There’s a reason green is the color of envy

January 18, 2011 at 4:33 pm (It's all about me, past)

Here’s what Angelina, Mila, Catherine, and Kyle Richards all know: there is nothing more glamorous than dark hair and emerald green. In fact, Catherine knew it before. And so did Angie. Hell, even Scarlett knew. You think that hat ribbon was an accident? Fiddle-dee-dee.

But as I was reading WendyB’s post about the fashion impact of Grease, I remembered my original brunette in green: Cyd Charisse.

Still from Singin' in the Rain (1952)

Debbie Reynolds is sweet in Singin’ in the Rain as the woman with the golden voice (even though that voice actually belonged to Betty Noyes) and this is undoubtedly one of the best of the MGM musicals of the era, but I watch the whole film just waiting for Charisse’s turn as a flapper seductress. When I saw the film again as an adult, I became obsessed. I ended up with a cashmere sweater in that color (since passed on to my mother because crew necks and boobies do not get along) and a slinky low-cut top. I even tried for a Robert Rodriguez dress but, alas, it looked terrible on my shape. I still search for the color everywhere, convinced that I am at my most attractive with a pale face, dark hair, and brilliant emerald somewhere on my body.

Charisse’s dance scene with Gene Kelly is here, but my favorite dance sequence with the leggy dancer is this one from The Band Wagon:


What is your most notable movie-influenced fashion choice?

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Thank you, Facebook

March 8, 2010 at 1:52 pm (On dating and mating, past)

The Head Injury is married.

It’s not that I ever thought things would work out between us, or that they could work out between us for that matter. It’s not even that I wondered with any real regularity where he was or what he was doing. It’s just that he was out there. I used to think of him as really something, but in retrospect, he never was. We were the people each of us needed at the time and that was all.

When I heard, I only felt…relief. Relief that the chapter is closed. Relief that he’s well and happy and healthy. Relief that I would never be tempted to wonder “what if”. Relief that I could stop looking back with rose-colored glasses and recognize that period of my life for what it was: a union as charged, charming, and fleeting as summer camp.

Have you learned that an ex is married? How did you react?

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…and to all a good night!

December 29, 2009 at 12:37 am (future, past, plays well with others, present)

Just taking a moment out of my jet-setting lifestyle to check in. OK, so it’s not really that jet-setting, but I have been all over the place more than anyone who isn’t visiting in-laws or extended family or promoting a book/movie/TV show should be. I got home from work last Friday, got into a car accident (no, really, we’re not even going to talk about it), got a sympathetic hug from hot neighbor (he shaved the goatee), downed three fingers of bourbon, hastily packed  a suitcase, didn’t sleep a wink, then took a cab to SFO and a plane to Denver.

Colorado Friend’s (devastatingly handsome) British husband and (devastatingly handsome) British brother-in-law picked me up at the airport with my dear, dear friend K in the backseat. I counted oversized trucks (this coming from a girl who grew up in farm country) while they continued a conversation about, well, morning wood. It more or less became a party from there. We baked cookies, went to Colorado Friend’s harp concert, reminisced, skied Breckenridge, played ping-pong, cuddled with the huskies, and laughed ’til we cried. I learned that “wanker” comes from the verb “to wank” (those Brits, they’re so terribly crass) and used admirable restraint when faced with a vintage Burberry trench for $90 (no amount of cinching could hide the fact that it was too big).

This evening I hitched a ride back to San Francisco from Mom and Dad, paused just long enough to enjoy a lovely dinner with them, then rushed home to not-so-hastily pack a suitcase so that I can sleep soundly, then take a ride from C’s mom to SFO and a plane to Portland where C and I will spend a refined-as-we-wanna-be New Year’s Eve.

In between there was time at my parents’ house where I rolled around on the floor with the dogs, took them for long walks, drove into the mountains for fresh air and perspective, worked up a sweat in a friend’s dance classroom, had lunch with my favorite girls from high school, met their yummy baby-smelling babies, ran into the Dangerous Ex’s family (minus Mr. D.E.) and was reminded, yet again, that I am so lucky to have known–to continue to know–the great people who populated my teenage years.

I’ve been rather focused on the present (not to be confused with presents, though I received a few of those too) for the past week and a half, which tends to lend itself to blog silence. Apologies, I’m sure you’ll agree, are not necessary because you all understand.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all of you out in the blogosphere (and to those to whom I owe an email, text, or phone call).

Until next year,


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November 21, 2009 at 12:39 am (favs, future, in my head, It's all about me, On dating and mating, past)

Long enough ago that it feels integral to who I am, someone called me a cold-hearted bitch. I don’t remember what I’d done or said, I just remember being terrified of soliciting that response again. I didn’t actually think I was a cold-hearted bitch, I just knew I never wanted to be called one.

Over the years I’ve learned what it really feels like to hurt someone. The kind where looking them in the eye breaks you into bits and “I’m sorry” doesn’t begin to cover how much you wish you could take back the judgment, the wound, the “you can’t do it” that should have been a “you can,” the peeling of a carefully constructed exterior to reveal exactly what they hate about themselves.

I canceled a date today over IM.

I hadn’t done it sooner because I was afraid it would be mean. The move of, yes, a cold-hearted bitch. Yet I knew, from the second I said yes to his fourth request for my email address, that I didn’t want to see him again. I wasn’t attracted to him and I didn’t find him interesting, but I let myself be talked into a date by all of the “give him a chance”s people were flinging in my direction. I let his interest in me (and it was Swingers-answering machine-messages-esque interest) be reason enough for me to feel that I should be interested in him.

I’d rather be alone.

I was 15 the first time anyone talked me into dating someone. The Dangerous Ex’s girlfriend at the time did the convincing. I remember liking the guy for approximately two minutes while enjoying free beer and the warmth of his jacket. Beyond that he was rude, pushy, obsessed with football, and dumb. More recently, I dated someone who deserved better. He wanted a small life in a big place with drive-in movies and red-sauce Italian food. He was kind and loving and my head fit perfectly under his chin, but I should have let him go months before I did. Something talked me into our first date…and then I talked myself into our second. He liked me. He really liked me. And for a time that was enough for both of us.

But I’d rather be alone.

This post isn’t about the dumb jock or the sweet kid or even the slightly creepy guy I was to see on Sunday. This post is about me. About finally realizing that I have to ask for what I want. And what I want is something real, something solid, something that requires no convincing. Someone I say yes to not out of fear of being called names, but out of a desire to know more. I want someone who interests me, not just someone who tells me that I interest him. Until then?

I’d rather be alone.

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The non-piggy flu

November 6, 2009 at 1:08 am (past, plays well with others)

Oooh, hi! Yoohoo! Yes, you! Remember me? I’ve been absent and I know you all assumed the hot neighbor whisked me off to Paris for a steamy weekend twisted up in extremely high thread count sheets, but alas, I’ve just been sick. Really sick. Feeling-like-death sick.

(And besides, the neighbor grew a goatee – making him un-hot – so I’ve resorted to staring at his ass.)

I was so sick that I actually had to talk myself into wearing a bra when I went to Walgreens for tissues and a thermometer. Full-on conversation arguing both sides. Out loud.

(I won.)

But while you all were doing exciting stuff like working and, well, getting out of bed, I was busy learning things. That’s right, LEARNING.

For instance, I learned that you can go a full day watching only Law and Order or CSI and their various spin-offs. And that there’s a whole show on Bravo devoted to a woman with an indefinable accent who takes over hair salons and makes them better. And that there are times when you might consider asking an ex-boyfriend to come over to hold you up in the shower. I said consider people. Sheesh.

Now on to other things.

So yes, there was Halloween. And we looked hot. Lots of men driving by while we waited two hours for a cab told us so. And they were obviously classy guys what with the yelling and the whistling. I can’t entirely blame them, I mean, I WAS wearing red lipstick. And, um, fishnets.



Someone in the course of the evening told me that your costume only works if people can get it without an explanation. If that’s true, then mine was a big fat fail, but here, I’ll try to help you out. Those light panels on my skirt are newspaper collages. Here’s one up close.


And those yellow strips on my wrists are actually fake wrist slits. And then on my head (not pictured) there was a fedora. Man how I love a fedora. Still not getting it? I’m not surprised. Don’t bother guessing, I’ll just tell you. I went as The Death of Print Media. It worked in my head, I swear. And did I mention that I got to wear a fedora?

Besides the whole sick thing, my post-Halloween week included a showing of Where the Wild Things Are (in true Dave Eggers fashion, it made me want to cry and then bite someone), some fun times chatting with a cab driver after I locked myself out of my apartment and had to cross the city (twice) to pick up spare keys from my property manager, and two mornings that began with my car going “clickclickclick” but not starting when I turned the key. Fun times, people, fun times.

I combated all this poo with the purchase of the new Michael BublĂ© CD. And I’m not even embarrassed. I blame the fedora.

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Protected: Relationship Mementos (again)

October 28, 2009 at 1:58 pm (On dating and mating, past, plays well with others, Uncategorized)

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Chez BS

September 14, 2009 at 8:29 pm (future, past, present, the fam)

What would a new apartment be without a good knockdown-dragout fight with the cable company? If my posts are particularly short, it’s because I don’t yet have the interweb at Chez BS. I can actually call it that now! It’s my very own beautiful, organized, wonderful place. Classic minimalist with a touch of modern glamor – that’s me. Or how I’m branding myself anyway.

Case in point: my new fridge. This is what it looked like on Sunday evening.

My bachelorette fridge

My bachelorette fridge

I’m still unpacking and placing and finishing, so no real pictures yet, but here’s what I must say. Must.

The Dangerous Ex ROCKS MY WORLD. Oh yeah, it deserves all caps. It seems I’ve found a second thing he does well*. Dude showed up on a Saturday to do 80% of the heavy lifting. Not only is he big and strong, but he was also part of a high-end moving crew in a former life. While I tried not to giggle as I heard “Pivot!…Pivot!…Pivot!” in my head, he knew just how to tip the sofa around the stairway railing and lifted my obnoxiously heavy bookcase with his little finger. (That last one might be a slight exaggeration.) He has never looked more attractive to me than he did when bringing up the heavy end of the mattress**. Hand to God. And I knew him when he was fresh out of Basic and in full dress uniform and I’d been at a women’s college for 10 weeks. Yeah.

And then!

And then.

And then he started bringing out the good tequila.


Also mind-blowingly awesome? My parents. On so many levels. If real friends help you move, then I don’t know what you call parents who help you move, go without food for most of the day, buy you dinner, and manage to dissolve into hysterical laughter somewhere in the middle. I have the best parents ever. That is all.

*The guy has a really lovely singing voice. Ahem.
**Yes, there is a heavy end of the mattress. It’s whatever end I’m not carrying.

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Because I can’t share my good news just yet, you get this

September 8, 2009 at 10:24 am (past, plays well with others)

You know when you had one glass of wine too many and said things you should have kept to yourself and are a little bit mortified that you said them?

I’m so there.

Sorry neighbors.

P.S. What’s with everyone asking me lately if I’d ever get back together with The Dangerous Ex? I don’t mind so much, I just find it interesting. The answer is no. Resoundingly. And not just because I think I’m the last woman to whom he was faithful.. Giving you all a more complete explanation would be disrespectful to him, a boy about whom I do care. A lot. Just not that way.

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August 22, 2009 at 6:39 am (past)


I hate anniversaries of the bad shit. What’s the point in allowing yourself to wallow? To remember that he left five years ago today? Or that it has been ten years since you received a rejection letter from your dream school? But I’m writing this in April and have been thinking about her every day for at least a week. And it hit me tonight that she will have been dead 15 years in August. This is the one – the anniversary where the years she’s been gone start to outnumber the years she lived.

I think she would be leading a quiet life by now. A kid or two, a nice man, a house in a small town. It would be the opposite of my single girl reality in the city. We might not have stayed friends. It might have become too hard. But still, she is the person I think about.

In the midst of every major milestone in my life, I have found myself taking a quiet moment to mourn the things she never got to do. Everything. EVERYthing. The good, the bad, and the naughty in my life. The mundane and the extraordinary. They are all opportunities to consider things she never got to do.

When she died, I broke with God. We’d had our falling-outs before, but this was a knockout punch. Even now, I’m still angry. Because angry is easier. Because anger is the only reasonable response to the truth that only the good die young.

There are four songs that remind me of her. I don’t like a single one, but if I hear it, I will stop and let it play and wonder what she is trying to tell me. Yes, really.

But mostly I think about enjoying a little more, loving a little harder, swimming or running or dancing a little faster, saying what I’m thinking, and jumping out of the goddamn plane. For her. Because she would if she could. And I can.

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5 Things That Make Me Feel Sexy

August 20, 2009 at 11:44 pm (It's all about me, On dating and mating, past)

Borrowed from Heisschic (because I cannot seem to let go of lists).

1. Wet hair* and freshly showered skin.

2. Chantelle bras (yes, I’m obsessed).

3. A manfriend’s hand on my back, just under the hem of my top.

4. Slow dancing. Or, ya know, dancing, period.

5. Solomon Burke and Otis Redding.

*The smell of Korres shampoos simply cannot be beat. Clean, light, feminine, and non-perfumey.

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