The Evils of Beachwear

Considering I technically live on an island in the Atlantic, the fact that I've seen the ocean only once --in November, at that-- in the 3 years I've been here is pretty sad. I used to frequent the beaches of sparkling Lake Erie as a teenager every summer. Nevermind the fact that Lake Erie sparkles with the rainbow sheen of raw sewage and industrial waste, it was still a sight to behold, if not swim in.

So in preparation for my upcoming trip out to Long Island to visit J.'s relatives, I decided to pull out the ol bathing suit I bought when I was 17, just for this type of occaision. I don't think I've worn it in public since I left Buffalo in 1999. Which makes it extra strange that the bottoms have frayed all along the hems. As if all those years of being tossed from drawer to drawer have really taken their toll.

I categorically refuse, however, to even CONSIDER buying another one. Why? Because it would suffer the same fate as the old purple two-piece in the drawer. And this is because I categorically refuse to wear bathing suits. Sometimes I try on the old one just to test it out, but it always goes back in the drawer, or at most, is thrown on underneath something long and billowy with some tropical print that contrasts jarringly with my pasty Irish bod. I don't do sun. I don't do skin. It's just not an option.

I would like to go into a tirade on underwear as outerwear and how a comprehensive boycott of unflattering peer-pressured clothing would do a world of good for lots of people, but I've got a train to catch. Perhaps another time. For now, here's a repost of an old summer favorite that I'm sure no one has read but me.

Cheers!

From June 19, 2005: VPL vs. VBC

Summer has finally settled its damp blanket on the city, and the girls of New York are responding accordingly with their tight-white pants.

One thing that's been bugging me:

I know it's supposed to be a faux pas if the outline of your underwear shows through your pants. This is remedied by the thong, or for the brave, commando-style. But I've noticed a lot of women avoiding this pitfall by falling into another, namely the Visible Butt Cheeks.

Maybe I'm a prude. But I'm personally more offput by seeing the crack and dimples of a stranger's ass than I am by seeing her underpants lines. And that's really how bad it gets. The girls like the pants tight, I guess, and the rest of us get every cottage-cheesy nook-n-cranny as a result. Plus you get to walk up the stairs behind someone, knowing they aren't wearing any underpants and that you're a thin layer of bleached denim from all their junk. Mmm-mm.

I say celebrate the underpants! Wear your new floral prints underneath those white hineypants! And keep your dimples to yourself. It's the new summer style...

Jaded?

Two jobs ago, I went to an interview at a literary agency where a friend-of-a-friend had just done an internship. It was the first for-profit job I had ever applied for.

This was right after finishing my stint in AmerCorps, that great live-in-poverty-to-solve-poverty idealistic sinkhole program that left me with a healthy grasp on the cost of living. The interview went something like this:

High-falutin lit agent with fancy London accent: "Why do you want to do this instead of grantwriting?"

Me in my salvation army slacks: "Well, I guess my idealism has abated somewhat in the past year."

HFLA: "So you're applying for lots of jobs in publishing?"

M-SAS: "Erm, no really just this one. Those big corporate places are too scary."

Needless to say they enjoyed my writing sample but didn't invite me back.

This was the first red flag, I think, on my path to Old-&-Jaded-ville. Things have gotten considerably worse, I'm afraid, in the 3 years since that conversation. Not only have I shifted my focus from social justice to arts, for a while there I stopped paying attention to a whole lot of small personal actions I used to consider second nature. I stopped recycling. Took up eating meat and smoking again. Started buying brand-name instead of generic and a thousand other little habits I'd sworn off in the name of world-savin' and not being a corporate tool. (I may have been a tool anyway, just not a corporate one =)

Two jobs, less alcohol and a heap of stability later, I've started to put myself back together and regain some of my better habits. But this was a lesson in how easy it is to slip, regardless of how strong your original ideology. All you need to do is shift your attention and it all falls to shit. Plus, obviously, it is much easier to keep your eye on the big picture if you can focus beyond your immediate concerns, ie where the rent is coming from and how many cans of beans left in the house before I have to start stealing from my roommates? My own flawed choices landed me where I was, no bones about that, and sealed myself off from certain avenues that would have made my life simpler and less debt-ridden. I'm still working in the arts and I'm not ashamed of that, but I often wonder how the hell I got here.

I'm sorry to say that even though I do recycle now, I am still a jaded person. My faith in world-saving and mind-changing is considerably waned, and I'm content to bemoan the stupidity of humans and go on about my business rather than get up on a soapbox. Damned if adulthood isn't humbling.

Squalor

According to my mother I come from a long line of packrats and bad housekeepers. My father's side has the geniuses and alcoholics, my Mom's has the slobs and entertainers. Genetics is such a crapshoot.

It does make me feel a little better about my current house-cleaning situation. Or non-cleaning situation, rather. I just can't seem to get the hang of it. Living with roommates was easier--communal areas were shared responsibility, and my own room could be a horrific mess and no one would care. Now with a shared bedroom, 2 people with 2 fulltime jobs, and schedules not conducive to shared cleaning-up time; it's a bit more complicated. And by complicated I mean it doesn't really get done.

Which is why I am taking this opportunity to give kudos to Jay, for being such a trooper and making some good compromises in the name of domestic tranquility. So the place has a tendency to grow stalagmite heaps of clutter and old mail, or we may occaisionally come home to the stink of cat piss, realizing the litter box has not been changed in a week. So what, I think. I grew up in a messy house with animals and small children running rampant and breaking things, it does not particularly strike me as odd. Until, naturally, we got to visit Jay's mother in her pristine abode and she shares with me her secrets for cutting down dusting time and keeping the dog hair off the carpet. I don't think I've dusted anything...ever. The thought of coming home from 9 hours of concentrated work and then whipping out a vacuum cleaner is quite beyond me, let alone remembering to put things away after use. It's all I can do to keep the dishes clean, honestly.

In the words of my Mom: It's not for everyone. People who are extremely cleanly will not understand this at all, anymore than I can understand someone being annoyed by a dog on the couch. I'm just happy to live with someone with the strength of character to see past the clutter and learn to ignore certain things.

Confession

I've been cheating on you, blog. I've become an unpleasant MySpace addict and I'm so ashamed. It's just so much easier with all the pretty pictures...

bleck! Here's a repost of the other blog, cuz I am freaking tired. I don't know what field y'all are in that you have all this time to blog at work. siiiiigh.

Everyone's so BLAAH

Or maybe it's just me. It comes up more in professional situations, but that's probably cuz I don't get out enough. I have a serious problem making smalltalk, I get bored & antsy with it. I know you are supposed to ask people questions, but you can't get too personal or it's weird, and you can't get too interesting cuz that's also weird. So you have to act like you want to know small details about their lives that you will probably forget pretty soon anyway.

Or at least that's what happens to me. Can't speak for anyone else... and if you really think that the mundane details of someone's association with the weather or what they did this afternoon are interesting, then I applaud you. Because you will never have to face the moment inevitable in every one of my conversations with people I don't know very well where it scudders into silence and I wind up excusing myself to go to the bathroom, where I wait for the other person to start talking to someone else and/or leave the room. I freakin HATE smalltalk.

It's why I was never that good at work events. Or, rather, good at being support staff but not working a room. Yeah, I got no problem checking your name off the list but I honestly don't care if you liked the concert or not. I ain't never going to see you again, and if I do you will treat me as an employee so it does not matter to me how you are doing today. Enjoy the crabcakes. Can't work a room anymore than I can work a forklift.

So I propose a more interesting line of conversation for those intro/elevator conversations. For example:
A coworker asks "How are you today?"
To avoid uncomfortable silence after you say you are OK, you confess "I'm well, considering.. I've never really gotten over the operation."

or someone mentions that it is a beautiful day out, you could counter with "beautiful like the first time I looked upon a fresh kill."

Or after a concert/event, someone asks "how did you enjoy the concert/event?"
You let em know: "Oh, I'm not sure. I was really distracted by your spouse's exorbitant hotness. I'm sure it was terrific. Drink?"

If they're resilient, they'll ask for more. If not, then f*ck em.

Blaine in the Neck

This is what I currently pass everyday this week on my way to work. It looks just like this. Cept instead of angels, there are tourists. And he's (sadly) not wearing the shorty-shorts, but cargo pants. And no chains. And also, a diving mask. But other than that it's all true. Oh but no desert, either, it's in the middle of Lincoln Plaza. Which is cooler than the desert anyway.

Silly as it may seem, stunt-wise, I kind of like the human aquarium setup. But think it would be much more visually pleasing if he had some colored gravel and maybe a little plastic treasure chest in there with him. Perhaps a fern, too. Might take his mind off the feeding tube.

Gooo David! We are all rooting for you and your silly, silly feats of incredible endurance!

Freakish Faces

Honestly I'd feel much more comfortable with humanity if famous people still got old.



How do we explain this to alien invaders, that when they reach a certain point of celebrity, women no longer age, they merely... stretch.



Having come into contact with a fair bit of bad facework working in my particular field, I find it all rather creepy. And sort of absurd. It's like on all those fashion-y shows on TLC when the 45-year-old woman is made to put away her miniskirts and vinyl boots as they actually make her look older than she is. I see a well-lifted face, I think... damn, she must have something to hide.

I've met some damn fine lookin 70-year-olds who are pulling it off quite nicely au naturale, wrinkles and all. We're mammals. We're supposed to age. That's what happens when there's oxygen.

OK that's settled, I'll leave it to the rest of the world to catch up.

It makes me wonder if, by the age of 70, Madonna will run out of facial skin and will start to resemble a Tim Burton-esque chariacature of Sailor Moon. Shivers.

Today's Overheard

And I'm wondering why this fear of men...