December 30, 2011

Seent it #4: Asshole club...

"Seent it" is a southern phrase meaning "what I saw".  Why the vast majority of Eastern North Carolinians feel the need to add consonants onto the ends of words, I will never know, but I blame country slang for my life-long struggle with spelling.  Since moving to New York, I'vza seent a many crazeh thangs.  These stories make up the "Seent It" series.

It's no surprise that New Yorkers have some serious 'tudes.  I almost cried the first time someone almost pushed me down trying to get a seat on the subway.  And when people have something to say, they say it.  I've come to appreciate this.  Not so much the pushing and shoving, but my communication skills have vastly improved in the past six months.  I'm finally free of all the polite bullshit that is required in the South, where "Bless your heart" roughly translates to "I hope you choke on cactus dildo."  That being said, I'm still a very nice person.  I still hold doors, say "Thanks!", and give big smiles all around.  I've also kicked duschebags in the stomach.

Even though I'm beginning to ease into the New York State of Mind (yes, it's a proper noun), I still can't get over some of these people.  And by these people, I mean those people.  You know who I'm talking about.  They are all over the world.  They are every color.  They are in every social class.  They are every gender and every sexuality.  Remember that rich white guy who stepped on another person in the street?  Yeah, he's one of those people.  They are assholes.  They are hard to ignore because they know they are assholes and they want you to know they are assholes.  A mere hair flip in their general direction is not nearly enough to deal with them.  They are the people who genuinely need a good slap in the face and a huge reality check - mostly in the form of another good slap in the face.

Case in point:  I was in line at Taco Bell (HEY!  Don't start.  I love the Taco Bell.  Two massive bean burritos (vegan!) for three dollars?  HELLO!  It's also across the street from work.) and two hood bitches got in line behind me.  I'm allowed to say that because my friends who are hood bitches call themselves and other hood bitches "hood bitches," therefore, it is an accurate and socially acceptable stereotype (by nature a contradiction) to describe (usually) young, (usually) black, (usually) women from a (most-likely) poor part of town.  Clearly the majority of young black women from not-so-suave areas of the city aren't necessarily hood bitches, and it certainly isn't fair to judge people.  Unless they're assholes.

In the two minutes and forty-five seconds it took for a middle-aged man to prepare my burritos, these young ladies ordered their food, argued with each other over forms of payment (paper vs. coins), started arguing with one of the cooks who had nothing to do with anything at the register, and one of them promptly threw herself onto the counter.  She pushed all of the cups, display signs, hot sauce packets and a PIN code machine onto the floor.  She even managed to dislodge one of the firmly mounted (as in, screwed into the ceramic counter) registers.  Neither of them stopped screaming while all of this was happening, and the one not rolling around like my family's dog wallowing in her on poo actually had a nice vibrato, and would be a solid addition to the alto section of any regional community choir.

Obviously the entire restaurant stopped.  Everyone watched in bewilderment (and amusement) at these assholes making a huge deal over nothing.  And by nothing I mean nothing.  No one could figure out what the issue was, or if there was an issue at all.  Not even the cook they were arguing with knew what was going on.  They were just those people.  After only about a thirty-second fit, they trotted, trotted, out the door.  Everyone observing simply went back to their own conversations, perhaps with a lingering grin.  I was the only one obviously obsessed with what had just taken place.  I even went back to work screaming, "OH MY GOD YA'LL!  THERE'S SOME SHIT GOIN' DOWN AT THE TACO BELL!"

My point is that, even though these people are all over the world, even in small-town North Carolina,  they are somehow amplified in NYC.  They are assholes with a New York 'tude that just marinates in their asshole brains and eventually explodes out of their asshole assholes (i.e. faces).

And like I said.  I can't get over it.


December 27, 2011

I won't be home for Christmas...

I haven't lived with my parents since I was sixteen.  I've always been independent and never really thought much about the dynamic of being with family, simply because they were always close by - that is, even when I lived two hours away, I was only two hours away.  Why did I ever think it was a hassle to drive 120 minutes down a highway (well, more like eighty, since driving in heels somehow always makes you drive faster), blasting Beth Ditto and watching my dog pretend to fly with her head out the window?  Why did I ever think I would have to take a long weekend just to visit my best friend, who was only two or three episodes of SATC and a Pepsi slushy pit stop away?

It's no secret that my move to the big city hasn't gone exactly like I planned it.  I thought I would be settled in by now, starting to save up money, having regular dinners with friends and writing every night with Daphne at the foot of my bed, keeping my feet nice and warm.  But instead I almost feel like a guest in my apartment, I'm just beginning to receive a regular income (yet still not enough to save), and Daphne's holiday in the country has been extended.  I surely thought that by now I would be able to afford a plane ticket home for the holidays, or that I would at least get a plane ticket as a present.  And I almost did, but I couldn't afford to miss all the holiday hours at work.

So, last week it finally hit me that this year would be my first Christmas away from my family.  I wouldn't be able to share all the homemade wine my Dad made after the grape harvest.  I wouldn't be able to roll my eyes when my Baptist aunt scolds me for having Marilyn Manson on my iPod.  I wouldn't be able to explain to everyone that cooking collards in bacon grease and back fat makes them non-vegetarian.  I wouldn't be able to sing "Oh Holy Night" with my grandmother after dinner while everyone listens.  I wouldn't be able to pass out all the presents.  I wouldn't be able to steal everyone's metallic bows and put them on my head.  I wouldn't be able to play the annual guess-how-many-shotgun-shells-are-in-the-flower-pot game.  I simply wouldn't be there.

As the 25th quickly approached, I busied myself with working as many hours as I could, which isn't that hard when you work in retail during the holidays.  At some point I started thinking about what I would actually do that weekend.  Would I go see the big tree at Rockefeller Plaza and watch How the Grinch Stole Christmas?  Just sit in my room afterwards and sleep in on Christmas day?  Eat some Ramen and black beans since that's all I have on my designated shelf in the kitchen?

Well, I went to see the tree, and it wasn't that exciting:

Luckily, some last-minute plans fell into place.  It turns out three of my co-workers were also having mini panic attacks about being alone on Christmas, even though none of us are religious.  Somehow, it's just sad.  We decided to cure our holiday blues with an impromptu Christmas Eve get-together in Queens.  One person provided her house with empty beds to crash in, another brought cookies, another brought Love Actually, and I brought whipped cream-flavored vodka and cookie dough ice cream (no birthday cake flavor at the market, the bastards).  It turned out to be a fantastic night, with loads of laughs and drunken secret-telling, and we stayed up until five in the morning watching L.A.  I woke up a few hours later to my host opening presents with her mom and brother via Skype, her roommate's (who wasn't there) family bursting through the front door with homemade waffle mix.

That evening I had dinner with some friends I hadn't seen in a while - and who knew cheap noodle places would be open on Christmas day?  I guess that's NYC for you.  After stuffing my face (again) with curry and rice, my brother called and put me on speaker phone.  The entire family was there, yelling 'HEYYYY!!!  WE LOVE AND MISS YOU!!!!! MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!' in their best Southern accents.  My grandma was drunk on her famous wine, and kept slurring her words when she tried to tell me about all the food she had been cooking for the last two days.  It was perfect.  I almost cried.  Then my phone died.

I ended the night with a milkshake and a movie, my radiator on full blast at the foot of my bed.

And I didn't feel alone.


December 15, 2011

(Winter) Shoe Porn, Pt. 2

Just like last time.  Only better.

The only reason I have for most of these beauties being super high designer labels is that I spend way too many hours browsing the Neiman Marcus, Net-A-Porter, and Barney's websites.  And Solestruck.  Always Solestruck.  Needless to say I will never have any of these.

A boy can dream.

Alexander McQueen
Christian Louboutin 
Ego and Greed
Alexander McQueen
Brian Atwood
Dolce Vita

December 13, 2011

The Scholar...

As many of you know, I didn't finish college.  I took classes for four years, changed my major seven times, received research and writing grants, transferred universities, and eventually figured out that spending two more years working towards something that I simply liked as opposed to died for would just be tragic.  There was also a lot of family troubles going on, which I won't get into, because my mother will shoot me through the telephone.

Fast forward a year and a half and I still feel the same way about school.  I will never go back full-time - EVER.  BUT, I am going to finish.  Perhaps sooner than later.  Perhaps very soon.  Perhaps as soon as March.

Why?  Why am I going to add to my huge pile of student loans (who keep calling me, by the way - WHO GAVE THE STUDENT LOANS MY PHONE NUMBER?  And how do I file a harassment suit against them?)?  Here are a few reasons I'm going back:

  • Degrees actually "matter".  I've put "matter" in quotation marks because the functionality of a degree in the workplace is relative.  This is how it goes: Okay, so you're a small publication house that needs a temp to perm administrative assistant for a large data entry project, covering phones, and calendar management.  Awesome!  I was an office assistant at my university and worked at a data company part-time!  I've done it all!  Hire me!  Oh, no, I didn't finish college, but I have a good work ethic and relevant experience - I'm a very good fit for this job.  So you're going to hire a recent grad with absolutely no work experience to play with Excel and answer phones just because they have a degree?  Amazeballs!  The moral of this story is that the degree itself doesn't matter at all, the having of the degree is what matters.
  • I can't bring myself not to.  I love learning.  I just do.  And while you don't need to go to college to learn (in fact, I honestly believe you can learn a lot more by traveling and learning things first hand), there are a lot of opportunities in certain fields (such as writing, which I'm shooting for) that are more easily or exclusively accessed through universities or having a degree.
  • I refuse to have all that debt with nothing to show for it, god dammit.
Do I think getting a degree in journalism and creative writing will make be a better or more valid writer?  Besides a better understanding of grammar, no.  Do I think I might be able to land an freakin' sweet internship at an amazing magazine that will lead to a prosperous career as the next Cathy Horyn?  It fucking better.

December 6, 2011


I hate being sick.  It makes my quarter-life-crisis, fuck-the-world attitude pretty pointless, because I don't even have enough energy to crawl out of bed and glare menacingly at people on the subway.  In spite of this, I somehow made it to work a few days this week, where I gleefully hacked pints of mucus into peoples' pristine facial treatments.**

But in all seriousness, I get very depressed when I'm ill.  I lay in my bed surrounded by clouds of tissues and only get up to pee or fetch my eye mask out of the freezer (it helps with swelling, which you should try, I mean, look at those bags).

My pessimism is multiplied ten-fold by my recent obsession with Breaking Bad, because I imagine myself coughing up blood instead of snot, and having to call my family in tears because I have stage four lung cancer and that I don't want treatment because I don't want to live my last year in this world on a hospital bed (if you aren't following this story line, then stop everything you're doing and go watch Breaking Bad on Netflix).  And then I get even more upset because I have/had family members who are battling/battled cancer and I just feel like a dumb fuck because really, I have some gunk in my throat and a headache - I'm not dying.

After an hour-long cryfest like that, the only things that can bring me up are some smart-ass e-cards! changed my life a few years ago.  They are often crude, usually offensive, and most-often politically incorrect.  They're kinda the best thing ever, apart from vodcake and stilettos.  And they are perfect for Facebook walls.

Here are a few Get Well cards I sent to myself to make me feel better: - Cheer the fuck up. - While I find your religion hateful, closed-minded and utterly ridiculous, you are still encouraged to pray for my recovery. - I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure a Nyquil margarita will solve all your problems. - Try looking at your scrotum as half full, rather than half empty. - Congratulations on contracting your first non-sexually transmitted disease. - May this card serve as adequate substitute for my lack of genuine concern regarding your recent health issue. - Good to see that your horrible, debilitating cold hasn't kept you from looking at internet porn.

**to protect my job, I guess I'll have to spell it out for all those who don't quite relish in my sarcasm.  The truth is, I'm kidding.  I only coughed on one person's face.  And she liked it.

December 2, 2011

The Suicide Roll - How to rock awesome hair...

Here's the truth: I've never really been "into" hair.  In high school I had an emo-kid cut, longer in the front and shorter in the back, and dyed it every color known to man.  Except yellow.  I never did yellow.  In college I let my natural hair grow out for quite a while.  Two years, actually.  It was long, brown, and boring.  After moving to Raleigh I needed to do something drastic, so I got a bob and bleached it white, and dyed the tips so it faded to black.

It was one of my better hair moments.  And the first time I realized that if you put real time and effort (and, let's be honest, money) into your hair, you can take your style to another level.  For some reason I've always had a disconnect between fashion, style, and hair.  I'll be dressed to the nines, with my hair in a messy bun (that looks "oops" messy, not "chic" messy) because I simply have no idea what to do with it.  My cool hair ended about four months later when I ran out of bleach, motivation, and money.  Since then it's just been growing, and I'm back to awkward what-am-I-supposed-to-do-with-this-fucking-hair hair.

I was scouring the internet for some pictures of Rita Hayworth, because she is supreme ruler of all things fabulous, and I came across this photo:

I was like, "Holy shit balls!  Her hair looks amazing!  I wanna do that!"  I did some more Googling and discovered the 1940's victory roll.  I did some YouTubing and found some pretty good tutorials, but all was in vain.  Victory rolls are rolled away from the face, either on the side or top of the head.  This makes me look like a fucking moron, because my hairline goes really, really, really far up, and it just doesn't look flattering if my entire forehead is showing.  Also, if it's fully exposed planes try to land on my face.  In the interest of national security, let's keep my forehead under wraps.

I was bummed for a few minutes until I found something called a "suicide roll".  It is similar to the victory roll, except done on your forehead.  Success!  I was much less impressed with the YouTube tutorials available, as most of them just looked like spheres of hair on girls' faces.  I decided to take matters into my own hands, and just do my own version.  I ran out of bobby pins and hairspray on the first try, but by attempt number two, it was baggin'.

I give you, the suicide roll (tutorial video at the top of this post, if you somehow missed that):
Ruben and I, impromptu subway photoshoot

December 1, 2011

(Winter) Shoe Porn, Pt. 1

Anyone who knows anything about me knows that I'm a boot person.  Booties, ankle boots, mid-calfs, knee highs, over-the-knees, thigh-highs - I love them all.  This is part of the reason why I don't wear heels much in the summer, because most of the shoes I own are boots.  I've worn heels (i.e. boots) nearly everyday since the average high dropped below 70.

And do you know what I love most about my new job?  I get to look nice everyday.  As in, hurr did, face beat, heels on, the whole day long.  I couldn't do that spooning potato salad at the Food Whole.

In celebration of my favorite fashion season, I'll be throwing you some amazeballs boots every week.  Boots that I will kill for.  Literally.  I will cut a trollop for these shoes.

Matiko, AI FOR AI
Alexander McQueen
Charlotte Olympia
Christian Louboutin
Jeffery Campbell
Sergio Rossi
Vera Wang