Tonight me and the little sis went to Max Bloom’s, a 1940s inspired mom & pop coffee shop (I totally recommend if you’re near the OC). While sitting outside admiring the darkened street, a man popped out of the bushes. It was terrifying. Not because he looked like a life endangering threat…though he was dressed to kill. He paired his big jacket and shirt with a pair of itty bitty yellow booty shorts. And I mean itty bitty. He casually peered around the corner, then did an about face, leaving a great mental image of his lacy hot pink Forever21 thong riding up his back. Me and the sis just stared at each other before busting out laughing. It was one of those moments where you’re not sure if you need to get out more or invest in a padlock for the front door.
I have to appreciate getting coffee. Not popping in to grab Starbucks, but actually sitting with someone and sharing a genuine conversation, and absorbing the environment and people (well, some people are best left unabsorbed) in it. As people watched black and white movies or played scrabble inside the vintage decor of Max Bloom’s, me and my little sister shared a few moments together outside. We talked about girlie things and life things, and got to share those precious moments that are trivial in the moment, but comforting and endearing in hindsight. Oh, and and we got to share them with our friend the Cross-dresser in the Night, as our bootylicious friend came back again. Except this time, the smooth criminal that my little sis is, she yelled “Oh! It’s him again!” and then collapsed on the table covering her face and giggling as he passed a foot away from her. It’s kind of hard not to be surprised by the likes of this guy, strutting it down the street in his daisy dukes, so I really can’t blame her. We watched with confused grins as he tracked back up the street, looking for someone or something. It should be noted there’s bars just on other side of this coffee shop. I’m just going to say that explains it.
I’m really starting to appreciate the concept of “getting coffee.” But real coffee, with real people, in this really strange world. All in all, a productive use of caffine. Wonder where the next cup will take us…
See Becky? I told you I’d put you in a blog. It just happens to be in one about a cross dresser.
Hmm, seems almost a waste of data to write on tumblr, what with all the reblogging of kitty pictures and all. But I like to believe that secretly, everyone loves to write, they just don’t have enough time. They’re like me—just enough time to post something quickly, but maybe not a War and Peace 100 character post. Or y’know…the cuteness of kitties can only be explained visually. Psssh possh, words.
Anyhow, I graduated college last Sunday and started work at an ad agency that Monday. Take that almost 10% unemployment rate! However the first week was kind of rough, I had been awfully sick thanks to the boyfriend and his germies. But then again, when you only get to see each other for a week every 4 months or so, you deal with any inconvenience. But MAN, I thought I was going to die. Should have known, kissing that cold covered mustache. The things we do for love. At any rate, first week of work went great! If you want to have a super interesting career, with lots of great people, good food, hobnobbing with celebrities and CEOS, odd perks—do entertainment or advertising. There are, admittedly, some changes I have to adjust to. It’s hard to go from student to professional over night…technology is an issue, as I find I can no longer be a technology luddite. I need a smartphone and a Mac, pronto. I manage the 9-6 everyday thing better than I thought; but we’re busy so it helps it go by. Anxious about this next week now that I’m healthy! Got to harass everyone and learn everything they know.
On the personal front, life is moving forth. Hoping me and the bf can stop being long distance soon, coming up on our 2 year mark. Will be so lovely to come home and make dinner with him, and snuggle off to sleep. Too mush? Working is a nice change of pace; I was worried about “being a grown up,” now I drool over throw pillows for future fantasy apartment, dishes I love that I’ll make in my own kitchen, gastro pubs and fairs and grown up things. I wish I didn’t look like I’m twelve. Sigh. Genes.
Well, data-sphere, there’s my personal thoughts. Just thought I’d sparkle you up. Oh, and everyone, do me a favor and actually WRITE something today. Go ahead. You’ll be suprised by your depth and how many people genuinely care.
My name is Jessica Watts and I am a fashion victim. In every sense of the word. I am incapable of controlling fashion. Originally, the problem was I had no fashion sense. But now I’ve entered a new phase of victim-hood—clothes are suddenly more interesting. More so than TV, homework, eating, maybe even facebook (can such things be?). My car automatically drives to Target to see what’s new. I know the floor plan and arrangement of Forever21 and H&M. And now, I stare at modcloth.com with my mouth agape, swearing to the fashion gods that one day, I will have a paycheck, and those darling 60s inspired dresses and hipster accessories at $50 each will be mine! ALL MINE!
It started as a child.
I changed outfits ten times a day, miniskirts for tops, feather boas, pants if I remembered. As a teen it was camo army pants, hiking boots and flowing sleeved Juliette tops. And just one eyebrow, to complete the look. Luckily, I traveled to Paris, and lived abroad in Italy for a year in college, which knocked some classy European fashion sense into me. It was here I learned the fine arts of fiiiine clothing. Unfortunately at the time, the dollar was really weak, so I learned it at twice the cost. H&M Italy now has the equivalent of my tuition, prego Italia. But the lessons learned were invaluable. In a twisted, delusional, now in poverty kind of way. Except now, instead of being a fashion victim in the sense that I have no fashion sense, I am a victim in the sense that I can’t keep my wallet in my cute new mossimo canvas bag with leather trimming.
My boyfriend tries to curb the insatiable fashion appetite, but he is only human. Over skype I fawn “Looook! I found nude heels! Aren’t they pretttyy?!” to which he agrees, but secretly, deep down, wishes I would hit up a Shoppers Anonymous club. I’m afraid that by starting my job in a few weeks, all hell will break loose, and I will be left to descend into madness, laughing like a lunatic on my bed while surrounded by shoes, silk tops, scarves, and retro jewelry. Actually that doesn’t sound too bad.
Well, they say the first step is admitting you have a problem. Great! I think I’m just going to stay on this step for a while…Off to try on my new dress.
So I have this birthmark. It looks like—well, actually, let me show you.
People see many things when their eyes fall upon this blotch of melanin on my (California sun kissed) left shoulder. I don’t know if I agree with all of them, but they sure are interesting to hear. Here are the top 3 Watts Mole names:
Figure A. Mickey Melanin | Figure B. Oprah Winfmark | Figure C. Holy Moley
I, for one, think seeing the Virgin Mary on my shoulder is kind of a stretch. But at least it’s not on toast or an underpass. Nonetheless, this little “beauty mark” had me thinking about those “skin things;” the moles, scars, beauty marks and other unique things that make an appearance on our skin, and how we identify them and give them meanings. In reality, they are just lumps of skin cells. But when has reality ever been fun? When we look at our skin, we see so much more than skin deep. Our blemishes and moles, they turn into constellations, they adopt names and locations on the vast sky of our skin. They turn into identifications of our personalities, even sex symbols—Cindy Crawford and Marilyn Monroe made lip moles a beauty mark, not a blemish. Of course, they can also be a splatter on our canvas, a mistake we can’t appreciate, that ruins our idealistic painting of “beauty.” I remember being a kid and comparing moles and freckles and scars, even connecting them with ball point pens like a Connect the Dots Game. The stories and meanings and images we saw in them were endless. They were so much more than skin irregularities then. They weren’t mistakes—they made you unique. They were like permanent badges on our flesh. They were part of us, not on us.
I suppose this rather bizarre “Mole Appreciation Blog” stems from a few reasons 1) My thesis and thoughts on what we consider beautiful 2) Thinking about getting a tattoo and the ability to further illustrate the storybook of my skin 3) Lack of sleep. All valid reasons. (Is this the most intelligent, riveting or logical blog I’ve written? No. But if people can post pictures about kitties I can love moles) (So there.) I guess in a broader sense, I just hope people can appreciate the beauty of their bodies, and of course, their skin. Tattoos, scars, moles, wrinkles, they are all part of a story. They are the physical evidence of a life made and lived, how could you resent that? Damn. That was deep. Dermis deep. Haha, just a little skin humor for ya’…
At any rate, curious to hear what you guys think this mole looks like, if not to turn on your imaginations, then to fan mine. If nothing else, this could just mean JK Rowling was wrong about the chosen one being Harry Potter…
Notice how the legs got longer, boobs got perkier, waists got smaller and faces got changed. Airbrushing before it even existed…but nonetheless, cool to see how the classic look and sexiness was achieved.