Shampoo Solo

For some reason I feel like not a lot of people know about Mindy Ephron’s fabulous blog, Things I’ve Bought That I Love, and I don’t know why that is.

First of all, the writing is amazing; here is a little scoop for you to sample:

J.Crew totally went off its meds this year and I fucking loved it. Zebra stripes. Book prints on textiles. Embroidered critters on ties, pants, even cashmere. Polka dot satin shoes. Platinum silver down parkas. And oh, the colors!

(Yes, I have been saying that things have gone off their meds recently, and this is where I stole it.)

If that’s not enough to convince you to read — and, frankly, it should be — perhaps I should tell you that Mindy Ephron is actually Mindy Kaling, one of the fabulous (striking) writers of The Office*. Oh, and she also plays Kelly.

Go ahead, bookmark it.

*Yes, I do feel like an ass for linking out to Hulu episodes.

I’ve had a life-long love affair with Polaroid photos (longtime Internet readers may remember the Polaroid-shot casts of characters); so it comes as no surprise that they were a big part of our wedding day. The Husband and I spray painted a series of signs that said things like ‘WE’RE SO GLAD’ and “YOU’RE HERE” and then took Polaroids of each other holding them, and placed them on the welcome table at the ceremony.

We thought it would be a nice way to be with our guests during the times when we couldn’t be with our guests, because of traditions and formal photographs and whatnot. We also brought the camera to the reception and tried to take photos of all our family and friends; we have one of us that served as the only real proof (other than rings and dented savings accounts) that we had gotten hitched during the weeks we were waiting for the official photographer’s photos.

The bottom line is, we got a lot of compliments on the Polaroid touches. One friend told me he steals an idea for his wedding at every one he goes to; the signs were what he planned to steal from us. Which was neat, and nice, because the Polaroids were something that was really just us, and not inspired or lifted from Martha Stewart or InStyle.

When it came time to write our thank-you notes, The Husband had the brilliant idea of including Polaroids of ourselves actually using some of the gifts we’d been given. Most were simple, and boring; him mixing cocktails with the shaker into the highball glasses. Me sipping wine from the Cabernet glasses, the decanter nearby. And, et cetera.

One lucky friend — who is a big fan of our gray tabby — got this Polaroid:

(Oddly enough, I’m wearing the same sweater right now. And my hair is six inches shorter.)

It makes me wish we had made the rest of our thank-you notes just as sassy. The tabby disagrees.

9 PM to Midnight, Pacific Time
The hours that are hardest for you, or, at least, the hours that I imagine would be the hardest. The hours when you are you, free from work, at home, alone, lost, distraught, in need, wondering what is next, what to do, who to see, whether to go out, whether to stay in, and through all, waiting for the hours to pass, needing someone, but not wanting to wake me, or any of us, up, knowing that it is midnight, or 2 AM or 3 AM, and we are sleeping, and that would be wrong, an imposition, but it wouldn’t, it wouldn’t. I am here. We are here, always.

6 AM to 9 AM, Eastern Time
The hours that I know, without fail, are hardest for me. The hours when I am waking, pouring coffee, reading, driving, researching, and thinking of you, waiting to hear from you; wondering about the night before, what you did, how things are, if you went out, if you stayed in, if you ate, if you are OK, if you need me, if you are sleeping, if you are finally, finally sleeping, and wanting to call but not wanting to risk waking you, not wanting to hover, or impose. You are here, in my thoughts, in our thoughts, constantly.

So far today, I’ve learned that:

–McSweeney’s will be picking up Other Things There Will Be, In Addition to Blood.
–My tennis boyfriend, Novak Djokovic, beat Roger Federer in straight sets at the Australian Open.

I’ve only had about three sips of my morning coffee but good luck comes in threes, right? I should be winning the lottery any moment now.

[It seems so long ago when I wrote this; I must've been 22? 23? I remember at the time all this seemed like a huge revelation to me; reading it now, my reaction is more, 'Well, duh, no shit, Meredith.' But maybe everyone struggles to come to these realizations -- and then, after realizing them, pushing them to the back of your mind, living with them, and living in spite of them. And it all seems extra timely today, as I continue reading news about Heath Ledger's death and autopsy according to 18 different Web sites, trying to make sense of it still.]

You could run away.

You could get lost.

You could choose someone else.

You could get angry and never speak to me again.

You could disappear and i’d never know where you went.

You could get mangled in a horrible accident.

You could get suddenly ill.

You could get tired.

You could stop loving me.

You could change.

You could get kidnapped.

You could leave.

You could die.

You could do anything, anything could happen, and so many of them would hurt.

Fearlessness is a requirement to live; live fearlessly, love fearlessly, open our hearts and live and love, day by day never knowing what could or will happen in the future — being brave enough to open our hearts to the happiness of right now and pushing ahead, ignoring but acknowledging the dangers to ourselves, to our hearts, to those spaces we’ve filled up with you — only knowing that there are no guarantees, and that ultimately, everything ends.

In my never-ending pursuit of clothing, I used this three-day weekend to finally take a look at two very hyped low-level lines, which I’ve been meaning to do for months, and even moreso recently, given my self-imposed ban on designer goods in Q1 (Disclaimer: I failed; I found a Marc Jacobs blouse for 80% off at an outlet, and I just couldn’t resist. Ban revised to apply only to designer prices, not the clothes). I like to think that Dr. King would be proud (he wouldn’t).

Gentlemen, please proceed to the next site on your browsing agenda.

Simply Vera
Grade: B-
In theory, Simply Vera is everything I like about clothes, be they Vera or not — muted colors, careful ruching and pretty draping. The designs are pretty, and still inventive, even for a thrify label; the prices, though, are still of the break-the-bank variety ($70 for a cardigan, $50 for a camisole). My biggest complaint — the sizing is odd, and I don’t love how cheap chic has simply come to mean unfinished hems. The fact that I got the dress below for $13, though, means I would make a return trip — it’s listed online as $53. Oops!

Bitten
Grade: D
I’ve wanted to check out Sarah Jessica Parker’s Bitten line — available only at Steve and Barry’s, a store you’ve probably never heard of (I hadn’t) — since it launched. The nearest store was a haul, so we built a few other out-of-the-way errands around it. SJP’s ‘manifesto’ about Bitten is: ‘It is every woman’s inalienable right to have a pulled-together [sic] stylish, confident wardrobe with money left over to live.’ Essentially — nothing should cost more than $20. (SJP apparently only plays a writer on TV: In addition to that dropped comma, I found a number of tags where ‘wardrobe’ was spelled ‘watdrobe’ throughout the store.) I could crap all over the clothes all day but I’ll sum it up this way: Nothing I saw of Bitten should cost more than $10, and, even though everything in the store was on sale $8.99, I didn’t buy a single thing. It was all cheaply made knits, unlined pencil skirts, and lame logoed tees.

Mehgan Murphy, Smithsonian’s National Zoo - Associated Press

– It snowed here yesterday, and for a time, the flakes were gigantic and beautiful. The photo above is from today’s Washington Post; that’s Luke, a resident of the National Zoo, looking adorably confused about what the hell that white stuff falling from the sky is and also like he’s interested in taking a healthy bite out of my Uggs.
– Scott and I very much wanted to see Sharon Jones at the Black Cat last night, but we didn’t get tickets in time. We tried the Craigslist route, but people were being assholes — asking $200 bucks a ticket. As the day went on, and the snow kept falling, more and more tickets for sale appeared, with quickly dropping prices. That prompted me to post an ad that basically said: You suck for trying to scalp your tickets, and now you’re getting screwed! Ha Ha Ha! Posted from Location: YOUR BUTT. It was flagged for removal with 10 minutes; I laughed at my cleverness for at least 15.
– Sarah Silverman’s dog is ugly. And something about her show makes me feel unsettled. Is that the whole point? If so, I don’t get it.
–It’s a lot harder to pick up cats and make them look all ‘Pew Pew Pew’ than you might think.
– This writer’s strike is le suck.
– I want to see ‘Atonement,’ ‘27 Dresses,’ and ‘Cloverfield’ this weekend. Does this make me schizophrenic, normal, or susceptible to awards/marketing/Internet hype?

I can’t for the life of me remember where I first heard about this, but apparently, somewhere on the Interwebs, the Cool Kids have replaced the “Add ‘In Bed’ to the End of Your Fortune Cookie” Game with the “Add ‘Between Your Legs’ to the End of Movie Titles” Game. It turns out this new game is even better, and even more pervasive (especially if, like me, you’re not a fan of Chinese food or fortune cookies). Just thinking of movies I’ve seen recently, I came up with:

Charlie Wilson’s War Between Your Legs
Enchanted Between Your Legs
The Nanny Diaries Between Your Legs
Waitress Between Your Legs
National Treasure Between Your Legs
Sicko Between Your Legs

While I believe it’s meant specifically for movies, it also seems to work for TV shows (and, for whatever reason, ABC TV shows in particular). Look:

Lost Between Your Legs
Private Practice Between Your Legs
Big Shots Between Your Legs
Samantha Who Between Your Legs
Brothers & Sisters Between Your Legs
Dirty Sexy Money Between Your Legs
Ugly Betty Between Your Legs
Gossip Girl Between Your Legs
Bionic Woman Between Your Legs

And, of course, the one that made me actually chuckle OL to myself:

Lipstick Jungle Between Your Legs

Please, chime in with your hilarious, disgusting, or just-plain-wrong additions (although, I swear to Beer, don’t you dare touch Kid Nation Between Your Legs — even I have standards. Plus, I just beat you to it). This might be the funnest game since Scrabulous.

Deluxe: How Luxury Lost Its Luster by Dana Thomas
A fashion writer for Newsweek, Thomas dives into the luxury industry — Louis Vuitton, Prada and others — and examines the consequences globalization, conglomerates and counterfeiting have wrought (i.e., homogenized storefronts from Las Vegas to Tokyo, ridiculous profits for shoddily made goods and sweatshops full of kids). All of this is bad, bad, bad … not necessarily the kind of thing you want to read while you’re laying in a cabana on the beach in Mexico, with designs on those glorious duty-free stores just a few blocks away. Thomas gleefully makes Marc Jacobs look like an asshole — she begins a chapter on counterfeiting with a quote from Jacobs about how it’s great, it’s flattery!; then moves the action into a sweatshop filled with 12- and 13-year-old children where those flattering knockoffs are created (For the record: I do adore Marc; but I feel like he’s due to be knocked around a bit). Yet her loving focus on Hermes, Chanel and Christian Louboutin — three brands who hold to their traditions of hand-made goods — just made me want to plunk down a deposit on a Birkin (never going to happen), start wearing Chanel No. 5 (too strong — though I did invest in Coco duty-free) and splurge on these Louboutin pumps (maybe) more than ever. All in all, a good read, but not good for my savings account.

The Abstinence Teacher by Tom Perotta
The pressure Perotta must have been feeling when writing this book — a battle between Christianity and atheism personified in a born-again drug addict and a high school sex ed teacher — is palpable in every sentence. It’s almost like he was thinking: After Little Children, everyone expects me to be the voice of American suburbia, so be the voice of American suburbia I SHALL. And it all comes across as too much — as though he spent most of his time cataloging the cliches of suburbia (Youth Soccer Teams! Empty McMansions! Divorced Mom With Vibrator!) and Christianity (Bible Studies! Faith Keeper Rallies! Overbearing and Intrusive Pastor!), but no time developing the plot. The comeuppance I expected for the holier-than-thou (yes, I went there) Pastor never materialized, and truth be told, I didn’t realize the last page of the book was the last page until I turned the page and found Perotta’s Anderson-Cooper-esque mug staring back at me from the inside jacket flap. There’s essentially no ending, no resolution to this book — and I don’t mind when endings aren’t tidy, if at least they’re believable in their untidiness, in their characters’ motivations for inaction, but sorry, Tom, I didn’t buy any of it for a second.

I feel like everyone, everywhere (at least on the female- and fashion-focused blogs that I read) is talking about the new Marc Jacobs ads featuring Victoria Beckham today (more of the ads can be seen here). Pretty much every comment I’ve seen has found the ads cool and funny and quirky, but something about them, particularly the one above, bothered me.

So I kept staring at it. And staring.

And then I got it.

Victoria Beckham is in a bag. She’s crumpled up like a doll and stuffed into that bag; those ugly shoes seem to imply the necessary violence inherent in such an act. In this ad at least, you don’t see her face — you don’t even see a product. Beckham is the product, the object, the celebrity. The other ads aren’t much better — particularly the one that implies she’s a shoe … she’s something you can put on your feet and walk around on, she fits in a shoebox and you can put her on a shelf in your closet and forget about her. She’s just a pretty little thing you can buy. I know this isn’t the spirit of the ad, but I feel an undercurrent of violence, a gleeful sense of disposability and a blurring between the commercial and the personal. It feels like the opposite of Posh; it feels faceless and ugly and dangerous.