Seriously, American Apparel?

I guess I see the logic here. The model FINALLY gnawed through the ropes holding her captive in Dov's sex dungeon, but it was totally, like, January or something, so she couldn't just leave the house in a see-through leotard and leggings. So she grabbed a unisex sheer jersey scarf before heading out the door. Of course, in her panic she forgot that, when you're wearing a see-through leotard and leggings, you're still going to be cold and humiliated no matter what you wear around your neck.

The Perfect Birthday Gift

I guess a girl can't have everything on her 19th birthday. No, a gift this wonderful would mean it'd be all downhill from this point on. Only a naked man in a bowtie would top this. And God only knows where I'd find a non-Chippendale's variety of one of them.

Vincent the Visionary

Who knew that bumbling Vincent Libretti from Season 3 of Project Runway would come to inspire an entire couture collection?

vincent and (likely embarrassed) model

christian dior s/s 2008 haute couture

Coincidence? I think not.

Letters to Sasha Pivovarova

Dear Sasha,

First of all, how the hell do you pronounce your last name? I hear fashion reporters say it all the time and it sounds nothing like it's spelled. I think it would be cool if you could fix that for me and just pronounce it phonetically.

Second of all, why so angry? Is it that you have feathers glued to your eyebrows (those'll be fun to pull off) or that you haven't eaten since the last time the Soviet Union appeared on a map?

sasha pivovarova at christian dior s/s 2008 haute couture

Wishing you success and Humanitarian Aid,
Vanessa

xoxoxox

Because I'm SUCH a True Dork...

...I'm going to have to apologize for the sparcity of blog posts. The spring semester is already getting pretty involved as far as the work goes, so I might not have a lot of time to try and think of something witty or informative to say on here. Think of it this way: when you check in, it'll be a surprise as to whether something new has happened or not! Joy!

I really like my classes this semester. I gave up on the medical school thing, because the classes were making me miserable and I learned that I don't have quite the aptitude for or interest in them as I had thought. So I'm a full-fledged English major now. I'm considering going into education, since being a starving artist doesn't pay the heating bill in the dead of New England winter. No cracks about how teaching doesn't, either. Right now, I'm basking in the fresh glow of my dreams of becoming a Ph.D, so I think I can really take myself somewhere. And I'm hoping that I'll be able to churn out some more writings and maybe submit to a publishing company at some point soonish, just to see what happens. It couldn't hurt.

My teachers are insane. This is good. (I have a friend whose taking a survey on Nazy Germany, and her teacher-- from what she described-- looks like Karl Lagerfeld. I wish I were in that class so badly).

Intro to Sociology is taught by the chicest little woman I've seen in a long time.

My British Literature II professor can only be described as a mash-up of a biker and Taylor Mali. I know this man is going to be as amazing as I believe he will because the first thing he told the class was a story about how he got a beer bottle smashed over his head when he was moonlighting as a bouncer.

I'm taking African American Novels of Satire with a teacher I had last semester: the illustrious Winston Napier, Ph.D. This is a guy who is largely believed to be a drug addict, does not own a car, and is known to pull out a folding fan in class to beat the heat. He speaks like I imagine someone straight out of the Harlem Renaissance would. And he says "bellatristic" at least once a class.

The there's my education teacher. "I just want you to know that standardized testing and the MCAS will be hereon prefaced with the either 'goddam' or 'fucking.'" Enough said.

Life shall be good.

Letters to Fluorescent Lights

Dear Fluorescent Lights,

Fuck you. Seriously, I'm just going to come right out and say it-- fuck you. Do you seriously have nothing better to do then make what might have been a good shopping day into something out of my worst nightmares? You know, I felt good about myself. Those jeans were fitting a little looser and my hair was looking amazing enough that, if I were to run into an old flame, I would be able to feel confident that we could make polite conversation, after which he would go bang his head against his car door, wondering why on earth he had ever let me be the proverbial "one who got away." Tom Cruise had not tried to convert me to Scientology (RIP My opinion of Will Smith...). It was a good day. And then I get into the dressing room. And I strip to my underwear. And I glance-- only glance at first-- at myself in the mirror. And everything was ruined. Could you be less sensitive to my needs? When I'm at home, my stomach does not look nearly that gigantic. Nor do my thighs appear to have as much cellulite as Tyra Banks claims plagues her ass. What the hell?! You know, maybe those outfits would've satisfied me if I hadn't started my fitting by looking at what appeared to be Jabba the Hut or some such monstrosity in the mirror.

It's all your fault. I hate you.

Please don't write back.

XOXOXO

Vanessa

Awkward Pictures from a Design School Dance

Complete with uncomfortable pose, people socializing in the background, red-eye, and time-stamp in the corner. Oh, Karl and Gareth, this is a night you will remember the rest of your lives. So c'mon, Kaiser, take that jacket off and stay awhile! Get your groove on! Most of all, enjoy the spiked punch. Maybe then you'll crack a smile.

I Love My Friends Yet Doubt Their Hobbies

I have no idea where this giant, red shoe-chair was found, and I probably don't want to know. However, if you can tell me where I can buy such a chair, I will idolize you forever.

Look how happy she is! I want to be naked and thin and happy on a shoe-chair wearing nothing but shoes! In fact, I bet that before the shoe-chair came into this girl's life, she was wearing sweats and trainers while feeling as bloated as a chick in a Motrin commercial. But this chair? This chair is surely magic. No, I don't need a logical argument for that assertion. Just look at it and tell me it isn't amazing enough to cure HIV/AIDS and solve world hunger. I dare you.

How to Fix the Blood Donor Shortage

The blood banks are seriously getting close to bankruptcy. As a concerned mammal, I would like to propose a solution.

Just think of how many hot-blooded males would offer up their veins to the Red Cross if these Pleasure USA shoes became standard issue for needle-toting nurses everywhere?

Hey, they beat Crocs. So in short....

Dear Phlebotomists,

Take one for the team.

You Rock My World, Sweatervest-Collared Shirt Combo* (after a shamefully long hiatus)

I swear, this outfit changed the way I walk, the way I talk. Try as I might, I'm sure I cannot explain. I mean, I searched for the perfect love all my life, an outfit like this to call mine, and then Express provided it to me for way more money than any sane person should have paid. Then again, I am clearly not sane.

See, the deal was that my boyfriend wanted to introduce me to some of his friends. Really, that should be all I need to say. If you're of like mind, your first thought would be: "HOLY GOD, WHAT DO I WEAR?!" And since, girl, I know that this is love, I had to make sure my outfit would be divinity in motion (not to mix metaphors**). Emergency shopping trip indeed.

The first thing I saw upon entering Express was the outfit of my dreams (second picture). Oh, I saw that mannequin and I could feel the magic all in the air. White collared shirt. Cropped black sweatervest. I've been lusting after this ensemble forever, because I think it's perfectly classy, wonderfully business-like, and smartly sexy. I never knew if I'd be able to look decent in my dream look, though, because, well, I have boobs. Large boobs. But "what the hell?" I thought, "I'm trying this on."

And I did. And... oh, God. I spent 79 bucks on two pieces. Hoo!

note: this isn't an Express dressing room. Or my house. I wish. Don't ask.

figured I'd say something in case you recognize the New York and Company garb.

When trying to put together a combination like this, make sure that you choose a shirt that isn't too short or too tight, since you'll look the slimmest when you add the sweater if the shirt is kind've flowy where it peeks out at the bottom. What I like about the Express shirts are that the collar is a little bigger than a lot of the ones you see. It's leisure suit worthy, that's for sure, and I think that adds a little academic flair (the collar's overlap with the vest). Make sure the vest is fitted close to the body-- after all, you're using it as a tool of sorts to show off your figure. This kickass top half is great to pair with nice jeans-- I try to go with the dark wash, since it's flattering to my womanly curves, to put it the nicest-- and heels. Dressed like this, you can go to class or go out on a date, and you look chic either way.

As for me, it seems my life is fully complete. I don't think I'll ever get enough. That's why I always have to you here, my darling dream-semble.

clothing:

vest and shirt: Express

jeans: Old Navy

shoes: Kohl's

*I listened to "You Rock My World" by Michael Jackson about 15 times in order to complete this entry.

**If you caught onto the Jacko-speak, you'd realize that this allusion was from a different song: "Dangerous"