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Monthly Archives: April 2014

In honor of Casual Friday, I will herein list what I would wear if I were a super villain.  True, most villainous garb is not considered casual, but I feel the spirit of the day is more about freedom to choose your couture. To illustrate my points, I shall include several collages I created on Polyvore.com

Ok, here’s what I call Super Villain Style #1:

b7759174f21aec66a28f5e6a8a31dcc6To me, this ensemble says, “Bask in my glory while I kick your butt”–which is always a helpful message to send. Yes, it is all black, and black is a bit cliche for a villain, but there’s something to be said for a timelessly classic look. Key points to notice are the leather pants and motorcycle boots, which scream “Domination!” But also note the flowing top and feminine accessories which change the outfit’s shout to “Pretty Domination!” The sensible heel on the shoe means you won’t break it off when you trod upon your enemies, and the loose sleeves of the top give you great range of motion when punching or slapping your foe. A simple collection for your day-to-day evil needs.

Collection 2 ~or~ The Red Death


This collection is all about drama. Practicality be damned–you’re looking fierce. This outfit is perfect for sipping out of opulent chalices, gliding ominously down stone corridors and hosting extravagant galas which are unparallelled in their depths of decadent splendor. Bonus: Crimson and onyx garments are perfect for hiding blood stains while still looking chic.

And finally, collection 3: The Unexpected.


Yes! The delicious satisfaction of fooling your foes with this pastel pastiche. Drawing from such style icons as Barbie and Elle Woods (from Legally Blonde), this outfit will be sure to stun everyone. No one will ever suspect you of nefarious schemes when you sashay through the room in your preppy pumps, sassy peplum dress, and pretty floral earrings. No one would ever suspect your glam clam purse could ever hold a weapon. Not unless it was a collapsible weapon. Not unless it was a discreet collapsible shiv, created especially for just such a cute clutch as this. No one would ever suspect that. Not until you, that is.


So there you have it– Finch’s fashion tips for the would be villain in all of us. These are just a few of the many options that I would have in my diabolical wardrobe if I were to one day seek to reign supreme and unchallenged. I’m sure that day will never come, but if it does, I will look fantabulous.


Well, it’s Casual Friday again. The day when I can shuffle out of the shackles of my slacks (“Slackles”, if you will) and revel in the freedom of my jeans, tee shirt, and generic sneakers. As much as I love this day, it also causes me to heave a dramatic sigh. Of course, lots of things cause me to heave a dramatic sigh–not winning the 50-50 raffle, someone taking the parking spot I consider “mine”, the soft drink machine being out of Coke Zero and having to settle for Diet Coke–but this is a special kind of sigh. For while on this one day I can cast off my oppressive business casual garb, I know Monday will bring slacks and blouses and trouser socks. I long for more autonomy in my apparel, but alas (insert dramatic sigh) it is not meant to be. However, I do try to be subversive about how I present myself. I normally don’t wear makeup to work, and I don’t wear a lot of jewelry. I do wear lots of black–head to toe, all black– and I usually have my coppery hair pulled into a tight bun.  I’m going for the severe schoolmarm look. But on Casual Friday, whoo boy. Even though I’m wearing jeans and a t-shirt, I try to look fly as hell. Cute, butt-hugging jeans, charming shirt, coordinating jewelry, a full face of makeup and a stylin’ coif. My goal is to look as miserable and wretched as possible during the rest of the week so that on Friday, those in authority will notice the striking difference in my appearance and be dazzled by the change. So much dazzled that they abolish the business casual dress code and let us wear jeans every day again.

“Wow, look at Finch today! She’s so vibrant! Whatever could be the cause of this dramatic change? Oh, it must be the joy emanating from her as she basks in the freedom to wear comfortable clothes! Now we see the errors of our ways!” (Yes, they will exclaim everything.)

I think my plan would work too, if it weren’t for Dave. He sits in the same cubicle as I do. Frickin’ Dave. He wears a suit on Fridays. He wears a suit every day. And a tie. The jerk. I saw him wearing cufflinks today. We work in a call center. None of our management wears suits. The district manger does not wear a suit. One time, the CEO of our company came for a visit. He was not wearing a suit. But guess who was? That’s right– Frickin’ Dave. Frickin’ Dave’s hair always looks perfect. Frickin’ Dave always has a flawless tan. Frickin’ Dave smells like expensive cologne. One day, I think I’ll have to frickin’ cut Frickin’ Dave and then we’ll see how he feels about being a suck up, smug, well-dressed weasel.  Your suits don’t look so fancy now, do they Dave, encrusted as they are with your own blood. Yes. Weep, Dave, for I have struck you and brought you low. You will wear jeans on Fridays. You will wear polo shirts and khakis and loafers  the rest of the week. I swear, if I see you wear another tie to work Dave, I will yank said tie from your throat and flog you with it. Tie floggings are not so much about inflicting pain as they are about causing humiliation. And you don’t even want to know what I’ma do if I see you wearing cufflinks again. Muck up my Casual Friday, will you? I think not. Shoo…


So there was a crayfish/crawdad/effed up lobstrosity (whatever you want to call it) trundling its way across my parking lot like it aint no thang. I saw it, and my mind couldn’t even make sense of what I was seeing at first. It was just a blur of slimy grayness, movement and unspeakable horror. Felt like I’d stumbled into some sort of Lovecraftian nightmare. Then I slowly realized that what I was seeing was most likely a crawdad and not the spawn of a hideous shambler from the stars. Still, it doesn’t matter–crawdads are messed up looking.

And then, just when I thought I was safe, it turned toward me, its chitinous legs tapping over the pavement like the macabre fingernails of a disembodied yet somehow sentient hand!

I made sound of disgusted terror. “Eeurrgh!” is what it sounded like. I leaped backwards out of its insidious path and contemplated my options. Should I run? Is its vision based on movement? Does it smell fear? Can I step on it? I quickly nixed that last option–I was wearing thin canvas shoes and its pincers may be powerful enough to shear through the material should I fail to crush it the first time. Plus, if I crushed it, it would crunch, and crunch loudly. And just that sound would be enough to drive me to madness, let alone the fact that as it crunched and squished and crackled, that mess would be all up on my shoe. And then it would probably soak through to my foot. And then I would have to cut that foot off and soak the stump in bleach and purify it with fire and salt. That seemed like a bit too much to endure, and plus it seemed kind of mean to kill something just because it is ugly and terrifying and a blight upon the laws of Nature.

Finally, I realized the crawdad was not headed for me, but for the yard. I let it go on its merry way, but I kept a wary eye on it as I headed for my car, just in case its behavior was just a ruse to fool an unwitting human. I got in the car and locked the door. Yes, I locked the door to keep out a crawdad. How was I supposed to know what it would do if, say it was startled by the sound of my car starting? Mightn’t it fly, enraged, over to my car door, wrench it open and drag me out of my seat, intent upon devouring my still screaming face? I have no frame of reference for what an enraged crawdad might or mightn’t do.

“But crawdads don’t have wings,” you might say, pedantically pushing your glasses up on your nose. “So how could it ‘fly’ over to your car?” It could have had wings. It could have been mutated. You don’t know what it did or didn’t have–you weren’t there. So shut your face hole, Smuggy McGee.

I’m sorry about that. It was just a traumatizing experience, that’s all.

Then, when I got home, I scoured the parking lot and yard for any sign of the crawdad. I didn’t see it, but that don’t mean nothin’. It could be hiding. It could be creepin’ in the stairwell, waiting to lunge out and sever my Achilles’ tendons with its claws as I pass so it can feast at its leisure. It could be lurking at the threshold of my apartment. Or worse yet, I could make it into my apartment just fine and then think “Whew, everything’s fine I guess.” And then I’ll be chillin’ on the couch, updating my blog and then the phone will ring, and then a tentacle of trepidation will wrap around my heart. I’ll answer the phone: “Hello?” No answer. “Hello?” I say again, my voice shaking. And then, just as I’m about to hang up, I’ll hear heavy breathing. Then whatever sound a crawdad makes. “Cthulhu fthagn,” I assume. And then I’ll hang up and call the police and have them trace the call that I just got and the police phone operator will be like “Gurl, yu best be gettin outta there cuz da call be comin’ frum INSIDDA DA HOWSE! (police phone operator will be played by a LOLcat.) And I’ll hear that chitinous scrabbling sound from down at the end of the hallway and I’ll slowly turn, eyes widening in terror as I see the crawdad waiting for me underneath the hall light, holding a cell phone and chuckling evilly to itself. It’ll start skittering down the hallway, impossibly fast and I’ll scream as it reaches the end of the hallway and launches itself at my face, diabolical claws flailing about, and then the screen will jump to black and roll credits. You have just finished watching “The Crawdad Chaos: Cray-Crayfish”, starring me.