Miniature Man Myth

Dear Men of the World,

When I throw an oversized sweater over-top a full-length formal gown, while rocking DIY spray-painted wedge platforms and a messy ponytail…I am not looking for your attention.  I am probably sick. Or cold. Or, as was the case last Wednesday, a combination of the two.  If I were looking for your attention, I would hook myself into a push-up bra, shimmy into a rash-inducing polyester/spandex body-con dress from Wet Seal, and strap my feet into a pair of stripper stilettos. As was the case last Friday.* Let’s not complicate things here.

Xo Stacie

*That wasn’t actually the case last Friday. Shuddershuddertwitchtwitchtwitch.

 

The Scene: I’m walking past the Four Seasons, en route to a BFF brunch at my beloved La Convo. Unfortunately, just before I hit the corner, I get wrangled into a less-yummy breed of conversation. 

The Players: Miniature Man (a height-challenged gentleman, with a flock of blond hair, straight off the set of Wall Street, who came trotting up on my left side out of NOWHERE)& Me (head down, fingers gripping the ends of my sleeves, under-the weather and under-enthused by the concept of speaking with strangers)

Miniature Man: I know someone who wants attention!

This is not so much an ice-breaker as it is an ice-creator. Congratulations, MM. I already hate you. 

Me: Who?

I don’t even have the energy to play this game right now. Or ever, for that matter.

Miniature Man: Pointing at my ensemble That looks spectacular!

Me: Thanks. It’s super-cozy. 

Please leave me alone.  Also, why are you walking right next to me/why am I unable to throw you off with my frequent slash drastic changes in pace?

Miniature Man: You must be an M-O-D-E-L.

…

Please. Like I’d be able to spell that out?

I hate people. 

All Black All Day

This torrid little tale (definition 1, not 2), is just another example of how idiot douchebags underrate the practicality slash logic of anyone wearing anything that doesn’t say BRO-CAL across the front. Ahem.

Last Saturday, I had grand plans for the day:

  1. Manhattan Beach to play a little volleyball
  2. BBQ at a friend’s place in the occasionally breezy Hills above WeHo
  3. Possibly a quick stop-by at another friend’s nearby pool party
  4. Hotel Cafe to see a friend’s band perform

You will notice that nowhere in these plans was there a scheduled stop back home. (I’m a huge fan of expedition slash efficiency.)

Sooo how exactly was I to dress? In the magically fickle city of Los Angeles, you can never be sure that boiling temperatures won’t drop to hypothermic levels when the sun goes down.  And a bathing suit isn’t exactly out-on-the-town attire, especially when it is guaranteed to end up in the ocean at some point.

I decided on a black sheer blouse (complete with vertical back cut-outs) tied over my orange bikini, my fav ruffly skirt and ShoeMint’s Hejsa Sandal.

In my DIYed carryall, I packed my Suki Boots, socks, a bag of accessories, a black slip dress and a leopard print bralette.

Great success.

I felt officially prepared to take on the entirety of my day, no matter what it should bring.

When I got to MB, I found a stellar parking spot, just a few blocks from my friend’s place.  As I trekked over, I hit a crosswalk at the same time as a couple of surfers.  A peripheral glance led me to believe they were decently attractive, but my ego prevented any sort of a full assessment.

As we crossed, one of the surfers took note of the a-hole driver who almost took me out, tossing a conspiratorial comment my way. I smiled shyly, in recognition of his remark, keeping my eyes glued to my BlackBerry in heightened awkward timidity.

I turned left and they continued straight. As they passed the bushes on the corner, Surfer #1’s friend muttered a query of his own. With a tone. “How can you wear all black to the beach?”

First of all, I can still hear you.

Second of all, hashtag go f*ck yourself.

Thirdly, I would be more than happy to break it down for you.

…

And that hat is disgusting.