Patter Romany

It’s almost 4 am, and I’m in Seattle. Some barely-acquaintances and I have driven up four hours solely to attend a party in a posh house that will apparently be demolished at the end of the summer. I invited a friend who just graduated, and with whom I’ve had a bit of  (and rather dubious) ongoing flirtation. We socialized and spilled beer on their lovely hardwood floors, and I geeked out with his friends about comics.

It’s almost 4 am and we’ve left the party, sat in said friend’s backyard and smoked a hookah and talked about very little of any substance for several hours. We’re driving down the hill, just the two of us for the first time tonight, and “All Right Now” by Free comes on the radio. We sing along with it and feel the promise of 1971. Things feel simple and hopeful. I’m smiling from my head to my feet, as the song puts it, and rock ‘n’ roll and free love and independence all seem like the answers.

It’s almost 4 am and he bounces down on the guest bed beside me. “This may be beyond my auxiliary boyfriend status,” he starts. There have been too many substances and endorphins and rock songs tonight for me to put these things together easily, so I concentrate and try to look winsome. “But I think you’re cool,” he continues, “and cute,” he falters “…and, I think you should say something.”

“I think you should kiss me,” I answer.

And appropriately enough, I feel very free. It’s all right now.

A few weeks ago, Tricia put a question to everyone out there: Why do you wear what you wear?

I started up an answer, then, about how I make my everyday choices, what clothes generally make me feel good, what my priorities are, etc. And promptly left it unfinished. This morning, the question occurred to me again, in a more specific, emotional context, as I thought very carefully about what to put on.

See, the boy and I broke up last night. I’d seen this coming for a while, and ultimately was the one who did the breaking, but it was still sad and unpleasant and anger-inducing, as these things are bound to be after years of being together. I gave myself last night to mope as much as I wanted, but determined to get up and be fierce this morning. As I got dressed, each thing I put on ended up with a very specific rationale.

I chose to wear my snug jeans and my hair down because they make me feel sexy and powerful. I chose my expensive black flats because they look serious and fashionable. I chose a bright blue sweater because it looks cheerful and to-the-point. I chose a grey t-shirt to go under it because it is long and I don’t want to feel exposed. I chose a scarf I got in Munich because it reminds me of all the wonderful things I did before him. I chose a black leather jacket and aviators because they make me feel tough, and create an armor-like barrier between me and the rest of the world.

I’ve probably worn almost this same outfit before, but it  takes on new meaning in this context, it insulates me both physically and emotionally from what’s going on out there and in my head. It lets me look tough and happy and sexy even when I’m not feeling that way. These things I chose let me create a self that helps me get through this as easily as possible. And that, my friends, is why clothes matter.

Today he beckons me over in the library, as I come back to my computer from fetching a Todorov book. He shows me the Achewood strip I’ve already seen, silently laughing, and whispers, “God, one of my friends is totally going to do this at our wedding.” I smile, ruffle his hair, continue walking and have an unexpected sinking feeling.

This is the same boy that prompted this, as well as a surrounding year and a half of miscellaneous gushing and coupledom. If music is any indication, how I feel hasn’t changed, I’m listening to that same playlist now -it was the first one I reached for when I started sewing earlier. And it’s not like I haven’t thought of it yet, either. As acerbic and militantly feminist as I am sometimes, in the past year I’ve definitely had little-girl fantasies about what my dress would look like. But even in an offhand comment like that, which I’m sure he wasn’t hinting anything by and I know he didn’t think twice about, there’s something oddly upsetting.

Thinking abut it, I’m moving toward the opinion that it’s nothing to do with him, or even the irritatingly overused “us.” It’s more me feeling older and tantalizingly close to the high-heel wearing, flirtation-having, snappy-answering single gal lifestyle that has seemed exciting -if artifical- from How to Marry a Millionaire to Sex and the City. In those examples, of course, the stated goal is to nab a good guy, but I’ve never been able to just see their amazingly cool lifestyles as just a means to an end. People who use the W words do not care more about this month’s shoe and comic book budget more than the rent, or listen to Goldfrapp or Amy Winehouse. It’s just not how it works.

My twenty first birthday is in a month, and all of this is conspiring to make me feel old.

I’m awake at 3 am for no good reason. I did sleep until noon; that could be a reason. Generally, however, I can sleep unendingly. Insomnia is not my style. Luckily, in the extra hours I’ve been up, I’ve been able to amuse myself.
Firstly, I discovered that they made a TV series out of a blog I used to read, Belle de Jour. I say “used to” because it got considerably less saucy after she got a book deal, but it certainly has its good, salacious moments. Bohemia and I spent a good part of senior year of high school reading through her archives and being alternately scandalized and fascinated. (Mostly the latter.) It’s called “Secret Diary of a Call Girl” and is apparently only on in the UK (and my laptop) right now. Guilty pleasure, yes, and Billie Piper -the star- is slightly horse-y looking, but thoroughly enjoyable nonetheless.

Secondly, my new favorite street style blog: Garance Dore’, delicate, beautiful photography, gorgeous fashion illustration, and lots of text in French that it takes all my ingenuity to parse out. But beautiful. It makes me want to wear shades of grey with red lipstick tomorrow.

That would be a little exciting for going to the comic book store and working in the cataloging department, but why not?

“An eminent philosopher among my friends, who can dignify even your ugly furniture by lifting it into the serene light of science, has shown me this pregnant little fact. Your pier-glass or extensive surface of polished steel made to be rubbed by a housemaid, will be minutely and multitudinously scratched in all directions; but place now against it a lighted candle as a centre of illumination, and lo! the scratches will seem to arrange themselves in a fine series of concentric circles round that little sun. It is demonstrable that the scratches are going everywhere impartially and it is only your candle which produces the flattering illusion of a concentric arrangement, its light falling with an exclusive optical selection. These things are a parable.”

-George Eliot, Middlemarch

‘Boy George is a man, isn’t he?’ said Rachel.
‘Yes he is,’ said Nick.
‘Not like George Eliot.’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Very fair question,’ said Gerald.
-Alan Hollinghurst “The Line of Beauty.”

My Book! and here, too! (And in the UK!) We’re doing an event for it at 7pm tomorrow at Looking Glass Books, here in Portland. I’m only credited as “staff” on the front, but I haven’t seen the inside yet. I’m pretty ridiculously proud.

cup curtain/mobile, originally uploaded by ninainvorm.

Measuring Cups by Andrew Bird is one of my favorite songs. I’ve never quite figured out what it means, but I’ve been reading a lot of New Criticism which warns one away from paraphrase, so I won’t even try.

I wouldn’t imply any causality, but I also have a large collection of teacups. They’re not fancy, mostly from Goodwill or other thrift stores, but they’re all pretty and now scattered across my dresser and desk, interspersed with at least a dozen hinged photo frames. Largely empty photo frames. There’s no explaining aesthetics. But this is lovely.

Stolen from The Thoughtful Dresser:

A man must be a profound calculator to be a consummate dresser. One must not dress the same, whether one goes to a minister or a mistress; an avaricious uncle, or an ostentatious cousin; there is no diplomacy more subtle than that of dress. Edward Bulwer-Lytton

Hot Chocolate, originally uploaded by Patter Romany.

Every year my uncle Steve -who is not actually related to us, but it’s a long story- puts together huge stockings packed with little things for us. When we were little, it was mostly exciting, messy, noisy things from the dollar store that drove my mom crazy. This year, he decided we were too old for all of that, and instead packed them to the brim with chocolate. Really nice chocolate. I have the world’s worst sweet tooth, so this is kind of like handing me a diabetic coma in red felt, but it’s still very enjoyable.

Seeing as we have this enormous amount of chocolate about, we hit upon the idea of making hot chocolate from it by, essentially, melting a bar of chocolate into some milk. Simple, no? If you’re feeling fancy you can add a tiny pinch of salt or some vanilla.

Uncle Steve, when he was over and had some, completely freaked out with how good it was and kept telling us we were on to something. I agree, it was good, but to me, it tasted how chocolate and milk ought to, and not especially unexpected. Thinking about it, though, it occurred to me that most people never bother to make things -even things as simple as hot cocoa- from scratch instead of a mix. Never underestimate how good actual food can be, instead of something from a mix or can.

I made my first cake from scratch about a year ago, a red velvet cake for my friend’s birthday. Before that, I’d only ever used mixes, and was always quite satisfied. Then, over Christmas, I had a normal yellow cake from a mix and was amazed at the difference. I realized that I had not made a cake from a mix in a year, and instead had made red velvet cakes and German chocolate cakes, and Earl Grey cupcakes with dark chocolate ganache and peach melba cupcakes with raspberry whipped cream and cinnamon Mexican-chocolate cupcakes, and several others that escape me at the moment, none of which are really that difficult, and all of which are so much more exciting than anything Betty Crocker put in a box. More than just being more exotic and interesting, cakes -and anything, really- made from scratch just taste and feel like real food in a way that packaged things never can. And they’re sturdy! You can manhandle a from-scratch cake, too, when you’re putting it together or frosting it, just the sight of which is enough to make you hyperventilate if you’re used to boxed cakes.

In this vein, my little sister asked me to give a little party for her friends before I go back to Portland, and we’re doing it on Monday. I’m thinking a red velvet cake, the Early Grey cupcakes, something involving lemon and boysenberry preserves, and an artichoke dip or something. I love parties.

Alice in the Quilt, originally uploaded by Patter Romany.

Christmas vacation so far has been lovely and relaxing. That is, except for the small, furry, ball of terror known as Alice, seen above. My little sister decided she wanted a kitten on Christmas, and as soon as we got back from my uncle’s, we drove over to the humane society and picked one out.

Here, she looks quiet and cute and normal. However, at approximately 10 o’clock every night, she goes crazy and gets the zooms, and her favorite activities become climbing up my pant leg and launching herself through the air at unsuspecting tv watchers.

She’s under Nick’s quilt, one of the less exciting corners, to be honest. It’s now so close to being done, my sister and I are sewing on the binding, and I’ll have lots of proud pictures once it’s totally done.

I get so much done when I don’t have to go to classes, it’s amazing.