The White T-Shirt Debacle of 2014

There are few things I enjoy as much as a fresh pack of plain white undershirts. (Those few things mainly being cheese, Mariah Carey, and water.)

Plain white undershirts are perfect because they have this strange psychological ability to make me feel magically shielded from the harsh realities of the world, and that’s important. They also provide a nice foundation for all my super fashionable real shirts to rest on while ensuring I don’t destroy them with my repugnant perspiration problem.

I don’t have a repugnant perspiration problem; I swear.

So anyway. Last Sunday I was at Target in search of a new package of these miraculous garments and found a five-pack from Hanes that included three bonus shirts. Eight shirts for the price of five, I thought. This is heaven on a stick! So I bought them and went home and slept really well that night with the delightful knowledge that I’d have the blissful pleasure of wearing a fresh undershirt every day that week.

But then. Upon emerging from the shower the next morning and hastily tearing into the tight plastic packaging, I peeled off the first shirt of the bunch only to find that IT WAS REALLY SUPER fucking TINY. It was labeled “Medium” but was in fact extra-extra-extra small.

I wondered if maybe I had gotten really fat and no one told me, or if maybe Hanes had fucked up and accidentally shipped Target a package of miniature doll shirts to sell to humans, or if maybe there was a dark, evil spirit in my midst shrinking my brand new T-shirts and generally trying to sabotage my life (successfully) just for sport. But the truth is that I had accidentally purchased an eight-pack of boys’ shirts.

Like, for children.


Is it just me or does it kind of look like a Taylor Swift-esque crop top?

Since I had destroyed the packaging entirely when opening it (because that’s how I do), I decided to just eat the cost of the boy shirts and return to Target the next day for redemption and a second chance at happiness.

I found a five-pack (no bonus shirts for men, though, which frankly I think is rather ageist and fucked up of Hanes, but whatever) and double-checked to make sure they were definitely not for children. They were not, and so I bought them and went home and slept really well that night with the knowledge that I’d at least have the pleasure of wearing a fresh undershirt for the remaining four days of that week.

But then. Upon emerging from the shower the next morning, I excitedly peeled off the first shirt of the bunch only to find that IT was a FUCKING V-NECK TEE and I only wear crew neck tees, and again it was all my fault because I was so fixated on getting a pack of shirts marketed to adults that I had totally forgotten to make sure they had the right kind of neckline.

And so then I just gave up on life and ate, like, eleven donuts.

Luckily my boyfriend loves white V-neck tees (that weirdo), so I was able to fob those off on him, but still, I’m left asking myself how it’s possible that I could be so absent-minded not once but twice in my attempts to buy a simple pack of white T-shirts. What does this say about my attention to detail in other areas of life? What does this say about humans in general? What does this say about America? Why do I still have eight miniature T-shirts in my possession? Why is life so difficult and confusing and crazy and cruel? WHO MOVED MY CHEESE?

I have no answers. Only miniature T-shirts.



Are My Ripped Jorts Destroying My Life?

Last week, after having a few beers at a live fantasy football draft (which I dominated, by the way), I impulsively agreed to meet a random dude from OkCupid for an impromptu first date in the city before heading home.

Ordinarily, this would not have been a noteworthy experience. But on this particular day I had decided to wear ripped jorts to work.

Jorts, for those of you with taste and/or lives, are jean shorts.


Me channeling Miley Cyrus while wearing jorts in what appears to be the rainforest, which is a caption I never thought I’d write.

I’m not exactly sure why I love my jorts, but I do. Maybe it has a lot to do with Mariah Carey’s 1993 video for “Dreamlover,” in which she frolics through a meadow in a pair of her own; I don’t know.

In any case, below is the entire story arc of the date in which I wore jorts, as told through a truncated series of Facebook IMs between my friend Steven and I.

En route to the date…

  • Me: The draft is over, my team is amazing, I’m drunk
  • Me: now I’m meeting some dude for more drinks
  • Me: I’m wearing topped jean shorts so
  • Me: he’ll definitely think I’m hot
  • Steven: topped jean shorts?
  • Steven: omg do you mean RIPPED?
  • Steven: because if so, you must change
  • Steven: are you a twink in the West Village circa 1985?
  • Me: it’s too late!!!
  • Steven: you have an affinity for ripped jeans
  • Me: If he’s the One he would accept ripped jeans
  • Me: and or jorts
  • Steven: omg
  • Steven: you own jorts don’t you?
  • Steven: omg it didn’t even register I was so focused on the ripped part

During the date…

  • Me: Truly he is peeing
  • Me: RAPPER
  • Me: he’s herring us more beer
  • Steven: you don’t need more beer
  • Me: Shonda Rhimes

After the date…

  • Me: Ok I’m overrrrrr it with this dude
  • Steven: Why?
  • Me: we just parted ways
  • Me: it was just like very abrupt
  • Steven: sounds gross
  • Me: Haha idk I’m confused!!!
  • Me: this is the first date in a long time where
  • Steven: you were drunk from the start?
  • Me: no where he was clearly NOT into me
  • Steven: Which of course makes you want him
  • Me: Meh this guy was boring
  • Me: if I’m getting honest
  • Steven: Ha
  • Me: His only appeal is that he’s Italian and from Staten Island
  • Steven: OMG Mariah is on Twitter asking fans about songs for her tour
  • Steven: and tweeted: “Side Effects or Petals?”
  • Steven: I CANNOT
  • Me: Nooooiii
  • Me: I’m too impaired to deal with this
  • Steven: Hahahaha wait why? They’re both gems
  • Me: I mean what’s her mental state?
  • Steven: if she’s thinking about either of those songs, she’s clearly angry
  • Me: They’re so different
  • Me: Like what kind of a weird a
  • Me: Ass match up is that
  • Me: I didn’t mean to do those!
  • Me: /
  • Me: whatever it’s probably the jorts that made that guy not into me
  • Me: Your silence indicates that you write
  • Me: Age*
  • Me: Agree****
  • Steven: the ripped jorts have to go


Are ripped jorts a crime? Do ripped jorts ruin everything? Are ripped jorts the reason why Mariah Carey and Tommy Mottola got divorced in 1997 and also why things are now on the rocks with her and Nick Cannon and therefore why she’s taken to Twitter to survey fans on their favorite jilted-Mimi songs? Are ripped jorts to blame for the fact that I went home alone after my date that night and ate an entire box of Annie’s Party Mix?

Maybe. But actually — you know what? Fall is soon to be upon us. So I can probably just shelve this discussion altogether until next year. Time to break out the full-length jeans with holes in them and continue evading the underlying issues that draw me to ripped denim in the first place! Yay!


Below are some highlights from the “Jorts” page on Urban Dictionary (followed by my thoughts in bold):

Jean shorts. Worn mostly by children and douchebags. Jorts are perhaps the easiest way to recognize people you will not like. If you wear jorts, you probably don’t talk to girls. (I mean, that last part is true in my case.)

Slang for jean shorts. These are most often worn by the fashion illiterate. (I prefer ensemble-y challenged, asshole.)

Jean shorts that are unusually short, generally worn on men, was fashionable in the 80’s not now. (Steven is this you?)

F*ck you, I can dress any way I want. (Right on, sister!)

Jean-shorts. mostly worn by queers and cute bus drivers. (OMG I’m both of those. Except I don’t identify as “queer” and I’m not a bus driver. But I am cute. When I’m not wearing jorts, at least.)

Possibly the ugliest article of clothing one can wear. Usually worn by people who do not have friends, because a true friend would tell you that you look like a faggot. (Listen, Urban Dictionary, your Eminem-esque homophobia is out of control. I’m beginning to think you’re the gay one. And BY THE WAY, the term you’re actually looking for is “twink in the West Village circa 1985,” so bye.)


How Prada Made Me Realize I’m Bad at Being a Gay Stereotype

Last week I accompanied a friend to the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s annual post-Pride gala, which happened to coincide with the museum’s current Prada (as in The Devil Wears Prada) exhibition. Apparently fashion is art. I’m not sure when this happened exactly, as I was probably too busy going to grad school to allow myself to walk by a retail display window and think, “Wow, that shoe is so deep. It should be in a museum.”

Two things:

  1. I’ve never really thought of myself as the type of person who’d show up to a fancy gay gala and high-end fashion exhibit wearing an Old Navy shirt and brown shoes with a black belt… but it seems that I am that type of person, and I might be okay with that.
  2. I’m also the type of person who unabashedly takes pictures in high-end fashion exhibits with my phone, and for that, you’re welcome, because those pictures will be featured here to tell the story of how I’m a repressed dominatrix trapped in a Mennonite’s body. Or something. (This may or may not make sense later.)

Given the above, I was of course judged by many a pretentious gay man throughout the evening. However, I was having way too much fun abusing the open bar to really take issue with such trivialities. I was also busy trying to figure out a way to approach Wilson Cruz, who was in attendance, and let him know that I loved him in the season one Christmas episode of Ally McBeal where he portrayed a down-on-her-luck transvestite prostitute.

Wilson and I never connected, mainly because I kept losing him. Between the drinking and the abundance of people, my stalking abilities (which are typically beyond reproach) were challenged.

                            Army of gays invades the Met, Prada to blame.

Eventually, we finished our cocktails and meandered into the Prada exhibit just before it closed for the evening.

If you were thinking that a museum exhibit of Prada fashion would simply look like a bunch of clothes on mannequins, then you would be correct. That is exactly what it looked like. However, some additional details helped to vaguely legitimatize the whole thing:

  • The mannequins had bizarre Lucha Libre-style wrestling masks covering their faces. It was both creepy and awesome.
  • Moody lighting.
  • There were little descriptions of the clothing on fancy plates that used seemingly big words like “subvert” and “harbinger.”

Naturally, I started trying to figure out which Prada mannequin most represented who I am on the inside. The answer came to me when I found one wearing a kick-ass mask and a super-sexy black dress with a plunging neckline.

                                  I’m feisty and will dominate you in bed.

This mannequin, I thought, is in the driver’s seat of her life. She knows what she wants, and she’s not afraid to take it. Wear a crazy mask that makes it look like I might sexually assault my doorman when I get home just because it’s Tuesday? Don’t mind if I fucking do. And I’ll do it with my fake mannequin boobs all up in your face, too! Because I can.

Me relating to this possibly-criminal minx of a mannequin probably lasted for about thirty more seconds until I discovered the more likely representation of my true self:

                            Don’t say the word “sex” around me, I might melt.

Yep. I am any one of these super conservative wives of Republican men who golf. Or if I’m not one of them, then they are for sure my bitches. We definitely have at least, like, ninety-seven things in common — starting with early bedtimes, an appreciation for perfect vacuum streaks, and the crippling need for a husband. The presence of these women was supremely ironic, as they, like me, could clearly give a shit about fashion. They probably showed up just to fuck with people and laugh later, and I admire them for that.

As I stood in amazement of my mannequin soul mates, a well-dressed young man approached from behind and said, “Ah, brilliant! All of the pleating is an illusion. Oh, Prada!

I wanted to respond meaningfully, but all I could think about was how desperately I wished I could sip martinis with my mannequin bitches while having a roundtable discussion about how hilarious his statement was.

Moments later, my real-life friend with whom I came to the event retrieved me and we proceeded to leave. As we escorted ourselves out, I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the Met’s mirrors. I saw the reflection of a snobby fashion-hater who’s marginally attractive but could probably be way hotter if dressed in nice clothes and given a dramatic facial makeover — much like Anne Hathaway’s character during the entire first half of The Devil Wears Prada. I apparently am that type of person as well.

And I might be okay with that.


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