First of all, a caveat: I am incredibly crabby today. See the post below for why.

But second? Second, I DO NOT WISH TO LOOK LIKE A GOTHIC CLOWN this fall. And yet, the makeup companies are launching tons of dark, dark “smoldering” colors for lips and eyes that will make me look like a daguerrotype. PLUS, I DID that look the first time around! I used to wear super-dark lipstick, smoky eyes, blah, blah, blah. People with darker skin can handle those rich colors, but me? I look like Morticia Addams, without the cool-ass dress. And the knock’emdead figure.

And I know myself. I love dark colors, I will get sucked in, and end up buying something that’s called something like ‘witch’s blood’ or ‘burnished crow’s wing’ (oh, for goodness’ sake, one of the MAC descrips is “burnished eggplant.” Kill me now) and then I will wear it, and then what? I WILL LOOK LIKE A CLOWN!

I am not fond of clowns.

Megan

PS: Did you know there is a word–coulrophobia–meaning abnormal or exaggerated fear of clowns?
PPS: I image-googled “fall 2008 makeup” and this is the first picture that appeared. I rest my case.

So if you’ve come by recently, you might think I am just a vain so-and-so what loves to show off her gowns, her family, and her recent ink.

Not so, grasshopper.

So in the WRITING thing, let me just say my new agent is pitching That Subtle Knot to editors this week. And that I am HALFWAY DONE with the super-sexy novella, because I have discovered a new place to write that feels more creative than here in front of the iMac. And, thanks to the Faux Critique Partner, I have come up with a much more complex reason my hero in On Bold Adventure is on his particular mission.

Yay!

Okay, enough gawking at tats and stuff.

Here’s the Bea Arthur dress:

Yes, those are PANTS underneath the two panels of skirt. How crazy is that?!?

So it should be no surprise to anybody that in addition to having nicknames for most of my friends and random people on the street (”Mr. Guy” is a popular epithet), I also have nicknames for my clothing, which helps when it comes to making the Packing List, which I make each and every time I take a trip. That way, I can just fill out the list without thinking too hard about it. Having nicknames helps, too, because there’s only so many times you can write “black top” without getting confused. This trip, for example, I am taking no fewer than five black tops, each with their own nicknames.

One of my bizarre grandmother finds is what I affectionately term ‘clown pants,’ which is a jumpsuit, of sorts, made of cotton with a skirt-thing kinda draped over it so you can’t really tell it’s a jumpsuit. You have to get into it all at once, which makes removing it for bathroom purposes equally difficult. Plus, it’s not the most flattering thing on me ever. AND I HAVE TWO OF THEM! Apparently my grandmother was so enamoured of the style she had two made in Hong Kong, one in black and white, one in a light chartreuse color.

I am not bringing clown pants to RWA (”Well, it depends on if you want to look good or not,” the Spouse said when I asked him about bringing them. That answered that). But I AM bringing a pantsuit thing I call my Bea Arthur dress, because it looks like what she woulda worn on Maude.

That’s probably not a good sign, because Maude wasn’t exactly a fashion icon, her fashion statement being more along the lines of Bill Cosby’s sweaters.

But I do not care. I am throwing caution to the winds, and will be wearing Bea Arthur Dress on Wednesday evening, I think, to the Beau Monde Soiree. Ha!

First off, don’t let my in(s)anity keep you from ordering Carolyn’s book, here.

But here’s the deal: My grandmother, whom I’ve mentioned here before, had excellent taste in clothes. She only wore four colors: Black, white, hot pink and navy. She and my grandfather had to attend a lot of fancy dress affairs, thanks to his job (he was in retail), so she had a massive wardrobe. MASSIVE.

I have almost a dozen of her and my aunt’s gowns, from Geoffrey Beene to Christian Dior to things she whipped up herself. She was an excellent seamstress, and had five kids, so couture wasn’t always in the cards.

But she was also anorexic (I have two other female relatives with bulimia and morbid obesity. Is it any wonder I’m so messed up?). She weighed *maybe* 110 pounds her whole life, and was proud that she was back to her usual weight within a week of having kids (twins included!). By the time she died, she was a little more than 80 pounds.

So when I try on her gowns–keeping in mind the last time I saw 110 pounds was in fourth grade or something–why am I so incredibly bummed I can’t fit into all of them? I can fit into some, but there’s one that just won’t zip without some serious elbow grease, and the Spouse and I didn’t think it was worth possibly wrecking the gown just to see me bundled into it.

I’ve been in a black cloud since that last one wouldn’t zip. What the hell? I can fit into most, thanks to generous hip allowance and a small waist, but not all. Shouldn’t I be okay with that? Why do I have to be so neurotic? Of course, it doesn’t help that I haven’t worked out consistently since April, and my arms are bugging me. When September comes, I am SO going back to the gym. Then I’ll wear a b&w Dior gown to pick my son up from school. That’ll show ‘em.

Sometimes I think I’m just fine, and then sometimes I really I am just a big hot mess.

Today I just couldn’t stand myself any longer, and I opened up The Dreaded Synopsis. Yup, still sucky. I tweaked, which mostly meant deleting whole chunks of text, and tried to make it appear as if it made sense.

Who knows if it does? Well, actually, I sent it to a couple of folks who might be telling me soon.

In other news, I went to Target yesterday and bought books (my thanks to Goedi, who mentioned that Minnesota does indeed have bookstores. No thanks for his sarcastic tone). I also bought a new pair of shorts, berry-colored madras, which made my cousin say I always dressed “interestingly.” She did mean it as a compliment, but I didn’t know it was that different. I am not conscious of trying to be different, I used to really dress outrageously, and I thought I was more normal now. It’s kinda cool I’m still not normal.

The Son is at sailing school today, and now that the Synopsis is done finished complete something, I can get back to creative writing. Friday is the Son’s birthday, and we will probably be going to the opening day of Hellboy II to celebrate. I not-so-secretly love that he is into that kind of dark, fantastic stuff.

In other words, and to make a long story short, and to cut to the chase, and other banal time cliches, I am really boring right now. It’s weird not to be insanely stressed.

Okay. More later. Aren’t you thrilled?

Megan

PS: No, the pic has nothing to do with anything. But it’s less boring than the text, no?

So Colleen Gleason was in town, and stayed in the Frampton Guest Room (do NOT call it a basement!) last night. She showed me the coolest thing she won at the Smart Bitches: A gift cert to Lochers, which has these incredible shirts. Totally cute, entirely subversive. Don’t know if you can see the script embroidered inbetween the cute little flowers and birds and stuff, but it says: (more…)

Even though you will find me, on almost any given day, in jeans and a sweatshirt, I have a deep, abiding passion for clothes. I have a closet full of vintage, a brain chock-full of opinions about designers, and a fervent wish that I was the kind of woman who would look fabulous every single day. My grandmother was one such woman, I’ve mentioned her eons ago, but she only wore four colors (black, white, shocking pink and navy), and did not descend downstairs until her gorgeous face was on (she’s also the one who said of our family, “Some of us are the nicest people, and some of us are mean as snakes.”)

So the Oscars is so much delirious fun for me. Everyone has opinions on what everyone wore, of course, but I think Tilda Swinton should make up her mind both in men (old or young?) and sleeves (yes or no?). That gown was hideous, and hideously indecisive, except that it was decisively ugly.

I thought the best gown was worn by Helen Mirren, who last year showed a bit too much cleav for me. Course I couldn’t find a pic of it online yet, but it was so, so lovely.

If you’re wondering why I am not discussing my writing, the renovation, the eight year-old, the caffeine obsession, the move, the in-laws, the joy of baby carrots, the need for a nap–it’s ’cause I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed, and fighting the urge to turn turtle and retreat into a shell.

BUT it does look like we will be moving in soon. Picking paint colors sooner. Woo-hoo!

. . . doesn’t mean you get to wear black shoes with your entirely brown outfit

(with navy blue ankle socks. *shudder*).

To the Man Wearing The Bright Yellow MENSA T-Shirt (size: XL) on New Jersey Transit:

You’re not as smart as you think if you believe wearing a color that obnoxious on your rather large self is at all acceptable. Never mind your t-shirt is literally screaming out ‘I am way smarter than you.’ I don’t believe it. I’ve seen your fashion choices.

Sincerely,

Megan