Cliché Days

It’s a cliché sort of day out there. What does that mean? You know how it seems that nearly every Gothic novel starts with misty weather, clouds, chilly temperatures and lots of dampness on the air? Well, that’s what I have here. I was out the door by ten this morning to make my way to a violin and cello lesson, and then verbally grappled with my teacher for a bit (apparently I’m to call her if I have to miss a pointless Saturday rehearsal in future). She then looked at me like I was an idiot (and when my teacher gives you “the look,” you will never feel smaller) when she heard that I couldn’t locate the exact copy of a concerto that I’m supposed to be playing for NYSSMA this year (another thing she made me do with The Look).

I then gripped the wheel as I combated the rain, other ditsy drivers and my mother turning down the speed on my wipers despite my numerous protestations, only to have to dash into the Wal-Mart from half way across the parking lot because half the lot is for handicapped people. Really, Wal-Mart? It’s New York! If they’re handicapped, they wouldn’t be in a state where there’s snow on the ground for more than seven months. Think! I think it’s important to note that entering a Wal-Mart when hungry is a very bad idea. I should know. Unfortunately, the row of cookies is placed against any form of strategy between the pet supplies and the grocery section. Blast those store managers. Delicious morsels of chocolate and cookie dough winked at me from their precarious positions high on the shelf—eye level. I caved. After my episode of weakness, I experienced endless frustration when I found that Wal-Mart now doesn’t even have Vogue (they ditched Harper’s Bazaar a while back, it would seem). Another moment to express my disgust: really, Wal-Mart? REALLY? Elle just isn’t a good enough substitute.

After a few more wet stops, I was on my way home. My mother finally stopped messing around with my wipers, so the driving wasn’t bad…other than the fact that ever since it had its breaks fixed it pulls to the left, and that little episode where my mom pointed something out on the side of the road and all of the sudden I realized that I was drifting into the left lane. Yeah, so other than that, it was fine. (I promise I’m getting better at this whole driving thing—just don’t hold your breath for the parallel parking bit.)

Once home, as if the no-Vogue bit wasn’t enough, a favored fashion blogger had written her daily due on Miley Cyrus. It was an oh-no-you-di’int moment. As much as I didn’t hate her Oscars garb (certainly not fashion forward, but certainly fashion aware—I’ve seen the style on the runway quite a bit for the S/S collections), she just isn’t what I would consider a fashion icon. The slashed leggings? Consistent graphic Ts? I wouldn’t suggest molding your style on this person. (What I would suggest is that she hire someone who has some taste to have around.) I know, I know—harsh. She has been turning around her style of late. Maybe I’m just still miffed about her shallow comment I read last week in which she stated that her costar (and new love interest) connect because they’re just deeper than most people. Oh really? Hm…could have fooled me.

Now that I’m done reforming Wal-Mart and tearing a famous person apart, I need my cup of tea and a fuzzy blanket in order to settle down to read a few dozen primary source documents. (Apparently I’m bad at keeping the clichés at bay, or even attempting to avoid them.) In the words of one of those Chinese* men on the Where in Time is Carmen Sandiego? video game, “Staaaay warm!”
Serendipity of the day: Scout Finch and Jo March. (I just have a feeling that they would be friends.)