Now, I love me some Christmas carols. You play "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" within a five mile radius of where I'm sitting, and I will start weeping uncontrollably. Ditto for "White Christmas," and "I'll be Home for Christmas," and...well sweet tap-dancing birthday boy, how is it the most wonderful, joyous time of the year has all of this music designed solely to depress the listener? What the hell?
It's even worse at work. Someone in Latte-land's Mother Ship must have decided that any song with the word "Hallelujah" in the title must be a Christmas song, because that's the only reason I can conceive of for having nation-wide mixes that play three different versions of that oh-so-draining Leonard Cohen ditty. Really, how did that conversation at corporate go?
--scene--
"Hey, did you know suicides spike at Christmas time? The rates increase, like twenty-five percent."
"Wow, man, that's some heavy shit...what do we have for the in-store mix come December?"
"Three different covers of the most depressing song of all time - and one of the covers is by a dead guy!"
"PERFECT. Let's go snort some espresso beans."
"Nah, this time let's boot it in our eyeballs like black-tar heroin."
--end scene--
And three words to continue my therapy bills well into the next decade: Joni Mitchell's "River." That shit's just not right.
Anyways, it seems like Christmas music only has two speeds - the why-don't-I-just-end-it-now-when-it's-too-cold-to-feel-my-PAAAAAAAAAAIN speed, and the uber-joyful, sugary-sweet, cracked-out whiz-bam-fest as exemplified by one Mister Johnny Mathis. All it takes is the opening bars of "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year," and I begin to resemble one of our favorite men of the Arctic. No, not Santa Claus; I'm thinking more those Vikings who used to go beserk (from the word beserkergang - thanks, Age of Empires!) and get filled with the blood-rage, hacking everything in arm's reach to bits with a harpoon of narwhal tusk or something.
(True story: This is how we ended up with lutefisk.)
But then...there are the songs that try to fall somewhere in between, the songs that try to be inspirational, but just end up irking me with their utter lack of sense.
Like with "Do You Hear What I Hear?" Firstly, the title is problematic. Let us not mock the differently-abled, shall we? Stop asking if he can hear you; after time three, it's just rude. Secondly...let's just deal with this little lyric, shall we?
A child, a child, shivers in the cold;
Let us bring him silver and gold!
Let us bring him silver and gold.
Ummm...come again?
A child, a child -
I HEARD YOU.
Let's look at this, shall we? You've got a baby, lying in a manger out of which the cattle gather their snacks, there is no room at the inn (and after those freaking taxes levied by Augustus, do you really think Joe could spring for them if they were?), oh and the kid happens to be THE SON OF GOD and you...show up with shiny rocks? This isn't a party on Diddy's yacht; this is making sure that SAVIOR OF MANKIND doesn't freeze his tuckus off before he has a chance to, you know, revolutionize modern civilization. He's dying for our sins, not because of frostbite. Get with the program.
...Seriously, no-one threw a blanket in the pack? Not even a light wrap? Shepherds, you're failing me here - you tend sheep, for the love of...that kid! WEAVE SOMETHING, DAMMIT! And angels we have heard on high, you're not getting off scot-free either; sure, you can bring the word of God, but no one thought to grab a pashmina (I hear it's so soft that it's...heavenly).
"But Ann!" you cry out in Reader-ville, "Gold was surely valuable! They could have purchased the blankets and such! It was a very thoughtful gift!"
Put yourself in this scenario, dear reader: It is the middle of the night in December. You're loved one has just given birth in a barn (did Mary and Joseph ever try that line? "Jesus, please take your elbows off the table, and don't chew with your mouth open. You weren't born in a barn." "Actually..."), surrounded by lowing cattle and a bunch of guys who have been using sheep for pillows. Suddenly, three toffs show up at your door with smelly rocks and some gold. Is your first inclination to dash out to the Super Wal-Mart of Israel for some Pampers and a throw? NO! Your first inclination is take a deep long sleep, and not wake up until sometime in June. Oh, and even if you DID run out for a late-night shopping jaunt, try finding a money changer at that late hour (You could try the temple steps, but your son's gonna put a stop to that in about thirty years, so grab those low interest rates while you can). Oh, and while those three kings are kneeling about, maybe one of them could get up long enough to pop for the Wedding Suite at the Bethlehem Bed and Breakfast so your kid doesn't have to sleep in a pile of straw that's been drooled upon by cows. Just a thought.
And don't even get me STARTED on "Little Drummer Boy." If I had just given birth without anesthesia, and a five-year-old showed up with percussion, there is not a court in the world that would convict me of child abuse for whapping said tot over the head with his drumsticks.
Sigh. This is probably why I'm not allowed to make the eggnog anymore. Fa la la la la indeed.
**Please note that I am not attempting to disparage anyone's religion, merely the music that comes about. Someday I'll tell you why Leona Lewis is ruining the world. Those sans-humor, please sheathe your narwhal-tusk harpoons and go about your merry way. Just don't play Perry Como in my general direction.**
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
Of Josh Groban, Country Style...
So, Josh Groban's newest album has been playing non-stop at work, which is fine by me, as the album is actually quite good, and not nearly as bombastic as some of his other recordings. I thought highly enough of the album to buy it for my down-time, and tonight I was listening the second track, "The Bells of New York City," which strikes me as a beautiful, haunting, melancholy Christmas song. It's a November album, really; I couldn't see enjoying this in the middle of July. It needs to be cold and gray outside so you can hole up against the darkness and the rain and just curl up in the songs. Anyhoo, it reached the lyrics...
"Sing to me one song for joy, and one for redemption
and whatever's in between that I call mine..."
And as I'm luxuriating in the baritone and my pajamas and a cup of tea, wondering what my song of joy and redemption would be, I hear a strangely discordant sound.
I pick up my ears, and I hear it again.
And I tell myself that it's winter, I couldn't be hearing what I think I'm hearing.
Then it happens again.
So I stop the music, open my front door, and there on my doormat was an itty bitty frog, croaking away with gusto. He missed the memo that he should be hibernating somewhere warm and muddy, and instead was giving a bravura performance on my doormat.
And I thought to myself...well, if there ever was something that was my song of joy and redemption, it would be the murky croak of an animal that represents this goofy county that I love so very much. I can't think of a better Christmas caroler, or a more fitting song to sing.
Then I shut the door and dove back under my blankets at the desk, because dear Lord in heaven it is COLD. Whimsy is fine, frostbite...not so much.
"Sing to me one song for joy, and one for redemption
and whatever's in between that I call mine..."
And as I'm luxuriating in the baritone and my pajamas and a cup of tea, wondering what my song of joy and redemption would be, I hear a strangely discordant sound.
I pick up my ears, and I hear it again.
And I tell myself that it's winter, I couldn't be hearing what I think I'm hearing.
Then it happens again.
So I stop the music, open my front door, and there on my doormat was an itty bitty frog, croaking away with gusto. He missed the memo that he should be hibernating somewhere warm and muddy, and instead was giving a bravura performance on my doormat.
And I thought to myself...well, if there ever was something that was my song of joy and redemption, it would be the murky croak of an animal that represents this goofy county that I love so very much. I can't think of a better Christmas caroler, or a more fitting song to sing.
Then I shut the door and dove back under my blankets at the desk, because dear Lord in heaven it is COLD. Whimsy is fine, frostbite...not so much.
Of Mac'n'Cheese and Culinary Curiosities...
Everybody claims that they have a recipe that they make better than anyone else in the world. My friend Krissi makes a salsa that is directly descended from God, while Rebecca makes enchiladas that make you want to smack your mama, they're so good. We've all got one in our wheelhouse, the recipe that we pull out when we want to wow.
I'm a pretty good cook, my specialty being anything in the carbohydrate family. My ancestry is Italian and Portuguese, and food has always played a huge role in our get-togethers. My Portuguese family does not hold "family reunions" they hold "eat-a-thons," which are exactly what you would gather from the nomenclature. They start early, preferably at a state park large enough to hold all of our coolers and barbecues, and as we sit around in a circle of plastic folding lawn chairs, we eat our way through a bizarre cultural hybrid of Portuguese/Italian/Mid-Western fare. The deviled eggs (of which my Aunt Bea, may she rest in peace, made the best you've ever eaten - see what I mean?) sat comfortably next to the oxtail stew, which was perched next to a bowl of homemade taralli.
A word about my family and taralli - for the unfamiliar, taralli is a traditional Italian snack food, kind of a cracker/pretzel/bagel hybrid. You boil the dough before you bake it, and then dip the resulting cracker in red wine to soften it for consumption (it may not be traditional, but my family's taralli was always hard enough to crack a tooth.). Now, the majority of my family struggles with adult onset diabetes, and because of this they insisted that red wine was a no-go for them. How did they consume their taralli, then? By dipping it in Pepsi, of course.
There are several problems with this, not the least of which is...have you ever tried fennel seeds with Pepsi? It is not appetizing, by any stretch of the imagination. And I'm not sure how the sugar of Pepsi was better for the diabetics, but...there are many things about my family I don't question, and this is but one.
Be that as it may, the only purpose of these events were to catch up and consume approximately eight metric tons of food. Hiking and nature walks were only encouraged as a way to burn off space for further munchies. At the end of the day, after the cheeks had been pinched and we'd been told we were too skinny, after we had listened to the stories that we had already heard years previously ("Now what year did Mabel and Ed get married? 1956? No, it was 1959, because they got married the year that we sold the Edsel and bought that fridge that looked like an avocado..."), we would roll down the hill back to our abodes, where we proceeded to not eat for the next month and a half.
All of this is to say that I grew up with a bizarre mashup of culinary influences, which probably explain my two money dishes. One is my stuffing/dressing, which I bust out every Thanksgiving. I have a pathological aversion to StoveTop and commercial stuffings, as I believe the ingredient list is secretly something like this:
Stove Top Stuffing
Three kitchen sponges
Crap you sweep up from the floor after you've prepared the rest of your Thanksgiving fare
Chicken broth
Directions: Cut sponges into tiny cubes. Toss with crap from the floor. Wet with chicken broth, and bake.
Seriously, it's the devil.
So I found a recipe that I love, and befitting the Italian in me, it contains sausage and parmesan cheese, and it's basically the most delicious stuffing you will ever eat. My sister is allowed her beloved StoveTop, just not in my presence. And I think our table is the better for it.
The other is not so much a "Wow!" dish, but it is my ultimate comfort food, and again reflects the Mid-west/Italian roots of so much of my upbringing. My grandmother has made a tomato-based macaroni and cheese for as long as I can remember, and it is savory and delicious in a way that almost no other mac'n'cheese is. It is also super simple to make, requires four ingredients, and can be made with one implement (two, if you decide to grate your own cheese). We loved it as kids because the mozzarella makes the most delightful "strings" when you scoop it from the bowl. There was always an unspoken competition to see whose strings would be the longest.
Grandma's Stringy Mac'n'Cheese
Boil one package of the macaroni of your choice according to package directions. Drain and return to the same pot. Add two eight-ounce cans of tomato sauce and stir. Then add sixteen ounces of grated sharp cheddar cheese and sixteen ounces of grated mozzarella cheese. Stir to combine - you know it's ready when the cheese is melted and is extremely gooey. Plop in a bowl/on a plate/stand at the stove over the pot with a fork and enjoy.
That's it. You can adjust the amounts of cheese to suit your taste, and add a little salt'n'pepper for a kick. The best side-dish is a wedge of iceberg lettuce with ranch or blue cheese dressing, just so you can die of sodium overload. I always use shell macaroni, because then you get delightful little explosions of cheese in your mouth, but any kind of macaroni works. All it takes is one bowl of this, and I'm back in the yellow-linoleum kitchen of my childhood, convinced that all is right with the world.
And for just a little while, it is.
I'm a pretty good cook, my specialty being anything in the carbohydrate family. My ancestry is Italian and Portuguese, and food has always played a huge role in our get-togethers. My Portuguese family does not hold "family reunions" they hold "eat-a-thons," which are exactly what you would gather from the nomenclature. They start early, preferably at a state park large enough to hold all of our coolers and barbecues, and as we sit around in a circle of plastic folding lawn chairs, we eat our way through a bizarre cultural hybrid of Portuguese/Italian/Mid-Western fare. The deviled eggs (of which my Aunt Bea, may she rest in peace, made the best you've ever eaten - see what I mean?) sat comfortably next to the oxtail stew, which was perched next to a bowl of homemade taralli.
A word about my family and taralli - for the unfamiliar, taralli is a traditional Italian snack food, kind of a cracker/pretzel/bagel hybrid. You boil the dough before you bake it, and then dip the resulting cracker in red wine to soften it for consumption (it may not be traditional, but my family's taralli was always hard enough to crack a tooth.). Now, the majority of my family struggles with adult onset diabetes, and because of this they insisted that red wine was a no-go for them. How did they consume their taralli, then? By dipping it in Pepsi, of course.
There are several problems with this, not the least of which is...have you ever tried fennel seeds with Pepsi? It is not appetizing, by any stretch of the imagination. And I'm not sure how the sugar of Pepsi was better for the diabetics, but...there are many things about my family I don't question, and this is but one.
Be that as it may, the only purpose of these events were to catch up and consume approximately eight metric tons of food. Hiking and nature walks were only encouraged as a way to burn off space for further munchies. At the end of the day, after the cheeks had been pinched and we'd been told we were too skinny, after we had listened to the stories that we had already heard years previously ("Now what year did Mabel and Ed get married? 1956? No, it was 1959, because they got married the year that we sold the Edsel and bought that fridge that looked like an avocado..."), we would roll down the hill back to our abodes, where we proceeded to not eat for the next month and a half.
All of this is to say that I grew up with a bizarre mashup of culinary influences, which probably explain my two money dishes. One is my stuffing/dressing, which I bust out every Thanksgiving. I have a pathological aversion to StoveTop and commercial stuffings, as I believe the ingredient list is secretly something like this:
Stove Top Stuffing
Three kitchen sponges
Crap you sweep up from the floor after you've prepared the rest of your Thanksgiving fare
Chicken broth
Directions: Cut sponges into tiny cubes. Toss with crap from the floor. Wet with chicken broth, and bake.
Seriously, it's the devil.
So I found a recipe that I love, and befitting the Italian in me, it contains sausage and parmesan cheese, and it's basically the most delicious stuffing you will ever eat. My sister is allowed her beloved StoveTop, just not in my presence. And I think our table is the better for it.
The other is not so much a "Wow!" dish, but it is my ultimate comfort food, and again reflects the Mid-west/Italian roots of so much of my upbringing. My grandmother has made a tomato-based macaroni and cheese for as long as I can remember, and it is savory and delicious in a way that almost no other mac'n'cheese is. It is also super simple to make, requires four ingredients, and can be made with one implement (two, if you decide to grate your own cheese). We loved it as kids because the mozzarella makes the most delightful "strings" when you scoop it from the bowl. There was always an unspoken competition to see whose strings would be the longest.
Grandma's Stringy Mac'n'Cheese
Boil one package of the macaroni of your choice according to package directions. Drain and return to the same pot. Add two eight-ounce cans of tomato sauce and stir. Then add sixteen ounces of grated sharp cheddar cheese and sixteen ounces of grated mozzarella cheese. Stir to combine - you know it's ready when the cheese is melted and is extremely gooey. Plop in a bowl/on a plate/stand at the stove over the pot with a fork and enjoy.
That's it. You can adjust the amounts of cheese to suit your taste, and add a little salt'n'pepper for a kick. The best side-dish is a wedge of iceberg lettuce with ranch or blue cheese dressing, just so you can die of sodium overload. I always use shell macaroni, because then you get delightful little explosions of cheese in your mouth, but any kind of macaroni works. All it takes is one bowl of this, and I'm back in the yellow-linoleum kitchen of my childhood, convinced that all is right with the world.
And for just a little while, it is.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Of Freelancing and the Ponderings that Ensue...
While I make coffee to pay my rent, I also freelance for a firm that provides content for websites such as eHow and Answerbag. This has turned out to be an ideal solution to the current economic woes facing this recent college grad, because as long as people are lazy morons who ask stupid questions, I will have a job. America has few self-renewing resources, but thankfully stupidity is one of them, and as long as people keep Googling "Why do pennies get dirty?" I will have a steady paycheck.
(Yes, I actually wrote an article on that very topic. Yes, they paid me for it. Yes, I laughed and sobbed the entire four minutes it took to put together.)
Our prospective assignments are generated by data gathered from various search engines. It's completely anonymous; I don't know if Phil in New Brunswick or Sheila in Barstow is asking me how to gain the trust and respect of Capricorn men, and frankly, I don't care. The title guys - those in charge of classifying and approving prospective articles - have a job for which they are completely unqualified, which constantly delights and amuses me. I'm pretty sure that articles about pancake flanges do not belong in the "Food" articles division, any more so than articles about electronic wiring belong in the "Fashion" section. You choose your assignment, write it (with references), and have it copy-edited and fact checked. It's a simple gig, and believe me, I'm grateful for it. The fact that it is an inexhaustible source of amusement for me is merely a bonus.
Some questions are maddeningly vague..."How do you fix a watch?" and the like, while others are mind-bogglingly specific..."The History of the Hotel Pennsylvania Silver Crest" was a favorite of mine; I researched God-knows how many documents and files before discovering that there is no written history of the silverware's crest because nobody gives a rat's patoot.
You can tell what people are up to outside of their computer lives; there are always questions that read exactly like the prompts from a college sophomore English class (no, I'm not going to tell you six arguments for a Colonialist reading of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice; that's why God and the obscenely rich university donors gave you a library, dillweed), while some questions I am more than happy to NOT answer (why are there multiple questions in a row on cleaning blood from a carpet and collecting life insurance policies?). It's like Double Indemnity for the Facebook generation...if Fred MacMurray and Barbara Stanwyck had only had Google, they could have chatted with Gmail instead of skulking about in grocery store aisles to plan their crimes.
Indicators of larger world issues are at play, too. There have been a dishearteningly high number of questions lately about how to extract gold from various substances - computer chips, teeth, quartz, scrap electronic wiring, ocean water. My guess is that there are a lot of folks out there who are looking for anyway to get by, and while I'm glad to share any information I can, it saddens me that this is what we've come to, and that for many this is the only hope of finding the next month's rent or tomorrow's dinner.
...and then there are the questions that have no bearing on reality whatsoever, such as whoever wanted me to tell them how to build robots out of everything from concrete to wood to tissue paper. Sorry, no can do there, but it did sound like the makings of a great children's book...The Three Little Robots and the Big Bad W.O.LF. (Wolverine Operative Lethal Force). "One made of straw, one made of sticks, one made of bricks...And he zapped! And he zapped! And he zapped that stick robot to smithereens! But the engineer, who made his robot out of bricks, knew that it could withstand the blasts of the Big Bad W.O.L.F's humanoid and plasma uranium fragmentizer fields (his H.U.F.Fs and P.U.F.Fs)."
Oops, sorry about that. Where was I? Oh yeah, random questions that people ask. Clearly, random is a topic about which I know nothing.
Anyway, it's a good gig that I'm glad to have, and honestly enjoy quite a bit. I learn about things I've never even heard of before (moldavite, anyone?), and I earn a bit of cash on the side. It doesn't pay the bills, but it does keep me in shoes.
Shoes that you'll see me wearing with my jeans and sparkly top, of course.
(Yes, I actually wrote an article on that very topic. Yes, they paid me for it. Yes, I laughed and sobbed the entire four minutes it took to put together.)
Our prospective assignments are generated by data gathered from various search engines. It's completely anonymous; I don't know if Phil in New Brunswick or Sheila in Barstow is asking me how to gain the trust and respect of Capricorn men, and frankly, I don't care. The title guys - those in charge of classifying and approving prospective articles - have a job for which they are completely unqualified, which constantly delights and amuses me. I'm pretty sure that articles about pancake flanges do not belong in the "Food" articles division, any more so than articles about electronic wiring belong in the "Fashion" section. You choose your assignment, write it (with references), and have it copy-edited and fact checked. It's a simple gig, and believe me, I'm grateful for it. The fact that it is an inexhaustible source of amusement for me is merely a bonus.
Some questions are maddeningly vague..."How do you fix a watch?" and the like, while others are mind-bogglingly specific..."The History of the Hotel Pennsylvania Silver Crest" was a favorite of mine; I researched God-knows how many documents and files before discovering that there is no written history of the silverware's crest because nobody gives a rat's patoot.
You can tell what people are up to outside of their computer lives; there are always questions that read exactly like the prompts from a college sophomore English class (no, I'm not going to tell you six arguments for a Colonialist reading of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice; that's why God and the obscenely rich university donors gave you a library, dillweed), while some questions I am more than happy to NOT answer (why are there multiple questions in a row on cleaning blood from a carpet and collecting life insurance policies?). It's like Double Indemnity for the Facebook generation...if Fred MacMurray and Barbara Stanwyck had only had Google, they could have chatted with Gmail instead of skulking about in grocery store aisles to plan their crimes.
Indicators of larger world issues are at play, too. There have been a dishearteningly high number of questions lately about how to extract gold from various substances - computer chips, teeth, quartz, scrap electronic wiring, ocean water. My guess is that there are a lot of folks out there who are looking for anyway to get by, and while I'm glad to share any information I can, it saddens me that this is what we've come to, and that for many this is the only hope of finding the next month's rent or tomorrow's dinner.
...and then there are the questions that have no bearing on reality whatsoever, such as whoever wanted me to tell them how to build robots out of everything from concrete to wood to tissue paper. Sorry, no can do there, but it did sound like the makings of a great children's book...The Three Little Robots and the Big Bad W.O.LF. (Wolverine Operative Lethal Force). "One made of straw, one made of sticks, one made of bricks...And he zapped! And he zapped! And he zapped that stick robot to smithereens! But the engineer, who made his robot out of bricks, knew that it could withstand the blasts of the Big Bad W.O.L.F's humanoid and plasma uranium fragmentizer fields (his H.U.F.Fs and P.U.F.Fs)."
Oops, sorry about that. Where was I? Oh yeah, random questions that people ask. Clearly, random is a topic about which I know nothing.
Anyway, it's a good gig that I'm glad to have, and honestly enjoy quite a bit. I learn about things I've never even heard of before (moldavite, anyone?), and I earn a bit of cash on the side. It doesn't pay the bills, but it does keep me in shoes.
Shoes that you'll see me wearing with my jeans and sparkly top, of course.
Of Denim Trends and Other Inanities...
It's always amusing to me to read a fashion magazine that exhorts readers to pair a cute, sparkly top and cute sparkly shoes with a pair of jeans for a sophisticated-yet-casual vibe.
Aherm.
I live in a place where denim is not an option; it's a way of life. I have been to many weddings, funerals, awards banquets, fundraisers and other high-falutin affairs where the "Texas Tuxedo" (denim jacket, western shirt, denim pants) was not just de rigeur (Trans.: "why the hell did you take French in high school again?" --my grandmother), it was practically required for admission. That's about as fancy as it gets for denim in these parts, though I do claim that the originator of the cute-sparkly-top-and-jeans look was not some actress, or socialite, or model - it was the cowgirl. If you have been to even one small-town tri-tip dinner in your life, you will know that there is no one who can rock a rhinestone-bedecked halter top with a pair of shitkickers and blue jeans than the western horsewoman. True story.
However, for the most part, we use denim in the way that it was originally intended - as durable, washable fabric for clothing in which we do hard work. I own two -yes, onetwo - pairs of jeans that do not feature the following: busted belt-loops, massive paint coverage, holes in the knees, torn cuffs, bleach stains, and smudges of indeterminate origin. And I'm a barista for a coffee shop, for Pete's sake, not a rancher. Let's not even get into the kind of abuse their pants go through.
I guess the problem then becomes that if I were to reach into my closet and grab the first pair of jeans and the first cute top I touched, statistics dictate that I would look less "New York Fashionista" and more "Isn't that sweet? They let her out of the home, and she even dressed herself." Who knows, maybe sartorial schizophrenia will be big come spring. That's when I'll bust out that little beauty. Check for it in Vogue come March.
Aherm.
I live in a place where denim is not an option; it's a way of life. I have been to many weddings, funerals, awards banquets, fundraisers and other high-falutin affairs where the "Texas Tuxedo" (denim jacket, western shirt, denim pants) was not just de rigeur (Trans.: "why the hell did you take French in high school again?" --my grandmother), it was practically required for admission. That's about as fancy as it gets for denim in these parts, though I do claim that the originator of the cute-sparkly-top-and-jeans look was not some actress, or socialite, or model - it was the cowgirl. If you have been to even one small-town tri-tip dinner in your life, you will know that there is no one who can rock a rhinestone-bedecked halter top with a pair of shitkickers and blue jeans than the western horsewoman. True story.
However, for the most part, we use denim in the way that it was originally intended - as durable, washable fabric for clothing in which we do hard work. I own two -yes, onetwo - pairs of jeans that do not feature the following: busted belt-loops, massive paint coverage, holes in the knees, torn cuffs, bleach stains, and smudges of indeterminate origin. And I'm a barista for a coffee shop, for Pete's sake, not a rancher. Let's not even get into the kind of abuse their pants go through.
I guess the problem then becomes that if I were to reach into my closet and grab the first pair of jeans and the first cute top I touched, statistics dictate that I would look less "New York Fashionista" and more "Isn't that sweet? They let her out of the home, and she even dressed herself." Who knows, maybe sartorial schizophrenia will be big come spring. That's when I'll bust out that little beauty. Check for it in Vogue come March.
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