By Beauty Damned

Mess

I still haven't completely unpacked from my trip. I hung up all my work clothes and threw my shoes in the closet, but other than that I still have two suitcases sitting in the spare room, each half full of clothes and purses. I have laundry to do and mail to deal with and all kinds of things that I brought back from my trip that I don't know what to do with since there are so few actual surfaces in my house. That's a problem. One that's going to get fixin real soon.

I just washed the dishes last night and there are already ten glasses in the sink. How is that physically possible? Hm. My cats are terrorizing eachother, I can't decide whether to go and read my book, watch tv (that should be an easy choice), read blogs, look at shit on ebay that I don't really need, but that looks fun, or write while listening to a favorite cd. Hmmm. I guess I just feel like sitting here and blogging about my messy apartment and the things that I could be doing instead of talking about it.

I am reading this book that a friend gave me yesterday for my b-day called "The Devil Wears Prada." ("A delightfully dishy novel about the all-time most impossible boss in the history of impossible bosses.") It's kind of funny. I don't know. It's almost annoying. It's a little tooo "delightfully dishy" for me. A bit much with the superficial fashion bullshit and too New Yorkey with all of its name and location dropping. Anyway, it' has got me hooked on wanting to know what the hell is going to happen in this silly book, so I guess the author definitely achieved that objective. After reading the first thirty pages I had to get on JimmyChoo.com so that I could indulge a ridiculous, shallow fantasy of one day owning such a pair of shoes, priced between five hundred and twelve hundred dollars a pop. I sort of detest the entire idea of yearning for such useless things as an extremely expensive pair of shoes, when a less expensive pair would serve me just as well and probably hurt a lot less, but I still can't help from sometimes thinking it would be a good pain, because they would look so fucking hot.

The book is about a girl about my age, little younger (since I'm getting old and crotchety now) who is fulfilling her dream of living in New York and working at a Magazine. Only problem is that she wanted to work at the New Yorker as a junior editor and instead landed a job at a high end fashion magazine working for some psycho bitch from hell with a bunch of boney assed model chicks in expensive slutty clothes. I worked for a horrible lady once in the clothing industry. She was a wretch. But this girl is even more of a slave than I was back then. I used to love fashion magazines when I was younger, but then I realized what a bunch of shit they are and that they're bad for your mind and your self esteem. It's kind of fun to read a book about the inside world of those who create such paper waste as Runway Magazine, as it's called in the book.

Reading is starting to sound good. cya.

Posted by Maria at September 16, 2003 09:03 PM | TrackBack