Monika: "Is it good?"

Amy: "Yes. It's light and crisp and refreshing."

Sarah: "It's the white wine of colas."

P.S.A.

Let's be really clear about something - tights aren't leggins. Let me repeat: tights are not leggings. Tights are NOT leggings. Tights are not leggings. Is the message coming through? I hate to be so pedantic but there seems to be a pervasive misunderstanding about what constitutes a pair of tights. On what evidence do I base this claim, you might ask yourself? (particularly if you're one of my sociology friends or one of my research methods students whom I'm constantly haraunging about the difference between "normative" and "empirical" statements). I've just returned from a shopping trip in SoHo, one of New York City's most well-known shopping districts. What was meant to be a jaunt turned into a man hunt. I wanted a pair of tights to go with the corduroy skirt I was wearing and the navy shirt I purchased to go with it to complete the ensemble so that I might look spiffy at dinner on Thanksgiving. Prep-chic. The confusion began at the cash register when I asked the sales lady if she new where I could find tights. She informed me that they carried them downstairs, so after finishing the transaction I popped downstairs to look, figuring I had missed them before. Not seeing tights, I asked a sales guy. "We don't have tights, just leggings." Ah, I see. Crucial, practical difference.
Off I went, figuring one of the next two shoe stores would have tights. Not so, my friend. Aldo, Nine West, Guess, H&M, Banana Republic, Express, Ann Taylor Loft, Steve Madden, Zara. I'll spare you the details. Now in all fairness, some of the stores did have tights, but didn't have the color I needed. More than once, however, I was told that they did have tights but then directed to leggings or, on one occassion, trouser socks. SO...hoping to spare others of a similar shopping fate I thought we could do a brief vocabulary review:
tights - leg coverings, usually from waist to toes, although you can have foot-less tights, that fight tightly to the body. they are usually made of nylon, cotton, spandex or some combination there of, but can also be wool. they can be more or less opaque and come in different colors, patterns, and textures. tights are also what ballerinas and figure skaters wear.
pantyhose, also called nylons generically, are tights of 40 denier or less (thank you wikipedia, I did not know that), meaning they are more sheer. pantyhose are generally what a woman would wear with a suit or a dress. both nylons and tights come in a variety of figured-fixing/enhancing forms. trouser socks are made of tight material and come to just below the knee. they are mean to be worn with pants or slacks and dress shoes. not to be confused with knee-highs, which are pantyhose that, you guessed it, only come knee-high. note: it is not okay to wear knee-highs with something other than trousers unless you are someone's grandmother and/or are from eastern Europe. you can also have knee-high, or over-the-knee socks. then there are stockings, which are like nylons but need to be held up with a garter-belt. these are best compared to thigh-highs, which can be tights or nylons but have some form of elastic or gripping-strips so that they stay up on their own. finally, we get to the bane of my shopping trip, leggings. leggings can be made from a variety of fibers not unlike tights, but they are thicker and more opaque than tights. leggings were very much in vogue in the 1980s, and often came with stirrups, but generally are foot-less. leggings are often used as a substitute for pants, although this is not advised, unless you are a professional or high-grade althete. leggings can be ankle length but more frequently stop just below the knee or mid-calf, often with a lace trim.

So I hope we've cleared things up, and that you can now fully appreciate my aggrevation at being continuously directed to leggings, when I wanted tights. I mean, look at me. Do I look like I do leggings? I'm not saying I wouldn't if I was about 4" taller and/or weighed 10-15 lbs less, but in my current state my style is much more "I'm going to read in a coffee shop" than "I'm going to a loft in TriBeCa to see an indie-rock band". Tights complete the preptastic look by adding a splash of color and practical leg covering when it's not exactly skirt weather. They say, "I love in NYC, and I'm a graduate student." Leggings, paired with a denim mini skirt and ballerina flats, say, "I'm staying at my artsy, heroin-chic skinny boyfriend's loft in Williamsburg tonight."

"I'm not fat, there's just more of me to love." "I'm not fat, I'm fluffy." These are just two of the many lines I've given myself over my lifetime. Sometimes I've been overly hard, but, truth be told, the dial on the scale has been creeping up on me over the past few years. While I've always yo-yo-ed a bit, since starting grad school just over 3 years ago I have slowly but surely gained about 15 lbs. I'm an adult, I can control what I do with my body (unless I've had too much to drink) and I understand the fairly basic math of calories in minus energy expended = weight. So, in that light, I've been trying to take a more moderate approach to food and couple it with increased exercise. The problem is that I'm thwarted at every step! I make a healthy, fiber and protein rich whole-wheat pasta dish, and look what jumps out and smacks me in the thighs. I love ice cream, but usually I'm a Ben & Jerry's devotee. Haagen-Dazs really isn't my thing (I could go on and on about ravines of chocolate versus swirls and whole cookies versus chocolate chips - I don't like cold chunks of chocolate in my ice cream, they become too matted into the surface of my teeth - but that's not so important right now), although, like B&J, it comes in it's own hand held cardboard bowl that I really enjoy. But last week while my local heinously over-priced Gristedes, I saw this little beacon of joy and puggy-dom gleaming behind the frosted glass. It's a special edition "Sticky Toffee Pudding" flavor. S.T.P. STICKY TOFFEE PUDDING!!! Can we think of anything more delicious? Being a shameless Anglophile made it that much more irresistable. Fortunately, I polished off the pint last night so that I could get back to my more health-conscious ways...

Babydolls for grown-ups

I don't know what caused me to think of it today, but as I was walking down Broadway this morning the recollection of one of the few positive experiences I had when I worked at Victoria's Secret brought a smile to my face.

Guys came in all the time to buy gifts for their wives/girlfriends/whatevers. Some were painfully shy, and I took a great deal of pity on them, usually directing them to the cotton pajama nightshirts. Others were way too enthusiastic (if you want to buy her that lace bodysuit in turquois for your 3 month anniversary be my guest) and some were just so sleazy I wanted to shower after talking to them ("I'll take 2 - one for my wife and one for my girlfriend!" Oh, how I envy the woman you're going home to...). However, there were a few rare jems that seemed likely genuinely nice men. Again, rare. Very rare.

One such gentleman came in one day and wanted help purchasing something for his pregnant wife. I suggested a pair of soft pink fleece pajamas - they were popular with the new moms because the button front shirt provided easy access for breast feeding. No, he said, she was feeling bad about her new body with the weight gain, and he wanted her to know that she would always be sexy and beautiful to him. I suggested a sexy, yet classy, black tie-front babydoll. It would accomodate her growing belly but still be wearable post-baby. Perfect.

Part of me wanted to be there when she opened the present to see the look on her face, to watch them hug and cry and spill "I love you's" all over each other like a DeBeers commercial. Part of me wanted to ask the guy for his number, but while I have many less than desirable character traits I don't fancy myself a homewrecker. Instead I just wrapped the gift, in awe of this incredible man. Sometimes I use this memory as immaginary ammunition against boyfriends (real and potential). But will he think I'm sexy when I'm pregnant. Maybe I should just be happy knowing that those type of men do indeed exist and hope that it just contributes to some overarching cosmic balance of appreciating women's bodies.

Hot off the gossip mill from a Conde Nast intern...

Apparently a pair of Christian Louboutin's (average price tag ~ $700) went missing somewhere between their store and the Vogue fashion closet. A CL employee called Vogue and demanded return of the missing pair. The Vogue employee checked, said 'sorry, we don't have 'em.' The CL employee insisted she had a signed sheet blah blah blahblah blah..."Well every Vogue girl wearing CLs out on Friday and Saturday night should have her feet checked until the missing pair is found." No she did-n't! Anna Wintour (whom you all know from Glen Close's recent silver screen portrayal of the 'Ice Queen'), defending her girls, sent back every pair of Christian Louboutin's, informing them that their shoes wouldn't be featured in the pages of any Conde Nast publication until an apology was issued and the offending employee was fired.

The Devil may wear Prada, but we know what she's currently not wearing...

For better or worse, there are people out there like me. People that, despite their better judgement, love fashion, live for sales, and breathe in the sweet smell of bargains like a sea captain inhaling the crisp, salty, morning air. People who know that it's not the cost of an item that counts - it's the percentage of the original price you paid.

As evidence, I present to you personalshopper.com. Here are people who have designed a website dedicated to helping you find the stuff you don't even know you need yet! It's nothing short of genius. It's literally only been a few hours since I made this discovery, so I don't think I've been able to fully grasp how amazing this is. Fear not, sweet cyber shopping companion, we have all the time in the world.

This has been rolling over in my head for quite some time, but I'm feeling a little slumpy* today and thought some sarcastic blogging might cheer me up a bit.

*(slmpi) adj. used to describe one's mood when in a bit of a slump, feeling down, and/or suffering from a case of the blahs

Why 'ex-sex' is like McDonalds:

• Sometimes, you just get a craving
• You know it's not good for you, but it sure hits the spot
• You're not after it because it's amazing, you're seeking something predictable, reliable and consistent
• Although you know a high % of people do the same thing, you may be embarassed to admit to it in certain company
• Afterwards, you feel kind of gross and remember why you haven't had it in a while

Thank you to Nellie for pointing out that "the world is catching on to your shoe thing."

I've come to realize that I'm a single mother to my inner child. I have to embrace her, pull her in, give her the attention and love that she needs. I hate her because she needs love and attention, but I need to remember that she's a child and all child need that. When I bring her in and heal her I'll be able to reclaim all her good qualities - her playfulness, her sensitivity, etc.

That's all well and good, but right now she's on a time out. I'm contemplating sending her to boarding school. My therapist said I can do that, but she'll just come back. Do you think DFS can come after you if you harm your inner child?

Right, back to pretending I'm not crazy.

I'm a bit of an attention whore. I didn't get enough 'healthy attention' as a child. That's what my therapist tells me. She's a very nice, polished, Jewish woman in her 60's. I'm a recovering Catholic, but I'm very Jew-y.

My sister got married this weekend. I became accutely aware of my attention-seeking antics because a) I talk A LOT, b) I talk even more when I'm nervous, and c) the content of what I say can frequently be described as woefully inappropriate. Take, for example, when my sister's friend and bridesmaid Lisa, a mother of 2, came to my room. I asked her if my present, a gift basket swaddled in a sheer, blue, gossimer fabric, looked like a giant blue abortion. Or, consider me drinking outside the bar with my sister's friends until 2:30 am after the wedding. The sparkling white I was drinking (straight from the bottle, of course) was giving me a tremendous amount of stomach gas, so I kept belching and deflecting the blame onto other people, saying things like, "Goodness, Flavia, you're a mother. Conduct yourself with some dignity!"

After years of searching, I had given up on my hopes of discovering the sweet, strawberry scented puffed breakfast treat that was Strawberry Shortcake cereal. That is, until I purchased Special K's fruit & yogurt the other day on a whim (I also picked up the Life vanilla yogurt crunch, which doesn't remind me of childhood but is quite tastey). It's the adult version! It even turns the milk pink! I clearly wasn't as devoted as these people to bringing back SSC, but thank you, General Mills, for putting the taste of childhood happiness back into my cereal bowl.

Mia just got her wedding pictures back. I was so honored that she asked me to be in the wedding party and take part in her special day. She must wonder what she was thinking.
I am one classy broad.

Dearest co-habitants,

I love you both dearly, like sisters in fact, but much in the way I used to feel the heat of injustice when the Desh-ster would declare a natural disaster in Barbie land, forcing an upheavel of the pink palacial town house that I had just finished organizing, so too are some of our domestic matters troubling me.

Let's start with the loo roll. I often hear the phrase "we're out of toilet paper." No shit (-5 pts for the bad pun). This happens with desposable paper products, particularly those we use frequently. You should make a mental note of this when you put the last roll in the bathroom instead of taking the roll off the holder in my bathroom and moving it to yours. You would notice the shortage more often if I didn't proactively buy t.p. frequently, but every now and then it's your turn, and that doesn't mean buying a 4 pack to replace the last 8/16/24 pack I bought.

Moving on to non-disposable products - the bathroom towels. I don't mind sharing towels; it would be silly not to. What I do mind is when you use all the towels and don't wash them to the point that I go for a clean towel and there are none left. Again, we don't need to do a load of towels, you do.

And speaking of things piling up, when the dishrack is full and you wash something, do you think you could maybe put away the clean, dry dishes instead of precariously perching those pans on top of the pile? Similarly, when the dishwasher is full, would you mind emptying it every once in a while? I know I do the majority of cooking and therefore use the most dishes, so I have no problem putting away dishes most of the time. But when I empty the dishwasher, I don't leave your water glasses or cereal bowls in there, so if you could return the favor once in a blue moon, it would be awesome.

Now I know I play the domestic diva, and truth be told I do like cleaning. I generally don't mind bleaching the kitchen counters or diving into the microwave armed with a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser just to see what can be accomplished. But even I have my limits. I know I'm partially to blame. We're adults and have good relationships - I could have brought this up. A fake blog letter is very passive agressive, I agree. In my defense, though, I don't think I should have to ask that you clean the toilet at least once in the three years it'll be come August.

As my mother once said, I'll always love you, but sometimes I don't like how you act.

Kindest regards,

Little Miss Clean

Random thoughts from the weekend:

The World Cup makes for an easy social life for about a month. If you're a dirty student like me you can bugger off to the pub about any time of the day and feel like you're taking part in some greater cultural good. And if, also like me, your boyfriend is Brittish you can feel a little bit less like a jerk for saying things like, "let's meet at the pub at half eleven" and "___ [insert disliked footballer] really is a cunt." I'm such a shameless Anglo-phile.
Paul was in town this weekend so much of it was spent watching football. Now I don't really give a rat's ass about the American team, but I did want them to win Saturday. For starters, they were the underdog, and if they had won everyone in the group would have had 3 points making for some very interesting matches later in the week. While I wouldn't go as far as some of the headlines, but 1-1 wasn't a bad finish for playing 9 men on Italy's 10, especially when that 2nd red card was bullshit.

Above all, I'm thankful that I'm watching the World Cup in New York City. At any given bar you're almost guaranteed at least one ex-pat. It would probably be a lot more boring in Kansas.

Quotation of the day:

"NYU is the Home Depot of universities because it's do it your fucking self."
Thank you, Noah.

Minor rant

The subway during rush hour is quite the experience. Since I'm a career student, if I'm taking the train during the morning commute it's usually because I'm on my way to the gym. I can understand people looking at my bed head, no make-up, gym clothes and flip-flops ensemble with mild annoyance - totally warranted. What I cannot deal with, is how stupid people are on the train. Is it really so hard to move in? Do you have to stand in the doors? Is it really a threat to your masculinity to sit down in the seat in front of you just to make a little more room for those of us cramming in the door with some stranger breathing into our eyeballs and elbowing us in the back while they try to read their AM New York? Just take the f*&%#n seat! You're not being chivalrous, you're being impracticle and annoying.
, at least my new Gap lovelies aren't giving me blisters.

Unsubscribing

That's been one of my goals today - to unsubscribe to all the junk e-mail lists I've signed myself up for. My goal should probably be to finish the draft of the chapter I promised my supervisor, but what fun would that be?

Once I figure out how to do fancier things on the blog I'd like to create a "shoe of the week" spot. for now I'll just post some of the cuties I've found while doing "research" on health and society.

Favorite Sites for Online Shoe Shopping

Not to toot my own horn, but I think I've taken shoe shopping to a new level - an art form if you will. Here are some of my favorites:
Shoes.com - tried and true, my fav
Solestruck - good search options and different brands, a new addition that will surely become a staple
Zappos - kinda pricey, but the reviews are really good
6.pm - less selection, but good prices and layout
ShoeBuy - honestly, their layout drives me nuts, but sometimes they're the cheapest
Online shoes
Never used this site, but can't hurt to have it on hand.
What I recommend is finding a shoe you like, and then checking out other websites to see if you can find it cheaper. I always google a shoe I like so see if I've missed any options.

As predicted, I created a blog with zeal one night, and then proceeded to neglect it much in the manner I neglect other parts of my life. Since I'm having a particularly useless day (all this can at least partially be attributed to the current weather in New YorkCity) I figured I'd give it another stab.

Tuesday night I attended a gala for the non-profit my friend Julia works for, Sanctuary for Families. It was a lovely affair at Chelsea Piers, and a good chance to get gussied up. There was an open bar sponsored by Grey Goose, delectable mini-desserts, and a DJ that knew how to strike the right balance of old-school Michael Jackson and new-school Madge. I met Julia's friend Thalia's friends from Vassar, and we became instant BFF.
I shared a cab with one of my new found friends. Because the rich bitches at the gala had taken all the goody bags, we helped ourselves to the centerpieces (to be fair, I got out of bed at 7:30 a.m. to help assemble them) and Krispy Kremes that were being handed out at the door. I was afraid the vases were going to suffer the same fate of the Guiness pint glasses I stole from the Abbey senior year. I had clenched the glasses in my fleece all the way home, only to watch them shatter on the floor of the lobby when I hit the button for the elevator.
These vases were pretty big and a little heavy since they were filled with beans, water and orchids. While waiting for a cab I tried to sell the orchids (sans vase) to a guy for $5. I told him this was really an excellent deal, since the orchids were African, from Cote d'Ivoire to be exact (they have a non-translation clause in their constitution that I try to respect), who had qualified for the World Cup for the first time in 20 years. This, I explained to him, was doing wonders for their economy. The transaction didn't take place as we were finally able to get a cab. I paid in cash, rather than bartering with the Krispy Kremes, and was trying to push open the front door of my building when the forces of nature - namely, 4 vodka tonics, the 2 vases and box of doughnuts, and my 3 1/2" heel - conspired to bring me to the floor. I skinned my knee, but the vases survived and looked lovely on kitchen table the next morning.