The Wildly Obscure Halloween Costume, Well Executed

There are a number of ways that you would be able to deduce that I went to a liberal arts school. I have been known to espouse the virtues of the oxford comma. I tuck my pants into my socks. Just this week I made a bell hooks joke. But I feel that at no time is my socially-crippling liberal arts background as cogent as it is at Halloween.

The rest of the year I can avoid engaging in debates about the relevancy of Hegelian historical theory, or restrain myself from suggesting we move to a political system that honours a philosopher king, but at Halloween my desire for a witty and unique costume makes these engrained ticks unavoidable. I will wear a wildly obscure costume, well executed.

This became evident in just my second year of liberal arts education. Two friends and I, based on a ludicrous rant about over zealous leftists, went as communist cats.

Chat Guevara, Chairman Meow and Fidel Catro, here to empower the proletariat and look just adorable. Now gimme candy.

This was well received at my university. We were all stars! The wittiest! This costume, in its absurd specificity, was topped only by my friend Geoff, who one year went as a Beatle in a box. I think he was Ringo. Wittgenstein joke - get it? No? Congrats - you're a normal, well socialized individual. I'm jealous.  This sort of reception, of course, set a very unrealistic standard for my young malleable mind; I was left with the impression that this sort of vaulted humour would enshrine me in social scenarios as the charming and hilarious heroine, here to turn life into an HBO comedy. Notsomuch.

I have endeavoured since then to make my costumes related more directly to pop culture icons. You know, something to avoid coming off as an ivory-tower elitist. A costume relatable to the every-man! The self realization of my Chat Guevara facade, as it were. However, liberal arts has clearly gone so far as to taint my mind as to what exactly qualifies as an icon.

My point? My Halloween costume:

Robert Palmer Addicted to Love Band Member! Duh. My mum and dad and 38-year-old former colleague Shannon got it. And Heather (the lovely little kitten in the middle, who, incidentally, went as  Kim Kierkegaardashian this year. "My wild hair, black ensemble, popped blazer collar and general ruffled and mournful demeanour are the Kierkegaard elements. My fake lashes and amazing ass are the Kim Kardashian"). That exhausts the list.

But, seriously, this is not a bad likeness. But familiarity with the original is a prerequisite to appreciating a likeness, and this costume just did not have a large enough fan base for that. But check it out!


The curse of the upper middle class dedication to meaningful, not pragmatic, education rears its ugly head every Halloween. I'm just a misunderstood victim of circumstance, really.

Next year I should probably just be a Spice Girl.

Law School Ladies Look Bomb

Today proved the first ideal opportunity to capture a phenomenon that I have found both surprising and awesome about law school.

Namely, the girls here are babes.

Or, to be more clear, are sartorially brilliant. So many of the girls I go to school with have distinct personal styles, and you very rarely have anyone in class roll in in yoga pants and a t-shirt (sorry girl in the front row who rolls in daily in yoga pants and a t-shirt - no jibe intended). While some may find this standard a daunting one, I have personally found it inspiring. The freedom to express myself with clothing without worrying that I may be made to feel overdressed has inspired me to be ever more creative in constructing a morning ensemble. I have been plumbing the depths of my closet with an increasingly perceptive eye for possible outfit constructions, making use out of old and new garments alike. And it's fun!

I discussed my fascination with the fashion law school studies has seemed to evoke with a couple of my girlfriends here, and the sentiment was mutually felt. We did, in fact, decide that it would be a great idea to start immortalizing some of our favourite outfits.

Today was a less formal photo shoot than certainly what I had in mind (see: trans-friendly bathroom backdrop), but the hilarious coincidence of nearly identical outfits seemed like fair grounds for a picture. Let me present to you Law School's "Who Wore it Best?" Black and Blue edition:

So, some notable differences here. Caroline opted for a Victorian-style high-necked lace top, a structured blazer and, not clearly captured, a distressed-gold flat. This amounted to a much more classic look, though her more brightly blue pants serve as an edgier element in light of these classic pieces.
My interpretation of the blue-pant-black-top-black-blazer phenomenon was much more rockabilly-cum-rock star. My pompadour bouffant, black leather booties and slouchy blazer, paired with a low cut leotard which, yes, bears my bra, made for a much less professional, and somewhat less conventional, take on the look. Less See Jane, more Wheredidugetthat, Street or otherwise.

What should this installment be called? Law School Looks? Sartorial Solicitors-in-training? Attourney Attire? I'm going to go with Vestiary Capacity for the time being. Because it's like testamentary capacity! Getit??

The Short Hair Debate

It is that time of year again. No, I don't mean autumn. And no, my midterms just passed actually. It is the time of year when I realize I have put no effort into a Halloween costume and it's right around the corner, yes, but that is also not what I am talking about. It is that unanticipated and entirely unpredictable time of year, coming approximately twice per annum, that I am in the throes of an insatiable desire to cut off all my hair.

No, not G.I. Jane style. I don't think white girls can get away with that in every day life, certainly not without prompting questions about what cancer society you were fundraising for and how much your femininity earned them. This time around (because, as I say, I fight this urge every few months) I find myself adoring Miley Cyrus' cropped cut. It's so versatile - it can be edgy and modern, or subdued and classic. A friend of mine even suggested that if I do it, do it all the way and go blonde. That one is probably not in the cards

Whether or not this particular cut would suite me is beside the point, however. It is less this particular cut that I crave, than simply short hair itself. However, I have found myself torn by other considerations.

First, and deplorable as I find this to be in myself, I am very concerned about what people would think if I were to have short hair.

I should say, short hair again. I wore my hair in a pixie cut for well over a year, almost four years ago now. The growing out process has been taking place ever since, and has included all sorts of eccentric behaviour to encourage long and healthy locks, including, but not limited to, taking a weird American hair-thinning supplement, the box of which warned that the contents may contain traces of shark. So, given those endeavours, I find myself trying to remember why I decided to grow my hair back out at all.

I have friends who rave about my short locks. Some friends even tell me things like "you have such a good face for short hair," which really just feed my ego unnecessarily. I may cut my hair just so that people will compliment my face. But I also love what having short hair says about a woman. To me it says that she is not concerned with traditional notions of femininity and sex appeal; she's self confident, stylish and modern. And I like to think that those are all things I see in myself. But, while I gaze at model shots like the one of myself on the boat there, I know that, in reality, a lot of my life with short hair resembled:

I'm the one on the right, just to be clear.

Less appealing. But, altogether I put more effort into my appearance, I justify to myself. I could avoid looking like a boy! I will not ever again try to grow in my eye brows! So when I find myself trying to justify cutting my hair, even when confronted with truly unflattering pictures of my beloved pixie, I realize that how I think I look with short hair is really not what gives me pause. What bothers me is the opinions of ignorant people.

I know that sounds truly ridiculous. Why would anyone care about the opinion of ignorant people? Because I have friends who, in this regard, are ignorant people. To be clear, I do not for one second assume that everyone who tells me that they like my hair better long is saying so because their opinion comes from a place of anti-feminist woman-shaming. That is totally a legitimate opinion, and one that I must at least in part share - if I thought I looked like crap with long hair, I hope I would not leave it long just because I put the time in. Like eating an entire plate of food you ordered even though you aren't hungry, because goddamnit it's there. But, there are people who I love and respect who, nonetheless, have very entrenched and traditional notions of femininity. Men and women. And I just hate to imagine facing people for the first time since the cut, knowing some would commence trash talking my new "butch" style the moment I exited the vicinity. Short hair automatically excludes you from the ranks of beautiful people in the minds of a lot of men and some women. I have a hard time convincing myself that I don't care about that.

However, and more alarmingly, do I perhaps need to consider how short hair could impact my career? Would a young and edgy hairstyle read as immature and unapproachable to an interviewer from a more conservative law firm? Is it possible that looking as common, or at least as uncontroversial, as possible will be the safest avenue to help ensure future employment? Law hasn't been unaffected by the recession, and new lawyers are having to fight hard for jobs like everyone else.When I hear about articles advocating and explaining why female lawyers should be wearing skirts or just generally how high the standard of professional appearance (I say euphemistically) is for female lawyers, I realize that these are factors I probably need to consider. Could cutting my hair be a career killer?

When I asked my mum what she thought about me cutting my hair she immediately began listing advantages of long hair, citing the time I had put into growing it, how versatile it was now, and the like. It was as though I had proposed the idea of dropping out, or moving to Nebraska - my mum's speech made it seem as though it was her motherly imperative to dissuade me from this simply foolish course of action. When she realized that these arguments were seeming to have the opposite of their intended affect - as strongly felt parental opinions are wont to do -  just short of actually making me promise, she pleaded with me to wait to cut my hair until I come home for Christmas, telling me that she would call my hairdresser once we were off the phone to make me an appointment for the day after my plane lands. I think she's hoping that this fever for Farrow-length locks will abate by then. And maybe it will. But there's something about that possibility that makes me a little sad.

Maybe I'll just start smoking like Mia Farrow instead. I mean, look how cool she looks. And that sort of live-fast-die-young attitude seems entirely consistent with what I hear of the alcoholism and cocaine habits that run rampant in the legal profession.

But short hair? That's probably pushing it...

Wedding Bells Ringing

A very warm congratulations to my beautiful friend Aly and her very lucky new husband on their nuptials! The trip to Halifax may have left me a little worse for wear - what can I say, I found myself overwhelmed and, accordingly, over-imbibed - but I could not have been happier to have made the trip.

I got to see my brilliant life-role-model, Kathy, who, finishing her third year of law school, is a shining example of someone who I hope I can come even close to emulating. I also spent so much of my weekend with the amazing and kind Genny, who always overwhelms me with her consideration, hospitality and hilarity. I wish I could have spent so much more time with them, but alas, all three of us are in professional school (Genny is on her way to being the most kick-ass nurse) and therefore time is not something any of us have.

And Aly. Holy smokes. I knew I wouldn't get to see much of her this weekend, aside from staring adoringly at her in her happiness and her dress (which was stunning!). The weekend made me very excited that she and Mr Aly will be my relative neighbours here in Toronto in not too long.

I have some truly amazing and lovely friends.

Grown Ass Woman?

The facebook status of a friend of mine recently read:

You are what you eat. That's funny, I don't remember eating a fucking legend.

Hilarious, right? But also, this reminded me of my deeply held opinion that you are what you eat. Not quite as literally as my friend, but just that what you eat says a lot about you. But what it says about you may be just as irrational as the literal "I am spicy lentil soup."

Illustration: I am of the opinion that grown ass women should eat salad. Well, more accurately, I think that society expects grown women to eat salad. Ok, ok, lets refine this even more: society holds that grown women should want to eat salad.

I don't know that on any criteria - external to the eating of salad - that I qualify as much more than a conspicuously old, large child. I spilled lunch all over myself today, for instance. Pure toddler move. However, if I did, on some narrowly defined and strictly age-based definition of "grown," qualify as a "grown woman," on the matter of salad I would undoubtedly fail. I occasionally eat salad, yes. And I want me to want to eat salad. But do I get out of a stressful class and think "I really just need a kick-ass salad right now"? No. "I really need a muffin," maybe, or, more likely, "I really need a drink" sooner come to mind. I need mashed potatoes or peanut butter cookies. I do not psychologically need romaine.

I see girls bring sliced, raw vegetables - the to-go salad, if you will - to class as a snack, and it makes me feel ashamed that not only do I not have sliced veggies of my own with which to flaunt my mature femininity with, but I don't even want to eat sliced veggies. I want sliced veggies only insofar as I want to give the entirely false impression that I enjoy eating barren cucumber slices and carrot sticks. I want the status of vegetables.

Furthermore, when I do try to eat salad the delicate grace expected of, not just grown women, but functional adults, eludes me, and I end up with obscene mouthfuls that my lips can't quite entirely conceal. Or I end up wearing it, as per my lunch today. Trying to ensure the proper ratio of delicious salad elements in a manageable bite is quite outside my wheelhouse, it would seem.

So I add this to the ever growing list of reasons I am not a grown up. Salad.

Five Senses Friday: Trois

Feeling:

Content. The long weekend is underway, and I am spending it recooperating and nesting. My apartment is clean, my garbage taken out, and all my missed readings caught up on. While other people will go home to their families, I'm cuddled with She Ra and looking forward to watching a rugby game with the incomparable Heather. I got myself to the gym today. I went grocery shopping. I had a glass of wine at lunch and a dirty martini with dinner. It has been a fabulous start to a promising weekend. 

Smelling:
brownies that I fully intend on giving away. I just wanted to bake them, eat two, and be the generous brownie gifting stranger.

Hearing:

Macklemore. I downloaded his album Language of My World, and I'm in love. As you know.

Tasting: 

I had a fabulous array of food today, courtesy of a much needed Costco trip. I enjoyed falafal with hummus for dinner, brownies for dessert, and the indulgent dirty vodka martini. I do, however, need to purchase myself a shaker and actual martini glasses - this stirred-martini-in-a-juice-glass nonsense will do the trick for now, but I DEMAND THE BEST.

I had not anticipated that a google image search of "dirty martini" would result in quite so many pictures of strippers.

Seeing:

This amazing video, courtesy of The Spartan Warrior. What a great message. It really spoke to a number of adventures I'm in the beginnings of in my life.

Macklemore & Ryan Lewis

I just stumbled across this truly beautiful and relevant piece of contemporary hip hop on facebook this morning. I don't know much about the artist, Macklemore, but I intend on changing that. Not only does this song show uncharacteristic sensitivity to a politically and emotionally charged issue - that of gay marriage and equality rights - but it brings hip hop back to its politically charged roots. Macklemore points to the hip hop of the 90s, of the Fugees and Nas, when artists used hip hop as an accessible medium to convey political messages, as a medium to fight for racial equality. Hip hop has not been that, as of late. Hip hop has been Boom Boom Pow and Rack City, Bitch. I applaud this truly beautiful effort to bring hip hop back. The video and message are beautiful. It brought tears to my eyes (and cheeks)