Adding Insult to Injury

Just when I thought I was feeling better, sort of ignoring the fact that it still hurts to swallow, I get a call from the doctor's office with great news: I have strep! Yay!

This morning I woke up with a puffy eye; by mid-afternoon it had faded into a deep crease, which freaked me out to the extent that I stared at it in the car mirror for a good five minutes before turning to my mom and shrieking, "I have a wrinkle!"

She claims it's an allergy attack; to be fair, I've been redder than usual today. Or maybe I just got a little crazy with the blush.

St. Ides Heaven

A few days ago, I had been straightening up Erica's room for an open house when I came across a small pile of dirty laundry--a few pairs of underwear and an Elliott Smith "say yes" t-shirt. I wanted to put on XO but I was pretty positive it, along with about 500 other CD's, was in storage. In the Bronx.

The first time I heard Elliott play, he opened for Mary Lou Lord. I reviewed the show for The Spec and made passing mention of Elliott, his "sad-boy-with-guitar schtick" and the tattoos covering his arms (not my exact words, but along those lines). But after hearing his self-titled second album, I was hooked.

Elliott headlined a show at Princeton's Terrace Club in the winter of my junior year. I was in full-on zine hipster mode, and planned to interview the Softies after the show. Rose and Jen were charming as ever, answering my questions while Elliott sat quietly by himself, drinking beer. At some point, I asked them to draw self-portraits. I decided to ask Elliott too, even though I was a little scared of him, but he was happy to oblige. Upon hearing about his death, I went through my old notebooks, looking for the picture he'd drawn. It's a man with blacked out eyes and a hole for a mouth, that he then crossed out.

34 is too young to die.

Le Shopping

I thought I'd shopped myself out in India, but then I returned to my closet, and found that I have no shoes but flip-flops and no clothes, save some yoga pants and t-shirts. So I've been hitting the stores and then staging impromptu fashion shows for my mother, and then returning half of what I've bought, and then buying some more.

It's tiresome. But sort of fun.

One of the many things that everyone kept from me is that there's a Saks Off 5th outlet at the hilariously dumbly named Great Mall of the Great Plains (oof, such a bad name). I think when you stick a Saks outlet in Olathe, you are just guaranteeing goodness for me. I went last week and stumbled across several sets of Chanel underwear, a smattering of Armani separates, Fendi bags, Seven jeans, KORS Michael Kors, a whole bunch of Oscar de la Renta evening wear...I could go on, but I don't want to spoil it in case you ever go. Because you find yourself in suburban Kansas so frequently.

I found: an adorable cashmere sweater with a heart on the front that was a little too porn-star tight on me, but perfect for Erica; some Three Dots t-shirts; a black short-sleeved cashmere sweater; a cute DKNY top with a ruffled collar (ew, that makes it sound poet-shirty, but it's not, I promise) that I'd actually lusted after at Saks about a year ago; and a supercute evening clutch that I forgot to buy. I may have to go back for it. Since I attend so many black-tie events. Actually, the selection of formal wear was top-notch, so if anyone wants to start inviting me to schmancy events, please do. I like pretty things, I just lack places to wear them.

Today I went to Hobby Lobby, which I normally avoid, but I was shopping for Padmini, and I couldn't find one of the things she wanted at Jo-Ann's, so I ended up in an aisle full of more than five different WWJD? bracelet kits. I'm totally serious. And at checkout they have little tins of Scripture Mints, by which I am endlessly amused (we sneaked some into Erica's stocking last year); wouldn't it be so much more genius if they were instead called Testa-mints? I think so.

Because I find myself at Target on a weekly basis (and really, I don't know how), I ended up in love with something from Isaac Mizrahi's cashmere accessory collection today. A brief Isaac aside: I love this man. Les Miz was brilliant. Some of his Target collection, though, is not, shall we say, on target. A few things go into a weird soccer-mommy territory, which is a shame, but then there are cute cord pants and some nice t-shirts and sweaters. The thing I bought: well, there's not a picture online, but it's basically a cashmere headscarf. Could there be a better item for me for winter?

Discuss.

The Sort of Spam You Don't Really Want

This subject line has appeared in my inbox four times in the past three days: "What if you died tomorrow?"

Do I really have to answer that question?

Radio On

While scanning the stations, I am guaranteed to hear, in the course of day, the following:

-John Mayer, at least three times, and sometimes the same song every time.
-What I call the "You gots the poison" song, but what I think is actually called "The Remedy."
-Duncan Sheik's "Barely Breathing"
-That song that contains a reference to "the best soy latte that you've ever had" which, while somewhat insipid, always makes me hyperaware of my own bobo-ness, since, hey, I like the soy lattes.

This makes the state of radio in KC sound particularly dire, and while we lack, say, WFMU, our local alt-station isn't terrible. They overplay "Seven Nation Army," sure, but they also play Postal Service and Grandaddy.

Today I heard something that made me a little upset with 96.5 The Buzz, though: this week's contest prize is a trip to Detroit over Thanksgiving Weekend to see the Stripes. Okay, that didn't make me upset. The promo the station's running for the contest is this whole spiel about how Detroit is full of crack whores and crime, and ends with "We're the only station with the audacity to send you to Detroit for Thanksgiving." As if it's some sort of punishment. As if some of us haven't gone to Detroit for Thanksgiving, willingly, to see both sides of our family. As if the entire city resembles Eight Mile. Detroit may not be pretty, but it's got civic pride like you wouldn't believe. My own grandma, god bless her, watched Eight Mile--because she represents, you know?

You Must, You Must

A new issue of Bust is always a treat, and the newest doesn't disappoint. There's a book review written by me--but don't let that sway you--as well as an interview with jewgirl wonder Sarah Silverman, and in one of the accompanying photographs, she's sporting a t-shirt that says, "I like pee."

I must have one.

Like in a Season of the Old Me

Erica told me that Grandaddy is the worst-looking band of all time ever, so of course I had to go see them last week when they played at Liberty Hall. Either my sister has much higher standards, or I've started to find men with beards really appealing, but I didn't think they were all that bad.

Not that I would be so shallow.

Anyway. It's music made in ranch houses, alternating bong hits with Atari games and skateboarding: totally California. If I can't major in Marimekko, I'll go with my California fixation: artifice and nature, Brian Wilson, surfing, Dogtown, Valley Girls, Neutra houses...you get the idea. Oh I almost forgot: The O.C. I love The O.C.

Lawrence always gets my flashback meter out of wack. I've come to the somewhat sad realization that I'm now in the older half of the show-going population. Sometimes I look around concerts and try to find my nineteen-year-old self. The girl with the camera, chronicling the bass player's every move? The girl with the pigtails, chain-smoking? The girl who rushes the stage after the last encore so she can tuck the set list into her vintage handbag? K-10 is always dark and empty, then I always wonder what would happen if I took the exit for Evening Star Road.

It's not California, but it'll do.