Back in black

Mama Bossy tells me that in order for me to fit in while I'm in New York, I will have to wear nothing but black. And while she does live almost as far from Manhattan as you can be while still living in the contiguous 48, I have learned from years of experience that she is generally correct in most things.

Today being Black Friday, it seemed like the perfect time to drag the Bossy Folks out for a little shopping. With what I bought today combined with a few new internet purchases, I'm amassing quite an array of better than basic black.

< girliness>

Like this coat...



















And this sweater...

And this dress...

Of course, despite the best motherly advice, I don't want to fit in too much. Which is why I just had to have these beauties.
< /girliness>

Desperately seeking sweaters

Winter's coming, and though we have to use quotation marks around it when talking about "winter" in Houston, the winter in Manhattan is very real. It won't be my first, of course. I spent the first 11 years of my life in New England, and 4 years of college in Wisconsin. However, I've spent the past 3 winters in H-town, and the 2 before that in North Carolina, so as I survey the contents of my closet I have come to the realization that I need an entirely new wardrobe to work at the Met.

The winters in Wisconsin were brutal. I remember piling on extra layers to walk the short distance from the dorm to class, and then immediately peeling them off the minute I got inside the overheated classrooms. I remember being too lazy to use a blow dryer and winding up with frozen solid hair. I remember snow drifts much taller than me that didn't melt until May. You would think I'd have a whole winter wardrobe from that time, just sitting in storage waiting for me to need it again. This, unfortunately, is not the case. I do have a fair number of sweatshirts, which I seem to remember pairing with pajama pants to go to morning classes (*cringe*). Also scarves—I was a singer, don't forget. But most of my cold-weather wardrobe has been given away, either because it was too big or too unfashionable or both, so I need to start from scratch.

I'm thinking lined wool pants, high-heeled boots, button-up shirts, and soft v-neck sweaters. But you probably know better than I do...what are the NYC ladies wearing these days?

In critical* condition

This was supposed to be the summer I got hot. I'm not referring to temperature. I'm talking about the svelte, slim-hipped model type I'm convinced is trapped inside of me, currently sulking and bringing home report cards that say "not working up to her potential," but just aching to break free and prance around in size-4 pants. This summer (the one that's almost over) seemed like the perfect time to let her out, given my employment status and copious free time.

Unfortunately, the situation seems to have taken a turn in the opposite direction. My gym attendance has been sporadic at best, and despite optimistically signing up for a month of Bikram Yoga, CameraMan and I only went to 3 classes before deciding it was too cruel and unusual for us.

And then there was the eating. Some of it was trash: the occasional Vienna Inn debauchery and the all too frequent Chick-Fil-A lunches. Most of the eating, however, was done during incredible meals with friends. It's been a decadent summer. Mussels and frites with The Wise(ass) Soprano. Getting back to my roots by cooking Bratwurst and Rotkraut and Kartoffeln for CameraMan. Picnics at the Filene Center. Tapas with MuseumGirl and then again after a Spy Museum outing with CameraMan, Wise Soprano, and Diva-in-Training: dates wrapped in bacon, chorizo with garlic potatoes, monkfish with eggplant puree, and anything we could get our hands on that came with their amazing alioli. The list goes on and on.

It's all been delicious, but it's taken its toll. It's clear to me that the only reasonable solution is to stop eating for the month of August.

Just as soon as I finish these curly fries.

*critical ass adj. The stage in fat accumulation when fabric can no longer contain the enormity of one's buttocks.

Living the dream

I've been craving magazines. Thick glossy fashion pages, trashy celeb gossip, over-intellectual pieces printed on recycled paper, reviews and profiles and ads…I want it all. Maybe it's a direct result of my early 20th-century novel burn-out (3 down on my book list, 97 to go—I'm officially taking a little break), or maybe it's just a side effect of living the life of leisure. I've been somewhat successfully ignoring them in grocery check-out lines, instead being content to daydream about which subscriptions I'll splurge on this fall (at the moment I'm thinking The New Yorker, Women's Health, and Domino).

I had just about reached a breaking point, succumbing yesterday and buying the Atlantic Special Fiction Issue. And then today I got the most glorious, perfectly-timed package in the mail. Before I left for the summer, I got a private mailbox in H-town, but I keep forgetting to have them forward my mail because I pay all my bills online. I finally called them Monday to get the past 6 weeks' mail, which, as I discovered today, contained almost exclusively magazines: 5 weeks of Entertainment Weekly and a Vanity Fair with my (gossip) girl Blake on the cover. I'm in magazine heaven.

The BossiPod's playing the "My Favorite Ladies" playlist, the Bossy Cat's dozing with her chin on my arm, and I'm drinking lemonade and eating green grapes with Cabot Extra Sharp Cheddar, happily ensconced on the couch surrounded by magazines.

Unemployment has its perks.

Virtues

loyalty.
willingness to eat anything wrapped in bacon.
bossiness.
tendency to belt shout tunes in the car.
bootyliciousness.
sarcasm for any occasion.
compassion.
naturally wavy hair.
impeccable taste.
perfect "that's what she said" timing.
easy laughter.
mad tap dancing skills.
respectable alcohol tolerance.
cuddliness.
perfect 20/20 vision.

See, it's not all bad.

Vices

fondness for juicy gossip.
willingness to eat anything wrapped in bacon.
propensity for daydreaming.
moodiness.
lack of willpower.
inclination to swear at other drivers.
laziness.
addiction to iTunes.
weakness for sweet talk.
xenophilia.
tendency to overspend.
impatience.
habit of shouting out answers during game shows.
readiness to cry at the drop of a hat.
susceptibility to all things pretty.

The sun whose rays are all ablaze

I have a love/hate relationship with the sun. Love lying by the pool, hate sunburn. Love the dusting of freckles on my nose and cheeks, hate getting sweaty on the short trip from the door to the car. And while every summer I have trouble relinquishing the dream of becoming a bronzed goddess, unless I get so many freckles that they merge into a tan, it's never gonna happen. I have too little pigment in my skin for the real kind and too little patience and skill for the fake kind. Instead, I have to comfort myself with SPF 50 and photos of Nicole Kidman. Yeah, yeah, pale is beautiful. Skin cancer is not. I get it.

This morning I woke up still aching from moving all my stuff out of my apartment on Sunday. I figured it was a good idea to push through the soreness by going for a quick jog outside. I ran for a bit and then switched to walking. When I was almost home I started feeling dizzy and faint. I laughed it off, but ended up having to sit down on the nearest curb to keep myself from blacking out. I finally stumbled up the stairs to the apartment where I'm staying and collapsed on the couch with a bottle of Gatorade. When the nausea eventually subsided, I fell into a deep sleep and didn't wake up again until about 11:30.

Sun, 1. Little Ms. Bossy, 0.

In the late morning I showered and got ready to go out. I parted my wet hair on the left side like I always do, only to discover that my sunburned part (courtesy of the Art Car Parade) had moved to its next stage: peeling. Ummm...gross.

Mess with my exercise regimen? No problem, I can take it. But mess with my hair? Them's fightin' words.

I haven't devised an adequate payback method yet, but I do know one thing.

This means war.

No more pencils, no more books

Today was the first day of my summer vacation. Nowhere I had to be, nobody expecting me, nothing pressing on the agenda. Most of my day was spent in long spells on the couch, punctuated by trips to run invented errands.

I've finally (just about) made my peace with my unemployed status. My summer plans are shaping up. For most of the summer I'll be at Wolf Trap, pretending I work there but spending all my time at the pool. I'm planning to fill the rest with trips to Oregon to visit the Bossy folks, Central City to see The New Oregonian and Little Ms. Hardcore, Santa Fe to take in the sights and check in with CaliBoy, and L.A. for The Wise Soprano's opening night in September. And, to stave off an outbreak of couch-itis, I have a long list of projects to accomplish. Studying next season's operas, learning how to use my new camera, making a website, and writing as much as I can...I don't think I'll be bored.

As much as I'm looking forward to visiting friends all over the country, there are 4 friends in particular that I can't wait to see again. I'm referring, of course, to Charlotte, Miranda, Samantha, and Carrie.



I'm not sure I can express in words how excited I am about this movie. I am not ashamed to tell you that I tear up every single time I watch the trailer (and that's more than twice, in case you're wondering). And while I know the opening weekend promises to be an estrogen overload, I will be there with bells on, contributing my own estrogen to the mix.

I might need new shoes.

Illinois is for lovers

There are two things you can always count on when the Best Friend and I get together: 1) we will go shopping and spend more money than we plan to; and 2) we will consume mass quantities of chocolate and other sweets, often in lieu of a normal meal.

Yesterday was certainly a prime example. We spent most of the day shopping. The closest shopping to the Best Friend is an outdoor mall in Skokie. Yes, that's right, an outdoor mall. I don't know what would possess someone in the suburbs of Chicago to build a mall where you have to go outside to walk between stores, but we braved the cold, all in the name of contributing to the economy, obvs.

The Best Friend and I have a rhythm to our shopping that we can never quite duplicate with other friends. Our endurance is greatly heightened. For some reason being together enables us to hit more stores with fewer breaks. This leads, of course, to greatly increased spending. This used to be a real problem when we lived in the same state, but I don't have too much guilt about it now, since we see each other only once or twice a year (my most exciting purchases yesterday were this and this). For the Best Friend, on the other hand, the buyer's remorse is just part of the fun. Generally as she's trying something on and I'm telling her how good she looks in it (genuinely, too, because one thing we never do is give false compliments), she looks at the price tag and says something like, "I really want it, but it costs x. If it was just a little cheaper I could justify it… But look how cute it is. I love it!" This is my cue to say something along the lines of, "But it's black, so it's versatile. And when you find something that fits you so well, you should really snap it up." If it's a bigger ticket item, it gets put on hold. Then we move on to other stores, occasionally mulling over whether or not she'll go back and buy it. Inevitably she does, which leads us to the justification stage, in which we discuss the many uses for the item she has just bought, all the different things already in her wardrobe that will go with it, and all the situations that it will be just perfect for. All this will be repeated (for/by both of us) when we get home and try on all our new clothes for each other again. It may sound silly, but it's a routine we've developed over 10 years, and it works for us.

After our exhausting afternoon of shopping, there was really nothing we could do except go to Ethel's and eat chocolate fondue for dessert (see #2 above). It didn't hit us that it was Valentine's Day until we sat down.

Nothing says romance like sitting at a table for two surrounded by shopping bags, stabbing a gourmet marshmallow with a fondue fork and dipping it in chocolate.

There are Giants in the sky

I have something to say, and it may shock you. Are you sitting down?

Ok, good. Here goes...

Tonight…I watched the Super Bowl.

Yes, that's right. Me. And the Super Bowl. We're like this.

I saw it all, well, almost. I saw it all starting in the 2nd quarter. I saw Tom Brady get sacked a lot. I learned what "First down" means, and that the yellow line doesn't actually exist on the field. I saw the super-lame halftime show (Tom Petty? Really? Is this the Super Bowl in 1989?). I saw the wild card team pull through when nobody thought they would. I saw the stage manager for the Patriots (he was wearing a headset, so I assume he was the stage manager, right?) get frantic and walk off the field when there was still technically 1 second left on the timer. I saw numerous fans rushing the field before the game was officially over (we often have that problem at HGO, too. Our stage manager sometimes has to chase people away from backstage.) I saw the General Director of the Giants (he didn't have a British accent like ours, and he wasn't quite as articulate as ours, but who else could he but the GD?) giving a speech and celebrating.

Oh yeah, I'm pretty much a football expert now.

Although I have to admit, my favorite part of the game had nothing to do with football at all. No, my favorite part had a lot more to do with gypsies who think love is like a rebellious bird. Oh, and mousetraps.



And you thought sports and opera didn't mix.

You can't always get what you want

So, I was walking along the street today when a dress in a store window caught my eye. It was gorgeous, all fitted bodice, full skirt, gorgeous unforgettable floral fabric. I pressed my nose up against the glass and imagined myself snapping it up, wearing it on opening nights, people telling me I looked just like Grace Kelley, and me laughing slightly and saying, "Oh, this? Yes, I bought it in Vienna."

Then I noticed what store I was peering into.

It was Prada.

Sigh.