No Better Feeling

"Brother, you can't go to jail for what you're thinking, or for the woo look in your eye. You're only standing on the corner watching all the girls go by." -- Frank Loesser

You know those blissful days when you put on a fabulous outfit and feel really great about yourself? So great, in fact, that you can’t help but strut down the street like it’s a catwalk? And, when the man of your dreams happens to be walking towards you along said street, you’re able to give him a saucy smirk and a cool “hey” instead of an incoherent mumble?

Only one thing can make that sort of day better… and that’s when the man of your dreams responds by giving a dorky salute and nearly colliding with a trash bin.

Safety first!

"Always wear expensive shoes. People notice." -- Brian Koslow


Last night, Dan told me that a combination of snow and rain covered the sidwalks of DC with an eighth of an inch of slush, i.e. "just enough to make you slip and die." I replied that NYC was due for the same disgusting weather today. We discussed the treacherous conditions, strategized how to navigate them without running the risk of cranial fractures, and ended the conversation by telling each other to stay safe.


This morning, one of my colleagues told me a story from her walk to work. As she trudged through the sleet from the bus stop to clinic, she couldn't help but stare at the woman about to cross her path. Or, rather, at the woman's feet. Alone in a sea of miserable boot-clad commuters, this daring lady was wearing sky-high purple suede heels and was blithely hopping over puddles and ice floes en route to her destination.


My colleague stared at the woman for a moment, then realized that she recognized her. She punctuated this part of the story by shooting a glance at my feet and quirking an eyebrow.

Ahem.


In my defense, I was just popping fifty feet across the street for a meeting! And the sky-high purple suede heels are made by Melissa... meaning they're injection-molded from flexible polyvinyl chloride and are thus nonslip and waterproof! And I did wear sneakers for my real commute! And... yeah, I'm out of excuses.

Three Slices

"My advice is stand firm for what you believe in, until and unless logic and experience prove you wrong... and there's no aspect, no facet, no moment in life that can't be improved with pizza. Thank you." -- Daria Morgendorffer

I spent my morning in SoHo with Rutila, and by accident, our shopping trip was perfectly timed from beginning to end. She caught her bus, I caught my train, we arrived at 10 AM when the stores were opening and the streets were blissfully empty, we arrived at Lombardi's Pizzeria when the place had just opened, and we finished for the day just when Broadway started to get crowded. In commemoration of the three delicious slices of calamata olive and spinach pizza each of us consumed, I'm writing about three slices of our day.

1. Because I'm a crazy woman when it comes to makeup, skincare, and hair products, I had enough Sephora Beauty Insider points saved up to earn a 500 Point Perk today. (You get one "point" in your bank for every dollar you spend. Yep, I have a problem.) Anyway, my perk was a little shopping bag full of Benefit Cosmetics goodies, including a sample size of BADGal Plum mascara. It's a warm purple color designed to enhance one's eye color, but since I live and die by black mascara and black liquid liner, I was naturally skeptical. Miraculously, it works -- my normally nondescript brown eyes looked wider and more striking than usual today.

2. I purchased two cotton tanks -- one black and one slate blue -- at Uniqlo. The cut and quality felt identical to the J. Crew tank I was wearing... and they cost $4.90 apiece. I'm not sure if this is an indication of Uniqlo's general amazingness or J. Crew's slipping standards.

3. As always, Rutila and I lunched at Lombardi's, the oldest pizzeria in America and purveyor of the best coal-oven pie you'll ever devour. We arrived when the shop opened and shared a dining room with a crowd of about twenty visor-wearing, fanny pack-toting tourists. This normally isn't a problem, but we soon discovered that these tourists were on a pizza tour. Meaning they were accompanied by an overeager tour guide who spent half of our meal loudly delivering a lecture on all the crap you never wanted to learn about pizza. We heard about the pizza of New York City, the history of pizza, the composition of pizza, and the importance of staying hydrated while consuming pizza. The tourists were given pizza journals to record their undoubtedly profound observations about pizza, took turns visiting the kitchen to see the coal oven where the pizzas are made, and were instructed to look at the bottom crusts of their pizzas to observe the charring patterns.

Naturally, Rutila and I guffawed into our Italian sodas the entire time. We then began to chuckle audibly when the tour guide demonstrated "the semi-fold method" of eating a triangle slice -- which, allegedly, is the only way to eat pizza like a true New Yorker.

Note that Rutila and I were using knives and forks to eat our slices... and you can't get more Noo Yawk than the pair of us.

The tour guide then confided that the semi-fold method works on a scientific level "because it changes the moment of inertia of the slice." Yep. Cue the huge, ridiculous belly-laughs which earned us at least one withering glare from the tour guide.

And in an example of why the universe sucks, the pizzeria's top review on Yelp is written by some out-of-towner who calls herself a NY pizza expert after taking the same tour we overheard today! Hence the reason why Lombardi's mediocre website, not Yelp, is linked in this post. Too much asshattery for my taste.

What You Own

"I'm wearing someone else's clothes and looking better. I'm wearing someone else's clothes and feeling fine." -- Jason Robert Brown

It's finally warm enough for me to spend time outside without freezing to death and I actually left work on time today. Thus, when I got home, I dug out a pair of shorts and my Viva La Zvi t-shirt, laced up my sneakers, knotted my curls into a ponytail, and went for a brief run.

A couple of hours later, I took a good look at the shorts I wore.

They're black cotton, size medium. The label says "Discus." They're loose-fitting and, if the shape and stitching of the crotch is any indication, they were definitely designed with a man's anatomy in mind. The elastic band sits at my natural waistline and the hems end about three inches above my knees.

What's wrong with this picture? Working out -- sweating, turning red, getting winded -- makes me feel gross, so when I do it in public, I try to disguise the disgustingness by wearing incredibly flattering workout gear. Meaning my pants are skin-tight, my shorts are short, and my waistbands don't venture any higher than my hipbones. And today's baggy, high-waisted shorts with the mysteriously misplaced crotch seams do not fit that paradigm of hotness.

Which leads me to one regrettable conclusion: I did not purchase the shorts I'm wearing.

This in turn leads me to a second regrettable conclusion: I borrowed the shorts I'm wearing from someone and completely forgot to ever return them.

If they once belonged to you, my sincerest apologies. I'll happily send them home if you're willing to own up to them.

Elements of Style

"Maybe it's been crazy and maybe I'm to blame, but I put my heart above my head. We've been through it all and you love me just the same." -- Neil Diamond

The fashion trends of spring 2010 need to die a quick, horrible death. But before I rant about why I can't walk into clothing stores without cringing any more, I need to define my own sense of style so you'll know where my feelings are coming from.

I have a typical southern European look -- dark hair, dark eyes, and an hourglass figure. Consequently, my current sense of style tends to recall the fashions worn by the women of classical Italian cinema. Sophia Loren, Gina Lollobrigida, and all of Fellini's women dressed themselves using a simple, flattering set of rules:

1. Wear curve-accentuating clothing to look sexy without showing too much skin.

2. Choose high-quality fabrics in classic silhouettes for a sense of timelessness.

3. Keep most of your clothing low-key and mix in a select few eye-catching elements. Use color judiciously to add dashes of drama.

4. Tailor your clothing to accentuate your best assets.

Though each of those women reached her prime more than fifty years ago, styles like theirs are visible on the streets of Rome to this day. The principles behind their fashions perfectly flatter women who look like me, and they're great guidelines for building a wardrobe that will transcend fads and pay for itself in the long run.

Their rules are amazing for me, in any case. I work in an environment where I need to dress conservatively, so looking good while keeping covered up has become an art form for me. My waistline is my favorite part of my body, so I like to show it off whenever I can. I buy quality items so they'll last me years. (Yeah, I indulge at H&M as much as the next woman, but I'd rather have one well-made Theory blouse than a dozen Abercrombie tees that will fall apart in the wash.) I wear a lot of black, grey and solid jewel tones because they complement my coloring, but I can never stay away from carefully chosen punchy accessories. I choose my skirt lengths, pants cuts, and shoe styles to provide the illusion of long legs and added height. And if something I own doesn't fit me perfectly, I get it tailored so it does.

So... what am I seeing when I go shopping lately? Neutrals and whites all over the place, which make me look pastier than I already am. Florals and big prints everywhere, which would be awesome if I didn't get lost in patterns. Blousy shirts and frilly dresses seemingly designed to hide the best parts of my body. Embroidery and fabric embellishments, which screw with my silhouette. Activewear, see-through shirts, and metallic lame, which look cheap and won't last me more than one season. Military jackets, which I've been wearing for years already. Clogs and Oxfords, which are ugly as hell. And, worst of all, SOCKS WITH HIGH HEELS, which is an easy way to make one's legs look six inches shorter than they really are.

Sophia would not approve. And neither do I.

Giving Up

"Nothing about us is perfect or clear, but when paradise calls me I'd rather be here. There's something between us that nobody else needs to see." -- Jason Robert Brown

Despite the perpetually depressing weather, I've had an amazing couple of weeks. I've been happy, healthy, and living life to the fullest. But now it's Lent, and though I'm not religious by any means, I still like to keep with tradition by foregoing a luxury for forty days. When I was younger, I used to give up my favorite foods for Lent -- chocolate, coffee, even cheese one disastrous year. After I grew into my appetite and learned that my food cravings are cyclical (and rarely last a full forty days), I began to make Lenten resolutions instead of denials. Over the years, I've vowed to stop procrastinating on homework, double my job hunting efforts, and swear off unhealthy relationships. The same should go for this year, but... I'm in a great place in life. My relationships are spectacular, I'm at the top of my game at work, and there's really nothing important that I know I could be doing better. I decided that I'd have to revert to giving up something for Lent... but what?

The answer was right in front of my nose... or, more appropriately, right underfoot.

I love fashion and own a lot of great clothing, but since I spent my formative years wearing a school uniform, I tend to gravitate towards black, grey, and neutral fabrics. Since this approach has a tendency to appear funeral-chic and I don't wear a lot of flashy jewelry, I developed one foolproof method of waking up my sense of style:

These photographs don't include seven pairs of boots, two pairs of running shoes, two pairs of Chucks, one pair of Birkenstocks, or the three assorted pairs under my desk at work.

I can explain, though! I spend a good portion of my workday on my feet, so I started collecting shoes in an effort to find the perfect balance between style and comfort. As I grew more successful in that arena, I just learned to love shoes in general. Some of them really are works of art, and their ability to completely transform what I'm wearing amazes me. Shopping for shoes soothes me, and even walking through shoe stores and browsing online -- seeing the shoes, stroking them, imagining where I'd wear them -- is an uncannily pleasurable experience for me.

Thus, I'm giving up shoe shopping for Lent. No looking at shoes online, no leisurely strolls through any department stores, and most importantly, no touching. And if I'm spending time with someone who wants to go shoe shopping, I'll go but I'm not allowed to buy anything.

It's only been Lent for two and a half days and I can already tell that this will be a tough one for me. I'm writing this blog post to distract myself from the fact that Nine West is having a 60% off sale this weekend.

Coming Clean

"Lift up your head. Wash off your mascara. Here, take my Kleenex -- wipe that lipstick away. Show me your face clean as the morning. I know things were bad, but now they're okay." -- from Little Shop of Horrors

Though my Sephora bills may claim otherwise, I don't wear a lot of makeup. I love experimenting with colors and contouring and shading, but frankly, I don't have the time to transform myself into a bombshell before work every day. I normally favor a natural look -- a little concealer under my eyes, blush, mascara, and lip gloss. Though I add cat-eye liner or red lipstick on certain days, I've always believed that my efforts are, for the most part, pretty invisible.

I didn't have enough time for even my minimal makeup routine yesterday morning, so I washed my face and ran out the door. I entered my building at 8, left my meeting at 9, and promptly got cornered in the hallway by two of my colleagues.

"Do you feel okay?" I said I was fine. "Are you sure?" I told them I was. They pointed out the shadows smudged under my eyes, the tiredness of my expression, and the sallowness of my skin. I then realized what they were driving at and revealed that I wasn't wearing any makeup.

"Oh." Pause. "Sorry."

I found some blush in my handbag, swiped it on, then asked for a second opinion. "Much better! You looked sick before!"

In a cruel twist of fate, this article was waiting for me on my RSS feed when I checked it later in the day.

The Lure of the LBD

"I've got a new interpretation and it's a better point of view: while you were looking for a landslide, I was looking out for you. I was looking out for you. Someone's looking out for you." -- Brandi Carlile

This weekend, I drove out east and spent my Saturday morning at the mall. I made a few insignificant purchases, but they don't matter -- today I'm writing about the item I could not buy.

On my way back to the parking lot, I paid an obligatory visit to my favorite retail chain and spotted a gorgeous black dress. Do I really need another black dress? Nope. Is this particular black dress entirely too fancy to wear to work? Yep. Do I have more important ways to spend my money than on another fancy black dress? You betcha.

But god, this dress was perfect. Soft, stretchy, plain and tailored but with interesting origami-like folds snaking across the front. I knew the hem would graze my knee in exactly the right place, the seams would hug my curves to perfection, the neckline would make my chest look twice as shapely as it actually is. I had to have it.

I wandered around the store for twenty damn minutes searching every rack, shelf, nook, and cranny for the dress, but aside from the one on the mannequin's back, I couldn't find it anywhere. So I went to bother my favorite fitting-room attendant.

"Hi. I'm looking for that dress."
I pointed. She chuckled and shook her head.
"Honey, the whole world is looking for that dress. We have one left in a size ten."

Damn. No worries though; I work within walking distance of two more stores and one of them was bound to carry it in my size. Right?

I visited one of them after clinic today. Wandered around, located a rack of the dresses, found three size eights and a twelve, learned that the store was sold out of their entire stock except for those left on the floor and wouldn't be restocking any time soon. The attendant suggested that I try the other store but didn't offer to call ahead for me, so I headed towards Lexington Avenue and started walking south.

On 62nd St., a cab pulled over to the curb, the door opened, and an older lady slid her legs out and leaned back to collect her bags from the seat. Half a block away, an approaching cyclist shouted "Watch out! Watch out!" and sped towards the cab's open door. The woman turned and looked, but she wasn't fast enough -- instead of slowing down or (gasp) steering around the cab, the cyclist crashed into the open door at top-speed and fell off his bike. The cyclist screamed at the lady, the lady screamed back, the cab driver honked.

I know, I know -- that anecdote has nothing to do with my quest for the dress. It didn't seem like a good omen, though.

I went into the second store in search of my dress and -- surprise -- they carried a size two and a size zero petite. They wouldn't be restocking any time soon, either. I spent a good five minutes staring at the size two, debating whether I should try and wedge myself into it, before a sales associate approached me.

"Excuse me? I'm sorry, but I just wanted to say that I love your boots."
"Thank you." I moved my coat aside so she could see the cut of the leather and the little buckle near the back of the knee. "I got them at Bandolino."
"Bandolino? Where's that?"
"These came from Bloomingdale's, but I think there's a store on Madison, near 42nd Street. Shoe Woo across the street carries the brand too."
"Thank you so much! I have to go look for them." She blinked. "So can I help you with anything here?"
"Yes, actually. I've been to three stores looking for this dress in a size 4, but I can't find it anywhere."
"Well, you won't find it in any stores, I'm afraid. That dress is close to sold out everywhere."
"Damn."
"But... I actually have a 4 on the rack in the fitting room. The stitching on the front is torn -- some woman who was definitely not a size 4 tried to squeeze herself into it and ripped the dress -- but you can try it on for size and order it from the website if it fits you."

I tried it on. It was every bit as gorgeous as I thought it would be and it's due to arrive in five business days.

And in other news, this is my 100th post on Literatura Mundane. Many thanks to those of you who are still reading!

Living Proof

"Almost cut my hair; it happened just the other day. It was getting kind of long. I could have said it was in my way. But I didn't... and I wonder why I feel like letting my freak flag fly. I feel like I owe it to someone." -- Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young

I have ridiculously thick, riotously curly hair -- the kind of hair that a person can lose a hand in. When it's cooperating, it flows over my shoulders and halfway down my back in loose, glossy ringlets. When it's not cooperating, my head is covered in a vaguely triangular cloud of brown.

For the last few months, my hair has been more cooperative than usual thanks to Living Proof frizz products -- and as a result, I praise them to anyone who will listen. Developed by a team of biomedical engineers, they contain a novel polymer that seals the hair shaft against moisture better than silicone does. I don't have fierce loyalty to many beauty products (cough except for Tarte Flush, Too Faced Lip Injection Extreme, Hope in a Jar, and Kiehl's leave-in conditioner cough), but Living Proof's curl-making cream is an essential part of my daily routine. I've been able to ditch my arsenal of serums and treatments as a result of it; I get out of the shower, comb in my leave-in conditioner, smooth on a little frizz, and let my hair air-dry. Et voila.

The stuff works miracles, but having great hair in mid-summer in New York City in the rain needs more than a miracle. Thus, while my curls looked okay yesterday, they didn't look as good as usual.

I arrived early for an 8PM dinner reservation, so I killed some time by wandering around SoHo. I browsed through Michael Kors, J. Crew, Banana, Victoria's Secret, then eventually found my way to Sephora. Directly inside the front doors stood an enormous display of Living Proof products, and I approached the pyramids of bottles to see if they were offering anything new.

Almost immediately, a salesperson swooped down on me. "This is a fantastic new line, and you have the perfect hair for it! It will tame your flyaways and frizz, define your curls, give you shine..."

I let the guy ramble on for a few minutes, then when he paused, I gave him my most brilliant smile. "I actually use these products. I'm wearing that one right now."

"Oh," he said after a moment's pause. "Sorry?"

I thanked him, left, and headed back towards the restaurant. I had a good story to tell my dinner companions.

Proper Tee of the Half-Blood Prince

"Who blacked your eye, Granger? I want to send them flowers." -- Draco Malfoy

Two years ago this month, my friends and I waited on line for our copies of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows dressed in outfits specially chosen for the occasion. One of my companions wore a cloak, Gryffindor scarf, and prefect badge while another sported an "I Heart Ron" t-shirt. My style has always been a bit more understated, though, so in honor of my favorite character, I fastened my hair back with a Slytherin necktie and wore a simple grey t-shirt with the words "Property of the Half-Blood Prince" calligraphed in scrollwork across the front.

In preparation for this week's release of the film version of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, I decided to dig up my old t-shirt. Problem was, I couldn't find it. Anywhere. That turned out to be an easily rectifiable problem, though.

First, I dug this old, faded, $7 H&M tank top out of my closet...












Then I attacked it with a black Sharpie...





Then I drenched it in a pot of black fabric dye.








Here's the end result:






























See you in the theaters this weekend.

Hello, Norma Jean

"It's wonderful to feel the way a woman feels! It gives you such a glow just to know you're wearing lipstick and heels!" -- Lee Adams

The Price of Kindness

"Stores are never nice to people. They're nice to credit cards." -- Edward Lewis

I'm cautious by nature and I have New York sensibilities, so I'm instantly suspicious when strangers are kind to me for no apparent reason. What? I was raised to believe that a random person -- the type I meet once and will likely never meet again -- will never go out of his way to endear himself to me unless he can get something out of it, and with few exceptions, that has held true throughout my life. This intrinsic distrust of human intentions especially extends to two groups of people: gorgeous men and salespeople, and since the former can easily spawn half a dozen blog entries on its own, I'll only be discussing the latter today.

I've done a lot of shopping and worked a little retail in my time, and I've developed a few prejudices from my experiences:

• In an H&M or Old Navy, I don't expect the sales help to ever acknowledge my presence.
• In an Ann Taylor or Express, I expect one greeting and maybe one check-in if I'm not well-dressed. If I am well-dressed, I expect a couple of check-ins, a little help finding sizes, and minimal fitting room support.
• In a J. Crew or Banana Republic, I expect to be ignored if I'm not well-dressed. If I am well-dressed and I show genuine interest in full-price items, I expect a warm greeting, lots of check-ins, and lots of schlepping of items to and from the fitting room. If I am well-dressed and I show more interest in the clearance rack than the full-price items, I expect to be ignored after this becomes apparent.
• In an Abercrombie, Hollister, or Pac Sun, I expect to be treated as if I am not cool, trendy, and/or hip enough to set foot in the place. I do not shop in these stores by my own choice. If someone drags me to one and I am treated nicely by the sales help, there is no doubt in my mind that they're making fun of me while I'm not looking.

My expectations also vary based on location -- I generally expect non-Manhattan salespeople to be nicer to me than Manhattan salespeople. (Perpetually nasty Roosevelt Field Mall employees are the exception.)

Anyway, I've enjoyed two surprisingly pleasant shopping experiences lately and the events left me feeling so happy about life that I have to share them here. The weekend before last, I wandered around a J. Crew aimlessly for a while, collecting various items off the sale racks, when a very perky blonde lady approached me and asked if I needed any help. Before I knew it, the items in my hands were placed in a fitting room reserved for my use, she was suggesting jeans for my body shape and helping me choose sizes and colors, and she continued to help me and give me clothing advice and bring me new pieces despite the fact that a line of people now waited for fitting rooms. The lady working the cash register didn't ask me for the name of my attendant, but I gave it to her anyway along with a few words of praise.

I went shopping and was shocked by good service once again today -- only this time, I was in SoHo and decided to browse around Uniqlo after remembering that my cousin once got an enviable pair of jeans there. I found a style of dark denim I liked, pulled a 2, 4, 6, and 8 off the shelf (which I always do, and which usually pisses off salespeople immensely), and entered the fitting room. The attendant smiled, encouraged me to take as long as I needed, and told me to come out and let her examine the fit of the jeans once I determined my size. The second I pulled open the curtain, the attendant swooped over, checked that the waistband didn't gap, and dropped to one knee to pin my hems to the correct length. She then informed me that, should I choose to purchase the jeans, the store would alter them to fit my body... free of charge. "So bring these up front to the register, go get yourself some lunch, come back here with your receipt in about two hours, and they'll be ready for you."

I was stunned; this was a relatively inexpensive store and these were forty-dollar jeans, for heaven's sake! I asked more questions in search of a loophole or a catch -- and I found none. Turns out that the company believes that every single one of their customers should walk out of the store with clothing that fits their body as perfectly as possible. Thus, they offer free fitting and same-day tailoring on every pair of pants they sell.

Not only is it amazing customer service -- my jeans fit perfectly right out of the shopping bag, which NEVER happens to me -- but it's a fantastic business model. I'm sharing the news with anyone who will listen, and I'm planning on going back tomorrow morning for some colored denim that I can pass off as work pants!

The Blues

"Letting go, facing up to the truth that it is time to part. Giving way to the day that well may break my heart. It's not a thing I choose; to win, I have to lose." -- from Jekyll & Hyde

This weekend, I wore my favorite pair of jeans to run some errands. They're Gap boot-cut stretch denim, blue with a greenish wash, size 6 long, faded on the thighs and the back pockets. Those jeans have served me well for close to a decade, through high school and college, through the city and the chemistry lab, through shopping and the machine shop, through living and lounging and learning, through football games and the mating game, through the Freshman Fifteen and the Senior Negative Five that, somehow, also negated two dress sizes.

I've worn them so roughly and so often that the denim is brushed baby-soft and the cut conforms to every curve of my body. I wore them on my bloated days and my skinny days, I wore them to kick around the lab and to mingle at formal events. When the contents of my right front pocket sliced a hole clear through the fabric covering my groin last autumn, I continued to wear them. When that hole ripped and widened to the point where I very nearly flashed passers-by with every step, I sewed it up and continued to wear them.

Then I graduated college. The contents of my closet have shifted in the time since commencement, with dress trousers and blouses and sky-high heels taking places of honor away from my Chucks and tees and, of course, my favorite jeans. Opportunities to slip into my beloved blues and spend quality time with them are few and far between these days, so I relished the feeling of the yielding fabric against my body on Saturday. Then I spun to check out my booty in the mirror -- come on, all women do this -- and noticed that I could see my panties clear through the fabric.

In utter denial, I threw on a shirt long enough to cover my rear and went about my business, vowing to not survey the damage until later that evening. I held out for as long as I could, then, close to midnight, I shrugged out of my jeans and took a look.

The fabric hadn't ripped; it was worn transparent. Too many years of sitting on the stoop and sitting on the sidewalk and sitting on the Steps, I guess. About nine square inches are threadbare; the damage is too diffuse to stitch up. I could try to patch them, but the results would most likely be hideous. Alternatively, I could cut my losses, savor the good years, and toss them out with the garbage.

I washed them, pressed them, and tucked them back into my closet. I'll decide another day.

People Are Alike All Over

"I look like him, I think like him. Same memories, same thoughts, same everything. Except I've only got one heart." -- The Tenth Doctor, after a fashion

Even though I didn't celebrate Hallowe'en, I'll commemorate the holiday with three anecdotes about lookalikes.

I.

My evening walk from clinic to the subway covers 3/4 of a mile, and yesterday, I passed eight Sarah Palins on the way. Eight -- I counted. That's roughly one Palin per 475 feet.

II.

This afternoon, I went to the Herald Square Macy's to pick up a few pairs of Hue microfiber fishnets, my winter hosiery of choice. At the register, my cashier -- a very old, very tiny Asian woman -- examined my credit card and gave a gleeful squeak. "Your surname and my surname are almost the same!" she squealed in a softly accented voice. "You have a G where I have a D!" She then wrote her last name on my receipt, right next to mine, and pointed out the similarity again. I laughed and decided to crack a joke.

"Wow! Maybe we have a common relative a few generations back."
"Yes! I am from the Philippines, but who knows, the Italian mafia may have traveled there at some point!"

I spent the whole subway ride home wondering how the cashier could have possibly equated the geek standing in front of her with Goodfellas.

III.

After several tries, I finally perfected a low-fat, easy-on-the-stomach recipe for vodka sauce that tastes exactly like the real deal. I'll type it up and share it as soon as humanly possible!

IV. (I lied.)

Last week, David Tennant, the sexy hunk of man playing the Tenth Doctor on the awesome long-running BBC series Doctor Who, revealed that he will be leaving the show after this season. The speculation about his replacement has already started, and Jack Davenport, AKA Commodore Norrington from the Pirates of the Carribbean films, Steve from Coupling, the pansy fiancee from The Wedding Date, and/or the dude with the bad American accent from Swingtown, has my vote. Just for the record. Here's hoping.

Best Foot Forward

"Ah, I do not wear ze shoes because... zey make-a me fall down." -- Agador Spartacus, from The Birdcage

I fell asleep on the living room (read: uncomfortable) couch at about 9PM last night, and, as a result, I didn't get to accomplish any of the necessary tasks to ensure a smooth morning routine. Thus, I woke up with a chill and a sore back on said couch at 7AM, swore, then scrambled to get ready for work. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, pulled my curls up into a bun. A little eyeliner, a lot of red lipstick, eyeglasses, undergarments, deodorant, a spritz of Lanvin Rumeur. Breakfast, coffee, and earrings could wait until I got to work, but clothing couldn't.

I never got around to ironing before I dozed off, so I pulled my one un-creased pair of dress pants off the drying rack and ran back to my bedroom to put them on. I was halfway there when I felt it: a scrape at first, then a jolt of pain radiating up my leg. I sat on the edge of my bed and lifted my foot, revealing a massive splinter buried deep in the dancer's callus on my big toe. Since I wasn't about to perform foot surgery on myself in my frantic, underwear-clad state, I slapped a bunion pad over the splinter, pulled on a pair of dress socks, and decided to hope for the best.

I slipped into my pants and my favorite pair of flats, but I didn't even have to move to realize that my cuffs would clean the sidewalks with every step. Wearing a skirt was out of the question owing to my socks, so I instead opted to stick to the pants and wear most comfortable pair of high heels with them.

However, because of the socks, my most comfortable pair of high heels didn't fit. I tried on pair after pair -- and trust me, I have a LOT -- and they all felt uncomfortably snug. Finally, I tried on my super-soft, super-comfortable pointy-toed black pumps, which I only wear on my water-retention days because the leather has stretched so much that they tend to fall off when I walk, and they fit beautifully.

My choice of footwear functioned perfectly in the house, but when I tried to ease into my usual speedwalk en route to the subway, I knew I was in for a disatrous day. I had to walk slowly and hold my feet very stiffly to avoid falling head-first out of my shoes, and if I let my guard down for even a second, one or both shoes would fly off my feet. Despite the added bulk of the bunion pad, I lost my right shoe approximately once every hundred feet and my left shoe half as frequently. The walk to work from the subway was even worse; little old men and massively pregnant women moved faster than I could. I thought I'd be okay, though -- I had a day of desk work ahead of me, and as anyone who has ever taken Fluid Biomechanics with Dr. Kevin Costa knows, a desk-bound woman's feet swell massively over the course of eight hours.

Wishful thinking, yeah. The morning passed into afternoon and I still couldn't move correctly. Aside from the fact that my shoes felt strange, I felt like crap without the ability to bounce and sway my way around the city. I was still moving slowly and stiffly when I arrived home at 6:15 -- far later than usual because I was walking so damned slowly. Dad was outside smoking a cigar when I approached.

"Why are you walking like Frankenstein?" he asked. I told him. Ten minutes later, I had my foot up on the kitchen table as Dad squinted at it through his magnifying glasses. I glanced away for a moment, and when I focused on my father again, he was raising a very pointy pair of scissors to my toe with a manic glint in his eye. I don't remember much about the following half-hour, but I no longer have a splinter in my toe.

Made For Walkin'

"New York City is the place where they said, 'Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side...'" -- Lou Reed

I love walking, which is a good thing because it's a major part of my daily commute. And thanks to a coworker who introduced me to Gmaps Pedometer, a nifty Google Maps hack that calculates the length of any plotted route to the thousandth of a mile, I can now report EXACTLY how much walking I do.

On an average day, I walk...

0.7572 miles from home to the subway
0.4203 miles from the subway to work
0.8152 miles from work to the subway (because the 6 is too crowded)
+ 0.7572 miles from the subway to home
---------
2.7499 miles, total


This really amuses me, since it means that my most ridiculous method of walking distance estimation is far more accurate than I ever thought possible. I've always described my black pumps with the built-in Nike sneaker technology as having "a two-mile limit" before they start to make my feet hurt. Sure enough, those shoes inevitably start to kill me when I start my final walk home at the end of the day, and if I can't catch a ride on any leg of the journey, I have to pack a pair of flats.

I'm having a lot of fun playing with the Gmaps application -- calculating the distances across random cornfields in Kansas, along my old Riverside Park jogging route, around the entire island of Manhattan -- but, like the true geek I am, I'm thinking scientifically about the possibilities it offers. It may take a few weeks to test-drive my entire collection, but I now possess the technology to put a mileage limit on every pair of high heels I own!

Graffiti

"And it's just another story caught up in another photograph I found. And it seems like another person lived that life a great many years ago from now." -- Jamie Cullum

I'm in the process of cleaning out my closet as I type this and I feel like an archaeologist who, with every layer of soil removed, finds himself deeper into the past. My work shirts covered my 40s on 40 shirt, which covered a Viva La Zvi t-shirt, which covered the first BME Department t-shirt, which covered several Glass House Rocks Staff shirts, which covered my little brown RUSH ESC tee, which covered my Freshman Engineer shirt with the big hideous target on the back, which covered the blue-and-grey school logo tee I purchased the day after I got my Early Decision acceptance letter, which covered four years of high school Walkathon shirts.

Somewhere between Freshman Engineer and RUSH ESC, I found a plain white Hanes t-shirt completely desecrated in marker. This is a relic from Graffiti Night, an event hosted by my Student Council for the sole purpose of allowing students to draw on each other. As I turned the fabric over in my hands, I recognized handwritings, recalled awkward laughs and faulty markers, realized that some of the scribblings belonged to people I would eventually come to call my closest college friends.

Here's a roadmap:

FRONT

Over my stomach: "HOTTIE I want ur babies" with a downward pointed arrow, lovingly drawn by Q
Over my chest: A large black box with the word "Boobs" in the center, drawn by AW "to keep it off-limits to all the creeps in here."
Below my left shoulder: "SEXY!" courtesy of EC.
Below my right shoulder: A large black university crown with "CU Rules" written underneath it in dwong's handwriting.


BACK

Lower back: "I Heart Jesus" Artist unknown.
Below my left shoulder: "Hello!" in what might be PMB's handwriting.
Below my right shoulder: "I want YOU!" and "butt" with two lines under it. Artists unknown.
Left upper back: "You and Eash are so effin hott!" courtesy of Meet.
Right upper back: "Hello friend." Artist unknown.

Needless to say, this isn't one of the items being sent to Goodwill next week.

Ode to the Barneys Warehouse Sale

"But when all the world says yes, then who am I to say no? Don't ask a mutt to strut like a showgirl! No, girl, you need a pro." -- Barry Manilow, from Oliver and Company


I think I dress quite well and I take pride in my appearance,
So most are shocked to learn that what I wear I buy on clearance!
I have an eye for style but not the cash couture entails,
So on a research salary, I have to hunt for sales.

Twice a year, Barneys tries to unload last year's stock,
And opens wide its warehouse doors to cheapskates half in hock.
This blest event is fondly called the Barneys Warehouse Sale,
And for discerning shoppers, it's the retail Holy Grail.

But be warned, dear friends, the Barney's sale isn't quite the scene
For shoppers who can only thrive in places more serene.
It's not made for the faint of heart or temperament or wit --
You mustn't be afraid to fight through crowds and racks of shit.

Thus I'm sure you all can understand my thoughts of woe
When I told Mom about the sale and she said she'd like to go.
I warned her off, I told her that the mob was sure to shock,
But she didn't quite believe me till the line stretched round the block.

The women's floor defies description; clothes, though seldom cheap,
Are thrown in bins and on the floor, oftentimes waist-deep.
There's barely room to walk, the air is thick with fibrous dust,
Into the racks you're often pushed by clientele robust.

And since there are no changing rooms, the aisles, to Mom's surprise,
Are strewn with naked women trying items on for size.
I came prepared – I wore a flowing skirt instead of pants,
But ladies wandered round in thongs while strange men stood entranced.

By the time I got on line, my hem trailed on the floor,
My hands looked gross, three nails were cracked, and my feet were sore.
My lungs were filled with so much dust I couldn't heave a sigh.
My hair was mussed, my face bruised from a hanger to the eye.

I paid then paused, straightened my hem and swept my hair back neat,
And with two awesome pairs of jeans, exited to the street.
One pair are black Aristocrats -- the high-waist, wide-leg line.
The others are plain blues, but damn they make my ass look fine.

Yeah, you need no shame, but that's the price of being thrifty--
I chose jeans worth five hundred bucks but paid thirty-four fifty.
Mom has said she shan't return; one trip's enough for her.
But I look forward to the spring. You think they discount fur?

To Diode For

"Electric circuitry is an extension of the central nervous system." -- Marshall McLuhan

Because I have nothing better to do with my time, I made a necklace.



And because I'm a total dork who gets a little too excited over the prospect of playing with electronics, the necklace is made entirely of rectangular light emitting diodes.



It's a little prickly at the moment, but a little lead-free silver solder should fix all the sharp parts easily enough. Keeping my hands steady enough to solder may be a challenge, though, since I'm sure I'll be giggling the whole time.