you are not what you own...

"So are you into the postmodern thing at all?"
"Ummm... how?"
"Well you seem to wear a lot of black..."
"It does go with everything..."

I can't help but be amused at the commentary on the wardrobe of yours truly, stumbling ten years late into some semblance of personal style where the basic black seems to work well as a common denominator and is less prone to being permanently ruined by spilled drinks or other unforeseen incidents. I'm a bit too dogmatic on certain matters to be postmodern about anything, but the color suits my melancholic tendencies well.

It's been so hot that I've been wearing the same skirts over and over and figured it was time to do the annual I-need-something-for-work shopping thing. I've never been into shopping for clothing, as books and music and now plants are infinitely more interesting, though I'm less fashionally challenged than I once was, but usually end up grabbing a shirt or two at Target or a thrift store or something, not really having to avoid the mall since I don't live near one.

So it feels surreal to walk through the air-conditioned corridors not surrounded by fellow chicas, aware of marketing and vapid pulsing music, finding that I'm in a strange in-between stage, being too old for the tastes of the Bright Young Things and not wanting to head into MiddleAgedSuburbanCareerWoman territory either, as neither mid-thigh nor floor-length in ruffles or loud flower prints are me, neither are bright colors, superfluous ruffles and accents.

And so I end up not getting anything and gawking at gorgeous photos and art tomes at Half Price books and the vinyl bins the Record Exchange instead, amused by the hipsters are smoking cigars in the parking lot next to a brand new Toyota Corolla.

Back at the casa, I reheat leftover pasta, pull weeds, and fall asleep on the couch with the windows open to catch the lake breezes which meld with the medieval chants on the stereo beautifully.

'battle dress'

...evidently has nothing to do with medieval warlike accoutrements or re-enactors but rather this whole thing called "Dress for Success."

My first dealing with this whole culture came at the Seasonal Holiday Retail Hell Job I had for three weeks when I was 19. At orientation, we learned how to run the cash register the lady who ran this was wearing a power suit and told us we were really special because we worked at Kaufmann's and were dressed much classier than those people at JCPenney's.

We had to carry on this tradition of looking really good so that when we went for lunch at the food court, everyone could tell that we worked at Kaufmann's. Honestly, I don't think anyone else in the rest of Parmatown Mall really gave a damn either way, but then again, there's a reason that I'm not the manager of anything.

So now I'm in the world of grown-up-ness where I have to maintain a modicum of respectability and negotiate the precarious terms of business casual and read these articles about careerwear with some bemusement.

What do my legs say about me as a barely creative individual? What kind of authority do I want to project? Being that I'm often told I'm young enough to be their children by my superiors, I get the feeling that I'm not taken terribly seriously as it is.

Evidently knee-high boots and the color purple are okay, which is ironically what I'm wearing today, not because it's a "Power Color" but more because I got it for free from someone, as I did the accompanying skinny black pants and the dangling heavy glass earrings. At least Eugene Hutz & Co. would be proud of me.



Thrift and comfort over fashion, but I'm getting better at this whole thing, since I have to. Our Industrial Sociology overlords claim that one should not express oneself especially as a female, but since I have no ambition and work in the non-corporate realm, I'll continue to indulge in my love of dangly earrings (de-gauging my ears was a good thing) and dark colors. So far it hasn't gotten me in any trouble, so I guess I'm okay.

I'm thankful I live in an unfashionable rustbelt city in a run-down part of town so that I can get away with old jeans and an endless array of black t-shirts, where a winter wardrobe means putting thermals under and a hoodie/cardigan over said previous items, and I get mistaken for a record store clerk every time I'm shopping in said establishment. It's not entirely a bad thing.

a mad tea party

Contrary to any connotation, this has nothing to do with people waving misspelled signs or Alice in Wonderland, though the later is one of the greatest books of all time, despite Carroll's creepy old man tendencies.

I tend to think of myself as too cynical for marketers, being an almost X-er with parents who didn't buy me Fruit By The Foot for my lunchbox, and always finding commercials annoying even as a kid.

Still, I am a sucker for absurd packaging, terrible graphic design, and general weirdness of most kinds and find my shopping experiences at Marc's and the ethnic grocery stores in my neighborhood fabulous for such things.

While I was still living with the parents in Parma, I'd take my little sister and her BFF up to Drug Mart to rent a movie and then we'd go over to "Fancy Food" to buy exotic imported goods like birch tree juice, tiny little fruity hard candies from Poland, and "Royal Tea" (get it? Rimshot, please). Because nothing says awesome like tea depicting the last Tsar and Tsarina and translated instructions that involve samovars, tea cozies, and the suggestion that before boiling, "the water should first be clear."



According to the blurb on Amazon.com:

Russian Royal Tea evokes the bygone era of leisurely afternoons in the Russian countryside drinking tea with people close to you. Tea drinking in Russia has a very long history and tea from Ceylon (Sri Lanka) has always been the most popular. Russian Royal Tea is pure Ceylon loose tea packed in Sri Lanka. Net Weight: 8.8 oz.

Closer to where I live now, I can get Namibian beer, Nigerian movies, voodoo candles with saints that look a little sketchy, yucca roots, Coca-Cola in glass bottles with real sugar and Inca Cola in the Peruvian food section.



I don't remember this one from PSR...


Asiatown, around the corner, sells "Baby Tea," and the Vietnamese market down the street from me sells this concoction as well.



It appeals to my snarky side and love of non-genericness. Conspicuous consumption, indeed.