Ugh. "Purge". It's one of those words like "moist" or... "moist". It's not the way it sounds, it's just - you know, what it is. Purging stuff. I feel like I'm writing about my closet throwing up remnants of old college t-shirts and Target Mossimo tags.
I've always thought the idea of "cleaning out my closet" sounded like a terrible idea. Like this monumental chore. Because it basically felt like opening up the door to my own personal landfill of Victoria's Secret shopping bags (that I, for some reason, struggle to throw away) and shoes. So many shoes. WHY do I have so many shoes? I have two feet. I do not need twenty pairs of shoes.
But, you know, some day, "I might wear them" - or so I tell myself.
I have clothes in there too. Some clothes. Not all of my clothes. A lot of them used to end up in piles on the floor. Because they wouldn't fit in my closet. And the floor seemed like as good a place as any to keep them - you know, because I could see them. No sense opening up the pesky old closet and reminding myself what a mess it is in there.
And then I moved in with my boyfriend. Who is not like the boys you met in college with McDonalds bags stashed under their beds and dirty clothes spilling out of the hamper (thank God) - he's, like, an adult. He's sanitary. And while I know he loves me, I figured it wouldn't take long before he would get frustrated with me using my side of the closet as a landfill for VS bags and the bedroom floor to layout my clothes. All of my clothes. You know, so I can see them. Because you can't do THAT when they're in the closet. Too many other clothes in the way. Some shirt you love might be squeezed between two shirts you hate - and then you'll miss it. And then you'll be sad.
Is "debunked" the right word? I don't know. I used to think that I looooved vintage fashion. The idea of a string of pearls sitting around in a jewelry box that's been passed down since the Titanic? Maybe it belonged to Rose De... Dewitt? Google says "Dewitt-Bukater", but I'm just going to call her Rose Dawson because we all know she should have scooted over and let Jack climb up on top of that door with her. He didn't have to freeze to death. It's not always all about you, Rose, people are dying.
But the pearls. Let's get back to the pearls. Did she have pearls? Oh, wait - no, she had that gaudy necklace that she chucked it into the ocean at the end of the movie. Way to be a hero, Rose. People have been looking for that.
But when you say something is "vintage" - that's what people imagine. That's why they say "ooh... ahh...", because they're envisioning something that somebody wore back in the day. It's a romantic idea that something has been around longer than, you know, a Forever 21 t-shirt that you ripped and threw away after one wash. It tells a story. It's been around the block. It's seen some stuff.
When I was in high school, one of the girls came to school one day wearing dangly paperclip earrings. Like, dangly earrings, made of paperclips. Tiny paperclips clasped together dangling from her ears. And when everyone said, "Oh! Those are... different!" - she told us that she found them in her grandmother's jewelry box and that they were "vintage".
Vintage paper clip earrings. From Grandma's jewelry box. Like Grandma was a true fashion pioneer back in the 40s who just strung a bunch of paper clips together and then said, "Yea, I'm gonna keep these. Let me just put these in the jewelry box next to my pearls."
Did they even have paper clips back in the 40s? When did they start making paper clips? Were people even writing on paper back then, or was it all parchment and quill pens?
Okay, I guess it's the 1940s, not the 1800s. You shouldn't come here expecting a history lesson. We're here to talk about clothes and stuff.
I don't know how to ask someone to take a picture of me "for my blog" without sounding like a... like a total... what's the mom-approved-PG word for douchebag? Because that's what I sound like. A pretentious douchebag. It's hard for me to take myself seriously when I'm saying, "Hey will you take a bloggy picture of me in front of this fountain?"... which is usually followed by, "What should I be doing? Should I, like, look off into the distance? Or, look over my shoulder? Should I smile? Is that weird? Smiling is weird, right?"
Sure. Smiling in a picture? Totes weird. Only serial killers and ax murderers do that.
Rarely is this magical moment complete without me asking, "Is it cute? Will you take another one? What should I do with my hands?"
I never know what to do with my hands. And I alwaaaays ask if it's cute. Like the person behind the camera is ever going to tell me: "I don't know, Jenn. You're twenty-seven years old and still pretending to be a model. Is THAT cute?"
It's not cute. In fact, the whole thing usually feels so awkward that I fidget for about five seconds in front of whatever fountain/brick wall/lake front/rooftop view I'm standing in front of and then ask, "Did you get it? Is it cute?"
Seriously. Like I'm Beyonce or something. "Did you get it? Are we done here?"
I'm not big on superstition, but I once held a rabbit's foot in my pocket while I was taking an important exam.
And by "important exam", I mean a sixth grade science test, and by "rabbit's foot", I mean a picture I ripped out of magazine of Justin Timberlake. It was earlier that year when I discovered a "lucky rabbit's foot" was legitimately supposed to be, like, you know... a rabbit's.. FOOT ... and I was like "EWWW!!! What kind of sick person carries around some dead rabbit's chopped off foot? How does that bring them good luck?"
It doesn't. When you think about it, the concept IS a little Jeepers Creepers, ya know?
But a picture of Justin Timberlake during his Ramen noodle hair and N'sync days? Yes. That will TOTALLY bring you good luck! Probably. If you write the answers on it somewhere in very small print and only look at it occasionally when the teacher isn't paying attention. Ya know, for luck.
Of course I wasn't smart enough to do that. Which is probably why I thought I needed a "lucky charm" to get through a sixth grade level science test in the first place. As long as I had a picture of my fake boyfriend "Justin from N'sync" in my back pocket, I was sure to do well. It was magic, and luck, and the Gods and a higher power - and my crazy little eleven year old brain that legit thought some sort of voodoo could make me a really good guesser - all working together.
Ah, to be eleven and weird again.
Here's something I never thought I'd say: "We need shelf liner."
Shelf liner used to be just one of those dumb "extra", "Mom"-type things that somehow found it's way into every apartment that I've ever lived in - cut up, and laid flat in the kitchen cabinets.
I say "somehow" like it magically appeared there. It didn't. My mom would buy this stuff for me - because she's a mom, and it's kind of a "mom" thing - and say "This is to line the shelves of your kitchen cabinets before you put the dishes away." And I would say "Oh, okay, cool" - even though I had no idea why. Does it stop your plates from sliding around? (Can plates really just "slide" around in there?) Does it stop your glasses from smelling like *shelf*? (Aka, wood). Can it keep you from getting splinters?
I don't know. It might just be wallpaper for the kitchen cabinets. But - whatever it does - I knew that I needed it for our new apartment before I could put the dishes away. God forbid we put away our Target brand plates and funny wine glasses that say things like "I make pour decisions" into a cabinet with naked shelves.
So, I went shopping today. And I walked into this little store called The Buckle. Or is it just Buckle? I don't know - but you know which store I'm talking about, right? It's supposed to be this very boho-trendy/Coachella fashion/"I paid way too much for this t-shirt" kind of vibe-y store. (I know, because I've paid way too much for a t-shirt here before. )
But I was in the mall, I'd had my Starbucks, and I was feeling pretty good. (Plus I've been saying for the last, like, week and a half that "I reaaaaally want some new clothes for summer". There is no reasonable explanation for this. It's not like the only thing I have in my closet are clothes made of wool and fur and winter-y things.. But apparently all of the t-shirts and shorts that I have in my closet from last year are, like, sooo 2016.)
I know. I'm the worst. Some people collect dolls, some people eat trash, my addiction is that I buy a lot of clothes. We all have our things.
I wasn't allowed to dye my hair growing up. It wasn't a 'religion thing' or a 'Conservative thing' or an "afraid of chemicals" thing - my parents just told me that I wasn't allowed. End of story. My mom said I had "beautiful hair" and dying it would be like "ruining it".
These kids today walking around with "Mermaid hair" will never know the struggle.
I mean, I get it. My natural hair had "dimension" (I think that's the word that hair-people use). So many shades of brown - natural highlights, natural LOW-lights - just growing out of my head. And it was healthy! Ugh. SO HEALTHY.
But, you know, I was a teenage girl and thought that dying my hair was the equivalent of a Mia Thermopolis make-over. (Dye hair = look like Princess of Genovia.) But my mom wasn't having it. "Pick your battles", they say, and this is the one that she picked.
A lot of parents put their foot down about partying and premarital sex, but my mom has never been like a "regular" mom. She's a cool mom.
(Also, I didn't get invited to parties in high school and boys didn't talk to me. So if she really wanted to put her foot down about something, the hair thing was kind of all she had.)