Sometimes I think that perhaps the dreary nature of this blog is the reason why no readers hang around to find out what Tracy's gon' write next. This is no cheery, upbeat source of delightful links and squeal-worthy pictures.* If the blogosphere were a playground, the drudgery bin would be the loner who makes fun of everyone else just to mask how much it craves acceptance. However, I now find that there is another - a new kid who seems to understand and appreciate my perverse desire to mock everything I encounter.
Things Could Be Worse gives us insight into the great, universal tragedies of life, reminding us that our existence is not all made up of dreamy inspiration boards and lovely autumn afternoons. What good will that post on the season's seventeen best striped dresses do you, should you find yourself in a situation like this?
You think politics are messed up now? Count your blessings, sir or madam.
And no matter the state of your love life, could it ever compare to the pain and anguish of this gruesome dilemma?!
These are quite unfortunate situations, as well:
This is my nightmare.
Again, I say we should all count ourselves lucky. Good day to you.
*Then again, I don't mind saying that anyone who has ever actually squealed when looking at a picture - I don't care how cute it was - does not belong here.
All images by Benjamin Dewey, a gentleman and a scholar.
You guys. I am sort of okay with Pinterest. It keeps me up on all the latest trends, like photos of painted fingernails clutching at a bottle of polish as if trying to crush the thing.
RAAARR
Painting nails is not just for preteen girls anymore, but has become yet another way for adults to express our unique, snowflake identities; though unlike getting a haircut every two months or picking out an outfit, perfecting complex designs on a quarter-inch canvas can take hours to complete and cause untold frustration when the cat jumps up and brushes against the wet polish, leaving smudgy cat hairs in its wake. Not that that has ever happened to me. I don't even own a cat.
Some have reported cramps resulting from posing fingers in a manner most conducive to showing off nails to others. If someone is running around with a camera, snapping pictures willy-nilly, one must always be prepared, with all nails clumped together.
I'M NOT EVEN HOLDING ANYTHING, YOU GUYS. MY FINGERS ARE STUCK THIS WAY.
Even if I tried doing my nails every day, or even once a week, I am pretty much incapable of keeping polish on without picking at my cuticles like a junkie. So instead, I think I will take this time to promote the newest trend of cutting designs into fingernails. I mean, of course you have to worry about ruining sweaters with snags and slicing people's skin when you go to shake hands, but I happen to think that all of that is worth it. To show people that I am a delicate snowflake. Unique. And beautiful.
SO! You want to know about twee, eh? Indie pop? CuddleXcore? Bubble gum pop? Well, Pitchfork does a very nice job of summing up the history and profile of twee music scene, but twee is also a lifestyle, son. These are hipsters with a heart, connoisseurs of cute, and frankly, I'm not convinced you can handle all the tweezy up in heezy. But I'll do my best to explain it to you, anyway.
"Don'tcha wish your girlfriend was twee like me? Don'tchaaa...."
Arts and crafts are twee. Polaroid cameras are twee. Barrettes are twee. Bright colors are twee. Knit hats are twee. Glasses are twee. Cardigans are twee. Smiling is twee. Inanimate objects with faces are twee. Tights are twee. First love is twee. Second love is twee. Libraries are twee. Sunshine is twee. Clouds are twee. Trees are twee (especially to babies). Hearts are twee. Being nice is twee. Cuddling is twee. Apple pie cookies are twee. Record players are twee. DIY is twee. Blogging is twee. Bikes are twee. Buying local is twee. Literature is twee. Vintage is twee. Ukuleles and glockenspiels are twee. So are tiny drums.
"Alright, guys, good show. Let's load up the van."
But twee is not any one of these things by itself, and this list is by no means an exhaustive definition. Twee is so many things, you see (did I mention that rhyming is also quite twee?). Stop motion music videos are twee. Especially if they involve hot air balloons sewed out of felt, cotton ball clouds, or construction paper cut-outs of waves moving back and forth to look like the sea. Here is a twee stop motion short:
If you ever find yourself at a twee wedding, you'll know it mainly by the outfits and decor: Suspenders and bow ties on dudes with large beards, mismatching bridesmaids in thrift store dresses, and some shit called bunting all over the place, as if the father of the bride is planning to start a pick-up game of capture the flag after the ceremony. There will probably be wedding pie, the vows will be said under an expansive tree rife with metaphor, and the wedding dress may have cost $12 total, including alterations.
Twee weddings: More fun than a quilting bee. But not much more.
But most of all, twee is music: Upbeat, lo-fi, tinkly songs that celebrate how wonderful and lovely and colorful the world is, and how charming and delightful we all are in it. Not overly complicated in form or content, the albums are usually produced and distributed by the artists themselves, down to the hand-drawn artwork on the album covers. Word is often spread through the internet, as many twee kids are the shy, quiet cousins of the cooler-than-fuck hipsters and the serious, sensitive indie crowd. Still, you can always tell someone is twee by the cheerful little smile on their face (not to mention the dress-tights-flats or colored-jeans-and-oxfords combo).
The twee community likes pot luck house shows where everyone brings a (tiny) instrument and some (usually vegan) food. Sometimes the shows will be at a co-op or on someone's back lawn; a light summer rain or fireflies are seen as a blessing from the twee gods, which would send everyone into orgasmic ecsta-twee - that is, if twee kids experienced sexual feelings (evidence suggests that they do not). The audience will sing and snap and whistle and clap along to the sweet, simple songs, everyone dressed to the nines in their colorful Goodwill finds, outfits assembled to show minimum skin and maximum cuteness.
I was going to include a sampling of twee songs, but then I realized that this would be completely lacking in the twee spirit. So instead, I will mail a mix CD of my favorite twee songs to anyone who asks for one in a comment. There will be cover art. Hand-drawn. 'Cause that's how those twee kids do.
You guys. I went to junior high with this gorgeous bride.
And if she is all grown up and posing for heart-achingly beautiful wedding photos, what does that make me?
Old, that's what. This is not the first of my old classmates to get married. It's only going to get worse from here, as more friends start getting married and pregnant and being promoted and buying houses...blegh.
But it isn't just that - the feeling that life is slipping past like water through my fingers, while I sit like a staid rock in the stream...growing moss. Or something. That metaphor derailed rapidly.
Nobody ever told me that twenty-one would be the age when everything starts to go downhill. My metabolism seems to have abruptly switched off, so that I now have to exercise if I don't want to swell into a great blob (which is actually a tougher decision than you might think). I've become more scatterbrained, staying up till the wee hours actually leaves me functioning at the level of an anesthetized sea slug the next day, and according to one commercial, my skin has already begun deteriorating into a wrinkly, transparent, sun-spotted mess. The only way I've really kept my youth is that I can hold my liquor better than a sailor on leave.* Which is something, when you're a tiny woman who drinks whiskey neat.
Nobody told me that I would peak once I reached a second decade, and that the remaining three-quarters of my life would devolve slowly, agonizingly, until I am at last decrepit and senile enough to have fun again. At a certain point, I think, I will stop caring about my health and respectability, and then I'll be able to party like a young whippersnapper once more.
Get offa my lawn and outta my way.
*Which is not really a saying, and, since I've never met a sailor on leave (much less shared a round with one), I really have no idea if that is a fair generalization to make about sailors.
So, errbody seems pretty pumped about the new Martha Stewart Weddings issue. I read it on the plane coming back from Pennsylvania, and to be honest, I wasn't terribly impressed. In fact, I would go so far as to say I actually didn't like it.
...Please don't stone me.
But I mean, really, Martha. C'man. Page after page of insubstantial, blurby interviews with dress designers? That feature was spread like a model on a catwalk: toooo thin. And this assault of the neon jewel motif? Like a college highlighter party had a baby with Pollyanna.
And don't even get me started on that English wedding that's making everyone swoon. HAVE YOU SEEN THE FLOWER GIRL DRESSES?!
There are no words snarky enough to express my disgust.
I could tell you exactly what I think about that wedding dress, but I'm trying to forget I ever saw it. Ginger Rogers is rolling over in her grave.
