Tuesday, March 3, 2015
I might have landed on a different 32 if I were not trying to incorporate fair representation from all the albums, probably, and pay tribute to all of Kanye’s evolutions. They would have looked different a year ago. They would look different if I didn’t live in New York. They’d look different if I were single, if I had a different relationship history, if I had a different job.
Hairpin friend and frequent source of lipstick inspiration Casey Johnston is contributing some pretty powerful stuff to the Kanye canon; an extensively researched and methodical attempt to determine which Kanye song is her favorite.
This is an IMPOSSIBLE question to answer, as she wisely points out—I know which Kanye songs I listen to the most, and which ones I think are the best, but my actual favorite?! I don't know!! Favorite depends on my mood, the time of day, my location, sometimes my outfit. If I tried to do this bracket I think my insides would just crumble from the stress. I applaud Casey's incredible strength and hope that she inspires you to apply the same methodology to your Kanye feelings.
But simply watching people of color having a private conversation, one that’s not primarily about white people, is a huge deal. It changes who the joke is on.
Emily Nussbaum in this week's New Yorker, writing about Fresh Off the Boat and Black-ish, hits the nail right on the head: white people, it's not about you for once, and it is so, so refreshing.
Part one of this series is here.
In our household accounting spreadsheet, P and I almost forgot to make two separate categories for wedding and immigration expenses; right now they kind of seem like the same thing. The city hall wedding, while a pretty fun engagement with the municipal apparatus—was the first step towards staying in America above board. And like the I-693 described in my last post, the marriage certificate is just one of the many parts of the permanent residency application.
On the morning of January 12, we went to the marriage bureau office in Brooklyn and got a marriage license. You need to get a marriage license at least 24 hours before you get married, it’s good for two months (unless you’re on active military duty, in which case you get six months). We got to the office when they opened at 8:30 a.m., confirmed all the information we had filled in online (our names, birthdays, lack of previous marriages, parents’ names and places of birth). We paid $35 and received a fancy piece of paper that allowed us to get married anywhere in New York state. The woman in the fluorescent-lit drop-ceilinged room asked us if we were coming back to get married; we told her that we were going to Manhattan.
We got married the afternoon of Friday, Jan. 30 with the intent to send in our permanent residency application on Monday. Feb. 2; we needed to have the packet assembled before the actual wedding. The copy of Marriage and Fiancé Visas I had taken out of the library was an invaluable guide to figuring out all the specific pieces and walking us through what to type in every box. We had spreadsheets, checklists, and drop boxes to manage it all. I typed my married name over and over again even though it wasn’t my name yet. I went to the passport services office at the Brooklyn Public Library and got two sets of passport photos taken to include with the various applications. We gathered our evidence of marriage: printed out the statements from our shared bank accounts and affidavits from our friends who would be at City Hall swearing that we were really a couple and that they were at our wedding (they signed them after the actual wedding! We were very certain to make sure that happened in the right order). We assembled the documents that proved that my U.S. citizen husband made enough money so that I wouldn’t need government welfare benefits (form I-864EZ, W2s, and tax transcripts). READ MORE
Hu: JENNNNNNNN. We meet again.
Vaf: Yes, Jane, for a GOOD REASON.
Hu: So, this morning, when I logged onto Gchat, I had no idea that you would be blessing me with this:
Jen, I really really really really like this song.
Vaf: ME TOO. I had no idea that we, the world, would be blessed with it.
Hu: Apparently, one of my friends listened to it last night? Without FW-ing it to me? #notmyfriend
Vaf: Um, I sent it to you immediately after listening to it. Just saying, I’m the greatest.
Hu: All I know is that the last time CRJ came out with a single—”Take a Picture”—I forced you to put on your headphones and listen to it ASAP. Actually, there’s some nice continuity between that last song and this one: our girl looooves to sing about the moon. Also special deep cuts mention: the line “Wake up moon we spend the night alone together” in "Your Heart Is A Muscle.” And there’s a whole comparative essay to be written about that song and Britney Spears, but I digress.
OK, so first impressions: Carly DOES IT AGAIN. Also, have you heard about this rumor where her publicist apparently doesn’t let her release songs that aren’t going to be guaranteed hits??
Vaf: Well, not again again, right? This isn’t “Call Me Maybe Part II.” It’s slightly older? But not by that much. She’s still 13 going on 30, bless her. Yes, I’ve heard that rumor, and it’s kind of delicious, in that Hitsville U.S.A. sort of way, like there are a bunch of horny monkeys with typewriters working on the new Carly Rae Jepsen single. READ MORE
Does the game always correlate to your real-life schedule?
We try to mirror it as much as possible. The look of the game was really important to me. I must have pulled thousands of references of all the different ways that characters should have their hair, the outfits and the shoes. One time there was a strap wrong on one of the character's shoes—her feet weren't matching. I had to change the programming to fix that. It was important to me that everything is right.
We are gathered here today in solidarity and in full, unencumbered awe of our Lord and Bae-vior Kimberly Noel Kardashian West (quoted here in Adweek), who is singlehandedly on her way to conquering the fashion world, the reality world, the tech world, and my heart. Ready? OK. READ MORE
Here are three face masks I have in current rotation, as well as a guide to using them appropriately and some little-known facts about the restorative powers of slathering a fine layer of goo over your lady face in order to trick a man into thinking you're pretty and then marrying you, lol, shoutout to my husband if he's reading this. None of them contain placenta because I have tried to be open-minded about the fact that The Hairpin is now exclusively a placenta products blog but honestly I am struggling with it at this point in time. READ MORE
Eudora Peterson is a New York City-based comedian whose work has appeared on The Hairpin, The Toast, and more. She currently runs Fashion What Ifs, a fashion advice video series on Jezebel’s beauty and style site Millihelen. Recently I asked Peterson to share and talk about three of her favorite tweets, and our conversation covered topics including writing in different personas, the strengths of Twitter’s character limit, and some of her material that’s made the jump from tweets to other media.
DONT say "trouble in paradise?"unless u rly care abt my troubles. daiquiris r spilled evry day&ppl get tangled in hammocks here all the time— Eudora Peterson (@Pjetey) April 10, 2014
Peterson: Tweets written in character voices make me laugh, especially if the characters have an uncompromising and/or aggressive point of view. Alexis Wilkinson does it really well. People getting out of hammocks makes me laugh, too. READ MORE
There is simply no day of the week that cannot be improved by a cover of a Janet Jackson song but this fact is PARTICULARLY true of Mondays, so here you go, my gift to you, be well you sweet babes.
Then again, during the entirety of the three-day affair, sandwiched between Christmas and New Year's, white and black tie were the easiest dictates of a quartet of dress codes that included Gaucho and Tango Smart.
The arrival of the bride, meanwhile, who emerged on the bow of the wooden speedboat like a living figurehead, veil whipping in the wind, was mirage-like, for even the most jaded fashion folk in attendance. Her Valentino couture dress, which required 1,800 hours' worth of bas-relief pearl and crystal embroider, forsook the traditional bridal white for pale chalcedony tulle that blended seamlessly into the soft gray of the beach and the murky green of the Machete River beyond.
And so the bride and groom, who have homes in New York and Paris, selected a series of venues that represented Sofia's own history in the region and revealed the most pristine and epic vistas of untouched nature, from the foothills of the Andes to desolate lakeside beaches.
For the wedding lunch the next day, sixteen whole lambs were cooked on weeping willow-branch crosses. READ MORE
I was eighteen and pregnant.
I remember reading only a few weeks before that day that women often know when they are. Which makes sense. I kind of knew, already. A week in, there was a phantom consciousness, a pulling rod of unearthly heaviness, like a tingly sensation at the base of my uterus. My cells were dancing, a flurry of aches, thudding with an immutable dullness full of pain. I felt bloated—more than usual—and there was a gnawing, an impenetrable nagging of fingers, strangling me inside out.
You know how kids are always captivated by things? I was always captivated by children, by motherhood, by that ball of existence lodged inside a woman’s body for nine months. I would always ask my mom how much it hurt when she had me, or what she craved to eat—how long was labor, Mom? I wanted to be ready.
I had not had my period. Overwhelmed by everything, on a whim, or even a dare with myself, I bought a pregnancy test. I was shaking as I put it in my pockets.
I did the test at my best friend’s place. He was half awake when I told him that I thought I might be pregnant. I took the test in his bathroom, laughing at the charade of it all. Suddenly, in his company—I was all bravado, the weak girl playing the part of “I’ve got it all figured out.” I peed into a cup, left the stick in there, and waited for it to turn any other color but pink. I wasn’t a girl who got pregnant. I was smart. I was responsible. I was appropriate. I was going to be a lawyer one day.
I always thought I’d be pregnant when I had a man to look after me. A real man with a job. We’d have a house together. We’d have bookshelves that reached the ceiling, and carpets from Afghanistan, a record player that played smooth jazz as we did the New York Times crossword together, cocooned, inseparable, drinking hot apple cider from a shared mug. I always thought I’d be pregnant when I was happy.
I was drifting off when I saw it. As I dreamt of swing sets a sinking feeling devoured me. A desperate unparalleled fever sickened through the crutches of my identity. I did not want this baby.
I came from a good family.
I came from a good family.
I came from a good family.
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Pleading innocence, immunity and ignorance, the city of Cleveland responded to a wrongful death lawsuit filed by Tamir Rice's family by saying the 12-year-old's death was his own fault.
In November, Cleveland Officer Timothy Loehmann fired the fatal shots at Tamir within two seconds of arriving outside a recreation center where the sixth-grader was playing with a pellet gun.
[...]The city also claims it is entitled to all "full and qualified" immunities under state and federal law.
After Michael Brown's death, we were all so hopeful: if only we had video footage, we could prove these deaths were unjust. Yet the lack of legal action first in Eric Garner's murder, and now in Tamir Rice's, proves that, as hard as we may shout that #blacklivesmatter, black lives are disposable. I've run out of words.
I, for one, welcome our slowly dancing hypnotically entrancing animatronic lady overlords.
Hey you guys: I know we've been having great fun arguing about the dress and all, but just a quick reminder that yesterday was the third anniversary of Trayvon Martin's death and tomorrow's the last day of Black History Month, and maybe we should take a second to meditate on those things today, you know? Then, by all means, go back to the fun. That dress is blue and black and I don't care who tells you otherwise.
We started off this week with our favorite Oscar looks, and cheerfully marched on: we learned SO MUCH about boners and the evil eye, set some men straight, made some blondies, got kicked out of our punk band, recast Sunset Boulevard, brought back Ask a Lady!!!, put placenta on our faces, stopped by laughter therapy, came to terms with being single, made peace, said some fancy phrases, asked Wendy, read some poetry, asked a scientist, and had some #deepseated anxiety.
THIS WEEK IN LADIES: Jaya Saxena BEIN' NAUGHTY, Meaghan O'Connell on being the "slacker parent", Thanaa El-Naggar on being a practicing Muslim in short-shorts, Beejoli Shah on some low-budget TV show no one has ever heard of, and Kiva Reardon on David Cronenberg.
My dad just texted me about the dress. I'm going back to bed. See you Monday!