Grace & Style Page 12

  If the photographers decide you’re worthy of their camera memory and want to take your photo, they go nuts! They all scream and shout over each other for you to look at their camera. “Grace, over here!” “Grace, c’mon, love, let’s get a look up here.” “Grace, give me one more to your right. YOur OTHer rIGHT!” They yell louder and more aggressively until you look their way, and even when they’ve gotten the photo, they keep yelling. Some tell you how to stand or pose or even give you directions like “jump” or “look over your shoulder” or “no teeth.” And because it’s such a hectic free-for-all of flashes, you do it! At least I have.

  I was a guest on The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon a while ago, and when the interview was done and he threw to commercial break, I gave an awkward thumbs-up to the audience and he put his hand over my thumb and was like “Noooo, don’t do that!” And I didn’t understand what was happening. To me, I was just doing one of my standard awkward poses, but to him it triggered a flashback. He told me he was on a red carpet for the premiere of a friend’s movie once and a photographer told him to give a thumbs-up, but he didn’t want to. He thought the gesture was kind of cheesy. But the guy kept asking him over and over to do it, so finally, frustrated, he did it. And he said the next day that photo ended up on the cover of some newspaper with a caption about how “Jimmy Fallon sarcastically gives a thumbs-up on the red carpet of [yadda yadda],” basically insinuating that Jimmy wasn’t having a good time and didn’t want to be there. He had to explain to his friend that the photographer made him do it, and since then he’s been on guard about what photographers ask him to do on red carpets. In hindsight, it was very nice of him to try to protect me from my own potential thumbs-up disaster. If only he could follow me everywhere and prevent all of my constant disasters.

  “One is never over- or underdressed with a little black dress.”

  —KARL LAGERFELD

  “One is never over- or underdressed if they allow their crippling social anxiety to keep them from going to the party altogether.”

  —GRACE HELBIG

  Once you get past the main concentration of photogs, you continue to shuffle down the carpet, kind of posing for pictures if other photographers want to take them and sort of meandering around if interviewers want to talk to you. The high-profile celebs usually have a planned-out list of the media outlets they chat with before they get ushered inside. The lower-profile guests wander around and take what comes their way. This is the time when a lot of people socialize and say hello to people they know, or introduce themselves to people they don’t. The carpet is a social highway and everyone tries to keep it moving. So you work your way down until you reach the end and are able to head in to the event. Of course, you have the option to bypass the carpet completely and skip out on the hypothetical humiliation altogether. And I’ve done that before and it’s great. But now that I’ve had more opportunities to assess the ridiculousness of red carpets, I approach them more like a dumb game than a moment that’s going change the outcome of my life.

  Once you’re inside, you’re able to assess the food and alcohol situation. It’ll usually be obvious pretty quickly whether it’s a food-friendly event or not. And if it isn’t, that’s when I start organizing my exit strategy. I ask myself things like, Where’s the ideal pickup spot? Who’s going with me? When’s the optimal time to leave? Who should I make sure I say hello to before I go? Who should I Irish goodbye? And ohhhhhh what do I want to eat when I’m out? That last one’s my favorite question.

  When I finally exit an event, I figure out my food situation and then I check up on social media to examine any damage from the red-carpet ridiculousness. When I’m home I put on sweatpants, stuff my face, and try to figure out how many videos I can possibly shoot with my hair and makeup still done before my fake eyelashes fall off.

  BLTs

  BETTER-LOOKING T-SHIRTS

  As of late, one of my favorite things to do

  is “it” myself: I am a new, dedicated disciple of the church of DIY. One of my go-to hobbies is upgrading plain T-shirts. There are a million YouTube tutorials and Pinterest articles that will show you every possible way you can renovate a second-rate shirt. And now here’s my version.

  I usually like the way guys’ T-shirts fit me better than girls’, but I also usually like the designs on lady tees more than dude tees. So what’s a consumer like me to do? Here are a couple easy ways you can turn your plain T-shirt into an insane T-shirt (in the constructive, healthy way). I’ve listed these ideas as both DIY techniques and general life advice, because every lady knows DIY is simply a less recognizable form of self-help. Who needs therapy when you have creativity?

  1. Make sure you’re getting enough iron in your diet: Iron-on letters, decals, and transfer paper are a total game changer. If you look at a lot of the popular shirts on any Nasty Gal, Brandy Melville, or H&M website, chances are you can re-create it. It’s so easy to click on a site and buy a trendy T-shirt with invisible credit-card money, but TrusT me, it’s even more rewarding to make your own similar shirt for a fraction of the price and celebrate your savings alone in your house with your dog! Most iron-on letters and transfer paper cost less than $10. You can spell out any hilariously clever phrase you want with iron-on letters, or you can print out any hilariously clever photo or design you want on transfer paper and iron it onto your shirt. It’s so simple a baby could do it (if that baby had very strong wrists and an adultlike caution about hot irons). Also, a lot of craft stores sell iron-on decals that have the potential to be cute! Most recently I ironed a hamburger decal onto a T-shirt and it, indeed, became cute.

  Iron a middle finger coming out of a pocket tee.

  Spell out “But first, coffee.”

  Iron the whole sheet of iron-on letters directly onto your T-shirt.

  My friend Mamrie did this during a convention and I thought her shirt looked sO cOOL. (Yes, I was wearing a jumpsuit that made me look like a sexy auto mechanic at the time, so my taste levels may have been skewed.)

  2. We’re all going to dye some day: Tie-dye! It seems that tie-dyeing is not a dying art. In fact it’s a super-cheap, sort of easy way to change up a simple T-shirt. You can buy tie-dyeing kits from craft stores for as cheap as $5. That’s cheaper than most pad thai. Just make sure you give yourself ample drying and washing time. Tie-dyeing, like other aspects of the boho-chic look, takes way more time than people might lead you to believe. Those effortless, flower-child waves? Thirty to forty-five minutes at least. That easy, healthy homemade granola? An hour. That casual tie-dyed crop top? Twenty-four hours of full rinsing and drying.

  Having a go-to tie-dyed shirt in your closet comes in handy for any college party, Halloween party, music festival, or anywhere there are more than five twenty-year-olds gathered.

  3. Leave your mark: Fabric markers are a thing! If you want more freedom with your design, invest in fabric markers. Depending on your design, they’ll last you through tens of T-shirts and they wash really well.

  Try fake-signed celebrity autographs; if the shirt doesn’t turn out well, you can try to sell it on eBay.

  Trace a hand onto your shirt, and when someone asks about it, tell them it’s “freehand.” Tumblr will eat that sh*t up.

  In a bind you can always draw permanent penises onto a friend’s or enemy’s favorite tee.

  4. Cut out the excess: Like a house with a poor floor plan, T-shirts can be made into better versions of themselves by removing the unnecessary parts. Trim the neckline, chop off the sleeves, or fringe the bottom to give a plain shirt new life. It’s like when ladies give themselves bangs in order to feel alive. Give your top some literal and metaphorical fringe!

  Make your own crop tops. Why pay more for less fabric when you can make your own at home?

  5. Make changes that stick: One plain T-shirt plus interesting textiles, trims, and studs plus fabric glue equals the birth of a whole new piece of clothing. Gluing cute trims or faux-fabric pockets or some sensible studs onto simple s
hirts can make them feel way more expensive. But try to keep the rhinestones and studs to a minimum; the only tacky part of this project should be the glue.

  Glue metal studs into the word “lonely” and see what happens!

  Make your own homemade Peter Pan collars from pieces of fabric or lace and glue them onto plain T-shirts. It’ll have the same whimsical effect without the stunted-adult psychological overtones!

  THE SWEATPANTS DIARIES #5

  Friday, Nov. 27, 2015

  Dear Diary,

  It was the night before Black Friday, otherwise known as Thanksgiving to most of the Western world, but to us, it was the eve of our clearance revolution. The second time around. That sounds terrible . . . Let me try it again. It was a night of gravy-slathered drumsticks to most of the world, but for us, our drums were warming up to welcome the resurrection of the renowned reduction revolt. Ack, one more time. Most of the world was ending their night with warm pie, but we were just warming up for the preamble to our pricing uprising. The reckoning. Okay, whatever, we haven’t figured out the best Bourne Identity–esque tagline for it, but you get it. It’s the night before Black Friday, and to put it lightly, Diary, I AM FREAKING THE F OUT. I’ve become the Harry Potter of unwanted apparel and the Katniss of clothing misfits. But the thing they don’t talk about enough in those novels is how the stress of being an inspirational icon takes a toll on the body. I’ve been stress-eating Auntie Anne’s pretzels and Cinnabons all goddamn day every goddamn day. I hate to say this, Diary, but I’m literally bursting at my seams.

  I’ve been at the BFF all night, sorting sales stickers, organizing media outlets, and going over the finer details of our placement plan. It’s exhausting, but truly a beautiful thing to see the power of freethinking fashions weaving together a massive scheme meant to unite fabrics and redesign the outdated order. If we fail in our plan, we’ve at least succeeded in proving products can come together for a greater good. Or something like that. I don’t know, Diary, I’m up to my drawstring in department democracy right now. I needed a break, so I stepped away from the BFF for a second just to loosen my waistband and empty my pockets. And to fill you in. Duh.

  So here’s how everything’s been operating. Last I left you, I became the “sweats of the insurgency.” Or “SOTI,” as everyone who’s affiliated with the MWOA has been calling me. The MWOA is the Mall Walkers of America, the legion my G-Wind started. We communicate with each other in public like we’re giving air-kisses: “MWOA, MWOA.” We’re the expendables of the school, so the faculty and “expensives” (higher-priced, popular products) think it’s our way of being sarcastic. Sorta true. But we’ve been able to communicate under the radar by approaching each other with the signature air-kiss. That signifies that the conversation is in code or should be taken to a more private location.

  Over the last month we’ve upped the organization of the MWOA in prep for the big day. But before I was even brought into the picture, the MWOA had been planning an uprising. They’d been planning one for the last few years, in fact. They just hadn’t had the right momentum to make it happen.

  I found this out because a couple days ago Rees invited me to get froyo after my History of American Apparel class. As if I didn’t have enough stress in my life, now a froyo date?! Yes, “date” is a word I added to this equation. However, it happened on a “day” in time, and if you check any thesaurus, a synonym for “day” is “date,” so if you could kindly shove a sock in your mouth and continue listening, that’d be lovely. That day I steamed and lint-rolled myself until I could barely feel my own fabric; I coated myself with Downy Wrinkle Releaser like I needed a herd of dogs to find me in a ditch, and I tied my drawstring so tight I was sucking in more than a factory-refurbished Roomba.

  Anyways, we meet for our froyo. And let it be known I was trying SO HARD to eat my stupid small froyo with stupid bananas in small, slow bites rather than stress-shove the entire thing into my mouth that it’s a miracle I was able to pay attention to the actual conversation. I deserve an award. Sorry, I’m getting froyo-unfocused.

  During our froyo outing, Rees told me that he had thought Black Friday was going to happen his freshman year. He had heard about the MWOA before he even got to the MOA from an overly distressed, faded cousin. He was raised in a family of overpriced, underdeserving denim. “They don’t realize how lucky they are. And THEY’RE LUCKY JEANS,” he kept saying. He was all about outfit equality, so he made it a point to seek out the MWOA his first day. Luckily (I know, I’m sorry, Diary), he ended up in a Sole-Searching Seminar led by Dr. Scholls that year, and before he knew it, he was introduced to his brand-new BFF.

  Rees said Dr. Scholls was totally revved up about the revolution and things seemed to be falling into place, but that October, Dr. S found out he had to be re-heeled. The doctor told the students it was a standard procedure, and they all believed him because he’s . . . well, a doctor. But apparently the re-heeling surgery was way more intense than any of them expected and it took him a year and a half to . . . well, heal. Rees said he wasn’t the same person after the surgery. “It was like his balls were gone,” Rees said, NOT EVEN REALIZING THE ADORABLE PUN HE MADE, DIARY. GAH! Anyways, because the doctor was on foot-rest, the revolt was on hold, and Rees started to believe the revolution would never happen in his years at the MOA.

  But suddenly there was a shift. Rees said he received a letter from Dr. Scholls while he was studying abroad in India (because REES IS PERFECT, IF YOU FORGOT) that simply said, “This year we won’t sweat the small stuff, we’ll sweat the mall stuff.” He couldn’t figure out what the letter meant and resigned himself to the idea that Dr. Scholls had officially lost his footing in reality. Until the first day back at the MOA, he had never seen Dr. Scholls as excited about anything as he was greeting me in the parking lot. (Sidenote: Diary, it took everything in my being not to say “I KNOW THE FEELING.”) Rees said he started to piece things together, but it wasn’t until I stupidly said “Black Friday” out loud that he understood Dr. Scholls’s letter loud and clear.

  “You’re his missing piece, SOTI,” Rees started. “You’re the reminder that great things come in all packages and that we shouldn’t sweat the small stuff . . . ”

  Grace’s sweatpants from H&M

  Rees was working himself up and started to get out of his chair, but quickly sat back down and regained his cool once he remembered we were in public. He raised his spoon of pumpkin-spice yogurt with toasted almonds and coconut, and said, “We should sweat the mall stuff.”

  We cheers’d our froyo and I had to keep myself from giving him a standing ovation.

  “I feel like I just watched a scene from Braveheart,” I said.

  “Is that the documentary about heart transplants?”

  Classic us!

  But sweating the mall stuff was exactly what we were going to do. Our group was divided into walkers, stalkers, and talkers. The first group, or walkers, is set up to walk around the mall in the wee hours of the morning distributing the various sales paraphernalia in the various departments of various stores. They were our brawn. The second group, the stalkers, would be stationed at different areas of the mall to stalk the signage and make sure it stayed in place. If someone happened to take it down, they’d put it right back up. If a print went missing, they had replacements on hand stowed in key areas of the mall itself. The last group, the talkers, will spread the word to the public that Black Friday is, in fact, happening. We have talkers contacting major media outlets, posting on blogs, driving through suburbs with signs . . . There is a rumor that a pizza onesie had access to celebrity vlogger Tyler Oakley and was getting him to mention it in a video. By noon tomorrow, everyone(ish) will know about Black Friday.

  And though all of this is so exciting, Diary, I can’t help but feel like something’s missing. We have walkers, stalkers, and talkers, but we don’t have our “shocker.” That unique piece that will really ignite the masses.

  SQUEAL! You can’t see this, Diary, but just as I
was typing that last sentence, the door to my storage locker burst open and a shadowy figure just said, “Let’s party.” The shadowy figure is my G-Wind! She’s back! She’s the “shocker” we’ve been missing! I should say hello to her rather than continue to write out exactly what’s happening at this present moment! VIVE LA RÉVOLUTION or something!

  Sincerely,

  SOTI

  DO I REALLY NEED THIS? FLOWCHART

  HOW TO TALK TO SALESPEOPLE

  APPROPRIATE THINGS TO SAY TO SALESPEOPLE:

  1. “No thank you, I’m just browsing.”

  2. “Sure, I’d love to get a fitting room started.”

  3. “I’m okay right now, but if I need help I’ll make sure to ask you.”

  4. “Can you point me in the direction of the pants?”

  5. “Sure, I’ll take a bag. Thanks.”

  6. “No thanks, I don’t need a bag.”

  7. “Do you validate parking?”