We park on the driveway because we are lazy asses who can't be bothered to pull into the garage. The driveway is not a destination. It is a path. When we park on the driveway, it is no longer a driveway. It is a parking spot.
We drive on parkways because they are streets that run through an open space, aka a park.
That is all.
I was writing this very long thing about how it is hard to reconcile the cliches and the realities of being a mid-20s media professional (*snort*) living in New York, and there were terrific snide references to Sex and the City and suddenly realizing that I spend more on clothes than rent and stupid crap like that. But rereading it, it was boring and not funny and made me sound incredibly snotty and unpleasant. Which I'm not. I mean, I have a cold right now so I am technically snotty, but not in the way I meant in the sentence two before this one. So I am just going to cut to the point, shallow and ridiculous as it may be.
About a year ago I bought a really gorgeous pair of shoes. They were my first pair by a brand that is fancier than Nine West, and I loved them and wore them to all my holiday parties and felt like a chic and awesome person for owning special insanely fancy designer shoes.
This year, looking for a pair of shoes to wear to this year's holiday parties, I saw on the shelf in a random shoe store these exact ones! Except why would they be carrying Marc Jacobs at the ShoeMania on 14th street?! And when I went to look closer I saw that they were, obviously, duh, not in fact Marc Jacobs, but were knockoffs!
And the point of this is: I own something that has been knocked off! I am at the top of the sartorial food chain!
The consumerist label whore in me rejoices. While the rest of me pretty much hangs my head in shame at the rejoicing of the consumerist label whore.
Marcin: Once again I have been struck by how high quality Al Jazeera's news reporting is
me: i'm too busy being struck and amazed by britney spears' sixteen-year-old sister being pregnant to be able to focus on anything else
Marcin: OK, that's not something you'll see on al jazeera
Marcin: HOWEVER
Marcin: I don't see why this is surprising
me: she was the classy one!
Marcin: How so?
me: well, she wasn't pregnant
me: and wore underwear
me: and showered regularly
me: those were the major things
Marcin: Apparently I am classy too now!
I used the first eighteen minutes of my lunch break to draw an annotated picture of me, wearing my unicorn dress. Here you go:
For a larger version (the detail is incredible, if I do say so myself: you can see the pink polka dots on the non-unicorn part of the dress) click here.
In thrillingly relevant news, a guy got stabbed at the very mall a mall very near to the mall* where the unicorn dress was purchased. Obviously the bloodshed was precipitated by the store having run out of unicorn dresses.
*It was a mall in New Jersey. I admit it.
A Lady does this marvelous thing where she wears incredibly beautiful clothes in an astonishingly stylish way, and takes pictures of herself, and posts them on the internet, and makes her readers swoon and love her.
I don't do this mostly because if you people go blind then where does that leave me? But today I am tempted to make an exception, because here is the thing: I am wearing a dress that has unicorns on it. The unicorns have red manes and pink-dappled flanks and are rearing majestically while standing in front of castles that are resting on clouds. It is all outlined in gold glitter on black chiffon and basically it is the greatest dress in contemporary sartorial history.
I work in an actual office with several hundred real people and it is a safe bet that they will all sort of get swoony and see God whenever they look at me, because the unicorns are so goddamn magical as they swirl around my hemline that you basically have to look away or else enter a state of rapture.
I have paired it, obviously, with royal blue wellies and a black cardigan. Unfortunately my camera is not here, but perhaps later in the day I will draw a picture of my awesomeness and post it here a la A Lady so that you may revel in it and perhaps transfer some measure of its sparkly wonder into your own pitifully unicorn-free lives.
I'm not much for alcohol, but years and years ago I was one-half of an evening that involved two people and eight rapidly-consumed Irish Car Bombs. It began at around 8pm and ended somewhere in the neighborhood of 8:25. Or, depending on your measure, ended at around 5 the next morning when I woke up on my friend's floor and walked thirty-five of the hundred or so blocks home before falling into a cab, leaving behind my glasses and a giant wedge of my postcollegiate dignity. Or, by yet a third measure, ended at 10am four days later when the hangover finally slouched out of my system and toward Bethlehem to be born.
On the one-year anniversary of that lost night, I did an Irish Car Bomb in its honor and nearly puked. Never again, I vowed, will that unholy combination of Guinness and Bailey's pass my lips.
Turns out I am not exactly nun-caliber when it comes to sticking to vows (any future husbands, please take note), since I had one and a half this weekend at Mr. B's birthday party. I am pleased to report that I lost neither consciousness nor my lunch.
I feel like adulthood has finally arrived. It is like my liver has had its bat mitzvah.
Post title taken from this vital piece of Americana.
Besides the undisputed juggernaut-champion of contemporary Christmas songs,* I think the best non-standard carol is "What Christmas Means To Me," as performed by such luminaries as Stevie Wonder and the Jackson 5. Also, on a lesser scale, by Hanson and by the Olsen twins.
What Christmas means to me, by and large, is bopping around the city simultaneously being Jewishly indignant about and secularly revelling in everyone's sudden affinity for particular color schemes and oddly nordic-inspired sweaters. Also, did you know that Nick and Jessica do a supremely kickass version of "Baby It's Cold Outside," which would count as a contemporary Christmas song except that it's about getting drunk and having sex.
*You should not have to reference this footnote to know that Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas is You" is actually the best song of all time, period, and by the rule of sets and subsets is also therefore the best Christmas song.
Approximately four minutes ago the boyfriend and I were lying on the carpet in the middle of his living room* talking about stupid tricks from elementary school. Like when you would turn to someone and say "Spell ICUP" and then they'd say "I C U P" and you'd laugh at them. Mr B pointed out, appropriately, that actually it was way more sucky for the person who it was said to, because someone saw them pee, and that is pretty much more awful than seeing someone else pee.
"Then of course there is the Pen 15 club," I said.
To which Mr B said: "What's that?"
Of all the moments in my life in which it has been important to maintain composure so as not to ruin the greatest thing that has ever happened in my relationship, this might have been it. I got up off the floor and found a pen.
"Do you want to be in the Pen 15 club?" I asked.
"Yes!" said my unwitting boyfriend.
So I indoctrinated him. Now I am sitting at the computer giggling uncontrollably, and he is in the bathroom scrubbing his hand and simultaneously muttering annoyedly and humming a song by Zombite, which should be your new favorite band.
*there was laundry on the bed, and sometimes you want to lie down but you don't want to pick up a pile of shirts.
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