Monthly Archive for May, 2008

Men’s Fashion: Help Me with Style Advice for Dudes!

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on May 30, 2008
in Cheese Sandwich and Style
. 16 Comments

Reader John asked me a while back about what I think he should wear when he hits the “‘parties with women in little black dresses’ scene,” and I am here to help! And you guys may need to help, too, since I fear my “help” will prove woefully inadequate. As in, “I think pants are a good idea.”

First, though, let me tell you what the guys who attended the prom were wearing: crap! That is what they were wearing! Total crap! One guy showed up in cargo shorts; a couple of them had on jeans. To a prom! The unmitigated audacity!

It wasn’t all bad, though: the best-dressed guy there was wearing a somewhat nautical tux jacket (white lapel piping on basic black) with the appropriate shirt, bowtie, and cummerbund, but he had on a pair of shorts with lobsters emblazoned all over them. It sounds horrible, but it completely fit the kitsch “Rock Lobster” theme, and he won many cool points and looked cute, too. The second-best-dressed guy had on khakis and a light blue dress shirt. It totally went downhill from there, what with the bare calves and the unholy amount of plaid.

Here are my thoughts on that, though: I think men in general tend to be suspicious of events where they may have to dress up, especially if said events are organized by ladies, involve dancing, and especially if they include the word “prom.” Thus, I theorize, they tend to dress down with the idea of preserving their tenuous masculinity in front of their male peers.

Well, I’m sure that all the unshaven, jeans-clad boys at the prom party thought they were just as manly as ever, but they did not succeed in impressing any ladies, that is for sure. (We forgave them, of course, since it is all in fun, and the drunker we all got the less appalling it all seemed.)

So what would impress the ladies? Real big-boy trousers, for starters. That means no jeans, no shorts, and nothing with cargo pockets. If ladies are in LBDs and heels and Real Jewelry, there is just no place for jeans. It is time to put away childish things, guys! For the fit, I am a big fan of the flat front. Pleats flatter no one, let’s face it. I think pleated men’s trousers might actually be illegal in France anyway, and for that I commend the French.

Moving on! Dress shirts that fit well and are crisply ironed (& stain-free! — I only add this because I know too many people who need to be reminded of it, not because I assume John has stains in his shirts or something) always look sexy, in my opinion. Depending on the fanciness factor, a tie is optional. (But if the invitation says something like “black tie optional,” a tie is in fact NOT optional. In that case the “option” is a choice between a regular suit and a tuxedo.) If it’s not that fancy, I kind of like the less dressy look of an open-collared shirt and a sport jacket. If no one else is wearing a jacket, you can take it off, but it elevates the outfit over the boring khakis/dress-shirt combo that is seen in office cubicles worldwide.

Generally, clothes that fit well and are crisp will always look nice. I also think something more interesting than the boring office color palette of khaki/grey/white/light blue would be a good idea. Guys sometimes seem suspicious of color, which I don’t get. Wear something that complements your skin tone or eye color and that won’t fade into the background.

As for hair, I don’t know. I have no idea how to start describing men’s hair! I personally like short hair that’s a little messy or spiky on top à la Jamie Bamber, which a lot of guys in Zembla wear (excepting the hippies and their stinky dreads, of course), but the style that seems most popular here in New Wye is a bit longer on the top with messy bangs. A little bit Beatles bowl-cut and a little bit Zac Ephron. As to what may be fashionable in France, I have no idea.

Wait, since when have I ever just stopped when I didn’t know something? The magic of google.fr will resolve this issue! And here we go. What a fabulous website. It promises hair that is “bluffant et agréable à la fois.” Fabulueux. Take their advice at your own risk, however. (Um, actually, that disclaimer applies to my advice, too.)

If I look at that French men’s hair website any longer I am going to fall into some kind of internet fashion abyss, so I had better wrap this up. Here are my basic rules of fashion:

1. Clothes should fit well. (No baggy trousers or saggy knees or highwaters.)

2. Clothes should be classic but not boring.

3. You shouldn’t have to think about your clothes all night — instead, think about your awesome dance moves!

OK, readers, male or female, please join in and advise! (Suomichris, I am looking at you! You are a guy and are fashionable!) I seriously know nothing much about men’s fashion. I was just pretending here! Help John go win the heart of a foxy French lady!

Let’s Get Retarded

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on May 27, 2008
in Cheese Sandwich and Television
. 7 Comments

Good glaven, I have forgotten what a Summer of Teaching Every Day can do to the Vague brain. The past few days have been plagued by many, many annoyances, some of which were caused by outside forces, but many of which were the result of my own stupidity.

The most recent thorns in my side are related to our weekly Pub Trivia outings — tonight I was supposed to host the guest round, but the emcee lady forgot to put me on the list and now I have to wait three more weeks. Aside from that slight, it was generally a horrible night. I basically knew the answer to only one question, and when I tried to tell my team the answer, it took much repetition, scowling, and fist shaking before they finally would agree with me and write it on the damned answer sheet.

[Sidenote: the question was "What language is used to substitute for swear words on Firefly?" The answer was, obviously, Chinese. Or Mandarin, if anyone cares about more specific things.]

[Side Sidenote: the round was "Sci-Fi TV," and there was no Battlestar Galactica question. APPARENTLY, the host of the round "doesn't watch it." I hate the world.]

Anyway, after the trivia debacle in which we did not even place and thus HAD TO PAY FOR ALL OUR DRINKS THE HORROR, I got home only to realize I had left my tab open and had to go collect my card and pay my moneys. All of two dollars, but still. If I had left the tab overnight they would have charged an additional ten.

[Sidenote: I WANT MY TWO DOLLARS*.]

[*Side Sidenote: Bonus points if you can name the reference, and google is cheating.]

In other annoying news, don’t you hate it when you move into a new apartment only to find stains on the carpet? And the landlords try to pass it off with some kind of “sometimes the carpet cleaning process lifts out old stains” nonsense? I sure hate that. Um. So.

So. Anyhow, the other day, while I was busily taking care of my friend’s dog again, my friend B. happened to have rented a Rug Doctor carpet-cleaner-majig, and she offered it to me to use for the afternoon, after she had finished with her own carpets. I thought it would be nice to finally get rid of the foot-traffic, red-wine, and nail-lacquer stains I had accumulated in the past several months, so I took her up on the offer. I spent the afternoon sweating and pushing the thing around and dumping load after load of dirty water down my drains, all the while tending to the two dogs locked away in the bedroom. It was not exactly fortuitous that the day the carpet cleaner became available happened also to be the day the dog was staying with me. It was a blast I tell you. I am sure you are seething with jealousy right this second.

But! It was so worth it! The carpets looked fantastic after I was done!

Until, of course, the next day, when the mystery stain which I had, I thought, successfully removed in the Fall, re-emerged out of the skanky depths of the carpet padding to plague me again. Sure enough, there it is, right in the middle of my living room floor. It’s 2′ across and rust brown and it stares at me with malice in its filthy, filthy eye.

It is like the earth-bound spirit of the people who lived in the apartment before me — people who, clearly, spent their time skanking up the place in ways I could not imagine. That time could have been better spent filling out a change-of-address form with the post office, Shawntae, is all I am saying.

So yeah, things have been rough, just on the basic level of being a human being who lives in the world. My brain is a pile of tapioca pudding and by next week I will be qualified for a handicapped parking space, which I am sure I won’t be using, because I will surely not be doing any shopping, because I will have left my debit card somewhere and forgotten about it. It’s just as well; that’ll give me more time to stare, entranced, at the vision of Elvis appearing in the middle of my living room carpet.

Once again, I promise more about summer school soon! And men’s fashion! I have so much to say about men’s fashion! I just have to collect my brain cells from wherever they have gone off to. A glass of wine will surely help.

A Night of Fashion!

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on May 24, 2008
in Cheese Sandwich
. 1 Comment

Two of my very good friends in New Wye had their birthdays this past week, and they’ve decided to celebrate their continued march into adulthood by hosting a prom.

Oh, yes indeed, my friends, a prom. If you didn’t grow up in the U.S., you may not have experienced the wonder that is a high school prom, but you are probably still familiar with it from its significant role in, oh, every teen movie ever. Like Carrie, for example.

Don’t worry, though, this prom will be excellent. No pig’s blood anywhere on the program. These are two girls who really know how to throw a party — they’re some of the ones who threw my surprise party for my birthday back in December — and I have utmost confidence that this will be a great one. The punch alone will undoubtedly be something worth remembering. Or, perhaps, worth forgetting: I’m betting the remembering-to-forgetting spectrum of it’s worth is in direct proportion to the number of glasses one drinks. They are doing a “Rock Lobster” theme, which I’m told involves the presence of a veritable menagerie of plush crustaceans and plenty of hip-type music. Nautical or retro prom attire has been officially encouraged, but I must say that my only concession to that will be a pair of fishnet hose. Wouldn’t you like to know what else I’ll be wearing?

There will be a Little Black Dress not unlike the one below (please to ignore the headless model, who is not me)

and there will also be this pair of shoes, which are by far the most dangerous shoes I have ever owned and surely will be the death of me:

If I die due to a bad fall on the dance floor, it is nearly certain that I will have to be buried with these if only because they will have fused themselves to my lifeless feet with the power of their insidious evil. Pretty, pretty evil. Also, as a point of interest, I am 6′1″ when wearing them*. Do not fuck with me.

*That’s 185.4 cm for all you people with your sensible metric measurement systems.

Anyway, can you tell I am excited at the prospect of dressing up and being all fancy? Because I SO am. In Zembla, there were virtually no occasions whatsoever to be dressed up. If a person were wearing a skirt instead of jeans, a person would be accused of being overdressed. Anything beyond denim, corduroy, and polarfleece was overdoing it. So today I am having much, much fun thinking about accessories and hair and shoes that may prove fatal. (Fatally sexy!)

At the moment, however, I am feeling extremely unglamorous, as I have just slathered myself with sunless tanner and thus I must try to remain very very still and not touch anything (including clothing, which if course precludes wearing any) or sweat too much before it has time to sink in. Otherwise, I could become all streaky, and that would seriously take away from my fashionable mojo.

Well, enough about all this silliness. I’ll be back sometime to tell you all about the glories of Summer School, but for now I have eyebrows to pluck and a dance mix to make.

P.S. If the title of this post doesn’t instantly make you laugh it must be because you have never seen this.

Oh dear dog.

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on May 23, 2008
in Asides
. 0 Comments

Summer school has started, and I am apparently in denial about the whole “teaching every day” bullshit, as I have stayed up drinking wine and watching TV with friends. Is now very late and I must face the reality of being, at best, slightly stupid and smelling of adult beverages in the morning. Awesome.

In Which I Do Not Even Apologize for Being this Whiny

Published
by
Alfina the Vague
on May 16, 2008
in Uncategorized
. 6 Comments

The past week, in spite of the nothing that I have had to do in terms of scholarly duties, has been cram-packed with friends and activities and such. Two friends’ birthdays are this week and another friend just got a great job offer at a very fancy school, so there has been a lot of celebrating going on. Between that and our Pub Trivia Obligations (every Tuesday evening we rule the town with several PhDs, dozens of years of watching television, and seven very drunken fists), it has been a party almost every night.

It turns out that nightly partying is not entirely good for the body. Used to be, I could party it up eight nights a week with no bad physical repercussions, but I guess now that I am all old and shit, that can’t happen any more. Oh, I would love to detail all of my many woeful ailments, but I will skip out on a few of them. If I were one of those tell-all blog ladies, I would have no qualms about describing things like my Special Ladies’ Time and my Digestive Activities, but I seem to have a mostly male readership and I don’t want to scandalize any of you.

I will tell you that I woke myself up in the middle of a nap the other day when I bit my own tongue very, very hard - hard enough to draw blood - and that now it is still sore and mildly swollen and I keep inadvertently chewing it when I try to talk, because it insists on being in the way of my teeth. Add that to a handful of other ailments, some of them which necessitate the drinking of much cranberry juice (which itself leads to heartburn, fucking heartburn!), and I am a miserable girl.

The other morning, The Dog and I had to have a very self-indulgent sulk fest: he was very upset and traumatized at having had to go do his business in the pouring early morning rainstorm, and when he came back in he whined disconsolately, ran around the house, and finally got up on my bed and wound the duvet around into a pile of whipped-cream-looking feathers, and nestled himself inside it. I thought it looked like a pretty wise idea, so I joined right in. It was very cozy and nice. Sometimes I just need to hide away from the world and take a day (or two or three) completely off to regain my sanity, you know?

While I would like to continue the lazy bed-lying, the whiny and disconsolate moaning, and the generally self-indulgent behavior, I actually have to get up early tomorrow as I am supposed to go yard-sale-shopping and brunch-eating with my friend S. for her birthday. Woe is me; I must arise at 8:00 in the morning. The very thought of this is miserable. All I can say is that there had better be some absolutely bitchin’ yard-sale finds to make up for the pain and injustice of it all.