I did! I wore a necklace today. It’s black and fabric-y with fake pearls and I bought it from J. Crew. It goes down to my boobs and it looks pretty nice. I got for like $7, which is pretty much the top line I would ever spend on any accessories.
I’m only telling you this because it’s a pretty big deal. I don’t normally do accessories. Normally, the most I will do is a hat because it’s cold or a scarf… because it’s cold. All accessories are, to me, weather-based. If I am wearing a necklace or a bracelet, it’s kind of a national event. I sent out postcards to people to save the date. Don’t forget! Wearing a necklace today! No, that’s not at all true. I would never do that. Maybe a Facebook invite, but that’s really it.
I don’t know how other girls do it. Where do they keep them? I have a hard enough time with pants and skirts and shirts and underwear and socks (oh god, the socks) that I can’t even keep something as tiny and able-to-get-lost as a bracelet. Let alone earrings. Let me tell you something about earrings: I played soccer as a kid and you are not allowed to keep those in during the games. In the battle of laziness versus ear punctures, laziness won out. To this day the holes in my ears are closed up.
Here is a picture of one time where I wore a lot of accessories:
Look at that shit! That is so many accessories! I am also wearing a bracelet there, but you can’t see it. I am wearing not only a bracelet and a necklace, but I am wearing a motherfucking TIARA. WHAT THE HELL IS THAT. Can you believe that shit? Fuck yeah. I am the accessories queen. I also had a shawl that I wore. FUCK YES, THAT’S RIGHT. A necklace, a bracelet, a shawl and a motherfucking TIARA.
Sorry to say that my dominance over accessories was short-lived.
That’s me in Ireland. I am wearing a hat and a scarf. Because it’s cold. That’s normally how it goes.
Here, let me show you a picture of my NUMBER ONE ACCESSORY:
See that thing around my wrist?
Yup, it’s a hair band.
Right now I currently am boasting a black elastic Goody hairband around my right wrist. If I were ever to go to the Oscars, Joan Rivers (or whoever is doing it these days) would say, “Michelle, you are so fabulous and wonderful. Who are you wearing?”
And I would say, “Obviously I am wearing a dress by Oscar de la Renta and shoes by Louboutin and a hairband by Goody.”
"Fascinating," Joan would say.
"Thank you," I would say.
"I was being sarcastic," Joan would say.
"Shhhhuuuuut upppppp,” I would say and then stomp away, blinking back tears. “It’s really useful.”
So. Anyway. Next entry will be about how I can’t even manage to wear nail polish!
Can I just tell you that I love your posts? That I didn't know anyone else truly loved the Commitments? And jee wow. :)
You CAN tell me that! And I will probably get really happy and thank you publicly for doing so! I didn’t previously love The Commitments (as I had never seen it before) but NOW I DO. I hope there are others out there also. I bet there are. Mostly Irish.
P. S. Your posts are always gorgeous. Love, love, love.
It has come to my attention that Tumblr has decided to have me randomly unfollow people. This is kind of the equivalent of someone running up to you on the street with a me-shaped mask on and slapping you across the face and then running away while laughing maniacally.
SO. I didn’t do that.
I DON’T HATE YOU GUYS. If I used to follow you and it looks like I’m not doing it anymore, that’s probably not intentional. I’m trying to rectify the situation at the moment.
When you ask Americans about Ireland, a lot of us think of a cartoon leprechaun. Or maybe we’ll think about Guinness. Or maybe we’ll think about potato famines or U2 or whiskey or jigs or Saint Patrick’s Day. Maybe we’ll tell you we’re part…
I’m still kind of over the moon that this guy requested that I write about The Commitments for Reader’s Request Week. First of all, I didn’t think anybody would ever recommend me because my contributions to the site are spotty, erratic and mostly have to do with jokey defenses of Disney villainesses. Second of all, I got to write about Dublin, which I have been missing terribly as of late. I have been going through the entire Glen Hansard oeuvre and DYING. So I was just overjoyed that I got to write about this movie for the site, as I hadn’t seen it before.
A really brilliant film. My piece doesn’t particularly do it justice, but I tried real hard.
This song came on my iPhone on the way home tonight and I thought, “Goodness. This is it, isn’t it? All of the songs of the past 50 years have all been paltry runners-up to this. This is the pinnacle of what we are capable of, as a nation and a people. America, it was a good show. Humanity, hear the call. This song, this is it.”
Then I came home and drank unsweetened mint green iced tea and some mango and heated up a frozen chicken tikka masala meal from Trader Joe’s and thought, “Goodness. This is it, isn’t it? All of the food and beverage of the past 50 years have all been paltry runners-up to this.”
It’s 1:37 a.m. on the 4 train. You were on the F train headed from Bergen Street, but as soon as you left Jay St-Borough Hall, it flipped and started running on the C line with no warning. The trains to Brooklyn do this on the weekends; seemingly random service changes for no rhyme or reason. You are left to your own devices to navigate these waters on your own. Surprise! the MTA says. It’s late night on the weekend and there’s construction so FIND A WAY HOME, STUPID. There’s a man in polyester slacks and a Yankees shirt with aviator sunglasses who is combing his hair. He plucks the hair out from the teeth of the comb, letting it float to the ground in small black tufts. There’s an obese man across from you with large, watery eyes. He is covered in a slight layer of dirt that manifests itself as a yellowing—jaundice of fabric. A girl is next to him but not with him. She wears coral nail polish on her toes. The train comes to a stop. Train traffic, the announcement says. The circulated air swishes through the car unconvincingly. You nod your head down to your chest; you’re so tired. You want to be home. One more stop and you can transfer to the J train and then you can get to Essex Street and from there, it’s only a little over a half mile. And then you’re nodding off, dreaming of another time, another place. It feels so brief that it feels like it couldn’t even be a dream. How can it be a dream when you’re transported so momentarily? But there you are, you’re in another time and place with another person, a place you’d rather be, even if it doesn’t exist. And then the train lurches forward and you lift up your head and you lock eyes with the fat man. He was watching you sleep. There’s curiosity in his eyes for a moment before he glances away, quickly, like it never happened, like he was never watching you. The man with the comb sticks it in the back pocket of his pants. The girl with the coral nail polish sits and sits. You arrive at the City Hall stop, relieved.
“I cried sexily I just wanted 2 go 2 the commen room and slit my wrists with mi friends while we watched Shark Attak 3 and Saw 2 and do it with Draco but I knew I had 2 do somefing more impotent.”—Really, really, really tempted to submit My Immortal as my next submission for writing class. WHY NOT? IT’S BRILLIANT.
The Village was supposed to be a summer treat in the way M. Night Shyamalan’s Signs, Unbreakable, and The Sixth Sense were before it. It was supposed to be like an ice cream cone, Neapolitan in its blend of the blockbuster, philosophic, and idiosyncratic. A cone,…
Taxi rides are surreal. I usually never take them, out of principle. But then, whenever I am coming back from the airport, I always take them. Once again, out of principle. (The principle being that public transportation to and from the airport is always a nightmare.) My cab driver on the way to LaGuardia last Friday was a chatty Pakistani man with a shaved head and a long gray-and-red beard who looked a little scary but ended up being a sweetheart. “Atlanta, you say? I’ve been to Atlanta. My friends and I rented an RV and we drove from Atlanta to Florida.” He had lived in the city for 25 years (“Almost as long as you have been alive, right?” “Right,” I said, feeling strangely guilty.) He had married an American woman. Now they are divorced. “My wife, my wife,” he said. “She was my wife.”
This last cab ride was also surreal. In case you haven’t been reading the news, New York is hot. Very hot. My cab driver pulled up and plopped my suitcase in the trunk of his SUV hatchback. “The city?” he asked. “That’s right,” I said. “Downtown?” he said, like he was playing a game, trying to guess where I hailed from. “Yes, that’s right,” I said. He smiled inwardly to himself. Correct, both counts. Two points.
"On vacation?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "I went to Atlanta."
"Does your boyfriend live there?"
"No. I just went to visit friends."
He fumbled in the front seat for something and produced a small glass bottle of yellow liquid with a white label covered in fancy black script. He began spraying the front seat liberally and the scent of flowers filled the car. “Do you want this?” he asked and handed it back to me. I took it in my hands and examined it. Perfume. “Put a little on your wrists,” he said. “The ladies love this.”
Either I smelled, or he was trying to make my cab ride the best of my life. I wasn’t quite sure which. Maybe both. The hours spent on a plane is enough to wear down even the most fortified of deodorants. Although, it later occurred to me, maybe he was just trying to cover up his own scent.
The rest of the car ride was set to Bollywood songs that he blasted at full volume. “Do you know this? It’s an Indian love song,” he would shout as he adjusted the air conditioning to hit me in just the right way. “Where do you work? What do you do? Where are you from?”
I smelled my wrists and their scent and fanned myself in the heat. I reached over into my bag and saw him eying my chest. Was I being seduced or just being… serviced? The line is too hard to tell sometimes.