So I'm graduating from college this week, and although I thought that this would be the best week of my life I am finding myself blinded by the light at the end of the tunnel. Since my post-grad trouble are vast and assuredly uncommon, I have decided to document them. Don't worry though this will be nothing like the movie post-grad: no inflatable furniture floating in my pool. So consider my first to posts a warm up because I am sure that the road to finding any job let alone a job that I actually like with be long and littering with stories. Just keep in mind that I (A) have absolutely no clue what I want to do (B) have absolutely no clue where I want to live and (C) am constantly struggling with the thought of giving up and living on my parents for the rest of my life, if that would even take me that is. So here I go, diving headfirst into job pool. That is, after I get back from 2 weeks of vacationing.
In other news, just yesterday two wonderful things happened to me: I won most improved bowler out of my entire bowling class (a hobby of mine you will surely hear more about) and I got a call for a job interview doing retail and event marketing. Sounds like the perfect job right? I thought so too. Too bad it has to be filled immediately. My dream of socializing and creating parties and events for a living is slipping out of my reach. I will persevere though, they said to call back in a few weeks for a possible interview if the job is still open. So we can keep our fingers crossed.
20091113
S-A-L-E
Last week, it happened. In a small town like San Luis Obispo, cow-tipping isn’t unheard of, storefronts go dark at 9PM, and small crimes are broadcasts like they are the sixth sign of the apocalypse, but twice a year (TWICE A YEAR) something happens that merits an all out Julie Andrews-style prance through the mountaintops: The Coverings Blow-Out Sale.
It may seem absurd to compare a small designer boutique sale to a department store sale, but this “boutique” must have a HUGE backroom because there is more decent merchandise there than at almost any Bloomingdales end of season sale I have ever been too. Marc Jacobs coats for $50, L.A.M.B shoes that are marked down to $80, Elizabeth and James sweaters for $70, and that’s not even the half of it. It’s glorious; a real
Bona-fide sale: the way every shopaholic dreams a sale should be.
In the interest of full disclosure I will admit that I have a dark history with this store too. Not to dwell on the past, but let’s just say that during their regular store hours it is not uncommon for them to follow you around like you’ve got bacon in your pocket and they’re a bunch of golden retrievers. I don’t shoplift, so I resent the insinuation. I will leave it at they are the opposite of something that starts with an “s” and end with “ubtle.” Regardless of my decree to never shop at a store that treats me like the homeless guy who just walked in the exit door of Souplantation, I continue to go to their sales because I can’t resist. Each time I spend way too much money on crap that….well let’s face it…I totally need: that third pair of ripped jean shorts or that 4th high-waisted skirt to add to my collection. They each added some much needed depth to my overflowing closet.
None of this is my point though; rather I would like to point out my complete magnetism to four letters. If Chico’s has “S-A-L-E” written in big red lettering in their window, chances are I will be there shopping for my grandma who desperately needs another cable knit sweater. If Albertson’s has two shopping carts full of discount goods from passed holidays, I have to scour to the bottom of each, not because I plan on buying anything but because I can’t stand the idea of missing out on a deal. I scour through every thrift store jewelry counter because A. they have really strange cool jewelry usually, but also because I found a $20 Tiffany’s bracelet there three years ago and I know that eventually history may repeat itself.
Clearly, my need to shop stems from many different mental disorders: The first and foremost being that I love fashion. If Saks started selling grocery store bags that were quilted together to make a dress there is a more than likely chance that I would be wearing one. This isn’t because my mind is impressionable or that I’m shallow, but because I love trends (EXCEPT for the current “individualist” trend that essentially means everyone shops for plaid at Forever 21 and acts like their Kurt Kobain when really they are more like Derek Whibley). Of course, coming in at a close second to my love of fashion, is my love of buying: my postmodern need to consume is overwhelming. I get an immediate rush from spending money even if all I bought was deodorant.
This may seem pathetic, but I like to consider myself as merely self-aware. We are all postmodern lemmings, at least before I jump off the cliff I will be dressed in my Sunday’s best.
It may seem absurd to compare a small designer boutique sale to a department store sale, but this “boutique” must have a HUGE backroom because there is more decent merchandise there than at almost any Bloomingdales end of season sale I have ever been too. Marc Jacobs coats for $50, L.A.M.B shoes that are marked down to $80, Elizabeth and James sweaters for $70, and that’s not even the half of it. It’s glorious; a real
Bona-fide sale: the way every shopaholic dreams a sale should be.
In the interest of full disclosure I will admit that I have a dark history with this store too. Not to dwell on the past, but let’s just say that during their regular store hours it is not uncommon for them to follow you around like you’ve got bacon in your pocket and they’re a bunch of golden retrievers. I don’t shoplift, so I resent the insinuation. I will leave it at they are the opposite of something that starts with an “s” and end with “ubtle.” Regardless of my decree to never shop at a store that treats me like the homeless guy who just walked in the exit door of Souplantation, I continue to go to their sales because I can’t resist. Each time I spend way too much money on crap that….well let’s face it…I totally need: that third pair of ripped jean shorts or that 4th high-waisted skirt to add to my collection. They each added some much needed depth to my overflowing closet.
None of this is my point though; rather I would like to point out my complete magnetism to four letters. If Chico’s has “S-A-L-E” written in big red lettering in their window, chances are I will be there shopping for my grandma who desperately needs another cable knit sweater. If Albertson’s has two shopping carts full of discount goods from passed holidays, I have to scour to the bottom of each, not because I plan on buying anything but because I can’t stand the idea of missing out on a deal. I scour through every thrift store jewelry counter because A. they have really strange cool jewelry usually, but also because I found a $20 Tiffany’s bracelet there three years ago and I know that eventually history may repeat itself.
Clearly, my need to shop stems from many different mental disorders: The first and foremost being that I love fashion. If Saks started selling grocery store bags that were quilted together to make a dress there is a more than likely chance that I would be wearing one. This isn’t because my mind is impressionable or that I’m shallow, but because I love trends (EXCEPT for the current “individualist” trend that essentially means everyone shops for plaid at Forever 21 and acts like their Kurt Kobain when really they are more like Derek Whibley). Of course, coming in at a close second to my love of fashion, is my love of buying: my postmodern need to consume is overwhelming. I get an immediate rush from spending money even if all I bought was deodorant.
This may seem pathetic, but I like to consider myself as merely self-aware. We are all postmodern lemmings, at least before I jump off the cliff I will be dressed in my Sunday’s best.
20091106
I Can't Say I'm Sure What a Blog Really Is
So, truth be told, I’m not really sure what a blog is supposed to do. I guess it’s sort of all-purpose like vinegar. I’m kind of a technophobe about blogs and twitter and MySpace and haircuts. I guess haircuts aren’t technologic but it took me 7 months to finally decide on side bangs…granted that was in 2003. That’s not my point though.
My point actually has nothing to do with my fear of technology, but rather my fear of nearly everything else—cars, planes, buses that drive on cliffs in third world countries, birds, fish, natural disasters, rejection, bobble-head dolls, and that’s just to name a few.
I’m not sure if blogs necessarily have to have one cohesive thought like a novel or a movie script, but I think I am going to treat my blog like I’m William Faulkner. Let’s see if you can keep up. I like, in no particular order, Marc Jacobs, saying the phrase “death-march,” writing, my family, New York City, Los Angeles, SAN DIEGO, people who are as judgmental as I am.
Anyway, if my blog is going to be like my diary of all things terrifying and fashionable, then I should probably explain why I think that those very separate ideas form one clear entity in my mind. It’s simple really, like most people my brain filters in a lot of ideas, but the pervading thoughts seem to either be about how scary something is or how good or bad an outfit looks on me or someone else. If that isn’t good enough for you, then just imagine how scary fashion can be--falling in stilettos, cut-throat shoppers at a Bloomingdale’s sale, or the ultimate horror ONE Marc Jacobs sweater marked down to 60 dollars.
In order to help you better understand me and this post, I should explain myself. I’ve been known to do a few things, namely, talk or write in this case until my listener’s ears are bleeding. I can’t really help it though, I’m chatty. I have also been known to defy any budget I try to set for myself and to up the awkward ante. Last year, I was hanging out with my sister’s boyfriend and his friend whom I had never met before. Instead of just introducing myself immediately, I got up to leave and just as I was about to step out I turned back and yelled “By the way, I’m Rachel!” Then I slammed the door behind me. Suffice to say, I don’t exactly thrive in new, unexpected situations.
I thought for a while about what I would write in my first post. I thought since no one is going to read it probably, how much does it matter? I’ll just write whatever comes out, sort of like I’m just chatting. Then I slipped into a wonderful daydream in which my blog was turned into a major motion picture. And think, you just read the opening credits…
My point actually has nothing to do with my fear of technology, but rather my fear of nearly everything else—cars, planes, buses that drive on cliffs in third world countries, birds, fish, natural disasters, rejection, bobble-head dolls, and that’s just to name a few.
I’m not sure if blogs necessarily have to have one cohesive thought like a novel or a movie script, but I think I am going to treat my blog like I’m William Faulkner. Let’s see if you can keep up. I like, in no particular order, Marc Jacobs, saying the phrase “death-march,” writing, my family, New York City, Los Angeles, SAN DIEGO, people who are as judgmental as I am.
Anyway, if my blog is going to be like my diary of all things terrifying and fashionable, then I should probably explain why I think that those very separate ideas form one clear entity in my mind. It’s simple really, like most people my brain filters in a lot of ideas, but the pervading thoughts seem to either be about how scary something is or how good or bad an outfit looks on me or someone else. If that isn’t good enough for you, then just imagine how scary fashion can be--falling in stilettos, cut-throat shoppers at a Bloomingdale’s sale, or the ultimate horror ONE Marc Jacobs sweater marked down to 60 dollars.
In order to help you better understand me and this post, I should explain myself. I’ve been known to do a few things, namely, talk or write in this case until my listener’s ears are bleeding. I can’t really help it though, I’m chatty. I have also been known to defy any budget I try to set for myself and to up the awkward ante. Last year, I was hanging out with my sister’s boyfriend and his friend whom I had never met before. Instead of just introducing myself immediately, I got up to leave and just as I was about to step out I turned back and yelled “By the way, I’m Rachel!” Then I slammed the door behind me. Suffice to say, I don’t exactly thrive in new, unexpected situations.
I thought for a while about what I would write in my first post. I thought since no one is going to read it probably, how much does it matter? I’ll just write whatever comes out, sort of like I’m just chatting. Then I slipped into a wonderful daydream in which my blog was turned into a major motion picture. And think, you just read the opening credits…
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