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Miss Peach

Like putting a good belt on a cheap dress


Friday, October 27, 2006

When I was in school, fall was the season of re-invention. New clothes, new school supplies, new resolutions to do all my reading and actually pay attention in math class. New Year's only took on significance for me after I graduated from college.

I still see fall as the time to make some changes, though, and this year I've decided to re-do the blog. I'm still planning more renovations, and I've already managed to lose my comments, but hopefully all will be rectified soon. You can't have it all, or so they say.

In the meantime, I'm off for a little happy hour action. Have a great weekend, everyone!

Dame Judi Dench

Monday, October 23, 2006

Say hi to my new roommate:

I’m not exactly a cat-lover, and given Judi Dench doesn’t pay rent or help with the cleaning or the bills, I still haven’t quite figured out how Gen talked me into agreeing to her. (Incidentally, Gen also managed to get me to agree to keeping the litterbox in the living room. She should really become a negotiator or something because if you knew me with cats, you’d know what a feat this is.)

I have always hated cats. I think they’re dirty, sneaky, and not very nice. I hate their claws and the fact that they scratch poles to sharpen them. I am completely disgusted by the fact that you don’t ever bathe them—they lick themselves clean. I’m going to let that sink in. They LICK THEMSELVES CLEAN. To add to that, every allergy test I’ve had has indicated I’m off-the-charts allergic to them. (I was barred from sleepovers at cat-friendly homes for most of elementary-school.) I’m a dog lover through and through. I know the two aren’t mutually exclusive, but I love love love dogs. And I hate hate hate cats.

But—and here, surely, is where Gen got me—cats catch mice. And if you’ll recall, we had a mice problem last year, a problem which continues to traumatize me to this day. I literally live in fear of more mice, and if a shadow so much as crosses the room, I am standing on the couch, whimpering, making noise to scare the hypothetical little fucker out of the corner so that I know if we’ve got one or not. (Yes, it’s as borderline psychotic as it sounds.) We haven’t had any for months, thankfully, but they can always come back. They reproduce really fast and they’re small and can fit through a space the size of a dime. (Ew. Ew. Ew.)

So little Judi is sort of the lesser of two evils, as far as I’m concerned. Do I like cats? No. Do I like mice? I’m making myself physically ill just thinking about them. I think it’s safe to say that I hate mice a whole hell of a lot more than I hate cats. And that, apparently, was enough to get me to agree.

Judi’s cute, for a cat. During the first few days we had her, I thought maybe this would turn me around and I’d become a cat lover. But it’s been a week, and I think it might be safe to say that while I do like Judi and she is cute, I don’t think I’ll start buying cat calendars and posters, or begin affixing pins sporting cats sleeping on books to my sweaters. Every two days or so, Judi seems to not be able to get enough of me, and purrs and snuggles and loves me, and it’s sweet. Also, Gen got a laser pointer and watching her try to get the red dot is hysterically funny. I feel a little bad, because the poor thing will never be able to catch the dot, but it’s GREAT mouse-catching training, and since that’s the only contribution Judi can make to the household she had better be ready if it happens.

I’m sure you’re wondering how she got her name. Well, when she was born (to Gen’s mom’s cat), she looked like this:

And for some reason, she reminded Gen of Judi Dench, so that became her name, and it stuck. Gen wanted to change her name, but her sister and I successfully talked her out of it, which is good, because if she had a name like Fluffy or Socks, I don’t think I’d like her nearly as much. And this way, when she’s all grown up, I can call her “Dame”.

Don't Ask Me That

Friday, October 20, 2006

For my first foray back into things here on the blog, I thought I’d address something that keeps happening to me, and has on more than one occasion had me eyeing the room for a window I could unceremoniously chuck myself out of.

Let’s start with the current trend of the empire waist. (Don’t forget that it’s pronounced ahm-peer by those in the know, such as magazine editors and the like, lest you spend a few minutes wondering what the hell your lunch companion is talking about. This will lead you to completely muddle the pronunciation henceforth into some weird hybrid of ahm-pi-eer but no one will really bat an eye.)

I’ve always thought of the empire waist as my friend. I’m one of those weird females who gains all weight in her stomach and has almost no ass and no real thigh- or leg-related issues. It’s all in the belly. (I know that to some who hate their butts and thighs they might think it’s not so bad, but try shopping for dresses with this particular physical makeup sometime, seriously. It’s a bitch. And don’t get me starting on going-out shirts.) For that reason, the recent trend leaning towards the empire waist has, until recently, made me so happy I’ve run right out and spent far too much on dresses with this waistline. Seize it while it’s here, you know? Because it’ll be all about the ass-tight mini-dress in a few months and then I will once again be fucked.

Suddenly, it’s dresses for Miss Peach! Two black ones, one with cool stripes at the bottom. Another in an eggplant color with details of funky, Pucci-esque fabric. They’re seasonless too—with sandals they work in warmer weather, boots in colder. Also, wearing them is about as comfortable as wearing a soft nightshirt. I thought I had won the dress lottery.

Flash forward to a particularly horrific work lunch with two crazy women, one of whom is legitimately insane. As soon as my colleague and I met them, Legitimately Insane Lady says, “Oh, you aren’t expecting, are you?” I, with a composed exterior, said, “Nope, it’s just an empire-waist dress,” and she apologized and we moved on to hearing about her ties to Indian aristocracy, who she lost her virginity to, and the plight of a few socialites I had to go back and Google. Seriously. So I could laugh that one off. The woman was a certifiable nutcase. She had no filter. Everyone at work told me how great I looked in the dress, so why listen to her?

Then, that evening on the subway, a woman made a big production of getting up and offering me her seat. I had my earphones on so just gave her a cursory shake of my head and did not take the seat. But, ouch. Maybe she was crazy too, but twice in one day?

Then, about a week or so later, I was at an event, wearing the dress with stripes at the bottom. It’s not as flowy as the all-black dress, so I didn’t have as many concerns about the looking pregnant thing. I was standing there stacking books on a table when the event coordinator gestured down towards the books (and my midsection) and said, “well, congratulations!” Now, the book in question had done extremely well, having just crested to the peak of it’s success, so I just looked down at the book and said, “I know, it’s so exciting to see it do so well!” and then asked a question about some inane thing as a little bit of me died. Afterwards, two friends there came over, told me they LOVED the dress, especially the bottom, as it’s so “unexpected.” They’re sweet. But a complete stranger had just congratulated me on the impending birth of my (nonexistent) child, so it didn’t really help.

OK, fine. So the empire waist makes chunky girls look preggers. Whatever. I can deal with that. I’ll just put the dresses that I overspent on and that I loved wearing into the back of my closet forever or until I lose a bajillion pounds. Problem solved. No more cute dresses, but no more being mistaken for a soon-to-be-mother. It’s a trade-off, but one I’m willing to make for my own sanity.

What I cannot deal with is what happened last night, at a cocktail reception for one of the two high schools I attended. I left after my freshman year (I’d been there since 7th grade) but have an extreme fondness for the place. I was a little apprehensive about the reception, though. I left the school so long ago, and though I’m still extremely close with a few classmates from there, they live in LA, not New York. So I was going into this without a wingman and with no idea if I would even know anyone. Normally I’m Susie Social, but this kind of freaked me out. I forced myself to go though, thinking it would be good to reconnect and hey, it’s a free glass of wine, right?

I got there, and it was okay. One classmate I remember came, aside from that I just glommed on to some girls who graduated a few years ahead of me who were kind enough to include me in conversation. About halfway through, I saw my old geometry teacher, now the head of the upper school, out of the corner of my eye. We walked towards each other, hugged, and said hi. She then gestured to my midsection and said, “now, is this your first or your second?” I was holding a glass of wine and legitimately thought she was asking how much I’d had to drink, until I realized she meant my first or second BABY. I just smiled and said, “oh, I’m not!” She then muttered something about how embarassing that was (for her or for me, I’d like to know?) and then we went on chatting.

I have to say, I held it together. But I wasn’t wearing one of the dresses. I was wearing a black skirt with a black sweater. Nothing empire-waisted or overly flowy about it. I wanted to die. I think I’ll be able to officially let go in another 12 hours, but it was awful. There was nothing to chalk it up to. Apparently I look pregnant 24/7, a fact that my lovely roommate violently disputed last night, and that the select friends I’ve told have reacted to with unequivocal denials. But still. They kind of have to say that as they know if they don’t, they’ll be on the receiving end of an unpleasant tongue-lashing.

Are these women just complete and total morons who had terrible mothers who never instructed them on social graces and did lots of drugs that have completely destroyed their filters? Regardless of if I have a belly, isn’t the going rule that you don’t ask, EVER, unless you’re SURE that person is expecting?

Going forth, I will wear no skirts or dresses, only pants. And as I blew all clothing funds on the dresses, this means I have to wear a lot of old khakis that will make me look really butch, but at least they won’t make me look pregnant. On the plus side, maybe this is why I never get asked on dates. Perhaps I’m ravishing, but men are afraid my baby daddy is going to kick the shit out of them if they approach. Or they’re just not ready to get involved with a single mother. They must take me for white trash, though, drinking lots while pregnant and all.