Scratching the Itch

Surprise! This blog has been resurrected from the dead. I imagine this post's successor will be a return to the roots of this site with a traditional tale of my sartorial choices gone awry, and guess what, it will probably be an anthology of leather-clad blunders, because regardless of my age, education, and geographic location, I continue to find inopportune times to wear leather, and public humiliation ensues. But I don't think this place will be entirely what it once was.

How I feel when I wear leather shorts and it's hot outside.
First, Hi! It's been a while. I just finished graduate school, and for the majority of my tenure in such a serious environment, I felt as though my sense of humor had been sucked out of me like a dementor feeding on human happiness. So besides managing an extremely hectic schedule, I also suffered from a complete lack of inspiration.
Much of the writing I love to do (here) has a certain joie de vivre, and it's been hard to replicate that when reporting on facts, figures, and child labor exploitation. (In case there was ever any doubt: it's really hard to make child labor funny.) So I focused on writing like a big girl -- and becoming a big girl as I stress ate my way to a Masters degree -- and I've now grown into a full-fledged, ten pounds heavier lady journo. But I still need to "scratch the itch" I have for what I like to think is my signature self-deprecation-with-a-pinch-of-narcissism writing style, which I can explain with a parable, as Jesus used to. (That's right Kanye. You're not the only one that can play that game.)
A few months ago, a few girlfriends and I were discussing a gentleman with whom one friend was debating pursuing... in a romantic nature. Said gentleman is smart, attractive, personable -- but possibly shy of being even 5'5" tall. (This could be a gross exaggeration.) The discussion was whether or not his height, or unfortunate lack thereof, is a dealbreaker.
I'm open about my heightism, and I like to think I'm heightist with good reason: I once dated someone of equal stature. Not only did I have to wear flats for the entirety of our relationship (heaven forbid he not be emasculated by my height or make like Tom Cruise and wear lifts) but I learned more about short man's syndrome than I did in an undergraduate history course on Napoleonic France. In fact, because of this experience and you know, aesthetic bias, I regularly advocate the application of the Six Foot Rule which states that no heterosexual woman over 5'8" tall shall romantically engage with a partner under six feet or 188 centimeters tall.

In the circumstances discussed among friends, the woman in question is not quite tall enough to be bound by the rule, and given that there were very limited numbers of fish in the sea at that time, the gentleman in question was, well, very much in question.
As we listed all the pros and cons of the situation, one friend bluntly ended the discussion as it were.

"He's not going to scratch the itch," she said, with her wonderful British sensibility. I tried to jokingly counter with a pick-up line I'm fed by short men often: "I've been told by shorter guys that 'everyone is the same height laying down.'" (It's vulgar, but I must say I'm often amused by the ballsiness of that line -- especially when a suitor's actual balls are closer to my knees which could potentially jerk out in response.)

Anyway, she was right, the debate was settled, and there is point to this digression about scratching the itch (other than how "scratching the itch" has become a joke at that unnamed guy's expense). If someone or something isn't going to scratch the itch, whether it's your own hormones or finding a creative outlet, find someone or something that does. See? A parable. Jeezy taught me.

Graduate school taught me a lot of things -- far too many to count -- and to be better at whatever things I knew already. But what it didn't do for me was scratch the itch I have for writing about the stupid, funny, or ridiculous things that amuse me, like the time I went to the doctor in a head-to-toe neon floral outfit with an unexplained rash ("the sexiest I've ever been"). Or how wearing leather shorts that make farting noises every time I adjust in my chair are only made worse by a room as quiet as a church. And to do that, at least for now, I have A Haute Mess to scratch the itch.

I'm not sure what exactly this blog will be moving forward. As said, I will include tales of my own humiliation -- and yes, often including fashion because that well runs deep. But I will by no means just write about fashion and will most certainly not be a Personal Style Blahger because as the wise

Roger Murtaugh would say, I'm too old for that shit, and also, we all know it was never my jam anyway.

So here's a new era of scratching the itch (and I don't mean that rash I mentioned earlier, that's totally been taken care of and it was just an allergic reaction.) Cheers!
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