accessorized.
Today I am accessorized. This is sort of a new thing for me, since I normally just try to find a skirt and shirt that are reasonably clean, put them on, and go. I have one pair of slightly strappy summer shoes, a multitude of black tops and bottoms, and a few colored pieces, which makes me look like I'm dressed nicely, when, in reality, I dress in two minutes, still yawning - as one is if one was up until past three, having a peach and doing. something which I can't remember now. because it was after three.
Peaches: It is imperative to eat a peach by sectioning it with a knife - biting into it doesn't taste half as good as good clean juicy sections. If your peach is of the right ripeness, you can cut the sections and twist, and the whole thing will come apart off the pit, like magic.
I also own a couple dresses; I've discovered that showing up to something wearing a dress and little sandals makes people go "oh, wow, you're all..nicely dressed," but the reason I like dresses is because they're one piece. Dig out a bra, yank it over your head, you're all set; it's easier than a prison jumpsuit. For this reason, I am always on the lookout for dresses, for which I will pay real money, and then proceed to wear them twice a week until they fall apart.
Today, however, I am accessorized; I'm faintly worried that I'm OVER accessorized, as I am wearing earrings, two bracelets, and a neck scarf. I am also wearing a raspberry colored top of dubious appropriateness, since it has a tendency to slide down until half my bra is showing, and this morning as I walked past some guys putting stuff in a truck, all activity halted while they politely stared at me. It was a tiny side street, so there was no other activity beyond a few birds poking at a bird feeder, and motionless guys, waiting for me to pass them. I couldn't decide whether to make eye-contact, or what, since I customarily eschew eye-contact with oglers, but, on the other hand, it was a TINY street, and thus kind of actively difficult to avoid eye contact, and, in addition, ogling is a very strong word for what they were doing. It was, while not subtle, not something that necessitated stalking past with my nose in the air, unlike the protesters outside the Planned Parenthood every Wednesday [and now every Tuesday and Thursday, too] with their gigantic fetus posters, who really make me angry. [um, skip to the next paragraph now to avoid semi-graphic descriptions of right wing anti-abortion posters.] Don't like abortion? Go volunteer in an orphanage, and leave people whose health insurance doesn't cover their birth control pills [yes, don't get me started] to get their damn pills in peace. Also, here is the thing about your nine foot poster of a fetus: you know what? All medical procedures are kind of blood-spattered and unpleasant. I'm sure a nine-foot picture of a person's removed gall-bladder isn't exactly a thing of beauty. Yes, I understand the rhetoric around the fetus' little feet, but part of that rhetoric is definitely the accompanying gore, and I feel the gore is irrelevant. And by that, I mean that it's such fucking bullshit. Of course, I also look at the blown up tiny fetus, with its crushed little head in forceps, and think "well, wow, that's...so not a baby yet."
And what am I accessorized for, you ask? well, half the office is gone, and I plan to sit on my ass and screw around on the internet all day. And make exciting posts about the right way to eat peaches.
So, okay, everyone knows that Frank Longbottom/Arthur Weasley thing was more or less a joke, right? That is, the story I perhaps dislike the most in the world - dislike more than songfic, dislike more than a story where Draco and Harry suddenly start rocking out at the Yule Ball and are incredible dancers*, is a story where the entire thing is one interminably long [usually poignant] expository monologue. I don't CARE if one of your characters is unconscious and the other one has to tell him all about the events of the last month, dude. I mean, throw in a clutched hand, a few "I love you wake UP GODDAMNIT!"s or what have you, sure, but if someone's giving a damn speech in the hospital room, especially if they include information that no one would ever, ever say out loud, my interest flags. ["My interest flags", btw, is a polite way of expressing it. It's more like, "My interest packs a bag and goes on a lovely vacation to the other side of the world."]
Okay, but Frank and Arthur were a joke, except now I'm thinking about them, right there in the late fifties/early sixties with their horn-rimmed glasses and square haircuts, parted on the side, and crimsonclad pointed out that Arthur would probably already be obsessed with muggle things, which might be much more taboo than they are now, even, and Frank could sneak away and get him some muggle item - a bakelite radio or something - and then there could be some nervous kissing. yes. ahem. Really: where are the soul-scarring stories where Ron goes back in time and screws his father and his father's boyfriend all at once? Because clearly there's some sort of narrative gap we need to fill here.
*because men dancing are not sexy. And teenage boys dancing are especially not sexy. I mean, Harry Potter? Burning up the dance floor? I guess you could make the case that he's kinetically gifted [see, Quidditch] but while I willingly suspend belief for that beyond awesome story where Harry and Ron and Ginny and Draco form the most KICKASS band in the world and ROCK OUT the entire Great Hall, something in my brain goes on the fritz when expected to not only believe that Harry is capable of dancing, but looks, in any way, cool, while doing so. Yeah, I'm old school and criminally gender stereotyping, but: Men dancing? Uncool. This goes double if anyone executes a spin. This goes half for, like, spanish men of a certain age doing the flamenco. That is sexy.
Peaches: It is imperative to eat a peach by sectioning it with a knife - biting into it doesn't taste half as good as good clean juicy sections. If your peach is of the right ripeness, you can cut the sections and twist, and the whole thing will come apart off the pit, like magic.
I also own a couple dresses; I've discovered that showing up to something wearing a dress and little sandals makes people go "oh, wow, you're all..nicely dressed," but the reason I like dresses is because they're one piece. Dig out a bra, yank it over your head, you're all set; it's easier than a prison jumpsuit. For this reason, I am always on the lookout for dresses, for which I will pay real money, and then proceed to wear them twice a week until they fall apart.
Today, however, I am accessorized; I'm faintly worried that I'm OVER accessorized, as I am wearing earrings, two bracelets, and a neck scarf. I am also wearing a raspberry colored top of dubious appropriateness, since it has a tendency to slide down until half my bra is showing, and this morning as I walked past some guys putting stuff in a truck, all activity halted while they politely stared at me. It was a tiny side street, so there was no other activity beyond a few birds poking at a bird feeder, and motionless guys, waiting for me to pass them. I couldn't decide whether to make eye-contact, or what, since I customarily eschew eye-contact with oglers, but, on the other hand, it was a TINY street, and thus kind of actively difficult to avoid eye contact, and, in addition, ogling is a very strong word for what they were doing. It was, while not subtle, not something that necessitated stalking past with my nose in the air, unlike the protesters outside the Planned Parenthood every Wednesday [and now every Tuesday and Thursday, too] with their gigantic fetus posters, who really make me angry. [um, skip to the next paragraph now to avoid semi-graphic descriptions of right wing anti-abortion posters.] Don't like abortion? Go volunteer in an orphanage, and leave people whose health insurance doesn't cover their birth control pills [yes, don't get me started] to get their damn pills in peace. Also, here is the thing about your nine foot poster of a fetus: you know what? All medical procedures are kind of blood-spattered and unpleasant. I'm sure a nine-foot picture of a person's removed gall-bladder isn't exactly a thing of beauty. Yes, I understand the rhetoric around the fetus' little feet, but part of that rhetoric is definitely the accompanying gore, and I feel the gore is irrelevant. And by that, I mean that it's such fucking bullshit. Of course, I also look at the blown up tiny fetus, with its crushed little head in forceps, and think "well, wow, that's...so not a baby yet."
And what am I accessorized for, you ask? well, half the office is gone, and I plan to sit on my ass and screw around on the internet all day. And make exciting posts about the right way to eat peaches.
So, okay, everyone knows that Frank Longbottom/Arthur Weasley thing was more or less a joke, right? That is, the story I perhaps dislike the most in the world - dislike more than songfic, dislike more than a story where Draco and Harry suddenly start rocking out at the Yule Ball and are incredible dancers*, is a story where the entire thing is one interminably long [usually poignant] expository monologue. I don't CARE if one of your characters is unconscious and the other one has to tell him all about the events of the last month, dude. I mean, throw in a clutched hand, a few "I love you wake UP GODDAMNIT!"s or what have you, sure, but if someone's giving a damn speech in the hospital room, especially if they include information that no one would ever, ever say out loud, my interest flags. ["My interest flags", btw, is a polite way of expressing it. It's more like, "My interest packs a bag and goes on a lovely vacation to the other side of the world."]
Okay, but Frank and Arthur were a joke, except now I'm thinking about them, right there in the late fifties/early sixties with their horn-rimmed glasses and square haircuts, parted on the side, and crimsonclad pointed out that Arthur would probably already be obsessed with muggle things, which might be much more taboo than they are now, even, and Frank could sneak away and get him some muggle item - a bakelite radio or something - and then there could be some nervous kissing. yes. ahem. Really: where are the soul-scarring stories where Ron goes back in time and screws his father and his father's boyfriend all at once? Because clearly there's some sort of narrative gap we need to fill here.
*because men dancing are not sexy. And teenage boys dancing are especially not sexy. I mean, Harry Potter? Burning up the dance floor? I guess you could make the case that he's kinetically gifted [see, Quidditch] but while I willingly suspend belief for that beyond awesome story where Harry and Ron and Ginny and Draco form the most KICKASS band in the world and ROCK OUT the entire Great Hall, something in my brain goes on the fritz when expected to not only believe that Harry is capable of dancing, but looks, in any way, cool, while doing so. Yeah, I'm old school and criminally gender stereotyping, but: Men dancing? Uncool. This goes double if anyone executes a spin. This goes half for, like, spanish men of a certain age doing the flamenco. That is sexy.