Oh New York Times Style Section, you are so blithely ridiculous, it's nearly enviable: you publish a cheeky, whimsical article on how women may endure this economically difficult holiday season by dressing in flashy, metallic dresses with hemlines up to Here, gams v. the ghosts of gloom. The frocks all cost between three to nine hundred dollars (for those on a "budget," the article sniffs, one might try wrapping paper .. discount, if possible, one senses, or rummaged out of a dumpster). Because, surely, it is not our prodigious expenditures that have driven us to despair, but our dreary fashion choices. Because, no doubt, our debt woes can be repaired by incurring more of it even faster.
Reasons #5478 and #5479 I'm a nerd: I'm devotedly playing a browser-based city-builder set in ancient Egypt, and my primary city is named Tanis.
"Do you have any kind of ... gentleman friend?"
When in counsel with an academic mentor, this, according to unknown guidelines, is a pertinent question in the definition of one's personal state of "general happiness" (mine).
I ponder it because (1) if I had answered "yes" (as I did), the conversation would only continue as before, the question having added nothing of value, but (2) if I had answered "no," I do wonder what his constructive advice would have been.
He wore a shirt striped in black and charcoal, khaki trousers, black boots, and a black yarmulke.
I tried to undress him with my eyes, but apparently that's just an expression.
I need to seduce my professor.
I am soliciting suggestions until Tuesday morning.
When I was four or five, I had my first Halloween. my mother made me up as a black cat -- pink nose, drawn whiskers, and furry cat ears affixed to a headband. I wasn't really sure I wanted to go trick-or-treating; even to my kindergarten mind, it seemed too social, too aggressive, too confrontational to ask, nay, demand free sweets from strange people I wasn't sure I liked or not.
My mother, astute woman as she was and is, sensed I was going to cling to my shell forever if I was allowed to stay home, so she nudged me out the door, and as I frowningly crossed the street, extolled all the wonderful rewards of Halloween (mainly candy).
We knocked at a house at the end of our street. At first, there was no response. I was just beginning to worry when there was a feral growl -- a tall monster with an awful hairy green face burst out, roaring.
I began to cry.
Right away, the poor guy -- who must have been in about his twenties -- dropped his arms, and even under a latex mask, seemed sorry, worried by my tears. As he tried to offer me chocolate, I hid behind my mother.
She ended up taking the candy for me and thanking him. After that, I could not continue, so we went home, a shaken (me) and slightly exasperated (her) pair.
Thus ended this holiday of ghouls for young Gloria -- the literal scaredy cat.
When viewing photographs of myself, my assessment is commonly as follows:
The boyfriend despairs.
"Sorry, you're too black to make bouillabaisse."
Maybe it's the impossible swarm of cheap sushi joints in this town -- you can have sashimi and yakitori in both Little Italy and Greektown! -- but if one more person snarks that a non-Japanese-run Japanese restaurant is a "fail," I'm going to stab them in the eyes with my chopsticks.
It is an epic lapse in logic that the quality of food could be affected not by ingredients, or skill of preparation, or instinctive gift, but an artificial idea of race. If anyone ever so much as whispered that fine French or Italian cuisine were beyond Japanese chefs by mere virtue of their Oriental squint, they'd be cleaved in two.
2. As "Americana" defines itself as artefacts of American culture, "Gloriana" consists of the artefacts of my culture.
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