Viola is Russian. Her lips are dark, her nails and clothing exclusively black. She has warm blonde hair and a small frame. Her teeth are not perfect. The incisors overlap the laterals and they retain a warm yellow color, due mostly to the coffee and cigarettes she ingests daily. But Viola does not see her teeth as a flaw. In fact, she barely notices them.
This is because Viola is obsessed with her eyebrows.
Everyday, Viola wakes up two hours before work. She showers. She dries her hair. She eats a Nutri-grain bar. She brushes her teeth. She gargles. She applies her mahogany lipstick. She walks naked toward the mirror to check for patches of cellulite. Still dimple-free. Depending on her mood, she may make her bed. She dresses. And she sits.
She lights a cigarette, turns on Bette Midler's Greatest Hits and flips the switch to employ the 150 watt bulbs above her mirror. She takes in the moment with a deep inhale and a puff outward. She often inches her face so close to the mirror that her nose bumps into it and she has to angle slightly sideways. With the hand that isn't clutching the blazen Pall Mall, she picks up her 200 dollar pair of Shu Uemura tweezers, and she removes them from their plastic case. (They originally came in a metal one, but Viola worried that the metal would dull the tip). And everyday, she spends an hour and thirteen minutes looking for non-existent eyebrows to pluck.
She knew it was getting bad when her eyebrows started resembling Whoopi Goldberg's, but she couldn't stop. She would pull a single one out, then tap the mirror with the blade of the tweezer, leaving a remnant brow behind, clinging to the mirror by its root. Instead of satisfaction at having removed a stray, she felt she needed to remove another. And another. And another. Until, of course, the point came when there were none to remove.
So now Viola has had to invest in a very expensive eyebrow pencil. While very expensive, Viola has not quite mastered the art of the color-in, so usually one of her eyebrows looks slightly more arched than the other. Her appearance is rather off-kilter.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The Day I Hated New York
Its 9 am on a Sunday.
Let me set the scene for you. Two friends of mine are staying at the Waldorf. I go visit them on Saturday night, and we end up drinking wine. A fair deal of wine. Its late. I don't feel like catching a cab home, much less taking the six train up four stops, so I decide I'm going to spend the night with them.
The next morning is Sunday. Yes, THE Sunday in question. Now I hate Sundays anyways, with their promise of the Monday to follow, but I knew this one was going to be a real mess from the second I woke up. I wake up with slight hangover symptoms to the Waldorf wake-up call, which happens to be across the room from me and has rang at least 67 times. There is nothing, I repeat, nothing, like waking up to a hotel wake-up call. I mean, do they purposely choose the most loud and obnoxious ring, or is it law-required?
I get up and put my clothes from the night before back on, something I positively despise, which has certainly kept any slutty instinct I may have had at bay thus far in life. My contacts are all but stuck to my eyeballs and my hair is best described as a tangle of bleach.
"Hey," Justin yells from the bedroom. "Do you want to take all those bottles of wine with you? Cause we can't take them on the plane."
So while it is confirmed that we drank copious amounts of wine the night before, apparently we did not drink enough. I grab a paper bag that's laying on the floor, throw in the four bottles of wine plus a bottle of water from the mini-bar (they're staying at the Waldorf for heaven sake), give Justin and Christy hugs and kisses and wishings of a safe flight, and head out the door.
First of all, I kind of get lost leaving the Waldorf. I'm sorry, if you've never been I'm sure you're laughing, but this hotel is like, BIG. And we're in some private elevator entrance that leads to Lord knows where. Luckily this gives me time to kill 1/3 of my hangover by downing 5/6 of my 7 3/4 dollar bottle of water.
I arrive at the subway and, of course, it takes its merry time coming to pick me and my fellow uptown commuters up. And its full. Really, really full. I stand trying to balance myself, my huge purse, my bag of four full bottles of wine and 1/6 bottle of water, between a 12-year-old who has apparently already taken up smoking and an old woman of sorts. Side note: If you are a man and you do not offer your seat to the old woman, you have serious things coming to you dude.
So the subway gets stuck. I kid you not. It sits motionless and quiet on the track for at least five full minutes. Now I am aware that five minutes does not sound like a long time, but imagine sitting stuffed in a hot subway car with nowhere to move, carrying at least 25 pounds worth of materials and inhaling fresh cigarette stench. I can't decide which is going to happen to me first, a shoulder break or death by inhalation. My contacts are dry. My feet hurt from the heels I was in last night, and subsequently, am in this morning. There's a possibility I'm coming down with some sort of rare but deadly throat disease.
I finally make it past 68th street, Hunter College, and up to 77th. I anxiously push my way out of the subway and begin walking rapidly towards daylight before I have some sort of panic attack.
And that's when it happens.
Remember that 1/6 bottle of water I had left? That I so carelessly threw in the paper bag, filled with four bottles of wine?
It leaked.
It leaked on the paper bag.
Do you know what happens when paper bags get wet?
They break.
They break, and three out of four bottles of wine break with it. Right in the middle of the subway station. All over my silver dress from the night before, and my patent heels, and the floor, and some splashes on a a child, and there are four bottles worth of sharp glass strewn about, and I'm in the middle of it, and its all red wine so its not like it camouflages, and my bag is broken and I almost drop my purse and tears well up in my eyes and I think Oh My God I'm going to start crying in the subway and I stand there stunned because I have no idea what to do.
Deep breath.
I decide there is nothing I can do about the broken bottles. I don't generally carry a broom and mop with me on my journeys, so I look to the subway counter to signal someone that I need help and of course no one is present. I chalk one up to bad timing, decide my mental health is more important than waiting around for help, pick up my unbroken bottle, stick it in my purse, and take a step forward.
"Oh my God, are you okay?"
I whip around and find a young man gazing concernedly at me. Now then. I knew not everyone in New York was selfish.
"Yeah," I say with a feeble attempt at a laugh. "I don't think there's anything else I can do."
"Hmm. Well I'm glad you're alright." He says.
"Thanks. Have a nice day."
At this point I expect the young man to wander off into city oblivion, never to be seen or heard from by me again. But apparently he has other plans.
"Do you think this may have been a blessing?" He asks, as he follows me outside and east. "Do you think that maybe you're an alcoholic and this was your wake-up call?"
"Um, NO I definitely do not think that." Dirty look. Keep walking.
"Maybe you're pregnant and this was a higher power warning you."
"Um, NO definitely not that either." Scathing look. Keep walking.
"Don't you think you should consider, even for one second, that this is all a little part in God's master plan of telling you not to drink?"
"NOPE."
"Why's that?"
I spin around and reach into my purse.
"Cause he left me with one bottle."
Let me set the scene for you. Two friends of mine are staying at the Waldorf. I go visit them on Saturday night, and we end up drinking wine. A fair deal of wine. Its late. I don't feel like catching a cab home, much less taking the six train up four stops, so I decide I'm going to spend the night with them.
The next morning is Sunday. Yes, THE Sunday in question. Now I hate Sundays anyways, with their promise of the Monday to follow, but I knew this one was going to be a real mess from the second I woke up. I wake up with slight hangover symptoms to the Waldorf wake-up call, which happens to be across the room from me and has rang at least 67 times. There is nothing, I repeat, nothing, like waking up to a hotel wake-up call. I mean, do they purposely choose the most loud and obnoxious ring, or is it law-required?
I get up and put my clothes from the night before back on, something I positively despise, which has certainly kept any slutty instinct I may have had at bay thus far in life. My contacts are all but stuck to my eyeballs and my hair is best described as a tangle of bleach.
"Hey," Justin yells from the bedroom. "Do you want to take all those bottles of wine with you? Cause we can't take them on the plane."
So while it is confirmed that we drank copious amounts of wine the night before, apparently we did not drink enough. I grab a paper bag that's laying on the floor, throw in the four bottles of wine plus a bottle of water from the mini-bar (they're staying at the Waldorf for heaven sake), give Justin and Christy hugs and kisses and wishings of a safe flight, and head out the door.
First of all, I kind of get lost leaving the Waldorf. I'm sorry, if you've never been I'm sure you're laughing, but this hotel is like, BIG. And we're in some private elevator entrance that leads to Lord knows where. Luckily this gives me time to kill 1/3 of my hangover by downing 5/6 of my 7 3/4 dollar bottle of water.
I arrive at the subway and, of course, it takes its merry time coming to pick me and my fellow uptown commuters up. And its full. Really, really full. I stand trying to balance myself, my huge purse, my bag of four full bottles of wine and 1/6 bottle of water, between a 12-year-old who has apparently already taken up smoking and an old woman of sorts. Side note: If you are a man and you do not offer your seat to the old woman, you have serious things coming to you dude.
So the subway gets stuck. I kid you not. It sits motionless and quiet on the track for at least five full minutes. Now I am aware that five minutes does not sound like a long time, but imagine sitting stuffed in a hot subway car with nowhere to move, carrying at least 25 pounds worth of materials and inhaling fresh cigarette stench. I can't decide which is going to happen to me first, a shoulder break or death by inhalation. My contacts are dry. My feet hurt from the heels I was in last night, and subsequently, am in this morning. There's a possibility I'm coming down with some sort of rare but deadly throat disease.
I finally make it past 68th street, Hunter College, and up to 77th. I anxiously push my way out of the subway and begin walking rapidly towards daylight before I have some sort of panic attack.
And that's when it happens.
Remember that 1/6 bottle of water I had left? That I so carelessly threw in the paper bag, filled with four bottles of wine?
It leaked.
It leaked on the paper bag.
Do you know what happens when paper bags get wet?
They break.
They break, and three out of four bottles of wine break with it. Right in the middle of the subway station. All over my silver dress from the night before, and my patent heels, and the floor, and some splashes on a a child, and there are four bottles worth of sharp glass strewn about, and I'm in the middle of it, and its all red wine so its not like it camouflages, and my bag is broken and I almost drop my purse and tears well up in my eyes and I think Oh My God I'm going to start crying in the subway and I stand there stunned because I have no idea what to do.
Deep breath.
I decide there is nothing I can do about the broken bottles. I don't generally carry a broom and mop with me on my journeys, so I look to the subway counter to signal someone that I need help and of course no one is present. I chalk one up to bad timing, decide my mental health is more important than waiting around for help, pick up my unbroken bottle, stick it in my purse, and take a step forward.
"Oh my God, are you okay?"
I whip around and find a young man gazing concernedly at me. Now then. I knew not everyone in New York was selfish.
"Yeah," I say with a feeble attempt at a laugh. "I don't think there's anything else I can do."
"Hmm. Well I'm glad you're alright." He says.
"Thanks. Have a nice day."
At this point I expect the young man to wander off into city oblivion, never to be seen or heard from by me again. But apparently he has other plans.
"Do you think this may have been a blessing?" He asks, as he follows me outside and east. "Do you think that maybe you're an alcoholic and this was your wake-up call?"
"Um, NO I definitely do not think that." Dirty look. Keep walking.
"Maybe you're pregnant and this was a higher power warning you."
"Um, NO definitely not that either." Scathing look. Keep walking.
"Don't you think you should consider, even for one second, that this is all a little part in God's master plan of telling you not to drink?"
"NOPE."
"Why's that?"
I spin around and reach into my purse.
"Cause he left me with one bottle."
The Day I Loved New York
The moon is eclipsing tonight.
I creep out of trivia night, hoping my absence will go unnoticed by my peers. The night is clear and black, and its late enough so that the cabs have silenced their horns and a certain tranquility exudes from First Avenue. Away from the smell of beer and bourbon, my breath escapes from the scarf that seconds as a face muffle; my fingertips burn from the Atlantic wind. Faint strains of James Taylor and Janis Joplin can be heard from bars down the street. And there it is. A soft, burnt sienna blanket embracing all but the top of the doe-eyed moon. And though its New York, and I can’t see the stars, I know they’re there.
I creep out of trivia night, hoping my absence will go unnoticed by my peers. The night is clear and black, and its late enough so that the cabs have silenced their horns and a certain tranquility exudes from First Avenue. Away from the smell of beer and bourbon, my breath escapes from the scarf that seconds as a face muffle; my fingertips burn from the Atlantic wind. Faint strains of James Taylor and Janis Joplin can be heard from bars down the street. And there it is. A soft, burnt sienna blanket embracing all but the top of the doe-eyed moon. And though its New York, and I can’t see the stars, I know they’re there.
Far Left Corner
Everyday that I leave my apartment to do some writing at my favorite haunt, I see the same couple. They never bring computers or studying material. All they do is make-out and take pictures of each other on their camera phones. Then they make out some more. At first it made me uncomfortable to be in their line of vision, but now I am semi-fascinated.
I wonder about them, this ebony-haired, bad-skinned, skinny-jeaned duo. What is it that they do? They don’t bring work material. They don’t appear to be talking about anything serious. In fact, they rarely talk at all.
I imagine their names are Daniel and Hillary. They work nights, but not in a dirty way. They like to go to the Park on weekends with their adopted pit-bull mix. They split most finances. It is Daniel’s first serious relationship but not Hillary’s. She had an affair with a 56-year-old investment banker when she was 17, but, of course, will never reveal this to Daniel.
I wonder about them, this ebony-haired, bad-skinned, skinny-jeaned duo. What is it that they do? They don’t bring work material. They don’t appear to be talking about anything serious. In fact, they rarely talk at all.
I imagine their names are Daniel and Hillary. They work nights, but not in a dirty way. They like to go to the Park on weekends with their adopted pit-bull mix. They split most finances. It is Daniel’s first serious relationship but not Hillary’s. She had an affair with a 56-year-old investment banker when she was 17, but, of course, will never reveal this to Daniel.
Roman Numerals are Tricky
I have an obsession with odd numbers. Everything must be odd in my mind. If I have two drinks, I need one more. If I have written four blogs, I will immediately compose another lame one about numbers. The only exception to this rule is the number "9", in which case I always want to make it 10.
The Resurgence of the Scrunchy
In what feels to be an inner battle between good and evil, man vs. himself, fight vs. flight, I have lately been entertaining the idea of wearing a scrunchy.
Yes, a scrunchy. You remember them. A wisp of colored cotton encircling a bit of elastic, wrapped snugly and carefully contorted around a ponytail. And the simple word itself probably brings back glorious visions of teased bangs and hairsprayed curls. Perhaps you remember wearing a red and green plaid one on Christmas, or taking your yearbook picture in one, or learning to ride a bike with one around your wrist. Perhaps you remember wearing one when you had your first crush or true love, or during a multiplication lesson, or that one time when you fell and skinned your knee and cried in front of the whole playground (hey, so I’m not an athlete).
Well, as the old saying goes, time stops for no man, and the eighties turned to the early nineties, and the early nineties turned into the mid-nineties, and alas, the scrunchy’s sartorial day in the sun was nearing an end. No longer were the fashionistas sporting them, but more so mothers living in Minnesota, doing their housework and eating dinners at TGI Fridays. So mass production is stopped, they are tossed like used tissue to the bottoms of drawers and trash cans, the very word can ignite a shudder. The world of fashion is a cruel, cruel, fickle one.
And yet, here we are, ten, twenty years later. Clearly fashion is ever evolving and recycling, and the 80’s and 90’s are here with a vengence. Hipsters around the city are wearing bright, tight denim with high tops and Henry Holland inspired t-shirts. High-waisted everything showed up on the runways of YSL, Phillip Lim, etcetera (though I’m certainly not implying this came about in the 80’s, just that “high-waisted” often conjures up images of stonewashed mom jeans from that time). Leggings as an entity are far from over for the masses. Flannels of the early 90’s have already been re-rocked by the Olsen twins.
Yes I just referenced the Olsen twins. I love those little Marlboro Red-smoking ladies.
So this is my question. How long, I ask you, until the scrunchy returns with a vengeance?
Perhaps it will be an extra, extra large scrunchy, editorial if you will. Or maybe it will follow the ongoing metallic or patent leather trend? Lucite? What are the limits? Will Nicolas Ghesquiere at Balenciaga make a matching one for future blazers? Will Dolce and Gabbana show an insanely tight corset-scrunchy stretching down the ponytail? Will Donna Karan design an “I Heart New York” one?
Most importantly, do I give into my inner battle and rock the scrunchy that very well may be put back on the map in the near future? Or do I fight the urge, fearing pre-fad ridicule?
All I know at this point is I will never re-wear my Hair-Deenie. You don't even want to know.
Yes, a scrunchy. You remember them. A wisp of colored cotton encircling a bit of elastic, wrapped snugly and carefully contorted around a ponytail. And the simple word itself probably brings back glorious visions of teased bangs and hairsprayed curls. Perhaps you remember wearing a red and green plaid one on Christmas, or taking your yearbook picture in one, or learning to ride a bike with one around your wrist. Perhaps you remember wearing one when you had your first crush or true love, or during a multiplication lesson, or that one time when you fell and skinned your knee and cried in front of the whole playground (hey, so I’m not an athlete).
Well, as the old saying goes, time stops for no man, and the eighties turned to the early nineties, and the early nineties turned into the mid-nineties, and alas, the scrunchy’s sartorial day in the sun was nearing an end. No longer were the fashionistas sporting them, but more so mothers living in Minnesota, doing their housework and eating dinners at TGI Fridays. So mass production is stopped, they are tossed like used tissue to the bottoms of drawers and trash cans, the very word can ignite a shudder. The world of fashion is a cruel, cruel, fickle one.
And yet, here we are, ten, twenty years later. Clearly fashion is ever evolving and recycling, and the 80’s and 90’s are here with a vengence. Hipsters around the city are wearing bright, tight denim with high tops and Henry Holland inspired t-shirts. High-waisted everything showed up on the runways of YSL, Phillip Lim, etcetera (though I’m certainly not implying this came about in the 80’s, just that “high-waisted” often conjures up images of stonewashed mom jeans from that time). Leggings as an entity are far from over for the masses. Flannels of the early 90’s have already been re-rocked by the Olsen twins.
Yes I just referenced the Olsen twins. I love those little Marlboro Red-smoking ladies.
So this is my question. How long, I ask you, until the scrunchy returns with a vengeance?
Perhaps it will be an extra, extra large scrunchy, editorial if you will. Or maybe it will follow the ongoing metallic or patent leather trend? Lucite? What are the limits? Will Nicolas Ghesquiere at Balenciaga make a matching one for future blazers? Will Dolce and Gabbana show an insanely tight corset-scrunchy stretching down the ponytail? Will Donna Karan design an “I Heart New York” one?
Most importantly, do I give into my inner battle and rock the scrunchy that very well may be put back on the map in the near future? Or do I fight the urge, fearing pre-fad ridicule?
All I know at this point is I will never re-wear my Hair-Deenie. You don't even want to know.
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