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eliepops
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Interests: art, ballet, theater, concerts of all kinds, green tea, castanets, being brave, fashion, the French Quarter, bodies of water, bodies in water, PBS, Greece, languages, anything hand-written, playing innocent, critical theory, wearing jeans on the beach, following an intense philosophical discussion with a vodka tonic and a wolf whistle
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Member Since:
7/25/2005
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| By virtue of some interesting happenstance, today I started part time work for shits, giggles, and cash at a European designer lingerie salon near my house. That's right. I'm peddling panties. We all knew it was gonna happen sooner or later; let's be honest. Growing up with Mardi Gras and working retail on Bourbon Street for over a year during breaks from college, was this that far of a leap? We won't even get into the work with dancers. Not that I went looking for this. I was a client, and they sort of begged me to come work for them, randomly, asking no big time commitment and promising super-flexibility. This would fall into the category of those opportunities that come out of nowhere, and seem like such a kick that you can't say no. At the very least, you'll emerge a number of weeks later with some fantastic stories for cocktail parties.
Really, how else would you determine your path in life? I mean, they asked if they could pay me in lingerie. I'd have the most fantastic boudoir attire south of the Mason-Dixon line. Practical? Maybe not. But how many of you can say you will work for bras? That'd be one heck of a sign on the side of the road. I've seen requests for Diet Coke and notes that the bearer will accept Visa or Mastercard (ok, to which my Dad shouted over through the car window, "No American Express??" and both he and the man with the sign on the road burst into laughter), but never a prompt for the donations of ~ahem~ intimate foundations. You gotta have a laugh in this line. Look what we're dealing with here. And with whom....
My boss (I adore her) is a Baptist minister from Alabama who curses like a sailor, smokes like a chimney, and runs a ministry for strippers. She was showing me around the boutique this afternoon, when we suddenly got crunched with an onslaught of clients. Never having really done this before in my life, and without training exactly, I ended up fitting two women. And well, if I do say so myself. When I was restocking after close, the owner called the store and asked my new favorite clergy member how I did. I overheard: "Great! She's smart, this one. Thank God, she's not afraid of boobs!"
Thank God.
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| This morning, I opened a shipment from barnesandnoble.com. Nestled behind the various components of the order was an unexpected langiappe (read "bonus" if you're not from New Orleans). That's right! In addition to my order---and not included on my packing slip---was that Elmo's World gem, "Flowers, Bananas & More!" Sweeeeeeet!! In this episode, the blurb promises that Elmo explores flowers, bananas, and hair! (Apparently, more=hair. I don't know why they didn't just say "hair." Maybe it sounds limiting when you actually name the third thing; the potential seems more infinite with the ubiquitous and hazy "moooorrrre." My child will learn EVERYTHING from this short educational program!!!!!) Also, according to the back of the case, the drawer, shade, and TV will join in the fun, and I should be on the lookout for a talking cactus! Features Dorothy, the goldfish, and Mr. Noodle (presumably, the noodle?). I can't believe what a score this is! Is Barnes and Noble trying to tell me something? Like I should brush up on my banana skills? Hmm.
Anyone wanna watch these glorious 50 minutes?
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| So, I'm obviously very committed to this. Whatever. While I'm still negotiating how I intend to use this podium, the following:
1. Robert Redford is hot in person. I don't care if he's 70 years old. As Derek admitted, "The man exudes sex appeal." Try it. You'll like it.
2. What they've told you is true: leaves can actually change color. Bye, bye, chlorophyll.
3. Someone has parked a 1966 red Ford Mustang for sale across the street from my window. (Drool.) It's as if the owner knew just how best to tempt me. Talk about your niche marketing. If it were a convertible, I'd be a goner.
4. Since freshman year and Cabinet, I haven't been able to make lists without the urge to hold fingers in the air. (Thank you, TFW.)
5. My office has recently been decorated with a real-size replica of the Gilbert Stuart portrait of George Washington, famously saved by Dolley Madison during the burning of the White House associated with the War of 1812. I saw the original at the White House yesterday. Ours, however, has been adorned with speech bubbles, which, I feel, add significantly to Stuart's creative design. I intend to bring a crushed beer can and some mardi gras beads to further contribute to the artistic evolution of the work. Naturally, all of these additions are inspired by Bakhtinian theory on carnival, the politically-defiant representation of the influence of the unity of the people, and are intended as venerable symbols of democracy. (Right.)
Happy camping!
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| A ride on the Kennedy Center Shuttle is a generally somber proposition. My experience at quarter to nine yesterday morning began as no exception. The collection of serious people at the stop was clad in the uniquely nondescript uniform of Washington, DC---where the drab, the colorless, and the fashion-devoid collide in the glorious and gloomy anonymity that characterizes the costume of a people obsessed with political appearance and power, but utterly oblivious of physical manifestation, excepting great attention to the practicality of "commuter shoes."
The pervading aura of the Kennedy Center is one of austere ceremony. The building---both the nation's performing arts center and a living presidential memorial---combines an exterior that kindly resembles a bomb shelter with an interior that rivals a St. Petersburg palace. Upon entrance from the parking lot, a male voice and then, in turn, a female voice (like a higher pitched echo) warn visitors that, "Baby strollers, pushcarts, and pullcarts are not permitted on the escalators," as if hearing the message once could not adequately convey the severity of its contents, and two announcements---in different registers---were necessary to communicate the fear-inspiring contrabandedness of baby strollers. (Lions and tigers and bears! Oh my!) This, while the gigantic bust of JFK holds court in the Grand Foyer. (The Wizard of Oz analogies here are really quite potent, particularly given the unmistakably magnificent presence of lengths and lengths of curtain near the floating Kennedy head.) The arrangement demands and exalts, above all else, decorum, and this sentiment translates to the code of conduct on the shuttle that transports visitors from (ironically) the Foggy Bottom Metro stop (refrain from comment, please! decorum!) to the Kennedy Center.
The mood began no differently yesterday's cool and cloudy morning. A full load of passengers filed onto the shuttle ceremoniously, seating themselves uncomfortably around the shuttle's perimeter. Here, we do not talk; rather, we sit in a very American manner, trying to distract ourselves from the fact that strangers' arms are pressed against each of our shoulders by looking with great interest at our folded hands and briefcases. Here, we do not make conversation. And heaven forbid we make eye contact!
The shuttle commenced its two mile trek. My smiles at neighbors proving futile, I obligingly initiated careful study of the seams on my purse on my lap and was listening to the driver's radio selection (a Latin station, currently featuring an instrumental cha-cha), when something fantastic happened. A passenger seated five people away began to snap on one hand, in time to the music. No one even blinked. He continued. A few darting glances betrayed general passenger malaise. The musical Snapper persevered. Suddenly, a second passenger (seated completely separately and having arrived independently of the Snapper) joined in, featuring the upbeat with her own snap rhythm. Ok, so we're building here. Amazingly, both treat their participation in the music-making with as much seriousness of purpose and expression as the uncomfortable and unwitting passenger-audience. (I am the only one grinning, looking around, and dancing in my seat. The others do not break their willful focus toward the general vicinity of their knees.) A woman begins to sing. Quietly, but she's singing. Very matter-of-factly. It's amazing. As if the infectious spontaneity was as regular as a bowl of fiber. The shuttle people don't flinch....
And as quickly as we gathered, we disperse in orderly single-file. And the music stops. I beam to a coworker that this had been the most fantastic shuttle ride of my life and that, had we another block on the journey, I would have been shimmying in the aisle. She whispers hoarsely that the experience had been very awkward, buttons her jacket, and hurries off to her office, walking briskly, and looking down. Well, bye bye, Miss American Pie. Off again to venerate the bust. I better at least get the whiskey out of this equation!
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| Ok, so haven't written in a while, but what the hell, here's another go, on a much lighter note than times past. So, you know how new DVDs are packaged? Wrapping from hell! I'm sitting here with a letter opener, attempting to make some progress on a new copy of Capote, and quite almost losing a hand in the process. Naturally, the perforation exists only to toy with your brain... make you think you might be able to emerge victorious. Tease you enough to keep you in the game. Of course upon "pulling here," I succeed only in removing a small fraction of sticker. My typing has begun to slow because my fingertips are now covered with small plastic bits and adhesive. Throughout the entire process, Philip Seymour Hoffman is glaring at me from the DVD cover, mocking my failure. It seems entirely unnecessary for a "Security Device" to be enclosed when access to the actual disc is all but impossible anyway. I faithfully represent this occurance to the cosmic void, through the cyber moderator that is Xanga, in hopes that sharing my struggles might encourage the similarly challenged. ;)
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