I want to complain out loud, right now, but I’m not. Because I’m going to read at least three articles for my Note and organize my iCal and my Google calendar. I do not have time to complain. About the kid who “has style, it’s just not yours” which is said while she’s dressed head-to-toe in an outfit I put together for her, half of which is mine. Or should be. Lately I’ve been channeling Joan Jett, which goes very well with this child’s style. Sure, she doesn’t like or wear everything I do, but I know her style. She robs my closet.
I let her try on my Victoria’s Secret Blue London pencil jeans (because if I see one more American Eagle swoosh-like thing on a back pocket I will burn my own), and I proceeded to put together her current outfit: the great Miss Sixty faux-leather motorcycle jacket (that I can borrow and I thought would look amazing on her and it does), her long sleeved black tee (I have my own already, thanks), and new (Thanks to who? Me. Yes, me.) short-sleeved Brad Butter tee to go over that. I suggested the black knee-high boots with tucked-in jeans and my burgundy multi-strand necklace. I would wear this outfit – and might I say that we both look good in it.
I similarly brought this child home a white long-sleeved tee with a black “I’m in love with a fictional vampire” short-sleeved tee to go over it (I’m totally borrowing this, I don’t care how ubiquitous it is) and a Tryst brown and aqua long-sleeved tie-dyed tee . . . mmm, no. That is now mine. I look good in that shirt. With my brown scrunch knee-high boots? Give me back the Blue Londons.
Clearly, my point is that I have great style I am the definition of über-hip she’s just unthinkingly reactionary as are all 14-year-olds you don’t define your style as Anti-Mom while you are dressed in your mom’s stuff. Moron. But I’m not complaining. It gives her something to say and sometimes (read: never) she’s just too quiet. I just hope she looks good today and tomorrow. (And I know she will, because I freaking dressed her.)
However, what rocks my Consumer World today is the point of this post:
(1) Sherlock Holmes. This is an enjoyable movie. Do it again, Guy. Do it again.
Aside, from Dinner at Eight, Frasier:
Niles Crane: Oh, oh-oh-oh, the food is to die for!
Martin Crane: Niles, your country and your family are to die for; food is to eat.
And then, like Oprah, I have a few favorite things:
(3) My B. Makowsky Rebel bag. I can’t stop touching it. It’s amazing. The leather. The hardware. I’m bringin’ back big bags. (To my gay friend: “Look, look: I look like Nicole Richie in pencil jeans with a bag two sizes larger than I am!” Gay friend scrunches nose. “This is not a good thing.”) This bag, though? Good thing. He’s an idiot. Beloved, but even so.
(4) My Samsonite Black label Bayamo Doctor’s Bag. You shouldn’t stop touching it. (I did not, however, pay an exorbitant amount for it. But I might have. It’s that amazing.)
(5) Mittens and gloves, fingerless (warm and you can still do things with your phone – what is not to love?) and standard: long winter white fingerless mittens (like these), short black fingerless gloves, sorta long black leather gloves and I’m still looking for the right pair of opera length black leather gloves.
For the love of … It’s about information and affirmation of existing standards. Comforting noises, even.
Oy! Like all Law-Students-Writing-A-Note, I have Law-Student-Writing-A-Note Tourette’s. Halfway through writing this entry, that sentence – the idea really – begs me to write it down and translate it to a page and a half, if I’m good, of quasi-indecipherable language and like every Law Student who is only 17 pages into the 30 quasi-indecipherable ones required, I wrote it down right where I stood, which is here on this very page, lest I lose it. Or right where I reclined. Which is in bed. In pajamas. It’s very, very snowy out.
Oh look. It’s the genesis of Law-Student-Writing-A-Note ADD: something shiny! (Psst – it’s the hardware on my B. Makowsky. Yeah, baby.)