Most Fashionable Reader! Zelda has dragged herself out of The Treacherous Abyss and has pulled herself to her feet to, well, face her demons head-on by writing about some form of some sort of journey into hell. Zelda is not one to rub salt in her wounds, Dear Reader, but she does have a fondness for rubbing alcohol.
James Joyce! Zelda has missed you so! Also Ulysses! Zelda cannot wait to go farther with you! Maybe even third base! And Vivienne! Zelda has missed you more! Zelda has missed you most!
The video below is something that has made Zelda feel better lately. It is a sweet little song — Zelda had forgotten about it until she heard it whilst getting her hair styled last week. Zelda feels the lyrics would have been a tad more cohesive, however, had Anna Nalick written it when she was a little older. Ah, well.
“My God! It’s so beautiful when the boy! Smiles!”
The writing on the wall
Fade past the unglazed mug, the shampoo commercial, the Still Life with Waterfall. Fingers blunt with cold. The sound of an old film. Aspirin tablets, chicken salad sandwiches. Extension cords round the room like lions. The smell of the weak, the descent of their last end –
Preface to the preface: after penning (or, well, typing, really) particularly volatile entries, Vivienne and Zelda had a phone conversation which sounded something like this:
Vivienne: HELLS YEAH!Zelda: I’M COMING ALLLLLLIIIIIIIIVVVVVVEEEE!Vivienne: OUR TIME IS NOOOOOOOWWWWW!
This exchange was followed by an open acknowledgment of and further commitment to the fact that, this time, the Hyacinth Girls are going Balls Out. Balls to the Wall. This, reader, is our commitment to you: we will take no prisoners. We will give no mercy. We will go All Out, Balls Out, All The Time.
And so it begins …
Vivienne has recently publicly announced her Declaration to Quit two things which she now sees as Very Bad Habits: smoking cigarettes and dating. When Vivienne has told people of her Declaration to Quit Smoking, she has received an Overwhelmingly, Undividedly Positive Response. Good for you! Fabulous! I’m so proud! The Declaration to Quit Smoking was met with complete praise and admiration.
However.
When Vivienne has told people of her Declaration to Quit Dating, the response has been muted and/or mixed. While some have been supportive, most have given her a response which one can only translate as I am now going to watch you carefully to make sure you do not climb your stairs and jump out of your second story window. Some have urged her, No, no, Vivienne! Don’t give up! The Man of Your Dreams is just around the corner! Some have said, with a twinkle in their eye and their voice, Oh, you know what’s going to happen now! You’re going to meet The One. I just know it. That’s what happens when you give up. Some have informed her that it isn’t healthy to quit dating. It isn’t healthy to give up.
Really.
Vivienne would like to argue against this. Vivienne would like to argue that both of her Declaration to Quit are, in fact, good for her health.
Let’s take the first Declaration. Smoking is bad for you. All right. We’ve agreed. Smoking is Very Much Not Good for you. It fucks up your lungs and your throat and your nose and one day, if you keep smoking, they’re going to cut out your tongue and your cheeks and you’ll just be a hole with a box that you hold to a hole in your throat to speak. It Is. Not. Good. For. You. Fine. We’ve agreed. That was easy. But when Vivienne says she has made a Declaration to Quit Dating because it is almost if not just as if not MORE damaging than smoking, then we have a problem. Then we have a protest. Oh-HO, then we hear. Vivienne has gone to far.
Vivienne is not going to give you examples of her Dating Nightmares. She is not going to give you examples of physical and psychological abuse, though she could give you plenty. She could give you enough to send you screeching and screaming into the corner. She could give you enough for a lifetime of sleepless nights. But she is not. Instead, she is going to do this.
Consider this: the one relationship all who know Vivienne termed as “healthy.” The one relationship which was a “success.” He was such a good guy! He was The Real Thing! He and Vivienne had long and healthy and open and honest talks! They got along so well! It was The Real Thing! Her therapist — even her therapist – agreed! Vivienne was taking Progress Road straight down the way to Healthy Relationship Lane, where the streets are paved with Bob’s Peppermints and everyone rides My Little Ponies to work!
Consider this: what went on in this one relationship that could be considered a “healthy” “success.” Here, Vivienne began a relationship (this was her first mistake) with a man (this was her second mistake) who worked in the same field she was in (this was her third and perhaps most fatal mistake). And, look, Vivienne isn’t going to give specifics here, as her desire for anonymity overshadows her desire to prove a point, but Vivienne will say that she Is Not Bad at what she does. Vivienne will even go so far as to say that she is Moderately Accomplished at what she does. She does Not Suck at it. But the man with which she was in this “healthy” “successful” relationship — let’s call him A. Hat — the man with which she was in this “healthy” “successful” relationship constantly, nearly daily, made remarks which implied that she did, in some way, suck at this enterprise in which they were both involved. For instance: when Vivienne would mention an Idea in Their Field that Ass H. had never heard of (something which should have happened quite often, as A. Hat really apparently had never evolved his thinking about Their Field past the 1950′s, but Vivienne held back), yes she did, good little girl that Vivienne is!), Ass H. would say look at you, telling me something new! Or, if Vivienne mentioned that she had spent the day working on Things in Their Field, A. Hat would say, look at you, working on your little work! Or, if Vivienne introduced Ass H. to some Literature in Their Field he had never encountered, A. Hat would remark, aw, look at you, reading!
When Vivienne heard this, did she vomit? Did she rip her phone out of its socket and throw it through a plate glass window? Did she rip Ass Hat off his couch and throw him through a plate glass window? No. No, though any of those would have been proper responses, she did not. She smiled. She blushed. She went so far as to giggle. She had to, didn’t she? A. Hat was The Real Thing! What they had was The Real Thing! This was the relationship that even her therapist termed as a “healthy” “success”! This was progress! This was The Relationship as The Relationship was meant to be!
Smoking is dangerous. Yes. Smoking can shorten your lifespan.
But I ask you this: is it worse to live a short life, being exactly and fully who you truly and really ARE, or to live a long life being diminished and put down and belittled and forcing yourself to diminish and put down and belittle yourself, to convince yourself that you are less than you are, just so that you can do what everyone says you should do — i.e., be in a Relationship, look for The One, be married and babied and white fenced and aproned and all?
Underworld: Bedsheets. Streetlamp. Comb.
You in the moment you know you’ll remember it: flipped backup and him working over you, grunt grunt and neversore though you sore, neversore he though you sore though you not sore because you cannot say sore, because you cannot say, flipped backup and him working over you, grunt grunt and neversore and hand firm and flat against flat back of the skull, flipped backup and him working over you, grunt grunt neversore neversore because you cannot say sore because you cannot say, flipped backup and him grunt and you mouth open, flipped backup mouthopen you cannot say sore and sore and flipped open you cannot mouth pillowed no air you cannot flipped backup you in the moment of grunt you’ll remember sore you cannot say you cannot you sore.
Vivienne feels shame in writing this entry. Vivienne feels shame in writing this entry because she knows that no entry, no entry ever, ever written, can ever match the pure magic and wisdom and vision of Zelda’s last post. For shame for Vivienne! But for glory for Zelda, Fashionable Zelda of Fashion! Zelda is, indeed, without question, The Girl With the Most Cake.
As for herself, Vivienne has no Cake. And Vivienne has, in fact, decided to refuse all Cake. Though this will make little difference for you, gentle readers, who would certainly not think of dating Vivienne after you have read Vivienne’s Most Private Thinkings, Vivienne must, nonetheless, make this announcement. Vivienne has Taken Herself Off the Market. Officially and, for the moment, finally. Vivienne has wiped all traces of herself from all Internet Dating Catastrophes, and Vivienne has decided to concentrate on what’s really important in life, such as gathering the proper number of cats to eat her face when she dies alone, which, really, she would rather do than continue to try to date the Asshats she has been busy trying to date.
Let’s just take a moment to discuss How This Came To Be, shall we?
Let’s say you are a man. Let’s say you are a man who meets Vivienne on one of the aforementioned Internet Dating Catastrophe Sites. And let’s say that you are a man who takes such a fancy to Vivienne that you compose, for her, long e-mails night after night. You make funny jokes about Twinkies. You say clever and sensitive things about her eyes. And when Vivienne offers you The Window as mentioned by Zelda several entries back, you open the window with all of your might. You are dying to crawl into that window. You open the window, and take Vivienne out for an evening. You and Vivienne have a Fabulous Time of Fashion. You drive aimlessly and see a castle. You drink beverages, for which Vivienne agrees to pay. Your topics of conversation vary from the shapes of various United States to world travels to godchildren. You and Vivienne are Getting Along Like Gangbusters. And you end the evening with Vivienne with a Most Fabulous Front Seat Make-Out Session of Fashion, after which you tell Vivienne you had a lovely time. A Fabulous Time. And you tell her you will talk to her again. You will call her. You will see her, definitely, definitely.
Now.
In this case, you would think you would talk to her again. You would think you would call her. You would think you would see her, definitely, definitely. But do you? No, and no, and no. Instead, you spend all hours of the day and night trolling the aforementioned Internet Dating Catastrophe Sites for Other Women, in plain view of Vivienne. You trade witty banter with aforementioned Other Women in plain view of Vivienne on other Internet Social Networking Sites of Catastrophe. You, in fact, arrange dates with aforementioned Other Women in plain view of Vivienne on aforementioned other Internet Social Networking Sites of Catastrophe, and you arrange said aforementioned dates on days when you told Vivienne, in explicit terms, that you would be Too Busy to See Her.
So Vivienne has had enough. Enough! Away with you, Asshats! Away! Vivienne is going to sit with her antiques and her cats. Vivienne is going to relegate her Dating Shirts and Uncomfortable Dating Bras and hopelessly painful Dating Panties to the deep dark depths of her dresser, where they DESERVE TO BE, and where they shall never again be seen by Asshats who Do Not Deserve Them, anyway. And this, Asshats. This, Vivienne dedicates to you. To all of you. Though you do not deserve the Fashion, the sentiment is right on.
NO TRANSITION, BITCHES! EXERCISE: FUNERAL, METHODS OF DEATH, EXPENSIVE RAINCOAT, HAT.
Rest your shoulder Peaches and Cream
The car ride being hotair and venting, tissues a wad in the purse’s bottom and the same joke the same when I die bury me at night and have everyone turn off their lights the same well the funeral home would love it bring more business and isn’t that the point of everything, the stockbrokers and broken windows. O the last time you saw her she looked so much older, her famous blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder and beneath the fabric what skin could say, what her skin told and taught you. Lie. Bury. Blanket. Being graveside in warmmist and cloudspit. Being graveside the stray dogs whose bodies were graves of themselves with ribs grates. Being one of the dog’s legs raised and pissing against the stone. Had you gone to the station, had you welcomed each train in, still your face would be blur in her memory now notmemory, now something about a hat’s brim tilted above the left eye and poker cards poking beneath his thumb. Something of trainsmoke, whistlemelody. The pills’d be much easier but who can afford them these days, steal them off the hobblers hobbling from the CVS door, vacuum air and sealant, Tylenol and bandage. Believe and belief. Living for nothing now, nothing living. The dog awaywandered and gravestone stillwet.
Dearest, Most Fashionable Reader: Zelda has a problem. Now, Zelda realizes that she is hardly back in the saddle when it comes to the dating scene, since Roxette was still releasing new music when she last dated, but she felt that certain statements would still ring true within the dating world. Such as: if two people have massive quantities of sex over an extended period of time, then they will be forced to come up for air eventually and, during aforementioned air gathering, they would, perhaps, get a bite or two to eat or watch a movie. Such as: if two people go to restaurants and the cinema together, if two people spend time out in public together and enjoy aforementioned time, then they will eventually end up enjoying the other’s, ah, company in the bedroom. These two statements have not rung true for Zelda, Reader. Zelda illustrates this with the following illustration:
And, like Dearest, Dearest Vivienne, I can offer you no transition to this imaginary letter written to an imaginary person from an imaginary person, which was inspired by Martha’s letter to Leopold Bloom a/k/a Henry Flower Esq. I can offer you only the video below — which is Liz Phair performing the fabulous “Flower” live. Unlike most of her live performances, however, this one is actually quite good. There’s even an extra verse at the end!
Also, Reader: Zelda would like to apologize for the nastiness (hers as well as Liz Phair’s) in the letter below but would also like to blame it on James Joyce.
the masochist says hit me and the sadist says no
naughty you no massaging your silly thinskin your babyfine headhair your naughtynaughty slapsore cock pam grier from a cheap frame watching us fuck and my fingers splaying and pressing your headboard (moving to livingroom) pam grier from a cheap frame watching us fuck and your cock being fucked on the sofa you like to be fucked your cock to be smacked and pulled I have noticed your eyes railroading me with want (with your hair I am making saltwater taffy) I wait for the want to escape your lips for naughtyyou to say –
Look, Fair Readers. You have stuck with me for quite a bit. Through thick and thin, as it were. And, as it is, I will make this admission:
Vivienne’s life is a disaster.
I mean, a Courtney-Love-at-five-a.m. disaster. A late-Judy-Garland-attempting-to-film-Valley-of-the-Dolls disaster. A Liza-Minelli-at-any-point disaster. Together? Vivienne does not have a whit of it. And so, Vivienne is not quite sure why she has taken this, this very moment, this Judy-Garland-in-tragic-sunglasses moment, to quit smoking.
Careful Readers may be saying to themselves: Quit smoking? I thought Vivienne already quit smoking. I thought that happened years ago. Yes, Careful Readers, you are correct. Vivienne did quit smoking, and it did happen years ago. But Vivienne took up smoking again. And here Vivienne makes a sad admission: Vivienne’s journey back down Nicotine Way started because of a man (actually, in an attempt to talk to a man in an unguarded smokehazed moment, during which said man confessed his homosexual tendencies, which Vivienne ignored to date him anyway) and continued because of a man (a man who, in Ms. Big Edie Bouvier-Beales’ words, was so warm on the telephone but so cold in person) (whose behavior also hinted at homosexual tendencies, which Vivienne ignored to semi-date him anyway, which brings to mind a pattern …). And so, in order to liberate herself of Said Men, Vivienne is going to quit smoking.
Which leads Vivienne to think of her other additions: besides her addiction to dating and semi-dating men with homosexual tendencies, there is her addition to Diet Coke. Smoking is bad. Yes. This, Vivienne can clearly see. Diet Coke? Nothing can convince her. Her doctor tells her to stop drinking Diet Coke because it is eating her bones. Vivienne is so exhausted by this news that she can do nothing but drink a Diet Coke. Vivienne watches footage of an egg dropped in Diet Coke. Vivienne watches as its shell dissolves. Vivienne thinks, how refreshing would a cold Diet Coke be right now? Vivienne’s teeth fall out because she drinks so much Diet Coke. Vivienne thinks, perhaps I could freeze Diet Coke in a dental mold?
And now, I provide you with no clear transition to tonight’s Ulysses assignment, inspired by Chapter 5, in which Mr. Bloom wanders around, tears up a letter, thinks about sluts, and witnesses an odd version of mass in which the Eucharist seems to come before the Gospel (perhaps this is just his perception, though): an imagine letter from an imaginary person. Who is, hopefully, happily drinking a Diet Coke, smoking a Camel, and just acting on his homosexual tendencies fergod’ssake like he should’ve done instead of all that damned repression.
Dearest Y.,
As for the fish I am not sure. Perhaps when feeding the tank left open, perhaps flipped themselves outwards. Somewhere I read of their teeth though not sure this is a true thing. Have you left the flowers where they were or are they elsewhere aplantered? Last night I could swear bright as day. The moon or something. Six cents a sheet, the copies are, and the library overrun with moths. Ate the verbs out and all of the Rs in the Oxford. Crying shame, hidden in that dress in the corner, with the stains on the glovetips and seed pearls rolling. Perhaps Sunday? Or the hot rolls and the coffee burnt, heating element eternal lit, red eye in the night. Lit his smoke on it and caught the hair on fire, poor guy. Bugger he or should’ve been. Or would’ve wished to. Pour out the last of the glasses and call a night to it, will you? Yes then. Yes.
Circumstances have arisen that have led to an odd necessity, this odd necessity being that Vivienne must look through Photographs of Her Youth, particularly Photographs of Her Youth as a College Student, in order to find An Entirely Appropriate Photograph of Her Youth as a College Student. I admit that I thought this would be an easy undertaking. Apparently, however, in the years since her graduation from college, Vivienne seems to have Completely and Entirely forgotten what her Life as a Youth as a College Student was like. Vivienne found one photograph. She was wearing a black velvet bra and a man’s suit jacket. This, obviously, was Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne found a second, third, fourth, and fifth photograph. In all of these photographs, she was holding a wine glass. Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne found a sixth and seventh photograph. She was shotgunning a beer in both. Definitely Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne found an eighth photograph of her smiling pleasantly in a pleasant pink wool sweater. Vivienne felt hope. Vivienne looked closer. Her roommate’s bong was in the background. Absolutely Definitely Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne finally found a ninth photograph of her working hard at her computer. Finally! Appropriateness! But for the “Militant Agnostic: You Don’t Know and I Don’t Know Either” bumper sticker plastered to the wall behind her left shoulder, not to mention the sight of a shirtless man behind her. Absolutely Most Definitely Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne now despairs, and thinks An Entirely Appropriate Photograph of Her Youth as a College Student is a non-existant myth.
Which brings us, fashionably, to this evening’s exercise, based on the fourth section of Ulysses, in which Mr. Bloom defecates in the outhouse. In this evening’s exercise, Viv and Zel have agreed to mention something unmentionable. Enjoy.
Wanting I think she wants a man who’s got no time for her because she doesn’t want to have time for a man. Well, maybe she doesn’t want a man. Has that made its way to your thinking? The whole morning a fourcoffee haze, slim white grave in the trashcan and outside the evidence of the well-packed pack all smoked and your thinking what doesn’t kill me now may kill me later, your thinking the smoke can do the job I not brave enough to do. In the meantide convincing theself of living by the cat who without me will have no freshwaterfoodbelledplaythings, she a black prrr in the blacknight. In the meantide not speaking of the notness to the women who heelthump down hallways, coffeesteam and questions your weekend your morning all right?
The top things on my list is this: I have a crush on Paul Kevin Jonas the Second.
Look, I know that this is not right. I know that this is not right at all, in any way. But their music is just so catchy! So upbeat! Such a positive message for the kids these days, and the kids these days really do need a positive message, don’t they? He has luscious curly hair! He performed on So You Think You Can Dance! Cat Deely loved him! Loved him! And Cat Deely is eleven years older than he is, which means that if I am only seven years older than he is, that’s not bad! That’s not bad! Right?
Look, the other thing is this: Vivienne doesn’t know how she feels about this whole cougar thing. Vivienne means by this that she is excited that the older woman/younger man dynamic is being celebrated and appreciated, in some sense, but Vivienne at the same time also doesn’t know how she feels about all of the Fuss about this. Take, for instance, this fact: were Vivienne to realize her sweet sweet dream of meeting Kevin Jonas backstage at So You Think You Can Dance? and taking him into her arms and — well, what have you. Were Vivienne to realize this sweet sweet dream and begin a long and exciting and glamorous and Of Course Scandalous affair with Kevin Jonas, Vivienne would be labeled A Cougar, as she is seven years older than he. Now, look. Here is a brief list of how many years older than her Vivienne’s last boyfriends have been (I’m leaving that sentence. So there. Do what you will with it): 7, 6, 7, and 14. Were these men labeled as Cougars? No! Did anyone even mention this difference in age? No! So why must Vivienne receive a label just because she wants to buy a Kevin Jonas-printed pillow so that she may rest her weary head upon his glory every night? Why does this make her any different — any worse — than the man who was 13 when she was 6?
And now, Vivienne must stop thinking of Kevin Jonas’ glory and perform her writing assignment, inspired by section 3 of Ulysses. And maybe, a little bit, by the thought of running her fingers through Kevin Jonas’ curls.
Sitting bluefurred and her chair highwheeled, she the great guardian of good morals, spouting no wine but grape juice no drinking nor dancing no smoking on Sundays no laundrybasket emptied then re-filled with clean no hands in the dishsoap no bubblegloved forearms the treelights asparkle and from the far kitchen’s corner a clink hidden, Merlot splashed between glass globeside and globeside. The cousins’ children on legs unsteadied running foreheaded against table tops, the gravy boat spitting. Small wooden squares of death walled and captured, memento mori those who one draped legs over chair legs and cursed the potatoes, laying their outpushed teeth on the tablecloth freshlaundered and lavendar scent. The dogcorner, the cousin knelt there with bluevein outsticking, rubber belt in the truckbed, needle and shine.
Most Fashionable Reader! Since Zelda shamefully admitted to being Shamefully and Highly Unfashionable as of late, Zelda has discovered that it is quite therapeutic to reveal secrets of shame and great sorrow. So. Today, Most Fashionable Reader / Reader of Fashion, Zelda will reveal, for the first time publicly, one of her secrets that she deems Incredibly Shameful.
But first! A preface to the Secret of Shame! Let Zelda tell you, Most Fashionable Reader, that she has no problems talking about most anything that has to deal with her personal issues. Now, don’t get Zel wrong — she is NOT the type of person who goes up to strangers and says, “Well hello! My name is Zelda, and I am a sober alcoholic who has battled depression and anxiety all of her life! How are you doing this most fashionable evening?” Zelda does, however, have no qualms with discussing her issues when she deems such a discussion necessary.
But! There is one thing that Our Dearest, Most Fashionable Zelda has revealed to less than a handful of people. Here goes, Dear Reader. Are you ready? Zelda cannot believe she is actually writing this down, but oh well: Zelda has Attention Deficit Disorder. That’s right. Zelda has ADD. Now Zelda knows, Zelda knows: it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Why? Well, because, as every book on Attention Deficit Disorder tells you, most people with ADD are incredibly creative! Hooray! Wow! Awesome!!!
But here’s the thing, Dearest Reader: Zelda doesn’t want to be known as a creative woman. When Zelda thinks of creativity, she thinks of windchimes made from thriftstore silverware, potholders made from bottlecaps, wreaths made from dried apple cores, etc., etc. Zelda doesn’t want to be a creative person who happens to have ADD. She wants to be a successful person who happens to have ADD. She wants a baker’s dozen of personal assistants, she wants to dictate confidential memos to her secretary, she wants a Range Rover the color of gunmetal, she wants an executive chair covered with Italian leather at the head of a boardroom table, etc., etc. This is why she found Delivered from Distraction: Getting the Most out of Life with Attention Deficit Disorder so fabulous — because it gives profiles of highly successful businesspeople that include how ADD has helped their careers as well as the pitfalls of ADD.
Oh yeah! The FaOuLiPoWriMoFa [Fashionable OuLiPo Writing Month of Fashion] poem! Zelda has used a section of Judith Greenbaum and Geraldine Markel‘s Finding Your Focus: Practical Strategies for the Everyday Challenges Facing Adults with ADD entitled “How to Use Self-Talk as a Memory Aid” as her source text, and she curtailed each line.
Stop! Am I –
A quieter place. Too noisy in here.
Did I hear this time? Am I too
tired? Think. Before saying anything,
get angry, tense. What
is here? This.
Stop.
Stop!
Down the choices slowly and carefully.
I feel. I think.
Only concentrate. I’m finished.
We can go. I can –
Failing doesn’t mean. What
can I try again? Give up to keep trying.
Maybe I need this. Should I go?
The problem: the things
I need. If I go
slowly, solutions happen. Strategy
Let us realize that Vivienne’s mental state can be accurately judged by the beverages she has consumed.
Today, Vivienne consumed a cup of Earl Grey Tea, a large coffee, a Diet Coke, two liters of water, three glasses of red wine. Today, Vivienne found herself crying in her office after reading an article which stated in No Uncertain Terms that teaching was the worst thing for a writer to do. Today, Vivienne found herself asking, but what if I like teaching? But what if I like it? Does this make me less of a writer? Today, Vivienne saw a news clip about robots and thought, Lucky. Lucky bastards. Lucky. Today, Vivienne found herself taking the long way home so that she could finish singing along to Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You” (Vivienne insists that this is the only Fashionable Version of this song, Whitney Houston be damned!). Today, Vivienne found her voice loud and warbling on “Good-bye, oh, please don’t cry, ’cause we both know I’m not what you nee-eee-eed.” Today, Vivienne bummed a cigarette from the one-armed jogger who refers to her as “schoolteacher” and “the little old maid.” Today, Vivienne’s cheeks have been chipmunked by Nicorette. Today, Vivienne needed desperately to feel useful. Today, Vivienne packed her spoons in a box to feel useful. Today, Vivienne realized she’ll need her damn spoons. Today, Vivienne unpacked the box of her spoons and felt once again like a failure. Today, Vivienne went down to the pool and laid, towel-less, against the burning hot concrete with her feet in the water, until she noticed the secretary of her apartment complex staring down at her from a second story window, head cocked, as if she was thinking, do I call Animal Control or the hospital or the men in Fashionable white coats with their relaxing syringes? Today, Vivienne used the elliptical trainer with such Fashionable and Ferocious Intensity that she actually broke it. Today, Vivienne found herself pumping iron while listening to M.I.A. at top volume and mouthing the words at the wall-length mirror. Today, Vivienne found herself opening the Fabulous Bottle of Red Wine she has been saving since January for a special occasion, thinking that a Date with her Angst might be the most special occasion she’ll face in the next few months. Today, Vivienne heated up some chili and was happy that she unpacked her packed spoons.
And so you can imagine the cognitive dissonance which occurred when, upon putting her usually-in-tune-with-her-emotions-iPod on shuffle, said iPod played no other song than … The Monkees’ “Pleasant Valley Sunday.” Are you kidding me? Vivienne thought. Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously. Seriously. Vivienne then found it necessary to attempt, for OuLiPoWriMo, to make “Pleasant Valley Sunday” into a depressing song. Today, however, Vivienne was shocked to see that it was already depressing, and half of her work was done for her. And so it goes. And so it goes.
Sunday
The local group — hard
to learn to seranade. The weekend
squire, mow his lawn.
Another valley
burning everywhere,
all the same
no one seems to care.
She’s proud. Her in bloom,
serene in every room,
pleasant. Sunday
status Mothers complain.
Creatures, comforts
make it hard for me
to stray. I need a pleasant
Ladies and Gentlemen of Fashion: Zelda is going to tell you about a friend that both she and Vivienne know. Every time this friend — who shall, from now on, be referred to as The Walking Talking Breathing Non Sequitur — randomly writes either Vivienne or Zelda, these communications consist of exquisitely random sentences and sentence fragments interspersed with exquisitely random self-centered sentences. Zelda would go into more detail and list a plethora of examples, but she feels very guilty and full of shame for even discussing The Walking Talking Breathing Non Sequitur because, as she and Vivienne say from time to time, “Yes, I know she tries. I know she’s reaching out. But Jesus!!!” Zelda will, however, make public an example that spawned the Most Fashionable Non-Profane Exclamatory Interjection in the History of Non-Profane Exclamatory Interjections — an interjection that she and Vivienne use quite frequently when no other word will suffice, an interjection that — when either Vivienne or Zelda has just recounted an extremely unfashionable event or happening to the other, who is then, for a few moments, rendered speechless by aforementioned unfashionable event — will rise forth unprompted from the other’s throat as a prayer, as a whisper, as regret.
Long ago, right in the middle of a Time of Great Stress and Great Sorrow in Zelda’s life, Zelda received an e-mail from The Walking Talking Breathing Non Sequitur. In between the exquisitely random sentences and sentence fragments interspersed with exquisitely random self-centered sentences, there was this: “I like your new profile photo. You look happy. Did you go to Vegas?”
Now, Dearest Readers of Fashion, the profile photo of which The Walking Talking Breathing Non Sequitur spoke was not new — it was, in fact, a few months old. And, Most Fashionable Readers, since Zelda is neither emo nor goth — even though she was called Wednesday Addams by a complete stranger at a local speakeasy recently because of, Zelda can only assume, her delicate porcelain skin — Zelda finds no reason to post a profile photo of her scowling, crying, or even looking morbidly pensive. And, Fashionable Readers of Fashion, though she finds the City of Sin quite intriguing and fashionable and dreams of living there for a season, or even a year, Zelda has never once — in the entirety of her life — equated Las Vegas with happiness.
So, Most Fashionable Readers, Zelda will now reveal the Most Fashionable Non-Profane Exclamatory Interjection in the History of Non-Profane Exclamatory Interjections: VEGAS!!!
Example:
Zelda of Fashion: Vivienne, do you remember the treatment we sent to Bravo? The one for a reality show that pitted poet against poet?
Vivienne of Fashion: Zelda, do you mean the one with the extremely fashionable challenges, like having all the poets write sonnets about Versace or YSL (may he rest in peace) dresses while sitting in the front row at Fashion Week, or having all the poets write sestinas in calligraphy on parchment paper while having exquisitely delectable soups spoon fed to them by Tom Collichio himself? Did you hear from Bravo, Zelda? Did you?
Zelda of Fashion: Yes, Vivienne, that’s the one. And yes, I heard from Bravo.
Vivienne of Fashion: Well, what did the network execs have to say?
I chose to create a Sponge Osmosity poem this FaOuLiPoWriMoFa (Fashionable OuLiPo Writing Month of Fashion) exercise. A Sponge Osmosity poem, as Vivienne described in an earlier, most fashionable post, is written by “culling phrases overheard from non-written media — television, a film, a conversation, etc.” For my Sponge Osmosity poem, I culled dialogue from the Fashionable Film of Great Fashion, Strait-Jacket.
Sculptress
You look lovely — very much a woman, and very much aware
of the fact. You see, that’s why I had to tell you. We girls have
to look our best. It’ll be just like meeting a stranger.
It must be lonely around here, ready to meet strangers.
Everyone’s a stranger. Maybe you should put through
a long distance call. How do you spend your time knitting?
Ever feel lonely? You have no idea how different you look.
I’m talking about the flowers. The good ones. They made one
mistake. She was just here. She’s coming home. Something’s upset.
There was something, all unraveled. There is nothing. It’s coming
apart. There is nothing wrong. I’m the one who suggested
the clothes and the wig. It was like a dream. It must have been
a nightmare. I wanted to test her reactions under stress. At last,
she had what she wanted. I know she’s dying to see you.
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It's very dramatic.
Posted by zeldafitzgerald 
Habits: smoking cigarettes and dating. When Vivienne has told people of her Declaration to Quit Smoking, she has received an Overwhelmingly, Undividedly Positive Response. Good for you! Fabulous! I’m so proud! The Declaration to Quit Smoking was met with complete praise and admiration.
her, No, no, Vivienne! Don’t give up! The Man of Your Dreams is just around the corner! Some have said, with a twinkle in their eye and their voice, Oh, you know what’s going to happen now! You’re going to meet The One. I just know it. That’s what happens when you give up. Some have informed her that it isn’t healthy to quit dating. It isn’t healthy to give up.
isn’t going to give specifics here, as her desire for anonymity overshadows her desire to prove a point, but Vivienne will say that she Is Not Bad at what she does. Vivienne will even go so far as to say that she is Moderately Accomplished at what she does. She does Not Suck at it. But the man with which she was in this “healthy” “successful” relationship — let’s call him A. Hat — the man with which she was in this “healthy” “successful” relationship constantly, nearly daily, made remarks which implied that she did, in some way, suck at this enterprise in which they were both involved. For instance: when Vivienne would mention an Idea in Their Field that Ass H. had never heard of (something which should have happened quite often, as A. Hat really apparently had never evolved his thinking about Their Field past the 1950′s, but Vivienne held back), yes she did, good little girl that Vivienne is!), Ass H. would say look at you, telling me something new! Or, if Vivienne mentioned that she had spent the day working on Things in Their Field, A. Hat would say, look at you, working on your little work! Or, if Vivienne introduced Ass H. to some Literature in Their Field he had never encountered, A. Hat would remark, aw, look at you, reading!
as The Real Thing! This was the relationship that even her therapist termed as a “healthy” “success”! This was progress! This was The Relationship as The Relationship was meant to be!
make little difference for you, gentle readers, who would certainly not think of dating Vivienne after you have read Vivienne’s Most Private Thinkings, Vivienne must, nonetheless, make this announcement. Vivienne has Taken Herself Off the Market. Officially and, for the moment, finally. Vivienne has wiped all traces of herself from all Internet Dating Catastrophes, and Vivienne has decided to concentrate on what’s really important in life, such as gathering the proper number of cats to eat her face when she dies alone, which, really, she would rather do than continue to try to date the Asshats she has been busy trying to date.
Dating Catastrophe Sites. And let’s say that you are a man who takes such a fancy to Vivienne that you compose, for her, long e-mails night after night. You make funny jokes about Twinkies. You say clever and sensitive things about her eyes. And when Vivienne offers you The Window as mentioned by Zelda several entries back, you open the window with all of your might. You are dying to crawl into that window. You open the window, and take Vivienne out for an evening. You and Vivienne have a Fabulous Time of Fashion. You drive aimlessly and see a castle. You drink beverages, for which Vivienne agrees to pay. Your topics of conversation vary from the shapes of various United States to world travels to godchildren. You and Vivienne are Getting Along Like Gangbusters. And you end the evening with Vivienne with a Most Fabulous Front Seat Make-Out Session of Fashion, after which you tell Vivienne you had a lovely time. A Fabulous Time. And you tell her you will talk to her again. You will call her. You will see her, definitely, definitely.
hopelessly painful Dating Panties to the deep dark depths of her dresser, where they DESERVE TO BE, and where they shall never again be seen by Asshats who Do Not Deserve Them, anyway. And this, Asshats. This, Vivienne dedicates to you. To all of you. Though you do not deserve the Fashion, the sentiment is right on.
Dearest, Most Fashionable Reader: Zelda has a problem. Now, Zelda realizes that she is hardly back in the saddle when it comes to the dating scene, since 
to a man in an unguarded smokehazed moment, during which said man confessed his homosexual tendencies, which Vivienne ignored to date him anyway) and continued because of a man (a man who, in Ms. Big Edie Bouvier-Beales’ words, was so warm on the telephone but so cold in person) (whose behavior also hinted at homosexual tendencies, which Vivienne ignored to semi-date him anyway, which brings to mind a pattern …). And so, in order to liberate herself of Said Men, Vivienne is going to quit smoking.
Completely and Entirely forgotten what her Life as a Youth as a College Student was like. Vivienne found one photograph. She was wearing a black velvet bra and a man’s suit jacket. This, obviously, was Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne found a second, third, fourth, and fifth photograph. In all of these photographs, she was holding a wine glass. Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne found a sixth and seventh photograph. She was shotgunning a beer in both. Definitely Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne found an eighth photograph of her smiling pleasantly in a pleasant pink wool sweater. Vivienne felt hope. Vivienne looked closer. Her roommate’s bong was in the background. Absolutely Definitely Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne finally found a ninth photograph of her working hard at her computer. Finally! Appropriateness! But for the “Militant Agnostic: You Don’t Know and I Don’t Know Either” bumper sticker plastered to the wall behind her left shoulder, not to mention the sight of a shirtless man behind her. Absolutely Most Definitely Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne now despairs, and thinks An Entirely Appropriate Photograph of Her Youth as a College Student is a non-existant myth.
Most Fashionable Reader! Since Zelda shamefully admitted to being Shamefully and Highly Unfashionable as of late, Zelda has discovered that it is quite therapeutic to reveal secrets of shame and great sorrow. So. Today, Most Fashionable Reader / Reader of Fashion, Zelda will reveal, for the first time publicly, one of her secrets that she deems Incredibly Shameful.
person who goes up to strangers and says, “Well hello! My name is Zelda, and I am a sober alcoholic who has battled depression and anxiety all of her life! How are you doing this most fashionable evening?” Zelda does, however, have no qualms with discussing her issues when she deems such a discussion necessary.
But here’s the thing, Dearest Reader: Zelda doesn’t want to be known as a creative woman. When Zelda thinks of creativity, she thinks of windchimes made from thriftstore silverware, potholders made from bottlecaps, wreaths made from dried apple cores, etc., etc. Zelda doesn’t want to be a creative person who happens to have ADD. She wants to be a successful person who happens to have ADD. She wants a baker’s dozen of personal assistants, she wants to dictate confidential memos to her secretary, she wants a Range Rover the color of gunmetal, she wants an executive chair covered with Italian leather at the head of a boardroom table, etc., etc. This is why she found 
Ladies and Gentlemen of Fashion: Zelda is going to tell you about a friend that both she and Vivienne know. Every time this friend — who shall, from now on, be referred to as The Walking Talking Breathing Non Sequitur — randomly writes either Vivienne or Zelda, these communications consist of exquisitely random sentences and sentence fragments interspersed with exquisitely random self-centered sentences. Zelda would go into more detail and list a plethora of examples, but she feels very guilty and full of shame for even discussing The Walking Talking Breathing Non Sequitur because, as she and Vivienne say from time to time, “Yes, I know she tries. I know she’s reaching out. But Jesus!!!” Zelda will, however, make public an example that spawned the Most Fashionable Non-Profane Exclamatory Interjection in the History of Non-Profane Exclamatory Interjections — an interjection that she and Vivienne use quite frequently when no other word will suffice, an interjection that — when either Vivienne or Zelda has just recounted an extremely unfashionable event or happening to the other, who is then, for a few moments, rendered speechless by aforementioned unfashionable event — will rise forth unprompted from the other’s throat as a prayer, as a whisper, as regret.
Now, Dearest Readers of Fashion, the profile photo of which The Walking Talking Breathing Non Sequitur spoke was not new — it was, in fact, a few months old. And, Most Fashionable Readers, since Zelda is neither emo nor goth — even though she was called Wednesday Addams by a complete stranger at a local speakeasy recently because of, Zelda can only assume, her delicate porcelain skin — Zelda finds no reason to post a profile photo of her scowling, crying, or even looking morbidly pensive. And, Fashionable Readers of Fashion, though she finds the City of Sin quite intriguing and fashionable and dreams of living there for a season, or even a year, Zelda has never once — in the entirety of her life — equated Las Vegas with happiness.
Vivienne of Fashion: Well, what did the network execs have to say?
