The Two Betrayals of the L.B.D.

Sartorially speaking, the Little Black Dress (L.B.D.) is the wingman of your closet. Oft underappreciated, often told "[--] is the new black," (Fashion journalists who use that trite phrase should be strung up and forced to eat fried chicken. Orange is the new black? Bite me.), everyone knows the L.B.D. is one of the few things you can depend on in your short, superficial life. I have only heard of two occasions in which the little black dress went horribly, egregiously wrong. Read on, dahlings:

#1

7:05 a.m. Friday morning, I wake up. My train for the airport left at 6:59 a.m. I'm still drunk, and I haven't packed for Amsterdam. I begin a stream of cursing that would a grown man blush.

Throw on my black dress, and my hold-up tights, knee-high boots, and toss 3 pairs of jeans and 1 T-Shirt into my carry-on. (Again, I was still drunk)

Pouring rain outside; I get drenched and roll up to Farringdon Station 45 minutes late. Sharing the track with me is a middle-aged Bangladeshi man. We share a brief membership in The Brotherhood Of 'OH MY GOD WE'RE GOING TO MISS OUR FLIGHTS,' East London division. He looks at his watch when I tell him when my plane leaves and I can see a flash of sincere sympathy. Or maybe he was just confused why I still smelled of gin.

I get to the Airport train station in hysterics, hail yet another cab to the actual airport terminal, and begin the best sprint of my life. At the beginning I'm thinking, 'Sure, this is a little Home Alone-esque, but damn, I'm good at running while drunk! That gym membership is paying off!'

25 minutes later, I am pretty sure I'm actually approaching death. I arrive at the massive Security hall, which is completely empty. I come panting in, sprinting in my black dress and boots. The sides of my stockings are now about half way down my thighs.

Which, it turns out, allof the (all-male? seriously, why?) staff of Luton Airport noticed. By the time I ran through to the X-ray machines, they were lined up like a chorus line with bags of popcorn. I heard mutterings about 'tart' and 'crumpet,' and I'm pretty sure they weren't talking about food

'IhavetomakethisflightI'msorryIthinkIhaveliquidsinthisbagohpleasepleaseletmethrough" I say to the security dude, frantically hiking up my stockings so the lacy bits don't show.

(Note: it is impossible to do that subtly.)

He takes pity on me, and waves me through, liquids and all.

Regaining my momentum, I sprint to my gate, flailing wildly through packs of men on Lads' Weekends. More laughter, more nasty British slang and giggles. It had never occurred to me, however, that perhaps, just maybe, the hoards of chavs would be headed for...Amsterdam. So, for the last 10 minutes of my jog, I'd been running through my fellow passengers, making me look like, That Freak Who Really Really Wants To Be The First Damn Person On The Flight.

Friday, Saturday, Sunday: Amsterdam. Amsterdam is gorgeous:

#2

Wake up, Monday morning 6 a.m., and begin to commute into work. From Amsterdam. Except it occurred to me that:

a) I haven't brushed my hair in three days, due to poor drunken packing decisions. (No brush, no soap, nada)

b) I don't have any business clothes.

Grab the same Little Black Dress. "Ehh," it's short, I think, but high-collared, fancy enough, and quite excellent all around (Love you, Topshop, mwah.) Get to the airport in fine shape, get into work more or less on time, at which point it occurs to me my commute into London, from Amsterdam, was better than many people's commutes within London/Southeast England. Rawk.

Then, I get a call from a secretary in the afternoon. I have to pick up a visa for a partner.

…at the Saudi Embassy.

I call almost everyone I know from the chauffered Merc on the way. London is freaking beautiful, by the way. (When the sun shines. Or at least between The City and Mayfair, through all the parks. In a chauffeured car.) I walk into the embassy, with a book, the paperwork, and no expectations. Al-Arabiyya is blasting in the corner, and I'm getting one hell of a look from the guys behind the counter. It occurs to me to chide my hairstylist for dying my hair Russian Hooker Blonde this time around.

I'm comforted by the fact that while, yes, I may be wearing an outfit that is best kept for Saturday Night, at least I can read these documents in Arabic. (Through all my years of Arabic classes, I think all we ever did was read visa applications. I couldn't order a coffee, but I can tell you the words for 'multiple-entry visa')

I'm patient, because I don't want to cross the huge room one more time—finally, as the office is closing I approach the window. "Very sorry, but any chance of getting this passport back?" He asks when we dropped it off. I understand, from other people's moaning, that you had to drop it off on the previous Wednesday for Monday pick up. I know that we had dropped it off that day.

I feign ignorance."I'm sorry, I don't really know anything."

He gives me a long look. "Eez okay, I print for you now."

Maybe it was the perfect occasion for the Little Black Dress, after all.*

*(Oh what a shamefully Sex and the City last sentence. Oops.)

A dinner comedy in two parts.

Part I: The adventures of Momo and recently-emancipated Mimi

As my persistent love handle informed me recently, I really love food. This is why, despite having a fabulously steady job in The City; at nights I take off my pressed shirts in exchange for a bleached apron and occasionally do catering for my former boss.

Before you judge:

1. It transforms my dining menu for any given week into something like this:

Monday: Pasta with sauce. Water. Tea.
Tuesday: Pasta with red sauce. Water. Tea. Digestive.
Wednesday: Monkfish wrapped in Pancetta, Scallops with lentils, Lamb chops with potato and fennel mash, White Chocolate Semi-Freddo, with sips of a 1986 Chateau d'Yguem Sauterne for dessert
Thursday: Salad, balsamic vinegar. Water. Tea.

2. Alan Rickman. You may know Alan Rickman as the cheating boss from Love Actually, or Professor Snape from all the Harry Potter films. I know Alan Rickman as the dude who never drinks champagne and who really likes canapés. He also shares a special category with Carl Kasell and Gregory Peck, as to 'Men whose voices make their faces and age irrelevant.' He's also a regular guest at the house where I get all these catering jobs. Where we set our scene.

In the kitchen when the door rang I hear an antiquated generically Germanic voice. 'HALLO DAHLING' …why, it's Mimi Lipton!

Despite what her name might suggest, Mimi Lipton is not a porn star. According to Google, she is the world's leading expert on Tibetan tiger rugs. Go figure. She was born about 80 years before the emancipation of Mimi. I consider congratulating her on breaking loose from those shackles, but hold my tongue.

I then started to ogle her awesome old lady style (jewelry pieces the size of basketballs, big flowy dress) but then I see the pest at her feet: A bijon frise, whose fur has been uber-poofed, straightened, shaped and talcum-powdered so heavily that he snows every time he yips. She brought a teddy bear masquerading as a dog.

'COME HE-AH, MOMO, DAHLING' she calls. Mimi and Momo. Of course.

Everything was fine until I made my first round of canapés; 'Duck, rocket, and plum chutney?' I offer.

'VAT? VAT IS IN IT? IS IT VAIRRRY SALTY?'

I shake my head no. Then, as I'm bending over at 90 degrees (she's 4' and sitting on a chair), holding an enormous gold platter, she painstakingly begins to dissect the canapé. 10 minutes later, all that is left on the platter is a blob of chutney and strand of rocket. The duck gets tossed down the gorge of McFluffin.

The monkfish wrapped in Pancetta suffers the same fate; it IS incredibly salty, but at this point, am actively trying to give the dog a kidney stone.

While my gut is to be insulted for the chef, and mortified for myself, a reality check hit me.

The thing about being 24 and partially financially reliant on your parents is that, for 20 pounds an hour, yeah, I'll feed f'ing canapés to a dog that looks like a pillow.

Part II: Britain shall never Surrender. To Mint Sauce.

The first two courses went off without a hitch, until the main course was served; a juicy, perfectly cooked lambchop with miniature spring vegetables. I am so relieved that the chef, my bud, and old boss, has decided not to serve lamb with any trace of mint.

Mint sauce, in short, represents everything that is wrong with Britain. It is pine-puke green, gelatinous, and kept at the back of everyone's fridges until, lo and behold! Someone makes lamb. Mint sauce doesn't complement lamb, it treats lamb like a piece of toast.

Get your stinkin' marmalade away from my meat.

The catering staff are cleaning up when we see the Lord [---]* walk in. No, not jesus, a lord. Of England. As in, 'Lords-a-leaping,' and The House Of. On a side note, he's gorgeous, but on his third wife. Oops.

"Very sorry to bother, but do we have any mint sauce?" he blusters.

All, in unison: "Sorry, what's that?"

"Mint. Sauce. For the lamb."

"Mint. Sauce?" (I can feel my inner Basil Fawlty rising)

[he starts rummaging in the back of the fridge] "Surely we must have some mint sauce somewhere…"

(I feel a vein pop out in my forehead)

We eventually convince him to stop looking, that it's useless, and he will have to damn well live without mint sauce. But THIS, my friends, is why Britain lost it's empire. A little known fact: if mint sauce hadn't been rationed during World War II, England would have lost.

And to think, this self-repression is coming from the top-down. End the self-fulfilling prophecy of bad food, Britain! Fight Mint Sauce on the beaches! And in the streets! In the hills! Britain should never surrender…

*For various reasons, I'm not using his last name, but you'll just have to take my word for it

Time for your loofah, Lizzie

I dreamt I was taking a bath last night.

Who else was in the bathtub? Queen Elisabeth. Yup, she was wearing her crown.

Uncomfortable with all the royal nudity, I kept on scrunching up to one corner because I didn't want to touch her old lady bum with my feet.

Clincher being, she was arguing with Prince William who was fully clothed and standing in the ebathroom. Oh yes, I dreamt of Prince William fully clothed.

Furthermore, and perhaps most painfully, the bathroom was Richard's apartment in Paris. A select few of you know the special relationship I have with that bathtub (Kristen, I'm talking to you).

Seirously, 10 bucks to anyone who can figure that out. I'm not kidding.

Do I have some sort of bizarre regiphilic tendencies? Does the shame of The Richard's Party Red Wine Incident haunt my dreams...literally? (meh, probably not)

Stay tuned, people.

My 20-old birthday party

So I went to New York recently...to have a birthday party, which was sheer brilliance.
For a write up that is, understandably, one from one noble man's perspective, but amazing anyways:

(Keith's nickname for me shall be changed to 'Francesca' for this story)

By Keith:

So I met up with Francesca, Jojo (who, in an odd break from normal, I call by his rael name, not the nickname used here) and Bekah to celebrate Francesca''s birthday. Met some of Francesca's friends. One in particular decided against the typical "hello" style of greeting. She opted for,

"Hey! You know Neil!"

to which I stared blankly at her for a second. Quite simply I don't really know a Neil. I do know a Knile. So that was fun.

Dinner was fascinating. Let me introduce you to the cast of that charade:
Bekah: Has worked for MTV for several years. I've known Bekah since grade school.
Olli: Francesca's british boyfriend. Of the men she has dated, Olli is one of my two favorites. He's your standard charming brit, but with more personality.
Leigh: Majors in classical archeaology, smiles a lot and has known Tom for a very long time.
Jojo: Friend since high school, I run into Joseph about once a year. He's incredibly well educated, and hilariously funny...especially if you speak several languages and are well read in at least 3. He's lived in more than 5 countries over the past 5 years.
Danika: Attractive british girl, has known Olli since grade school.
Tom: Larger than life personality. Uses the word "cunt" a lot, has an amusing story about being run over by a truck. Also, he's a neurobiologist.
Francesca: Has been mentioned previously.

There were times that joseph and Leigh would start on a series of jokes that went right over my head, so Bekah and i started talking about Paris Hilton instead. There was a math joke that was actually funny, because it was true.

Then we were heading to a bar. but we forgot Leigh. We got to said bar and over the course of the night no less than 50 people came through to celebrate with Francesca. Seriously, how many people can throw a successful party in a city that they have never lived in, in a country they haven't lived in for 2 years? Their were Brits, Alpha Phis, high school friends, hopkins people - it was entertaining.

I spent a lot of time talking to Danika and Debbie about things like www.jdate.com. And how christian women suck in bed because of original sin. She spoke so freaking fast that i had to stop her every 20 minutes or so just to give my brain a minute to catch up to the last few sentences. But I couldn't stop laughing. Francesca's friends are fantastic.



I agree most especially with the last bit, darling. Now, repeat after me: "awwwwww"

Her Majesty's Sartorial Reform Initiative: Dance, Fat Man!

Whether you call them sneakers or "trainers," evil, thy name is athletic shoe. The frustration I felt this time last year in Paris has only doubled since arriving in London. I've got exams, it's warm and sticky, and urban, and on top of it all, I am barraged with fat tourists who crowd the sidewalks. Specifically, my compatriotes. Now, the genuine warmhearted, overexcited American tourist abroad isn't really *that* bad. There's something nice about hearing, "Oh Harry, look, dah-ble deckah busses!"

But ultimately, it's the attire that makes me feel homicidal. The white sneakers, the ski jacket donned for an April rainstorm, the ubiquitous grey fleece whose brand-we-shall-not-name. There are no mountains in London. Why are you wearing a ski jacket? Judging from your pudge, you haven't gone running in years. Why are you wearing sneakers?

The only remedy, as I see it, is to enforce mandatory predation upon sportily dressed tourists. You came here dressed for sport, you asked for it. It shall be named, 'Her Majesty's Sartorial Reform Initiative," known in common parlance as 'Dance, fat boy, dance!" While I would never advocate increased gun ownership, resident Londoners will henceforth be equipped with large, impressive looking toy guns and have the right to bear them while kamikaze-screaming and running toward unsuspecting, sportily dressed tourists. Oh, you'll run alright, fat man, you'll run.

United in action for a prettier kingdom, in the service of her majesty the queen.
Thank you.

In appreciation of...

After almost 8 months of residence in London, I don't find the people difficult, grating, or generally strange, much unlike Paris. This makes for a generally less interesting, if more harmonious existence.

This said, I can't say as I mind being generally awash with pleasantness. It's the softer corners of London that make it a more liveable place. (Although this may make a potentially a less interesting blog)

Just how soft are these corners? It's not that London's not edgy, but it just doesn't have that New York bitterness. I do resent the idea that Londoners, and Brits in general, sort of fop around and stutter, (The Hugh Grant Theory), but there is a certain overpoliteness that permeates every aspect of life.

Take for example, my part-time job. I work in a converted 19th century shop, one of 3/4 employees that can fit in the store at any given point. We do sandwiches at lunch time, and I am essentially, as my super fabulous gay boss put it, "The Sandwich Queen."

I manage the 25 or so bankers/magic circle lawyers that queue patiently outside our storefront.
Now, enter the overpoliteness.

Imagine this scenario. James X comes in, and immediately looks to the 10 people standing in the queue in the store, as if he's affronted them just by entering. I almost expect a sincere, "Oh so sorry, am I breathing the same air? Ever so sorry."

He looks to the menu. Now, this is a man who has most likely gone to Oxbridge for his degree, been fast-tracked into one of London's most lucrative careers, but spends a solid 10 minute staring at the menu in complete confusion. Finally, he looks up.

I make eye contact, suggesting, subtly, that he may like to order. He looks around again, just to confirm that uttering the phrase "Ham and Chutney on granary bread, please" won't send anyone else into a crisis of nerves.

"I'm sorry, we're out of ham," I offer, with a pitying look. "Oh, um...right. Right," he mutters, spiralling back into confusion. I then volley back the apologies, just to make absolutely certain he's not disappointed AND offended. "Yes, I'm very sorry, we've had [aliens take away the ham slicer/a severe European pig shortage/a case of flying ham] this morning."

Now, god help us if two identical orders come up in short succession. I've only studied Arbitration Law briefly, but from what I can tell, the deliberation between two lawyers over a sandwich is far more intense. Both hands, equipped with family crest rings, go forward, men uttering in call-and-response style:

"Right, well, sure it's...oh, right....surely it's yours...yes, right. Cheers, thank you...cheers..."

All this said, we do have a few jerks who stride in and bark their sandwich orders, regardless of who may be standing in line, or who may faint from impoliteness.

They're all French.
You can't make this stuff up.