May 29, 2006

Jean Blues

I am so certain that designers create these concoctions out of denim and have no idea exactly how they are supposed to fit anyone who isn't straight as a fucking board.

I have 36" hips, which are massive compared to the 32" bust line, small shoulders, and 29" waist.

I went to 6 different stores downtown today and tried on tons and tons of jeans, only to realize that every pair fell into the same problem categories:
1. If the jeans were low rise, they just make me look short. And I am not fucking short. I am on the tall side for a gal, so fuck you for cutting me down to hobbit size, LEI and Paris Blues.
2. If the jeans were a flare leg, or a wide boot cut, they also make me look short. That helps fucking no one. No one wants to look short.
3. Gap jeans has tried to make a series of jeans for "curvy girls." I thought I would be one of these girls. However! I argue that Gap's curvy jeans just make girls look fatter. Why, oh, why would you put a wide waistband across the hips of a girl who calls herself curvy? You're emphasizing the biggest fucking part of her body, and no shirt seamed along the ribcage is going to make up for that. Tilt jeans are guilty of this crime as well.
4. Any midrise jeans I tried on somehow gave me a "front ass" out of denim. This was also Gap's problem. Apparently, a size 8 gal, albeit I was told that was the national fucking average, comes with a front ass of her own. I'm not there yet. And I hope not to be until I have children and have an excuse.
5. Pegged jeans are fucking everywhere. No thanks, I'd rather eat that ice cream cone than look like one. They've even crawled into Express, which makes me wonder exactly what the world is coming to.
6. Another trend that fucks over girls who were designed to bear children: fucking whiskering on the thighs. Really? Please, just further emphasize the part of my body I hate the most. I fucking love that.

So I pretty much cried in every dressing room and blamed myself for being a model discontinued in 1954. But then I remembered that there's technically nothing wrong with my body, and a whole host of things wrong with modern design.

I finally found some good standard bootcut jeans in Robinsons-May, of all places, and I was a fucking quarter of the age of everyone in there, so I don't know what business the store has selling jeans in the first place. And Calvin Klein and DKNY, at that. I bought a pair of CK, at $70, and a nice pair of Levi's at $36. (To these people, and this is the phenomenom that happens with high-end stuff, I am a size 6. And that makes me feel nice, although I know they are lying to me just to get my to buy more from them. But you know what? It's a smart marketing scheme and it's fucking working.)

And I will not go jean shopping again for a long, long time.

I don't need to put myself through this kind of fucking self-loathing on a regular basis.

And while I am still mad about fashion, fuck leggings. Fuck them. Fuck them. Fuck these stupid skinny-ass girls who wear this shit and think it looks nice. You look like dirty street trash. Comb your fucking hair. Get some clothes that actually fucking fit you. Stop putting your fucking dogs in purses. Congratulations, however, on being part of a trend I hate even more than mini skirts with Ugg boots and trucker hats.

It's time for more Deadwood, which explains all the expletives.

Saturday, May 27, 2006

Four Funerals and a Wedding

On the way to Josh and Bryna's wedding in Aptos, CA I witnessed the most macabre traffic accident I have ever seen.

Traffic comes to a stop just before I get into the civilized (re: no farmland) part of Salinas. I wait for about 20 minutes in traffic, before the highway patrol merges the two-lane highway into 1 lane. As I drive take a gander at the car turned on its side by the center divider so that I can see what the hold-up's been.

Not only is there a car turned on its side, a large open-backed truck, but there is a dead cow on top of it. And two dead horses on the roadside. And another dead cow in the middle of the lane.

No human driver was found in or around the over-turned vehicle.

A bizarre sight for a wedding-bound drive. (Not an omen.)

On another note, Josh and Bryna are now wed. Lovely, simple wedding. Short and sweet. Lots of old friends. I salute Josh and Bryn for forging a new path for all of us. I think we're next.

I stole new wineglasses. Marcus caught Bryna's garter. Josh somehow managed to shoot the cork from his champagne right at us. (Omen.)

Monday, May 22, 2006

Holes in my ears and head.

I have had a string of bad earring luck lately.

On Thursday, I somehow managed to spend an entire day wearing two completely different earrings. One was a thin chain of green beads, maybe an inch long. The other was a crazy dangle earring with many strands of purple beads and glass that is roughtly 3 times the length of the other. Why did no one tell me this?

This second instance is more proof that Heather is Jesus.

We're up in the bay, chillin' at Target and purchasing goodies because we in Santa Barbara are sadly lacking in the Target department. I go try on a ton of things because my mommy was going to buy me a sweet new suit to celebrate my getting of an actual job (no pleasing suits to be found in my 36 waking hours at home, hence why we're buying other goodies at Target). Somewhere along the way, I evidently lose an earring--a favorite of mine; a vintagey-looking pair with lots of blue beads on 'em--which I don't notice until I get home and look in a mirror.

Heather comes into the computer room where I'm hanging out with Cassie and have sadly set my lone earring by the printer. She sleepily rubs her eyes, and pulls my other missing earring out of her jacket pocket.

Heather: Oh, Stevi, I found your earring. I saw it on the ground in the dressing room and went, "Oh, that looks like Stevi's." Lucky I happened to go in the same dressing room as you, huh?
Me: You are Jesus.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

Computer, Earl Grey, Hot

I hate automated answering systems that are designed to be friendly and warm-sounding and have speech patterns approximating a real person, or, at the very least, a female version of Data from Star Trek: The Next Generation. They make me say ridiculous things to them, and consistenly mishear whatever I say because the linguist that designed the damn program must have failed phonetics.

These are the bane of my existance. There is a reason Rachel Dratch does impressions of them on SNL.

It's because they suck.

I'd really rather just press buttons on a cold, distant machine, thanks.

Oh, and please don't make your hold music crappy pop music, Hollywood Video Corporate and Technical Support.