To my mother, who is probably reading this: At this writing, I am in my apartment, wearing sweatpants, and watching the West Wing episode when it's snowing and the Whiffenpoofs are at the White House and Dulles and National are closed and Josh realizes that he's in love with Donna and the Whiffenpoofs sing O Holy Night. Also, my shoes are drying out-- it looks like the two coats of waterproofing chemicals were a good investment.
To the awesome bellman at the Willard who tried so hard to find us a cab: You are, indeed, awesome. Your heating lamps are awesome, too.
To the cabbie who pulled up to the Willard and then sped away when we explained where we wanted to go: Are. You. Serious. Really, are you serious? To recap, a cabbie pulled up to the Willard and asked where we wanted to go. We said Dupont and Adams Morgan. He responded, "Up? I can't go uphill." Seriously? You drive a Crown Vic. I have seen these cars before. Driving around Connecticut. Frequently uphill, sometimes in snow-- occasionally both at the same time. Imagine.
To all the other cabbies who passed us and did not stop: I do not fully understand your business model, as it seems to involve passing hoards of partygoers wandering through downtown at midnight in the snow. P.S., about half of them were wearing very tall, very unwieldy shoes and inadequate clothing. We really wanted to get in a cab. I would have paid a lot of money to ride in a cab.
To the girls at the Willard who were considering getting a room at the Willard instead of braving the Metro: In what way did that seem like a good idea? Because getting a cab will be so much easier once a foot of snow has fallen? Because your feet will be warmer when your four-inch heels magically turn into snow boots? Furthermore, I particularly liked your logic to explain why it was unreasonable to walk four blocks to McPherson Square: "I'm sorry, but I'm a woman, and it is midnight, and I am not walking to the Metro alone. I do not want to get raped." Honestly, it is snowing. Vigorously. So much so that even cab drivers in their cabs don't want to be outside. All the rapists have taken shelter. It is probably the safest night of the year to wander the streets, unless your concern is wiping out and breaking your leg.
To the guys we passed somewhere around 14th and New York Ave., who decided to grace us with a little Tim McGraw serenade, specifically the miniskirt line from "Bbq Stain": Thank you; I'm glad you liked my dress. I wish I had been as drunk as you were; I probably wouldn't have minded the cold as much. On a related note, my feet were freezing-- why could they still feel pain?
To the people of the fair District of Columbia: I will see you when the snow melts and you all return to normal. Or, you know, what passes for normal here.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Kate Attempts to Grow Things
Steps to becoming a vigilante gardener:
1. Identify abandoned reality TV house.
2. Look for signs of an herb garden producers probably planted thinking the cast would care about sustainability. Preferably on public property, i.e., the sidewalk. See anything you think you might not kill if you transplanted it to a pot in your kitchen?
3. Double check that you're not going to uproot a perfectly good plant only to slaughter it brutally in captivity.
3a. Hmm, Wikipedia says that rosemary does well in drought conditions. The top of my refrigerator gets very little rain, so this is excellent news.
4. Liberate your target plant from its sidewalk home. Preferably under cover of darkness, even if it is on public property.
4a. You probably shouldn't remove the all the rosemary--that's a little greedy. And, furthermore, you're going to feel like an asshole if you kill all of it in one fell swoop. You have to pace yourself.
4b. You probably didn't plan this exercise very carefully, so chances are you lack an appropriate vehicle in which to transport your rosemary plant to its new home. Fortunately, since you're not a greedy asshole, you can carry it in one hand.
5. Pot your exciting new plant. You might have an enormous bag of potting soil living on your fire escape, an artifact of your last foray into the wonderful world of herb gardens. Seriously-- you might have carried a 20-pound bag of potting soil four blocks from Garden District and up two flights of stairs, because you might struggle with gardening, but you try hard and you appreciate economies of scale.
5a. You might also have some concerns about that potting soil and blame it for the stunted growth and eventual death of your basil plant. Maybe. I'm just saying. If that's the case, maybe you pick up a fistful of dirt from the garden in front of your building.
6. Enjoy your new plant. Remember not to over-water it, in the manner you over-water the Christmas cactus you keep at your desk hoping to reenact Little Shop of Horrors.
1. Identify abandoned reality TV house.
2. Look for signs of an herb garden producers probably planted thinking the cast would care about sustainability. Preferably on public property, i.e., the sidewalk. See anything you think you might not kill if you transplanted it to a pot in your kitchen?
3. Double check that you're not going to uproot a perfectly good plant only to slaughter it brutally in captivity.
3a. Hmm, Wikipedia says that rosemary does well in drought conditions. The top of my refrigerator gets very little rain, so this is excellent news.
4. Liberate your target plant from its sidewalk home. Preferably under cover of darkness, even if it is on public property.
4a. You probably shouldn't remove the all the rosemary--that's a little greedy. And, furthermore, you're going to feel like an asshole if you kill all of it in one fell swoop. You have to pace yourself.
4b. You probably didn't plan this exercise very carefully, so chances are you lack an appropriate vehicle in which to transport your rosemary plant to its new home. Fortunately, since you're not a greedy asshole, you can carry it in one hand.
5. Pot your exciting new plant. You might have an enormous bag of potting soil living on your fire escape, an artifact of your last foray into the wonderful world of herb gardens. Seriously-- you might have carried a 20-pound bag of potting soil four blocks from Garden District and up two flights of stairs, because you might struggle with gardening, but you try hard and you appreciate economies of scale.
5a. You might also have some concerns about that potting soil and blame it for the stunted growth and eventual death of your basil plant. Maybe. I'm just saying. If that's the case, maybe you pick up a fistful of dirt from the garden in front of your building.
6. Enjoy your new plant. Remember not to over-water it, in the manner you over-water the Christmas cactus you keep at your desk hoping to reenact Little Shop of Horrors.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Kate Misses New England
Things that have made me miss New England lately:
1. Fall weather. It has become fall in DC. Well, not this week; this week was July part deux. But the weeks before and after Labor Day were perfection. The air was cool and mercifully dry-- the type of weather people describe as crisp. I don't really like the word crisp. I don't know why; maybe it's because my brain defaults to my cooking definition of crisp: adj., a polite euphemism for burned. But I digress. The beautiful weather--the clear, energizing air and the bright but not-hot sun--caused me pangs of Yale withdrawal, characterized primarily by regret that I was walking to work instead of WLH or the tailgate fields.
2. Friendly people from Connecticut. No, I'm not kidding. Everyone hears all the time about Southern Hospitality and blah blah blah. Whatever. Speaking fewer words per minute than I can type doesn't make you friendly; it makes you inefficient. You want friendly? Try wearing your high school gym shirt from a small town in Connecticut-- which I do a lot, apparently, based on the number of times I've been stopped by people asking about my shirt. Which is three times in four weeks, to be precise.
"Old Saybrook?! Old Saybrook, Connecticut?"
"Yes!"
"We live in Old Lyme!" "I have a house in Groton-Long Point!" "We just moved to Baltimore from Hamden!"
Seriously. Delightful, lovely people. "Are you in school? You went to Yale? Good for you! When was the last time you went home?"
3. The countdown to the postseason. There are few things I miss about New England the way I miss NESN, mostly because I mix my longing for Remy and Orsillo-- hell, even Orsillo and Eck-- with scorn for all those who try to take their place in my life. At least on Fox and ESPN, I can put the game on mute. On TBS, mute isn't enough, thanks to that clown Craig Sager and his nauseating and misguided jacket-tie-pocket square combos. And, more to the point, I don't want to have to mute the inanity of the guy who dresses like my 6th grade French teacher. I want good commentary. I want Don to gravely but sympathetically give it to me straight when Melky freakin Cabrera adopts a new offensive strategy such as lining the ball straight into poor Jon Lester.
However, deficient Red Sox coverage aside, I admit that DC Sox fans are a devoted bunch who sometimes manifest their fandom in enjoyable ways on par with New England. I have encountered many people who give shout-outs to others sporting Red Sox paraphernalia. I usually refrain from indulging this urge, but today on the way home from Safeway, I couldn't help myself.
"I'm sorry-- is your dog wearing a Sox jersey?"
"Well, I mean, we're playing the Yankees tonight."
"Oh, I understand. It's a big weekend."
1. Fall weather. It has become fall in DC. Well, not this week; this week was July part deux. But the weeks before and after Labor Day were perfection. The air was cool and mercifully dry-- the type of weather people describe as crisp. I don't really like the word crisp. I don't know why; maybe it's because my brain defaults to my cooking definition of crisp: adj., a polite euphemism for burned. But I digress. The beautiful weather--the clear, energizing air and the bright but not-hot sun--caused me pangs of Yale withdrawal, characterized primarily by regret that I was walking to work instead of WLH or the tailgate fields.
2. Friendly people from Connecticut. No, I'm not kidding. Everyone hears all the time about Southern Hospitality and blah blah blah. Whatever. Speaking fewer words per minute than I can type doesn't make you friendly; it makes you inefficient. You want friendly? Try wearing your high school gym shirt from a small town in Connecticut-- which I do a lot, apparently, based on the number of times I've been stopped by people asking about my shirt. Which is three times in four weeks, to be precise.
"Old Saybrook?! Old Saybrook, Connecticut?"
"Yes!"
"We live in Old Lyme!" "I have a house in Groton-Long Point!" "We just moved to Baltimore from Hamden!"
Seriously. Delightful, lovely people. "Are you in school? You went to Yale? Good for you! When was the last time you went home?"
3. The countdown to the postseason. There are few things I miss about New England the way I miss NESN, mostly because I mix my longing for Remy and Orsillo-- hell, even Orsillo and Eck-- with scorn for all those who try to take their place in my life. At least on Fox and ESPN, I can put the game on mute. On TBS, mute isn't enough, thanks to that clown Craig Sager and his nauseating and misguided jacket-tie-pocket square combos. And, more to the point, I don't want to have to mute the inanity of the guy who dresses like my 6th grade French teacher. I want good commentary. I want Don to gravely but sympathetically give it to me straight when Melky freakin Cabrera adopts a new offensive strategy such as lining the ball straight into poor Jon Lester.
However, deficient Red Sox coverage aside, I admit that DC Sox fans are a devoted bunch who sometimes manifest their fandom in enjoyable ways on par with New England. I have encountered many people who give shout-outs to others sporting Red Sox paraphernalia. I usually refrain from indulging this urge, but today on the way home from Safeway, I couldn't help myself.
"I'm sorry-- is your dog wearing a Sox jersey?"
"Well, I mean, we're playing the Yankees tonight."
"Oh, I understand. It's a big weekend."
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
The Five People You Avoid at the Pool
For about two months now, I have been swimming in the pool at the Y. I mostly go in the morning before work, and it's funny--by which I mean a little creepy--how you get to know the other regulars. There's the really nice woman who always asks if it's okay if she joins your lane. There's the guy who looks like a guy from college, to the point that I do a double-take-- hey, we're talking about 6:15 on a Tuesday; I'm impressed my hallucinations are limited to false doppelganger sightings. And there's the lady who is always in one of the slow lanes, just chillin and doing the sidestroke, sometimes with a kick board. She's great.
[By the way, if you want to minimize your chances of being in a lane that resembles the aquatic equivalent of the Beltway at rush hour, pick the slow lane. Seriously, this works. A few people use the slow lane because they are honest with themselves, but most people are way too proud to self-select whether they should be there or not. But not you. You are ruled by logic, not some misguided sense of self worth derived from holding your own in the 'medium' lane.]
But not everyone at the pool is great. And I say this not to be a bad person but, rather, as one who understands that my life can serve as a warning to others. Therefore, I give to you The Five People You Should Avoid at the Pool.
1. THE PERSON WITH FLIPPERS
Some people who use flippers are fairly skilled in their use-- you know, they keep their kick mostly under water. As a result, they create a constant wake, which kind of sucks. But not as much as people who don't know how to use flippers. These people create splashing reminiscent of the more violent scenes in "Jaws." Overall, they are not so conducive to your ability to breathe.
2. PEOPLE USING THE BUDDY SYSTEM
Red. Flag. If someone needs a friend, it means he or she is either
a. not that interested in swimming and thus planning to stand awkwardly in the shallow end chatting
b. worried about drowning. And possibly being lost at sea. In the pool.
3. THE TRIATHLETE
I know several triathletes, and they are all delightful people, so don't get me wrong. All I'm saying is that I'd rather not share a lane with someone who is checking their split times and thus refuses to start their next lap until the second hand is on the 60 (you might think they're staring at you, but actually they're staring over your shoulder at the giant clock on the wall). Also, the triathletes sometimes have conferences at the shallow end, which is a little awkward. Yeah, the awesome swimmers are having a meeting. No, you're not invited.
4. THE WIRY OLD GUY
Again, please do not misunderstand. But there are a few wiry old guys who have, over time, developed interesting adaptations of the traditional swimming strokes. They tend to resemble the motions of a drowning interpretive dancer. And the rest of the wiry old guys have old man strength, and nothing ruins my day like getting lapped by a 70-year-old.
5. THE PERSON WEARING A FLOATY BELT
I think this speaks for itself. Especially in combination with flippers.
[By the way, if you want to minimize your chances of being in a lane that resembles the aquatic equivalent of the Beltway at rush hour, pick the slow lane. Seriously, this works. A few people use the slow lane because they are honest with themselves, but most people are way too proud to self-select whether they should be there or not. But not you. You are ruled by logic, not some misguided sense of self worth derived from holding your own in the 'medium' lane.]
But not everyone at the pool is great. And I say this not to be a bad person but, rather, as one who understands that my life can serve as a warning to others. Therefore, I give to you The Five People You Should Avoid at the Pool.
1. THE PERSON WITH FLIPPERS
Some people who use flippers are fairly skilled in their use-- you know, they keep their kick mostly under water. As a result, they create a constant wake, which kind of sucks. But not as much as people who don't know how to use flippers. These people create splashing reminiscent of the more violent scenes in "Jaws." Overall, they are not so conducive to your ability to breathe.
2. PEOPLE USING THE BUDDY SYSTEM
Red. Flag. If someone needs a friend, it means he or she is either
a. not that interested in swimming and thus planning to stand awkwardly in the shallow end chatting
b. worried about drowning. And possibly being lost at sea. In the pool.
3. THE TRIATHLETE
I know several triathletes, and they are all delightful people, so don't get me wrong. All I'm saying is that I'd rather not share a lane with someone who is checking their split times and thus refuses to start their next lap until the second hand is on the 60 (you might think they're staring at you, but actually they're staring over your shoulder at the giant clock on the wall). Also, the triathletes sometimes have conferences at the shallow end, which is a little awkward. Yeah, the awesome swimmers are having a meeting. No, you're not invited.
4. THE WIRY OLD GUY
Again, please do not misunderstand. But there are a few wiry old guys who have, over time, developed interesting adaptations of the traditional swimming strokes. They tend to resemble the motions of a drowning interpretive dancer. And the rest of the wiry old guys have old man strength, and nothing ruins my day like getting lapped by a 70-year-old.
5. THE PERSON WEARING A FLOATY BELT
I think this speaks for itself. Especially in combination with flippers.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Kate Stops Being Polite
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
This is hilarious.
On the bright side, maybe they'll get kidnapped by the Scientologists?
This is hilarious.
On the bright side, maybe they'll get kidnapped by the Scientologists?
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Not Well Played, NYT
Monday night (probably Tuesday in the print version), the New York Times reported on a federal judge's decision that the FDA acted improperly in setting an 18-and-over age restriction on the over-the-counter availability of Plan B.
Sidebar: Woohoo! Now, science people, don't freak out. I still feel sort of queasy about non-scientist judges making rulings about science. However, this decision was not actually about science; it was about government officials using politics to game the approval process. So I can celebrate the reproductive rights moment without feeling awkward. Besides, if Susan Wood-- who resigned from the FDA because of this issue-- is happy, I'm happy.
So if I'm glowing from women's collective win, why am I pissed at the New York Times? It's because I'm one of those masochists who reads the reader comments. What's worse, I'm that girl who reads the comments and then tries to figure out how the editors chose their "Editors' Selections." Allegedly, the rationale is as follows:
"NYTimes editors aim to highlight the most interesting and thoughtful comments that represent a range of views."
Okay, fine. I even acknowledge upfront that they are inevitably going to pick some comments with which I disagree. No problem. Of course they were going to highlight a comment from someone who thinks Plan B is going to be the end of western civilization. I was ready for that. Hell, that's why I clicked on the comments page in the first place.
However, I have a major problem with tagging as "interesting and thoughtful" a comment that includes factual errors. I'm looking at you, Comment #10:
"For those of us, who respect the sanctity of life and believe a soul is imputed to a human being at conception, this is yet another travesty in a series of tragedies." The poster goes on to condemn "support for Licentious behavior" (bonus point for vocab, deduction for random mid-sentence capitalization), liberal politicians, and people creating baby mama drama (not in those words).
Fine. If the NYT editors think it looks magnanimous to give a shout-out to conservative reader, whatever. My problem is one of the following:
a. Comment #10 guy doesn't know how Plan B works.
b. Comment #10 guy doesn't know how conception works (less likely, not out of the question).
c. Both a. and b.
d.-f. Repeat a.-c., but replace "Comment #10 guy" with "NYT staffer moderating comment board."
In case I have confused anyone, here is my problem in a less passive-aggressive format. From the Plan B website: "Plan B® works like a birth control pill to prevent pregnancy mainly by stopping the release of an egg from the ovary." If you read the pamphlet (linked above), you'll see that they allow that it is possible that Plan B also prevents fertilization and implantation. However, in the intended, proven function of the drug (the no egg part), conception is not in the picture. So if you're going to rail against something using only "life begins at conception" and your self-righteous recollections of a bygone time when dirty liberals weren't running the show, please direct your comments elsewhere.
Furthermore, NYT, please step up your game. Misconceptions (ha.) about the function of a pharmaceutical product couched in pro-life rhetoric hardly qualify as "thoughtful."
Sidebar: Woohoo! Now, science people, don't freak out. I still feel sort of queasy about non-scientist judges making rulings about science. However, this decision was not actually about science; it was about government officials using politics to game the approval process. So I can celebrate the reproductive rights moment without feeling awkward. Besides, if Susan Wood-- who resigned from the FDA because of this issue-- is happy, I'm happy.
So if I'm glowing from women's collective win, why am I pissed at the New York Times? It's because I'm one of those masochists who reads the reader comments. What's worse, I'm that girl who reads the comments and then tries to figure out how the editors chose their "Editors' Selections." Allegedly, the rationale is as follows:
"NYTimes editors aim to highlight the most interesting and thoughtful comments that represent a range of views."
Okay, fine. I even acknowledge upfront that they are inevitably going to pick some comments with which I disagree. No problem. Of course they were going to highlight a comment from someone who thinks Plan B is going to be the end of western civilization. I was ready for that. Hell, that's why I clicked on the comments page in the first place.
However, I have a major problem with tagging as "interesting and thoughtful" a comment that includes factual errors. I'm looking at you, Comment #10:
"For those of us, who respect the sanctity of life and believe a soul is imputed to a human being at conception, this is yet another travesty in a series of tragedies." The poster goes on to condemn "support for Licentious behavior" (bonus point for vocab, deduction for random mid-sentence capitalization), liberal politicians, and people creating baby mama drama (not in those words).
Fine. If the NYT editors think it looks magnanimous to give a shout-out to conservative reader, whatever. My problem is one of the following:
a. Comment #10 guy doesn't know how Plan B works.
b. Comment #10 guy doesn't know how conception works (less likely, not out of the question).
c. Both a. and b.
d.-f. Repeat a.-c., but replace "Comment #10 guy" with "NYT staffer moderating comment board."
In case I have confused anyone, here is my problem in a less passive-aggressive format. From the Plan B website: "Plan B® works like a birth control pill to prevent pregnancy mainly by stopping the release of an egg from the ovary." If you read the pamphlet (linked above), you'll see that they allow that it is possible that Plan B also prevents fertilization and implantation. However, in the intended, proven function of the drug (the no egg part), conception is not in the picture. So if you're going to rail against something using only "life begins at conception" and your self-righteous recollections of a bygone time when dirty liberals weren't running the show, please direct your comments elsewhere.
Furthermore, NYT, please step up your game. Misconceptions (ha.) about the function of a pharmaceutical product couched in pro-life rhetoric hardly qualify as "thoughtful."
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Kate Experiments with Clothing... Again
As a loyal viewer of What Not to Wear and a true life victim of my own fashion choices, I am a believer in the power of clothes.
Now, I love the Hartford Whalers. I don't care that they are no longer an NHL team. It's irrelevant. You are probably wondering what this has to do with clothes. Well, I recently decided I needed a Whalers shirt that is not the sweat-stained, paint-splattered, hole-under-the-left-arm "Top 10 Things to Love about the Hartford Whalers" shirt I got when I was 10 years old and now wear to the gym. I still love this shirt and will continue to wear it until it is no longer a shirt (my friend Becca once said, "pants are pants until they fall down"; I think a similar axiom probably applies to upper-body garments). But sometimes you want to show your love without the constant fear of people stopping you on the street to say, "Look into bleach."
So I found myself a new shirt. It is great. It is simple-- heather grey, just the logo on the front. I cut off the collar, as I am wont to do, and now it is perfect. The only problem is that when you work in an office and spend the majority of your weekend hours in your pajamas or your aforementioned sweaty, painty Whalers shirt, you don't have so many opportunities to wear your awesome new shirt. You can't necessarily wear it to go out on Saturday night--it's pretty hipster to wear the tee shirt of your now-defunct NHL team (though massively cooler than wearing the tee shirt of the band you're going to see-- don't be that guy). Which is why it was so convenient that I went to a party in Columbia Heights Saturday night. If you can't dress up as a hipster to go to Columbia Heights, then I don't know when you can. Okay, when you go to H Street, but I digress.
I should also note that this Whalers-centric outfit was a pretty daring (read: dubious) choice. Marissa almost talked me out of it, and were I a more reasonable person she would have succeeded. But as I said, I will only be young enough to make egregious fashion mistakes--like a Whalers shirt with a frilly, borderline-too-short skirt and heels--once, and I have to get them all out of my system now in case I am ever famous enough to get called out for these choices in a public forum. Plus, I know how I react when I see people who identify themselves as Whalers fans, and I sort of wanted to see what would happen.
What happened: people love the Whalers love. More importantly, the Whalers shirt lends itself to a conversation a little more than, say, the plaid skirt and draws comments from specific types of people:
a. Guys from Canada ("Well, you like the Whalers, so I respect you.")
b. Guys from New York/New England ("Are you from Hartford?" "No!" "Oh, okay.")
c. Guys from North Carolina ("[slurred, drunken teasing about the Carolina Hurricanes]")
Lesson: The Whalers shirt is always the right decision. I would never encourage anyone to pretend to be a Whalers fan. I get very upset by disingenuous wearers of Whalers gear-- really, ask the guy who was sporting a vintage-esque Whalers shirt last time I was in Front Page. When someone asks you about your shirt, the answer is never, "Oh, I don't even like them. I'm from L.A."
But if you can hum the Brass Bonanza, you should know that proclaiming your pride in your now-lost NHL team can have positive results. And if you happen to encounter a Captain No-Fun who leans over and says, "You do know the Whalers are no longer a team, right?" you can just smile and say, "They live on in my heart."
This will keep you from saying what you're really thinking (well, also thinking): "If you can't say anything nice, stop looking at my boobs."
Now, I love the Hartford Whalers. I don't care that they are no longer an NHL team. It's irrelevant. You are probably wondering what this has to do with clothes. Well, I recently decided I needed a Whalers shirt that is not the sweat-stained, paint-splattered, hole-under-the-left-arm "Top 10 Things to Love about the Hartford Whalers" shirt I got when I was 10 years old and now wear to the gym. I still love this shirt and will continue to wear it until it is no longer a shirt (my friend Becca once said, "pants are pants until they fall down"; I think a similar axiom probably applies to upper-body garments). But sometimes you want to show your love without the constant fear of people stopping you on the street to say, "Look into bleach."
So I found myself a new shirt. It is great. It is simple-- heather grey, just the logo on the front. I cut off the collar, as I am wont to do, and now it is perfect. The only problem is that when you work in an office and spend the majority of your weekend hours in your pajamas or your aforementioned sweaty, painty Whalers shirt, you don't have so many opportunities to wear your awesome new shirt. You can't necessarily wear it to go out on Saturday night--it's pretty hipster to wear the tee shirt of your now-defunct NHL team (though massively cooler than wearing the tee shirt of the band you're going to see-- don't be that guy). Which is why it was so convenient that I went to a party in Columbia Heights Saturday night. If you can't dress up as a hipster to go to Columbia Heights, then I don't know when you can. Okay, when you go to H Street, but I digress.
I should also note that this Whalers-centric outfit was a pretty daring (read: dubious) choice. Marissa almost talked me out of it, and were I a more reasonable person she would have succeeded. But as I said, I will only be young enough to make egregious fashion mistakes--like a Whalers shirt with a frilly, borderline-too-short skirt and heels--once, and I have to get them all out of my system now in case I am ever famous enough to get called out for these choices in a public forum. Plus, I know how I react when I see people who identify themselves as Whalers fans, and I sort of wanted to see what would happen.
What happened: people love the Whalers love. More importantly, the Whalers shirt lends itself to a conversation a little more than, say, the plaid skirt and draws comments from specific types of people:
a. Guys from Canada ("Well, you like the Whalers, so I respect you.")
b. Guys from New York/New England ("Are you from Hartford?" "No!" "Oh, okay.")
c. Guys from North Carolina ("[slurred, drunken teasing about the Carolina Hurricanes]")
Lesson: The Whalers shirt is always the right decision. I would never encourage anyone to pretend to be a Whalers fan. I get very upset by disingenuous wearers of Whalers gear-- really, ask the guy who was sporting a vintage-esque Whalers shirt last time I was in Front Page. When someone asks you about your shirt, the answer is never, "Oh, I don't even like them. I'm from L.A."
But if you can hum the Brass Bonanza, you should know that proclaiming your pride in your now-lost NHL team can have positive results. And if you happen to encounter a Captain No-Fun who leans over and says, "You do know the Whalers are no longer a team, right?" you can just smile and say, "They live on in my heart."
This will keep you from saying what you're really thinking (well, also thinking): "If you can't say anything nice, stop looking at my boobs."
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