Audible and Chic

Best. Video. Of. 2014.

The 90s. What a great time. People were grungy, people were boy/girl bands, people were drinking Zima. 

Also, people were taking many black and white shots of famous women with dark eyebrows and dark hair, faces in profile or slightly obscured by some more hair, giving lots and lots of emotion.

Hope Sandoval of Mazzy Star not only got me through all my hard days living in my parent's house with my sibling, angst, but also taught me an important lesson in eyebrow-loving. Also, for someone creating dreamy, alternative feelings music she was always not giving a lot of fucks, which is tops.

Slash person (model/actress/Aerosmith progeny) Liv Tyler had some pencil-thin action going on early in her modelling career, but once she settled into a heavier, more luxurious brow she really came into her own as a person and a woman with hair above her eye.

Justine Frischmann was a badass, who rocked out in androgynous fashion, and seriously rocked serious rock hair. And of course, had some of the best 90s brows. Maybe even best of all-time brows. They were in their own universe.

And Winona Ryder. How could I forget you? I couldn't. Never. Not even if it was great pate, but I had to motor to make that funeral. Those follicles still speak to me today. 

As someone who wishes her entire body below her cheekbones was completely hairless I always look to the dark-haired women of the 90s to show me the way to body hair acceptance and also the way to give face, face, face with some of that face obscured. 

As I struggle to put clothes on (P.S. champagne problems) every single damn day like a regular adult who has her life together (P.S. I don't) I often wish I had a robot (more like Rosie on The Jetsons and less like Vicki on Small Wonder) to help me get myself on track and out the door.

Then I remembered this gem of a game. Barbie. Commodore 64. This was the height of 2D gaming glamour. And pumped out one of the best soundtracks of all time. I used to play this at a friend's house and basically I thought she was the coolest because she had a Barbie computer game and I did not.

Barbie would get a call from Ken asking her out on a date. And then, this is the best, the kicker, she would legit go shopping right away. Honestly, she would get in her yellow convertible and drive to stores, try on outfits and buy the ones she liked best. For a date. Just because she had somewhere to go! New outfits every time she went out. 

Also, shoes and accessories and even hair were on her shopping agenda. Yup, Barbie had a full wig shop at her disposal before weaves were de rigueur.

And if she showed up in something that didn't match the date, say a bikini for dinner, she would be denied! 

Also, Ken always said, "Great! Pick you up in an hour!" So the high stakes situation was that Barbie had to purchase a brand new frock or outfit in under an hour. Not a single crime thriller can claim this kind of dramatic tension. Not a one. 

That bitch was living the dream!

So, winter is coming. Not in that Game of Thrones way. We totally have to wait 9 months for that nugget of dark joy to return to our lives. I mean the season. The one with cold, wet weather and soggy shoes and bone-chills.

I like to complain about winter. About it being cold. About feeling sad. About missing the glory days of summer. Summer, when it's warm and wonderful and the sun shines, and the daylight hours are long and plentiful.

Other people like to "call me out." As though I am some kind of moron, or child, or delusional being. People think the correct response is to tell me to get over myself because there is some worse winter somewhere else, they have it real bad, their car is frozen to their dog, etc.

To all those people: you are garbage. You are not awesome. Comparing your situation to mine is absurd. Don't get selfish. Let me enjoy my winter sads.

Oh, you live somewhere that's colder, snowy, horrible? Too bad for you! I don't give a fuck! Did you also have to walk up and down 50 hills in -700 degrees to get to school everyday, carrying disease-ridden woolly mammoths on your back? I also have no fucks to give about that.

This is my shit to complain about. Do you see me complaining about the hot sun in August? Whining about allergies come spring? Crying my eyeballs out over the life of my phone battery, tablet apps, my latte being not hot enough? Just, come on!

And I complain because summer is great. It is greater. Than almost anything. So you can complain about your own things, but don't take away mine. My fingers turn white with cold, my hair is sad and limp, my skin dry and not golden. These are my selfish things. Let me have them.

It's a rug. It’s fine. That’s the level of passion that a rug warrants. It’s a rug. It doesn’t solve all my problems, but it doesn’t make me angry. It’s a rug. It doesn’t smell bad. It’s flat. It’s blue. It goes on the floor. It’s not coated with AIDS, and it’s not a portal to a nether-place. It doesn’t make me come, but it’s fine.

The online situation for this documentary has been taunting me for at least ten thousand months. At least. I hope it eventually comes to my city. When I say eventually I really mean in the next hour or so. Also, how can anything involving otters have a 2.9 rating on IMDB? Because the world is full of jerks. Jerks who hate otter documentaries and also want to keep otter documentaries away from me. 

Growing up somewhere small and out of the way of things that weren't trees or dirt bikes or drunk driving the options for shopping were few and far between for growing children. Aside from the lovely things made by my grandmothers, one a seamstress and the other a sewing wizard, my outfits came from the Sears catalog. Ordered by phone, I'd wait until the day those Sears catalog clothes arrived and our family would get in the old Toyota and drive.

We'd hit up the Sears storefront, most of it a giant warehouse full of other people's orders waiting to be picked up or delivered. While our dad waited in line my brother and I could most likely be found pretending to ride the riding lawnmowers. The shiny ones right in the window with clearly marked signs asking children not to climb on them. Nice try, signs!

We'd leave with our slippery packages and drive home up the hill. At home slim, sealed plastic-wrapped clothes would slide out onto the floor and I would force my family to endure a fashion show, parade through the living room in my new, fresh skirts and tops, dresses, pants and blouses, in pastel or neon or earth or jewel tones depending on the season or style at the time. There's no doubt in my mind that I recreated an exact look from the spring 1988 edition of that hallowed book, Sears catalog. Not the one on the right though, girl is sporting way too much plastic bling. Take off one thing, girl. Even then I was not one to over-accessorize. 

There was something satisfying about it, about the unwrapping of things and unfolding of things and discovering things. It was the beginning of learning to love loving super frivolous things. Shopping was a way to make life interesting and, sickly, to get my pattern and colour mixing on. You saw something on a glossy page and then it just came to you and you could wear it around and feel fancy. So magical. 

I still love the thrill of a shopping splurge, but now, I cringe at the idea of online shopping. It's so boring. Click, click, click. Sure, I scout for things, I spend time mentally preparing for a trip to Anthropologie or even The Gap, but not to actually purchase. My few online shopping experiences weren't like my youthful treasures. They resulted in clothes that didn't fit, or me standing in the mirror staring at something horribly unattractive I would rather burn for heat than take time out to return via a trip to the post office.

*

Last night at a large group dinner there was a discussion about missing teeth. Teeth that had cracked, broken, slipped out shard by shard. Fallen enamel soldiers. We shared our experiences, laughter and tears and the pain of yanking, drilling and filling.

As I told my own story of a cracked tooth (which happened while I was eating a smidge of cookie dough, the least hard substance in the world) everyone had one question: do you drink enough milk? In front of me, like a stereotype of matronly worry, I imagined them all out of their stylish outfits and sitting at the table wearing aprons and pinafores. Honestly? Are people still playing this game? Who, but someone's mother from an era gone by, asks such a question?

I was one of the only people at the table who found it odd that people drink actual glasses of milk. Over dinner they told me. Not wine? Not water? Not sparkling Italian soda? Milk. I felt like an outcast. But, I also felt mature. Surely, it's childish not just to drink milk by the glassful, but also to believe it does a body good. It seems old-fashioned. And not in a fun way. 

This is not going to be hard hitting, but I can't help but believe that some Milk Council propaganda has brainwashed an army of healthy-body do-gooders to consume their product. And no, I'm not doing any research, but c'mon, isn't milk just full or hormones and other gross, bad stuff we've also been brainwashed not to consume? How did milk skip past these people? Or am I alone in a creamy sea of milk-drinkers?

Sure, next time I make cookies I might sit down with a plate of hot, gooey treats and a glass of milk. But those things go together. Milk doesn't really go with anything else. There are no books on the subject of milk and food pairings, because that would be ridiculous. 

Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for my daily milk intake. A teaspoon full, in a cup of warm tea. 

Practicality. There are times when it's useful. Even when flashing the old debit card around. Like buying dental floss or a toilet brush or a balaclava. Items that are practical, and make life better in simple ways. Those times are easy. 

But there are other times when being practical should be useful, but it's not easy. It's super hard. Like when buying shoes. Sure, there are many pairs of practical shoes in the world, shoes that will make feet feel like they are relaxing in a private spa with tiny estheticians smoothing callouses with velvet fingers. But those shoes don't make me feel like I'm in a musical. These shoes, for example, make me want to sit silently in a dark room and knit my own coffin.

Keen $100

Once a year I find myself in a situation where I can't seem to dress my feet. The one pair of practical shoes I own are almost disintegrated, ready for burial. I talk to myself a lot, but during these difficult, not practical times, I ask myself questions. Important questions.

Do you live in a climate where there is lots of rain? Yes. Do you own a disproportionate amount of appropriate footwear? Yes. Do you own more pairs of shoes with open toes than closed? Yes.

Conclusion: you are an idiot.

Do you own a car? No. Do you gallivant around the city? Yes. Do you primarily travel by foot? Yes. Do you own more pairs of heels than flats? Yes.

Conclusion: you are an idiot

Chie Mihara $345

These intense interviews are difficult and emotionally draining and revealing. And yet, I never make that practical decision. If I was on a television show the audience would be frustrated with my inability to grow and learn from my mistakes and change. My character would be the one everyone loves to make fun of. The Idiot.

This is not to say that I own a lot of fancy shoes. This is also not true. It's not as if I'm even buying beautiful footwear. In fact, I'm not really buying shoes at all. I'm hemming and hawing and staring into the void of some online shopping basket, or sullenly shuffling through shops, lifting shoes to check prices* and feeling like they are going to crush me. This is to say that I own a lot of stupid pairs of shoes. This is to say that I am an idiot.

Repetto $310

I'm going to try and make a better decision this year**. With compromise of course, (did you see those things up there? It's like wearing a Gortex tent/dinghy on your feet.) Because if I don't, my feet, from heel to toe, will revolt. They've heard about this tiny spa, and they're none too pleased.

Camper $165

*Donations to The DDB Shoe Foundation are greatly appreciated.

It's that time of year. When hockey really matters. It's the big time. It's also a time for fresh new television commercials to accompany those hockey games. Like this one here for what I can only assume is a delicious minty-chocolatey ice cream treat. Doesn't it look tasty and refreshing and creamy? Right? But I can never eat one. No. Because I am not that man in the ad, I have not listened to someone I'm in a relationship with for five whole seconds. In fact, I'm not even a man. I don't have a beautiful, powerful penis. I'm not even married to someone like him, a spectacular catch, a man who might not only listen to me for five seconds, but might be generous enough to share one small lick of his testosterone cream bar with me. But we are not together, me and this quality, commercial dude. Now all throughout the Stanley Cup Play-offs I can be reminded of my folly. Relive my mistake, that I didn't marry a man exactly like this, that I didn't get married at all. During these commercial breaks I will curse my fate, I will salivate over ice cream and marital bliss.

Dear Akebono Halter Dress,

I like you. I really like you. Look at how beautiful and well-constructed you are. I mean sure, you're playing into my behavioural patterns. You're the cliche of the cliche of every dress I own that I truly love. Hour-glass favouring, what I believe to be a structured bodice that will require no bra, removable straps, girlishness. It's kind of like if I was dating and I was really into metrosexuals or something, like that is still even a thing we talk about (please let's not talk about it) and I just gravitate toward this classic shape, clean lines. And in a way it's similar, because I haven't "dated" since the 90s, or really changed my style all that much. I just have this fear that if I branch out I'm going to wear something unflattering and then the world will eat me alive. 

Recently I remarked on a sweater featured on the cover of a local paper. It was multi-coloured and very large, shapeless. My remarks were unkind. I told the picture of the sweater it looked ugly. I laughed at it. I further remarked that I would never wear it. I know. I know. You don't have to tell me, Akebono Halter Dress. That sweater is cool. Asymmetrical clothing, and billowing shapes and sweaters that aren't form-fitting are super cool. I get it. I just don't have it in me to be that cool. I just don't have it in me to let people see my body like that, like to not really see it, but imagine it, and think that underneath all that fabric it's gross. Is it possible to favour body-conscious clothing and still be body self-conscious? I just don't know. 

In my mind, Akebono Halter Dress, I imagine I would look fat and old in that sweater. That my attempt to grasp at the acrylic threads of youth would have real young kids judging me, that they would know how deep down I was faking it. Because I would be. 

Sweet, Akebono Halter Dress, I know that I've got issues, but I have none with you. Maybe one day when I'm way too old to try and look young I'll really do it. I'll put on the equivalent of the shape-free tunic and over-priced, over-sized cardigan and skinny jeans and sashay around until I can't sashay any longer. But for now, I'll just keep on keeping on. It's easier to look put together than to try to look like I'm not put together. I envy those easy people. I do.

xo

In two weeks I can stop speculating about this, the only print promo for Mad Men season 5, and will find out about a skin-shavings worth of information about what my favourite, stylish, advertising people will be up to. But that skin-shaving is going to be so satisfying. It will be better than wondering about the way domesticity and motherhood will lay a hand on my beloved Joan, the way the men on the show will edge themselves further into foolishness, the way Peggy might be that naked, plastic woman if she doesn't stay on top of her own instincts. It will be better than thinking about Don taking up magic and using it to disrobe that mannequin, to imagining Chuck Bass as inspiration for that smoking jacket, than Don thinking back on his love, department store head Rachel Menken, or if Jon Hamm is wondering about Rachel Menken shooting guns and riding motorcycles on Sons of Anarchy. And I can stop my imagination from going to that place where the mannequin in this ad comes to life as Kim Cattrall. I mean, most people are probably thinking this. Right?

There are many quotables in The Godfather saga (even part III has, "Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in," and also excellent examples of Nonno-style cardigan fashion modelling) and some of those quotables are wisdom slaps in the face, but there is nothing as universally useful as this 20 seconds of cinema. Try it by inserting the name of someone you know in the blank:

"I know it was you, ________. You broke my heart. You broke my heart!"

Kiss of death. Intense whisper. Unwavering eye contact. Throat throttling. Confetti. 

This morning I said to myself, "DDB, you are totally like Michael Douglas in Falling Down. You are feeling that feeling of the whole world being against you and you are angry and confused and upset and you just think everything is unfair and you are this close to having to repair your shoe with newsprint, and will probably go steal some guns from gang members and then you will shoot those guns in the street and Robert Duvall will come looking for you with all of his own emotional/societal baggage and then shit is going to get real, you everyman, you." 

In the past maybe I've been Michael Douglas in Romancing the Stone, or One NIght at McCool's or Fatal Attraction. I know for certain I have never been Michael Douglas in Basic Instinct or Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps. Well, almost certain. 

Sure, I want to tell myself I'm like some Michael Douglas character, that I am tragic or hilarious or adventurous or alluring to the point of fatalities, and maybe I am some of those things sometimes, but the thing is, unlike those characters I don't take any action. Michael Douglas characters are running around getting up to all sorts of shenanigans and causing shit to go down or go awry. I don't cause trouble or make a big mess.

Sometimes I think I deserve a cookie for not stabbing people in the street or not having an affair or not saying cruel shit that only I know could destroy the people I love even though nobody deserves a cookie for that stuff. That is just normal human stuff that people should do, that in our reward-based society are totally not worth even a cookie. Not even a dry, crusty oatmeal cookie with rasins. Most of us are not causing trouble and making big messes and are behaving in a way that is sometimes difficult, because we want to do other things that are sort of not good, but not as bad as shooting guns in the street. You know? And also, most of us have never encountered Sharon Stone and also we have not dealt with ice picks murders. 

Mostly, I just think about movies a lot and sometimes I pretend to be in those movies and sometimes I even make different, better choices that the characters. Even Michael Douglas characters. I like to live in made up stories. And also sometimes there are just a lot of lady hormones. And also cable tv is always with the Michael Douglas.  

Recap:

cable tv

feelings

delusions of cinematic grandeur

PMS