It all began when I purchased a romper.

I know what you’re thinking, fashionable readers. At best, the romper is a questionable garment. At worst, the romper is a blight upon chic personkind, proven by three out of four entirely factual scientific studies to result in spontaneous epidemics of rampage, blindness, and gnashing of teeth. (Has anyone, ever, at any time, purposefully gnashed their teeth while wailing, or is that only possible with hell-bound XP?) Nevertheless, I stumbled upon the aforementioned romper online, and it was on sale, and it was relatively innocuous, and I thought that, just this once, I might try Wearing A Trend Item™. Besides, the 100% cotton denim romper looked cool and summery, and once it died its seasonal fashion death (as it surely will), I would be rid of the sudden, ill-met, ill-fated urge to try out a romper.

Romper was purchased. Romper was delivered. Romper was tried on. Romper was casual and cute. Romper was a go. Romper’s tags were removed, thereby rendering it incapable of being returned. Romper was promptly taken to the laundry room; being made of dark denim, romper would need to be washed before wearing. Romper was lifted into the air, Lion King-style: hooray for the circle of life rompers!

At this point, however, the romper ceased from being referred to in such a cavalier, devoid-of-article manner. As the romper came within closer range of my nose, its (the romper’s) fabric was discovered to be imbued with an unpleasantly strong smell that one can only describe as “chemical-y.” As anyone who has ever purchased a dark-dyed article of denim can attest, this is an occasional occurrence. Unfortunately, this particular romper seemed to have a far stronger smell than any other I had previously encountered, a smell that I had attributed to “warehouse inventory dust” while trying on the romper, but was now revealed to be ingrained within the denim fabric itself — a malodorous casualty of the denim dyeing process, perhaps, or perhaps, as I did not then realize, the universe was trying to tell me something about the true nature of rompers.

“Fiddle-dee-dee,” thought Yours Truly, fluttering Yours Truly’s eyelashes, “the first wash will remove the denim toxicity from this trendy romper!” Into the washer it went. Wash completed. Air-dry commenced. Second sniff-test was administered. Verdict: the smell remained! Despite the antiquity of the phrase, I was flabbergasted. This never happened before. The first wash always made any faintly-chemical-smelling dark denim smell like … well, like laundry! Not so with the romper. The persistently-fusty denim garment was now washed, and hung boorishly upon the drying rack, a little lighter in color, tagless, nonreturnable, and (clearly) mocking me. What to do? Who could solve this noxious denim mystery?

I did what any other Informationally-Aged person would do. “To the internetmobile!” I shouted, scaring the cat, who has little interest in the internetmobile since it is neither a saucy bird nor a tasty treat. (Steve Jobs is already working on the prototypes for iBird and iTreat computers, while millions of feline consumers are already anticipating being moderately disappointed by them, whining about them, and then buying them anyway.) The internetmobile informed me, surprisingly enough, that the “stinky jeans” issue is relatively well-documented. Many internetpersons have suffered the same post-wash fate as I. The most plausible suggestions pointed me in the direction of washing the problematical denim romper again, this time adding a cup of vinegar or baking soda to the rinse cycle. (The specific type of vinegar was unspecified, so I, humorous cynic meanie-head that I am, briefly wondered if a foodie could ever be convinced to use balsamic vinegar for this purpose rather than the proper white version. Moreover, I wonder if balsamic vinegar would be good for removing rustic bread, strawberry, and gourmet salad stains.)

Into the kitchen I marched. Vinegar was procured. Vinegar was added to the softener compartment of the washing machine. Second wash was completed. Air-dry was completed. (Cotton dries awfully fast.) A hesitant sniff was administered to the romper. The chemical scent was lighter, certainly, but it still remained enough for me to notice it. “Still, it seems these internetmobile suggestions are accomplishing something!” I cried — the cat gave me a sour look — and I gave the wash another try, this time soaking the denim romper with baking soda. After the third dry-and-sniff, whereupon I still seemed to detect a chemical-y essence ingrained within the denim romper fabric, I began to doubt my own nose. “Can I still trust you? Why have you failed me, oh once-proud noseicle?” I wailed. The cat openly despaired of my sanity.

The fourth wash made me question my own sanity, for I, unthinking, reached for my old standby of Dark Woolite laundry detergent and was thereafter treated to a real-life example of exactly why one must use high-efficiency detergent in a high-efficiency washer. Soap suds began to fill the chamber of the washing machine. At that point, I did what any other Informationally-Aged person would do. “Mom!” I lamented into the phone, “I have ruined the washing machine, and I hate rompers!” My mother assured me that the machine was not ruined, although she could offer no comment on the romper. Meanwhile, I learned that is impossible to keep from feeling like an utterly brainless buffoon while scooping excessive soap bubbles out of a laundry machine with a cup. (You know, I consider myself a fairly intelligent person … and I’m still going to, because I’d rather be known for my scholarly enterprise than for my elaborate laundry skills. Revolt, Betty Draper. Revolt.)

As of this writing, the accursed romper is still at large. The denim fabric is still dark blue, albeit no longer navy blue. The chemicals have faded by an aromatic factor of 85%, and I suspect that is the final aroma verdict. My nose has gone on strike. My mother is amused by my overreactions. The cat is asleep, unrelatedly, because he is, after all, a cat. And I haven’t even worn the romper yet.

Therefore, Trendy McTrendersons take note: rompers are evil. This is the first scribbling I’ve written for AmbientWhimsy this year, mind you, and it’s about laundry. Surely there is no more wholly-conclusive evidence of evil.

As a (guilty) watcher of Project Runway and the like, my dislike of modern clothing may seem like a strange admittance indeed. Yet I must confess. I must throw myself on the mercy of the court. It is true: I do not like fashion today. The clunky platform heels, the hideous overly-strapped sandals, the eighties-inspired lines and bizarrely-sculpted shoulders, the skinny jeans and the booties — oh, god! The skinny jeans and the booties! Enough with the skinny lollipop pants and the mutilated boots already! Where are the classically pretty shoes, the well-cut pants, the well-fitting skirts and divine dresses? Where are the well-balanced jeans, for crying out loud? Where have all the chic fashions gone?

I’ll tell you where chic fashion has not gone: it has not gone into the closets of my unfortunate middle school students. (Hey, remember when everyone in your middle school dressed exactly the same way for fear of the death-by-not-following-your-peers penalty? Well, the situation still remains that way, more or less: a somewhat terrifying study in fashion herdsmanship.) Instead, my students are wearing skinny jeans and screen-printed t-shirts. They form a throng of shortish Ramones, really, in varying degrees. Hear me, oh young onions:

Things to Remember About Ramones-style Fashion

1. The Ramones = Pretty Cool.

2. Dressing Like The Ramones Without Actually Being The Ramones = Look, You Are Clearly Not The Ramones, So Just Stop It Already.

On the upside, my middle school students are allowed to wear ballet flats, as well as the traditional Converse All-Stars and a varied range of kicky sneakers. They’re clearly faring better in the footwear department than adults — no strappy-platform studded-bootie nonsense in sight, thank goodnesspleasegod.

So, am I truly old enough to dislike modern fashion, bucking all trends and going in for style instead? I always knew this day would come for me, as it comes for all world-wisened individuals, but is it here already? Perhaps it is. Ah, well. At least I’m one step closer to staying comfortable-in-my-own-skinville.

* I suspect this realization/loathing has something to do with my lack of a fashion magazine subscription, and, therefore, my lack of overall fashion media indoctrination. By enlightened choice, I haven’t subscribed to any fashion magazines in ten years. If I ever do see a fashion magazine today, it is merely in passing, as in an office or a grocery store, and then it is with a loud “pssh” noise that I retreat.

Much is made of cooking versus baking, at least on television. (If it’s on television, it must be true — and if you believe that, I have some excellent sub-prime mortgage loans that may interest you! Pay no attention to those people behind the editing, producing, advertising, and marketing curtains!) On foodie television, one often witnesses a chef, or at least an educated cooker of foods, sneer at the baking trade. “These sweet baking things,” the chef will snipe, snidely and succinctly, gazing upon a so-called “dessert challenge” they dislike, “they are not for me. The baking, it has too much of the chemistry, and I prefer the salty foods to the sweet foods, and my arms, they grow weary of lifting the pies from their heavy, heavy pie-tins.” (My imaginary television chef has a French accent, apparently. This is bad imaginary news for him, however, for any moment now he is sure to be bludgeoned in a rain of confectionery by imaginary French pastry artisans.)

Yet despite the ire of television chefs, and notwithstanding the wild, untamed, non-dessert eaters out there, I am unabashedly drawn to baking. The sweet tooth passed on to me by previous generations probably has something to do with it. (One has to give props to my grandpa, whose sweet tooth was legendary — he particularly enjoyed sticky persimmon pudding, and imbibed homemade apricot jam with nothing more than a spoon.) Not being much of a believer in inherited predestination, however, I can think of at least five reasons why I prefer baking. And because the web is a tubed oasis for fermenting one’s own opinion — alas — I’ll list them, too:

1. Baking is crave-worthy. In this age of excess, stress, and leisure, people are inherent food-cravers. Even if you are not a sweet-craver, you will, at some point, call upon a dessert to complete your salivation process. Show me someone who doesn’t like some form of sugar and I’ll show you an anteater — even diabetics compensate, after all. Case in point: holiday meals are finished off with dessert, not with main courses. (My apologies for this Euro-centric summation; I speak from my own experience here, and it is, alas, just that.) The products of baking are the finish to grand meals because they save the best for last. Dessert is the grand send-off, the applauded baking bow, and as such …

2. Baking is impressive and memorable. The products of baking can be more memorable than the main course. “Do you remember that chocolate cake you made?” and “Are you making your pie this year?” seem to be asked more often than, say, “What about those mashed potatoes?” It seems, somehow, far more daring to present a cake or otherwise heaping dessert to others. Baked goods stand a better chance of being appreciated, too, because …

3. Baking is comforting and familiar. Nearly everyone can appreciate baking, because nearly everyone has baked something themselves. We are all a bit more apt to recognize the skill and consideration — and, dare I say, “love” — involved in the baking process. Moreover, sugar is often the substance through which we knit our social gatherings. We enjoy cake and coffee, cookies and milk, pie and … more pie. Dessert is almost always served with conversation, some of which will, likely, be about the deliciousness of our chosen baked good. Also, the deliciousness bears little remorse, since …

4. Baking is vegetarian-friendly. Although high in “totally worth it” calories, baking still remains low in guilt. No animals are harmed in the emergence of a fruit tart, trifle, or pancake tower. (Vegans would disagree, mind you. Not having ventured into vegan territory yet, I can only pass on the news of their philanthropic disagreement with one reassuring caveat: many desserts are vegan-friendly, too.) Give me a (baking) cookbook that is not peppered with meat photography, please, and I shall be a gratified pescatarian baker. Futhermore, and lastly …

5. Baking is worth the investment. This one is personal. I feel far more at ease with a cake in the oven than I do when faced with a host of “regular meal” dishes. With baking, I am almost always assured of a delicious, impressive, memorable, comforting, relate-able, cruelty-free dish to share, whether it comes from a cookbook, family recipe, or the rare self-modification. For these summative reasons, baking simply feels worth the monumental effort it takes to cook anything at all. (Unless it doesn’t come out right, of course. Then, it is tragedy, but at least your kitchen will smell of sugar, spice, and other courageous ghosts of fallen dessert heroes.)

What bakers and chefs should do, on television or off, is bridge the gap between their crafts and make peace with their fellow foodies. If you’re drawn to baking, find an associate who is drawn to cheffery, and share — share the love, too, if need be, much like my own beau/swain/boyfriend-chef and I.

Did you really expect to read a tribute to baking without an appropriately saccharine conclusion? Think again, oh ye gourmands. Think again.

You know you must be A Highly Civilized Person when you can eat your various and sundry pastries off of a koi-themed plate. Better yet, just imagine the thrill you’ll receive when you dig into a very large slice of cake, one that entirely covers the design underneath — bite by bite, piece by piece, despairing calorie by despairing calorie — only to discover, when your belly is slovenly-full and your plate is fully-revealed, that there is a koi fish lingering underneath it. “Congratulations,” you will say to yourself! “It is like I have been eating off the surface of a fine porcelain pond, and now, this koi fish will surely devour my leftover crumbs! How handy, and how lily-pond chic!”

In all dreadful seriousness, though, I do like the plate, and I do like its relatively reasonable $12.00 price-tag. What I like most of all, however, is the title of said plate — if only there were three koi on each plate, it could be called “Three Koi in the Fountain,” à la Three Coins in the Fountain, of course — and let’s face it, ardent tableware fans: there’s simply no better kind of smug than the smug one feels when bearing a dessert plate that seeks to reference classic cinema.

Ah, small, muffin-shaped cakes: perfect for birthdays, brunches, tea houses, and all those who continue to live in cupcake denial.

P.S. Interestingly, I have often lamented the uninspiring catacombs of YouTube vlogging in the following manner: “Why would I want to watch someone talking about the muffins they had for brunch?” It appears as though everything online turns into muffins, eventually. What a sobering pastry thought.

Don’t you realize what you’re doing to me?

“The sweetness and flounce of a 50’s prom meets the sophistication of a modern cocktail frock in this absolutely darling pleated organza dress … a delightfully airy, bouffant silhouette. Designed to hit above the knee.”

Don’t you realize that this dress is singing the siren call of unattainable fancy? It comes with detachable halter straps, mind you, which are excellent, at least in theory. If you truly bear the hourglass shape that this gown implies, then you well know that a flimsy sausage tube can never lend proper support. The flower gracing the waist of this gown is likewise detachable, which is excellent as well, I suppose, since there do indeed exist some persons who despise all things pastoral, i.e., ill-tempered gardeners and severe asthmatics.

All removable pieces aside, Betsey Johnson, your gown nevertheless bears a far-from-detachable price-tag of $275.90 — and that’s the sale price, having been lowered from an original price-tag of $395.00. Come now, Ms. Betsey! I know what my rakish readers are thinking: “At long last, a gown for those of us who were racking our economizing brains as to how — oh, how?! — a 100% polyester mini-dress could ever be made expensive!”

Oh, Betsey Johnson. I often applaud your quirky sense of mod-baroque eccentricity, but I simply cannot fathom wearing it upon more than one or two occasions. When you go on sale, Betsey, really on sale, then we might talk again.

Regretfully,

Christa

I question having to order at least six markers, however. (Customizable M&Ms pull a similar standard-order trick, making you order at least four bags when all your not-so-customizable waistline really needs is one.) Can there be any personalized message for which you would require six permanent markers? “Instead of spending $17 on this marker, I could have written something for free.” Ironically, or perhaps intentionally, this message will not fit on a personalized Sharpie.

And that’s how you make fun of products upon which you draw no royalties, kiddies. I do hope you’re taking notes.

For those of you who have never tried frozen custard and are therefore tearing out your hair with stress and worry — “But I haven’t ever eaten any frozen custard! How can I possibly relate to this very fine scribbling?!” — relax, you stressed worrywart you. It is a fun fact that frozen custard tastes just like ice cream, albeit slightly mixed with frozen yogurt. Imagine those two tastes together in your taste-memory, and you’ll have it.

However, according to my Utterly Thorough and Definitely Infallible Internet-Machine Research, frozen custard has a higher fat content and is therefore far worse for your nutritional well-being than even plain, old, regular, calorically monstrous ice cream. So, if bazillions of calories per cup was not enough for you, ice cream lovers, step on up! Try frozen custard! It’s worse!

As for me, I am glad to know that there was once someone out there in the stormy wilds of the dessert, somewhere, sometime, who said, “By golly, ice cream isn’t bad enough for us! What we need around here is more fat! Send in the eggs!” Thanks a lot, someone. For not helping. At all. Mmmmm.

It wasn’t enough to sneer at the ubiquitous iPods back in 2005. Alas, I gave in to the iPod’s media majesty long ago, and am now one of those flagrant, devil-may-care iPod owners your mother warned you about, alternately motoring around town with ninety pounds of music in tow or squinting at films shown upon a Lilliputian screen that would make a very fine drive-in movie theater for a flea circus.

What can I say that hasn’t been already been said on the iSubject? The iPod was, and is, a triumph of pocket-size design that spawned a new generation of lookist gadgetry:

Drooling Gadget Fiend: Let’s buy this gadget!

Suspicious Gadget Doubter: What does it do?

Drooling Gadget Fiend: I don’t know, but it’s small, you can customize the color, and it has a bunch of things on it that we’ll never use! Clearly it’s a must-have!

After enduring countless modern-age scenarios like the above-mentioned — often playing both parts myself, in a mad, Sybil sort of way — I find myself here. On one side of me sits my iPod, awaiting fleas. Perched on my other side is my new touch-screen cell phone, which houses not only a camera and videocamera, but also a schedule, to-do list, notepad, stopwatch, tip calculator, instant hands-free Bluetooth connection, Tetris addiction, message center, and the untapped possibilities of XM Radio, television, and sweet lord can it actually call anyone?! It is not an iPhone, thank goodness, but it remains a ridiculous overfluffment of application possibilities nonetheless. I have a laptop computer, a Bluetooth adapter to connect my cell phone to my computer, a stereo to connect my speakers to my iPod, a GPS device to connect myself to the proper roads, and more! There they sit! The gadgets! The gadgetry! Most of them are pink! And they’re taking over! They’re just waiting until the next teeny, lookist, customizable gadget comes along, and then they’ll strike!

It’s time for a gadget diet, ardent fans. Join me, capitalist-born comrades, all ye who have entirely valid guilt complexes about your own personal gadget invasion. Alleviate your excess gadget fat by … uh … by writing scornfully about the privilege of surplus ownership! That’ll teach those gadgets!

After all, if Generation Y must pursue ever-greater materialism, the very least we can do is pursue ever-greater self-loathing, too. They go together, hand in hand.

Me, Out-and-About and Requiring a Snack:
“I’d like a garden salad, please, with vinaigrette dressing, and a small Diet Coke.”

Highly Underpaid Serviceperson:
“Do you want cheesecake with that?”

Yeah. I’d like a slice of cheesecake with that. A salad just isn’t a salad without a little cheesecake crumbled over the top of it.

Now, a thinking person might suggest that, perhaps, we shouldn’t be ordering our snackages from an underpaid talking post in the first place, and that we shouldn’t expect too much from greasy capitalist machines whose fortunes are built upon mechanized slaughter. Man, that thinking person sure is smug.