Yesterday I read something that described this run of weather we’ve been having in New York as “sprintertime.” It’s an inelegant phrase but accurate just the same: Cold rains, colder winds, and then bright, emotionally distant sunshine. If it suits me fine just now it’s because I’m in the midst of a run of work that’s equally inhospitable. Add in taxes and death–so predictable!–and I’ve become a dreary Dora.
What’s kept me going besides my permakitten joyously galloping around the apartment (she adores these big breezes) is what’s kept me going for an embarrassing swath of my life: the promise of fashion. As a person who works and lives alone and has been trying in recent years to date fewer fuckwits, I do not have as many opportunities for gorgeous dresses as I once did. Most days I wear a caftan until I have to duck out for supplies or a screening. But I study clothes the way my friends with gardens study seed catalogues. Wearable art, candy for the body, uniforms for other, more glamorous lives: As an admirer of beauty not to mention spies, I’ve been fascinated by fashion my whole life. Continue Reading →
I’m fairly certain my birthday present to myself this year will be combat boots and it has me giggling. I keep remembering that old ’70s insult: Your momma wears combat boots. Nowadays, that’s a badge of cool, like flaunting your tattoos while picking the kids up at soccer. Not that I’d ever get a tattoo since a. It doesn’t adhere to my chief rule of style, WWAD (What Would Audrey Do), and b. I can’t imagine such a commitment to anything besides a cat. For that matter, not that I’d ever have kids. (I have, however, been known to fetch godchildren at sporting events. For those weirdos I’d do anything.)
Overall, I was glad for the giggle because I’ve not been laughing much lately. Mercury is retrograding something fierce so far. Yesterday I was all set to appear on HuffPost Live to give my two cents on the Golden Globes, but an hour beforehand—just before I started fiddling with my hair—a producer called to say that not only had our segment been cancelled but HuffPost Live itself had been cancelled. That’s some serious M.R. mishegos: the dissolution of an entire communication channel. Continue Reading →