I walked into the office this morning, and Christmas had thrown up in the foyer. A tree, obviously fake and desperate for attention, stood in the middle, surrounded by about a dozen poinsettias. These weren't tiny little desktop plants either, they were kind that retail at my other workplace for about $17. I craned my neck around the corner and saw at least a dozen more in the marketing department. I would have traipsed over to do a headcount myself, but it is generally an unfamiliar area, where editorial staff dare not tread, lest ethical ad/edit standards are compromised. But, I'd already seen all there was to see, so I did a little math in my head.
Let's say the magazine bought these seasonal abominations at a bargain price of $12 a pop. There were at least, at least, 25 plants. We'll say about $300 total was spent on covering every square inch of extra floor space with poinsettias.
Separately, but interestingly, there are probably 10 editorial interns on staff. Let's say, in the Christmas spirit, whoever is in charge of buying superfluous flora, instead decided to use the $300 to give the unpaid interns a Christmas bonus. That's $30 per person!!! Ergo, I bring you a top 10.
Top 10 Ways an Intern Can Stretch 30 Smackers
10. 15 medium coffees at Dunkin Donuts, which will sustain me during my 3-hour round-trip commutes, and 7-day work week schedule. On the train, the conductors frequently neglect to announce station stops in the winter months, when it's pitch black outside, and you really have no idea where you are. So I have to stay awake, or else I might miss my stop. Wakefulness is essential. I cannot stay conscious without coffee. You get the drift.
9. Round-trip transportation costs for two days of commuting to Boston. Does not include parking fees.
8. New pair of shoes, and warm socks. Frostbite feels too real a risk in my paper-thin ballet flats, which I have been wearing constantly, due to lack of funds for more appropriate footwear.
7. Replace threadbare dress pants and/or office shirts with more professional looking (read: free of holes, stains) attire.
6. Pay 12 percent of my December Sallie Mae bill. (Merry Christmas, Sallie!!)
5. Get haircut at Costcutters, because it's been months and I look vaguely homeless.
4. Take half a Saturday off work to sleep in.
3. Buy a Christmas present for one, two, or three family members, depending on how generous gift limits are this year.
2. Purchase 7-15 drinks at Starbucks, stage sit-in, and demand the triumphant (and ever-less-likely) return of Hottie McLatte.
1. Procure two five-liter boxes of wine, because I have been doing work for free since May, and sometimes, the only way I can summon the dignity to go on, is if I'm a teensy bit drunk when I leave the house at 7 a.m.
What would you do with 30 greenbacks?
Showing posts with label illfitting clothes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label illfitting clothes. Show all posts
Monday, December 8, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
OMG , is she pregnant?
Paige's recent post about transgressing gender norms got me thinking about the many character traits that keep me from being your typical female. Oh, let me count them. Pull up a chair, it could take a while.
Kidding aside, one of the things that immediately popped into my head was that I hate shopping. I actually loathe and dread it. The act of gleefully driving to the mall on a busy Saturday to rummage through clearance racks or hold mini-fashion shows in the Misses department is as foreign to me as, oh, I don't know, avoiding inappropriate eye contact with strangers (I could never!).
I only go clothes shopping if it's a dire situation (must have a skirt for that interview! All sweaters are now rags suitable only for dusting!). Part of this, I think, is because I am not from what you would call a shopping family. My mother hates shopping. When I was little, we shopped at a lot of thrift stores and I wore a considerable amount of my older brother's clothing (which was especially charming during the eye patch and short hair phase). An afternoon at the mall putting purses on plastic was never a typical event. To this day, if I ever spend a lot of money at once, I get all anxious and clammy about it, simply because I come from thrifty folk, and all this time with high-falutin' FASHION could be better spent sewing my niece a new poppet out of rags and dried corn stalks.
My other issue is that I've had this life-long issue with purchasing ill-fitting clothes. I only truly came to this realization when Connie told me as gently as possible that sometimes my threads look like they were made for a 50-year-old twice my size. (Case in point... I thought I was so clever when I found it on clearance..)
So of course it would be case that I am bopping around in awkwardly baggy tops and jeans that are unintentionally low-slung. When you hate shopping, you'll grab the large instead of trying on the medium because you know the large or extra-large will fit! If you try on a smaller size, that means lines for the fitting room, surly attendants, and several moments of flustered self-loathing while you stare at the unforgiving mirrors, wondering if the people waiting can see your hairy ankles.
But now I know, when I go out to The Store, I will have to be better. The need for this was really driven home last week when I got a glimpse of myself in the window walking down the street. The crotch of my pants was hanging at least three inches below where it belonged. When I got to the subway stop, I pulled a Stacy and Clinton to inspect the fit, and came away with a fistful of fabric from the hip region. I (like everyone) have issues buying pants because of the drastically different sizes and fits among brands, or the fact that I am often in between those sizes. But enough is enough. I looked like a cross between M.C. Hammer and a plumber. Things were not looking good. I couldn't even blame it on a miraculous weight loss (as if!) or stretched-out fabric. I bought the pants--hell, let's call them SLACKS-- recently, and they were freshly washed!
Anyway. That's all I have to say. There is no real point to this post except to tell you that I don't know how to buy clothes. Think of it as a plea for help. And what more to do you want for me after I've pledged 20 posts in 30 days. Not everyone can be a winner. Or dressed in nice clothing. That fits.
Kidding aside, one of the things that immediately popped into my head was that I hate shopping. I actually loathe and dread it. The act of gleefully driving to the mall on a busy Saturday to rummage through clearance racks or hold mini-fashion shows in the Misses department is as foreign to me as, oh, I don't know, avoiding inappropriate eye contact with strangers (I could never!).
I only go clothes shopping if it's a dire situation (must have a skirt for that interview! All sweaters are now rags suitable only for dusting!). Part of this, I think, is because I am not from what you would call a shopping family. My mother hates shopping. When I was little, we shopped at a lot of thrift stores and I wore a considerable amount of my older brother's clothing (which was especially charming during the eye patch and short hair phase). An afternoon at the mall putting purses on plastic was never a typical event. To this day, if I ever spend a lot of money at once, I get all anxious and clammy about it, simply because I come from thrifty folk, and all this time with high-falutin' FASHION could be better spent sewing my niece a new poppet out of rags and dried corn stalks.
My other issue is that I've had this life-long issue with purchasing ill-fitting clothes. I only truly came to this realization when Connie told me as gently as possible that sometimes my threads look like they were made for a 50-year-old twice my size. (Case in point... I thought I was so clever when I found it on clearance..)
So of course it would be case that I am bopping around in awkwardly baggy tops and jeans that are unintentionally low-slung. When you hate shopping, you'll grab the large instead of trying on the medium because you know the large or extra-large will fit! If you try on a smaller size, that means lines for the fitting room, surly attendants, and several moments of flustered self-loathing while you stare at the unforgiving mirrors, wondering if the people waiting can see your hairy ankles.
But now I know, when I go out to The Store, I will have to be better. The need for this was really driven home last week when I got a glimpse of myself in the window walking down the street. The crotch of my pants was hanging at least three inches below where it belonged. When I got to the subway stop, I pulled a Stacy and Clinton to inspect the fit, and came away with a fistful of fabric from the hip region. I (like everyone) have issues buying pants because of the drastically different sizes and fits among brands, or the fact that I am often in between those sizes. But enough is enough. I looked like a cross between M.C. Hammer and a plumber. Things were not looking good. I couldn't even blame it on a miraculous weight loss (as if!) or stretched-out fabric. I bought the pants--hell, let's call them SLACKS-- recently, and they were freshly washed!
Anyway. That's all I have to say. There is no real point to this post except to tell you that I don't know how to buy clothes. Think of it as a plea for help. And what more to do you want for me after I've pledged 20 posts in 30 days. Not everyone can be a winner. Or dressed in nice clothing. That fits.
Friday, June 13, 2008
That dirty girl
I was always jealous of the women in white dresses. No, not brides. Just any woman in a white dress, worn tastefully after Memorial Day, as she struts down sidewalks or across lawns at garden parties, cottony fabric blowing in the breeze behind her. I've always harbored a slow, burning contempt for the woman who can wear a crisp white sweater that looks brand new after six-months of heavy wear and ample washings.
Because I could never do that. I am a chronic spiller, usually spilling something at least once a day, most often on myself. All of my garments are speckled with splashes of coffee, checkered with fluorescent highlighter marks, or mapped with wandering paths of ink from mid-thigh to knee.
I kept thinking this was something I would grow out of, like a little girl grows out of sitting with her legs splayed open in public, or belching the alphabet with her brothers. But it hasn't happened. I am a refined, young woman in most other ways. I paint my toe nails with some regularity, can apply eye liner with relative precision, and usually carry just the right amount of womanly accessories in my handbag. But I will always be the girl with stains all over her clothes. I might leave the house fresh as a daisy in the morning, and make it about an hour before the train unexpectedly jerks forward, and hot tea splashes onto my khaki pencil skirt.
On Tuesday, as I ate a salad at my internship desk, I pulled open the dressing packet, and emptied some of its contents onto the fresh bed of baby spinach, feta and green beans that was eagerly awaiting digestion in my tumtum. About halfway through, I decided more raspberry vinaigrette was in order, picked up the packet, and in a split second, squirted several tablespoons of the dressing all over my pants, and onto a new t-shirt. This was no discreet stain. It looked like I had been slaughtering hogs in my cubicle for a mid-afternoon pig roast.
When I asked an associate editor for her pass card for the bathroom, I saw her lips turn up slightly, and her brow furrow while she tried not to laugh at me. That poor dirty girl with the stains all over her clothes. She took pity on me and handed me the bathroom pass, while averting her gaze from the sanguine, oily mess that was dripping from crotch to knee on my pants, and chest to hip on my t-shirt. After several minutes of fierce blotting and furious towel-wetting in the powder room, the stain was no better; in fact, it looked considerably worse.
As I stood staring hopelessly into the mirror, an image of Kelly Ripa in the Tide-to-Go commercials flooded my head. NA NA NA NA HEY HEY HEY GOOOOOOOD BYYYYEEE. This mess I made was even too big for a Tide-to-Go stick. What would Kelly say? I bet even her tiny toddlers do not make such frequent and sloppy messes.
When I got home, my mother was ready with her stain-removing arsenal. She could take the spots out of a leopard if she wanted. While the clothes were soaking, she discreetly tucked a Tide pen into my work bag, and shot me a leveling gaze that only a mother can give. The gaze that tells you instantly, "You may be fully grown, but you will always be an incompetent four-year-old who needs her mother, and what would you ever do without me?" I muttered thanks and she patted my shoulder and said "I think you'll have more use for that than I will."
Yes, mother. I think I always will.
Because I could never do that. I am a chronic spiller, usually spilling something at least once a day, most often on myself. All of my garments are speckled with splashes of coffee, checkered with fluorescent highlighter marks, or mapped with wandering paths of ink from mid-thigh to knee.
I kept thinking this was something I would grow out of, like a little girl grows out of sitting with her legs splayed open in public, or belching the alphabet with her brothers. But it hasn't happened. I am a refined, young woman in most other ways. I paint my toe nails with some regularity, can apply eye liner with relative precision, and usually carry just the right amount of womanly accessories in my handbag. But I will always be the girl with stains all over her clothes. I might leave the house fresh as a daisy in the morning, and make it about an hour before the train unexpectedly jerks forward, and hot tea splashes onto my khaki pencil skirt.
On Tuesday, as I ate a salad at my internship desk, I pulled open the dressing packet, and emptied some of its contents onto the fresh bed of baby spinach, feta and green beans that was eagerly awaiting digestion in my tumtum. About halfway through, I decided more raspberry vinaigrette was in order, picked up the packet, and in a split second, squirted several tablespoons of the dressing all over my pants, and onto a new t-shirt. This was no discreet stain. It looked like I had been slaughtering hogs in my cubicle for a mid-afternoon pig roast.
When I asked an associate editor for her pass card for the bathroom, I saw her lips turn up slightly, and her brow furrow while she tried not to laugh at me. That poor dirty girl with the stains all over her clothes. She took pity on me and handed me the bathroom pass, while averting her gaze from the sanguine, oily mess that was dripping from crotch to knee on my pants, and chest to hip on my t-shirt. After several minutes of fierce blotting and furious towel-wetting in the powder room, the stain was no better; in fact, it looked considerably worse.
As I stood staring hopelessly into the mirror, an image of Kelly Ripa in the Tide-to-Go commercials flooded my head. NA NA NA NA HEY HEY HEY GOOOOOOOD BYYYYEEE. This mess I made was even too big for a Tide-to-Go stick. What would Kelly say? I bet even her tiny toddlers do not make such frequent and sloppy messes.
When I got home, my mother was ready with her stain-removing arsenal. She could take the spots out of a leopard if she wanted. While the clothes were soaking, she discreetly tucked a Tide pen into my work bag, and shot me a leveling gaze that only a mother can give. The gaze that tells you instantly, "You may be fully grown, but you will always be an incompetent four-year-old who needs her mother, and what would you ever do without me?" I muttered thanks and she patted my shoulder and said "I think you'll have more use for that than I will."
Yes, mother. I think I always will.
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