So apparently, in Chicago, people occupy more than enough time doing this strange and screwball thing: It’s called walking. No seriously, they walk everywhere. I mean everywhere. It wasn’t long ago, in Vegas, that I was spending my days in Spin class: riding miles upon miles week after week. I’d perch there: sweating and laboring in a calm, confined room to the beat of Tina Turner. As she’d sing “Rollin on the River”, I would push the pedals faster til my lungs were burning, and I was mesmerized by the sight of my large quads shaking in the mirror; all along envisioning the thought of my miniscule, rhinestone G string. It may have been just a strand of sparkles, but it taunted me, and haunted me to the point of keeping me in the gym daily. You see, like a scorned woman…a showgirl’s G strings is: unforgiving, cruel and literally not willing to budge and inch. So, exhaustedly, I’d run, spin, and step my way through my work week, then hop in my car and drive wherever it was I needed to go. But here, folks use walking as a mode of transportation!!! Can you believe it? Walking actually has a purpose aside from the gym?!
Let me begin by saying, Carrie Bradshaw is a damn liar! Yea… I watched Sex and the City for years, dreaming of the day when I would be a single girl in the City. I imagined myself trotting down Broadway at 12:30 pm, on a lunch date with my very own Mr. Big; all the while looking spectacularly snazzy. Sure, I’d be wearing ballet pink stilettos, and a matching pink lace A line dress with an 4 layer tulle skirt and boning to make my waist look: sport’s illustrated swimsuit model: small. My hair would be in long blonde extension-esque waves, and my eye lashes ceremoniously arched towards the heavens dripping in heavy black Dior Runway mascara. Hand bag would be: a compact Coach clutch, and I’d be sporting a MAC lipstick that was a rouge color: matte, but shiny enough to tie the entire ensemble together. (by the way: if you didn’t get any of that, STOP reading, you are NOT my target audience!)
However, now living in the big city, with my personal, Mr. Big, I have decided that the writers of that show must have been seriously smoking crack, or just seriously delusional because NO ONE could survive a walk down Broadway, or any street for that matter in 4 inch stilettos. It hurts my heart to say this: but it is virtually impossible to sport anything even moderately fashionable for a long walk in the city. I guess there are a few exceptions: maybe you are, A: newly giddy in love, or B: 5 of Bull Eh Dia’s famous sangrias deep. And either way, you will have the same exact consequent pain as any normal person, but you will be either A: strung out on the idea of Mr. Right, or B: just plain strung out. In any case, the blisters will still be there in the morning.
Which is why, I feel need to declare: I have found a new love in the city: The CTA: otherwise known as the Chicago Transit Authority. Speedy, shiny, never stoppin, always poppin trains that run around town unconditionally. Unlike a man, this train will always show up, and tell you where things are headed. It will be dependable, there for you, and only slightly messy. It will never ask you to get into its Audi after one two many showoff Gin and Tonic’s. It will always see you home at the end of the day, and allow you the opportunity to meet new interesting people in your neighborhood. My girlfriend, Jen swears by the 8 am Brown line, she says all the “hot ones” have to be to work by 9. Those are the kind, she says that: “actually get up, take their job seriously and wear suits.” I can only imagine the playground that awaits a single girl, where she may start every workday by practicing some good old fashioned eye sex with average, ambitious and somewhat beautiful commuters . In addition, the CTA or “L” as the locals call it, will allow you to wear your most glam attire, while transporting you to your “destiny-ation” in a quarter of the time. All you have to do is purchase a small card: similar to a Visa. Lets face it, we ladies are familiar with plastic! You slip it in a gate and in seconds you have just bought yourself a one way ride for a mere $2.25. That’s better than a 75 % off sale on Memorial Day! Cabs are a waste of time and often smell like “new car smell”, which really doesn’t smell like anything; or anything good for that matter. Show me an air freshener that smells like first date jitters or, new bikini in Cabo and I’ll gladly pay the $10.00 per 5 block fare.
Easier though, imagine yourself: strutting up a few: cold, hard, steel stairs to a plank looking plateau, or as we divas like to call it: RUNWAY, where every single investment banker, sales whiz, wannabe actor/tress and jealous local Chicagoan can witness you in all your glory, and that perfect pair of: celestial, deeply coveted and scarcely ever urbanly seen 4 inch shoes!
Therefore, lately, I’ve come to realize: home may be the place where you lay your stilettos, but it’s the walk, or the ride, that makes all the difference…and some girls follow all the rules, and other girls find ways to bend them…at least far enough to never stop wearing really cute shoes.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Love at the Laundromat
Love...what is real love?
As my mom used to say: I’ve always been a fashion plate. Who knows exactly what that means…I guess a Fashion plate is like a License Plate, only in my case pinker, prettier more practical, with the same amount of attention to the backside. When I was young, she used to let me pick out my own outfits. Flushed with exciting and a sense of independence, I’d feverishly throw together a hodgepodge of dance recital costumes pieces, frilly skirts, grandmas fine jewelry and my white Easter shoes for a cold December day’s walk in the park. Oh and some form of a bra…How I wanted a bra! I used to take friendship bracelets and tie up my undershirts in between my non existent boobs so that it would look like I was wearing a bra, and actually had boobs! Then I’d proceed to show every boy on the playground. My boobs were just a twinkle in my eye back then…Who knew someday they may play a very important part in my hopes and dreams and career path. But then again, don’t boobs really play an important part in most peoples hopes, dreams and career path…c’mon lets be serious!
It didn’t occur to me in those days, while I was tap dancing down the street and dressing Barbie that someday I’d be sitting in a Laundromat, using words like hodgepodge and doing 5 loads at a time for the affordable price of $20.00, and I haven’t even got to the drying bit yet!
This got me thinking: Is the way you dress an indication of who you are? What kind of message do we send everyday by what we look like?- and is it relative to our location? The other day I had to go to a training class for my job. Yes, that’s right I have job!...actually four, but who could expect anything less from me. Anyways, I was told it was a training session so I did my best to look presentable. Not decked out like a seven layer cake but busy-casj with long curly hair, my most favorite Dior spray foundation, full: shiny coral lips, my new white trench, brown Jessica Simpson boots, and a little of grandma’s fine jewelry.
Walking in, I immediately noticed a lack of color. The palette was mostly limited to black or grey. Dull distressed jeans, and clumps of cotton and T-shirts where blurring my eyes like I was on my third Skinny Bitch Martini. I was Reese Witherspoon in Pleasantville. I was Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I was an Andy Warhol in a gallery of Monet. Walking through a sea of sweatpants and hoodies, I finally found my seat next to a middle aged man with who was smirking at me, like I was Lady Gaga. “Are you working for the Cubs?” he said almost teasing. “Yes, I replied, I’m bartending in the new PNC club”. I held back my urge to tell him I was bartending to pay the bills, and was looking for a job in the arts, taking on two internships and Murder Mystery theatre on the weekends. I had already blown him away with the Jess Simpson’s, and the rest of the info probably wouldn’t have helped my cause.
“Oh,” he replied. “I thought maybe this is fashion training.” And though I knew he was joking, for the first time, I was a little embarrassed to be dressed to the nines, when everyone else was still at about four thirty. In Vegas, this outfit would have been ideal lunchtime Mimosas with the girls or walking the storefront streets of Town’s Square. I would have looked normal there, to be honest I would have looked like apple pie. I doubt anyone would have given me a second glance. After all, I am not a size zero with D cups, I only use Bump-Its on occasion and have been neglecting the tanning bed for months. But today this man thought he was sitting next to Pam Anderson. Which made giggle a little. I went on to learn that the man’s name was Ira, and he had been working every summer for the Chicago Cubs for the last thirty years. When I asked him why he loved his job so much, he simply replied, “It’s become a part of me.” And in that moment I knew Ira and I had something in common. I knew then, what I’ve always known: That fashion is a part of me, and always has been.
Deep down, I’m really just a showoff, flashypants. Clothes are the thread that quilts my life together. For example, I love dance, but while most dancers get up in the morning to take class, Id rather stay in bed. My favorite part of the whole shebang is the costumes, and the makeup and opening night, when everyone looks and says: “My, isn’t she something.” Its no wonder I found my home on the stage for four years dripping in diamonds wearing various forms of plumage and enough makeup to keep MAC in business during a recession. But, I felt pretty, and fabulous and alive. Another example: I love going out, but really only so everyone can see my new fabulous stilettos, a new hairstyle experiment, or the look on Roland’s face when I look really fantastic. And how many times have I told myself, this dress will change your life, this dress will get the job, this dress will make you feel smarter, sexier, stronger and more successful. While, that rarely ever works: what’s the harm in feeling like it will? Shopping is a better vice than anything I can think of: its low calorie, it doesn’t hurt your lungs or you liver and is completely and totally legal. I understand girls who are on a budget but that’s why God created bargains. Even the most frugal fashionista can find a deal here and there!
And so while I’m sitting here folding my mountains of laundry. I’m looking not only at mere textiles, but a kaleidoscope of memories, past goals, ambitions and good times. And I decide, I’ll never stop doing something I love, or being who I am. Because as much as I may like to avoid it at times, it’s a part of me, a part of who I am and who I hope to become. Finally, I take the last load out of the dryer, and pink sequined headband falls on the floor, it must have got mixed in my laundry bag by mistake, but it is bright and shiny and looks somewhat like a piece of a dance costume.
As my mom used to say: I’ve always been a fashion plate. Who knows exactly what that means…I guess a Fashion plate is like a License Plate, only in my case pinker, prettier more practical, with the same amount of attention to the backside. When I was young, she used to let me pick out my own outfits. Flushed with exciting and a sense of independence, I’d feverishly throw together a hodgepodge of dance recital costumes pieces, frilly skirts, grandmas fine jewelry and my white Easter shoes for a cold December day’s walk in the park. Oh and some form of a bra…How I wanted a bra! I used to take friendship bracelets and tie up my undershirts in between my non existent boobs so that it would look like I was wearing a bra, and actually had boobs! Then I’d proceed to show every boy on the playground. My boobs were just a twinkle in my eye back then…Who knew someday they may play a very important part in my hopes and dreams and career path. But then again, don’t boobs really play an important part in most peoples hopes, dreams and career path…c’mon lets be serious!
It didn’t occur to me in those days, while I was tap dancing down the street and dressing Barbie that someday I’d be sitting in a Laundromat, using words like hodgepodge and doing 5 loads at a time for the affordable price of $20.00, and I haven’t even got to the drying bit yet!
This got me thinking: Is the way you dress an indication of who you are? What kind of message do we send everyday by what we look like?- and is it relative to our location? The other day I had to go to a training class for my job. Yes, that’s right I have job!...actually four, but who could expect anything less from me. Anyways, I was told it was a training session so I did my best to look presentable. Not decked out like a seven layer cake but busy-casj with long curly hair, my most favorite Dior spray foundation, full: shiny coral lips, my new white trench, brown Jessica Simpson boots, and a little of grandma’s fine jewelry.
Walking in, I immediately noticed a lack of color. The palette was mostly limited to black or grey. Dull distressed jeans, and clumps of cotton and T-shirts where blurring my eyes like I was on my third Skinny Bitch Martini. I was Reese Witherspoon in Pleasantville. I was Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I was an Andy Warhol in a gallery of Monet. Walking through a sea of sweatpants and hoodies, I finally found my seat next to a middle aged man with who was smirking at me, like I was Lady Gaga. “Are you working for the Cubs?” he said almost teasing. “Yes, I replied, I’m bartending in the new PNC club”. I held back my urge to tell him I was bartending to pay the bills, and was looking for a job in the arts, taking on two internships and Murder Mystery theatre on the weekends. I had already blown him away with the Jess Simpson’s, and the rest of the info probably wouldn’t have helped my cause.
“Oh,” he replied. “I thought maybe this is fashion training.” And though I knew he was joking, for the first time, I was a little embarrassed to be dressed to the nines, when everyone else was still at about four thirty. In Vegas, this outfit would have been ideal lunchtime Mimosas with the girls or walking the storefront streets of Town’s Square. I would have looked normal there, to be honest I would have looked like apple pie. I doubt anyone would have given me a second glance. After all, I am not a size zero with D cups, I only use Bump-Its on occasion and have been neglecting the tanning bed for months. But today this man thought he was sitting next to Pam Anderson. Which made giggle a little. I went on to learn that the man’s name was Ira, and he had been working every summer for the Chicago Cubs for the last thirty years. When I asked him why he loved his job so much, he simply replied, “It’s become a part of me.” And in that moment I knew Ira and I had something in common. I knew then, what I’ve always known: That fashion is a part of me, and always has been.
Deep down, I’m really just a showoff, flashypants. Clothes are the thread that quilts my life together. For example, I love dance, but while most dancers get up in the morning to take class, Id rather stay in bed. My favorite part of the whole shebang is the costumes, and the makeup and opening night, when everyone looks and says: “My, isn’t she something.” Its no wonder I found my home on the stage for four years dripping in diamonds wearing various forms of plumage and enough makeup to keep MAC in business during a recession. But, I felt pretty, and fabulous and alive. Another example: I love going out, but really only so everyone can see my new fabulous stilettos, a new hairstyle experiment, or the look on Roland’s face when I look really fantastic. And how many times have I told myself, this dress will change your life, this dress will get the job, this dress will make you feel smarter, sexier, stronger and more successful. While, that rarely ever works: what’s the harm in feeling like it will? Shopping is a better vice than anything I can think of: its low calorie, it doesn’t hurt your lungs or you liver and is completely and totally legal. I understand girls who are on a budget but that’s why God created bargains. Even the most frugal fashionista can find a deal here and there!
And so while I’m sitting here folding my mountains of laundry. I’m looking not only at mere textiles, but a kaleidoscope of memories, past goals, ambitions and good times. And I decide, I’ll never stop doing something I love, or being who I am. Because as much as I may like to avoid it at times, it’s a part of me, a part of who I am and who I hope to become. Finally, I take the last load out of the dryer, and pink sequined headband falls on the floor, it must have got mixed in my laundry bag by mistake, but it is bright and shiny and looks somewhat like a piece of a dance costume.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Project Published
I have always believed in chasing your dreams, in proving people wrong, the power of faith, buying new shoes when you cant afford them, destiny songs for every occasion…and most importantly, the color pink having the ability to literally change the world.
Who am I? Just your everyday, fabulously dramatic, slightly self indulgent, shopoholic, workaholic, loveoholic: Showgirl…or should I say ex showgirl. Eh tomato, tamato.
My days on the stage may be over but I’m planning on still entertaining audiences with a fantastic new gig: blogonista. No, I am no Carrie Bradshaw, but I do have deals to make and hearts to break, and I’m optimistically confident someone will want to be along for the ride. Maybe you can take a few moments away from googling and facebook in the office, to tune in to see my elementary composition, and bad use of the English language. See that, just saying “bad use” is bad use. However, I’m not afraid of you, grammar wizard with your menacing green underline. I promise to misuse commas and use … when I’m not sure what punctuation goes there, to speak in slang, and forget spell check occasionally. It wont be professional, it wont be proper, it wont be perfect, but it will all be true, and maybe even be in print someday, hopefully with grammatical errors blazing! This is it! This is the future! My future…Project Published!
How did I get here? As I was saying…I believe in chasing dreams. So much, in fact, that I chased mine all the way to Fabulous: Las Vegas Nevada. Sin City became four years of lips, legs and lashes, where I endured the life of being a classic Vegas icon: The Showgirl-smile always on, top usually off, and only a little bit like the movie. Life in the valley was mostly funfetti cupcakes, until one day, I found myself at the corner of: “How the hell did I get here?” and “What am I doing with my life?” Not my favorite, neighborhood… I wasn’t sure how everything had spiraled to that, but I knew I had to get out of there. Sure, I’d have much rather been on the corner of “Take an additional 75 percent off all Clearance items”, and “New Carne Asada Tacos: No Calories!”, but dream sales are hard to come by, and sadly there are no low fat Mexican foods. In the best and most dramatic whirlwind, I could create: I channeled my chi, curved my karma, followed my gut’s decision to leave. With a tear in my eye, I bid my friends good bye and left the sweet savory comfort of Ackers drive. Risking: my relationship, my life’s happiness, the sanity of my parents and the shipping of my favorite shoes; my boyfriend, Roland, and I jam packed my car and embarked on a journey across the country.
It was time to become a new kind of icon. Time to put on 50 layers, find a job, find an apartment and explore a strange new world! A world where people wear sweatpants in bars, and walk to work. A world where food is more delicious than nutritious, and pizza sauce is put on top of the cheese. Where the houses are hundreds of years old, and every two blocks is a new neighborhood. A world where trains buzz above ground and time actually stops for the First Pitch of baseball season. A world unlike anywhere else in this universe. A world that has no idea exactly what it’s in for. Watch out, you haven’t seen a diva like me since Roxy Heart. That’s right, its official…this Showgirl is moving to Chicago!
Who am I? Just your everyday, fabulously dramatic, slightly self indulgent, shopoholic, workaholic, loveoholic: Showgirl…or should I say ex showgirl. Eh tomato, tamato.
My days on the stage may be over but I’m planning on still entertaining audiences with a fantastic new gig: blogonista. No, I am no Carrie Bradshaw, but I do have deals to make and hearts to break, and I’m optimistically confident someone will want to be along for the ride. Maybe you can take a few moments away from googling and facebook in the office, to tune in to see my elementary composition, and bad use of the English language. See that, just saying “bad use” is bad use. However, I’m not afraid of you, grammar wizard with your menacing green underline. I promise to misuse commas and use … when I’m not sure what punctuation goes there, to speak in slang, and forget spell check occasionally. It wont be professional, it wont be proper, it wont be perfect, but it will all be true, and maybe even be in print someday, hopefully with grammatical errors blazing! This is it! This is the future! My future…Project Published!
How did I get here? As I was saying…I believe in chasing dreams. So much, in fact, that I chased mine all the way to Fabulous: Las Vegas Nevada. Sin City became four years of lips, legs and lashes, where I endured the life of being a classic Vegas icon: The Showgirl-smile always on, top usually off, and only a little bit like the movie. Life in the valley was mostly funfetti cupcakes, until one day, I found myself at the corner of: “How the hell did I get here?” and “What am I doing with my life?” Not my favorite, neighborhood… I wasn’t sure how everything had spiraled to that, but I knew I had to get out of there. Sure, I’d have much rather been on the corner of “Take an additional 75 percent off all Clearance items”, and “New Carne Asada Tacos: No Calories!”, but dream sales are hard to come by, and sadly there are no low fat Mexican foods. In the best and most dramatic whirlwind, I could create: I channeled my chi, curved my karma, followed my gut’s decision to leave. With a tear in my eye, I bid my friends good bye and left the sweet savory comfort of Ackers drive. Risking: my relationship, my life’s happiness, the sanity of my parents and the shipping of my favorite shoes; my boyfriend, Roland, and I jam packed my car and embarked on a journey across the country.
It was time to become a new kind of icon. Time to put on 50 layers, find a job, find an apartment and explore a strange new world! A world where people wear sweatpants in bars, and walk to work. A world where food is more delicious than nutritious, and pizza sauce is put on top of the cheese. Where the houses are hundreds of years old, and every two blocks is a new neighborhood. A world where trains buzz above ground and time actually stops for the First Pitch of baseball season. A world unlike anywhere else in this universe. A world that has no idea exactly what it’s in for. Watch out, you haven’t seen a diva like me since Roxy Heart. That’s right, its official…this Showgirl is moving to Chicago!
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