Saturday, February 19, 2005

Greasy Fingers

I did my French oral midterm today, doing a bang-up job role playing a friend concerned with my partner's stressful life as a full-time mother and wife. I mentioned that she could start by selling her children ("... vendre tes enfants!"), then quit school to save money for another car ("J'acheterais une autre voiture avec ta carte de credit. Ching, ching!")

She reminded me that she was thinking of enrolling her youngest child into kindergarten so she couldn't just drop everything, and asked me what I would do in her position.

"Kill it?" I suggested with a shrug.

Professor Lauziere winced dramatically and laughed under his breath. Experience has taught me that good vibes translate to a job well-done.


There's no shortage of women who still try to look streamlined in the dead of winter, adopting a minimalist aesthetic to avoid a fashion faux-pas of the highest order: some semblance of warmth (even as their writhing bodies betray them). Swathed in wreaths of down-filled goodness, I also struggled to preserve my vanity, but to no avail; I was too damn cold to care. I had an epiphany of style since moving to this limestone island: No one cares that you're puffier than the Rasta Michelin Man when everyone's busy defrosting their eyes from the blistering winds of J.Lo's frigid Grammy performance. (We got it - bling, bling - you're rich.)

I trudged into my apartment today, deliberately shuffling my feet across the newly vacuumed hallway, balancing a novel in the crevice of one arm and a bag of chips in the other. No sooner had the door shimmied back into its frame did I tear at each confining layer with the ferocity of a mad man, throwing clothes in the general vicinity of the hamper until I was swallowed no more.

This is the life: Lounging around in novelty underwear, drinking lemonade to the quality tunes of Elliott Smith and Mos Def. Ain't no party like a spinster party ... Hey yo!


Smith's "Twilight" (From A Basement On A Hill, 2004) describes a recurring theme in my life, except replace "drugs" with "imported cheese" and you're almost there.

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