Saturday, February 26, 2005

Cover Girl

Sound rules. Certain noises always tendril around my spine when they meet me: the clop of horse hooves against a cold mountain stream, Saturday morning rain on the roof, the high sweet squeak of Dan Rather’s chair wheeling away from the anchor desk.

Let us also not forget The Makeup Noise, which is entirely the reason I became a woman when I grew up. The Makeup Noise is created when blush and eyeshadow and lipstick and foundation all clack together, constantly offering toasts to femininity in a lined little pouch. I place them there, I transfer the lot to a larger, even further accessorized bag, and I Am Female. Cosmetics: Even the name snaps along like the assured click of high heels. It is the loud rustle of ladydom, and care must be taken to collect the proper ingredients.

The face of any self-respecting woman over the age of fourteen should never resemble a kindergarten art project, which is why when I was in need of eye shadow I took my pushing-thirty self to that paragon of refined female adornment, Claire’s. Because when elegance matters, you should align yourself with the mall’s most prominent outlet of lime green butterfly earrings and multicolor hair glitter.

I outgrew Claire’s at least two graduations ago, which I plan to openly admit as soon as I stop looking for interview attire in the prom dress section of the Junior's department. I am constantly gratified to find that things are exactly the same as they were when I was in high school, if you ignore the fact that the stores never seem to stock banana clips and all the clothes are inspired by the Frederick’s of Hollywood Back-To-School Line and nobody knows who C+C Music Factory is.

There are also phones. They all have cell phones, these girls, and their primary function is to spread “like” throughout the land. I sat cross legged on the floor, a position which required me to go oof when I assumed it. I assessed my need for lime green sparkly mascara as around me flowed a by-Verizon therapy session.

Jasmine, it seemed, was experiencing a crisis of universe-altering proportions.

”Well, what did he say exactly? Was he like, ‘I don’t want to go,” or was he like, ‘I don’t think I want to go?... Jasmine! Jasmine, don’t cry!”

”Tell her she’s got us.”

“Jasmine, Ashley says you’ve got us.”

“Tell her he sucks.”

“Ashley says he sucks.”

I stared at a stack of light purple eyelash curlers: This was pathetic. When I was this age, my biggest concerns spun like the display rack before me through a regular cycle of attempted acne banishments, a losing struggle to develop basic driving skills, and unsuccessful publication attempts. Well. It’s certainly a good thing I’m--

Oh.

Crap.

“Jasmine! I told you, don’t worry, you’re in different homerooms. Wait, Ashley wants to talk.”

“Jasmine. Listen to the sound of my voice, Jasmine.”

I picked out two cakes of metallic eye shadow and a bottle of hot pink body glitter, both of which will serve me well at the next faculty meeting. They clacked together in the little plastic bag.

powdering at: blondechampagne@hotmail.com

Thursday, February 24, 2005

Social Notes

Friday last, Messieurs Matt Langrish and Dan Warmsby, of 427 Keenan Hall, Univeristy of Notre Dame, hosted a most delightful four-hour soiree featuring loud recorded music and large quantities of cheapass beer. Exclusively invited to the intimate gathering were a bunch of guys from Warmsby's 20th Century American Literature class eighty-seven percent of the entire freshman class of Saint Mary's College.

Preparations for the evening began as early as 7 p.m. on the day of the soiree, when Mr. Langrish took stock of his posh bachelor estate, enhanced this semester by a fresh coat of beige paint, liberally applied over the summer holiday by the renowned design firm University Maintenance. An open, airy effect was achieved by removing the four sweatshirts, large wad of cotton briefs, and eighteen Papa John's boxes from the floor and cramming them into the nearest available closet.

A dashing avant-garde theme was chosen to accent the festivities. Messieurs Langrish and Warmsby installed black-light bulbs and a magenta lava lamp, purchased the previous afternoon at the University Park Mall branch of Spencer's Gifts. These additions lent an enchanting accent to the gentlemen's antique furnishings, a magnificent Carter-era orange and brown nappy couch with several unidentified stains on the left arm, and a highbrow minimalist table fashioned from an ironing board balanced across two plastic crates.

Among the guests was Miss Amy Townsend, fetching in a completely unoriginal Abercrombie & Fitch knit top. Her roommate, Miss Lisa Whittier, opted for an earthier look, which consited of a completely sluttly pair of lowrise jeans and a "THE ONLY 4.0 I EARNED AT NOTRE DAME WAS MY BLOOD ALCOHOL LEVEL" t-shirt.

Accompanying them was a member of their biology lab group, Miss Brittney Martalis. No one remembers for certain what Miss Martalis wearing, although sources strongly indicate that Old Navy was heavily involved.

The temperature of the venue hovered around an enchanting 128 degrees Fahrenheit. An excellent vintage of Natural Light was served, along with a delicately mixed libation consisting of Watermelon Schnapps and lime green Jell-O.

"A shockingly bold taste, with a marvelous, plummy bouquet," evaluated a party-goer who gained entry to the sparkling assembly by assuring the student standing guard at the door that he kind of knows Mike from freshman orientation.

"YOU TOTALLY CAN'T EVEN TASTE THE ALCOHOL! IT'S LIKE I HAVEN'T BEEN DRINKING AT ALL!!!!" added Miss Whittier, who then asked the fourteen people nearest to her if they thought it was really hot in here, too.

The guests were serenaded by, among other notables, Dave Matthews and his Band, Miss Donna Summers, Messieurs D.J. Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince, and Dexy's Midnight Runners. Attempts to move about in time to the music with some semblance of rhythm was ventured for a time and enjoyed by all.

The evening was brought to a glorious denouement when everybody got out after the last Natural Lite disappeared and "Hey Ya" was played for the 54th time. Mr. Langrish judged the gala an unmitigated smash.

"Next time," he said, "we'll have a strobe light."

rock on at: blondechampagne@hotmail.com

Sunday, February 20, 2005

Aunthood

I vastly prefer aunthood to motherhood; it provides extended contact with ruffle-intensive, fuzz-headed babies without requiring me to actually produce one myself. It is an excellent plan: My sister shall take care of the hard parts such as having labor and weathering adolescence and denying permission to play in incoming traffic, and in the meantime, I will present the child with money and gifts on a regular basis. And so in addition to winning the adoration of a small, looks-somewhat-like-me child who’s already covering my lineage responsibilities, I will enjoy the added bonus of angering various siblings and in-laws.

As seen in the following side-by-side comparison, aunting is a fine and honorable profession, superior in many ways to actual motherhood:

MOTHER DUTY: Grow entirely new person
vs.
AUNT DUTY: Purchase napkins for baby shower

MOTHER DUTY: Push eight-pound object out of tiny, extremely personal orifice as several brand-new acquaintances look on
vs.
AUNT DUTY: Show up afterward at maternity ward with mylar balloon

MOTHER DUTY: Deal on frequent basis with output of variety of bodily fluids
vs.
AUNT DUTY: Pose with child for baptism photographs

MOTHER DUTY: Must explain to child that, contrary to child’s entire experience thus far, one is expected to pee AFTER one pulls one’s pants down
vs.
AUNT DUTY: Take child to zoo

MOTHER DUTY: Finance approximately eighteen years of existence
vs.
AUNT DUTY: Place five-dollar bill in annual birthday card

MOTHER DUTY: See to it that child is accepted into institution of higher learning other than Gun Repair Junior College
vs.
AUNT DUTY: Instruct child in proper assemblage of beer bong

I have found that children tend to be kind of high-maintenance. Apparently you have to watch them something like twenty-four hours a day, which could seriously cut into my nail-filing time.

Aunt Tink always knew she would be excellent at aunting. Jim The Baby Nephew, seriously, has seen nothing of the power of Aunt Tink. Aunt Tink will take her nieces and nephews on educational field trips to the mall and the cocktail lounge at the local airport. But Aunt Tink will not escort the children to the circus, because Aunt Tink is afraid of clowns.

Aunt Tink may always be counted upon to present the children with gifts that their parents would never, ever buy, thereby designating her The Cool Aunt. For those of you who also aspire state of Coolness, these gifts may include one or more of the following features:
•Paint
•The frequent emittance of loud, obnoxious noises
•Anything requiring ignition by open flame
•The words “Assembly Required” or “Sold Separately”
•Object breathing on its own
•Melt-intensive food items

I cannot be a mother; I am doomed to produce horrifying offspring. At age eight, I was officially and indelibly placed under the Just Like You Curse: “I hope,” my mother said ominously to me immediately following an episode involving maroon nail polish, a can of squirt cheese, and the carpet, “you have a little girl who is just like you.”

And the world certainly doesn’t need that.

an object breathing on her own at: blondechampagne@hotmail.com

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