A Girl's Life

Ready to get some credit in the straight world.

Vice recently asked me to become a normal girl for a week and document it. I guess a big reason they asked me to do it is because I take a lot of self-portraits and I can come across as a pretty disgusting person. I have a horrible sense of style, and though it may be kind of funny, I think the pictures are probably of interest because I basically look gross and weird.

So to start off, I had to decide what a normal girl is. I pictured the kind of chick who works a boring job during the day, is kind of quiet and opinionless, spends several hours getting ready to go out even though she looks virtually the same when she’s done, is fit and image-conscious, and when the weekend rolls around she’s a party girl wearing Bebe clothes who gets totally wasted with her girlfriends. That’s what first popped into my head and I ran with it.

Just so you understand where I’m coming from, here’s me. I live in Kansas City, Missouri. And no, it’s not a cornfield town where we don’t know what email or sushi is. It’s just a plain old small-ish city. We still know where to go to dance to shitty Top 40 rap, we know what a martini is, we have bars with happy hours, and we have country clubs. So I was basically all set to be normal. YES!

I guess you should also know about my actual life, too. My friends and I throw what I think are amazing parties with weird themes and we dress up a lot and do tons of weird stuff to entertain ourselves. Like we might all dress up really goth to crash a gross punk/ska night at a college bar or we might all decide to just walk the streets as zombies for fun or I might decide to be really punk while waiting tables or we may all decide to be Karen O at the local hillbilly karaoke dive or we might walk around town like we’re in a band and I’m the nasty lead singer in a nudie suit and spandex eating pizza or we might crash some bitch’s wedding-reception party dressed like a fucking fancy fish. Whatever!!

Now this may sound hugely awesome, but the downside to not caring about looking good or acting cool is that you never meet anyone new to impress! I think that the “normal” in me was kind of in to the idea of acting like I was in a new city or acting like the girls who go out all the time acting like they don’t already know everybody they see at the same bars every week.

When I need an accomplice, I always call my lovely friend Chloe. She was more than willing to dust off her oatmeal-colored hand-knit floor-length sweater-jacket and facial bronzer for the occasion, and this way she could snap some pics of me while I tried to “work it.”

I started off by getting everything I needed to really immerse myself in this new persona. I took diet pills twice daily, I spent several hours fixing my hair and doing my makeup, I did my at-home aerobics-tape workouts, I whitened my teeth with those strip things, and I filed, plucked, tweezed, polished, smoothed, coated, lathered, lotioned, de-frizzed, and de-tangled. Though I’m not so used to getting up three and a half hours early to get ready to step outside, I will say that the diet pills gave me a massive energy boost, all while completely diminishing my hunger. I even lost seven pounds in one week! Woo-hoo!

So are you ready for my week of being normal? Here we go!

JAIMIE WARREN

Videos by VICE

This is me pre-normalizing (I dressed up all punk to wait tables).

This is what normal girls wear.

At the spa.

Day One
I woke up, spent two hours getting prepped, and jetted off to Country Club Plaza to shop at all the fancy places with “sales associates” who wait outside the dressing room for you and try to comment overdramatically about how great everything looks (even though I could feel their eyes rolling when I walked in like, “Does she really think our stuff will fit her?”).

As far as the crazy, obviously-working-on-commission attitude goes, I don’t know if it’s the non-normal part of me or the midwestern part of me, but I can’t stand it when they follow you around like that. It made me completely nervous and grossed out about everything I was trying on. Are normal girls cool with it? I figured yes, so I acted like I loved it while trying on ugly dresses that cost more than my rent. I also had to look for some seriously boring day-to-day attire—something in shades of cream and beige and fawn and mushroom and taupe so I could blend in. See me over there on the other page? You can’t even find me, can you?

Next I headed to Bijin Salon in the suburbs. I was really nervous about having to make gross conversation about split ends or how it’s cute that I’m a photographer. But as I arrived, the soothing scents, trippy art, and dim lighting calmed my nerves. I was in to it. I got my hair “layered.” They told me it would make my face look thinner and my neck longer. I also got “bangs” because they are “in” but they consisted of three uneven wisps that just looked like an accident, even though I told the stylist I liked it. (I was being served free wine, after all.)

Then I entered a long, dark hallway with “Sssh” signs everywhere, which was where the pedicures and massages take place. Even though the pedicure lady’s voice sounded sweet when she was hovering over my toes, I swear every time I looked up from my In Style magazine and caught a glimpse, I was being given the snake eyes.

Next up was my eyebrow-grooming session. I had never plucked my eyebrows before, but I’d always been interested. The general consensus has been that I have full, nice brows. I was happy with that, but since the opportunity came around, I said, “What the hay!” (I should also tell you I’m originally from Wisconsin.)

So I got it done, even though the eyebrow-technician lady was into my eyebrows and nearly refused to wax them. But she did, and they did look better.

I started to realize at this point that I’d been unconsciously basing my look on my little sister, who is my closest connection to “normal.” She lives in Milwaukee and does office jobs and bartends at night. Whenever I visit home for Christmas everyone thinks she’s older, but really I’m four years her senior. And I don’t take it as a compliment. I know I only look younger because chubby short girls remind people of babies. Oh well.

Day Two

Today was a holiday, and I got ready in the morning to dress appropriately normal to visit the home of my friends’ family. I tried on several outfits and spent time drying my hair in curls to give it a “wave.” This did nothing but I acted like it did. Then I headed off for Thanksgiving dinner.

I entered the sparse, clean home and was incredibly kind and cordial and polite. I even asked to say grace before the meal just to really fuck with them. (I don’t think you have to say grace when you’re eating off of plastic plates, do you?) I hung out mostly with the host’s four-year-old daughter, which I think probably made me seem really creepy. We dressed Polly Pockets for over two hours. Have you ever done that? It’s really fun. We “giggled” and I took lots of pictures of her making funny faces.

JAIMIE WARREN

Dressed up normal for a holiday dinner.

I had a mini panic attack in the room at the tanning place.

I even brought cookies to the dinner.

Day Three
I woke up with the realization that what was keeping me from really being normal was a hot set of fake nails and a glowing tan! Duh! I hopped off to the local nail salon, where a quiet Vietnamese woman took the chewed-up ends of my fingers and turned them into beautiful French-manicured lady nails. She sanded and polished and suddenly I was a new woman. A new woman who no longer had the ability to type, zip up her pants, put her hair in a ponytail, pick things up, or wipe her ass with ease. Oh well. Look at how pretty they are!

Next up was a spray-on tan! I kind of thought I would have to stand in a room naked while a tiny blond woman hosed me down with brown spray. Nope. Instead, I just popped into a very doctor’s-office-looking room wearing only booties and a shower cap. They give you a little red tube to breath through, then you get in this metal shower-looking contraption, press a button, close your eyes, and spin around while a disgusting, toxic-smelling sugar-syrup chemical gushes all over you. My experience was especially awkward because I couldn’t get it to work twice in a row, so I had to stomp out in the white robe they gave me into the lobby full of young girls waiting for the room to become available and admit that I couldn’t make it work. Twice.

Anyway, the actual process only took a minute, and a few hours later it was a pretty natural-looking tan, not the bright orange tint I assumed I would get.

That night I decided it was a really appropriate time for some sporty action. I asked an acquaintance if I could hit the Jewish country club with her and scope out the racquetball courts. I told her to take some photos of me for my MySpace and match.com profiles looking “sexy” and “full of life.” I must say it’s been a while, but I love racquetball! After the game, we went to the hot tub and scoped “hotties” (actually there were mostly senior citizens there, the only hotties were the towel guy and the bartender). We also sneered as hard as we could at the 17-year-old girls wearing sunglasses at the bar, spending Mom’s credit cards on virgin pina coladas and Shirley Temples. Oh, and we hit the sauna and steam room to clear our pores. Normal girls have clear pores.

For dinner we went to the Cheesecake Factory, a popular tourist restaurant with really gross decor and a ten-mile menu of food from all over the world. But it’s all so Americanized that even a spring roll can somehow taste like a hamburger. I attempted to flirt with our waiter by having my friend tell him she was a photographer and wanted to take a picture of him feeding me. (Gross me out!!)

Day Four

Again, woke up early to exercise, shower, and do myself up. Then I spent two hours with a friend working out. It was hardcore gym day, gearing up for a weekend of partying. I worked my butt off (literally!) and tried to fit in while I was doing it. It was rough, but this is what normal girls do: Sweat and strain until they puke.

Later on I hung out at a friend’s parents’ house and we all watched Oprah. I had to get home soon though for my first experiment with clubbing. My normal-girl research taught me that the biggest part of clubbing is doing your makeup and hair in preparation.

I’m lucky enough to have a friend who had just quit his job at MAC cosmetics, and he was willing to help me on the quest for normal beauty.

I figured an hour of tips would suffice, but five hours later I had received 12—TWELVE—pages of handwritten notes and tips, hands-on lessons, a mini-makeover for my night out, and new knowledge on the glorious techniques of waving, curling, straightening, and styling. I learned all kinds of outlandish shit. Do you know how many “areas” there are on an eyelid?! OMG!

Afterward, I tried on about 20 atrocious outfits and came up with a boring one once I finally realized that the true art to the “outfit” is the accessories! I know I still look like shit, but at least I look like different shit than before, right?

We cruised to a bar called KARMA—the grossest name ever. The DJ had a Misfits haircut and a Misfits t-shirt and was playing 90s hip-hop. Party time!

My “normal” friend and I sat down and after five minutes it started: “I’ve never seen you ladies here before.” I got the most awesome dudes—the chubby ones with soul patches, vertical striped button-up shirts, and spiky gelled hair. Seriously. They flocked to me. And they all work in “landscaping” and “their work bought them a truck.” I wouldn’t usually be such a bitch about it but this one guy was a serious turd. He literally spent two and a half hours talking to me. I was being nice and normal, answering questions thoughtfully, and trying to make the conversation engaging (this was an experiment, after all). I never got all wasted-face on him. I never made it “obvious I was going home with him.” But the second they were kicking us out of the bar, the mood totally changed. This evil, fast-paced desperation kicked in and suddenly all the guys were saying, over and over, “You can come over, we can have some beers, just talk and hang out.” And it was being said like a million miles an hour while they were scanning the other girls who were lingering outside the front door. Finally, I said, point-blank, “You know, I really, really can’t tonight, but if you want to give me your number I can call you.” And he bolted! He was willing to fuck me but not even give me his phone number! I was so seriously grossed out by this. I mean, my friend and I laughed about it, but I was perturbed. Is that really how normal people do it?

JAIMIE WARREN

The heart glasses were a bit of flair that walked the edge between normal and quirky.

Gym time!

I got our waiter to feed me.

Day Five
After the daily morning routine, which was like second nature by this point, I went and did a bit more shopping at the mall for an outfit for my big date. Yes, it’s true! I scored a rendezvous through my recently acquired match.com profile! He cyber-winked at me, we exchanged awkward convo, and it was on! The date is the night after tomorrow and I am hella pumped. His username is musicman1063, mine’s 00mistletoe00, and he seems like the real thing! Ooooooh, yeah! He’s never been married, he’s not sure if he wants kids, he’s a cigar aficionado, he’s spiritual but not religious, and his profile says: “I stay busy, can you keep up? I also like time alone so I need someone that is secure and independent. No cling-ons. I love to do things outdoors—camping, Frisbee, discgolf, and above all, skydiving. Although I don’t possess a great deal of artistic ability, I have a deep appreciation, and passion for all forms of art—music, poetry, literature, comedy, theater, sculpture, architecture, paintings, and body art. I am a very happy person that just basically loves life. I’m excited about all the experiences that life has to offer, and can’t wait for the next new lesson. I learned early that life was too short to waste it being negative. There’s so much to do, and so much to be excited about. I’d like to have someone to share it with.” Yes! I’m so excited! He also says he thinks life should be set to music, which we all know is a total turn-on. We’re going to a bar called Martini Corner! I can’t wait.

Later, we skipped out (after I made an attempt at the Gwen Stefani hairdo) to go gallery hopping. I would tell you more, but really it was gallery after gallery of crap, and they were all out of free booze! It was also crazy icy and my normal-girl high-heeled boots, which were very unfamiliar to me, were not helping.

Day Six

Today I temped at an office job and I shelved books and updated bibliographies and ran errands. A normal friend who has had lots of jobs like this advised me on how to behave: Like a total make-no-waves bootlicker. So I got everyone pizza for lunch and was very, “Hey guys, I’ve got pizza, pizza, pizza!” I kept a huge smile on my face and kissed ass and gave lots of compliments and made shitty conversation and did a lot of rolling my eyes when I was hovering over my computer. I actually didn’t think it would be bad at all, but there were a lot of bitter, single 40-year-old women who were total bitches and wouldn’t even look me in the eye when they talked to me. Would that be my future if I stayed normal? The ones who did talk went on and on about stuff like hairstyles, breeds of dogs, Pilates, and the death of the Atkins diet. I liked them.

After work, we all went out to happy hour. We all drank Cape Cods and picked at “feta plates.” We got some appraising looks from guys and my coworker Kelly scored a number.

A note: I’m definitely a drinker, but never before 9 PM. These normal people start early! Is that because they have to be at the office at 9 AM every morning? I don’t understand how you can drink a bunch of vodka at 4:30 PM every day and then go home and get shit done. But whatevs!

Day Seven (Finish Line!)