When: Sunday, Nov. 30th, 2008.
What: Light blue turtleneck by Nine West, royal blue cropped linen jacket by Persaman NYC, Laundry by Shelli Segal trousers and suede and patent boots by Restricted. Awesome bag of unknown, thrifted origin, and flower pin in shades of gray with crystals also unknown, but just because I don’t remember. Anyway, this was my outfit for our impromptu date night to go and see the new Jason Statham movie, Transporter 3, at Kadinsky’s urging over at BCP.
Scent: Valentino’s Rock ‘N Rose. It tells me that I am a rose on the outside and a rocker on the inside. I don’t know what that means, but M picked this out for me on another notorious date night, and it’s nice. The notes are: Bergamot, Black Currant, Crunch Green, Orange Blossom, Gardenia, Muguet, Rose, Sandalwood, Orris, Musky Notes, Vanilla, Heliotrope. It isn’t floral, save rose, and the rose itself is a very pure note with almost no trace of sweetness whatever. M likes it as well but she disagrees, saying she can detect the other florals. It’s unapologetically feminine, very French, almost – thus I believe Rock ‘N Rose to be a bit of a misnomer. It’s what Emmanuelle Béart ought to smell like (I’ll demonstrate Herculean self-restraint and post something other than her French Vogue cover):
Confession: The other night M & I met a friend of ours to shoot pool and imbibe at the White Horse Inn, the oldest gay bar in Oakland. We’re all pretty terrible at pool, so once it was clear that we were losing a game, we’d simply try and harass our opponents into submission, at which point it became even clearer that our opponents enjoyed the harassment at least as much as they enjoyed winning. Midway through the night, M was busy writing her name in huge letters on the chalkboard, having been accused of not signing up properly. When I say ‘huge,’ I mean she left no room for any other names whatsoever. She was interrupted, however, by a 31-year-old with alleged $40K dental bills who asked M if she was wearing fleece.
(Insert sound of record scratching here.)
M (to stranger who asked about fleece): Do not ever speak to me again.
Stranger: What? Why? Did I say something wrong?
Femme (having walked over, sensing M’s belligerence escalate): What did you say to her?
M (pointing at stranger): She is never to speak to me again. Do not let her speak to me.
Femme: Why?
M (v. clearly enuciated): She asked me if I was wearing fleece.
Femme: (Sucks in breath, gives stranger a scolding look.) Nevermind, bebe. It’s your turn. Go on. (M sulks off, ignoring stranger completely.)
Stranger: What did I say to her? What’s wrong with fleece? I don’t get it.
Femme: She would never wear fleece. It’s insulting.
Stranger: What? I didn’t know. I mean, I know fleece isn’t super fashionable or anything, but…
Femme: Never. Ever. It’s OK, you didn’t know. Now you know.
Stranger: I sometimes wear fleece!
Femme: I’m sure that’s very nice for you, and probably only you.
Stranger: I mean, it’s always a last resort.
Femme: There’s a reason for that. Obviously.
Stranger: But it’s practical.
Femme: (Scowls in disgust.) Like that’s an excuse.
Anyway, I made an attempt to continue communicating the fleece issue but didn’t get very far. I realized today that I should have just explained that asking us if we wear fleece is like asking a foodie if they garnish their delicious gourmet dinners with Velveeta. Or used canned vegetables. DON’T DO IT. Only small children and non-Californians in hostile climates should be allowed. (Note: We are not foodies.) His ‘n hers fleece is HELLA especially not allowed:
