Gospodina Americanka 2

I would like it to be known that I am a classy broad. I like nothing better than prancing around in high heels, drinking a Manhattan, maybe have a full coverage halter apron on over some frilly dress, and eat microwave bacon on a rainy morning.

A morning such as this, the 15^th of November, you ask? Why, indeed. Coming off the Atlas Shrugged high, and working nights, I gotta do my drinking far enough before work—the morning. As it turns out though, that new-fangled “white whiskey” (neither new nor fangled really, but a reincarnation of poor man whiskey: moonshine) no way compares with true rye for taste.

Why did I use the weird clear whiskey in my Manhattan? Because the rye I bought was gone. Vermouth and cherries still stand, so it seemed like a good chance for experimentation. It went awry, DO NOT assume that because it's called whiskey it tastes the same. Moonshine is moonshine. A is A. No matter how you market it, those years in casks bestow more than color upon the liquor.

Point being I don't just drink stuff to drink stuff. I drink stuff because it tastes good, and it lends an aire of horse race to my laundry strewn morning.

Why exactly am I dressed up for the laundry? The drink is for glamor (in it's strictest sense) but the outfit is for practice. I say I like nothing better, but anyone who has known me longer than 3 years will dispute the fact. I wore my sister's torn battle dress uniforms for years in college, and heroin addict sweaters in highschool. Heels never reached over an inch, even for prom. The biggest dress purchase was a $20 polkadot affair for a political dinner which resulted in my boob popping out in front of various senators and their wives. Strapless, never again.

So, Moldova strikes again. Two years of stilettos and praise of my child-bearing hips has given me a boost of rashness in the clothes department. Also, remembering the gorgeous orange stewardess mini-dress, and how I gave it to my hippy roomate before leaving... the remembering is a tragedy. I can't believe I did not save that. I was so occupied being buddhist and killing the things I loved that I didn't realize I might want to wear that thing again. Irony? You bet.

The design of the orange mini-dress is similar to this new thing. Instead of puffed sleeves, it's halter. Instead of orange it's cream and navy. The skirt is longer, but has a slit. It has a belt. The fabric is thick and porous. It is the tightest thing I have ever worn. It makes me glad I have been working out for a month or so. If my ass looks this big when I can run for 25 minutes straight, what would have looked like in September? Seriously, it makes JLo look like Twiggy.

But that's fine. I've seen Moldovankas working with less (or more depending on how you look at it). When asked, they reply that it doesn't matter what your body looks like, because you should always dress as beautifully as possible. Damn straight. Tuesday morning, here I am.

The tight dress shines up not just the largeness of my rump, but also the lack of rhythm with which it naturally moves while the feet are sabotaged by three inch heels. Ever wonder why Jack Lemmon described Marilyn Monroe's walk as “jello on stilts”? Golly, I had never figured why sexy walk were sexy until tarted practicing walking around my house looking like Betty Draper. I'm sure I come off more like the freshman stripper, but I also couldn't play guitar two years ago.

So, that's how I dress at home. As my sister, Short-Round, discovered. She just popped in between her school and work shifts to grab a jacket, and almost didn't notice, and when she did burst out laughing. This will be another embarrassing thing to bring up at Thanksgiving dinner along with the chocolate burning, orange picking, and organic milk drinking... boy howdy.