Wedding Picture

Okay, so y'all know how in the South, we like to put every little accomplishment in the newspaper, right? So of course when you get in engaged you put in your picture and then when you get married you put in your bridal portrait with the entire run-down of your wedding from the names of your great-grandparents to the little old church ladies who decorated your reception hall, to the disgruntled younger cousin who passed out programs. It's W-A-Y too much information, but seein as no one in the South has ever met a stranger, why on earth wouldn't you want to share the most trivial details of an event to which they were not invited...surely everyone wants to know!

Anyhoo, in the past a good Southern girl would never allow the groom to tarnish her wedding picture, I mean he's really just there so we get to wear a big old princess dress and throw ourselves a party. His name can be mentioned if he is of a family of some repute, but otherwise is entirely superfluous. Lately though, we Southern gals have been getting all sentimental, or maybe it's that the grooms have finally grown tired of being relegated to the third line of type-face. Regardless, nowadays you find as many wedding pictures with grooms as without.

I think it's nice to have the couple together in the paper, but only if the picture is done well. For example, this would not be what you'd wanna do....



I mean, seriously? You gonna make this man marry you and carry your fat ass out on the beach and then put a picture of his chin in the newspaper? If he's really that bad lookin' honey, I feel sorry for your children. Now I don't know these two folks from Adam's dog, but I can tell you this marriage ain't startin off on the right foot. Whoever told you this was a cute picture (I'm guessing the bride's mother)was not being kind. Don't y'all just love lookin at folks you don't know in the paper? Makes it so much easy to talk trash without gettin caught!

SSW's

There exists a breed of folk whose presence manages to annoy the living crap outta me at a mere glance. This particular species is indigenous to areas like Cape Cod, Hilton Head, or wherever else Connecticut vacations. They are rarely seen in Manhattan, as country clubs with sprawling golf courses are hard to come by in Time's Square.

Yes, the Shoulder-Sweater-Wearers, a band of folks so tightly knit, their shirts can't leave home without matching cardigans. I loath them.

I just encountered one coming out of a Starbucks, disgusting, yet low-calorie flavored tea in her hand, Ralph Lauren shopping bag slung over her shoulder. Her entire outfit coordinated from her size 2 designer jeans, to her pink anchor embroidered flip flops. She was like a walking Land's End catalog, complete with simple ponytail and pearl studs. The three-quarter sleeves on her white oxford shirt trimmed with a small ruffle and complimented with the most unobtrusive taupe sweater tied around her neck.

Now I want to know, who the hell wants anchors on they shoes? Haven't y'all heard of Rainbows, the greatest flip-flop ever invented? You know she paid a hundred dollars for those damn things, and they ain't even leather.

I realize that I have personal issues with folks who tie sweaters around their necks under any circumstances, but seriously, on JUNE 21st?!? The rest of us runnin around in shorts and tee shirts and you're ready for a brisk autumn evening. Even on the off chance that you spend the majority of your day in an overly-airconditioned building, as so rarely happens using a window unit, you won't need cashmere!

Of course she was chatting away on her cell phone about how her credit card had such great benefits, and you only had to spend 20 grand a year! There was no discussion of how that 20 grand gets paid back, but then, I'm sure her bill is paid by her trust fund anyway.

The whole thing was disgusting. Disgusting I tell you! Made me wanna knock her over the head with a stick.

Preferably the one shoved up her ass.

A Word to the Wise

Okay, enough of that warm and fuzzy crap, let's get back to reality. I just said this to my assistant and I think I'm going to needlepoint it on a throw pillow because it just explains so much...mostly me.

I hung up the phone after yet another idiotic conversation with folks who supposedly work for my company but best I can tell play solitaire and collect paychecks, and I said,
"I really try to be reasonably pleasant...but I just can't."

I mean seriously, I can be just chipper as a chipmunk all morning and then I step in the door here and barbs start to fly. It's not my fault that the world is overrun with morons and 98% of them interact with me on a daily basis. It is also not my fault that none of your neurons fire frequently, it's your momma's fault you're stupid so don't come cryin' to me. I can hardly be bothered to do my own job, why the hell would you think I'd want to do yours just because you can't string together two coherent sentences?

I mean to tell you, I don't know how these folks make it through the grocery store, let alone the corporate world! And my very favorite of all the assholes are the ones who have the nerve to speak to me like I'm the one who doesn't know what's going on. If you will just do what I tell you and shut the hell up, things will go a lot smoother for both of us.

If, however, you decide to take your life into your hands and challenge me to a battle of wits, just know that you will be barely recognizable when you return- if you return. Honey, if you ain't got no ammunition, you'd best not throw the gauntlet. Nothing makes me feel better than knocking the sass right outta your ass, and seeing as how I am not one of those folks who needs everyone to like them, I have no problem slashing you with my razor-sharp tongue. Upper management frowns upon such behaviors, but they mostly try to stay outta my way at this point.

All that to say, if you are thinking of annoying me today, it is in your best interest to pick another day as I am currently full up with new assholes to rip.

Thank you and have a nice day.

A Father's Day Memoir

Remember when you were little and your dad was the strongest man in the world? If it needed to be built, fixed, lifted or carried, he was your guy – the strongest man in the world.

This was back when mastery of the remote control belonged to him alone, and not just because he insisted on muting all commercials. Back when he could slay all the monsters under your bed and put together your 100-piece jigsaw puzzles with ease. This was when you really believed that the swing set he built you from scratch was actually a gift Santa left at the hardware store, and the reflection off his watch face was Tinkerbelle dancing on your wall. He kissed the boo-boos, read the books, played the games, and videotaped the recitals that made your childhood.

Dad, the strongest and smartest man in the world...just ask him. I mean, who at age 8 wouldn’t rather learn the algebraic way to solve a long –division problem? So what if your teacher wants you to “show your work,” Dad knows the right way. The science fair? Forget about your painted Styrofoam universe, he’s got an experiment so fantastic he’ll do it for ya! Oh, and you will win the pinewood derby, it’s a matter of pride.

Back then, Dad’s was a lovable dictatorship, whose ruler governed without opposition based solely on premise that he was your father, he loved you, and he was always right.

That was back then, but that was a long time ago.

That was before you began playing music too loudly and hanging out with kids that were going nowhere. Before every question was an inquisition and every answer defiance. During those times, of course, he was the most unreasonable man in the world; the one who didn’t understand what you were going through and whose mission in life was to bring misery to yours.

How dare he ask you to set the table or mow the lawn? God forbid he ask you where you were going, and a curfew? What was this, communism?

The adolescent’s struggle with the wisdom of authority is as old as authority itself and never fails to manifest at just the age when wisdom is needed most. It’s as if one day we wake as teenagers seeking to butt heads with every adult we encounter, and the first encounter is always with Dad. And so we waste a good five, maybe 10, years with arguments about politics we know nothing of, and lifestyles we can’t even appreciate. We fight for the sake of fighting, figuring it’s what we’re supposed to do, and forgetting what it was like to communicate using inside voices. It was like we were speaking two different languages, and maybe we were.

If I’d only learned sooner how to translate, the angst I could have saved us both. If I’d only known that my way is the right way, meant I don’t want you to suffer the same mistakes, or that stop dating that loser, meant please don’t replace me, and why do you wanna live in that crappy place, meant, I miss you, please come home.

Why no one tells you how to listen and why it’s so hard to figure out, I’m not sure. But once you understand his language, the world seems to right itself from the cock-eyed perception of your teenage years. It’s never until you’re an adult that you see just how hard every step you took was for the ones walking behind you, and watching you fall, even once, was more heartbreaking than they could express.

I’ve been an “adult” I suppose for years, and though I’d begun to understand the language, it wasn’t until I got married that I got the full picture. In the movies, fathers only complain about the wedding costs and the ridiculous overuse of tulle, and in real life the price per head is still a point of contention, but it’s not the biggest one by far. Turns out, fathers would pay triple the cost to avoid the day they have to give their little girl away, and all that griping is just to distract themselves from one of the toughest parts of their jobs. But if you can pry yourself away from Bride’s Magazine long enough to look, you can see it in the little things he does during that time- the way he arranges the centerpieces or helps shop for the flowers, his stress over his speech, or the time he spends scouring the Internet to find the perfect song for your father-daughter dance. You’ll know by the way he looks at you in your dress, half proud-half nauseated, and the way he won’t let go as you line up for your entrance.

On my wedding day, my father was perfect- he charmed the guests, he gave the speech, he smiled for the pictures…he paid the bill. But most importantly, he held my hand.

He held my hand, and he kissed my cheek, and because I asked him to, he gave me away. At that moment, just as he turned to leave, I saw again the strongest man in the world.


I love you, Daddy.
Happy Father's Day

Mini Melt-Down

And so today I had what can only be called a mini-meltdown. There was no great built-up to this event, unless you count the fact that I was in my hell-hole of an office, attempting to communicate with people whose mantra is, "if at first you don't succeed...oh well." Oh, and I'm leaving tomorrow to spend 5 fun-filled days standing in a store somewhere deep in the Heartland, not a bar in sight. Add to that, my 3-day headache caused by the kink in my neck I can't afford to have chiropracted out, and I was hot, and I was hungry. But nothing out of the ordinary.

So anyway, this little fool at work tried to give me some sass, and I nipped that in the bud quick, fast, and in a hurry. And then for some reason I was possessed to call my apartment management office and make an enquiry, and don't you know that girl took a tone with me.

Well that was just enough.

I had to hang up on that Ho-Dog-B and when that wasn't enough, I threw the phone across the room. (the office phone of course, because I don't have to pay for the replacement)

Contrary to popular belief, Queenie is not prone to such physical outbursts, as I prefer the sharp-tonged retort. But I have to tell you, every once in a while, throwing things feels good! Just ask my friend Homeslice, she's a slammer from way back, and I used to give her a hard time but now I realize she's on to something.

I tell you, when that phone sailed into the wall, my assistant (God bless his sweet heart) he sat right up at attention and nearly ran out the door to get my Diet Pepsi, which he knows balances me everyday by 11am and which I was 20 minutes overdue in consuming at the time of the incident. My boss came rushing in to remove all hurl-able objects from my desk, and for the rest of the day found other people to bother with incessant questions.

Huh, turns out this crazed tantrum shtick really works...why on earth haven't I tried it before? Let me be clear though, before y'all go shattering office supplies at will...this must be a very rare occurrence. Not because I'm advocating a sense of decorum or anything so ridiculous, but because if you melt-down on a regular basis it loses a significant amount of impact. I dare say my jaded assistant would have batted an eye had he not genuinely feared for his safety, and if you throw and miss often enough, folks are gonna know you're just showin out, and then you'll just look silly.

So, all I'm sayin is, I have discovered the fulfillment in smashing objects into the wall, but have also found the wisdom to determine when to stay calm and when to let fly! Pick your melt-downs wisely, time them for greatest impact, oh, and only throw things you never want to see again;-)

The Guilt/Gift Strategy

What is it about dirty socks, can anyone tell me? Why is it that dirty socks cannot manage to get themselves into the hamper and must instead lay in the middle of the floor waiting to be picked up by the dog and carried about the house? Dirty socks, clothes hangers, shoes, and empty cups just cannot seem to stay where they belong. Does this happen in your house too? To be sure, I don't have the only unruly household objects.

I suspect the misplacement of unwanted things has something to do with my husband, or perhaps more appropriately, nothing to do with my husband. It's quite incomprehensible to me how he can walk right over a dirty sock and the thought of picking it up will not even cross his mind. It's as if his selective hearing has spread to his other senses. I had assumed this was a common Y-chromosome phenomenon, but every time I try to talk to my girlfriends about it, one of em will start carrying on about how their Y-chromosome is so tidy and makes the bed and cleans the bathroom. I said, marry him honey- it'll change. Y's are always on good behavior during the wooing process, but once the rings go on, the gloves come off!

Now I know y'all are thinking, but Queenie, haven't you got him trained yet? Girl, what have you been doin? But not to worry darlins, I have it well in hand. You see, I have found that having Sweetpotato do the housework unsupervised never ends well. He has many, many talents, but dish washing ain't one of em, so I'd prefer to just do it myself and employ my guilt/gift strategy. Guilt/Gift Strategy? Yes darlins, it's incredibly effective, just ask your mother.

Take for example last week when I returned from a very long work trip to Las Vegas, only to find a sink full of dirty dishes. Did I kick and scream? No. Did I whine and pout? No. What did I do? Well first I acted as if nothing were out of the ordinary and I was just so happy to be home (which I was of course). Then I bided my time. A little later I showed Sweetpotato a picture of a ring I really want, at which point he snorted "yeah right" and went back to working on his computer. So then I carried myself into the kitchen and began scrubbing dishes. About half an hour later, when SP realized he hadn't heard anything from me in a while, he calls out to find what I'm doing, to which I reply "trying to get the ketchup off your plate from last week," in a slightly-harassed-but-I-still-love-you voice. He then shamefacedly appears in the kitchen to find me sweating, hair hanging pitifully around my face, and scrubbing with all my might. (remember, a little dramatic effect never hurt anyone). It is at this point that I ask, "so how's that ring lookin' now," to which he astutely replies, "pretty good."

You see ladies, it's all part of my guilt/gift strategy. I'll put in the time but in the end, you will pay. The Y's time is best spent forming a close, personal relationship with the owner of your local jewelry store. It's not necessary that the Y learn to do all the household functions to perfection, it is only necessary that he learn your ring size.

A Little Blogkeeping

After the longest week in recorded history, I have returned to you. Y'all miss me? I guess you didn't miss me as much this time, since Fashionslave and the Queen Mum were kind enough to keep you entertained. I'd first of all like to thank them both for their time and attention, but of course I have a few things to add.

Fashionslave's diatribe on the wearing of age-appropriate clothing is most certainly an important lesson for us all. And while I do agree with her on all points, I must confess that there is a certain backless, strappy number in my wardrobe with which I simply cannot part. Granted, the last time it saw the outside of my dresser drawer was years ago when I was first dating Sweetpotato. It made one grand appearance (and incidentally there was pole dancing that evening)and has never been heard from again. Obviously it served the purpose at the time, and now I keep it solely to be able to prove to my children that I was hot once upon a time. Okay, and I also try it on occasionally just to see if I still can but I NEVER wear it out of the bedroom because the sight of flab squeezing out from between hot pink elastic straps is not so much sexy as nauseating.

Now, on to the Queen Mum. Okay, so aside from her lack of fact-checking pointed out by my harshest critic before she realized it was my poor mother she was harassing, hurricane preparedness is an excellent topic. I did have to pause, however, at her grocery list. You see, I was a child raised on whole wheat bread and apple sauce. For the longest time I thought "candy" was the dehydrated pineapple in the health food store. The Queen Mum wasn't really hippy-dippy or anything, but she read (probably in Reader's Digest) all this stuff while she was pregnant and was determined to raise me free of chemicals, sugars, and white flour. My first birthday cake was decorated with carob chips for Christ's sake, so when she's talking about beer and cheese doodles, I have to laugh. While I agree that they are excellent hurricane food because you don't have to worry about them going bad, seeing as they're stale already, I can tell you with absolute certainty that my childhood pantry never even saw a cheese doodle, not even one. Not a Chef Boyardee, not a Chips A-Hoy, not a Beenie Weenie, though the Mum did make her own bean concoction on occasion. Apparently she got tired after me and started pumping the other kids full of junk cause it was easier. From the sounds of it, I'd much rather weather a hurricane in her house today, cause I can assure on the 3rd day of no power and carrot sticks, the situation is considerably less fun.

And finally, I'd like to send out wishes for a very Happy Birthday to one A. Newspaper, a frequent blog commenter and long-time friend of mine. Yes, Newspaper and I met in the 6th grade and have remained friends ever since, at times in spite of ourselves. She's also just gotten some big, fancy new job, so congrats to her on that as well. Have a fabulous day with lots of cake and cocktails!!

Hurricane

Queen Mum here again. I would have written sooner but my cable and internet along with my cheap voip phone were out for a couple of days. Why you ask. Because June 1 is the beginning of the hurricane season for those of us along the southeast coast. And lo and behold there was a storm a brewin'. "Barry"(the new practice of naming storms after men in the name of gender fairness is another topic all together) formed in the Gulf of Mexico and made his way through Florida and up the coast. Of course by the time he arrived here it was just rain and a breeze. All the same we lost power and other "necesities". You see for us hurricane season is a big deal. We must be ready. And having dropped expanded cable years ago and getting through my weather channel addiction I had no idea what was happening. Imagine my panic when I walked into the grocery store. No milk,bread or peanut butter not to mention the AA batteries. For years we had no storms,but then we got clobbered several years in a row. And while last season was quiet the memories of not having any beenie weenies or cheese doodles in the pantry still linger. We Mums take great pride in feathering our nests againts the elements. So I'm off to the Wal-mart with list in hand-batteries? check. candles? check. Beer and cheese doodles? check,check,check.

Let's talk about...

Age appropriate dressing. I actually do have many other things i could talk about besides fashion, but since Q does know me as her stylist i figure it's only fair... and, i can't believe I let Queen Mum beat me to the posting punch!

A few years ago, i told my fabulous friends Queenan and Homeslice and that it was time to retire the going out shirts they most loved and pick up some new finds that accentuate...all the right places. i'm a firm believer that no girl over the age of 25 needs to take herself out to a bar in a backless shirt that is also cut down to there on the front side unless she's taking herself to dance on a pole. (for a living, not just for Saturday night fun at Jack Rabbit Slim's). It took a little fighting, but i think they've come around..or at least when they're going out with me.

Last summer I sent Kitty to Target in search of some of the Luella Bartley line to send up here. (in case you haven't heard, we here in NYC are not blessed with a Target...or a Wal-Mart, and as Q would tell you all good Southern girls deep down somewhere love a little Wal-Mart.) So literally, I was on the phone here in my high fashion office while Kitty was in an aisle in Target, where i made her go get a ruler to measure the waist and length of this little skirt before I let her buy it. When she pulled it out of her suitcase on her next visit I about fell to the floor because it was the shoooooortest little thing I've ever seen. But I have these friends who said "oh, but you have such great legs, you can totally pull it off!" On Monday, I wear it to work and five minutes into the day someone says "Um, don't you think you're a little old to be wearing something that short?" and... ouch. that hurts. Just because I have the legs for it does NOT mean I SHOULD be wearing it. In fact, probably no one should be wearing something that short after the age of oh, say... 12. So, it will sit in the bottom of my drawer until i have the heart to donate it to the local thrift store or my little twelve year old friend in Connecticut.

And then last week a roommate asked me "Is my outfit too young for me?" At first glance, i thought her skirt was the same length as my little Luella skirt. But then again, I am six inches taller than she is. So it's probably still okay for her. and thus age appropriate dressing.

Appropriate for your age is figuring out what fits--tight pants that show off every bulge or wrinkle do not fit. Shirts that accentuate that little bit of love handle do not fit. This could go on and on, but hopefully by the time you're old enough to read this you understand what looks like it fits when you look in the mirror and what looks like maybe you should pass it down to your little sister.

And in case you think i'm telling you to cover it up and start dressing like my grandma (bless her heart, she does love the sweatshirts with all of our names embroidered on it), let me assure you that i am not. In fact, I have only just in the past year or so started wearing things that show I have any sort of figure (or skin:) at all. But I am telling you to figure out what your assets are and to find some clothes that show those off in a nice, flattering way--not in a "look at me, look at me, come to me" kind of way. The point is to show it off and look beautiful, not trashy. and don't confuse the two, because trashy isn't beautiful, no matter how much attention you get.

and if you're really confused when you look in the mirror about whether it's okay for you to wear or not, it's probably not. but just in case, you can send your picture to Q, i'm sure she'd love that.

xoxo,
fashionslave