Grace & Style

by Grace Helbig

  Hope this wasn’t the worst advice in the whole goddamn world.

  Sincerely,

  Miss Mess

  Dear Miss Mess,

  The night started with me and my roommates passing around some sh*tty plastic-bottled tequila while we got ready to head out the door to Kevin Spacey’s white party. Not, like, the actor Kevin Spacey. Kevin Spacey is the guy in my women’s studies class with the sexy jawline and one huge calf, no one knows why, I think his mom drank a lot of Red Bull when she was pregnant. Every year Kevin and his roommate throw a white party in the crappy house they rent off campus. Apparently it started as a Walter White party, but no one read the Facebook invite, so everyone just showed up wearing white and it became a white party.

  I left my other white shirts in the washer overnight and now they smell like wet carboard.

  I’m wearing my H&M white jeans and a man’s white T-shirt I bought an hour ago at a CVS because I left my other white shirts in the washer overnight and now they smell like wet cardboard. It’s not my fault my stupid mom never taught me how to do my laundry. Well, she tried to teach me one time, but I had to go to T.G.I. Friday’s with my friends instead for Krista’s birthday. And my mom definitely knew that because she stalks my Facebook constantly to see if I’m doing drugs.

  Anyways, me and my dorm mates, the twins Ava and Eva (a lot of people at my school have super-unfortunate names), walked out to our Uber and Ava kept complaining that she ate too much guacamole before we left and Eva kept yelling at her because she knows guac causes Ava to make ass-ripping farts. They’re so annoying. The twins, not the farts. Wait, no, actually the farts are stupid annoying, too.

  We got to the parking lot and there was a wood-paneled station wagon with a super-old lady named Carol driving it. We totally freaked because if we got in the car with her, we were gonna look like nerds who got their mom to drive them to the party. And I’m sure my mom probably definitely already knew about this party because she’s always on my Facebook! Goddammit, Mom!

  Anyways, before we could cancel the trip, Carol yelled at us, “You Ava and Eva? Y’all look hot, you’re going to Spacey’s, right? Get in, I got Jell-O shots for the ride, but I gotta see some ID. I’m no idiot. Hey, what do they call you guys, 2 Chainz?” Carol kept laughing but Ava and Eva didn’t get the joke. I told them it was because they were wearing tacky belly chains, but they still didn’t get it. I don’t wanna talk sh*t about my friends, but they’re, like, really dumb sometimes.

  Anyways, we got into the back of the car and it was lined with velvet and loud music was playing and Carol kept screaming about how much she loved Stephen Wolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride” or something. And then all of a sudden it smelled like rotten lasagna and the inside of a butthole and Eva yelled “GODDammIT, aVa!” And Ava said it wasn’t her and Carol told us it was probably Mr. Todd, the potbellied pig that was lying on a white bedsheet in the very back of the car. He looked super dead, but then he breathed and it was gross, but I also thought it was kind of cool to have a pig in the car. Like, very anti-Pinterest.

  Carol checked our IDs and handed us Jell-O shots and told us that when Mr. Todd eats too much Chipotle he farts so hard. She actually gave us a second shot because she felt bad that the car smelled like so much sh*t. Then she slammed on the gas and drove onto the road like a total badass. The twins and I did our secret cheers and took another shot and the shots were, like, sO GOOD. Carol told us the secret was a little bit of basil at the very end to give it a fresh kick. She told us she learned that from the Food Network host with the “big ol’ breasts.” At this point, I was like totally loving Carol.

  We were in the middle of our second round of secret cheers (and I seriously can’t tell you how to do it because it’s a Sigma secret), but then a group of Pi Kappa boys on glider boards glided into the street. No offense, but they looked like a bunch of idiots. Carol swerved and we screamed and all three reD Jell-O shots LanDeD In mY crOTcH. I screamed, “OH mY GOD!” and the twins screamed, “OH mY GOD,” and then Carol pulled the car over and got out screaming, “I’m not letting a buncha dumb-asses on dumb-ass George Jetson skateboards ruin my star rating.” Then she took a baseball bat and Mr. Todd and walked over to the Pi Kappas. Seriously, Carol and Mr. Todd are squad goals.

  Anyways, Eva and Ava tried to help, but they both forgot their stain sticks and now they’re furiously reapplying lip gloss to each other, which is their version of a panic attack, so they’re useless. So dumb! Now we’re like five or so minutes away from the party, and instead of Snapchatting this, I decided to write you this, like, unnecessarily overdetailed email asking for help. I’ve got red stains all over the crotchular region of my H&M white pants, what do I do?! On the bright side, it smells great but it still definitely looks like I’m period-ing all over myself. HELP.

  Sincerely,

  Blotch on the Crotch from Dover, Delaware

  Dear Blotch on the Crotch,

  Sounds like you’re in the middle of a Code Red. Do not despair. As long as you have red spots on the crotch of your pants and not on your crotch itself, you’re doing okay. Here’s what I think your options are . . .

  You could, one, ask for help. Since the twins are out of commission, it leaves you with ride-or-die Carol and Mr. Todd. You could ask Carol if she has any soda water; that’s supposed to get out stains. But judging by the sound of Carol, I have a feeling the only liquid in her car is gonna be some Fanta and some antifreeze. But what about Mr. Todd’s white sheet? Carol seems like an off-kilter maternal type and obviously cares about maintaining her unexpectedly impeccable Uber rating, so she’s got to let you take it. And if she does, you just have to decide: sarong or toga? In most scenarios, you’d probably opt for the sarong, but you’re in college. College is to a toga like a buffet is to an elastic waistband.

  The only thing you’ll have to worry about is the presumably awful scent. Why not see if Carol’s got any of that fresh basil she loves in the glove compartment? If so, rub that all over yourself; no one can deny the fresh scent of basil (the Food Network chef with the “big ol’ breasts” agrees). And worst-case scenario, Spacey’s house will probably smell like a barn anyway. Also don’t forget about Ava’s potentially terrible toots stealing scent focus.

  You could, two, creatively convert. One way to creatively convert is the toga route. But if for some reason the sheet has some unforeseen mystery stains, or Mr. Todd has some deep-seated psychological attachment to it, you’ll have to think of other options. The easy options are: Will your shirt cover it? Is your shirt big enough that you could lose the pants altogether and rock a T-shirt dress like an Olsen twin? Can you place a shoulder bag in front of it like the way they hide a pregnant actress on a sitcom? If the stains haven’t gone all the way through, you can possibly turn the pants inside out and pretend to be the quirky girl at the party who LOVes Back to the Future. If that doesn’t work, try cutting or ripping the jeans into shorts and tie the cut-off pant legs around your waist like a chunky belt or unique design element. If anyone asks, tell them your cousin is a student at the Fashion Institute and made them for you. Kids in Delaware will eat that sh*t up.

  You could, three, alter the scenario. Time for a drive-by DIY! Snag a couple more of Carol’s delectable Jell-O concoctions and smear them on your shirt to make it look like blood coming out of a gunshot wound on your side. Dab a couple other spots around the original crotch stains and continue down one of your legs. Use your eyeliner pencil to draw on a goatee and borrow the first pair of fake hipster glasses you see at the party (trust me, there will be some), and voilà, you’re waLTer wHITe. This getup not only conceals the stains, but also helps weed out the dum-dum partygoers from the ones who actually have a sense of humor anD will most likely win the favor of great-jawline-disproportionate-calfed party host Kevin Spacey. Also bonus points to you if you can snag a fedora/top hat hybrid off of one of the douchey frat boys to complete the look. If you don’t want to go that far (bummer!), try dabbing the Jell-O shots down the rest of
your pant legs and call it tie-dye. Tie-dye is very trendy, says the Internet.

  You could, four, own it. So, you stained your pants. It’s a white party. You’re probably in the minority if you end the night without ruining your outfit. Granted, red isn’t the optimum color of stain you’d hope for, but you’re also in a station wagon with a potbellied pig named Mr. Todd, so no time to fuss over the details.

  Here are some go-to red-carpet poses.

  You embrace those stains and walk into the party with confidence. If anyone asks you about your appearance, tell them you got “Jell-O shot” and that it’s a new game some college out west invented that’s sort of like that game Assassin. You have to try to “assassinate” other people at the party by marking them with a Jell-O shot without getting noticed, and the last person standing without a Jell-O–shot stain wins. If you get assassinated you have to drink the Jell-O shot that killed you. College kids LOVe drinking games and LOVe touching each other; they won’t be able to resist this game. Now look at you: you just created the most popular party game since beer pong. Well, technically, I did. But I’ll let you have it. You’ve been through a lot.

  Also, no matter what happens, you met Carol tonight. And that’s worth celebrating.

  Hope this wasn’t the worst advice in the whole goddamn world.

  Sincerely,

  Miss Mess

  “I wear my sort of clothes to save me the trouble of deciding which clothes to wear.”

  —KATHARINE HEPBURN

  “I wear my sort of clothes to save me the trouble of having to run out outside naked if my house catches on fire in the middle of the night.”

  —GRACE HELBIG

  Dear Miss Mess,

  I was trying to decide between the eggplant Parmesan and the mussels by imagining which dish looked less awkward to eat. I didn’t want to repeat what happened a month ago with the veterinarian at the Mexican place. No one tells you how difficult tacos are to eat on a date. Woof. But the past is in the past; and the vet said the salsa didn’t burn his eyes too much. Besides, this date was already going better than the last anyway.

  Marc, my date, actually looks like his profile picture anD he really does own the dog in it and didn’t just borrow one to seem relatable. And my doubts about him being stupid because he spells his name with a c were fading. Plus I’m wearing that brand-new black jumpsuit that makes me look like an adorable janitor with the black pumps that make me look like a sexy adorable janitor. The kind of janitor you’d find at one of those spicy Upper East Side prep schools in a CW show. To me this outfit says, I want you to find my personality more interesting than my boobs. And if you do, I’ll likely show you my boobs.

  I was feeling confident all around.

  Marc told me to stay away from the eggplant Parm because the last time he had it he “didn’t leave [his] toilet for a week.” Which was kinda weird and made me wonder why he’d bring a date to a place where he got food poisoning. I started thinking maybe this wasn’t a date but an elaborate plot to kidnap me. But my therapist told me this week that I need to stop watching those Taken movies because if I keep assuming that everyone is trying to kidnap me, I won’t have any sustainable relationships.

  So I laughed it off and told Marc that the same thing happened to me with falafel a couple weeks ago. And then I realized that this had never happened and that I was doing my lying thing again. My therapist also said if I keep making up stories to make other people feel comfortable, I won’t be able to build a solid relationship foundation with anyone. But before I could continue my lie, the waiter dropped off two glasses of wine and asked what we’d like to eat.

  In a panic, I ordered some Italian thing that was the first thing I saw on the menu that wasn’t the eggplant Parm. Marc ordered spaghetti and meatballs. Which made me forget all about him having explosive diarrhea for a second because I started to get really turned on by the overall simplicity of this guy. We clinked our wineglasses and I accidentally drank almost the whole glass of Chardonnay before realizing it. But when I put my glass down, I saw that almost all of his wine was gone in one swig, too, and both of us started cracking up.

  He made a joke about being a functional alcoholic and I stopped laughing because I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. But then he told me he was just kidding and I mostly believed him because he looks just like Paul Rudd at the end of Clueless when he’s all clean and in a suit and humbled by falling in love with someone he never thought he’d be attracted to. I started to ask Marc a question but then instantly forgot what I was going to say and ended up asking him what his dog ate. Like an IDIOT.

  But before he could answer, a bell rang and Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore” started to play. All of the serving staff, along with the hosts and some kitchen crew, assembled in the dining area. They raised their glasses and sang while pulling people from their tables to dance around the room with them. A much older cook with the name tag “Tony,” who was very obviously missing his two front teeth, grabbed me and pulled me into the routine. I looked at Marc to save me, but instead he just handed me my wineglass with a goddamn adorable smile. I tried to hide my panic as best I could. I was not bred for dancing. I was bred for enjoying complimentary bread while other people danced. We shuffled in and out of tables clinking glasses with everyone we passed, yelling, “. . . when the moon hits your eye!”

  We shuffled past the hostess stand and my heel snagged a divot in the marble floor. Toothless Tony urged me forward and I felt my shoe snap and release and I immediately realized the heel of my sexy pump had popped off. Tony kept singing into my ear and it smelled like cigars and anchovies. The song ended and the dining room applauded while I finally got back to my table and attempted to sit like both of my feet existed at equal heights.

  Marc complimented me and we made some jokes about Tony until I excused myself to go to the bathroom to figure out my mess. When I walked in there, an adorable old Italian woman working as the bathroom attendant with a name tag that read “Martha” greeted me. She smelled like pepperoni and roses. I was going to ask her for help but she didn’t seem to speak any English. Instead, I’ve been curled up in this stall writing this excessively long and comprehensive email to you, hoping that Marc doesn’t think my bowels are exploding from some sort of wine poisoning. My digestive system is balanced, but my heels are not. What should I do?

  Sincerely,

  Ghetto Stiletto in Denver, Colorado

  Dear Ghetto Stiletto,

  Is Tony single? Just kidding. But if he’s got a full-toothed grandson, send him my way. They sound like fun people. Back to the point. No need to worry. Just pump the breaks and listen. Let’s see what we can do here.

  You could, one, ask for help. In a desperate panic you could opt to ask Martha (using a crude version of charades) or another random person in the bathroom for spare shoes and/or to switch shoes with you. Approach it like a fun adult-lady sorority game. I’ve never been in a sorority but I imagine it’s 70 percent creative shoe swapping, 10 percent posing for and posting Instagram pictures, 10 percent parties with fruit-infused punches, and 10 percent group crying. Who knows, you might get lucky and come across someone completely secure in their long-term relationship who has a shoe size identical to yours and nothing to lose who might agree to switch with you. Or in a long shot you could phone the nearest friend to make a discreet shoe drop at the hostess stand. There should be an Uber for remote wardrobe malfunctions. Any Silicon Valley tech heads down to develop this? I’ll give you one percent off the back end and one group cry.

  You could, two, creatively convert. Is it possible to break the heel of your other shoe to match the already broken one? If so, hopefully your date won’t notice you went from sexy pumps to flats that look like dogs made them. But at least they match. If you can’t break the heel of the other shoe, is there a way to pull your pant leg down to cover the back of the shoe and leave the David-Blaine-levitating illusion of a heel? Just make sure your date never walks behind you. I doubt you�
�d let him walk behind you anyway on account of your constant abduction delusions.

  You could, three, alter the scenario. This isn’t the best option in this instance. It seems like you tend to alter your reality enough as it is, so let’s avoid this route.

  You could, four, own it. You broke your shoe! So what! You broke it dancing with a toothless old man in an Italian restaurant . . . What a story! Walk back to your Paul-Rudd-on-a-good-day wannabe and tell him it turns out Tony actually swept you off your feet. And when you both get done groaning at how cheesy that sounded, hopefully you can share a laugh, in between furiously making out because this heel-break scenario shines a light on the fact that you’re both kinda crazy, attractive people with a sense of humor, which is truly the only way to be on account of the fact that we’re all going to die someday and finding someone as bonkers as you with optimism and a silly sensibility is ImPOssIBLe on Tinder, so you both seize the moment and find a twenty-four-hour wedding chapel and . . . eat gelato across the street from it because THanK GOD it was closed for fumigation.

  Hope this wasn’t the worst advice in the whole goddamn world.

  Sincerely,

  Miss Mess

  “Style is a simple way of saying complicated things.”

  —JEAN COCTEAU

  “Style is a simple way of saying I showered.”

  —GRACE HELBIG

  grace expectations

  WHAT DOES YOUR DENIM SAY ABOUT YOU?

  Skinny Jeans mean you’re hip, you’re cool, you’re fashion forward, and you’re full of guacamole and self-doubt. You won’t ever encourage people to look at your butt, but you won’t stop them from sneaking some peeking. You like margaritas (no salt on the rim even though you reaLLY wanT salt on the rim) and your Tinder profile says you like “good times with great company” and hikes. But the last time you hiked, you walked for five minutes, took an Instagram photo, and left to find a decent manicure and a Mexican place with a happy hour.