The new Twilight movie is coming out today and I just need to take a moment to vent.
Twilight sucks. No pun intended.
I admit that I could be more familiar with the source material. I've seen the movie but once, and spent the vast majority of it snarking back at the screen, thereby perhaps missing some of the finer points. I've never read the books and have no intention to unless, hypothetically, they were the only reading material I was able to rustle up from the remains of Boone's luggage after surviving a fiery plane crash on a desert island. I will also admit that I am inclined to be biased against them due to the fact that they're a Mormon allegory, and I think that Mormons are...well, I'll just keep my views on the Mormon religion to myself. Or maybe I'll write them down for you in a made up language and you can translate them with the help of some magic peekin' stones.
The fact that Twilight is a saga about vampires and I still can't stand it ought to speak volumes. I love vampires. My adult love for True Blood rivals my teenage love for the Backstreet Boys (true fact: I once saw Jason Stackhouse in an Irish dive in Atlantic City while at a bachelorette party and almost maimed by best friend out of excitement). Van Helsing, Blade, Underworld, 30 Days of Night, whatever. I've even grown mildly addicted to the Vampire Diaries on the CW, which I find somewhat embarrassing because it is geared toward 15-year-olds, but yet can't help it because a) Ian Somerhalder plays evil deliciously well, much better than he play God's Friggin' Gift to Humanity, may he RIP, and b) Paul Wesley somehow manages to be simultaneously smoking hot yet sort of...cro-magnon. I'm totally vamp-crazy.
But that brings me to my main bone of contention with Twilight. IT'S NOT REALLY ABOUT VAMPIRES. All the really interesting parts of the vampire mythology have been dispersed with. Not only are these vampires able to go out in the sunlight, they glitter! Disco vamps! Please - even in The Vampire Diaries, the vampires have to have a special ring that protects them from the sunlight. They also don't sleep. Ever. What was that I said about disco vamps? In addition to glitter, might there be amphetamines involved? Oh wait-Mormon allegory, so I guess if caffeine is verboten any stronger stimulant is definitely out. Garlic? Doesn't bother them. Stakes? Well, who knows...this is family entertainment, so stakes are apparently out. Instead of engaging in normal vampire pursuits, like, you know, marauding and terrorizing and fornicating and sucking blood, which by the way is like the central point of existence of being a vampire, they play baseball. In matching uniforms. And leap around forests, et cetera. Nothing even remotely vampirelike, except the occasional hunt, for ANIMALS, which: totally lame. Everyone knows that the reason vampires are awesome is because they're kind of like, not to get too Freudian on you or anything, but the id in (semi) human form. Blood? Check. Sex? Check. Debauchery? Check. When you make vampires adhere to human society's rules without any attempt to subvert them, that's not interesting. At all.
But it doesn't really matter because, as I said before, Twilight is not really about vampires. The one piece of vampire lore that it preserves is the idea of biting and being bitten, and the only reason that that is the case is because it's a really CONVENIENT, OBVIOUS metaphor for OMG PREMARITAL SEX.
Look, I was raised Catholic, and I probably started much too late, but hey, at least I started. And I just look at the way a lot of organized religions teach kids about sex, love, marriage, et al and all I can think about is how, I don't care who you are, there's just no way you're not going to come out of an environment like that with baggage. Which is really just fucked up, because hi: it's a biological imperative, and don't go getting all biblical on me because that's another whole can of worms that I could argue about for six hours. So I just find it really dismaying that Twilight has become this major pop culture phenomenon, because that means that bajillions of teen girls everywhere are buying into this idea of purity vs. impurity and oh my God, once you're bitten you're spoiled. Like, come on. What year is it again?
Not to mention, Bella is pretty much the anti-feminist.
Of course, I can't wait for it to come out on video...but only so I can make fun of it, of course.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
I'm a Big Girl Now
After almost two and a half months, I am finally settling into my new apartment.
Having lived in shared dorms and apartments over the past eight years, most of which had common areas already furnished with university standard-issue or roommates’ various familial hand-me-downs and sidewalk finds, I didn’t really have a lot of stuff when I moved in. A full bedroom set – bed with headboard and footboard, nightstand, bureau, “lingerie chest” (really just a very tall chest of drawers that holds not unmentionables but sweaters), desk. A couple of those $19 Ikea bookcases that are made of pressboard and thick white corrugated paper that you nail to the back. A single black pleather chair, also from Ikea, sized for the average Oompa Loompa. In short, not nearly enough to furnish a fairly spacious two bedroom apartment.
Like any twenty six year old on a fairly modest budget, I turned to my family. My parents had plenty of goodies for me: a small kitchen table with coordinating chairs, a microwave cart, an étagère for supplementary bathroom storage (I like products. My skincare regimen has like 43 steps.). Things were looking good. I made plans to return to New Hampshire for a weekend to raid their basement and pick up some incidental household items tax-free and with the luxury of a car (it’s difficult to buy, for instance, a china service for 12 when you have to carry it home a mile and a half on foot).
Of course, things that can go wrong have a tendency to do so, and just a few days before I was due to head home I got the call from my mother: the hot water heater had exploded and the cellar had flooded. Everything I was planning on taking had been ruined with water damage – in fact, basically every single thing they had in storage was now trash, and the insurance company would be bringing a dumpster by the following week to dispose of it all.
Despite my initial disappointment, I decided that this was actually a good thing, if only because I occasionally become concerned that one day I’ll get a call from my brothers asking me if I would be open to participating in an episode of A&E’s Hoarders, and this turn of events seemed to be a preemptive strike against this possibility. Furthermore, my mother pointed out that I could use the insurance money to buy myself new things to replace the ones that had been destroyed.
Trouble is, real furniture stores are not like Ikea. You cannot generally stroll in, look around, point, and say, “I shall have that table; please wrap it and transport it to my automobile.” Most items have to be ordered, and they take an extended period of time to arrive. So I found myself once again in a basement, this time my grandmother’s, picking through furnishings and household goods considerably older than me. Turns out I’d hit the jackpot: a kitchen table and chairs nicer than the ones my mother had, a mail table with a matching mirror and wall sconces that hold taper candles instead of lights (which everyone in my family habitually refers to as “scones” despite my repeated attempts to set the record straight [Renée, agitated: “Do these look like QUICKBREADS to you?]), an old fashioned coat rack, a hutch to house the impressive collection of vintage dishes and serveware that I also collected, saving them from an eternity languishing in cardboard boxes. To top it all off, my grandmother had recently replaced her pull-out couch, and tried to get me to take the old one off her hands. When I demurred (it had a certain air of country kitsch about it, whereas French country is as country as I get despite my rural New Hampshire roots) she gave me $500 to buy a new couch. O-kay.
So the place is beginning to look terrific - okay, so the money my grandmother gave me has been collecting interest in my savings account because when forced to choose between convertible seating and the financial freedom to buy a ticket to, say, Vienna at a moment’s notice, the hypothetical plane ticket always wins. The futon left over from my college apartments makes for a perfectly serviceable couch on which to lounge around reading Real Simple and watching Fringe for hours on end to the point that you start having dreams that you’re slowly mutating into a vampire-like creature (this was last night), even if you wouldn’t necessarily want to sleep on it (I should know: I did, for two years, in protest of my parents willingness to supply me with a bed only if it was a twin bed, for ideological reasons). I could still use a bookcase, or nine, to house the fruits of my severe book-buying addiction, and the office in general is a bit sparsely furnished unless you count footwear (its secondary function is as a shoe closet) but there are items of furniture to fulfill every basic modern human need: sleeping, sitting, eating, housing one’s epic wardrobe.
For the first time, I live in a place that has actual décor. Photographs from my travels have been framed and hung, and the reproduction art nouveau nightclub ads I picked up from one of the bouquinistes along the Seine in Paris may be stuck to the walls with double sided tape but they are stuck to the walls nonetheless. (Well, sometimes they are. Incidentally, double stick tape, while a strategic choice for hanging posters and the like, doesn’t take so well to frames, no matter how shoddy and lightweight they are – the things fall down like, hourly.). And the kitchen – don’t even get me started. It’s like somebody’s wedding registry threw up in there. I have two fondue pots – two. Because if one is having a fondue party, it is only appropriate to serve a dessert fondue in addition to the entrée fondue. I had two turkey basters, but gave one to my mother after wondering aloud what on earth I would do with a spare turkey baster and subsequently collapsed into peals of laughter. Pasta making attachment for KitchenAid stand mixer? Check. Coffeemaker, cafétière, and espresso maker, so I can have my morning Bustelo prepared any of three ways? Indeed (although I dropped the ceramic cafétière on its top shortly after opening the box and its decorative nubbin broke off tragically). Antique crystal banana bowl, with grooves cut in for each individual fruit? Obviously. I have aprons galore, dishtowels for all seasons (especially the holiday season), and an Aerogarden in glorious full bloom. That’s right: as seen on TV.
Where I’m getting at with all this is that I finally have a place that’s all my own, which has always struck me as being the last step to official adulthood (well, assuming you are, like me, on the Marriage Is for the Patriarchy/Bourgeois/Over-35 Set bandwagon). Now when people, knowing that I am a single twentysomething, ask me if I have roommates, I can say, “Why no, as a matter of fact I am a totally independent woman; in the immortal words of Destiny’s Child, the house I live in, I bought it, ‘cause I depend on me if I want it.” Well, strictly speaking, the house I live in, I signed a fixed-term lease on it, but you get my drift.
Having lived in shared dorms and apartments over the past eight years, most of which had common areas already furnished with university standard-issue or roommates’ various familial hand-me-downs and sidewalk finds, I didn’t really have a lot of stuff when I moved in. A full bedroom set – bed with headboard and footboard, nightstand, bureau, “lingerie chest” (really just a very tall chest of drawers that holds not unmentionables but sweaters), desk. A couple of those $19 Ikea bookcases that are made of pressboard and thick white corrugated paper that you nail to the back. A single black pleather chair, also from Ikea, sized for the average Oompa Loompa. In short, not nearly enough to furnish a fairly spacious two bedroom apartment.
Like any twenty six year old on a fairly modest budget, I turned to my family. My parents had plenty of goodies for me: a small kitchen table with coordinating chairs, a microwave cart, an étagère for supplementary bathroom storage (I like products. My skincare regimen has like 43 steps.). Things were looking good. I made plans to return to New Hampshire for a weekend to raid their basement and pick up some incidental household items tax-free and with the luxury of a car (it’s difficult to buy, for instance, a china service for 12 when you have to carry it home a mile and a half on foot).
Of course, things that can go wrong have a tendency to do so, and just a few days before I was due to head home I got the call from my mother: the hot water heater had exploded and the cellar had flooded. Everything I was planning on taking had been ruined with water damage – in fact, basically every single thing they had in storage was now trash, and the insurance company would be bringing a dumpster by the following week to dispose of it all.
Despite my initial disappointment, I decided that this was actually a good thing, if only because I occasionally become concerned that one day I’ll get a call from my brothers asking me if I would be open to participating in an episode of A&E’s Hoarders, and this turn of events seemed to be a preemptive strike against this possibility. Furthermore, my mother pointed out that I could use the insurance money to buy myself new things to replace the ones that had been destroyed.
Trouble is, real furniture stores are not like Ikea. You cannot generally stroll in, look around, point, and say, “I shall have that table; please wrap it and transport it to my automobile.” Most items have to be ordered, and they take an extended period of time to arrive. So I found myself once again in a basement, this time my grandmother’s, picking through furnishings and household goods considerably older than me. Turns out I’d hit the jackpot: a kitchen table and chairs nicer than the ones my mother had, a mail table with a matching mirror and wall sconces that hold taper candles instead of lights (which everyone in my family habitually refers to as “scones” despite my repeated attempts to set the record straight [Renée, agitated: “Do these look like QUICKBREADS to you?]), an old fashioned coat rack, a hutch to house the impressive collection of vintage dishes and serveware that I also collected, saving them from an eternity languishing in cardboard boxes. To top it all off, my grandmother had recently replaced her pull-out couch, and tried to get me to take the old one off her hands. When I demurred (it had a certain air of country kitsch about it, whereas French country is as country as I get despite my rural New Hampshire roots) she gave me $500 to buy a new couch. O-kay.
So the place is beginning to look terrific - okay, so the money my grandmother gave me has been collecting interest in my savings account because when forced to choose between convertible seating and the financial freedom to buy a ticket to, say, Vienna at a moment’s notice, the hypothetical plane ticket always wins. The futon left over from my college apartments makes for a perfectly serviceable couch on which to lounge around reading Real Simple and watching Fringe for hours on end to the point that you start having dreams that you’re slowly mutating into a vampire-like creature (this was last night), even if you wouldn’t necessarily want to sleep on it (I should know: I did, for two years, in protest of my parents willingness to supply me with a bed only if it was a twin bed, for ideological reasons). I could still use a bookcase, or nine, to house the fruits of my severe book-buying addiction, and the office in general is a bit sparsely furnished unless you count footwear (its secondary function is as a shoe closet) but there are items of furniture to fulfill every basic modern human need: sleeping, sitting, eating, housing one’s epic wardrobe.
For the first time, I live in a place that has actual décor. Photographs from my travels have been framed and hung, and the reproduction art nouveau nightclub ads I picked up from one of the bouquinistes along the Seine in Paris may be stuck to the walls with double sided tape but they are stuck to the walls nonetheless. (Well, sometimes they are. Incidentally, double stick tape, while a strategic choice for hanging posters and the like, doesn’t take so well to frames, no matter how shoddy and lightweight they are – the things fall down like, hourly.). And the kitchen – don’t even get me started. It’s like somebody’s wedding registry threw up in there. I have two fondue pots – two. Because if one is having a fondue party, it is only appropriate to serve a dessert fondue in addition to the entrée fondue. I had two turkey basters, but gave one to my mother after wondering aloud what on earth I would do with a spare turkey baster and subsequently collapsed into peals of laughter. Pasta making attachment for KitchenAid stand mixer? Check. Coffeemaker, cafétière, and espresso maker, so I can have my morning Bustelo prepared any of three ways? Indeed (although I dropped the ceramic cafétière on its top shortly after opening the box and its decorative nubbin broke off tragically). Antique crystal banana bowl, with grooves cut in for each individual fruit? Obviously. I have aprons galore, dishtowels for all seasons (especially the holiday season), and an Aerogarden in glorious full bloom. That’s right: as seen on TV.
Where I’m getting at with all this is that I finally have a place that’s all my own, which has always struck me as being the last step to official adulthood (well, assuming you are, like me, on the Marriage Is for the Patriarchy/Bourgeois/Over-35 Set bandwagon). Now when people, knowing that I am a single twentysomething, ask me if I have roommates, I can say, “Why no, as a matter of fact I am a totally independent woman; in the immortal words of Destiny’s Child, the house I live in, I bought it, ‘cause I depend on me if I want it.” Well, strictly speaking, the house I live in, I signed a fixed-term lease on it, but you get my drift.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Quarter Life Non-Crisis
Guess who hit the quarter century mark last week? That's right: yours truly. As of Wednesday, August 20, 2008 I am officially 25 years old.
In the grand tradition of my last, oh, four birthdays, I spent the weeks leading up to my big day appeasing myself with unnecessary but oh so consolatory material trappings like fancy new purses (and matching wallets, and matching passport cases...don't look so disapproving, Hayden Harnett was practically having a yard sale!) and a vintage YSL Rive Gauche day dress. Because it's all downhill after 21 right? I was very, very concerned that I was going to wake up on the 25th anniversary of my birth and suddenly feel psychologically ill-equipped to get out of bed, not in the least because on my 24th birthday I woke up feeling psychologically ill-equipped to get out of bed, and probably would have for numero 23 as well had I not been hung over enough to forget the dubious occasion. I went to bed at 11:30 pm on my birthday's eve, thinking that maybe if I were asleep for the 19th-to-20th changeover I would be able to avoid or at least assuage what would surely be a seismic shift from young adulthood to actual adulthood. And I woke up with my alarm at 7:15am, sunlight streaming into my bedroom, and thought, "Hell yes - I'm a woman now!"
I know. I did not expect that either. I expected to suffer a panic attack the moment I rolled out of bed, or at the very least melt down when I looked in the mirror and spotted three gray hairs and a serious pair of crow's feet. But I did not. I rolled out of bed and thought, "I am a woman now and as such I will kick off my adulthood in a navy blue silk faille dress from Marc Jacobs and the leopard print stilettos from Bottega Veneta that I never wear because they are just so very...leopard print." And I marched to my closet with fire in my eyes and hunger for fine Italian footwear in my belly. And I owned my 25th birthday.
I'm not telling this story in an effort to demonstrate just how neurotic I am, as I would really only consider myself averagely to just above averagely neurotic, nor am I trying to convey a theme of materialism to correspond with my perceived sudden adulthood. I'm actually not very materialistic at all; I just like to have nice things, and I've inherited something of a tendency toward packrattiness from my mother, which occasionally results in me being unable to stop myself from accumulating the nice things at an alarming clip. I'm telling this story because - fuck, I totally forgot why I'm telling this story. I'm obviously suffering from age-related memory loss. And have been since I was about 12. That or ADHD. Anyway, my point is that I'm 25 now and I'm okay with it. Heck, I'm more than okay with it: I'm psyched. This is my world, you all just live in it.
All that said, not all soon-to-be-25-year-olds will be so pleased with their newly acquired age, so you should avoid making the toast my friend Jess made at my birthday dinner: "Here's to 25 more!" Um, yeah, Jess. Here's to dying at 50. Now, you'll have to excuse me while I go contemplate potential midlife crises.
In the grand tradition of my last, oh, four birthdays, I spent the weeks leading up to my big day appeasing myself with unnecessary but oh so consolatory material trappings like fancy new purses (and matching wallets, and matching passport cases...don't look so disapproving, Hayden Harnett was practically having a yard sale!) and a vintage YSL Rive Gauche day dress. Because it's all downhill after 21 right? I was very, very concerned that I was going to wake up on the 25th anniversary of my birth and suddenly feel psychologically ill-equipped to get out of bed, not in the least because on my 24th birthday I woke up feeling psychologically ill-equipped to get out of bed, and probably would have for numero 23 as well had I not been hung over enough to forget the dubious occasion. I went to bed at 11:30 pm on my birthday's eve, thinking that maybe if I were asleep for the 19th-to-20th changeover I would be able to avoid or at least assuage what would surely be a seismic shift from young adulthood to actual adulthood. And I woke up with my alarm at 7:15am, sunlight streaming into my bedroom, and thought, "Hell yes - I'm a woman now!"
I know. I did not expect that either. I expected to suffer a panic attack the moment I rolled out of bed, or at the very least melt down when I looked in the mirror and spotted three gray hairs and a serious pair of crow's feet. But I did not. I rolled out of bed and thought, "I am a woman now and as such I will kick off my adulthood in a navy blue silk faille dress from Marc Jacobs and the leopard print stilettos from Bottega Veneta that I never wear because they are just so very...leopard print." And I marched to my closet with fire in my eyes and hunger for fine Italian footwear in my belly. And I owned my 25th birthday.
I'm not telling this story in an effort to demonstrate just how neurotic I am, as I would really only consider myself averagely to just above averagely neurotic, nor am I trying to convey a theme of materialism to correspond with my perceived sudden adulthood. I'm actually not very materialistic at all; I just like to have nice things, and I've inherited something of a tendency toward packrattiness from my mother, which occasionally results in me being unable to stop myself from accumulating the nice things at an alarming clip. I'm telling this story because - fuck, I totally forgot why I'm telling this story. I'm obviously suffering from age-related memory loss. And have been since I was about 12. That or ADHD. Anyway, my point is that I'm 25 now and I'm okay with it. Heck, I'm more than okay with it: I'm psyched. This is my world, you all just live in it.
All that said, not all soon-to-be-25-year-olds will be so pleased with their newly acquired age, so you should avoid making the toast my friend Jess made at my birthday dinner: "Here's to 25 more!" Um, yeah, Jess. Here's to dying at 50. Now, you'll have to excuse me while I go contemplate potential midlife crises.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Mon Dieu
A torrid fling, in concept, sounds eminently appealing.
The operative word here is torrid. You cannot have a torrid fling with anyone average. Your paramour must be in some way exotic. Dangerous. Perhaps your lover is foreign, or perhaps he has recently been arrested on and cleared of felony charges. Either way. You also cannot have a torrid affair with anyone with a common name. Only Antonios and Jean-Lucs need apply. "Jeff" does not sound in any way torrid when screamed in the heat of passion. Sad but true.
So: an brief but intense physical connection with someone charismatic and indescribably sexy but not guaranteed not to run off with your wallet once you're done? Yes please!
In theory.
Trouble is, I'm just not very good at torrid flings. Let me explain...
The corners of his eyes crinkled deeply, earnestly, as if in his whole entire life he had never stopped smiling for more than ten minutes. He might as well have shot an arrow through my heart. Funny how something that drives me to distraction in myself drives me to lust in the opposite sex. He chatted animatedly with my boss, gesticulating wildly. Was that a French accent I heard, so thick and warm I could wrap myself in it like a blanket? So it seemed. I watched from the sidelines, retrieving giveaways and making myself useful when cued, never taking my eyes off this man. Have you ever been stricken with the feeling that you just needed to know someone, no matter what it took? Bingo.
Once this man had gone, my boss turned to me and commented on how the only thing that drew him in was my high heels, my form-fitting jersey dress, and my copious eyelash batting. Good thing though - turns out he was an important IT analyst. For the remainder of the afternoon, I joked about trying to lure the dreamy French analyst back to the booth, in that way we so frequently use that is only about 25% joking and 75% serious.
Finally, my exasperated boss whipped out a business card and implored me to call him already.
I don't call. I hardly ever even pick up my phone. But assuming he would have a Blackberry, after several margaritas (it was Cinco de Mayo) and a lot of cajoling, I sent him a charming, self-deprecating email, not expecting a response.
But he responded. And the next thing I knew, I was sitting next to him in a stadium, listening to Eric Clapton play Layla to an intimate crown of 14,000, and then we were at the worst "Irish" bar ever in the history of the universe in an Orlando strip mall getting to know one another.
When I say that I'm not very good at torrid flings, I mean that I find no particular compulsion to get naked with people I barely know. And I don't quite understand people who do. In theory, I was in it to win it. In practice, not so much.
Even so, I came shockingly close to forgetting about work on Friday and instead running away to Miami for a long weekend with a devastatingly handsome, charming, successful Frenchman. The offer was on the table. It fell through for logistical reasons, but that doesn't mean I wasn't seriously considering it...
Still. New York is not far, and well respected IT analysts frequently travel to Boston.
So if, next Thursday, you ask my opinion as to the customer service at the Taj, I might have an answer for you.
I may be a tramp, but I could be trampier.
(Also, a public service announcement to all gold diggers: go to a trade show. Vice presidents on up are like proverbial fish in barrels. Just a tip.)
The operative word here is torrid. You cannot have a torrid fling with anyone average. Your paramour must be in some way exotic. Dangerous. Perhaps your lover is foreign, or perhaps he has recently been arrested on and cleared of felony charges. Either way. You also cannot have a torrid affair with anyone with a common name. Only Antonios and Jean-Lucs need apply. "Jeff" does not sound in any way torrid when screamed in the heat of passion. Sad but true.
So: an brief but intense physical connection with someone charismatic and indescribably sexy but not guaranteed not to run off with your wallet once you're done? Yes please!
In theory.
Trouble is, I'm just not very good at torrid flings. Let me explain...
The corners of his eyes crinkled deeply, earnestly, as if in his whole entire life he had never stopped smiling for more than ten minutes. He might as well have shot an arrow through my heart. Funny how something that drives me to distraction in myself drives me to lust in the opposite sex. He chatted animatedly with my boss, gesticulating wildly. Was that a French accent I heard, so thick and warm I could wrap myself in it like a blanket? So it seemed. I watched from the sidelines, retrieving giveaways and making myself useful when cued, never taking my eyes off this man. Have you ever been stricken with the feeling that you just needed to know someone, no matter what it took? Bingo.
Once this man had gone, my boss turned to me and commented on how the only thing that drew him in was my high heels, my form-fitting jersey dress, and my copious eyelash batting. Good thing though - turns out he was an important IT analyst. For the remainder of the afternoon, I joked about trying to lure the dreamy French analyst back to the booth, in that way we so frequently use that is only about 25% joking and 75% serious.
Finally, my exasperated boss whipped out a business card and implored me to call him already.
I don't call. I hardly ever even pick up my phone. But assuming he would have a Blackberry, after several margaritas (it was Cinco de Mayo) and a lot of cajoling, I sent him a charming, self-deprecating email, not expecting a response.
But he responded. And the next thing I knew, I was sitting next to him in a stadium, listening to Eric Clapton play Layla to an intimate crown of 14,000, and then we were at the worst "Irish" bar ever in the history of the universe in an Orlando strip mall getting to know one another.
When I say that I'm not very good at torrid flings, I mean that I find no particular compulsion to get naked with people I barely know. And I don't quite understand people who do. In theory, I was in it to win it. In practice, not so much.
Even so, I came shockingly close to forgetting about work on Friday and instead running away to Miami for a long weekend with a devastatingly handsome, charming, successful Frenchman. The offer was on the table. It fell through for logistical reasons, but that doesn't mean I wasn't seriously considering it...
Still. New York is not far, and well respected IT analysts frequently travel to Boston.
So if, next Thursday, you ask my opinion as to the customer service at the Taj, I might have an answer for you.
I may be a tramp, but I could be trampier.
(Also, a public service announcement to all gold diggers: go to a trade show. Vice presidents on up are like proverbial fish in barrels. Just a tip.)
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Welcome to Orlando
I am presently ensconced in the International Plaza Resort and Spa in sunny Orlando, Florida. I make this statement loosely given that technically speaking, it is night and neither warm nor sunny. It is, rather, cool and moony. Furthermore, and perchance more unexpectedly, the International Plaza Resort and Spa has proven to be neither resort nor spa but indeed motel. And if Ludacris has taught us anything...you can't even take a ho to a motel. You've got to take a ho to a HO-tel.
My first story guest room opens directly onto a parking lot, which is chiefly occupied by construction trailers for the renovation of one of the buildings. I am easily accessible to rapists and salamanders alike (and incidentally, I'm not entirely sure which would cause me a greater stress reaction). The air conditioner won't turn off when I turn the switch to "OFF," and the room is literally so cold otherwise that I may be the only person in the history of May in Orlando to actually have the heat running. The bath products are of dubious origin, the channel lineup is sorely lacking (I am currently resigned to watching Coyote Ugly, which is on television so frequently these days that they may as well rename it That '70s Show - and while we're on the subject, may I just say that if that movie is indeed based on the life and times of the author of Eat Pray Love, there must have been some serious cinematic license where plotline is concerned), and despite an exhaustive search I have not been able to turn up a room service menu or any sort of "Resort" informational guide.
The common areas, I will concede, are lovely. The place is meant to evoke a Balinese villa. And while my boss scoffed, "I have been to Bali, and this is not Bali," they could have fooled me. Apart from the dance competition competitors and proud supporters crowding the lobby this afternoon - they could have fooled me into thinking I wandered onto the set of Little Miss Sunshine II. There are three pools, all with waterfalls and one with a poolside bar. I may have had to explicitly instruct the bartender on how to make an on-the-rocks margarita that didn't blow ("Just tequila, lime, and Triple Sec?" he asked, flummoxed that anyone could possibly be averse to a quart of sour mix per ounce of hard stuff), but when supervised he made an excellent drink. Then there is the on-site mini golf course. My father, not entirely inaccurately, claims that if one were to look in the dictionary under "Mini Golf," one would find a picture of yours truly and the admonishment "DO NOT play with this girl." So I figure that if my boss should annoy me more than usual, I could broach the topic of mini golf as a team building exercise and then let revenge take its natural course.
Tonight, left to my own devices for dinner, I opted for the chain restaurant I had never heard of before: Steak & Ale. The place was empty when I walked in, and as the hostess led me through the Suisse chalet-lite interior to my table, which was accompanied by a pair of leather-seated, velveteen-backed bastardized Louis XIV chairs, I assumed I had missed the 5:00 rush. But soon, patrons began to trickle in and I had the opportunity to play a rousing game of Tourist, Migratory Old Person, Immigrant, or Hick Local. Harder than it counds, believe me.
Steak & Ale specialized in steak but evidently not in ale, as at no point over the course of my meal was I offered an ale menu (nor beer, nor porter, stout, nor even mead), nor did my waiter mention any of the above as a beverage option. Instead, I was educated as to the wine list on the back of the menu, which featured an assortment of fine wines with a per-glass cost of below seven dollars. Apparently they were offering samples of a red wine, and though nobody offered me one, I was entertained by my concerned neighbors ascertaining that the sample was in fact free before they took sips, lest they be held financially accountable for a one ounce pour of Robert Mondavi.
I ordered an 8-ounce prime rib, which featured a baked potato on the side. All of their entrees also came with their all-you-can-eat salad bar, which was an interesting experience. There were a lot of items that one would reasonably expect to see on any salad bar...and then a number of completely incongruous ones. For instance, I have a feeling that more than one individual in line with me was unfamiliar with the chickpea. And there were more dressings available than vegetables, which was a moot point because everyone knows that when availing oneself of a salad bar at a slightly sketchy chain restaurant, ranch is the obvious choice. I made myself a salad which, were I a contestant on Top Chef, I would have entitled "Salade Composee with a duo of smoked pork belly," but which was in point of fact a pile of veggies blanketed in ranch dressing and liberally dusted with not one but two varieties of bacon bit. It was a delight. Sadly, my prime rib was overdone, and while baked potatoes are delicious, I consider them primarily a vehicle to eat several tablespoons of butter.
Post dinner, I decided to stop at the discount liquor store across from my hotel, and was just drunk enough to be seduced into thinking that $9.99 Malibu coconut rum would be phenomenal on the rocks. Then on the way home I became sober. Oops. Thankfully, Malibu coconut rum actually is rather tasty on the rocks, and even if it weren't, it's making a decent sleep aid. That and the lack of televisual programming.
Anyway. That's about it for me as I've been up since 5am and have a busy day tomorrow. Until the next time...
My first story guest room opens directly onto a parking lot, which is chiefly occupied by construction trailers for the renovation of one of the buildings. I am easily accessible to rapists and salamanders alike (and incidentally, I'm not entirely sure which would cause me a greater stress reaction). The air conditioner won't turn off when I turn the switch to "OFF," and the room is literally so cold otherwise that I may be the only person in the history of May in Orlando to actually have the heat running. The bath products are of dubious origin, the channel lineup is sorely lacking (I am currently resigned to watching Coyote Ugly, which is on television so frequently these days that they may as well rename it That '70s Show - and while we're on the subject, may I just say that if that movie is indeed based on the life and times of the author of Eat Pray Love, there must have been some serious cinematic license where plotline is concerned), and despite an exhaustive search I have not been able to turn up a room service menu or any sort of "Resort" informational guide.
The common areas, I will concede, are lovely. The place is meant to evoke a Balinese villa. And while my boss scoffed, "I have been to Bali, and this is not Bali," they could have fooled me. Apart from the dance competition competitors and proud supporters crowding the lobby this afternoon - they could have fooled me into thinking I wandered onto the set of Little Miss Sunshine II. There are three pools, all with waterfalls and one with a poolside bar. I may have had to explicitly instruct the bartender on how to make an on-the-rocks margarita that didn't blow ("Just tequila, lime, and Triple Sec?" he asked, flummoxed that anyone could possibly be averse to a quart of sour mix per ounce of hard stuff), but when supervised he made an excellent drink. Then there is the on-site mini golf course. My father, not entirely inaccurately, claims that if one were to look in the dictionary under "Mini Golf," one would find a picture of yours truly and the admonishment "DO NOT play with this girl." So I figure that if my boss should annoy me more than usual, I could broach the topic of mini golf as a team building exercise and then let revenge take its natural course.
Tonight, left to my own devices for dinner, I opted for the chain restaurant I had never heard of before: Steak & Ale. The place was empty when I walked in, and as the hostess led me through the Suisse chalet-lite interior to my table, which was accompanied by a pair of leather-seated, velveteen-backed bastardized Louis XIV chairs, I assumed I had missed the 5:00 rush. But soon, patrons began to trickle in and I had the opportunity to play a rousing game of Tourist, Migratory Old Person, Immigrant, or Hick Local. Harder than it counds, believe me.
Steak & Ale specialized in steak but evidently not in ale, as at no point over the course of my meal was I offered an ale menu (nor beer, nor porter, stout, nor even mead), nor did my waiter mention any of the above as a beverage option. Instead, I was educated as to the wine list on the back of the menu, which featured an assortment of fine wines with a per-glass cost of below seven dollars. Apparently they were offering samples of a red wine, and though nobody offered me one, I was entertained by my concerned neighbors ascertaining that the sample was in fact free before they took sips, lest they be held financially accountable for a one ounce pour of Robert Mondavi.
I ordered an 8-ounce prime rib, which featured a baked potato on the side. All of their entrees also came with their all-you-can-eat salad bar, which was an interesting experience. There were a lot of items that one would reasonably expect to see on any salad bar...and then a number of completely incongruous ones. For instance, I have a feeling that more than one individual in line with me was unfamiliar with the chickpea. And there were more dressings available than vegetables, which was a moot point because everyone knows that when availing oneself of a salad bar at a slightly sketchy chain restaurant, ranch is the obvious choice. I made myself a salad which, were I a contestant on Top Chef, I would have entitled "Salade Composee with a duo of smoked pork belly," but which was in point of fact a pile of veggies blanketed in ranch dressing and liberally dusted with not one but two varieties of bacon bit. It was a delight. Sadly, my prime rib was overdone, and while baked potatoes are delicious, I consider them primarily a vehicle to eat several tablespoons of butter.
Post dinner, I decided to stop at the discount liquor store across from my hotel, and was just drunk enough to be seduced into thinking that $9.99 Malibu coconut rum would be phenomenal on the rocks. Then on the way home I became sober. Oops. Thankfully, Malibu coconut rum actually is rather tasty on the rocks, and even if it weren't, it's making a decent sleep aid. That and the lack of televisual programming.
Anyway. That's about it for me as I've been up since 5am and have a busy day tomorrow. Until the next time...
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Fat rats, fat people?
Let's talk about something that drives me insane.
I just read a blog posting that referenced a recent scientific study on the effects of saccharin on weight. Basically, some medical researchers took a bunch of rats and fed some of them yogurt that had been sweetened with sugar and some of them yogurt that had been sweetened with saccharin. The rats eating the sugar-yogurt apparently learned that a sugary taste is associated with caloric intake, and when presented with other sweet foods would moderate their intake according. The rats that ate the saccharin-yogurt, on the other hand, never developed this knowledge and would eat sweet food with abandon, not expecting them to be caloric.
Now, ever so logically, they are applying this to humans.
Rats are rodents. I'd imagine that they aren't particularly known for their capability for rational thought and decision-making. They are primarily governed by instinct. You and I, on the other hand, should be well aware that sweet foods do in fact contain calories irrelevant of our level of consumption of artificial sweeteners. If this wasn't a forgone conclusion, assuming that we exhibit some common sense, there is also the fact that virtually everything we eat features a nutrition label. So don't go trying to tell me that the fact that I average 36 ounces of Fresca per day is resulting in a propensity to underestimate the caloric content of those tasty new Dark Chocolate Peanut M&Ms. I'm not saying I never overdo it, but when I do I am very conscious of it.
Personally, my belief is that if these studies have any relevant correlation in people, it is only in very, very stupid people.
You know, the ones who are only morbidly obese because they have glandular problems or are genetically predisposed.
Meanwhile, I'll keep drinking my Coke Zero and limiting my intake of fattening, high-calorie foods and see if that doesn't keep me in my skinny jeans...
I just read a blog posting that referenced a recent scientific study on the effects of saccharin on weight. Basically, some medical researchers took a bunch of rats and fed some of them yogurt that had been sweetened with sugar and some of them yogurt that had been sweetened with saccharin. The rats eating the sugar-yogurt apparently learned that a sugary taste is associated with caloric intake, and when presented with other sweet foods would moderate their intake according. The rats that ate the saccharin-yogurt, on the other hand, never developed this knowledge and would eat sweet food with abandon, not expecting them to be caloric.
Now, ever so logically, they are applying this to humans.
Rats are rodents. I'd imagine that they aren't particularly known for their capability for rational thought and decision-making. They are primarily governed by instinct. You and I, on the other hand, should be well aware that sweet foods do in fact contain calories irrelevant of our level of consumption of artificial sweeteners. If this wasn't a forgone conclusion, assuming that we exhibit some common sense, there is also the fact that virtually everything we eat features a nutrition label. So don't go trying to tell me that the fact that I average 36 ounces of Fresca per day is resulting in a propensity to underestimate the caloric content of those tasty new Dark Chocolate Peanut M&Ms. I'm not saying I never overdo it, but when I do I am very conscious of it.
Personally, my belief is that if these studies have any relevant correlation in people, it is only in very, very stupid people.
You know, the ones who are only morbidly obese because they have glandular problems or are genetically predisposed.
Meanwhile, I'll keep drinking my Coke Zero and limiting my intake of fattening, high-calorie foods and see if that doesn't keep me in my skinny jeans...
Friday, April 18, 2008
Mis-Matched
It's difficult to meet quality men in Boston.
I will concede that I am picky. Thing is, I'm not a person who feels any specific compulsion to be in a relationship. I can take them or leave them. Sure, it's nice to have the undivided adoration of someone special...but it's also sort of nice to have entire fan clubs, and the sort of personal autonomy that affords you the chance to spend three nights a week in bed with a supply of good dark chocolate and cheap red wine, a stack of fashion magazines, and no need to "check in" with anyone. A few years ago, my roommate's little sister's friend, who was visiting for the weekend, said of me: "I want to be just like Renee when I'm in college - with my bra hanging out of my shirt, my thong hanging out of my jeans, and boys calling me on the phone all the time." Which paints me as a much bigger tramp than I actually was, but still. I rather enjoy being Miss Popularity, and it takes a pretty awesome guy to turn me monogamous.
(The girl who said that, incidentally, is now a lesbian. Interpret that as you will.)
Now that I'm in my mid-20s, though - isn't that scary, mid-20s?...that's practically 30 - I'm beginning to feel that I should at least make an active attempt at meeting good guys. So I joined Match. Because guys, it's okay to look.
I didn't look at other girls' profiles to gauge what sort of information I should put. Instead, I stuck with my time-honored strategy of letting the crazy out right out of the gate in the hope that it would scare off all those who might not be able to hang. Ever wonder what, at age 5, I wanted to be when I grew up? A dog. My kindergarten teacher was concerned. My heritage, you ask? Polish - but the Amazon stock, not the sturdy peasant stock. What am I looking for in a man? NOT someone who is shy or easily offended, that's for damn sure.
Almost immediately, the winks and the messages started to roll in. So many of them, in fact, that I had to develop a vetting system. The stringent criteria for a response included but were not limited to:
*No one under 6 feet. The reasons for this are obvious if you know me in real life, but if you don't: I'm a freaking giant, and a fan of high heels to boot.
*Must be over 25. Except in the case of Zac Efron or Michael Cera...but I doubt they're on Match. A girl can dream. Similarly, must be under 35. And no kids. I will be no one's stepmama.
*Located in the metro Boston area. I won't go to Allston, let alone Andover. Flag-waving indigenous Bostonians/South Shoreans are also to be avoided as I loathe Boston accents.
*Must have a picture. I got this message a couple of days ago: "hi i was reading your personal and wanted to write to say hi, very nice pics of u :) can i send u my pics? i am within your age and distance range." I did not respond, because in my view, if you don't have a picture posted you are automatically sketchy. Then, yesterday, from the same guy: "how are u? since u checked out my personal can i at least send u my pics? i am within your age and distance range :)." No, you cannot send me your pics, because in addition to being inherently suspect, you type like a text-messaging pre-teen girl! Which brings me to:
*Must exhibit communication that demonstrates a cursory command of the English language. You know, featuring the usage of complete sentences. With correct spelling and no egregious misuse of quotation marks. One guy's profile said that he was looking for a "woman" to share his life with. Now, to me, a woman and a "woman" are two very different things, and if it is a "woman" he is looking for, I don't think I qualify. Another guy claimed that many women thought men were a bunch of "fornicators." Are they actual fornicators or just fornicators so to speak? And really, aren't we all fornicators? (I couldn't help but wonder...sorry, that just sounded like a bad Carrie Bradshaw column.)
*Must not send more than one message in a row without having gotten a response from me in between. That's sort of stalkerish, no? Particularly if the second message is a check-the-applicable-box exercise that looks something like this:
"1. "Wow, you're really cool; we should get together
some time for a drink."
2. "I have to say you're really cool, sorry it's taken
me so long to get back, your e-mail got lost in the sea
of jack-asses on here."
3. "Sorry my life's been really hectic. But you are
really cool, so let's get together next week."
4. "I don't think any of this is even funny, and I
have to go now because I have a therapy appointment.
But I do think you're really cool."
*Should not exhibit a sense of douchebag-variety entitlement. For example: "Hi. My cousin is in town for the week and I need to show him a good time. I was thinking that you and one of your friends could meet us out. No expectations just fun with 2 great guys. I was thinking Saturday night. Email me back and let me know." No expectations, you say? Well, in that case...NO!
*Finally, must not exude an aura of desperation. Even too much earnestness is, for me, a turn-off. I'm not invested in this. At all. I couldn't care less if I happen upon the future Mr. Renee. I'm just tired of meeting the same five dudes over and over again. Some people go on and on about what kind of person they are looking for. I'm more interested in people that go on and on about who they are - people whose personalities show through. I know I'm awesome. I need to know that you're awesome too.
These guidelines have helped me shrink the pool down to a manageable number. And while Match offers a "No thanks" button that you can click if you're not interested, I do not use it, because in the majority of cases, the guy in question really should have known better.
If nothing else, this should certainly make for entertaining blogging.
I will concede that I am picky. Thing is, I'm not a person who feels any specific compulsion to be in a relationship. I can take them or leave them. Sure, it's nice to have the undivided adoration of someone special...but it's also sort of nice to have entire fan clubs, and the sort of personal autonomy that affords you the chance to spend three nights a week in bed with a supply of good dark chocolate and cheap red wine, a stack of fashion magazines, and no need to "check in" with anyone. A few years ago, my roommate's little sister's friend, who was visiting for the weekend, said of me: "I want to be just like Renee when I'm in college - with my bra hanging out of my shirt, my thong hanging out of my jeans, and boys calling me on the phone all the time." Which paints me as a much bigger tramp than I actually was, but still. I rather enjoy being Miss Popularity, and it takes a pretty awesome guy to turn me monogamous.
(The girl who said that, incidentally, is now a lesbian. Interpret that as you will.)
Now that I'm in my mid-20s, though - isn't that scary, mid-20s?...that's practically 30 - I'm beginning to feel that I should at least make an active attempt at meeting good guys. So I joined Match. Because guys, it's okay to look.
I didn't look at other girls' profiles to gauge what sort of information I should put. Instead, I stuck with my time-honored strategy of letting the crazy out right out of the gate in the hope that it would scare off all those who might not be able to hang. Ever wonder what, at age 5, I wanted to be when I grew up? A dog. My kindergarten teacher was concerned. My heritage, you ask? Polish - but the Amazon stock, not the sturdy peasant stock. What am I looking for in a man? NOT someone who is shy or easily offended, that's for damn sure.
Almost immediately, the winks and the messages started to roll in. So many of them, in fact, that I had to develop a vetting system. The stringent criteria for a response included but were not limited to:
*No one under 6 feet. The reasons for this are obvious if you know me in real life, but if you don't: I'm a freaking giant, and a fan of high heels to boot.
*Must be over 25. Except in the case of Zac Efron or Michael Cera...but I doubt they're on Match. A girl can dream. Similarly, must be under 35. And no kids. I will be no one's stepmama.
*Located in the metro Boston area. I won't go to Allston, let alone Andover. Flag-waving indigenous Bostonians/South Shoreans are also to be avoided as I loathe Boston accents.
*Must have a picture. I got this message a couple of days ago: "hi i was reading your personal and wanted to write to say hi, very nice pics of u :) can i send u my pics? i am within your age and distance range." I did not respond, because in my view, if you don't have a picture posted you are automatically sketchy. Then, yesterday, from the same guy: "how are u? since u checked out my personal can i at least send u my pics? i am within your age and distance range :)." No, you cannot send me your pics, because in addition to being inherently suspect, you type like a text-messaging pre-teen girl! Which brings me to:
*Must exhibit communication that demonstrates a cursory command of the English language. You know, featuring the usage of complete sentences. With correct spelling and no egregious misuse of quotation marks. One guy's profile said that he was looking for a "woman" to share his life with. Now, to me, a woman and a "woman" are two very different things, and if it is a "woman" he is looking for, I don't think I qualify. Another guy claimed that many women thought men were a bunch of "fornicators." Are they actual fornicators or just fornicators so to speak? And really, aren't we all fornicators? (I couldn't help but wonder...sorry, that just sounded like a bad Carrie Bradshaw column.)
*Must not send more than one message in a row without having gotten a response from me in between. That's sort of stalkerish, no? Particularly if the second message is a check-the-applicable-box exercise that looks something like this:
"1. "Wow, you're really cool; we should get together
some time for a drink."
2. "I have to say you're really cool, sorry it's taken
me so long to get back, your e-mail got lost in the sea
of jack-asses on here."
3. "Sorry my life's been really hectic. But you are
really cool, so let's get together next week."
4. "I don't think any of this is even funny, and I
have to go now because I have a therapy appointment.
But I do think you're really cool."
*Should not exhibit a sense of douchebag-variety entitlement. For example: "Hi. My cousin is in town for the week and I need to show him a good time. I was thinking that you and one of your friends could meet us out. No expectations just fun with 2 great guys. I was thinking Saturday night. Email me back and let me know." No expectations, you say? Well, in that case...NO!
*Finally, must not exude an aura of desperation. Even too much earnestness is, for me, a turn-off. I'm not invested in this. At all. I couldn't care less if I happen upon the future Mr. Renee. I'm just tired of meeting the same five dudes over and over again. Some people go on and on about what kind of person they are looking for. I'm more interested in people that go on and on about who they are - people whose personalities show through. I know I'm awesome. I need to know that you're awesome too.
These guidelines have helped me shrink the pool down to a manageable number. And while Match offers a "No thanks" button that you can click if you're not interested, I do not use it, because in the majority of cases, the guy in question really should have known better.
If nothing else, this should certainly make for entertaining blogging.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Related: I'm famous
Well, look at me.
They put me on the cover of the entire Careers section too, a much better picture than this one, huge, in color.
He's not my boyfriend (anymore), that's not my company's name, and I don't, technically speaking, have an entry level position, but let's not nitpick.
They put me on the cover of the entire Careers section too, a much better picture than this one, huge, in color.
He's not my boyfriend (anymore), that's not my company's name, and I don't, technically speaking, have an entry level position, but let's not nitpick.
It's a walk-off
I have never harbored any particular desire to be a model.
There are an assortment of reasons for this. First, by the time I finally admitted to myself that I could be one, I was too old. Most successful models start working at 14 or 15. I am nearing the tragic quarter century mark. I suppose I could shave off a few years, as is standard practice in the industry, but really: if I told you I was 20, would you believe me? Probably not.
Then, there is the fact that I am too fat. By normal people standards, of course, I am thin, even skinny - in fact, when I get too gung-ho on the carb-cutting, occasionally even bony. But normal people standards and modeling industry standards are worlds apart, and though I would be (and, okay, once in a while am) medically underweight at 132 pounds, as a model I would be expected to be at least 15 pounds thinner than that. I suppose there was a point in time when I could have been a plus-size model - you know, back when I was a size 8 - but who wants to be a plus-size model?
Finally, I live in Boston. There is NO modeling industry in Boston. There are a handful of agencies here that would like people to think otherwise, but no. Not the case. There may be a modeling presence, but I would argue that it can't be considered an industry if you can't make a living at it, and I'd be surprised if it is possible to make a living off once-a-week fashion shows at the Roxy and shilling Budweiser in a silver lame catsuit at the Foggy Goggle. Most of the local publications don't even use local girls - they hire and shoot from New York.
Of course, there's always America's Next Top Model - a televisual haven for the too old, too fat, too geographically remote wannabe model. And while I appreciate all the Facebook wall posts urging me to try out and the coworkers who tore the ads out of the newspaper and brought them to my desk, well...I'm sorry. There's a reason why no contestant has ever gone on to have a legitimate career in the fashion industry. See: too old, too fat, too geographically remote...
So, while my fantasy alter-ego might weigh 117 pounds and I might occasionally daydream about prancing down catwalks in Paris and being Marc Jacobs's muse, I've never bothered to entertain the notion that I could actually have a modeling career.
Then I got a modeling job.
'Got' is perhaps a poor choice of words, because that would imply that I in some way pursued it, when in reality it sort of fell into my lap. A guy came up to me at a cocktail party and asked me if I would consider modeling in a fashion show he was producing. Dubious, I hedged, and finally gave him my card and told him I'd think about it if he sent me all the pertinent information. Because I was sort of expecting it to be like, a "fashion show" involving skimpy lingerie and somebody's basement.
Except it turns out it's an actual, real-life fashion show. At Felt. Put on by a start-up fashion magazine. With an actual clothing company sponsoring (G-Star), actual salons providing hair and makeup (Emerge and G2O), and some dude from MTV's The Real World hosting. With actual models. Okay, Boston models, but still. And moi.
I wasn't too worried about it until this weekend, when it occurred to me that, while the show was a mere four weeks away, I had spent the latter half of February and all of March stuffing my face. While I won't give the gory details, let's just say that I weighed in at a good 15 pounds more than I'd like to weigh (granted, my ideal weight is about seven pounds less than I actually normally weigh, but still). And though I am still skinny by normal people standards, I am in no shape to be on the catwalk.
And then yesterday I had to give them my measurements. Shudder.
So I did what any normal girl would do: I lied. No, technically speaking, I did not lie. I was estimating anyways - it isn't like I have a tape measure at my desk - and I just estimated a little low. No big deal. Except, of course, for the fact that now G-Star is going to send over garments in a size that is not a size I can currently fit into. Awesome.
While bulimia may be, according to Derek Zoolander and Hansel, a great way to lose a few pounds before a big show, it is also a dangerous eating disorder. So, problem solver that I am, I have put myself on the South Beath Diet. Which in the grand scheme of weight loss strategies is really more of a lifestyle than a diet - I mean, it's not like I'm eating exclusively cabbage and grapefruit or anything. But, fair warning: if you talk to me over the next couple of weeks and I seem unusually bitchy, I'm sorry, it's just that I've been living off foliage and nonfat dairy since March 31st. You understand.
Oh, and here's the real kicker: I joined a gym. I know that one of my New Year's resolutions was specifically to not join a gym, but you can't keep them all, and besides, what if the put me in a skirt? I already have pasty white legs thanks to nature's totally shafting me in the melanin department; the last thing I need is for them to be chunky as well. Besides, even if it weren't for the fashion show, now that I'm almost 25 I can't reasonably expect to pull off my beloved short shorts without logging a few hours a week on the treadmill. Just because gravity will eventually win out doesn't mean I can't go down swinging.
So for those of you who are in the Boston area, mark April 26th off on your calendars. More information will be forthcoming once I have it. Moral support isn't necessary - if you'd prefer to come and root for me to fall flat on my face a la Carrie Bradshaw in the charity fashion show, that's totally fine with me. I know that's what I'd be doing if the tables were turned.
There are an assortment of reasons for this. First, by the time I finally admitted to myself that I could be one, I was too old. Most successful models start working at 14 or 15. I am nearing the tragic quarter century mark. I suppose I could shave off a few years, as is standard practice in the industry, but really: if I told you I was 20, would you believe me? Probably not.
Then, there is the fact that I am too fat. By normal people standards, of course, I am thin, even skinny - in fact, when I get too gung-ho on the carb-cutting, occasionally even bony. But normal people standards and modeling industry standards are worlds apart, and though I would be (and, okay, once in a while am) medically underweight at 132 pounds, as a model I would be expected to be at least 15 pounds thinner than that. I suppose there was a point in time when I could have been a plus-size model - you know, back when I was a size 8 - but who wants to be a plus-size model?
Finally, I live in Boston. There is NO modeling industry in Boston. There are a handful of agencies here that would like people to think otherwise, but no. Not the case. There may be a modeling presence, but I would argue that it can't be considered an industry if you can't make a living at it, and I'd be surprised if it is possible to make a living off once-a-week fashion shows at the Roxy and shilling Budweiser in a silver lame catsuit at the Foggy Goggle. Most of the local publications don't even use local girls - they hire and shoot from New York.
Of course, there's always America's Next Top Model - a televisual haven for the too old, too fat, too geographically remote wannabe model. And while I appreciate all the Facebook wall posts urging me to try out and the coworkers who tore the ads out of the newspaper and brought them to my desk, well...I'm sorry. There's a reason why no contestant has ever gone on to have a legitimate career in the fashion industry. See: too old, too fat, too geographically remote...
So, while my fantasy alter-ego might weigh 117 pounds and I might occasionally daydream about prancing down catwalks in Paris and being Marc Jacobs's muse, I've never bothered to entertain the notion that I could actually have a modeling career.
Then I got a modeling job.
'Got' is perhaps a poor choice of words, because that would imply that I in some way pursued it, when in reality it sort of fell into my lap. A guy came up to me at a cocktail party and asked me if I would consider modeling in a fashion show he was producing. Dubious, I hedged, and finally gave him my card and told him I'd think about it if he sent me all the pertinent information. Because I was sort of expecting it to be like, a "fashion show" involving skimpy lingerie and somebody's basement.
Except it turns out it's an actual, real-life fashion show. At Felt. Put on by a start-up fashion magazine. With an actual clothing company sponsoring (G-Star), actual salons providing hair and makeup (Emerge and G2O), and some dude from MTV's The Real World hosting. With actual models. Okay, Boston models, but still. And moi.
I wasn't too worried about it until this weekend, when it occurred to me that, while the show was a mere four weeks away, I had spent the latter half of February and all of March stuffing my face. While I won't give the gory details, let's just say that I weighed in at a good 15 pounds more than I'd like to weigh (granted, my ideal weight is about seven pounds less than I actually normally weigh, but still). And though I am still skinny by normal people standards, I am in no shape to be on the catwalk.
And then yesterday I had to give them my measurements. Shudder.
So I did what any normal girl would do: I lied. No, technically speaking, I did not lie. I was estimating anyways - it isn't like I have a tape measure at my desk - and I just estimated a little low. No big deal. Except, of course, for the fact that now G-Star is going to send over garments in a size that is not a size I can currently fit into. Awesome.
While bulimia may be, according to Derek Zoolander and Hansel, a great way to lose a few pounds before a big show, it is also a dangerous eating disorder. So, problem solver that I am, I have put myself on the South Beath Diet. Which in the grand scheme of weight loss strategies is really more of a lifestyle than a diet - I mean, it's not like I'm eating exclusively cabbage and grapefruit or anything. But, fair warning: if you talk to me over the next couple of weeks and I seem unusually bitchy, I'm sorry, it's just that I've been living off foliage and nonfat dairy since March 31st. You understand.
Oh, and here's the real kicker: I joined a gym. I know that one of my New Year's resolutions was specifically to not join a gym, but you can't keep them all, and besides, what if the put me in a skirt? I already have pasty white legs thanks to nature's totally shafting me in the melanin department; the last thing I need is for them to be chunky as well. Besides, even if it weren't for the fashion show, now that I'm almost 25 I can't reasonably expect to pull off my beloved short shorts without logging a few hours a week on the treadmill. Just because gravity will eventually win out doesn't mean I can't go down swinging.
So for those of you who are in the Boston area, mark April 26th off on your calendars. More information will be forthcoming once I have it. Moral support isn't necessary - if you'd prefer to come and root for me to fall flat on my face a la Carrie Bradshaw in the charity fashion show, that's totally fine with me. I know that's what I'd be doing if the tables were turned.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Countdown to summer
This little taste of spring we've been having over the past couple of days in Boston has got me thinking...I seriously cannot wait for summer.
Last summer was fine. My building had a pool - a poorly kept pool that was situated just so behind the high-rise that it got the leasy amount of sun possible, but a pool nonetheless. My apartment had a balcony - but alas, off my bedroom, with no place at all to entertain guests. Oh, and it was inhabited by a family of baby birds in and old flowerpot that totally freaked me out every time I sat out there. So the old place never really fulfilled its potential.
The new place, however, has a roof deck. A balcony too, but. A roof deck! I am absolutely psyched to spend as much time up there as possible, lounging around in a bikini with a good book, drinking pitcher upon pitcher of sangria. That kind of sounds like the life.
Now speaking of bikinis...I guess that would make it the time to start looking into a gym membership. Ick.
Last summer was fine. My building had a pool - a poorly kept pool that was situated just so behind the high-rise that it got the leasy amount of sun possible, but a pool nonetheless. My apartment had a balcony - but alas, off my bedroom, with no place at all to entertain guests. Oh, and it was inhabited by a family of baby birds in and old flowerpot that totally freaked me out every time I sat out there. So the old place never really fulfilled its potential.
The new place, however, has a roof deck. A balcony too, but. A roof deck! I am absolutely psyched to spend as much time up there as possible, lounging around in a bikini with a good book, drinking pitcher upon pitcher of sangria. That kind of sounds like the life.
Now speaking of bikinis...I guess that would make it the time to start looking into a gym membership. Ick.
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