Men of Style

I admit that most Washington fashion crimes are committed by women. Ugly chunky clodhopper shoes? White stockings? Sweatpants with words across the fanny? All things that only women inflict upon the landscape.

However, let's focus on straight men. Guys, if you do any of the following things, please cease and desist. Then meet me at Pentagon City and we'll sort out a new wardrobe for you. Gays, keep on doing your thing.

1. Mandals. Men in sandals, unless your feet are clean, relatively furless and extremely well taken care of. If your toenails are yellow, cover them up!
2. Ties which are too short. A tie should touch the tip of your belt. If it is shorter, it makes you look like a dork. A dork with a potbelly.
3. White sneakers anywhere except for the gym. For that matter, any workout clothes when you're not at the gym.
4. Manties. As in, man panties (thanks, Rowena). Formally known as briefs. Tighty whities among the teen set. Don't wear 'em, your girlfriends and wives hate them. Though, of course, the nadir of male undergarment is and always will be the man-thong. Seriously, guys, leave the lingerie to the girls.
5. Extremely tight shirts. I do not want to see your nipples. This category also includes tank tops.
6. Dress shoes with white socks. C'mon guys, your moms told you this one 20 years ago.
7. Those chunky nerdy hipster glasses. They were played out three years ago.
8. Jeans with pre-fading, tapers, extra zippers, whiskering, or really any sort of frippery.
9. T-shirts with brand names on them. You just paid for the privelege of being a Nike billboard, sucker.
10. Anything stained, torn, battered, or otherwise gross.
11. Last, but not least, tan suits. Khaki is not a suit fabric. If you are Southern, and have the accent and manners to prove it, you have my permission to wear seersucker from Memorial to Labor Day. Otherwise, please stick to suits in black, gray, or navy.

So, men of Washington: Look neat and clean, wear things that fit properly, and don't look like you slept in what you're wearing. A basic jeans and tee outfit is always good. And ditch the metrosexual thing, please. Let the girls be the pretty ones.

A Very Trashy Halloween to You, Too

Hey Pretty said it much better than me, but...when did Halloween become a fleshfest?

Granted, I went as a dominatrix for Halloween many years ago, but at least that was funny (I'm so not the physical type for that kind of outfit). I went to a Halloween party on Saturday in which there were only two women in their 30s: me, and the friend that I went with. Everyone else was very young and perhaps a little underdressed. Why be a plain old fairy or nurse, when you can be the scantily dressed version?

In other news, go see the 3-D version of The Nightmare Before Christmas. And, in other other news, I still need a job.

Fear of Russia Film Festival

Last night I watched Red Dawn, that 80s tribute to isolationism, guerrila warfare, and the prospect of a badass C. Thomas Howell. (For another badass C. Thomas Howell film, check out my July 2003 review of him cavorting with Brian Austin Green.) And why on Earth would I watch this flick? Well, because I wasn't allowed to back to the 80s, because my mom declared it was paranoid American pro-gun silliness. As usual, Mom was right.


I'll admit a few things: I now have the wild urge to call out, "Wolverines!" as I make my way around the office. Patrick Swayze was sort of cute when he was young. And, yes, I flinched a few times during the endless killings.

But, the overall film was so ridiculous that I couldn't get into it. Since when are high schools strategic points worthy of a full-scale invasion? Why did their horses disappear for almost four months? Why couldn't I keep track of who anyone was? And, most importantly, why did Toni receive the same mortal wound twice?

But this has given me an inspiration. I would like my Netflix queue to reflect a white-knuckle fear of the Soviets. So I'm following up Red Dawn with The Day After (nuclear strikes on Lawrence, Kansas). I tried to get Amerika (the Soviets machine-gun Congress), but it's not available on DVD. Any other ideas for a Cold War Film Fest?

Adventures in Retail

Have you ever wodnered where creepy knicknacks come from? Sunday I made a stop at Marshall's to look for some throw pillows. To find the pillows, however, I had to wade through several aisles of discount dregs, mismatched pots and pans, and leopard print ottomans. Then I found the Repository of Creepy Knicknacks.

In the tchotchke aisle (between the bath mats and the photo frames), I was assaulted by the sight of dozens of eyes upon me. These eyes belonged to a veritable zoo of animal statuettes. There was a hot pink wiener dog, all dressed up in a ceramic hot dog bun. The wiener dog even had a boyfriend: a pastel blue ceramic wiener dog wearing a tie. While I didn't spot any spooky owls, I did see a few eerie little angry crystal roosters and a cow that looked like it wanted to murder my family.

Worst of all were the penguins. Menacing penguins, leering penguins, smirking penguins. An entire selection of penguins! Really, does anyone like penguins that much? Did anyone consider how bizarre it is to confront an entire shelf of emotionally disturbed penguins?

It was just too weird for words. Moral of the story: next time you're at Grandma's house, and she shows you her collection of appalling ceramics, you'll know she bought them at Marshall's.

How was YOUR Weekend?

Mine was so full it's going to take several posts to cover it all. I'll start with Friday's oddball evening.


Friday night I planned on stopping by the DC Bloggers Happy Hour at Chi-Cha. Logistical hiccup #1: due to other engagements, I could only be there right as it started at 8:00, and only for one drink. Logistical hiccup #2: I only know one of the bloggers and she wasn't expected to get there at the beginning. Therefore, I was attending an event where I had absolutely no idea what anyone looked like. My instructions were to look for a guy who is 6'4". Logistical hiccup, #3: every single person in the bar was slouched down onto sofas, meaning I had no way of figuring out anyone's height.

Hrm. Problematic, no? So, I had two options. 1. Go from group to group, ask people if they had blogs. Look like weirdo. 2. Sit at bar, get beer, eavesdrop until I could figure out which group to join. Feeling lazy and out of sorts, I chose Option 2.

Option 2 completely changed the course of my evening. The bar scene looks out for people who smile, so I made new friends within minutes. My most interesting new friend was a bipolar recovering alcoholic who was coming down off a four-day manic phase. He'd told me this in the course of attempting to pick me up. I explained that I was taken, and that he may want to reconsider his overall marketing strategy.

I tend to like people a whole lot better once they stop trying to impress me. This goes double for men who are hitting on me. So, once this guy realized I had no pickup potential, he turned out to be pretty nice, interesting and fun to chat with. Anyone who will say they're bipolar and stopped in to a bar to get out of the rain on their way to an AA meeting is someone worth getting acquainted with.

By the time I extricated myself from the conversation, I was vaguely aware that I was sitting smack in the middle of a bunch of bloggers. But unfortunately I had to leave and meet up with some folks at Velvet Lounge. I was already running a bit late, and tardiness stresses me out.

So, the moral of the story: DC bloggers, I'm really, really sorry I didn't get to meet you. If you noticed a chick at the bar in a black dress and Chuck Taylors, looking both enthusiastic yet perplexed, that was me. I'll catch you next time.

Settling for Second Best

Now that we have scientific proof, why do so many women still settle for second best?

http://news.yahoo.com/s/livescience/20071018/sc_livescience/feministshavemorefun;_ylt=AoxVhc8e.go0rygK238A80UPLBIF

Feminism isn't the stereotype of burning bras, hairy armpits and seething anger. It's always easy to demonize those that try to upset the status quo. The key tenet of feminism is to have a healthy regard for your own value. Not surprisingly, people with healthy self-esteem have healthier relationships. You can't love someone else until you can love yourself. (One day I want a job where I get pots and pots of grant money to restate the obvious.)

But I still encounter women who settle for second best. Why date the guy who already has a girlfriend? You can't make a meal out of another woman's leftovers. Why are you making less money than the guy two cubicles over? Your groceries cost the same as his, you work just as hard as he does, and you don't do that annoying snorting thing all day like he does.

Of course, there are consequences. The guy with the girlfriend will almost certainly dump you. Your boss may very well turn you down for that raise. A person with low self-esteem will see themselves as single and trapped in a low-paid job. A person with healthy self-esteem will set off in search of a new boyfriend and a new job. Nothing's the end of the world.

And it's a process. It took years for me, and decades for others. Self-worth, like anything worth having, is something you achieve. It doesn't just appear because you want it.

Once you start taking care of yourself, life gets a whole lot easier. Trust me.

Another Bizarre Meal with Bob

Bob and I took a trip to the Eastern Shore over the weekend, and had a disappointing and thoroughly baffling restaurant experience. We had decided to have a stroll around town and have dinner wherever looked interesting. We settled on Scossa.

Once we walked in the door, though, I totally ceased to understand what was happening. Seriously, I felt like we'd wandered through some sort of restaurant world Looking Glass. I've never eaten anywhere so weird (and that includes the place with the Turkish toilet).

There seemed to be three hosts, none of whom could agree as to whether we could have a table. We asked to peruse a menu to see if we wanted to eat there (no menus were posted outside) and this simple request required two different people to fulfill it, along with a flurry of activity.

Before we had a chance to slip out unnoticed, we were emphatically ushered to a table. The food, which should have been a highlight, was a disappointment. Each entree was priced over 25 dollars, and the portions were skimpy. I'm a small person who usually only eats half of her entree, and I left the restaurant absolutely starving.

The food itself? My salmon tasted like it had been soaked for hours in margarine, and the endive was slimy in texture. Ugh.

Oh, and did I mention that we appeared to have two different waitresses, a waiter, AND a random woman who dashed off with Bob's coat without really checking with us first (and therefore swiping his wallet)?

Once my initial confusion had subsided, I noticed we were in Married Couple Date Night Hell. We were surrounded by ladies with pastel turtlenecks, big hair and sour expressions, and their embittered, desperately bored husbands.

And, last and most annoying of all, we were seated next to two very drunk couples who had brought along a small child. The child was being ignored in favor of pouring more wine, and proceeded to get cranky and howl intermittently throughout the meal. No effort was made to take him outside until he could calm down. I don't really mind kids in restaurants, I think it's good to expose children to different environments and cuisines. But proceeding to get tanked while your child howls in misery is beyond ridiculous. Especially since it was well after that kid's bedtime.

Restaurant experiences shouldn't be so hectic and confusing. And if they're going to charge $25 for mediocre food, can I at least have something that fills me up? Eesh. We went to a pub afterwards and split an order of inexpensive peel and eat shrimp. And it was about a hundred times better than the offerings of Scossa. Seriously, stay away.