Hi, everyone! I want my five readers to meet my soon-to-be new dog. There hasn’t been a name determined yet … He’s called Black Jack currently, but the current poll yielded either the name Ivan or Sirius.
It’s official. After a particularly arduous workout I wanted nothing more than to jump into the shower, get the steam going and enjoy the fact that there were 15 inches of snow outside and I hadn’t left the apartment since I slogged my way home through the snow the evening before. I have what I consider, by Carol Standards, a GLORIOUS bathroom. Separate tub and shower, double sinks, granite, tile, HUGE walk-in closet attached. The shower is extraordinary in its own right, boasting boiling hot temperatures, a bunch of room, pretty tiles and a showerhead that puts the ass into massage. I’m not sure what that means, but it’s great.
Because I wanted to savor the sensations of the shower, I decided to leave all the lights in the bathroom off, save the shower light. It was a good decision, as it immediately set a rather spa-like atmosphere, punctuated by the oodles of steam. First five minutes? Fantastic. And then I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye.
Since the shower was the only rectangle of light in my sizable but not huge by any means bathroom, I was reminded of that scene in Pitch Black, where the guy crawls off and illuminates the world for a second, just long enough to see the legions of monsters surrounding him, (2:14 video below) ready to pounce, devour and rend. I told myself I was being silly. Just a bathroom. Ha ha! Yessss. Just a bathroom. Unfortunately, that primordial fear that human kind carries with them from the times where painting were done on cave walls, fire was coveted and the dark was unknown had already set in. I found myself doing the ‘You’re insane’ pep talk for the rest of the shower, and what began as a soothing relaxer turned into what I can only describe as ‘A bad mistake.’
What this really brought up to me though, is one of my more unreasonable, nonsensical fears of showers. It’s probably gleaned from the copious amount of Asian Horror I’ve greedily consumed over the years, but it doesn’t make much of a difference. I have a similar fear when it comes to washing my face at the sink that I’m positive came from that scene in the original Omen with Gregory Peck and the Satanic Nanny. But I digress. I’m frightened beyond the capacity for rational thought sometimes in the shower, that I’ll wash my face, rinse it off and open my eyes to see a scary child or something’s face right in front of mine.
The scenarios fluctuate, sometimes it’s a child, or some kind of crawly thing pulling the shower curtain to the side from the bottom, staring up at me. Other times it’s someone on the other side of the glass, face pressed against, breath fogging, only the bloodshot eyes visible. I’m told I watch too many horror movies… I just think my creativity is a curse.
Nontheless, I’ve decided that showering with a feeble light in a sea of darkness is not for me, even if it was relaxing before my diseased imagination kicked in.
Carol.Lynn.Orsini: it’s like
Carol.Lynn.Orsini: a separate scrotum
Carol.Lynn.Orsini: with wings
Carol.Lynn.Orsini: and the overlaying of a vagina
Carol.Lynn.Orsini: a drainage pipe
Carol: Dear Diary,
Carol: Today, I bought method hand soap! It doesn’t smell as good as the normal kind I get, but hey, you have to sacrifice for your planet.
Carol: Just to show my commitment to the cause, I also invested in a magic wand to cut water costs while showering.
Carol: Dear Diary, Day 302
Carol: I’ve completely stopped showering.
Carol: My hair is a rats nest and I think there’s something alive with it. My water bill is at zero.
Sam: Hippie boys keep coming up and hitting on me. Probably because my hair is in dreads.
Sam: Also: Jake keeps asking if I want to get lifted. I don’t even know what that means.
Call me a fashion premie, call me a coward, call me old-fashioned. Your insults will bounce off of my gently bootcut jeans that complement me perfectly, unlike the skinny jeans that grace the figures of girls world-wide. Big, small, inbetween, the skinny jean is NOT your friend. Thinking it is only serves to allow you to sit at the cool table at lunch while you still remain uncomfortably aware of the stares and whispers of those other kids judging you for giving up your integrity for these glorified stretch pants.
Do you remember stretch pants? I do. I was uncomfortable wearing them in 4th grade because they emphasized my pre-pubescant figure. Years, pounds and curves later I still feel like a elephant playing dress up in Audrey Hepburn’s closet with a studio audience when I shimmy my way into a pair of those ‘oh-so-sexy’ skinny jeans.
Who actually thinks these jeans are sexy to begin with? The smushed touchas, the thunder thigh emphasis, and the complete lack of a shoe designed for these incredibly dim-witted lower body devices …
Disagree with me? I challenge you to find ONE kind of shoe that complements these skintight contraptions.
The sandal? Perhaps the lesser of all evils this shoe doesn’t do anything particularly out of character to the skinny jean. Most skinny jeans are at least a foot too long, and unless you’re willing to roll up, chop off or pay to get those babies hemmed, you’re pulling the accordion ‘skinny leg’ move, something akin to the majesty of legwarmers, except 10x more unattractive.
Slides? Too wide for the skinny jean, you’re not only replicating the accordion-leg-warmer move but you’re making it look like your feet are about two feet long. Clown inproportionate with your skinny calves and huge thighs, you’ve made it into the awkward fashion big leagues.
Stilettos? Easily the best looking shoe with the skinny pant, and the worst overall appeal. Not only doesn it look like you’re a reverse pear, the skinny jeans always look uncomfortable. Pair them with a pair of stilettos and you’re crying out to potential mates that you’re insecure and will do anything to be accepted.
Sneakers? Hey-hey, you-you, I don’t like your girlfriend! Can you say Avril Lavigne skater chic? Maybe it might work for those 15-year-old high school emo girls and guys with the studded belts and the chuck taylors but as a twenty something, you may as well jack the rest of your wardrobe from Hot Topic and just call it a day.
While my holier-than-thou rant stands somewhat completed let me tell you sisters, I’ve been there. Where did this intense hatred and knowledge of shoe troubles come from? Yes. I was talked into a lovely pair of white skinny jeans by a seven for all mankind employee who insisted that, anyone can pull of the bootcut ones, THESE have style. Enchanted as I was by an obviously fashionable employee who was in no way, shape or form only trying to make a sale, (sigh) I purchased these incredibly expensive skinny pants.
This was in April. Number of times I’ve actually worn them outside of my apartment? The Big Zero. Number of times I’ve intended to or tried them on? Probably 50?
I guess I’m just not rock star enough.
They look great on you, though!