Boys Don’t Make Passes at Girls with Fat Asses

No, wait, it’s…whatever. The point is, I’m now out of luck on both accounts. I went to the eye doctor a couple weeks ago and received TRAGIC news: I have some sort of non-pink-eye (or as I have so eloquently been describing it, non-fart-on-your-pillow) conjunctivitis caused by the disgusting pieces of plastic that I’ve been allowing to float around my eyes up to sixteen hours a day for the past thirteen years. Seriously guys, think about contacts. They’re really gross.

Moral of the story, after showing me an appropriately horrifying chart with a picture of what the inside of my eyelids look like now and what could happen if I continue my extended contact wearing ways,

I was told I needed to cut back on my lens time, and I decided to listen. Because sentient, violent, intellectual eye infections are not my bag (looks like we just found rule four, amirite?).

So that’s it. My days of dead-eyeing you from across the room with my enormous icy stare are over, or will at least be more commonly mitigated by a growing collection of over-sized frames. But that’s also exactly what brings me comfort in this trying time. It’s like they always say: when life hands you lemons, arm yourself with an arsenal of glasses that will turn an unfortunate case of conjunctivitis into an opportunity to emulate awesome four-eyed icons. Do NOT squeeze the lemons into your eyes, because that will only make it worse. And most importantly, never, EVER feed them after midnight, because not doing so could have prevented this whole mess in the first place.

Anyway, let’s review. I’ve got my old faithfuls

For that classic, I’m going red light special all through the night writing my thesis/this is the face I make when I wear these glasses and think about that time I wrote that thesis but I might go back to school or something soon and I’m totally not traumatized by the last experience so it’s cool whatever whatever whatever look.

No but seriously, those are great. Still, I decided to move away from that look a bit for NO OTHER REASON than I wanted to look like Cyril Figgis from Archer

Ok maybe something more versatile. Let’s try THE four-eyed icon of all time

I didn’t get it quite right, but I think I did ok

And in no time it’ll be like

and then I’ll have my face back. Actually, the doctor said it might take a while. Until then I’ve got Cyril, Iris, and the ultimate glasses goddess and new We Look Awesome cover girl, Peggy Clare

Gremlins and glasses and grandmas, oh my.

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Mascara Tears: The Isle of Nathargabaw

Oh hey folks. I’ve missed you! I’ve been really busy with my professional writing career, specifically penning my aforementioned memoirs (SEE TITLE). To be released  in 2014, riding the coattails of the Tayisha Busay memoir: Judy. Donna. Ponytails, Higher Caliber. Everywhere., which I also happen to be ghostwriting.

So how does this circumstance look? Well, first of all, consists of me hunched over a 1956 Golden Touch Electric Underwood typewriter,

not because I’ve completely succumbed to the inherent hipsterdom that comes with a Bushwick address  (though I have), or because it’s the most appropriate machine on which to type with elbow-length “magic” golden gloves (though it is), but because at this point it’s actually more technologically advanced than my sad, Baghdad computer. The only thing my computer is good for anymore is shopping for Liza Minelli memorabilia on ebay. Which, bringing me to my second of all, is actually a total blessing, because finding this vintage t-shirt from Liza’s 198o tour, Liza in Concert, helped start (along with a multifaceted emotional awakening, SEE KATE CHOPIN) the beautifully inspiring river of mascara tears that’s been flowing from my eyeholes for the past two and a half months:

REAL mascara tears, breaking dams and shit. Because $40 and with only a few kool-aid stains (OR THE BLOOD OF LIZA FANS)??? Oh geez, I’m tearing up again…

So that’s it; me bent over my typewriter, clothed in nothing but an oversized Liza in Concert t-shirt and long golden gloves screaming “HOW’M I DOIN MAMA??”

Surrounded by six men in sailor suits for the occasional song and dance, naturally. Did you ever picture my life any other way?

But srsly, coming soon: that happy face. Back off Sandy, it’s always sunny on the Isle of Nathargabaw.

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Hair Today Gone Tomorrow Part II: As if a Good Thing Ever Could Make Up for All the Pain

It’s been about two months since Spider Cahoots burst into a pile of pixie dust and floated out of my life on a cloud of failure, propelled by a gentle breeze of best intentions. You know what that means, babies: time for break up hair.

I first practiced the ancient Himalayan art of break up hair after break up numero previouso, with a Rihanna-inspired ‘do that went all but terribly wrong:

But whatever whatever whatever, I made it work. And with Nathanael as an accessory, you really can’t go wrong. Besides, beauty isn’t exactly the objective with these kinds of haircuts. Independence and re-growth and such, you undehstand.

So here goes nothin’:

What’s next for me, girl with the whole wide world as my $1 happy hour oyster? What’s the ultimate objective?

Robynhood.

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Let’s Explore Your Talons

Kim Daly Esquire, MAa) and Dr. Ste Blau, PhDb)

Willoughby Talon Research Institute, Brooklyn, NY 11237

In which we discuss products and productivity.

I. Introduction

Nearly six months ago, I landed the coveted position of research assistant to the ruthlessly awesome Dr. Ste Blau, PhD. We’ve worked tirelessly, sometimes late into the night, sometimes through the weekends, burning the midnight Netflix instant queue, to make headway in the most cutting-edge talon research. Many beauty supply stores have been visited. Some dreams have been broken. A table cloth was ruined in a Silkwood-esque toxic spill.

Yep, shit got real.

Yet much hope has been forged in this labor-intensive half-year. Because in the awesomeness research system, talon based research is considered especially heinous. In New York City, the dedicated scientists who investigate these vicious talons are members of an elite squad known as the Willoughby Talon Research Institute. These are their stories.

II. Experimental  Procedures

  A. Foundations – the cracks of which my fingertips are holding onto.

No matter where you find inspiration or learn technique, in talon research you have exactly one best friend: Sally Hansen. Girlfriend knows. You might be tempted by OPIs flashier polishes and clever copy, and in some cases you should be, but Sally really rocks our world in terms of basics.

I’m not really a belieber in nail hardeners, but this one does the trick as a base coat. The quick-dry top coat is NECESSARY. It’s chip resistant, and

really the only way to avoid pillow stains/marks that magically appear even though you waited 39084598 hours for your nails to dry before going to bed. Necessary. Unfortunately, it can goop up before the bottle is done, causing air bubbles and general grossness, so seal tight and replace often.

  B. Methods

Most of the styles shown below can be achieved with a steady hand, but tools are occasionally called for:

Pictured, clockwise from left:

-Seven-step file – for when extensive filing is needed.

-Loose-leaf reinforcements – for half-moon manicures, watermelon rinds, etc.

-Four-step file – for touch ups between manicures.

-French-tip brush, with pen – for french tips, reverse french, stripes, rain drops that keep falling on your head, and special designs if y’all are artsy.

-French-tip brush, sans pen – the pen doesn’t necessarily do it for me, so I usually defer to the brush-only version. This brand has also been popping up increasingly in drug stores, so points for convenience.

Not pictured, clockwise from the top of my head:

-Tape – for french manicures with regular brushes (I hear rubber bands work as well). Use top coat before applying!

-Sponges – for sponging.

-Q-tips – for clean up and because they’re awesome.

Other than that, we work with what we have. It’s not much,

but actually it is. That’s a lot of fucking nail polish. Now, let’s result and discuss.

III. Results and Discussion

  A. Roy G. Biv

Warm rainbow

Cool rainbow

Reading rainbow

  

B. Maths (specifically geometry)

Luxurious golden blood-mink

Blurry neon-pastel

Airport flag laundromat pastel

Color block party BYOB


  C. Botany

Asteraceae

Citrullus lanatus

  

  D. Unbreak my heart

Shatter, X-Men

Shatter, OPI

Sally Hansen Crackle probably works just as well, for a better price, but the OPI gold is sparklier. Henceforth, vis-a-vis, thus.

  E. Caviar (and miller high life)

This shit is expensive!

$25 at Sephora!1 What am I , made of money? The answer is no, I’m not.

Luckily, one hot and sunny Sunday, during a particularly successful beauty store run, we found THIS

Check out that price tag, amirite!? And they’re real beauts, too

Very pearly.

  F. (for FINALLLLLY) 4th of July Amrika Rilness

As y’all may know I am a PA-TRI-OT, and as such did it up as usual for the 4th with some Ril Amrikan Pearlz

Yes, but do you have a flag? Sure do, boo.

Also btdubs FYI, I was wearing this

If you were wondering, and I’m sure you were, yes, the pattern on the pants is tiny horses.

The Dr. also whipped up something special for our nation’s birfday:

Implicitly reminiscent of gymnastics leotards, a clear nod to the 2012 London Olympics. Go Team USA!! Cheerios!!!!

  G. (for: gotcha, there’s one more!, galaxy, galactica, glandular, globule, and gefilte fish) The (s)Kim Milky Way2

Adorning my nails as I type this, I can safely say that it is my favorite manicure ever of all time. Really just tops.

IV. Conclusions and Further Research

Recently, I’ve read a couple of articles on the popularity of nail art, and general consensus suggests that – you guessed it – the deadbeat economy is to thank for the recent surge. It makes sense; in New York specifically rents and student loans are skyrocketing, starting salaries are decreasing, and the city can only think of solutions like this

Smaller and smaller boards for that game night favorite “Small Mouse or Large Roach (Urban Bunny Urban Bunny Urban Bunny)?” Apparently, despite the dearth of economic opportunities, my generation continues to buy more and more luxury items. iPhone? Check. $500 Chanel flats? Not so much. $26 Chanel nail color?

Yes please. (It’s even cheaper when it’s a gift!) The heights you can reach with nail art far surpasses those that can be obtained with apparal, especially when you’re on a budget and in deep debt. To paraphrase the great philosopher Morissette, “It’s like meeting the man of your dreams/and then meeting [a man with a good job who treats you way better].”

Evidence abounds, just check out this lady. Or these gals

Everybody’s talkin’ bout talons.  So where do we go from here? I come to you with open arms.

Future experiments/objectives:

(i) Leopard print.

(ii) Cupcakes.

(iii) Gel manicures with bows, dangly things, crazy prints, etc.

(iv) Prenatal vitamins.

They’re supposedly good for hair, nails, and removing unwanted Brooklyn Ds from your apartment/life.

(v) Be more like Rihanna.

Talon-wise and every day in every way, obvi.

SCIENCE! ‘Til next time, loves.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the Dr. for taking a chance on an unknown kid.

Footnotes

a) Master of Awesome, School of Soft Knocks, The Internet
b) Phly & Dope  Talon Specialist, The University Formerly Known as New Hebrides, Vanuatu

References

1. Sephora Nails. 1000 Ways to Get Polished. Sephora University Press, New York, NY, 2012

2. Rookie Mag. “Galaxy Nails.” http://rookiemag.com/2012/03/galaxy-nails/ 

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Identity Crisis

You’d think it would be easier to remember

but still I’m just like

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We Need the Porridge

In which we elaborate on the discussion of what it’s like to be a young career girl from New York City.

Basically, it can be summed up in the first two minutes or so of the following:

But let’s get a fresh perspective.

I’m Right on Top of That, Rose!

by Ariel Sims

Not just anyone can do what I do. It takes a calculated combination of apathy and grace to endure scoldings for things you aren’t responsible for, a special kind of schizophrenia to deny your last shadow of an ego while smiling gratefully. And it takes a large amount of bravery to trade in your previous, stubborn idea of self for a new, seemingly much less grand version. In my case, entering the workforce as a young, jaded admin is a coming of age story about growing up and dressing the part.

My experience with clothes began as a fantasy of dress up. Trunks of endless thrift store garb and heirloom accessories my mother kept stocked to meet all of my tinker-bell dreams. Every outfit a character; each an opportunity to feel myself differently. I was quite the cliché of a self involved, pretty pretty princess. The way I dressed was intricately tied into my self-esteem- and let’s just say, I wore a lot of pink sequins.

Being the center of the universe, I was lucky enough to have my inner god complex prolonged through college where I was sent off to “live my dreams” which, at that point, happened to still involve wearing pink sequins. It seemed natural that I continued my real life role-playing through acting school- gallivanting around Manhattan in what may as well have been the same princess/mermaid dresses from the dress-up trunk, spending money I didn’t have, believing, intrinsically, I was special enough to never have to grow up (or wear a pair of jeans).

Eventually, College ended, and the loans ran out, along with the fantasy that I could “be whoever I wanted.” So I moved to Brooklyn and got to know much different kind of never never land. With the absence of funds, my post-graduate fellow artists and I lived a life of fashion rebellion where the uniform tended toward the understated and worn: a look that another “ex-princess” friend affectionately refers to as “dressing in your own feces.”


I joined a band, adopted the uniform, screwed the man, and felt like a fashionably disobedient artist with a heart full of punk. As much as this seemed like personal growth, I was most definitely still the center of my self-involved, hipster universe, and relied, to a certain degree, on my outer expression to justify my questionable life choices. Dressing tastefully felt like accepting responsibility I didn’t want. At that time, growing up equaled giving up.

Now, entering act three of my fashion saga, I got a job. Like a J.O.B. In an office. With a Blackberry. Mind you, this lifestyle change didn’t just come out of nowhere- it happened after the realization that I had borrowed money from my dad one too many times. It was time to take responsibility for my life and my future. I needed clothes that were comfortable, nice, and appropriate- and I had no experience in these departments what-so-ever. So I went to some stores and tried on what felt like other peoples clothes. I bought a bunch of random stuff and tried to wear it. But it was all wrong. More than ever before, I was in survival mode- I needed to have confidence, I needed to keep this job. So I had to learn which things gave me power and made me better. I began experimenting with blazers, slacks, loafers, and the ever-elusive line drawn at “business casual.” I no longer thought of my clothes as opportunities to express my inner “why-be-normal” personality; they were tools for getting people to respect and trust me.

For the better part of my life, you could only find me, dressed in my own feces, at the second star to the right and straight on ’til morning. But when the time came for growing up, I learned how good it feels to present myself as a hardworking, competent professional that can handle anything. Some may say that I gave in: that I sold my childhood dreams of being a magic fairy princess to an evil corporation for a pay check. And I probably did. But I’m freakin rich now. And, boy… do I look awesome.

Ariel dressed the part, and has been able to keep the job. She still lives in Brooklyn and can occasionally be found dressing in her own feces on the weekends, but she no longer screws the man in any way. Last weekend we went out to dinner and ordered TWO desserts.

Career girls. Würk.

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Ste Blau de Mayo

Ok, there’s a lot of shit going around out there on the interspiderwebs, so I just want to set the record straight and say, yes, I did in fact go to an awesome 1920s/30s-themed Ste Blau de Mayo party. And no, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Ste Blau, PhD, was born exactly 123 years after the Battle of Puebla. I think her parents probably planned it.

Like Cinco de Mayo before it, Ste Blau de Mayo was an unexpected victory filled with the blood of many Frenchmen…I mean dresses! And tragedy! And new friends! I was lucky enough to be able to provide three of my loveliest dresses that barely see the light of day to three of the loveliest ladies I know. Plus the stunner I wore. As the fortunes cookies I got in Montreal always said, “The first and last love: self love.” It’s as if they knew. So let’s start with that:


And with fur:


TURBANS.

Next, let’s take a look at Ariel nailing it with thin-hipped elegance:

It’s actually kind of gangsta. Like “hey, doll, you got moxie” 1920s gangsta. I believe it was called gangster back then.

Thanks, hipsamatic! You get me.

As always, it was a real treat to host The Lovely Scientist for the holiday,

wearing a dress I bought because it reminded me of that part in Home Alone where Catherine O’Hara is trying to do tradesies to get that old lady’s plane ticket and she’s like “oh and the earrings! don’t forget the earrings!” and the old lady’s husband is like “she’s got a whole shoebox of earrings at home, uh dannnngly ones.” You know. That part. Anyway,

Does this reveal something about my color palette?

And perhaps also my wily ways? Srsly tho, I’m closer than I thought to my goal of owning only [my-own-]flesh toned outfits. Step one: appear naked all the time. Step two: Inevitable world domination, obvio.

This brings us to the lady of the evening (but not in that way), dressed in frange,

and wrapped in the finest clothes from Bergdorf-Goodman:

All making out with minks and shit

The plethora of fab ladies was comforting, especially after the Ste Blau de Mayo treats were such a disaster, with

http://www.sheknows.com/food-and-recipes/articles/958083/cinco-de-mayo-pinata-cookies

turning out more like

That’s what failure looks like, folks. Luckily we befriended Señor Piñata Bigote later in the night, who helped soften the blow (OH PUN WHAT NOW?)

And they all lived happily ever after.

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My Birthday Suit

This is what I look like naked:

Srsly.

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It’s Time To Break Free (Woah-oh-woa-oh)

Percussion, Strings, Winds:

Words:

AND here we are! Oh joyful, rapturous reunion!

What, you may ask, have I been up to in the past six months? Um, just like the most exciting things ever, mostly involving lavish NYC parties, during the majority of which I lie luxuriantly recumbent on a [bi]polar-bear rug, impeccably coiffed and awesomely self-styled to the highest standard, plucking individual grains of low-carb-high-fiber-whole-grain rice from my gifted gold-rimmed Waterford crystal bowl with my gibbon-breastbone chopsticks and bringing them seductively to my plump, red-glossed, restylane-aided lips. Why, just see for yourself!

Oh, man, I had you going didn’t I?! Come on, this is AMERICA and 99% of us are having an economic crisis, y’all. Even the Mittens those Kittens lost are down to a just couple Cadillacs apiece. GM? How plebe!

So, while I and nearly everyone around me continues to practice looking awesome, in preparing for the impending economic apocalypse I’ve sadly fallen behind on documentation. I could have instead sacrificed my OTHER hobby of wearing saddle shoes and being sad in front of Midtown street art

(Summer 2009)

(Spring 2012)

but, nah. So how goes my preparation, or as I like to call it, “Project Moving on Up”? Great, thanks for asking! Could I outline the steps of Project Moving on Up in a convenient list? Uh…yes, and I love making lists, so thanks again for asking you fine, fine human specimen.

1) Invest.

INVEST? IN TIMES LIKE THESE? Stop shouting, silly goose! Your portfolio should consist only of the most valuable stock: bottled water, canned food, guns, ammunition, gasoline, and all the tools necessary to build a Jurassic Park-like electric fence. And as much of it as possible.

2) Run away.

Yeah, they don’t call themselves the Real McCoy for nothing. Modern. Day. Prophets. After you break free from the slavish Orwellian existence the economic apocalypse has no doubt trapped you in, flee to the remote land your gentleman friend owns in rural Virginia. Build aforementioned Jurassic Park-like electric fence around the land. Use the problem-solving skills you’ve developed from this experience to steal cows and chickens/protect your new cows and chickens/hunt Dr. Hammond’s grandchildren in the kitchen. This will hopefully bring you one step closer to your life long goal of being known as “Clever Girl” (if you are me)

3) Don’t forget sensible shoes. Perks if they’re stylish, it’ll boost morale.

I am notorious for owning exclusively inappropriate footwear (or as notorious as one can be for such a thing). So in planning Project Moving on Up, I looked to Spider Cahoots, owner of remote Virginian farmland and endless pairs of awesome sneakers, for inspiration. We took collective stock, and I think we’re covered for most occasions.

“The Spiffy Tricksters”:

“The Peaceful Gardeners”:

“Deadly Stealth”:

Of course, he is seemingly more prepared with additional provisions

NOT like it’s a competition or anything…but if it was…

RINGER! Oh what’s that? White snakeskin Adidas?

Well never mind then. Still, catch me if you can, apocalypse.

You know,

But Justin Case, best be prepared.

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The Mixed-Up Files of Detective Oliver Benson

So Ben has this great post, in which he presents these vintage hand towels with eerily accurate depictions of Ariel and I playing tennis embroidered on them. You should check it out HERE because it’s pretty fucking awesome.

If for some reason you’ve yet to accept Jesus Christ or Nathanael Vaky as your lord and personal savior, and are thus too lazy to click on that, you can read it below:

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Kim and Ariel

There are some pretty amazing things in my Grandparents house, remnants of my Grandmother’s decorating throughout the decades.  Of all things I think my favorite are these hand towels in the guest bathroom.

Every time I look at them I think how they are obviously of Kim and Ariel.  That one above is Kim with her messy up-do held together with a perfectly matching head scarf.  And on the other side of the towel rack is Ariel:

Right down to the skin so ghostly pale it barely shows up at all.  And I think we can all agree that if Kim and Ariel were ever to play tennis they would most definitely do it in heels.

Can you guys please please go as my grandparent’s guest bathroom hand towels for Halloween?!?!

*******************************************************************************************************************

All text and images courtesy of Ben, used with implicit permission. You should date him.

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