Dress Code Confessions

Did I mention that as a part of my internship with Vera Wang this summer, I am required to wear all black all the time? I'm talking black on black on black on black on black. I even sent them a frantic email verifying whether or not this included shoes and accessories. Surely, there was no way they'd put such tyrannical requirements on even my feet! I got an email back confirming in big, bold, black letters that shoes count too. I whimpered in fear. 

All black? Me? Have you seen my closet? Here, I'll just show you. 

There's like one black thing in there. And it's covered in polka dots. It's like Liberace, Springtime and a color wheel had an orgy and then manifested themselves on a bunch of floral printed dresses! I do black like once a quarter when I'm being ironic. Or strategically moody to emotionally manipulate my friends. Or when I'm menstruating. But I digress.  

This whole situation is consuming me and I've been on the hunt for work appropriate, Julia approved, Vera worthy, and budget friendly black clothes for weeks now. Online shopping is my drug and I won't stop til I get enough. I am constantly making people listen to me talk about my need for more black blouses, but how hard it is to find them (seriously so much harder than you'd think). Or shoes. Have you looked for comfortable, closed-toed, stylish, black shoes lately? Because I have. And they actually don't exist. Oh and PS- not sure if you remember me complaining for 10 weeks about this last year, but in case you were unaware, New York City in the summer is a literal sweat lodge/ toaster oven of a town that leaves you on a street corner or in an underground subways station in a puddle of rage, begging for God to turn the AC back on. This isn't an overreaction or an exaggeration. This is real. And I'll be the one wearing all black. 

ANYwho... it will be amazing because this also happens to be my dream internship and an experience of a lifetime, but I just keep staring at my clothes, all the blues and reds and pinks and loud prints and apologizing quietly like a mother who is about to abandon her children because they don't fit on the back of her new boyfriend's motorcycle and into her new life. Or, maybe even worse, I feel like Justin the day he told Joey, Lance, JC and Chris that he was flying solo. Can you just imagine the look in their eyes when he showed up, probably wearing all black, to tell them that he was saying Bye, Bye, Bye? Ugh. It kills me every time. 

UNFINISHED

Last night I had my first dream about my senior collection. 

Oh. Did I say dream? I meant nightmare. 

In my dream (which was set in a black and white silent film, by the way) it was the day of the jury show and I was showing my collection to the judges to be considered for placement in the final show. Everything was going fine until one of the judges dramatically pointed to my feet. When I looked down, the word "UNFINISHED" was written across all ten of my toes. And then, simultaneously all of the judges turned their backs to me and asked me to leave the room. End of dream.

That's all I remember. I woke up in a panic. Looked at my toes, just to be sure. No letters. Just some chipped red nail polish. But it didn't matter that it was just a dream. The damage to my morning had already been done. 

I blame last Friday. Registration day. I don't think I need to explain the terror which reigns down in my life every quarter when it's time to register, but I do think it's necessary to point out that this quarter's registration felt in some ways much more weightless than usual. The normal bound-by-time drudgery of school's eminent end is slowly fading away. Suddenly, instead of looking forward to three or even two years remaining of school and it's ever growing comfort levels in my own mind, I was on Friday and am now today looking down the timeline at one single year left. It's like I could feel the little control I have (or think I have) in my own life slowly running out of the palms of my hands, down my arms, running off my elbows, and disappearing into the ground.  

AND I'M STARTING TO PANIC. 

I have found myself acting out in the following ways: 

1. I stole a brick from the front of Eckburg the other day. The path up to the fashion building is paved with a junkyard of loose red bricks that mark the tragic failure of countless fashionistas attempting to wear heels to class (don't ask me why) and instead meeting the embarrassing pain of tripping and falling on their way into the building with everyone watching them. It's happened to me. It's happened to everyone. These bricks are the great equalizers. They are humility in a building full of egos. They are, simply put, justice. 

So, as I was on my way home from a particularly frustrating day of work this weekend, wearing a pair of converse that could only say "Hi, I'm a junior and I've stopped trying to be sartorially impressive, ok?" I tripped for perhaps the 8th or 9th time this year. I didn't swear or gasp or even blink. I calmly reached down, grabbed the brick who's chipped corner was to blame, and tossed it in my purse as a warning to all of the other bricks. No more Mr. Nice Guy. 

2. I've been spending a significant amount of my time staring lately. At walls. At tables. At floors. Out windows. You've got something that needs staring at for no specific reason, I'm your gal. 

3. Going on long, rainy drives in my car with no real destination or goal. And I leave the radio off to make it extra sad, really just letting my thumbs dig deeper and deeper into the self pity. 

The beauty of Savannah is that it is laid out in a grid, so besides the occasional stop sign, you can literally go down the same street in a straight line for nearly an hour. And you want to know what's at the end of our street that I drove down for nearly an hour? A FREAKING FORK IN THE ROAD. Nope. Totally not kidding. 

But, what sort of behavior is this, Julia? Productive? No. Helpful? No. Environmentally Irresponsible? Yes. 

4. I ate a whole box chocolate covered pretzels over an embarrassingly short period of time. But that's less unusual, so let's move on. 

The whole point of all of this mess is that I think I'm beginning to see the end in sight. And not just the end of college, but the end of my projected plan. For my entire life, although I had hopes and blurry images of what my life would be like, the clear and attainable picture of my known goals ended with college. For me, it was the last check mark on a list of things that could be planned and timed on a calendar of specific dates. Marriage, kids... those things would all come, but who knows when so there wasn't any point in waiting on them. 

But the Road of Next's is coming to end. And I'm back at that fork in the road and letting it stop me dead in my tracks. 

A Hard Weekend to Follow

I know it's already Wednesday, but I'm still thinking about last weekend. And oh, what a wonderful weekend it was. Cooking with herbs fresh out of the SCAD garden, a healthy sprinkling of homework, drinks with the most beauteous of ladies... and then coffee the next morning. 

It was one of those weekends where I felt like I was laughing about something for days straight-- and it was just enough of a [mental] vacation that I just might be able to make it through the end of the quarter. Maybe. 

The Cream Theory

This evening, Susie and I were discussing a topic near but far from dear to my heart; this is a conversation that has been had by all women, of all ages, from what I'm assuming is the beginning of time. We was t@lkin' b0yz. 

The conversation was, as per usual, a dissection of the active (or, perhaps more accurate, complete lack of) female to male relationships as it pertains to the lives of one Julia Patton and one Susannah Ashkenas. Although conversation with a friend such as Susie is always warmly welcomed, our dialogue on the subject was brief and unoriginal at best, no thanks to the complete lack of changes since the last time we had this exact discussion (estimated at roughly one week ago). 

As I've briefly mentioned before, bringing boy talk to the blog is always something that I shy away from for a few reasons (one main whopper being due to the fact that there is not much to write about on the subject besides "me lonely. me want boy. me eat feelings." over and over and over again), but as I've briefly mentioned before (or you've had the immense pleasure of hearing me complain about this in person (...sorry...) ) Savannah is a complete, desolate, dehydrated, wasteland for available guys ...but, hold on-- that's not completely true. As I've taken to local coffee shops as my laboratories of observation and discovery in the last three years in this fair city, it has come to my attention that it's not just the lack of men keeping us from this mythical adventure called dating. Oh, no. There are boys alright. Everywhere I freaking look, they're there. What's really keeping us ladies from evenings of lipstick, small talk and chivalry (you didn't know that word still existed, did you?) is what I call the "SCAD Funnel." Let's walk through it:

Take 100 SCAD students

Now take out all of the girls

You're left with 30 boys

Now take out all of the boys who like boys

You're left with 17 boys

Call me picky or old fashioned, but now take out all of the boys who have, in the past year used illegal drugs. 

You're left with 7 boys

Call me prudish or intolerant, but now take out all of the boys who don't share the same religious beliefs as me, and just to save them the time, let's drop the ones who we both know I have absolutely nothing in common with. 

You're left with 2 boys. 

Cool! Options! 

Oh, but before we get all home-wrecker up in here, Do either of you boys have girlfriends? 

Thought so. 

Ok, I'm left with 1 boy.

1 boy who, we're assuming, isn't a total arrogant jerk thanks to the fact that he knows he is 1 available boy out of 30 boys in a city teeming with 70 female piranhas lurking around every corner.

1 boy who's chances of meeting me are highest either literally bumping into me as I walk down the street or in class (which, let's not forget, are classes in which I study... wait for it... fashion design.)

1 boy who, and I know I'm shooting for the stars here, but is... dare I say... attractive...?

1 boy who has to like me back.

May the odds be ever in your favor. 

This brings me to my next point. 

I think about all of my close girl friends. And how, completely objectively speaking, of course, THEY ARE ALL THE GREATEST. Fun and smart and creative and caring (not to mention totally beautiful) girls who are all undesirably single. I'm reminded of something that I learned in high school physics (I know-- I'm as shocked as you are). Newton's third law: For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. So, from what I understand about physics, shouldn't this mean that for every amazing girl that I know, there should be an amazing guy somewhere out there? But where are they? I refuse to believe they just don't exist. That's too easy. And I have way too much faith in the mom's of the world to believe that they've all raised they're sons to be total duds. I've been thinking and I've come up something: The Cream Theory. 

Allow me to explain. 

Throughout high school when it seems that teenage boys today get nearly a free pass from society to behave in a manner with absolutely no real expectations, limitations or consequences put on them, I came to terms with turning a blind eye. It's just a phase, they said. Boys aren't ready for you, they said. They literally have the emotional capacity of a lima bean, they said. Wait until college to date, they said. Well, call me naive, but I thought that by the time they hit their 20's and the bright light of life after college started to glare deep into our eyes, the creamiest of boys, the best of the best, would have risen to the top, ready to join the ladies in taking on the responsibilities of life and the joys of a (far from perfect) maturity that comes with growing up. 

Let me just take this moment to clarify. I'm not looking for Don Draper. I am SO so far from the expectations of marriage and a salary to depend on. What I am asking for is a date. A date with a boy who can carry a conversation (about basket weaving, for all I care) and who compliments my hair. In return, I promise to laugh at most of your jokes and pretend to care about your favorite sports team. 

This, my friends, is the Cream Theory. 

I'm not complaining. Ok, maybe I am a little. But I definitely don't want your pity. All I'm asking for is for guys to show up. Boys, it's time for you and all your little creamy friends to pack up your comfy spot in the middle of the milk that you've all been hanging out at for the last 20 years and get moving. Us girls are ready. As Ghandi once said, "Be the cream you wish to see in this world."

RISE TO THE TOP.

PLEASE.

BEFORE YOU TURN SOUR.

Call Me Jefe

Last night, after a particularly filling meal at our local Sunday night favorite, Barberitos, I was sitting in the living room with the ladies and one of our two guy friends, Jeff and our conversation traveled back to a reminder of a time over a year ago when I had interviewed Jeff as a part of a this series I did with all of the roomies. (Remember these? Spencer, Frances, Claire, Oli and Me) I had to confess that I had completely forgotten about Jeff's unpublished interview and had absolutely no idea where on earth it could be so we decided to re-do it. After we finished with Jeff's, we re-read all of our own answers and were shocked/ laughing at some of the ridiculous answers we'd given (Fog in Africa, Frances?). I mean, it was only a little over a year ago, so you'd think most of the answers would still apply, but there are admittedly a few embarrassing moments that may have read a little different in our own heads to how they sound when read out loud.

All this to say that I think it's time we did an update. In the next few weeks, I'll be holding some new interviews with some updated (and more relaxed!) pictures of these crazy people. And maybe we'll be adding some new faces to the roster? We'll have to just see about that. 

In the meantime, here's what Jeff has to say about it all. 

Editors Note: Funny how inherently different a boys answers to these questions are than all five of us girls, right? 

JP: What are you most looking forward to in the near future?

JO: Money.

JP: Finish this sentence. Nobody appreciates me, but someday, I’ll even the score by…

JO: Climbing the corporate ladder to success.

JP: Name one piece of clothing you can’t live without?

JO: Bucket Hats.

JP: Which are you: Crazy, Sexy, Cool?

JO: Yes.

JP: What word always makes you laugh?

SM: Fart. But said like you’re from Boston. “Faaht”

JP: What is your favorite Pandora station?

SM: Huey Lewis and the News

JP: Are you more excited about the arrival of Kim and Kanye or Kate and Will baby?

JO: Kanye and Kim. To see if it really is the second coming.

JP: What is on the top of your Summer to-do list?

JO: Werk.

JP: Don’t you mean twerk?

JO: No, I twerked the other day.

10 things that make you terribly happy:

1. Bucket hats.

2. Friends. Mainly girls. Guys are just too much drama.

3. Thrashing on the drums.

4. A perfect chord progression in a song. And I don’t even know what it is. But it’s just like “Boom.”  And  you’re just like “Yeah.”

5. Shoes.

6. Thunder.

7. Design. All of it.

8. Fly fishing with my dad.

9. Yoga.

10. Food. All of it. 

11. When you’re driving into a mountain town and you crack the windows and you get that first smell of mountain air. 

Naked, Wildflowers

The other day I was at the library looking through SCAD's amazing archives of Vogue magazines. They have almost every single issue since the magazine's inception in 1892 (and whether you are a fashion person like me or not, seeing all of that history and culture for the last 100+ years is pretty awesome to look through).

ANYWAY, I was on the hunt for some reference images from the early 90's for a project I'm working on and I got sidetracked by an interview of Bette Midler. I was skimming through it and turned the page to see in big, bold letters, the perfect summation of my current emotions wrapped up in a sentence.

I literally could not love or identify with this quote any more right now. Bette, I feel ya. Let's be naked furniture together.

Spring

It was one of those Southern Spring nights where it is almost rude to stay inside. The kind of weather where the breeze is so warm that it feels like you're being wrapped up in the most perfect kind of blanket. 

I don't think I'll ever get tired of walking around our neighborhood; with every house I pass, a new potential of history lingers in my mind blooming stories upon stories upon stories of the families that live (or have lived) in them. I love these streets so much that it already makes me sad to think about a time when I won't be surrounded by such stately brick and wise tree branches.

Have you ever really looked at an old house? I'm talking about studying it for so long that you feel almost like you're untying its walls and challenging its roots in a staring competition of its merit. At first, the house will stare back and stand up tall wondering why you are daring to intrude on it's privacy. Don't be intimidated. Old houses like these just aren't used to this type of flirtatious attention.  After a few minutes though, it will begin to trust your subtle pressure and it will lean into you out of its own pure curiosity. You will show it your face and an earnest furrowed brow so it will show you it's toothiness and it's knobbed knees. The cracked paint and the muscular columns. It will share all its secrets with you as long as you share one too. It will smile. Or it won't. It may growl. Or scream. But you and that house will know each other forever.