Jul
30

100011010101110101!

Oh, I am so ashamed. If I can’t even take care of a blog, how am I going to take care of a baby? I can’t just be “too busy” to feed a baby for six days, even if my desk at work does look like this:
desk
And even if this picture was taken yesterday morning, on a Saturday, when no person should be forced to edit anything, even if that person has just this week been PROMOTED(!) to SENIOR EDITOR, and now feels inexplicably compelled to be productive and meet their publication deadlines.
Yes, that’s right, this blog entry is being typed by a SENIOR EDITOR. Presumably this means that their should be less grammatical errors in mine blog now.

(sic!) (sic!)

Anyway. I apologize for not updating sooner. I have certainly thought about doing so—I keep a crumpled post-it note in my purse, on which I scribble ideas for blog entries. Right now the post-it says:

  • Project Runway (Angela=HATE)
  • Infertility makes us like John Nash
  • Promotion!
  • LEGGINGS!!!
  • Design
  • Diet, fatalistic

I am sure you are all sorry you missed out on those insightful gems.

Well guess what? You didn’t, because I am going to give you the annotated version right now. You will be able to see for yourselves what goes on in my mind in the course of a week. I can’t promise it will be pretty, but I CAN promise it will be too long to hold your interest.
Let’s begin!

Project Runway (Angela=HATE)
This one is pretty self-explanatory, but can I just reiterate how much I HATE Angela? And not just because of her bizarre fascination with froufy bubble skirts, either. She dresses like a crazy person, and yet it is clear that she thinks she is some artsy, misunderstood genius.
Look Angela, I do understand, really I do. You’re going for some kind of “homeless Parisian clown-college-student” look, am I right? When you were young you probably dreamed of being a bohemian* New York artist, one who wore fingerless woolen gloves and a tutu while splashing paint over the naked torso of her lover/studio-assistant–who, in your fantasies, may or may not have resembled that guy who laughed at you when you asked him to junior prom.
But it’s time to let go of all that. It’s time to move on. Look at yourself–COMBAT BOOTS AND MESSY HAIR DO NOT AN ARTIST MAKE. Design is about more than Chutzpah and color-blindness, you know. Even Ivanka Trump said your model “Looked like a street-walker.” I think that may be the first intelligent thing Ivanka has ever said.

Infertility makes us like John Nash
To be honest, I am not exactly sure where I was going with this particular topic. Infertility makes us all obsessed with numbers? Infertility makes us paranoid? Infertility causes us to be the subject of tedious film biopics starring Russell Crowe and the girl from Labyrinth?
The first two statements are probably true, and perhaps that was what I meant: Infertility makes us obsessive historians of our reproductive lives, the numbers associated with them, and all of our past failures. It makes us superstitious, and overly willing to see connections between unrelated phenomena. It makes us excessively, tiresomely paranoid. For instance, I may not think everyone is watching me, but I am damn sure that everyone is pregnant. I examine the belly of each woman I see, evaluating it for signs of gravidity. The empire waist trend certainly hasn’t made my life any easier—the other day I looked up from what I was certain was a telltale bump to find that its owner was in her sixties. Even when I am not actively trying to conceive, I know exactly which day of my cycle I am on. I once answered a coworker’s “What day is it today?” with “Twelve.”

Promotion
Ahem: Senior. *cough* Editor.

LEGGINGS!!!
I have already cancelled most of my fashion magazine subscriptions, more to spare myself from boho hell than to be thrifty. But occasionally a girl can’t help it—she wants to read about lipgloss, and maybe to be told that she needn’t brush her hair because rumpled ponytails are the new sleek ponytails. And that is how I found myself purchasing a copy of InStyle, and innocently flipping it open, only to be confronted with this:
GAH
I yelped, frightening the Actually, and snapped the magazine shut. I eventually got up the courage to resume my reading, only to see an article on high-waisted and tapered jeans, at which point I called it a day and tossed the magazine into the trash.**
This incident inspired me to ask: do any of you actually own, or are any of you considering the purchase of, a pair of leggings? If so, Why? You may comment anonymously, if you wish–I am genuinely curious.

Design
Flotsam has a new design, as you have no doubt noticed. I am still in the process of finishing link pages and such, but I am doing it bit by bit to avoid the homicidal rages that plague me when I spend too much time with CSS code. I humbly ask for your patience. Also, I apologize if it takes me longer to respond to your email during this transition, and if my eventual response is composed entirely of ones and zeros.

Diet, fatalistic
I am starting a new diet tomorrow. Or, as nobody seems to diet anymore—I’m starting a new lifestyle tomorrow. One where I eat fewer chips, and cry more. Or perhaps the net amount of crying will remain the same, only starting tomorrow I will cry more at mealtimes and less (hopefully) in the dressing rooms of fashionable boutiques.
I am, as the “fatalistic” part of the title suggests, not entirely convinced that this diet lifestyle change will be successful.
Rest assured, you will be the first to know.

*Read: promiscuous
**Incidentally, the Wikipedia entry for “Leggings” contains one of the most frightening images I have seen: WARNING: NOT FOR SENSITIVE VIEWERS.

By Alexa | Posted in Ceci N'est Pas Une Ecrivaine |