Something diapered, something blue

People get married everyday. People also go to the bathroom everyday, usually several times a day. As far as some brides are concerned, however, never shall the twain meet. A recent post on Marie Claire's Fashionista blog revealed that many bridal stores sell "bridal diapers", which salesladies suggest for brides whose dresses take "20 minutes to get in and out of."

Take a moment to digest the term "bridal diapers." Better yet, take a look at 'em:

There's so much that's disturbing about that opening paragraph I'm not even sure where to begin. What dress takes 20 minutes to get in to? When I think back to Lady Di's wedding dress, which was roughly the size of my London flat, I still can't imagine it took her 20 minutes to slip it on. What exactly is going on in these dresses that it takes women 20 minutes to put them on? Are there multiple dresses hiding inside? Do they have to complete a questionnaire before they can be zipped up? Are they fastening booby traps to their thighs? Do they come complete with a tear-away chastity belt? Or perhaps there are various layers of insulation, for the winter bride or the girl who has really bad circulation.

To put this in perspective for you, in 20 minutes I can: run two miles; prepare, cook and serve a bowl of spaghetti with made-from-scratch tomato sauce; bathe my 80-pound dog; shower, wash and blow dry my hair; consume 15 oz. of wine; drive to Etobicoke; climax at least twice (depending on the guy); purchase and return an ill-advised pair of Miu Miu heels on yoox.com; paint my nails; paint your nails; nail a painter. I think I'll be a happier person if I never meet a bride in a 20-minute dress, because that's just crazy and stupid and utterly absurd with a supersized side order of give me a bloody break.

Now, on to more pressing matters: the diapers. From what I understand about babies, which is minimal at best, one of the main reasons they cry is because their diapers are, uh, full. If a being who is barely 72 hours old recognizes the inherent discomfort and uncivilized aspect of wearing soiled underpants, how can someone 20 times older justify this? And don't say 20-minute dress. Also, I've always been led to believe one of the best parts of the wedding day is the wedding night. And while many couples today will say their wedding night shenanigans were less than toe-curling due to exhaustion and/or whisky dick, they still make the effort. If nothing else to uphold tradition. However, I fear that a man who's already struggling to get it up may give up entirely upon seeing his new bride slipping out of her soiled diaper. (Though my greater fear would be the guy who gets it up because of this.)

But wanna know what's sure to blow the wind out of his sails?

Malibu Betty is a dye kit that's meant to colour your hair down there a pleasant shade of aquamarine. You know, so that it's your something blue.

Presumably to match the colour of his balls. Because between the diapers and the blue vadge, girl, he ain't never gonna throw it to you again.

Defining glamour

Some people need glamour in their lives. Anna Wintour, for example, who has made a rather impressive career from her pursuit of it. The fictional character of Carrie Bradshaw, who is seemingly incapable of walking unless six-inch Manolos are strapped to her feet. Elizabeth Taylor who, if The Simpsons are to be believed (and why wouldn't they be?!?), sits around all day polishing her 33.19-carat diamond with a very dainty toothbrush. Alexis Carrington Colby, who requires no explanation.

You know who doesn't need glamour in their lives? Campers. These are people who relish the idea of sleeping under the stars, building a fire pit, pitching a tent and shitting in the woods. It's a lifestyle, so they tell me, that encourages a connection with nature and a rediscovery of our original primitive selves. I envision musty sleeping bags, canned food, mosquitos, flannel and leg cramps. And that's my romantic view. Believe me, you don't want to know what I really think happens behind closed cedars in the wilderness.

But lo! The camping times they are a changin'. Have you heard of this new incarnation that fashion designers and interior decorators are calling glamour camping or more succinctly, glamping? Yes, there are luxury tents with proper beds, 500 thread-count sheets, electricity, and help on hand to make coffee and kill bugs and stuff. You'd think this was right up my alley, right? Wrong. I've heard nothing of indoor plumbing. And don't think me precious just because happiness is a toilet flush away in my world. How many of you would be cool if the bathroom in your apartment was out of commish for a few days? Hmm?

Dean and Dan Caten, the gruesome twosome behind DSquared2, dedicated their spring/summer 2010 collection to glamping and elevated the humble (or is it horrible?) Birkenstock to pret-a-porter status. A feat — uh, pardon the pun — Parisian women have been trying to accomplish for years now. For it was in Paris that I first noticed women wearing those t-strap Birkenstocks in a rainbow of metallic and patent leather hues. Nice try, mesdames, but comfort footwear doesn't need to be so laide. Besides, anyone who's owned Birks will tell you the breaking-in period is enough to make you want to ditch the sandals and walk the streets barefoot. Oh sure, our heels have made us do the same, but at least they're pretty to look at and make our legs look longer.

 DSquared2 s/s 2010

I realize I'm being especially cranky pantsy on this, a Friday where I find myself staring down the barrel of a working weekend, but the way I see it, if you need to inject glamour into your camping weekend, maybe you shouldn't be going camping. Perhaps a nice picnic in the park is more up your alley. I'm just sayin'.

What goes around comes around. Sadly.

Earlier this week, archaeologists in Armenia uncovered a 5,500-year-old leather shoe from the Chalcolithic period made from cowhide and tanned with a vegetable or plant oil.

It was apparently worn by a woman with size 7 feet, who I can only imagine paired it with a fine sack dress made of a multihued hemp-like fabric and a decorative headband fashioned from fuzzy animal. Kind of like Mary-Kate Olsen here.

Wow, they don't kid around when they say fashion comes full circle, huh? I leave you with this one thought: How much do you think Chalcolithic Woman would pay for her shoes today? Cuz the going rate for Louis Vuitton's version is about $600. Damn, inflation's a bitch.

Jeans for tots to poop in

I really didn't want to write a post about the Huggies Jeans diapers. Firstly because I don't have any babies to diaper so I don't really care about technologies — fashion-y or otherwise — in the diapering arena. Secondly, because I think they're simultaneously hilarious and horrifying. But mostly because I don't like to say unpleasant things about babies; they're cute and squishy and defenseless and do not yet possess the ability to scream, "If you make me wear those I'll hate you forever!" (Oh trust me, that day will come.)

However, New York Times journalist Alex Kuczynski left me no choice. Her recent Obsessions column takes the Jeans diapers and uses them as a vehicle to [weakly] illustrate a growing trend of infant-adult role reversal. According to Kuczynski, the Huggies diapers are but a ripple in the menacing ocean of babies-as-grownups/grownups-as-babies that threatens to deluge society, as seen in E*Trade commercials, Three Dots t-shirts, the recession and the obesity epidemic. "The line between adulthood and infancy continues to blur, perhaps because of our national rates of obesity," she writes. "People swollen with fat look like giant babies, the lines and wrinkles pressed from their faces." I'm guessing the fillers that press the wrinkles from her face have nothing to do with wanting to look like a kid herself. In Kuczynski's defense, narcissistic rich ladies aren't considered an epidemic...yet.    

Despite her evident distaste for adult-babies, fat people and the unemployed, Kuczynski bought the denim diapers for her baby. Just like her Botox, her kid isn't part of the problem. Presumably she'll just diaper him in faux-jeans for shits and giggles (pun intended). Personally, I don't like them. I think denim on an infant (faux or otherwise) is weird and tacky, not unlike dressing a five-year-old boy in a tuxedo. There are myriad options in children's clothing out there that will make your babies look like babies and not shrunken versions of you. These kids have plenty of time ahead to dress awkwardly and in ways that will undoubtedly offend me. Why start them off so young? 

Despite it all, though, it's a helluva commercial!

Seize the dishevelled day

Putting on clothes that look crisp and tailored and clean is such a time-consuming pain in the ass, isn't it? I mean, I'm super busy, like all the time. I can't waste precious moments fiddling with fancy trimmings like zippers and buttons and stuff. Drawstrings. Elastic waistbands. Velcro! These are the mark of efficient clothes that understand my time constraints.  

You know who feels me? These guys:




They just get it, you know? The last thing I want to do in the morning is mess around with cumbersome trousers, uncomfortable skirts or confusing dresses. I mean, am I expected to, like, shower too? No time, man. I need to roll out of bed and run out the door without having to worry about things like hygiene and self-respect. The most important thing in the world to me is being comfortable at all times, no matter what.

I look at those suckers on the street rushing to their meetings in coordinated suits with button fastenings, lace-up leather shoes and colour-coordinated accessories, and I laugh out loud. Those are sucker clothes. I see the look of envy in their eyes as they watch me shuffle down the sidewalk, bedraggled and utterly unconcerned with societal standards in my PajamaJeans. They wish they could be as liberated and footloose as me. I've got news for them: I am the future. Seize the dishevelled day, and you too can be free!

God bless America.    

When a hair band isn't just a hair band

A hair band means different things to different people. To me, it means this:

To Benoit Missolin, a boutique in Paris, it means this:

Which is worse: a stylistically (and let's face it, musically) misguided rock band, or a store that thinks it's acceptable for girls to wear the universal symbol of female objectification on their heads for kicks and charges $360 to boot? You tell me.