A Stiff Dose of Reality

Fat, Frumpy Days

2010-11-23T19:21:00.001-08:00

It is definitely a fat, frumpy day. It may be the downright depressing Montana weather. (Think blizzards, snow drifts, chapped face from the weather) I really didn't even want to leave the house today. My darling boyfriend was sweet enough to drive me to school though, so no excuse to skip. (Besides today being a fat, frumpy day.) I put on a men's Abercrombie button up, an oversized grey Holister sweater over top and two bright belts to give myself a slightly feminine shape. Add some turquoise and va va voom. Well... it wasn't a velour track suit.
As the day wore on, two boring classes down and no sign of cheery weather, I began to make peace with my fat, frumpy day. (If I'm being honest, the enormous burrito from Taco Del Sol didn't necessarily help... but watching the movie Goonies definitely improved my mood and absolved my guilt:)
So here's a toast to the impending, bleak Montana winter and more fat, frumpy days that I'll inevitably have to make peace with and the absolute blessing of little brothers who give me their too small button up shirts.
Xo.
-h.

Hairnet Wednesday...

2010-07-28T20:27:00.000-07:00

As you can see from the first two photos, I started the day with an adorable little number. High-waisted wool black skirt (hand me down from mom:) with a fun graphic tee (Pac Sun), a chunky plastic bracelet (boutique in the Dominican Republic), and a great silver knotted necklace (Dominican Republic, too, I believe). I ran some errands around town and even got a compliment from the woman who renewed my car title at the courthouse. I was most pleased that she liked my outfit because every DMV or other government employee who takes my money to make my car legally acceptable for road use seems to hate life so much they can't be bothered to return a friendly smile or light chit chat. And this woman seemed like no exception until she gave me the once over. It must have been the guns and diamonds juxtaposition on my shirt.

Feeling like a million bucks I headed to work at noon. I changed into my green polo shirt, (much like those the Arby's employees wear)oversize green pants and practical Dansko shoes. The outfit is so depressing I decided to add a hairnet today. After all, if I'm going to make food for 80 people and serve it out of industrial steam tables I may as well play along with the entire lunch lady look. After work I got home in time to hang out with my two-and-a-half year old niece for a few minutes. She asked what my hairnet was. I explained it and asked if perhaps she'd like to try it on. I said, "Violet, would you like to wear my hairnet? Look how cool it is!" She stared at me with a deadpan expression and responded: "That's not cool." Amen buddy. Amen. Guess I can't wear diamonds all day long...

Thank the Lord for Sensible, Comfortable, Working Woman’s shoes…

2010-07-27T21:56:00.001-07:00

Today, I am the concierge at the assisted living facility where I work. I say today because I wear a few different, less glamorous hats during the week. On Wednesday and Thursday I am the evening cook. I spend eight hours washing dishes, making magic on the smoldering griddle, whisking soups to an edible state and steaming frozen vegetables. By the end of each cook shift my bangs are plastered to my forehead, my pants are spackled with the main entrée and my apron is sagging with grease, suds and indefinable food particles. Like I said, not so glamorous.

But today, as the concierge, I got to wear an adorable outfit with every intention of sitting in an office, answering the phone and never having to pull on latex gloves to bus the dining room or step in to the walk in freezer with my practical (but oh-so unfortunate looking) Danskos.

When I arrived at work, ten minutes before breakfast was served, I heard worried murmurs: “the cook never showed up,” “Who’s gonna make breakfast?”

Remain calm, I told myself, no need to soil my beaded butterfly skirt and crocket racer back tank. I walked into the kitchen to find the two servers and prep-cook nervously staring at the menu for the day. Indeed, the cook was nowhere to be seen and no one knew what to do.

I quickly fasted a frightening clown apron, made by a crafty co-worker who also milks her horses to make pancakes, and settled into the frenetic pace of a kitchen running behind schedule.

I stirred Malt-o-meal, thawed and baked sausage patties and sent the servers out with carts of bananas and applesauce. While I was preparing an egg, cinnamon, and milk mixture for French toast, my boss showed up and finished breakfast.

As I retreated to my office I realized how important a competent attitude and comfortable pair of heels are. My Sofft patent black heels were outstanding under pressure. I actually made it through a long seven-hour day with out so much as unfastening the three-inch wedges for a mini foot massage. Time for a new pair of Soffts and some new co-workers☺

Ladies, if I can survive 80 hungry elders in heels, you can survive a day in great heels at your job! What are your favorite comfy, gorgeous shoes?
Xo
-h.

Hey, it's OK!

2010-07-23T22:54:00.000-07:00

So, I decided that I need to be more consistent with my blogging. That said, I stared at my computer screen- all that endless white space-- and couldn't think of anything interesting, delightful or meaningful to write. I opened my Glamour magazine and told myself I'd write about whatever page I turned to. Page number 122 in the August 2010 issue of Glamour is the Hey, it's OK! page. There is a little cartoon girl perkily standing with hand on hip and then a few validations for the modern woman in the form of "Hey, it's OK! ...to paint only your first two nails when you wear peep-toe shoes." Instead of simply reiterating those validations, I thought I'd compose a few of my own and hope you add yours as well.
Hannah's Hey, it's OK's:
Hey, it's OK! ...not to know if Ok, Okay, OK, ok, or O.K. is the correct AP style for the stupid word, even after an entire semester spent poring over the AP style book.

...to think blogging on a Friday night is actually more spectacular than getting glammed up for a night on the town.

...to browse your cousin's ex best friend's boyfriend's sister's facebook albums for a ridiculous amount of time before realizing it's ridiculous to be browsing your cousin's ex best friend's sister's facebook album.

...to be following Heidi Montag on twitter. Somebody has to keep tabs on the crazies.

...to feel extremely accomplished for making it through work while hung over.

...to be angry that your ex got over you and is now getting married.

...to just be you- enduring quirks that may not be that enduring and all.

The Great Outdoors

2010-07-22T08:11:00.000-07:00

In a far far away land (we're talking no electricity and no neighbors for miles-except maybe the creepy backwoodsman who lives off the land, abducts his wives and has no idea that his lumberjack apparel went in and out of vogue) called Snedeker Basin I stayed in a "rustic" little cabin for two days. By rustic I mean four bunk beds, two queen sized beds in two rooms, a stove and little table for sorting out deer parts and playing cards while drinking whiskey sort of outpost. The hunting cabin looks like it was dropped by a crane in the middle of the Snedeker Basin hilltop with no visible roads to connect it to anything but the 6,500 foot hills around it.
My cabin-ing companion, Fred, says the Blackfeet Indians hunted the hills for thousands of years, monitoring the migration of buffalo by burning the grass in certain patterns. Thinking about chasing buffalo, antelope, elk, deer in the bitter Montana winters to survive affirms my staunch belief that God knew exactly what he was doing when he plunked me down on earth in 1986. I would be the whiniest Indian in the tribe- eventually getting exiled to an enemy tribe (who hopefully can gather berries in a warmer state:)
Now, it's not that I don't enjoy the great outdoors, especially growing up in the treasure state. But with allergies that flare up when I even think about animals, agriculture, flowers, penicillin and socks with sandals, my joy is diminished. Then there's my irrational fear that I'll get out of cell service, in, say, almost anywhere in Montana, have a reaction to basically any flora from the car to the cabin door and die. While I've lived a good 23 years, I'm not ready to die before I find somewhere to don my light denim shirt and polka dot skirt.
So, with trepidation I approached my stay at Snedeker Basin. But...turns out, it was incredible! I saw hillsides covered in lavender, mullan, snaking creeks, grazing cows, singing sparrows. On the second night at sunset I approached a herd of 200 elk and sat 50 yards from them, silently trying to communicate just hold blessed I felt to sit in their presence. The barking of an elk is something I've never heard, the stampeding of antelope traveling 35 m.p.h. is something graceful and breathtaking. And while I itched my eyes, cursed my constricted lungs and contemplated reading my Glamour magazine in the car with the a/c cranking, I paused long enough to see the extraordinary setting enveloping me.
I am so proud to be a Montanan-- even in allergy season.

These are a few of my favorite things...

2010-04-26T09:51:00.000-07:00

Feel free to add to this list but my current fashion favorites are:
Floral print dresses with leather jackets (back to that theme of great juxtapositions)
Structured velvet jackets and bustiers with a hint of silk or lace
90's denim button up shirts making a resurgence (and taking the place of lumber jack shirts, thank the Lord!)
Sequins that are still on our radar, but in healthy doses. My favorite is Lauren Conrad's look on the cover of Glamour: destroyed daisy dukes with a silver sequin tee.
Short cotton skirts with pointless, (but adorable!) colorful zippers
The Giorgio Armani fall line as showcased at fashion week. The bright orange, reds and pinks are delectable as the silk dresses that look like flower petals...sigh. Oh, and did I mention the green velvet is sheer opulence. Oh Giorgio... (http://www.nytimes.com/packages/html/style/fashionweek/runway.html#/fall_2010_armani_giorgio/slide_show)
When DVF sticks to flirty, patterned dresses (ugh, pants and tee's that were incorporated in the spring line, you were way out of your element Diane-y)
Cornflower blue, so sexy. (Weeeeeelllll done on this one Versace)

Dislikes:
Christopher Kane's spring line of table cloths. Seriously, I just wretched. Admittedly, I'm not too familiar with Christopher, but when you make a spring line that is mostly nursery colored table cloth skirts and tops you deserve a "hell no, we won't wear." (backhand for a terrible transformation of the out of date lumberjack shirt I have in my closet...)
Pants that combine leather and denim- backhand Versace for trying to combine dominatrix and 70's flared jeans.

Alright, that's all I've got for now. After looking at all those malnourished models I'm gonna go eat some cookies in their honer.
Go get your trend on.
Xx Hannah

The Fabric of Life

2010-04-22T08:29:00.000-07:00

WHY FASHION?

Let's return to Naeem Inayatullah, months after my last post.

“While writing is certainly a skill that requires a certain mastery of technique, I see it also as an engagement with the very fabric of life.

I've realized that writing about fashion, clothing trends, seasonal do's and don'ts isn't hard hitting journalism. But it is my connection to writing- my way of connecting literal fabric to the fabric of my life and passion for writing.

Without further ado...
Thought for today: fashion juxtaposition
Nautical and urban grunge. Let's begin with nautical. I'm thinking stripes, red, gold and navy blue. Crisp, collared, cape cod. Urban grunge: leather, faded jeans with trendy tears and splatters, jewelry that isn't particularly attractive. Now let's juxtapose. A Harley riding bad boy, our urban grunge boy takes a trek to cape cod to pick up his lady friend. She's got on her white capris, red polo shirt and an oversized yellow and gold patent Michael Kors tote. The two cruise the coast and one thing leads to another... and we've got a hybrid fashion baby. The look: destroyed dark jeans, form fitting, girly nautical tee, high leather shoes with straps that serve no purpose, sleek ponytail, pearl earrings and lots of chunky turquoise jewelry.
That was juxtaposition number uno.
Next I think we'll discuss the mis-matching patterns trend that has invaded the glossy pages of Vogue. Or velvet's rise to stardom...
Xo. for now- go get your own trend on

But I know, the Heart of Life is Good.

2009-12-08T00:19:00.000-08:00

I, Hannah Stiff, believe that what I write is important. -My fading mantra of the semester.

Naeem Inayatullah, a teacher and author says:

“While writing is certainly a skill that requires a certain mastery of technique, I see it also as an engagement with the very fabric of life. Indeed, I have come to believe that developing a rich and meaningful life can be facilitated by an engagement with writing.”

“Learning to write can be as difficult and as rewarding as life itself,” he says.

Amen. I am suffering this self pity disease that wonders why I can’t create brilliant cops and courts stories that flow seamlessly, evoke the proverbial lump in the throat and rally a cause around a theme of injustice. My ideas of exposing a riveting story are played out in a dull 500-count Word exposé.

The Pulitzer Prize mocks my cliché writing. ‘The Greats’ laugh down their seasoned noses at me, the lackluster journalist whose competitive edge is buried deep (if it exists at all).

Worst, perhaps, is the former belief that has been sufficiently beat out of my mind: the belief that I was actually a competent writer (before I began journalism school). Truly, I believed journalism school would merely build on my existing talent. Now I’m hoping for a talent transplant from someone who has given up on the mutating journalism industry.

When I think about ever getting a job in journalism I get indescribably depressed. I feel that no matter what I write it will never be good enough. Good enough to change the world for those who desperately need change. Good enough to give hope to the hopeless. Good enough to make myself believe that a “meaningful life has actually been facilitated by an engagement with writing.”

I’ve never truly considered an alternative to journalism. (Ok, I’ve toyed with marrying rich and spending my husband’s wealth on humanitarian projects, and the occasional pair of Christian Louboutins. But then I’d have to be a trophy wife, which would mean giving my look a little more gusto, read: gym time.)

As exam week of my first semester in the professional journalism program has descended I want to sit and cry while listening to David Gray songs. I want to give in to my fantasies about returning to Africa and playing soccer in a brilliant green field with my children from the Maranatha Orphanage. I want to admit that I have no idea whether my heart still yearns for journalism. I want to admit that I may be incapable.

Then I remember, in the abyss of my soul, that writing is balm for days like today. After winter’s wind has whipped away my last reserve of confidence about my future, I remember- I can write for pleasure. I can write without an editor haunting my sentence structure or lecturing about run-ons. I can write with Pandora in the background, an office cluttered with homework I’m neglecting and a roommate who interrupts my thoughts with Spanish questions. I can write while weeping on my keyboard, knowing JTech has no dominion in my living room.

“Engaging with the very fabric of life” through writing is lackluster today. But the soothing clack, clack, clack of relaxed fingers on my old keyboard is something more, something vaguely spiritual.

Surviving Journalism Skool

2009-09-01T22:33:00.000-07:00

Alas, the title says it all. Surviving J-school, yes, that's my mission. I wrote a witty dissertation about my first few days of the professional journalism program. I lost that entire blog post because I'm too bleary eyed to be trusted on a computer (at 1 am, nonetheless!) So, the laconic version is this: I am tired of school. I am no Van Wilder, diligently trying to preserve my youth by taking the six year college plan. I want to finish. I want a stupid diploma in my greedy hands. Simultaneously, I want to be the best. I don't want my hormonal teachers to assume I am a sorority girl who wants a journalism degree to promote a job at Vogue magazine. I want to be the top of my journalism classes. I want to walk out of class and blush with a surge of pride because, Aha, I did write an enlightening bit of material about foreign exchange students being unable to travel abroad this semester due to swine flu. But first I have to wake up for class and make it through the AP Stylebook (a journalist's dictionary, comparable on the boring-o-meter to a normal dictionary) letters A and B. Yes, I really do have to read the definition of the word adjective. I'll be reading these words ad nauseam ( a word also in my "you don't know shit about shit condensed dictionary").
More to come...
han, a disgruntled journalism student

To Momma with Love.

2009-05-10T22:16:00.000-07:00

To my mother and hero: I love you.

Today my mother is celebrating in Las Vegas with her bible study ladies. She sent me a text earlier that said, "Our suite is nicer than our homes so beautiful" (punctuation is still on the text learning list:) I'm so thrilled my mom is doing something for herself, enjoying something glitzy, taking a break. Lili Stiff deserves vacations around the world, and one day mom, I hope we take those trips together!

To all the mother's who can sense pain in our voices from thousands of miles away. To all the mother's who love us when we're grand messes of uselessness. To all the mother's who sacrificed their bellies, thighs and hips to bring us into the world: THANK YOU.

Thank you.

Etiquette-perhaps I spelled that wrong- perhaps because it's almost obsolete

2009-05-09T11:43:00.000-07:00

Today I am in Spokane, Washington for my lovely friend Teal's graduation. Teal is doing all the requisite breakfasts, bbq's etc and being a charming (but in demand) hostess. So, with some free time I decided to grab a cafe au lait at a fair trade coffee shop called Natural Start. The place is in a little house with a red roof. The door is a light oak color with an oval glass window and inside it looks as if a big, extended family is sprawled out in their living room. There is an older couple sitting in content silence with mismatched mugs of coffee. There is a woman, the aunt, cozy on a leather couch with a scone in front of her, engrossed in a book. A man is sitting at a chess table is looking at a magazine, gazing out the big front window. A teen girl is sitting on a high stool in front of the window, she's the daughter of the chess table man. The scene is relaxed, warm and welcoming. I'm jerked out of my little fairytale as I remember that this house is actually a coffee shop and no one is related.
But that feeling...that anti-starbucks, authentic, organic feeling is overwhelming here. I took a seat on the leather couch next to the "aunt." She immediately asked if I had enough room (although she was crouched in the far opposite corner I'm sure she'd take to the floor if I asked for more room). The barista brings over my coffee and vegan muffin. I pretend to study my history notes as I listen to the conversation around me, to the delightful surge of B.B.'s King's voice. The "aunt" leans over and says, "I usually don't ever talk on my phone in public, I think it's impolite. But would it bother you if I called my father? I need to check on him." I was completely rattled. Never before has anyone asked if it would bother me if they chatted quickly on their cell phone. Of course, I reassured her, it would be fine if she called her father. Etiquette. I was a firm believer it had disappeared, especially regarding cell phone use. Thank you "Aunt."

If it's not the Swine Flu, it's the Recession--I just want some dirty rotten scandal for a moment...

2009-05-06T20:52:00.000-07:00

I'll admit it: every now and again I like to browse a Cosmo magazine. How very trashy, right? It's no Economist or National Geographic, but some of the articles are well-written, witty and splashed with cute photos and jealousy inducing ads. I've had a long standing love affair with the magazine. Growing up I treasured afternoons of sunny solitude spent in the Bozeman Public Library. I especially loved reading old Cosmo magazines as covertly as possible. I would look at the happy models and hope I turned out to be the stylish, sexy and intelligent (how I concluded the wafer thin models were intelligent is still a mystery to me) woman Cosmo promoted.

I was in Walgreens tonight wandering without purpose when I found the magazine aisle. Briefly I contemplated picking up a women's health magazine and brushing up on workout tips (Maybe not brushing up- that would imply I actually have a fitness foundation in the first place...). Then I found Cosmo. The first article I opened to was "How to Make Your Love Survive the Recession." Hmmm... WTF crossed by mind immediately. I flipped to the next page only to find that putting my satin panties in the freezer will be an immense turn on in the summer. (Another WTF for that one) Enough Cosmo.

I left Walgreens wondering if being in school too long, reading everything scholastic had tainted my usual love of the sexy mag. But that's not it. It's the fact that I want my superficial dose of femininity without reference to anything I'd see on BBC. I don't want to hear about the recession correlating with my love life. I don't want to hear how those stupid little white masks will actually spice up my love life. I just want a few unadulterated moments of escapism entertainment without the side of swine flu, recession woes and political undertones.