The Red Effect
I don’t typically paint my fingernails. It takes too much time and chips in the polish make me crazy, so I end up removing it a day after I put it on. Saturday I decided that I wanted to paint them, so now they’re red—bright, shimmering, shiny red. It’s hard to image that something as simple as a coat of red enamel could alter the way a person is perceived, but that seems to be the case so far.
Saturday night, my friend Wings’ ex saw me and asked if I was going to the pub-crawl as a vixen. (I wasn’t.) The Wal-Mart cashier when I bought my mixer for the evening didn’t even glance at my face until after he took the bills from my had. He seemed surprised.
Sunday morning, I went to the coffee shop to get my jolt the lazy way. The elderly man in the suit behind me (presumably post-church—I live in the Bible Belt) gave me a dirty look for no apparent reason. I was confused until I saw him looking down at my coffee cup in my hand. Wait, no, I was still confused when I realized why he was glaring.
Today I was sitting in my YA lit class, wishing for the clock to go faster (or for God to strike
down my incompetent professor) when I noticed the boy across the circle* staring at me, his eyes focused on my hands as I doodled. Of course I had to test him. I laid my pen down and lifted my hand to toy with my necklace. His eyes followed. I lifted my hand further to toy with my silver hoop earring, and his eyes followed. I finally raised my hand to brush my bangs out of my eyes. His eyes followed and he finally noticed me looking back. He seemed somewhat startled, and I couldn’t hide my smile. He returned it and I felt absolutely validated in spending an hour of my Saturday afternoon painting my nails.
Perhaps it’s the color. I just purchased a pair of hot red heels. I’ll wear them out and see if men start staring at my feet. If that works, red lipstick is the next step.
*Curiously, this boy’s first and last name are the same as Iris’ first and middle name. when my professor called role on the first day of class, I almost had a heart attack. That feeling has subsided to a palpitation at this point, but I’ll never be able to ignore it.
The Hos Next Door
I watch reality TV.
I know, it’s sad really. I’m pretty equal-opportunity too; it doesn’t really matter how awful it is, I’ll watch. American Idol, Big Brother, Project Runway. However, there is worse, and I do watch it. I admit it, I have a weird, inexplicable love for
The Girls Next Door.
.
Everyone knows Hef, right? Millionaire owner and founder of the Playboy enterprise? The 80-year-old man who has 21-year-old girlfriends?
That’s right, twenty-one. The man old enough to be my great-grandfather is dating a girl who is my age. To be fair, these girls are not as stupid as they look. They are educated and more well-spoken than a lot of my English-major classmates. But then they do things that just make you wonder, like taking an online paranormal investigation course, or dressing up like ‘Jackie Ho’ for Halloween. To be completely honest, I usually feel less intelligent for having watched it.
So what is the attraction? These three girls really are entertaining characters. Holly is just as goofy and she is glamorous, Bridget is as smart as she is busty, and Kendra’s personality is so different from the other two that you just have to see what she’ll do next. These are the kind of women that are fun to be around, if only for a little while, and if only to see just what they’re willing to say and do.
While I myself don’t find pornography (particularly that seen in Playboy) offensive, I know that there are lots of people who do. As far as I’m concerned, to each his (or her) own. If these girls want to pose nude, it’s their decision and who am I to tell them that they’re wrong? If men want to look at girls who posed willingly, who am I to say that they’re pigs?
I admit that the thought of dating a man who is four times my age is absolutely nauseating, but who am I to judge? Maybe they are the hos next door, and maybe they're not. It’s interesting television, my intelligence be damned. How much damage can thirty minutes a week do?*
*Granted, I watch far more than thirty minutes a week of mindless television, but we’re going to pretend like that isn’t the case.
Ambivalent?
That's right, a new one. The old one is depressing (although reading it for backstory might be helpful:
Old Blog ), and I'm tired of depressing people. Less sadness, more humor, sarcasm, cynicism, and randomness.
Admittedly, the title may not be entirely truthful, and might even be more accurately titled Accidental Apathy. Sue me, I like the word and I am pretty ambivalent about a lot of things, so deal with it. I'm not ambivalent about everything though. There are lots of things I decisively love and hate. Read: I love reading and writing, snow, pink, tequila, Gilmore Girls. I hate baseball, vodka, St. Louis, liars, and walking to class in the rain.
The goal of my last blog was to figure out what the hell was wrong with me, why I was still depressed six months after
Iris died. So did I? To a certain extent, yes. I figured out my emotions about him, for the most part. To truly figure out what's screwed up in my head would take way more than a blog and some inrospections. Perhaps a very well-educated psychiatrist.
If you read the old blog, you'll meet many of the familiar players: Iris, Ms. O, Bradshaw, etc. If you haven't...who cares?
I suppose that statement could be considered proof of my ambivalence.
down my incompetent professor) when I noticed the boy across the circle* staring at me, his eyes focused on my hands as I doodled. Of course I had to test him. I laid my pen down and lifted my hand to toy with my necklace. His eyes followed. I lifted my hand further to toy with my silver hoop earring, and his eyes followed. I finally raised my hand to brush my bangs out of my eyes. His eyes followed and he finally noticed me looking back. He seemed somewhat startled, and I couldn’t hide my smile. He returned it and I felt absolutely validated in spending an hour of my Saturday afternoon painting my nails.
