The Chic Storm

On this day like every other one (2012 redux)

2012-02-14T10:31:00.000-05:00

Because my views on the topic haven't really changed in the last decade, I thought I'd post a slightly edited version of a piece I wrote in 2010 on the topic of Valentine's Day. Hope you enjoy it the second time around...just like you did the second time you got back together with your sociopathic ex-boyfriend. I genuinely hope this brings you more joy than he did, and maybe even a better orgasm.

My sentiments on Valentine's Day can be summed up in one elegant, monosyllabic word — meh. I feel no resentment whatsoever towards happy couples who use this day to reaffirm their love for one another. Please, go forth and splurge on dinner, flowers, jewellery, lingerie, sex toys. Lord knows our retail economy needs the shot in the arm. Stare deeply into your love's eyes, gesture as grandly as your wallet will allow, kiss with tongue! Just don't expect me to look longingly at you as tears well up in my eyes. Nor should you expect to find me slumped at the bar, slurring lonely-cat-lady clichés like, "José Cuervo is all the man I need!" while flashing the bartender some skin. I just don't care that much. Besides, I don't need an excuse to drink tequila.

I've certainly celebrated my fair share of Valentine's days. I've cooked special dinners, lit scented candles, worn kinky panties, waxed, polished, buffed and disrobed. And you know what? Save for the uncomfortable underwear, it always felt like just another day. In fact, the last time I celebrated Valentine's Day with a boyfriend, everything we were required to do was done by 10pm and we started calling around to see what everyone else was up to. If memory serves, I cozied up to both my boyfriend and José that night.

To be perfectly honest, I completely forgot it was Valentine's Day today until I received an old standby message from my dear friend Lindsay. It read: "I choo-choo-choose you!" as it does every Valentine's Day. And it beats any flowers or candy I've ever received. I may not be spending today with one special someone, but I do have a whole bunch of them in my life, not the least of whom is my dog. I want to apologize to my sisters out there, both single and spoken for, who think I should feel sad or lonely, elated or entranced by this day. In truth, all I feel is ambivalent. And maybe a little hungry.

But if it makes you feel any better: I love you. Yesterday, today and tomorrow.

Damnit, Karl!

2012-02-10T19:28:00.000-05:00

Fat Karl

To paraphrase Sinatra: disappointments, I've had a few. There was the Michelin-starred restaurant in France that gave me heartburn, the limited-edition sneakers that I trekked all over LA to locate that gave me blisters, the luxury moisturizer that gave me a rash, Martin Scorsese's Gangs of New York, chocolate-covered bacon, high school, rollerblades, Atkins, the push-up bra, Berlin, magic mushrooms, Victorian literature, YSL Tribute heels, and muffins. But no one disappointed me more this week than Karl Lagerfeld.

In an interview that ran in Paris Metro, Lagerfeld is quoted as calling singing sensation Adele "a little too fat" but with a "beautiful face." Which is just the kind of backhanded compliment all girls love to receive. Now, the thing with Kaiser Karl is that he used to be fat, so I kind of get that his subtext is probably all, "eef I deed eet, you can too," but he doesn't have to be such an asshole about it.

The problem with Lagerfeld isn't just that he's a former fat guy who looks down his reconstructed nose at anyone who has an affinity for carbs, but he also has an industry full of backup. He's been spewing offensive rhetoric about anyone larger than a size -2 for years yet has never really come under fire for it. It's like he's the Roman Polanski of the fashion world. But in case you're worried that he might be a one-trick-pony of insults, in the same interview he also called Russian men ugly, and said Greeks and Italians have disgusting habits — one can only imagine he was referring to the regular consumption of food. As an Italian, all I can say to that is: touché, M. Lagerfeld.

Thankfully, Adele doesn't seem too fussed about it. She hit back with the requisite, "I represent the real woman" blah blah blah. A response that really doesn't need to be spoken aloud. Least of all in response to something an emaciated artifact said. I don't know if you, dear reader, can possibly comprehend how much it hurts me to say negative things about Lagerfeld. I respect him so deeply as a designer, an artist, a visionary; he helms the house of Chanel, which is nothing short of a religion for me! But I'd be lying if I didn't say I think he's slipping. His spring/summer 2011 cruise collection bordered on predictable and cliched, and his recent couture collection largely fell flat, in my opinion. I think he's lost sight of who his customer is and remains stuck in the early noughties notion that the young customer controls consumer spending. Is it any surprise that he's still dropping bombs about someone being "a little too fat"? He belongs to a bygone era of corporate omnipotence and cigarettes-and-coffee diets. Perhaps it's time he bid adieu.

Gray matters

2012-02-06T18:31:00.000-05:00

Just when I thought celebrity culture and hair trends couldn't confuse me further (disclaimer: I'm not that bright), out come a bunch of starlets, ingenues and Olsens rocking gray hair well before their time. I think it's meant to be ironic, but I can't tell because I'm one pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers and a denim vest short of being able to decipher pop cultural "irony." Besides, I might be getting too old for any irony that doesn't directly derive from the Socratic method, national politics or my food intake-to-thigh girth ratio.

On the one hand, I suppose I should be applauding these Pretty Young Things for attempting to destigmatize gray hair. I'd love to walk around with a photo of them in my wallet to show to those people who think it's appropriate to point out my roots when I've gone too long between visits to my colourist. "As far as Mary-Kate Olsen and Kelly Osbourne are concerned, gray is the new ombré!" I'd yell at anyone who glanced at my roots askew. Then I'd follow it up with a sharp, "my eyes are down here."

Unfortunately, not even the earning power of an Olsen can sway public opinion on graying ladies. It has been suggested to me in the past that I allow my gray to run free, that it would, in fact, act as an avant garde contrast to my youthful face. (Which is just a nice way of saying: you might as well go gray since you've always got those hideous roots showing and who do you think you're kidding anyway?) But succumbing to gray is like the follicular equivalent of sweatpants. The message is so clearly, I give up. And while I may have given up on the youth peddling power of mini skirts, five-inch stilettos, 3AM pizza binges and bottle tokes, I will not give up on my hair.

Oh, just read it

2012-01-25T17:52:00.000-05:00

Like Betty White and that pesky STI you contracted in your early 20s, I'm back. Let's do away with the mea culpas regarding my long absence and the litany of fictional excuses, shall we? Suffice to say, I got busy and lazy, but mostly bazy. What matters is that I've whipped up enough irrational ire and rapidly dwindling motivation to put fingers to keyboard in an attempt to resuscitate The Chic Storm's dubious reputation for being anyone's (other than my mom's, maybe) go-to destination for cranky perspectives on inane topics. I'm very niche, dontcha know.

Initially I was going to write a post on that French ELLE piece about how black folks are finally chic now because the Obamas are clean-cut and employed and don't wear baggy jeans or Lady Enyce jackets. Aside from writer Nathalie Dolivo's offensive suggestion that African Americans couldn't possibly aspire to elegance before the Obamas' arrival because they had no standard to look up to, she also invents staggering malapropisms like "black-geoisie" and the less imaginative "black style." As a style aficionada, I take offense to Dolivo's comments because the fashion world is nothing if not colour blind. In fashion, prejudice doesn't stem from colour or creed — not since Beverly Johnson broke down barriers in 1974 as US Vogue's first African American cover model and then (ironically?) appeared on French ELLE the following year, anyway — but from genetics and socioeconomic status. Make no mistake, friends, the fashion world will judge you for eating a doughnut or buying a knockoff, but it doesn't give a shit about the colour of your skin.

What's worse, though, is that Dolivo discredits all the style icons who came before Michelle Obama, like Josephine Baker, Grace Jones, Dorothy Dandridge, Iman, Naomi Sims, Diana Ross to name a few. Don't get me wrong, I love me some Obama style, but the First Lady did no more for the collective fashion consciousness of the African American community than Princess Beatrice did for fascinators. Simply put, it's already been done.

But this post isn't about Dolivo's skewed ideas on "ethnic" fashion — I sure fooled you into thinking it was though, didn't I? Ha! The French ELLE piece comes on the heels of a shocking review of Rihanna's style that ran in Dutch fashion magazine Jackie. Incendiary comments on the singer's aesthetic include a reference to her "ghetto ass" and a summation of her overall nose-thumbing attitude as being that of a "ni**abitch." Now, I don't know what constitutes acceptable street slang in Amsterdam (I don't speak freaky deaky Dutch, man), but in North America we don't drop N-bombs, ironically or any other way. It doesn't matter how benign you think that word is in the context of fashion or music copy, it's not cool. Nor is calling a woman "bitch". [Not to get all tangent-y on you, but "bitch" or "beeyotch" are not acceptable words to describe any woman, I don't care if she's an international pop sensation or your BFF. Stop doing it.]

On a not entirely unrelated note, earlier this month Andrew Adler, the publisher of the Atlanta Jewish Times, ran an editorial about the US and Israel's opposing views on dealing with Iran and suggested that the Mossad assassinate President Obama as a way to alleviate the problem. Um, yeah. He recently announced he would be stepping down from the paper.

Finally, dear reader, I'm coming to the conclusion of this rant. It's not necessarily about racism in European fashion circles or reactionary political ideas, but rather the state of journalism today. How can three seemingly upstanding publications (ok, I know nothing about the Atlanta Jewish Times, but apparently it's been around since the 1920s, so it must have some cred) run such obviously dicey content to only turn around and issue emphatic yet bemused apologies? I've been working in the field of journalism since the turn of this century and I remember a time when spelling Rihanna's name incorrectly would've been received with wrath from a curmudgeonly editor, never mind dropping the N-bomb in copy. The print world is already losing readers to online outposts and blogs (don't look at me — I haven't posted in months!) let's not get all shock-jock-y about it and just say crazy shit to get attention. Go back to the roots of print journalism and write intelligently, thoughtfully and yes, provocatively. But not offensively. Because we all suffer for it in the end.

Embracing my CAPS

2011-08-22T12:00:00.000-04:00

For those of you who don't know, I write a relationship column called The Playing Field for Toronto-based niche publication King West Magazine. This is my latest piece that ran in the summer issue:

There comes a time in every Thirtysomething Single Girl's life when the middle modifier starts to write itself out in all-caps. SINGLE. If it were a neon sign, it would flicker and make a buzzing sound. As a billboard sign outside a rundown motel, the "S" would hang upside down and swing idly in the breeze. If you listen close enough, you might even hear a faint squeak. It's like, all of a sudden, the word no longer says unattached, but unattached.

When my caps lock key got stuck last fall, it caused a brief, albeit alarming panic to set in. In a not entirely un-Bridget Jonesian fashion, I found myself being asked by lots of unsingle people why I was still single — something I somehow had managed to escape until now. Whether it was because I live like a child or act like a child, no one ever really questioned why I was still on my own after all these years. But as a significant birthday drew near, my marital status started to draw suspicion from even my oldest and most trusted cronies — the ones who've been privy to my marriage conspiracy theories, deep-seated commitment issues and misanthropic tirades for decades.

To say that I was blindsided would be an exaggeration. I know what my friends see: a reasonably attractive and intelligent woman with a keen sense of style and a clean criminal record. Who wouldn't want a piece of this, right? As is often the case when faced with a truth that niggles at the back of your subconscious, I too was feeling crowded by the caps.

Of course I have loads of beautiful, single girlfriends, and of course we are totally content being on our own. If the right man comes along, great! If not, so be it.

Eventually, though, you start questioning serendipity and it doesn't look good. Then come the thinly veiled arguments: A little social experiment wouldn't hurt, we say. I need to get myself out of my comfort zone, one points out. My liver can't handle the excessive drinking that comes in the name of socializing, another argues. It'll make for great material, I reason.

And up goes the online dating profile.

Marketing is a powerful tool, dear reader. Anyone who tells you otherwise is trying to sell you something. Those schmaltzy eHarmony commercials with their giggling couples and two-month timelines-to-happiness had me hook, line and sinker. It was, I told myself, the 21st-century version of a discreet matchmaker and would result at the very least in a date with a man who could a) write a coherent sentence, b) enjoy a good action-adventure or c) afford to shell out for two coffees.

At first, I would feel a faint thrill as I'd open my email in the morning and find my matches of the day. I did the math: 10 matches per day for the 30-day period would result in 300 possible mates. There had to be one diamond in all that rough. But as the days ticked away and I continued to receive grinning emoticons from Tonys and Franks and Dinos, I grew suspicious. Evidently, despite having checked the Caucasian, Hispanic and African-American boxes, eHarmony, like my mother, felt it was important that I date within my own culture.

By day five, I was ready to call it quits. Despite my jocular attitude and promising math calculations, my self-loathing was starting to reach a dangerous apex every time I opened one of those daily emails and, frankly, I don't need anything to fan the flames. I had nothing against the Tonys and Franks and Dinos — some of them were even cute, and employed! But I simply couldn't continue to participate in a mating ritual that reeked of computer-generated insincerity.

Yet something told me to wait. I don't know if it was another TV commercial or the slipped disk I suffered from carrying a heavy suitcase up the stairs by myself, but I decided to give it one more day. I know what you're thinking. Serendipity! And in a way it was. Because when I opened my email the next day and surveyed my matches, someone caught my eye. A man who was strangely familiar, who possessed traits eerily similar to mine and was completely and oddly in synch with my personality. It was as though we had known each other all our lives. And you know what? We had. Because he was my brother.

I took it as a sign. A sign to take down my profile and never look back. I think I'll stay in my comfort zone, poison my liver and find material elsewhere. The universe — cyber and otherwise — is clearly telling me online dating is not the answer. I'll stick with my caps, thanks.

CNN interview: Jours Apres Lunes controversy

2011-08-20T15:13:00.001-04:00

For anyone who missed this story in the news, the French underwear label for children, Jours Apres Lunes, has come under attack for the controversial photos posted on their site featuring little girls in their designs. In what seems to me was an attempt to deflect criticism, the line has been dubbed "loungerie" as opposed to "lingerie", but the pictures don't do much to deter scandal.

I was first interviewed on the topic by my good friend Lindsay Goldwert, who is a staff writer for the New York Daily News. She came to me for my expert opinion on the topic seeing as I recently published a book on lingerie, called Le Snob Lingerie. You can read her story here.

The next day, the UK Daily Mail picked up the piece and re-ran my quotes.

The day after that, CNN International contacted me and asked to do an interview, which I've posted below (with a strange but welcome surprise at the end!). And then I was contacted by our very own Globe & Mail.

While I stand behind everything I've said and staunchly reject the idea that the images on the Jours Apres Lunes website are anything but overly sexualized depictions of little girls, I do feel a little awkward being positioned as the mouthpiece for children's rights. I was initially approached as a lingerie expert and I want to stress that I stand by those qualifications throughout and not as a representative for any official organization.

I would like to thank everyone for their words of support and encouragement.

Fratelli (e sorelle) d'Italia

2011-02-01T23:49:00.000-05:00

Italians are anomalous creatures. They're like unicorns on the American pop culture landscape: rare, fleeting and seemingly fictional. I suppose it doesn't help that they have done little to market themselves in North America. Italian restaurants are few and they have nary a celebrity chef to disseminate the local cuisine. Even more traditional pursuits have been ignored. They could certainly benefit from a film about their country; one to celebrate a bygone era of glamour with an all-star Hollywood cast, perhaps? Or they could look to other cultures who have gained international recognition through a creative expression like design or literature or music. It might behoove the Italians to foster athletics among their populace. Famous athletes would certainly help to boost their presence, or at the very least, establish a national sport with international appeal. It's a pity, really. All Italy needs is some good PR.

Thank heavens MTV had the presence of mind to create a television program about "Italians" for America. It's called Jersey Shore and it follows the lives of a group of young people of "Italian" descent as they navigate the day-to-day tasks of being healthy, attractive and hygienic. This group, with their highly stylized hair, original outfits and impressive command of the English language, is just what Italy needed to represent them overseas. What sets them apart from other reality actors you see on television is their entrepreneurial spirit — it's not every day that a TV personality writes an august tome or channels their staggering creative talent into a line of couture for the masses. And yet they aren't elitist nor do they hide their true selves from the cameras. They are not ashamed to be human, for they are "Italians." Hath they not big hair, tight shirts and rock hard abs? If they fall from a bar stool, do they not bleed? If they drink, will they not be arrested?

In a charming twist, this merry band will be transported to Italy to film their next season where they will surely be welcomed with open arms by their motherland. Italy and its inhabitants, although utterly unaware of the existence of this crew and the positive image they've been promoting across America, will undoubtedly embrace their long lost bambini and all the endearing brouhaha they will stir. All eyes will be on Italy and its lush mountains, sparkling seas, breathtaking architecture and effortlessly styled citizens, all of which will be juxtaposed against the "Italians" of Jersey Shore. They will appreciate the international attention these visitors will elicit and gladly allow them to carry on painting a picture of their culture with loud, garish strokes and booze-goggled turbidity.

Italy will be thrilled. And their opinion of America is sure to soar. Buon viaggio, Jersey Shore.

My shoes never let me down

2010-11-24T17:44:00.000-05:00

I'm having a bad technology week. So bad that I want to take everything in my life that flashes, beeps or rings, and make a big pot of tech stew. Everything except my iPad (which was a gift) because I don't use it nearly enough for it to piss me off. Plus, I feel like it makes me look cool, and since I no longer smoke and have hit the mid-30s hump, I can really use the cred. But between my BlackBerry failing to wake me up for a meeting the other day, both my email addresses getting hacked and Gmail suspending me from sending out emails for 24 hours, I'm about ready to convert to Luddism.

I remember going on a date with this guy when I lived in London who was one of these real political-activist types; all Pro-Labour Party and America is Evil and Capitalists Have Raped the World. Mostly sentiments that I was (and continue to be) quick to point out I agree with. I'm a socialist in a rabid consumerist's clothing, I agree that America can be evil — have you read this?! — and maybe capitalists have raped the world, although I'm loathe to give up my fancy car. Eventually our conversation migrated to technology and the rising price of gadgets and how we, as white, privileged Westerners, dispense of our disposable income. (Not that I have a great deal of disposable income, mind you. I am a writer after all. But, you know, I spend.) In a nutshell, my politically enlightened date (who was so enlightened we went Dutch) felt that his spending $500 on a tech gadget was far more magnanimous than my dropping $500 on a pair of shoes.

And this is what I said to him (well, not exactly, but whatever):

There's no magnanimity in spending $500 on any one thing, unless it's food for the hungry, so let's not overstate things. The thing with technology is you're spending a large sum of money up front for a product that you already know will peter out on you sooner or later (or sooner THAN later — ha! See what I did there?). And the chances are pretty great that it's going to be at a really inconvenient time. We buy tech gadgets — computers, Smartphones, DVD players, digital recorders — and know they're not going to work for long. And "long" is getting shorter and shorter every day. Sure, refrigerators and washing machines and dishwashers need to be replaced, too. As do spark plugs, mufflers, engine cooling thingies and under-the-hood-stuffs. But after what? Like, ten years? I've only had my BlackBerry for 18 months and it's already going screwy. My last PowerBook, which cost a few THOUSAND dollars, lasted less than four years.

Meanwhile, my Gianfranco Ferre leather jacket is a decade old and still looks crazy cool. My circa 1994 Versace dress that I wore to a friend's wedding last summer got me one very handsome admirer, proving it still works, and the Marc Jacobs shoes I had to buy in LA five years ago when Delta lost my luggage — isn't technology meant to ensure that doesn't happen? — can still make an outfit.

I admit, when my PowerBook went tits-up I bought another one, although I went for the cheapest MacBook on the market at the time. And yeah, I love having a BlackBerry, which allows me to cut the cord between me and my computer and get on with my daily life. I'm hyper aware of how technology has changed and facilitated my job — I mean, when I was in graduate school my professors were advertising the freakin' phone book as our greatest resource and we were forced to get a daily subscription to the New York Times. Someone once mentioned in class that she was reading the paper online and we were Blown Away. So, yeah, I appreciate technology and, you know, evolution. But it also consistently fails me. And you too, so don't pretend.

My shoes don't, though. My Chanel flats may give me blisters sometimes and I can't wear my Stella McCartney heels for more than two hours at a time (I actually initially typed "hells" instead of "heels" — paging Dr. Freud!), but they never purported to be comfortable, just stylish and pretty. I guess what I'm saying is, I wish technology would be a little more honest and stop telling me that it's going to change my life. Unless by change my life it means make me a Luddite. In which case, touché, technology.

I never did go on a second date with that guy. In all honesty, there wasn't any chemistry and frankly, I can't be with a man who doesn't support my relationship with designer footwear. Men may come and go, but my shoes never let me down.

The Fat Comeback

2010-10-28T16:09:00.000-04:00

I realize I'm a little late to the party on this — three days in the news biz is like years in the real world — but I simply couldn't let this Maura Kelly-Marie Claire affair go unmentioned. (Also, I apologize for my long absence, but I've been writing a book, and as it turns out, I'm not smart enough to write a book, fulfill my freelance obligations and make snarky observations on fashion and beauty and stuff. But I'm here now so let's just get on with it.)

If you haven't been following this scandal, Maura Kelly, a freelancer writer and relationship columnist, wrote a blog post for Marie Claire about the new CBS sitcom "Mike & Molly," which tells the story of the love that blossoms between two people who meet at Overeaters Anonymous. Apparently critics have derided the show for its gratuitous fat jokes, but the impetus for Kelly's column was that people have expressed discomfort with seeing "fatties" getting it on on TV. Kelly, who agrees with the latter, bases her whole sanctimoniously douchey argument on the fact that the actors on the show aren't merely overweight, they are obese and are somehow glamorizing an American epidemic that is "costing our country far more in terms of all the related health problems we are paying for, by way of our insurance, than any other health problem, even cancer," she writes. (I love how now that the United States is toying with the idea of universal health care everyone is suddenly so concerned with the collective health of the country.)

Kelly was taken aback by readers' outrage, which leads me to believe that despite having a prestigious resume that includes being published in The New York Times and The Washington Post, she can't be all that bright. How could she think she could get away with saying things like, "I'd be grossed out if I had to watch two characters with rolls and rolls of fat kissing each other," and "I find it aesthetically displeasing to watch a very, very fat person simply walk across a room"? I admit I feel the same way about stupid people, so Kelly best not walk across a room I'm standing in.

I'm not going to delve into the psychology of food or overeating. Mostly because I'm not qualified to do so, but also because if you don't know by now that obesity isn't just about having a weakness for french fries then you're an ignorant jackass who has clearly been living under a rock. In a remarkable fit of stupidity, Kelly lumps fat people in with drunks and heroin addicts, yet later goes on to say that obesity sufferers have "a ton of control" over their situation. And that's where I have to call her own editing skills into question. Someone obviously doesn't proofread her own copy.

Much as I would enjoy nothing more than to launch a personal attack on Kelly — who openly states in her bio that she's a 30-something-year-old woman who's never been in love. Well, duh. Who the hell would love you? — I think the larger issue at play here is why modern Western culture dictates that it's okay to pick on overweight people. Why did Kelly think she was justified in expressing an obvious hatred for people who struggle with their weight? If you substitute the word "fat" with "poor" or "gay", or "Jewish" or "Arab" for that matter, her post would never have seen the light of day (not on the Marie Claire website anyway). But for some reason our culture has made it okay to be mean to fat people, to belittle them and make them feel as though they are failing at life because they don't fit a skinny ideal. And let's not kid ourselves, the ideal is s-k-i-n-n-y, not healthy.

But I also wonder if this isn't so much about fat people as it is about fat women. I've often complained about how television glorifies the fat-husband-hot-skinny-wife archetype — The King of Queens, According to Jim, and yes, even The Simpsons and Family Guy — as if to perpetuate the idea that women should continuously work at looking their best while men can let themselves go and still be considered sexy. But all anyone sees in that pairing is an apparently inherent potential for hilarity. Add a fat wife and suddenly it's repulsive. Why was this not an issue when Roseanne debuted in 1988? What has happened over the past two decades for it to be acceptable to ostracize people based on how they look? I thought society was meant to evolve.

I was thrilled to see the backlash to her post, especially on Jezebel and this piece my good friend Lindsay wrote for the New York Daily News, because no one should be allowed to get away with being so mean and so ignorant. I join in the big fat collective "Fuck YOU" aimed at Kelly and suggest she seek solace in some french fries.

Carried Away

2010-08-04T10:35:00.000-04:00

Here's a link to a story I wrote for ElleCanada.com about the anti-feminist message of Sex and the City. Although it doesn't treat the subject of fashion or beauty trends per se, it hits those high notes of acrimony that have come to symbolize this blog as well as my love-hate-despise-oh-ok-I'll-watch-it-if-it's-on relationship I have with the SATC franchise.

Enjoy. Or don't. Either way, let me know your thoughts.

Carried away: Relationships [1/2] - Elle Canada : Today

Jugs for chugs

2010-07-23T17:01:00.000-04:00

Because apparently it's crazy underpinnings week here at The Chic Storm, this is sure to make those die-hard French lingerie-wearing mademoiselles blanch. BaronBob.com, a New Jersey-based company (quelle suprise), is selling the aptly named Wine Rack, a sports bra that can be filled with booze and comes with an extra long straw fuh drinkin'. It apparently holds 25 ounces of liquid and ups your cleavage by about two cup sizes. (Get it, cup sizes? Cuz you drink stuff outta cups? See? Uh, yeah.)

Wine Rack bra, $29.95, BaronBob.com

The makers of this beaut think it is especially appealing to recessionistas who don't want to spend too much money on drinks at the bar but who are not willing to forgo an opportunity to get sloppy drunk, make out with a few of the classier cast members of Jersey Shore and puke on their shoes at the end of the night. And really, can you blame them?

I've certainly been guilty of stashing beers in my purse when attending an outdoor concert, because seriously, since when can indie rock lovers afford to spend $8 on a beer? (I'm talking to you, Molson Amphitheatre.) And what alfresco Shakespearean experience is complete without a mickey of vodka? But filling my bra with booze and drinking from a straw that juts out of my right boob? I dunno man. I get kind of squeamish when I see women breast feeding in public, so wouldn't this make me a hypocrite? Despite the fact that my breast would in fact be feeding me and no one else? Which somehow makes it more gross.

The way I see it, if I'm gonna be a jackass — and you can pretty much rest assured that 25 ounces of booze is gonna turn me into a jackass — I'd rather model myself after Homer Simpson and not Snooki.

Oh Mah Gawd, Becky

2010-07-21T17:35:00.000-04:00

I admit, I don't necessarily like big butts so much as I accept my own for what it is. "You have a Mediterranean figure," my mother would say to me throughout my teen years, as I would try to squeeze my Mediterranean ass into the tight jeans that all my WASP-y girlfriends were wearing. It should be said that fashion forward-ism had nothing to do with the the deconstructed '90s aesthetic that I rocked at the time. But now it's time for their comeuppance. For although their high paying corporate jobs, two-car garages and sensible heels laugh in the face of my crippling debt and professional irrelevance, I have something that those WASPs will never have: a spring/summer 2010 butt.

That's right reader(s), my ass is in style. Literally. How do I know? Because Madonna's daughter said so. "I am totally obsessivo about 80’s shorts… You know the kind that makes your butt look kinda big." When rich, skinny 13-year-olds say they want a big butt, I know my ass has made it. And when Kim Kardashian — Who? Yeah, I don't know either — has a television show and is on the cover of tabloids every other week saying stuff like "I love my curves" and "My boyfriend loves that I'm curvy" and "Curves are so curvy curve", it means that big butts are back. And then of course, there's these:

Bump-a-Booty padded panties from Pure Style Girlfriends, $30

Those are padded panties for girls who want a little more donk in their badonka. Because, finally, fashion likes big butts and it cannot lie.

Masculine ideal, thy name is Ken

2010-07-13T13:27:00.000-04:00

In kindergarten I had a crush on a boy named Marcel. He had chestnut brown hair and blue eyes, a slight French accent, showed real talent in the Lego department and we shared a birthday. It was, in my five-year-old estimation, a match made in heaven. I suspect he is responsible for inspiring a decade-long obsession with sandy-maned men in my 20s: Brad Pitt in Fight Club, Heath Ledger in 10 Things I Hate About You, countless New York bartenders-slash-actors-slash-models, and a particularly smooth Brit with a swimmer's build and a trust fund. Each one of them sandy-haired Adonises. Well, they had sandy hair anyway.

But looking back on all that, I realize perhaps the young Marcel isn't the one responsible for forming my follicular preferences in the opposite sex. That it is in fact another, far more influential man who drew me in with his kind eyes, million dollar smile and neat, responsible, sun-kissed haircut. That man is Ken Carson. And while I recognize that he has been inextricably linked to his girlfriend Barbie for the last half century, and that yes, he is a plastic doll, like Sean Connery and Jack Nicholson, Ken's legacy, influence and dead sexiness transcend mere time.

In typical Hollywood fashion — a world where men apparently "get better with age" while women over 30 are haunted by images of bread, Botox and big boobs — Ken, at the ripe age of 49, has landed his first major movie role in the summer blockbuster Toy Story 3. In it, he's every bit the dashing, handsome gentleman of my dreams, despite a "Tennis anyone?" outfit that suggests a propensity for wicker furniture and show tunes.

Thankfully Esquire UK has stepped in and outfitted Ken in a slew of designer duds including Prada and Burberry in an effort, I imagine, to dispel any rumours that could possibly contradict his hot-straight-guy party line. I may resent his skinny bitch of a girlfriend, with her long shapely legs and gravity-defying rack, but I refuse to believe she's a beard. These photos prove me right, and will serve as the perfect reference for my ideal mate.

I am a: WOMAN
Seeking a: MAN
Hair colour: SANDY BROWN
Eye colour: BLUE
Build: ATHLETIC
Characteristics: PROFESSIONAL, FUN-LOVING, PERPETUALLY HAPPY, SOMEWHAT STIFF, ANATOMY OPTIONAL.

Ken dressed in head-to-perfect plastic toe Paul Smith (image courtesy of Esquire)

Don't forget to tip the lady in latex

2010-07-06T15:27:00.000-04:00

Every once in a blue blogosphere moon, an item pops up that manages to fuse several of my previously vented vitriolic observations. This is both good and bad: good because the initial rage has already passed through my bloodstream and revisiting the offending issue allows me to take a step back and get a calmer perspective on it — kind of like going back to chat with your therapist after having thrown her crystal paperweight at the wall and screamed "I'm not 'angry'. I just think you're a bitch!" (I swear I never did that, and yeah, I used airquotes when I said it. Oh, wait....); and bad because I may have exhausted all witticisms on the topic. But I'll try anyway.

There's a new hot spot in LA called Trousdale that's super hard to get in to unless you're an A-list celeb like Lady Gaga, Jennifer Aniston or Leonardo DiCaprio. The decor is real swanky-like and the menu is all comfort food-y and continental with stuff like churros and fresh-baked cookies. Yawn, right? Yes, until you spot one of the waitresses, that is, dressed in head-to-toe latex. Now before you picture a human condom or the aforementioned Gaga, see below:

Apparently the uniforms were designed by co-owner Darren Dzienciol and stylist Jessica Paster (who has worked with Aniston, Charlize Theron and Naomi Watts). Each uniform is custom-made for the waitress, must be polished every day and takes 45 minutes to get on. Which leads me to believe that much like the 20-minute wedding dress, these puppies must be pretty hard to pee in. Actually, scratch that. They're probably super easy to pee in, but I hope they don't.

Now, forgive my ignorance, but I'm not exactly well versed in latex dressing — not the kind that goes on girls, anyway, wink wink — but how could it possibly take 45 minutes to put on one of these outfits? There really isn't much to put on. It's basically a long tank top and thigh-highs, and Lindsay Lohan can tell you that's the fastest thing to throw on in the morning. Unless they have a collective Ross Geller moment every night of layering lotion on top of baby powder in the hopes of creating a slick surface upon which to slide those thigh-highs (which as the Friends episode taught us is a bad idea with hilarious results), I'm baffled by the 45-minute time frame. God forbid one of them is running late for her shift. What happens if she only has 30 minutes to get into uniform? Does she end up waiting tables in one thigh-high or no dress? In a pinch, would management let her get away with an extra long American Apparel tank and trouser socks? Maybe she could just work coat check that night. I mean, cut the girl some slack. Forty-five minutes is a long ass time to get into an outfit that once on still looks like you're half naked. File under WTF.

I can't believe I'm about to say this, but I hope these uniforms come with matching diapers. (I also can't believe this would be my third post about diapers in less than a month. Apparently pee is the new black.) If not, I'm sure something suitable can be found at S&M&Things. Or maybe take one of those bridal ones and dye it black. Or talk to Huggies.

Now, my overinflated sense of entitlement and inability to take other people's crap without it resulting in some serious new-asshole-tearing (see previous mention of therapist) has always prevented me from working in the service industry, so I don't exactly have first-hand experience with waiting tables. But from where I've sat, it looks like a pretty taxing endeavour. There's a lot of running around, heavy lifting, bending, stretching and figurative dancing for tips. It looks like the type of job that would really make them break a sweat. And sweating in latex can't be pleasant for those waitresses or anyone sitting downwind from them. I'm just thinking about their hygiene...and my olfactory receptors. And leather shorts. *shudder*

Finally, those uniforms remind me of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when Richard Gere first picks her up off the street. And much as we come to learn she's a hooker with a heart of gold, would you trust that she washed up before frying your churro? Yeah, me neither.

Deal breakers

2010-07-02T13:04:00.000-04:00

Liz Lemon beat me to it. Again. She would so totally be my cooler, smarter, funnier, better bespectacled, more successful and motivated older sister if I had an older sister...and if she were real. To clarify that I'm not in fact at that stage in my freelance career where minimal contact with the outside world has resulted in mistaking TV people for my friends, I also have real life friends who are like that. If I didn't love them I'd totally hate them for being cooler, smarter, funnier, more successful and motivated than me. I comfort myself with the knowledge that I at least have better glasses.

I was at a movie premiere the other night — for a movie that shall remain nameless lest my dedicated reader(s) start to question my otherwise curmudgeonly charm in light of a secret devotion to a teen-based book series-cum-film saga about vampires, werewolves and the girl who loves them (I fear I've said too much) — when a few of my adult-aged companions and I started talking about the non-negotiable attributes in a potential mate. Also known colloquially as deal breakers. Oddly, "yearns to drink my blood" and "turns into a ferocious beast when he's really really mad" didn't make the cut.

But I'll tell you what did:

He wears skinny jeans, which upon closer inspection reveal that they're actually girl jeans and you have the same pair

Laugh if you will, but it happened to one of the ladies present. She noticed that a guy she was dating had the same jeans as her and when he popped out of the room she peeked at the tag only to find that he wore a smaller size than her. #Dealbreaker

He's a vegetarian...

Remember that episode of Seinfeld when Jerry was dating Elaine's cousin and she was a total carnivore and grew leery of Jerry when he tried to order a salad for dinner? The best line in the episode was: "Salad ain't got nuttin' on your mutton!" I totally sympathized with her. I'm not saying I wanna be on a date with a guy who enters the "finish a 15-pound steak and it's free" contest, but if I'm ordering the fillet mignon and he's pushing some freakin' romaine lettuce and tofu around his plate, it's a definite #Dealbreaker.

...Who does yoga...

I'm just gonna say it: I hate yoga. I've tried yoga, I've tried to love yoga, I've tried to tell myself how important yoga is for runners. But if I hear a yoga instructor tell me to "find my breath" one more time, I swear I'm gonna make it so she can't find hers. And a dude who does yoga is only doing it for one of two reasons: to pick up chicks or to align his chakras and awaken his third eye in the hopes of reaching a meaningful spiritual plain thus accessing inner peace and emotional harmony. And trust me, he'll try to indoctrinate you, too. Namaste this. #Dealbreaker

...And has flaxseed oil in his refrigerator...

My friend's ex-boyfriend was a douche and he had flaxseed oil in his fridge, so by association any guy who has flaxseed oil in his fridge is a douche in my mind. It's not fair or rational, I admit, but hey, that's life. #Dealbreaker.

...And wears this

Walter Van Beirendonck s/s 2011 — and yes, that's a multi-tiered skirt he's wearing

No explanation necessary. #DEALBREAKER

Something diapered, something blue

2010-06-25T15:45:00.002-04:00

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

2010-06-18T18:40:00.000-04:00

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.

2010-06-11T17:43:00.000-04:00

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

2010-06-09T18:00:00.000-04:00

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

2010-06-04T15:43:00.000-04:00

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

2010-06-02T20:00:00.000-04:00

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.

SATC2: The review

2010-05-28T18:14:00.001-04:00

About 20 minutes in Sex and the City 2, Carrie Bradshaw is celebrating her two-year wedding anniversary with the man she bleated and bellyached over for six interminable HBO seasons. They are seated in their sweeping New York apartment that has been over-decorated within a throw pillow of its life and surrounded by strategically placed designer labels. When her big bacon-earning husband unveils his thoughtful albeit unsexy anniversary present to her (after he has cooked them a meal and presumably paid the gas and cable bills, and dismissed the housekeeper for the night) she balks in disbelief. Upon asking her what she would have preferred she cocks her head, twirls her hair and responds coquettishly, "A piece of jewellery would have been nice."

And that's when a barf bag would have been nice. Suddenly I felt sick to my stomach. I'm not a fool and I'm not new to the SATC franchise; I know it's a cultural phenomenon that is based on unabashed consumerism and an inability to function outside the borders of white, privileged America. Unless of course, it's white, privileged Paris. But to break your husband's balls for not buying you jewellery for your anniversary is where I draw the line between harmless fun and the obliteration of feminist ideals, not to mention the poisoning of young women who have yet to navigate the choppy waters of a committed relationship. (Here's a clue girls: he's not obligated to buy you expensive stuff.)

Flash forward to an extravagant trip the frivolous foursome take to Abu Dhabi, because Samantha, who is taking a drugstore of pills to delay the onset of menopause (I want to fuck young boys! Isn't that fabulous?!), decides that she's done with the economic austerity of the last two years that has seen her downsize to a smaller Birkin and wants to live large Middle East styles. Shocked by the religious restrictions of a country that — WTF? — frowns upon public cunnilingus (evidently Sam doesn't bother with things like CNN) she brazenly throws propriety, respect and the law out the window. After all, she is American and who else to burst into a foreign land and tell people how to live their lives? In one especially appalling scene where [SPOILER ALERT] Samantha's purse flies open and sprays condoms across the souk, she proceeds to affront the chastising Muslim men who gather around her with "Fuck you! I like to have sex!" It's American arrogance at its best.

Perhaps what astounded me most was the sheer ignorance these four women displayed. They are educated, wealthy and reside in New York, a city that owes much of its appeal to multiculturalism. And surely they've travelled to other countries at some point in their lives? Yet they are utterly uninformed on the customs, rules and secrets of the Middle East. Crushed by a lacklustre review of her latest book in The New Yorker, Carrie says she's been walking around with the magazine in her purse for 20 years. Maybe she just never pulled it out and actually, like, read it. Because if she had, she wouldn't be so dumbstruck at the discovery that many Muslim women are wearing couture under their robes. Who doesn't know this?

The movie is two-and-a-half hours of the most idiotic observations since Sarah Palin saw Russia from her backyard. Upon first seeing a Muslim woman in the traditional hijab, Carrie opines, "It's like they're not allowed to have a voice" (uh yeah, thanks for the insight, Benazir Bhutto); and when her butler tells her that he and his wife are reunited once every three months because she lives in India and that's how long it takes him to scrape together the money to get over there, she interprets this as "how their marriage works." Um, actually, no. It's how he makes ends meet.

It wasn't all racial profiling and Manolo Blahniks, however. In one very touching and uncharacteristically self-aware scene, Miranda and Charlotte drink themselves silly to ease the guilt of admitting to the hardships of motherhood despite having live-in nannies, and raise their glasses to toast all the mothers out there who don't have full time help. It was a heartwarming albeit brief moment of humility. And [SPOILER ALERT] Liza Minelli makes a cameo and does a vaguely terrifying if mesmerizing rendition of All the Single Ladies. She may be a certified loon, but man can that lady dance!

And the clothes? Well, between Sarah Jessica Parker wanting to promote her own designs for Halston and Patricia Field being in dire need of some Lithium and a long nap, the costumes were nothing short of nightmarish. For a desert camel riding scene, a lackey appears with clothes for the ladies to change in to. In a flurry of Hermes, Dior and Chanel shopping bags, the women are transformed into a motley foursome of circus freaks reminiscent of Priscilla Queen of the Desert, but less classy. Carrie wears a white bustier with nipple tassels fer Chrissake!

I know sequels can be tricky, and I suspect that's why we'll never know what happens when Ben and Elaine get off the bus or if ET will ever phone Elliot, but I beg of the powers that be at SATC to pull a condom out of Samantha's purse and slip it on before considering spawning another movie. Nine months from now, you and the viewing public will thank me.

Oh spare me dot com

2010-05-25T18:18:00.000-04:00

As print media continues its agonizing shuffle down the green mile, online magazines have been popping up faster than Tiger Woods' mistresses. And while those of us who work in the industry are grateful that the web can provide a sufficient afterlife, there's no doubt that we are dealing with a different beast. For starters, we'd might as well start eulogizing the feature story because most people aren't going to put the time into reading a 1500-word treatise on the floral print on their computer or iPhone or Kindle or whatever other crazy contraption they're using today to read Perez. Furthermore, online fashion magazines have pretty well put to rest the traditional editorial shoot and birthed the celebrity Today I'm Wearing column to replace it. Alexa Chung, Olivia Palermo, Daisy Lowe and Daisy de Villeneuve, to name a few, have all enriched our lives with a daily photo and rundown of their outfits that reads like an early Tom Wolfe stream-of-consciousness novel. I mean seriously, who rolls out of bed on a Monday morning and throws on a 3.1 Phillip Lim blouse, Current Elliot cut offs, Wolford tights, American Apparel tube socks, Church's patent leather oxfords, a vintage military jacket from a flea market in Tokyo, a scarf stolen from a mother's closet and which was bestowed upon her by Mick Jagger backstage at Altamont, a Chanel 2.55 bag and Pete Doherty's trilby? Dude. (Just to clarify, none of the aforementioned celebrities have actually appeared in this outfit. I've just taken bits of each girl's signature style and put them together to create one massive celebudouche. Although I'm fairly certain that exact outfit has already been spotted on the streets of Brooklyn once or twice. Do let me know if you've seen it.)

Now, I'm afraid to report, the online magazine-celebrity column affair is turning into a serious relationship. Agyness Deyn, the androgynous British model famous for her platinum blond crew cut and her inability to walk in Burberry platforms, is launching an online magazine with her friend Fiona Bryne, a journalist who has worked with pubs like NYLON and New York. They're calling it NAAG.com, which is kind of what I feel like doing to Aggy when I see her in outfits like this:

and this:

and especially this:

Asked about the editorial direction of the publication, Aggy replied succinctly: "It's just going to be stuff we think is rad." I'm pretty sure that's short for radon. Because only the ingestion of a radioactive chemical like that can explain these fashion choices.

Coke nails even Elvira Hancock wouldn't approve of

2010-05-21T18:22:00.000-04:00

In other nail polish news (bet you'll never hear that on CNN), Diet Coke has partnered with London's Nails Inc. to launch the Diet Coke City Collection. Four polishes dedicated to the fashion capitals — London (nude: presumably a nod to the pantsless trend started, established and perpetuated by Daisy Lowe, the Geldofs et al.), New York (fuchsia: the East River is so radioactive right now that's probably its new natural hue), Paris (purple: insert requisite crack here about smelly Frenchmen) and Milan (red: passion, blood, Ferraris, marinara sauce: all solid Italian clichés) — will be given to shoppers free with every purchase of a 500mL bottle of Diet Coke in Boots stores (sorry, UK only). However, if you're desperate to get your hot little hands on this, one of the beauty industry's weirdest collabs, they are also available on Asos.com.

Like scoring Louboutins at 95% off (you know who you are, Bonnie Mo), we wear our deals and cheap-chic finds with pride. I was at the Holt Renfrew fall preview the other morning when someone commented on my bright coral nails — what I like to call my Texan grandmother mani: "It's Sally Hansen," I declared with pride. The nail polish cost less than $7 at Shoppers Drug Mart and dried in under 10 minutes. I just can't argue with those numbers. But I don't know how I'd feel disclosing that my nail polish is Diet Coke Milan. It's kind of up there with wearing celebrity perfume. Like, who would ever fess up to dabbing a little of Jessica Simpson's Fancy Nights behind her ears? (Actually, don't answer that.)

I know Kaiser Karl is all "Coca Light ees 'ow I got so fashionably skeennee" and every woman's collarbone should be able to double as a weapon so we must all go on a Diet-Coke-and-cigarettes diet tout suite and a bunch of fashion designers created one-of-a-kind bottles of Diet Coke for Milan fashion week two seasons ago to raise money for charity and all, but DC nail polish? It sounds like it should be sold to little girls whose creepy mothers take them to the spa for baby facials and pedicures. Also, are you with me that they could have at least injected a second of humour into the situation by creating a syrupy brown colour? I mean, c'mon.

I love to get nailed, but not like this

2010-05-17T17:36:00.000-04:00

My mother's a classy dame. She's one of those ladies who never leaves the house without lipstick, a designer bag or, weather permitting, a fur coat. Don't be angry; it's an Italian thing. But beneath that polished surface beats the heart of a neurotic loon. A trait that was passed on to me in utero and haunts me — or enhances me, depending on who you talk to — to this day. Among our shared neuroses: obsessive cleanliness, a dramatic intolerance of poor table manners, a manic need to be the hostess with the mostest, and neat fingernails.

That last one is weird, isn't it? I don't know why, but if we spot a stylish woman (or man, for that matter) in public, we both check out their hands before giving the green light of approval. It bears mentioning that this approval means nothing to them, but you know, we judge regardless. To our credit, we are pretty meticulous about keeping our own hands clean and, for the most part, freshly polished. My mom's a tried-and-true red lady, while I'm more of a floozy who flits from nudes to brights to dramatic grays and black. Sometimes we make a point of matching our nails to a particular item of clothing, and although I know I'm verging into old lady territory, sometimes I like to match my lipstick. It's more quirky than granny...or at least that's what I tell myself. In a pinch though, my mom and I will both reach for the nearest tube of top coat and slap it on naked nails as we rush out the door, because if nothing else, shiny nails are pretty nails.

Note: this is not my hand

For some reason, however, the beauty industry is trying to slip us a lethal dose of Ativan by way of a perplexing trend: matte nail polish. Flat and viscous, matte polish delivers all the saturated colour with none of the exciting pop. It's like painting your nails with Liquid Paper, which sure was a fun way to pass the time in geography class, but by the time you got to world history it was already chipped and the chemicals were slowly seeping into your bloodstream. In short, a bad idea. I'm not sure if nostalgia is what beauty companies were going for when they launched matte polish, or if like $350 half-pants-half-shorts (you know who you are) it's just because everything else has been done 20 times over. Either way, I beg of them to stop.

I understand that sometimes boredom is the mother of invention, but I don't think that 15-year-olds who switch between sniffing Liquid Paper and applying it to their fingernails is really where we need to be looking for inspiration. 'Cuz that shit ain't classy at all.

How to be SATC

2010-05-14T17:43:00.001-04:00

Because evidently even Carrie Bradshaw worries about bunions, the Sex and the City corporation has launched the "Afterparty" flat, a foldable slipper that sexy gals are meant to slip into once they've hobbled out of sight of the fabulous party where they drank Cosmos all night and fellated rich, handsome bachelors in the bathroom.

The "Carrie" flat, $64.99, available at store.hbo.com

There are six styles in total, four of which are named after the main characters in the show, natch. I'm perplexed by the two supplementary styles that bear the names "SATC Black Corsage" and "SATC Pink Gems" respectively. Surely they could have named them after a secondary character, or perhaps a recurring theme in the show like cats or desperation. They are, of course, just one item in a shit storm of tie-ins, which include martini glasses, thong underwear and a smattering of leopard-printed accessories. It begs the question: who in God's name would go to the HBO store in search of underwear? But I'm pretty sure I don't want to hear the answer to that.

None of this is remotely surprising; it's a business and this is what businesses do. In fact, it's a lesson I learned a long time ago while watching Mel Brooks' masterpiece Star Wars spoof, Spaceballs. As the pint-sized soothsayer Yogurt explains to Lone Starr, the ruggedly handsome space-bum-for-hire, the real money for movies is made in merchandising. There's Spaceballs the T-shirt, Spaceballs the Colouring Book, Spaceballs the Lunch Box, Spaceballs the Breakfast Cereal, Spaceballs the Flame Thrower: "The kids love this one."

If you ask me, the SATC merchandise development team should take a page out of the book of Yogurt. How about Sex and the City the Vibrator? Or Sex and the City the Cigarettes? Or Sex and the City the Perfume: L'Air du Tramps? For the fan looking to expand her horizons, there could be Sex and the City the At-Home Psychology Certificate Program. The course book would include chapters on how to come off like a respectable lady by putting out on the first date and how to ruin your credit by buying lots of stuff you can't afford. The possibilities really are endless.

Schizo Chic

2010-05-12T17:50:00.000-04:00

Indecision is the God-given right of every woman. I don't care if that is a cliché or if it makes me a cliché to say it — there's a reason certain things become truisms, and that's because they're, well, true. I've changed my mind on thousands of things over the years. Why, just a few weeks ago I curtly refused a gentleman's offer of gin by explaining to him that I don't touch the stuff, and then bam! Last Sunday I woke up with a blinding gin-induced hangover from spending the greater part of Saturday night knocking back gin martinis. (For the record, I once again no longer touch the stuff.)

And like most chronically-tardy women, in the moments leading up to an event that I will undoubtedly be late for, I stand before my open closet in my undergarments confounded by whether the outing calls for pants or shorts. Could this be why Bernhard Willhelm designed these?

God, I hope not. Because if Herr Willhelm thinks I'm gonna wear these just because he made them for me and my ilk, he's gonna be sorely disappointed. Of course it begs the question, for whom did he design these...shants? Ports? Shousers? Torts? I don't know what to call them. Other than hideous and wrong.

I wonder if they'd make you walk weird? Or if they would inadvertently force you to work that much harder at toning your right leg resulting in lopsided muscle definition? Maybe the designer can partner up with Reebok and get them to sell those EasyTone shoes in singles. That way the flabby pant leg can get a workout with every step and try to catch up to the sexy shorts leg. Come to think of it, Herr Willhelm has just cut all of our workout times in half with these things. And for that, we thank you.

Leave the lederhosen to the kinder

2010-05-03T16:20:00.000-04:00

If I had to choose my favourite season, summer would not be number one. In fact, it wouldn't even make it into the top three. Fall is my favourite for its poetic blend of nostalgia and bitterness. It's both beautiful and cruel, just like those expensive five-inch stilettos that cost you two paycheques and which you vowed to wear all-the-time because they go-with-everything but which almost caused you to plummet to your death while negotiating a spiral staircase after several martinis. And by you, I mean me.

This year, though, I'm looking forward to summer. The only explanation I can offer for this uncharacteristic change of heart is that I just went through my first Canadian winter as a dog owner. Of a dog, mind you, who curls up on a patch of ice and falls blissfully asleep the way most animals can only do on your goose-down duvet in front of a roaring fire. Of a dog who is capable of clawing through glass just to get a face full of fresh snow. A dog who sweats in -20 degree winds. Come to think of it, for a 14-month-old chocolate Lab, Floyd is remarkably similar to a menopausal woman in the throes of a hot flash. And being a good 20 years away from experiencing hot flashes myself, I tend to get a bit chilly when I walk the little monster. So yeah, I'm pretty psyched that summer is upon us.

What I'm not looking forward to, however, is the inevitable onslaught of fashion don't's that accompany the season: short-shorts and high heels, white jeans and red thongs, tube tops and tan lines. I dare say, I wouldn't bat an eyelash if I saw a woman swing herself around a bus stop pole. To add insult to injury, designers have decreed leather shorts to be a summer staple this year. They're calling them lederhosen (German for leather pants), the likes of which have until now been reserved for deutsche kinder and anyone with a walk-on role in The Sound of Music. (Though I would be remiss if I didn't also cite Chevy Chase in the greatest scene in European Vacation where his misunderstanding of a traditional German dance spirals into a festival-wide brawl.) It would seem that leather shorts are no longer the sole domain of S&M bars and gay pride parades. No, they're trendy. As seen on the runways of Chloé, YSL and Pucci, in the Bergdorf Goodman catalogue and even the shelves of Zara. You know what that means: expect to see them on a Main Street near you. Worse, near me. Scheiße.

Lederhosen on a child, where they may (or may not) belong

Leather shorts at YSL and Cholé, where they definitely do not belong

I'm not so naive that I don't understand the sweeping appeal of a girl in short-shorts and heels, white jeans and a red thong, a tube top and tan lines, I just think it's tacky. But leather shorts bring out a whole other finger-wagging, tsk-tsk'ing old lady in me and she's most concerned about hygiene and breathability and ensuring a safe environment for all your lady bits. All things that will be highly compromised by leather shorts on a hot, humid day in July. And that's cruelty of the ugliest kind.

What Would Gwyneth Do?

2010-04-27T17:34:00.000-04:00

In my ongoing series on things I will pass judgment on without ever reading/watching/clicking/buying, I would like to dedicate this post to Gwyneth Paltrow's unabashedly sanctimonious crapbag of a website, goop.com, which I've never actually read. But I know the gist of it (see blog post from March 2009 http://thechicstorm.blogspot.com/2009/03/goop-this.html). Just as la Paltrow lights up her subscribers' lives via a daily reminder of how blessed she is to be To The Manor Born and then tells them how to be just like her, so will I give you the skinny on what I love and which makes me...well...unemployed with no future prospects in the autumn of my professional life, but if nothing else on the receiving end of some sweet swag.

Better than Botox

I don't often align myself with one brand, but I love Kiehl's. Their products are amazing and the company is truly commitment to the environment. Plus, their stores are so inviting and warm — I used to spend hours in the 3rd Avenue flagship in New York when I was avoiding deadlines. The new Kiehl's store in Yorkdale Mall, which opened last week, is no exception. Filled with repurposed materials, like aeroplane scrap metal that lines the entrance, vintage medicine cabinets and pop art-inspired neon signs, it sucked me in immediately. But it's the product that keeps me coming back for more. If there's one Kiehl's item I simply cannot live without, it's their Powerful-Strength Line-Reducing Concentrate. With a high concentration of 10.5% pure vitamin C, this miracle product virtually erases fine lines to take your face back to a time when bad decisions and feathered bangs were your M.O. Admittedly, I have pretty good skin for a 3*-year-old gal (on a good day I'll still get asked what grade I'm in....by an octogenarian with severe cataracts, but whatever.) Even with my good genes and a Cullen-like avoidance of direct sunlight, the last three decades are starting to imprint themselves on my forehead and I'm none too pleased about it. With Kiehl's Powerful-Strength Line-Reducing Concentrate, however, those lines are a thing of the past...or future...or...oh whatever, they just go away, ok?

The new Kiehl's store in Yorkdale Mall

Better than botox: Kiehl's Powerful-Strength Line-Reducing Concentrate, $77

Lock Talk and Two Smokin' Broads

A few weeks ago my friend in frippery Michelle Villett (a.k.a. beautyeditor.ca) asked me to be her date to the Genie Awards, which she was kindly invited to attend by the good folks at John Frieda. Although our party days ended around the same time as the halcyon era of glossy magazine journalism took its last ostentatious bow, we still can't resist an opportunity to get dolled up and try to catch Scott Speedman's eye. (For better or for worse, we ended up spending the evening chatting with three gentlemen and didn't actually see Speedy.) But we did see some incredibly cool 'dos by the hands of the John Frieda experts on Canadian celebs Karine Vanasse and Carine Leduc. Although I didn't take the John Frieda stylists up on their offer to coif me — and coif me good, I presume — I do turn to Sir Frieda regularly to ensure that my curls remain as bouncy and frizz free as is humanly possible. [This is where I switch on my brand spokesperson voice]: For shiny, bouncy and frizz-free curls I use John Frieda Frizz-Ease Dream Curls Conditioner in the shower. To style, I squeeze excess water out of my hair, run a dollop of John Frieda Frizz-Ease Hair Serum through my locks, twist individual strands into ringlets and dry with a diffuser. In less than ten minutes I have gorgeous, manageable and frizz free curls! [Stacy London eat your heart out.]

My must-have hair products: John Frieda Frizz-Ease Dream Curls Conditioner and Hair Serum

I will now step down from my product pulpit and go back to the sofa. Because telling you people how to be awesome like me is exhausting. And I've got some soaps to catch up on.

French women don't get fat. Could that explain why they're so bitchy?

2010-04-23T16:21:00.000-04:00

Surely you've heard of the book "French Women Don't Get Fat". I won't lie, I haven't read it. Nor do I have any intentions of doing so. The title annoys me on so many levels, and not just because I've seen plenty of corpulent dames walking the streets of Paris. I have a sneaking suspicion that the book reeks of the kind of nauseating superiority that has given the French such an unsavory reputation the western world over. And doesn't that make it, how do you say, un cliché? It's not that I dislike the French (entirely) or that I disagree with their lifestyle. I mean, we are talking about a people who have given us champagne, camembert and Chanel. They can't all be bad.

"Plus-size is not flattering to fashion"

There is one in particular, however, who really ground my gears this week. Garance Doré, a Paris-based style blogger of dubious influence, went on the record with British Vogue to comment on fashion's recent trending toward plus-size models. "It's not such a good thing to show plus-size because it's not really physically healthy and not always flattering to fashion," she said. I'll give her this, at least she stands behind her blog, because the only intrinsically stylish on-the-street people she shoots are ones who look like they just walked out of a casting for a Jean-Luc Godard film. It bears mentioning that the following day she tried to recant by telling the Huffington Post: "...what I said is that I will be happy to see [plus-sized models] on a runway on a regular basis, just mixed [in with regular models] and not [walking] all together at the same time." That doesn't sound like much of an apology to me, but maybe the mea culpa was lost in translation. Because I refuse to believe that she actually said plus-sized models are fine to put on a runway provided they're interspersed with skinny ones. I bet she's the type of woman who goes on coffee-and-cigarettes diets five days before a big event.

There was a time, I admit, when I would spot a stick-thin girl on the street and stare at her longingly, while quietly cursing my genetic lot and the thighs that came with it. And despite a recent ceasefire between me and the skinny bitch who lies within and keeps telling me to step away from the bread, it's not over between me and my thighs. I really want us to be friends, but I'm afraid if people like Garance Doré keep telling me that thin is in, it's never going to happen. The reality is that the thinness obsession that has been perpetuated by the fashion industry (okay, and continues to be, for the most part) is really starting to seem outdated. If the sweeping obesity epidemic has taught us anything, it's that proper nutrition is paramount to looking and feeling great. And if Esquire, the men's magazine dudes come to for the scantily clad women but stay for the articles (or is that Playboy?), is going to crown Christina Hendricks, a bombshell whose curves make mince meat of 32-25-32, the best-looking woman today, it seems pretty clear that we're ready to toll the death knell of skinniness.

Maybe Garance Doré should put down her camera and take a break. She could go to the South of France and work on other fashionable pursuits like increasing her nicotine intake and working on her tan.

The last of the mean girls

2010-04-16T14:32:00.000-04:00

I think I'm a dying breed. [Note: I'm not actually dying.] I'm just saying that me and my kind are slowly but surely becoming extinct. Or at least as far as Rita Wilson is concerned: http://www.harpersbazaar.com/magazine/feature-articles/being-nice-is-fashionable-0310. In her recent Harper's Bazaar story on how "nice is the new black" (her words, not mine), it is painfully clear that there's no room in this new sugar-n-spice world for vitriolic curmudgeons like me. I guess I had it coming; society at large would stand for my brand of caustic commentary only so long.

"I hope [it's] here to stay. Nice is the new black."

Maybe it's nice that nice is back. (Although, between you, me and the lamppost — and the other two people who read this blog — I've always hated the word "nice." Shocking, I know. It's so bland and blah and bloring. See what I just did there?) If nothing else, there are sure to be a whole lot more people smiling out there. And let's be frank, with unemployment rates steady at shit-outta-luck levels, a continuously depleting ozone layer, melting polar ice caps and Lindsay Lohan's new clothing line, a smile is just the kind of emotionally-stunted hands free hug we could use right now.

But should anyone decide to invade my personal space and close in for an actual hug (God help them), Scope and Crest have got my back. Or my mouth, to be more precise. Last week, the good people at P&G and MS&L PR invited me on "A Date with Shaun Majumder," a cast member from This Hour Has 22 Minutes and one of the best stand-up comedians I've seen in a long, long time. It's testament to his talent that he managed to seamlessly incorporate plugs for Scope's new Outlast mouthwash and Crest's Extra White Plus Scope Outlast toothpaste without coming across like a corporate shill. (Just a note to P&G execs, I have no problem shilling for a multinational corporation, if you're ever looking for someone new. I'm not as funny as that Majumder guy, but I do a spot-on Ralph Wiggum impersonation.) The Outlast technology in these two new products claim to keep breath fresh up to five times longer than your regular routine. Which is good, because the poor schmuck who tries to give me a hug is bound to get an earful that will last up to five times longer than their regular talking to.

I'm not sure if P&G has been chatting with my mother or if they just know I haven't been on a date since the Bush administration, but a couple of days ago they introduced me (and a bunch of other beauty writers) to some new Crest and Oral-B products presented by none other than Olympic gold medalist Jon Montgomery. Although the dreamy ginger with the startling light jade-coloured eyes dropped the word "girlfriend" about 50 times in his presentation, he quite literally had me at hello. I think he mentioned some stuff about a new 3D White collection that encompasses Whitestrips, toothpastes, toothbrushes and a rinse that whiten and help protect against future stains, but I'm not entirely sure. I was too busy swooning over his slick suit and shiny shoes. Afterward, he was polite enough to indulge us with photos and let me hold his medal (literally, not metaphorically), which is really heavy with a super cool Native-inspired design embossed on it. I got to ask him how he ever came to participate in skeleton, a sport where you lie down on a narrow sled-like device and throw yourself head first down an icy ramp at, like, 140,000 kilometres an hour. His response: "I saw someone do it once and thought it was cool." (Well, I think that's what he said. I kinda got lost in his eyes while he was talking to me.)

From left: Michelle Villett (whose beautyeditor.ca/ blog is far better than this one), Jon "dreamboat" Montgomery, me and Jill Dunn from GLOW Magazine

I'm not so sure what all this means in terms of making me a nicer person. If nothing else, at least the people I yell at will get a minty fresh burst from my mouth, in addition to scathing criticism punctuated with profanity. I will say this, though, I look forward to putting my Scope and Crest samples to good use. That way, if I ever have a chance at another tete-a-tete with Jon Montgomery, he can get lost in my dazzling smile.

And now for a little shameless self-promotion

2010-04-13T14:05:00.000-04:00

It took me a full 48 hours to come up with a new year's resolution this year. I had already quit smoking and I hate gyms, so the ol' faithfuls were out. I gave up on trying to be a "better person" years ago, as my friend[s] and [estranged] family can attest, so that wasn't even a consideration. And looking on the bright side of life seemed like it would take a whole lot of concentration and effort, especially when a neat little pill can take care of that for you. After ruling out more facetious resolutions — like, buy more shoes and be judgmental — I settled on "2010: The Year of Self-Promotion." Sure, it's self-involved and selfish and self-centred, and there's no "i" in magnanimous (wait a minute...), but I realized that the humble writer angle I've been working all these years is the reason bookies (aka. VISA) are after me. And hell, if Lauren Weisberger is getting million-dollar book deals while I'm publishing zines out of my parents' basement there's something seriously wrong with the world and it's up to me to correct it.

I considered posting a YouTube video of me lighting my high school diploma on fire and rhythmically chanting "I am so smart. Smrt." But then I remembered that's been done. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DhrfhjLd9e4

Instead, what I'll do is post recent links to the LG Fashion Week coverage I've done for the Fall/Winter 2010 shows. (Of course what I'd really like to post is a story about what a shit show fashion week was this season. How the venue felt like a Eurotrash nightclub; how the the media was treated like second-class citizens; how it was teeming with people who have nothing to do with the fashion industry; and most of all, how the guy who tells us to take our seats needs to stick to emcee'ing weddings in suburban banquet halls because we're well aware that when the lights dim it means the show's about to start.) But I'm not going to write about that. Instead, I'll write this:

Style snub
What does it mean when some of the country’s biggest fashion designers decide to boycott their very own fashion week?
http://www.ellecanada.com/home/fashion/style-snub/a/33242

The It List
ELLECanada.com brings you the top five trends for fall 2010-11 from the runways of LG Fashion Week.
http://www.ellecanada.com/fashion/fashion-weeks/the-it-list/a/33449

FASHION WEEK HAIKUS: Poetry in motion
http://thestylenotebook.com/2010/04/07/fashion-week-haikus-poetry-in-motion/#more-1490

As my last order of self-promotion for today, I'd like to recount for you a thrilling email exchange that took place on Saturday between me and Jessica of GoFugYourself.com fame (http://gofugyourself.celebuzz.com/), whose acrimonious witticisms on celebrity fashion are unparalleled in the blogosphere today.

Jessica to me:
I just checked out your blog and it's GREAT! I could not agree with you more about "fashion sweatpants." I mean....seriously, people. THEY'RE SWEATS. JUST SAY NO. I've totally bookmarked you and can't wait to read more!

me to Jessica:
Wow, thanks so much! I'm so flattered you like my blog!! You just made my week!!!
P.S. Though we see eye-to-eye on the fashion sweats issue, I feel the need to admit to you that I love peg leg trousers (or hammer pants, as we both know I'm afraid to say out loud) and wore them to an event last night to rave reviews. I'm not sure if this means we can't be friends, but I had to let you know before you learned it from someone else. Phew. I feel so much better now.

Jessica to me:
Well, how boring it would be if we agreed on EVERYTHING, right? :)

me to me and anyone else who will listen:
OMIGODTHEFUGGIRLSREADMYBLOGANDTHEYLIKEIT!!!! AAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

And for one blissful day, I was a better person who looked on the bright side of life.

A message to fashion sweats: Cantstandya!

2010-04-09T00:15:00.000-04:00

A famous comedian once remarked (on his namesake show that ran to critical acclaim for eight years) to his short, stout and unemployed friend (who never really made it anywhere after the show ended and is now fronting a new Jenny Craig campaign presumably so that the weight loss company can start duping chubby, insecure men, because as another fading comedic actress known for her role as a sexy, smart-talking business woman on another defunct but equally relevant television sitcom already proved, the diet don't work!): "You know the message you're sending out to the world with these sweatpants? You're telling the world, 'I give up. I can't compete in normal society. I'm miserable, so I might as well be comfortable.'"

"My name is George. I'm unemployed and I live with my parents."

I firmly believe this is what designers were thinking when they put "fashion sweats" on the runways two years ago. It started with Isabel Marant and Alexander Wang, and quickly spread like an STD to the design studios of Michael Kors, Thakoon, Bottega Veneta, Jean Paul Gaultier and Rag & Bone. It would seem that Seinfeld's summation was right on the money, as it were, especially when you consider the aforementioned sweatpants slouched down the runway around the same time that Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac lost their shirts. The luxury market took a fairly serious blow — a setback so dramatic it sent even the most fastidious fashion plates to seek comfort in fleece-lined pants. And, presumably, a pint of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. (Remember how in Mean Girls one of their rules was they could only wear sweatpants on Fridays and then Rachel McAdams shows up in sweats on a Monday and when one of the other mean girls tells her she can't sit with them she says that they're the only thing that fits? Because, of course, Lindsay Lohan was tricking her into eating these high calorie bars her mother used to feed to starving kids in Africa.) I rest my case. Convoluted though that last point may be.

Alexander Wang and Rag & Bone s/s 2010

Well, not quite. It may be that I'm getting old or that I'm alone too much engaging in existential discussions with my dog or that as a writer I spend far too much time in my head versus, say, interacting with society and people and stuff, but I swear this is a conspiracy fronted by the fashion industry and secretly financed by beauty companies and celebrity hairstylists to make us wear shit that we'll look back on in six months and cringe (or what my brilliant friend Lindsay once called shameafreude) and be forced to run out and buy new clothes and, naturally, get a new haircut and new makeup because if What Not To Wear has taught us anything it's that no one who wears sweatpants to work can possibly have good hair and be aware of their amazing bone structure and eyebrows most girls would kill for. And I'm SO ON TO THEM.

And for the record, much as I may resemble George Costanza these days — short, stout, unemployed — and the cliché of the freelance writer means my gainfully employed friends always picture me in sweatpants scarfing cookies as we chat on the phone about global warming and Robert Pattinson's hair on any given morning, I don't even own sweatpants. Fashion-y or otherwise. And as God is my witness (and boy, has God ever witnessed pathetic shit over at my house) I will never, ever wear fashion sweats!

The prosecution rests.

Young ladies and the tramps

2010-03-31T18:38:00.000-04:00

Remember your prom? The meringue dress, your date's cheap rented tux, the mismatched concealer on your chin zit, the stretch limo that smelled vaguely of Love's Baby Soft? And what about the reddish-brown carnation he slipped on your wrist or his declaration of "You make me sweaty" as he awkwardly attempted to grab your ass while you slow danced to Meatloaf? Ah, adolescence. So distant, so scarring, so self-consciously cringe-y.

Except, it's not like that anymore. At some point over the past 20 or 30 years, teenagers stopped being uneasy and awkward. Kids today are somehow bypassing their ugly duckling phase and going right into slutty swan. I've seen it. A few years ago when I was working as a mid-level editor at a national publication, I was asked to give a speech at my old high school before their annual fashion show. (I haven't been asked back since I quit my job. Apparently 30-plus-year-old freelance writers who sleep til noon, bounce cheques and live off their parents aren't exactly the models education administrators want for their Future Leaders Of Canada. Go fig.) As I walked through those hallowed halls, all signs of adolescent malaise — acne, baby fat, mismatched clothes and general despondence — had been replaced with bodycon dresses with a side order of fake nails and hair extensions. These were not girls on the verge of coming-of-age. It came, it saw, it slutted them up.

It gets worse. This season, the New York Post recently reported, the theme in prom dresses is "slutty chic." "For prom this year, girls want short and poofy or long, tight-fitting, with everything cut out -- the sides are gone, the back is gone, the front is basically gone," a dress store manager in Brooklyn told the paper. (http://www.nypost.com/p/news/local/prom_queens_ohAX8aoexUMuvj6P6MhgRI) There are going to be some slutty and I would imagine, chilly, teenage girls roaming the streets this spring. Lock up yer sons! And it's not just the tacky stores that line the boulevard of broken dreams that stock these wonders, Saks is selling some pretty questionable styles too.

Pencey and Black Halo dresses both available at Saks

Two popular cut-out styles

I wonder if the pendulum theory would ever apply in a situation like this? If 20 years from now I walk into a high school gymnasium and witness a bunch of disheveled kids slow dancing in their mismatched pajamas. It would be a freelancer writer's dream come true.

How to stretch a buck, 75 times

2010-03-26T18:23:00.000-04:00

The last time 75 cents got you anything of substance Al Capone was dancing the Charleston on top of a flagpole.

More recently, the last time $75 got you something of substance, OJ Simpson was shopping at Bruno Magli as the Spice Girls were zighazig-ha'ing up our lives. Hipsters in Brooklyn may still have been dancing the Charleston. Ironically, though.

But thanks to Times Like These and the average luxury consumer's short-arms-deep-pockets affliction, $75 now goes a long way to making you look like the million bucks you looked like on a regular day in pre-Black Monday Canada. Herewith, a round up of how to spend $75 in your quest to look like you actually have $75 to throw around like it ain't no thang.

Kérastase Chronologiste in-salon hair treatment

According to the Recherche Avancée L'Oréal, the science brains behind Kérastase hair products, caviar is the source of natural life. (If you ask me, the champagne that I like to chase my caviar down with is the real source of life, but that's neither here nor there.) Chronologiste, the brand's latest offering that proposes to cure all your hair ailments in one nifty treatment, has created a unique compound called mimetic caviar to imitate the food's natural essential amino acids, proteins, fatty acids, trace elements and iodine. Mixed with a rich, specially-formulate cream, the two components create soft, shiny, healthy, youthful locks in one swift go. The take home kit is $150, but an in-salon treatment, which lasts 30 minutes and comes with a helluva scalp and shoulder massage, will only set you back $75. It's a great way to get ready for a big night out where hair tossing leads to hair touching which leads to...well, other touching. You know. (Call 866 KERASTASE to find a salon near you.)

Just think how hot her hair will look!

Chanel 5 à 7

Taking inspiration from the French term for happy hour, this service invites clients to book a seat at the Chanel makeup counter at Holt Renfrew Bloor St. (Toronto) anytime between 5 and 7 on Thursdays and Fridays for a makeup application, touch up and mini lesson courtesy of a Chanel expert. You can choose one look from eight suggestions on Chanel's A la Carte menu of makeup looks, including the self-explanatory Bronze Goddess and the 5 To Whenever for traffic-stopping glam. And pick from the High Definition Makeup menu to learn how to achieve the perfect smoky eye (seriously girls, we still don't know how to do this?!), the perfect brow or the perfect false eyelash application. Six chairs are available at $75 a pop, which is redeemable in product, but bring a group of five friends and the hostess is free. It also includes a sugar high courtesy of petit fours and mock-tinis, which you are then meant to burn off by bar hopping in search of Mr. Right Now. (To book, call 416 922 2333.)

*Bonus (because I'm hopelessly devoted to Chanel)

The highly anticipated Chanel S/S 2010 rub-on tattoos are here and they're only $75 for five sheets of 55 tattoos! My crippling fear of needles and commitment phobia have left me tattoo free, despite years of entertaining the idea of branding myself in the name of coolness. So these are to me what tofurkey must be to a vegetarian on Thanksgiving. Except they're ultra cool, and probably taste better. (Available at select Chanel stores.)

A blog about the clog

2010-03-22T17:21:00.001-04:00

Dr. Scholl is having a fashion moment. No, seriously. I'm not kidding. Stop laughing! Fine, don't believe me? Here:

These images are from the Chanel and Louis Vuitton Spring/Summer 2010 runways respectively. Know what that means? They're the most expensive clogs ever made. Which, as far as statements go, ranks up there on the Whaaa? scale with "I did not inhale" and "Imma let you finish. But Beyoncé had one of the best videos of all time! One of the best videos of all time!"
And don't think it's easy for me to criticize, because my soul is covered in quilted leather and accented with a silk camellia. It physically pains me to say anything negative about Chanel and that crazy, ponytail'd, fingerless glove'd, size negative four-propagating Karl Lagerfeld. I love that droopy emaciated bastard as much for his prolific talent as the nutzo shit that comes out of his mouth. I mean, "The most important piece in the house is the garbage can" and "I’m a kind of fashion nymphomaniac who never gets an orgasm"? That's gold!

I'm struggling with those clogs, though. And I think I know why. When I was a kid I spent my summers in Italy, where the pre-teen sartorial aesthetic varied largely from my middle class Toronto schoolyard. The paternal side of my family is dominated by boys, which you can imagine was a total drag for a WHAM!-loving girl like me. And to make matters worse, my grandparents lived in a rural suburb, so my testosterone-charged cousins weren't just annoying boys but country bumpkins to boot. Where I would don rubber flip flops or sparkly jelly shoes for the beach and colourful espadrilles around town, they were always walking around in ugly, clunky Dr. Scholl's sandals. I can still hear the clank-and-drag of their heavy wooden soles as they made contact with the terracotta tiles on the veranda in my nightmares today. Eventually, I learned to distinguish their respective noisy gaits, which allowed for quick hiding upon discovery of mangled G.I. Joe figurines and stolen pencil crayons courtesy of moi. Much as my tall and fashionably slender cousins probably would've been scouted by a modelling agent if they had lived in, say, Milan, their choice in footwear was hardly what I would have deemed en vogue back in the day. Or today.

Karl Lagerfeld's inspiration for Chanel s/s 2010?

It's hard to tell just how much life this trend will have. On the one hand, it goes hand-in-hand with the recent spate of heinous shoes disguised as high fashion; a phenomenon that even Andre Leon Talley, the Grand Dame of capes for Chrissake, is opposed to: http://jezebel.com/5496512/the-13-ugliest-shoes-in-the-world/gallery/?skyline=true&s=i. On the other, I kind of feel like fashion designers may be having a laugh here. Which would be fitting, because I'm pretty sure Karl Lagerfeld has been laughing at me and my garbage can for some time now.

Failing the fat girls, one Barbie at a time

2010-03-16T18:09:00.000-04:00

I'm really conflicted by Barbie. You know, the impossibly perfect Aryan goddess who's been the central figure of princess-themed birthday parties and feminist outrage for 50 years and counting? I'm not entirely sure how I feel about her. I had Barbies as a kid — three of them, all hand-me-downs, until I turned one of them into a Misfit, Gem's mortal enemy, and defaced her to the point that no amount of Palmolive dish soap could get the anarchy symbols to wash off her legs. The two that remained acted as showroom models for the elaborate outfits I would fashion out of beige-coloured Kleenex. (Isn't there always a flamboyantly gay contestant on Project Runway who claims his first foray into fashion design was making clothes for his sister's Barbie?) But I wouldn't say Barbie was a big part of my childhood. Not like Strawberry Shortcake or Fashion Plates.

That skinny bitch sure has come a long way since I was dressing her in two-ply shifts, though. She's been outfitted by the world's top couturiers, had several high-profile careers, learned to speak, got her driver's license and owns several pieces of property. In case you didn't know, she turned 50 last year and was feted at New York fashion week (here's a link to a story I wrote about it while I was there covering the shows for ellecanada.com: http://www.ellecanada.com/fashion/fantastic-plastic/a/27574). Now she's taking on TV's best new show. The Barbie Mad Men series sees the blond bimbo and her himbo mini-me'ing four central characters of AMC's Mad Men, the dramatic series set in the 1960s about the ad biz and indiscriminate extramarital sex in pre-clap New York. The dolls look amazing in their period outfits and retro detailing; apparently the faces are actually modeled on Barbie's original '60s era features. They ring in at about $75 each, and will be available for sale in July on http://www.amctv.com/ and http://www.barbiecollector.com/.

The Betty Draper Barbie was kind of a no-brainer, since both the character and the actress personify Barbie's blond-blue-eyed-wasp-waisted hotness. It also made sense to give her a plastic Don doll, because they do make such a handsome couple. Although in both his case and silver fox Roger Sterling's, Mattel's anatomical oversight is terribly egregious considering those guys couldn't keep it in their pants even if it was made of plastic. Might as well give their 13-inch replicas the same chance at carnal happiness, I say. But I know I'm not alone when I express deep disappointment in the Joan Holloway Barbie. For a toy company that's been taking heat for propagating an unhealthy body image in young girls for half a century, they really passed up a golden opportunity to redeem themselves without having to cave in to pressure with a "fat" Barbie. [NOTE: I am in no way suggesting that Christina Hendricks (who plays Joan Holloway) is fat. But her dangerous-curves-ahead body is irrefutably more corpulent than that of cast mate January Jones. Also, we're talking about Barbie here.] They would have looked so classy and savvy if they unveiled a curvaceous, hourglass-y and yes, more realistic doll under the pretense of this project.

If nothing else, it would have saved them from what will inevitably result in Husky Hazel, Barbie's smart, plus-sized friend "Now with a great personality!", which the company will be forced to unveil in a few years' time. She'll drive a charcoal gray sedan with a cardboard tree-shaped air freshener dangling from the rear view mirror and a bumper sticker that reads "Big is Beautiful." At first she'll make a self-deprecating statement that tells girls who buy her, "We're all skinny on the inside!" But she'll eventually fall prey to media pressure and get bad highlights, gel-filled nails and come accessorized with a thigh master and a box of Oreos for emotional eating binges. She'll wear ill-fitting clothes, sensible shoes and work in radio. Eventually, she'll meet a plastic life partner named Gene who will be short, stout and dubiously employed; he'll harbour a secret gambling problem and come with an impressive collection of porn. They'll move into a semi-detached in Flint, Michigan, with Gene's ailing mother and adopt a blind cat from the ASPCA named, rather ironically, Seymour. After a few years, Mattel will slowly faze out Husky Hazel out and bring in Janey Craig, her skinny cousin who will encourage girls to lose 20 pounds for just $20!

It's all so labored and sad. Wouldn't it just be easier for Mattel to give Joan Holloway and her bodacious bod the respect it deserves now? At the very least, I know it would save me the money of buying Janey Craig and turning her into a cracked-out Misfit whore.

For the guys: Hair raising questions answered

2010-03-12T13:33:00.000-05:00

Hair is a really big issue for most people. And frankly, I've never really understood why. I've seen so many girls go all wide-eyed and hysterical at the suggestion that they snip off a few inches of damaged hair. (If you don't want to hear it, don't ask!) Me, I've always been Team It'll Grow Back. Maybe it's because I have really curly hair that's hard to style in different ways so I'm not as emotionally invested. It's either down and messy or up and messy. I used to wear my hair in a short rock 'n' roll-type bob, which drove my mother bonkers, because girls with short hair never get boyfriends, dontcha know. And I've toyed with the idea of shaving my head since I was a 14-year-old Sinead O'Connor fan. Recently I was more inclined to cut it really short like Natalie Portman when she was growing out her V for Vendetta buzz — of course I was functioning under the erroneous impression that I could pull it off with the same aplomb as the gamine actress because a friend once mistook her for me at a boutique in Toronto. (I should mention this was several years ago when I was younger and thinner and he hadn't yet had his contact lens prescription upgraded.)

Turns out my mother may have been on to something. AXE, the Maxim of men's grooming brands, has launched two new hair products and teamed up with body language analyst Barry Ettinger to shed some light on just how much your hair says about you. Apparently, over 55 percent of communication comes from body language and only 7 percent occurs verbally, which sounds like a pretty convincing argument for a sex offender if you ask me, but I digress. Studies show that upon first sight hairstyle ranks as a person's most memorable feature; in terms of touch communication, any contact above the neck communicates intimacy. The bottom line? Good hair exponentially increases your chances of getting lucky.

So let's examine a few famous hairstyles and their ability to get the guy under them laid:

The Mullet
Famous for its "business in the front, party in the back" message, this work-play hybrid is the exclusive domain of rednecks and guys who think it's still 1983. Hipsters had a brief, ironic love affair with it a couple of years ago which was vaguely horrifying and totally libido-crushing.

Survey says: Not even a sixer of Bud and a light switch make this okay.

The Caesar Cut
You're not a Roman emperor, or George Clooney circa 1994, or George Michael, or George Stavropoulos circa 1996 (this guy I went to school with who I had a secret crush on until I saw him crossing campus one day in manpris and Birkenstock clogs). In fact, unless your name is George, don't do it. And even then.

Survey says: Maybe. But only if you work the old school Clooney angle.

The Unnecessarily Shaved Head
There's a brilliant episode of Seinfeld where Elaine is dating a bald guy who, as it turns out, actually has a full head of hair. When she comes across his driver's license that has a picture of him with a rich, thick mane, she asks him incredulously: "You mean I could be dating this hair?" I wonder if Victoria Beckham ever asked the same of her husband.

Survey says: Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't kick Becks out of my bed for eating crackers, but if you've got it, honey, don't shave it off!

The Faux Hawk
When Mohawks first came on the scene in the heady days of Punk Rock, it signaled the dawn of a new era in music, fashion and politics. It was so badass and cool that had I been of age at the time, I would've swooned with anti-conformist rancor. Today, it signals the dawn of a jackass whose most rebellious act of defiance is going commando. It's dirty by all accounts, and not in a good way. Are you listening Jared Leto?

Survey says: What happened to Jordan Catalano?!?

The Pompadour
This is a toughie because if you're an old greasy dude with a pompadour, an unbuttoned shirt and one or more gold crosses strung around your neck you're pretty much shit outta luck with the girls. If, however, you look anything at all like Jon Kortajarena, the white-tee-blue-jeans-wearing hustler in A Single Man, then, well, be still my quivering loins.

Survey says: Jon Kortajarena OHGODYES!

We used to be so good together, Oscar. What happened to us?

2010-03-08T13:30:00.000-05:00

I loved you when....

But I've moved on...

Dear Oscar Red Carpet,

I don't know how to tell you this, so I'm just gonna say it. I think we need to see other people. You just don't excite me the way you used to. I know, I know, relationships can't be all passion all the time. But we only get together for one night a year, which means you've got 364 days to come up with something so toe-curlingly amazing to make me grab the pillows and scream out your name in ecstasy. Instead I get missionary style. I don't think it's too much to ask for a little drama, a little subversion, a little kink from a one-night stand. If I wanted last night's Red Carpet, I would've married it, thrown on a pair of sweat pants and invested in a good vibrator. You left me cold and unsatisfied, again. (I admit that I came close when SJP appeared in her crystal-encrusted Chanel sack. But her haggard orange face quickly took away my horny.)

Don't you remember how hot it used to be with us? Bob Mackie headdresses and Marjan Pejoski feathers and Ralph Lauren taffeta? I even loved those tender nights when you were draped in sunflower yellow Vera Wang chiffon, chartreuse Chinoiserie by John Galliano and vintage Valentino. That was like a dream. Now, I'm afraid, you've lost your yen for it. And for me, sadly. You no longer go out of your way to impress me with your influence or woo me with your whimsy or titillate me with your gusto. I guess you've moved on to a younger, less discerning lover and this is your way of telling me. I'm hurt. I thought you were different.

Just so you know, I'm moving on too. It's Grammy, and although it's strange that his name brings to mind support hose and purple hair, it's also fitting because he knows how to work it. Baby, he does it weird and crazy and oh so good. It's the hottest thing I've seen since...well...you in your heyday. Which makes my happiness bittersweet when we're together. You will always be my first love but you're no longer my number one lover. I look forward to seeing you again next year, but this time I'll be in my sweat pants.

Your former admirer,
Marilisa

Sometimes words look as good as they taste

2010-03-05T12:51:00.000-05:00

It's time for me to sit down to a steaming hot bowl of my own words. You see, dear reader(s), years ago when I was just a young university student with big logo-emblazoned dreams of a fast and fabulous career in fashion journalism, I spared no one my devout beliefs in what I thought constituted true style. If it wasn't bright, leopard printed or platformed, it simply did not qualify. Between the economic surplus of the dot com boom, the upbeat tempo of Brit Pop bands, Union Jack mini dresses and the ubiquity of logo'd Italian sportswear, understated was not the mot on everyone's lips. Especially not mine.

At the time I had a boyfriend who was one of those rare specimen of suburban kids who are weaned on hot dogs, baseball and pleated chinos but who harbour a subconscious proclivity for the finer things in life. It wasn't long into our romance before he started buying leather-soled shoes and single-button blazers. I couldn't, however, get him to permanently shelve the chinos. Personally, I couldn't get my head around it: why would he wear something so mundane and uninspired and American (a word I spat out with the same disgust I normally reserve for Crocs and lawyers)? He would try to appease me, God bless him, by buying flat-front chinos and pairing them with a cashmere V-neck and an elegant overcoat. But I still couldn't get on board.

Then one day he showed me a picture of a casually elegant man in a magazine wearing a button-down shirt and classic trousers and said he wanted to emulate that look everyday. He called it his new uniform. And I nearly fainted. How could he possibly want to wear the same look day in and day out, denying himself the excitement and wonder that came with studiously throwing things together to create a new style image for every occasion? He was killing the art of dressing as I knew it. And I felt as though he had just driven a knife through my D&G-branded sweater.

Eventually, I moved to New York to pursue that fast and fabulous journalism career (ha!) and came to appreciate the considerably pared down American aesthetic. Dark denim jeans with heels, a crew neck sweater on loose trousers with a fitted jean jacket, an LBD with ballet flats. So simple, so easy. I was sold.

This week, Banana Republic held a media event to promote their new Live In Chino campaign where they espouse the philosophy that a chino day keeps the fashion police away. I was invited to the event and offered a piece to take home. I got a great fitted crinkled blazer in ecru with built-in shoulder pads that reflects a recent trending towards a strong '80s-inspired shoulder. It fits perfectly with my wardrobe of jeans, t-shirts, flats and heels. Which, by the way, is my new uniform. I have a feeling I'll be wearing the khaki out of it this summer. And quietly feasting on my diet of words.

Frogs and snails and puppy-dogs' tails

2010-03-01T18:35:00.000-05:00

If I had a nickel every time I met a guy who told me he couldn't give a rat's ass what people thought about his clothes or hair, I'd have a lot of nickels right now. Like, a lot. It bears noting, however, that statement always follows my response to the "So, what do you do?" question. Evidently, there's something about a woman who works in the fashion industry that immediately makes men defensive. Or at least the ones I meet (...and subsequently date. Bleurg.) The fact that I should stop engaging with starving artists I meet in dive bars notwithstanding, I'm here to say something to all you guys who claim to be too cerebral to indulge in the superficiality that comes with a crisp shirt or a pair of wholly intact underwear: you're full of shit. And what's even worse is the guy who tells me that he doesn't care what other people think about how he looks is usually the guy who cares the most. It's all so Psych 101 that it makes me want to barf.

The good people at Dove recently launched a line of personal care products targeted to men called Men+Care. (I can only guess that the subtext they were going for is Men+Care=Dove.) Obviously, there's a whole beauty market full of guys who totally care how they look and smell. The company conducted a survey asking a random sampling of men worldwide how they felt they were represented in advertising and low and behold, they were less than impressed. "Hold the phone!" I thought. "Could it be that men are also irritated by being portrayed as dim, tubby, balding Everymen married to attractive, whip-smart women who are clearly out of their league?" Sadly, no. It turns out that guys don't appreciate being represented as rich, power-hungry ladies men. In fact, only 6% of the men surveyed believe they are realistically portrayed. I guess they showed me.

While I applaud Dove for taking another Real Beauty approach to addressing our physical and psychological complexes, am I really meant to sympathize with the male plight here? If so, I'm going to have to play the objectified vagina card. You know, guys, it could be a lot worse than being portrayed as Don Draper in a Homer Simpson world. You could be...uh...like represented by...someone much.....mmmmmmmDonDraper.

Need I say more?

The kids aren't alright

2010-02-24T18:22:00.000-05:00

I don't have children. I have a dog, which, as any dog owner will tell you, is a lot like having a child. Probably worse. Fifteen years from now, a child born yesterday will have learned to use the toilet and know his way around a microwave while my Floyd will still be sticking his nose in my face at 7am driven by hunger and an urgent need to relieve himself. (For the record, I wouldn't trade him for the world...or couture.) I accepted my fate the moment I laid eyes on him, and embraced it the first time he curled up and fell asleep on my feet; a strange surge of warmth overwhelmed the organ that resides in the left side of my chest when he did that, and it's what I can only imagine a mother feels the first time her child is placed upon her breast.

What ensues is pretty similar: a fierce desire to keep them healthy and safe, happy and clean. To educate and instill in them a strong code that upholds the moral tenets of honesty, trust, accountability, loyalty and peeing outside. But most of all, to let them be kids.

Until now. It seems a new crop of keener kids are sprouting from the dirt (or places like Georgia and Illinois). They're charming their way into some very serious industries with their idiot savant-ness by convincing much older idiots with a lot less savant that what they have to say actually matters. And we're meant to buy it. (Disclaimer: The following information may cause depression, nausea, feelings of suicide, anxiety, diarrhea, constipation, sleeplessness or fatigue. Do not read if you are pregnant or breast feeding. In severe cases, contact your psychotherapist or home-delivery drug dealer immediately.)

Tavi Gevinson. A pint-sized thirteen-year-old blogger with gray hair and a Mary Kate Olsen aesthetic, Tavi's blog Style Rookie has made her a fashion darling. She's been featured in Vogue Paris, The New York Times Magazine and Teen Vogue. She sits front row at Couture Week (the absurdly gigantic bow she wore on her head to the Dior show apparently pissed editors off because they couldn't see over it) and covered the shows in New York for Fashion Television replacing veteran host Jeanne Beker who was in Vancouver for the Olympics. She refers to Alexander Wang on her blog as a "kid" and makes snide asides about designers five times her age like "when Margiela was good." The fashion press has called her a "breath of fresh air." She was apparently one of the inspirations for Rodarte's capsule collection for Target.

Jonathan Krohn. A fifteen-year-old Republican who has made it his personal mission to set the record straight on conservatism with his book "Define Conservatism", which he wrote and self-published two years ago. He managed to convince organizers of last year's Conservative Political Action Conference to let him speak at the event. He ranked 190 out of a list of 208 finalists for Time's Top 100 of 2009, and was described by the magazine as "Lil' Limbaugh." He recently released his second book "Defining Conservatism: The Principles That Will Bring Our Country Back," which has been praised by former Speaker of the House Newt Gingrich, who, it should be said, wanted to write the foreword, but Jonathan wanted conservative political theorist William Bennett to do it. And he did. Mike Gallagher, host of The Mike Gallagher Show (the eighth most listened to radio show in America) has said: "Any time I am depressed about the state of the country or the future of the modern conservative movement, I consider two words: Jonathan Krohn."

Now, I don't know about you, but when I was a teenager, I was reading Sassy and dreaming about make-out sessions with Kurt Cobain while navigating the rocky terrain of algebra and gateway drugs. These kids are obviously bright and know how to market themselves — something most adults I know can't do. But experts? No, I'm sorry, that's absurd. And much as both the fashion industry and the Republican party are founded on the principle of absurdity, I just can't stand behind it.

If you're going to seek my forgiveness, Tiger, do it in a better shirt

2010-02-19T12:52:00.000-05:00

Have you heard the little publicized news story about world class golfer Tiger Woods cheating on his trophy wife with a string of slutty 'hos? Yeah, I didn't think so. I mean, it's been buried on the front page of newspapers and tabloids for months now. To bring you up to speed, he just made a public apology to a select group of friends and family. I was honoured to be invited by the CTV News Channel and CNN and The New York Times and, well, just about every other news outlet in the free world. So nice and intimate!

I found it kind of weird that Tiger kept apologizing to me. I don't recall ever asking for an apology. In fact, I don't even recall being the least bit irked by his behaviour. Last I checked, I wasn't married to him, and unless you're Elin, neither are you, so why does everyone care so damn much? Don't get me wrong, Tiger's a dog. But I have a sneaking suspicion that much like the Hugh Grant-Divine Brown affair, the majority of the uproar in this case stems from the fact that few can fathom Tiger's desire for another signature hole. Elin's hot, yo!

If my sources are correct, and bearing in mind my aversion to all things sports-related (see previous post), Tiger Woods is a golfer. Not a spokesman for a family values coalition or the face of Husbands Of The Month monthly. He's a rich guy whose megalomania and illusion of infallibility came back to bite him in the ass. The ensuing public schadenfreude has been biblical, though. He lost endorsement deals and sadly, his own children's charity is suffering. I reckon the kids will be alright, though, since his absurdly bloated salary, which he gets because he knows how to hit a ball with a stick — wow, that's a life-saving talent! — should be sufficient to keep the hope alive. Just don't let him spew any more of this "caring and sharing" rhetoric. We've seen how Tiger shares his woods, and the kids don't need to emulate that.

But since he's offering, I'll take his mea culpa and apply it to something that offended me, deeply and personally: his shirt. I know there's a formula to dressing the part of the apologetic cad, and it involves sober attire mixed with slumped shoulders and a teary, hangdog expression. So I won't go off on the blay colour of his shirt. (That's my attempt to create a new fashion colour by combining blue with gray, like Armani's greige. Yes? No?) But the collar on his shirt looked like it was starched within an inch of its life; it practically stood on its own. Also, the fit was off and well, lemme just say it, it looked cheap. And when the reason behind your televised apology is to publicly repent for putting in another woman's green, cheap is already implied. Don't highlight it with your shirt.

By all means, aim high. Just dress the part.

2010-02-18T12:44:00.001-05:00

I'm just gonna come right out and say it: I don't like sports. And I really don't get why people watch them. Every now and then if there's nothing to watch on TV — and when I say nothing, I mean no Simpsons, no Jeopardy, no Seinfeld or Friends reruns, and the Food Network is running a Giada De Laurentiis show — I may stop for a few minutes on, say, a tennis tournament or a Formula 1 race. But that's only under extreme duress. And don't even talk to me about soccer. My father's burning passion for the sport has completely soured me on it. I remember as a child waking on Sunday mornings to find him in the family room watching one soccer game on TV and listening to another on his transistor radio. I firmly believe that if my father were forced to choose between his children and a soccer match in a Sophie's Choice kind of situation his knee-jerk response would be "Who's playing?"

I've tried to relate to the sports lover's high, but I simply cannot comprehend how a goal or a match point or a touchdown can elicit the same ecstasy as scoring Lanvin pumps at 65 percent off. Where's the personal satisfaction in a win that had nothing to do with you?

I don't really watch the Olympics either, which is a statement that often results in scowls and gasps from my friends and family. Just because it's on an international stage, it doesn't mean the sports are any less sporty. I'm proud of our fine Canadian athletes and I rejoice when someone far younger and more disciplined than me brings home a gold. But I won't lie, when watching an Olympic event, I'm usually more fixated on the better looking competitor and the snazzier outfit. Which brings me to a question that's been on my mind for days: was Seth Wescott, the American snowboarder who won the gold in snowboard cross, wearing ripped jeans? Or were they pants designed to resemble ripped jeans? Because if it's the former, I'm gonna need to step in.

Wearing jeans to the Olympics is like wearing Chanel to a Dior show. It's disrespectful. From their beginnings in the 8th century BC, the Olympic Games have stood for precision, excellence and cleanliness. Why do you think torch bearers to this day still wear white? Those Greeks are a fastidious people! I doubt Ancient Greece ever saw a rogue runner in a plaid toga or a chariot with graffiti scrawled on its side. So Wescott shouldn't sully the good name of European sartorialism with ripped jeans. Oh sure, snowboarding is an x-treme sport and snowboarders by extension are X-TREME, dude! They thumb their noses at conventional skiers in tight pants and Jean Claude Killy sweaters by wearing their clothes as big and baggy as possible. Unkempt and slack-jawed, they amble up to the chairlift with one boot strapped onto their board and the other dragging them along in a sloppy, simian fashion. It's not what one would call graceful.

My cousins and I used to make fun of people in jeans on the slopes when we were younger. We called them yetties. I don't know why. But they were usually beginner skiers who after a couple of runs on the bunny hill would hit the steeper slopes and barrel down in a semi-snowplow all the while yelling a raucous "yahoo!" as warning of their unstoppable approach. There was something so local-yokel about their baggy, high-waisted 501s tucked into a pair of rental boots. As far as I'm concerned, artfully distressed and fashionably slim though Wescott's jeans may have been, he still looks like a yettie to me.

Of course, if he was in fact wearing pants made to look like jeans, then...well...congratulations, dude. That's, like, x-tremely cool.

Your mother wears army boots. And I want a pair.

2010-02-16T10:14:00.013-05:00

I recently got back from a press trip to Israel on behalf of ELLE Canada. It was a fascinating, albeit conflicting experience. Israel is a beautiful country with a stunning and diverse landscape, a rich and tortured history, and an awesome mélange of old-meets-new art and architecture. But it kind of wore thin after awhile. Maybe I'm weary of history-heavy holiday destinations — my last two major vacations were in Turkey and Morocco, respectively — or maybe it's the fact that tension hangs as densely in the air in Israel as diesel exhaust and the smell of frying falafel. Ongoing political and religious strife has shaped the way Israelis interact, making legendary prickly pears like New Yorkers, Parisians and Romans seem positively amiable by comparison. I dunno, maybe my next trip should be somewhere a little more bland, like Buffalo.

It also doesn't help to put visitors at ease when uniformed teenagers carrying armed assault rifles walk the streets with the same swagger as our own erratic teens. There's something vaguely unsettling about unsupervised hormonally-charged boys with weapons, no? Despite the menacing atmosphere, however, I couldn't help but admire their overall look. Being a sucker for all things olive-hued (I blame a childhood spent watching M*A*S*H reruns), their uniform looked like the polished TV sitcom equivalent of military gear. Slim-fit shirts with green berets neatly folded under the left epaulet and low-rise pants accented with thick brown leather belts made them look like they stepped off a Dior Homme runway circa 2007. The girls too! But it was their boots that really caught my eye. Resembling a classic eight-hole Doc Marten but with a more streamlined sole and an elegant toe cap, I knew immediately that I had to have a pair. They come in black and an awesome vintage-looking reddish brown with gold rivets. I covet!

As we were leaving the Yad Vashem Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem, where everywhere I turned there was a troop of soldiers studying placards, listening to audio guides and playfully joshing one another, my boot envy got the better of me. Was it disrespectful to be obsessing about footwear in a place dedicated to misery and death? I approached a handsome young solider at the exit and asked point blank where I could buy a pair of boots just like the ones he had on. "For yourself?" he asked. "Yes." He looked at me quizzically and told me of a town on the other side of the country where I would find a store that sold the boots in addition to uniforms and other military paraphernalia. "It will be full of soldiers, so you might be a bit scared," he said. "Ha," I replied. "Try going to the Barneys warehouse sale on a Saturday."

The quip fell on deaf ears, naturally, but he smiled sweetly and gave a shy nod when I thanked him. I wanted to explain to him that boots like his would fetch upwards of €500 in a boutique in Milan, but figured between negotiating his country's history and training for its future he had bigger falafel to fry.

On this day, like every other one

2010-02-13T11:45:00.009-05:00

No, your eyes do not deceive you. This is a new post. Don't ask where I've been, (Italy, France, Mexico, New York, Israel), or what I've been doing, (eating, shopping, sun bathing, eating, procrastinating, eating). Let's just focus on the fact that I'm back, and clearly, a bee has buried herself deep enough in my bonnet to whip my mental sludge into a frenzy and force me to take to the blogosphere and pontificate on something I find substantially annoying: Valentine's Day. Specifically, how I'm expected to feel about Valentine's Day.

Personally, my sentiments on the occasion can be summed up in one elegant, monosyllabic word — meh. I feel no resentment whatsoever towards happy couples who use this day to reaffirm their love for one another. Please, go forth and splurge on dinner, flowers, jewellery, lingerie, sex toys. Lord knows our retail economy needs the shot in the arm. Stare deeply into your love's eyes, gesture as grandly as your wallet will allow, kiss with tongue! Just don't expect me to look longingly at you as tears well up in my eyes. Nor should you expect to find me slumped at the bar, slurring lonely-cat-lady clichés like, "José Cuervo is all the man I need!" while flashing the bartender some skin. I just don't care that much. Besides, I don't need an excuse to drink tequila.

I've certainly celebrated my fair share of Valentine's days. I've cooked special dinners, lit scented candles, worn kinky panties, waxed, polished, buffed and disrobed. And you know what? Save for the uncomfortable underwear, it always felt like just another day. In fact, the last time I celebrated Valentine's Day with a boyfriend, everything we were required to do was done by 10pm and we started calling around to see what everyone else was up to. If memory serves, I cozied up to both my boyfriend and José that night.

This year, I don't have one special someone, I have several. I went skiing with one special girlfriend last night and tonight will likely go to the movies with another. Monday I'll spend with a small group of special pals, while Tuesday I'm having dinner with a special friend and respected colleague. And I spend every day with my most favourite of the specials, my dog. I want to apologize to my sisters out there, both single and spoken for, who think I should feel sad or lonely, elated or entranced by this day. In truth, all I feel is ambivalent. And maybe a little hungry.

But if it makes you feel any better: I love you. Yesterday, today and tomorrow.

Story of O

2009-08-05T21:16:00.005-04:00

Last night's Yeah Yeah Yeahs show was, to borrow a word from an ambitious guy who recently accosted a very cute friend of mine on the subway, electric. (The poor bloke had no idea how close he was to making a genuine impression until he told my friend that he found her smile "electric." So close, dude. So close.) There were certainly no near misses for Karen O last night. Her vocals were the perfect mix of melodious raunch, at once sweetly pop-y and ear drum-piercingly screechy. In short, just what a Yeah Yeah Yeahs fan signs up for. But as the reigning queen of cool, O was on the hook for her costumes as much as her performance. And once again, she was, ahem, electric.

As my friend (different girl, equally cute) who had recently attended a Beyoncé concert said to me last night, O demonstrated exactly how to do over-the-top outrageous concert wear right. Unlike the Douche of Dereon, O's intrinsic hipness allows her to pull off such ostentatious separates as a red plastic prom skirt, a multi-hued catsuit, a graphic kimono and tiger-printed tights. Paired with her signature Sassoon-perfect jet black bowl cut and rocker red lips she's this generation's Ziggy Stardust. She's a show woman in every sense of the word. And I applaud her commitment to the theatricality and the star spangled-ness of rock 'n' roll. In some very dramatic moments during the concert, as a song reached its climax, the stage would erupt in a cloud of shiny ticker tape, which I later realized were cut in the shape of the letter "Y"; and just before the encore a large greyish balloon sitting behind the drummer was flipped around to reveal an eye. There was something so honest and pure and Peter Frampton-y about it all. There were no overly stylized digital images, no choreographed dance moves, no surprise guest performances and no bizarre renditions of hallowed hymns. Just a cute girl in crazy cool clothes showing us what it means to own up to genuine art and the weirdness that comes along with it. And yeah, she was actually singing.

Not to detract from Beyoncé (apologies for the Douche of Dereon comment but, c'mon! It's kinda good, no?) who I've admittedly never seen in concert. I did, however, recently see an old episode of SNL where she was quite honestly performing her bootylicious ass off and I was mighty impressed. The woman can buh-ring it. But let's call a spade a spade, shall we? She can't dress her way out of a sequin-appliquéd metallic brocade bag and it's becoming a problem. I would like to act as a part time consulting stylist to Beyoncé, Madonna, Gwen Stefani, Pink (excuse me, P!nk) and, oh hell, let's throw Lady Gaga in there too. I'll just swoop in a few weeks before their world tours are meant to kick off and edit the wardrobe. Subtracting, rather than adding, is crucial at that stage. One less lamé bodysuit, houndstooth unitard or crinolined ball gown can make all the sartorial difference.

Or perhaps I could just sit down with their full time concert stylists and share with them the words of my Maker, Coco Chanel: "Before leaving the house, a lady should stop, look in the mirror and remove one piece of jewellery." Of course, in the case of Mlle. Gaga, she should stop, look in the mirror and put on one pair of trousers.

Is time on my side?

2009-07-28T17:14:00.006-04:00

It's a well known fact that I have time on my hands. Yes, for the first time in my life I have endless stretches of unaccounted for seconds, minutes and even hours. (I certainly hope none of my editors are reading this or they'll know what's truly at the root of my missed deadlines.) But by virtue of the fact that freelance writing allows for very flexible hours, I can do things like meet friends for lunch, sit by the pool or take a long afternoon run without compromising my job.

But apparently I'm not dedicating enough of my free time to my skincare regime. The lovely folks at Dermalogica recently invited me to a media event where we were given a personalized step-by-step beauty routine. It was very informative and opened me up to a few new offerings from Dermalogica, which is a brand I really love and believe in. It even taught me, a seasoned beauty vet, a new few tricks. But like a best friend on the road to her wedding day, it simply demands too much of my free time. To follow the Dermalogica philosophy, I would be expected to: pre-cleanse, cleanse, exfoliate, tone, moisturize, re-moisturize with SPF and apply eye cream. And do it all over again at night.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm very religious with my skincare, just like I am with flossing. It's very important to me that I continue to be carded at the liquor store, asked what grade I'm going into, when my mommy will be home, where the Hello Kitty section is or barring any of those, hit on by men six to ten years my junior. In short, I don't wanna look old. But tacking an extra ten minutes onto my pre- and post-bed skincare routine? Oh sure, now that I've written it down, "ten minutes" hardly seems unreasonable. Kind of like when I was a youngster in Catholic school being admonished for not attending church every week. Once my teacher pointed out that at the end of the day, "God is really only asking for one hour out of my week" for some good ol' worshipping, it seemed perfectly doable to me. But I still never went to church.

The good news, dear reader(s), is that I've matured since then and I've started to incorporate some of the Dermalogica steps into my daily skincare routine. For one thing, I'm using a special night cream and a whitening solution and a weekly facial mask. I'm exfoliating every other day and being really careful to make sure there's SPF on my face at all times. The flip side is I've also become even more obsessed with looking for wrinkles and pulling my skin back from my temples and tapping the underneath of my chin with the back of my hand. I am, in essence, acting out the same scene that thirtysomething women have been acting out on screen since the dawn of talkies. I'm one of them now.

So I no longer look at those extra ten minutes in the morning and ten minutes at night as cutting into my busy schedule of lunching, lounging and writing. If anything, they're buying me even more time.

So SATC I am not!

2009-07-20T21:12:00.005-04:00

I think it's time to clear the air. I'm not really a girl. Although anatomically-speaking I have all the correct software and I do enjoy many girl-related activities like acquiring pretty and expensive accessories, going to the ballet and judging people solely based on their footwear, I'm not what one would deem a girly-girl. For one thing I'm not that keen on pink, I do not have a dizzying puffy white fantasy about my wedding day that I've been clinging to since I was six and I think Justin Timberlake is a loser. Also, I never refer to my best friend as my "bestie", I don't watch Gossip Girl, I swear like a sailor, my gay friends are not screaming queens and I rarely hold my tongue.

Most importantly, however, I do not enjoy Sex and the City. And I especially hate being told that I am "so Sex and the City." Yes, I lived in New York. Yes, I am a writer. Yes, I have curly hair. And yes, I've been known to recklessly dabble in designer goods. But I am not a cliche of a television show that served only to set women back four decades causing our sisters of the female revolution to sink to their knees and wail for our salvation, and allowed men to engage in "sport fucking" all the while convincing us that we, the women, were in control. No, I refuse to be lumped in with that.

Don't be mistaken, I've seen the show. I've seen the movie. If there is in fact a sequel, I will see that too. Why? 'Cause it's pretty. I watch it for the same reason I watch Doris Day and Rock Hudson movies: the colours are brilliant, the clothing is smart and the men are dashing. But it is neither groundbreaking nor brain teasing. It's eye candy.

I beg of people to stop pigeonholing every female foursome out for an evening that includes martini glasses as "so Sex and the City." A few years ago I was involved in what could have been the makings of a "so Sex and the City" summer. We were four single gals out almost every night, at almost every party and everyone knew who we were. Except there was nothing cute or coy or polished about us. We were, as the now live-in boyfriend of one of us termed, the demolition crew. More Nancy Spungen than Carrie Bradshaw, for sure. Not that we betrayed our vaginal heritage: there were trysts and one-night-stands and post-party gossip sessions and loads of boy talk. But we never once ordered a Cosmpolitan in our Manolos; it was more like Jaggerbombs in our Alexander McQueen Pumas. We were not Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte. We were four girls with lax office hours and lots of party invites.

I should also mention that many years ago, when I was a graduate student at NYU, I interviewed Candace Bushnell, the writer and creator of Sex and the City. I asked her about the individual characters and if she had used pseudonyms for them. I could practically hear her roll her eyes as she told me that every character was an amalgamation of several people she knew or came across in her halcyon days of the lower Manhattan party scene. A few months later, as I was sitting in a Toronto spa getting my hair done, I flipped through a Canadian magazine and found an interview with Ms. Bushnell. The same question was posed and the same vaguely irritated response followed. I closed the magazine and smiled, relieved to learn that even the creator of Carrie Bradshaw is reluctant to pigeonhole anyone as so Sex and the City.

Love me, love my psychic reading

2009-07-13T13:29:00.005-04:00

A famous arthropodan-themed band once claimed: All you need is love. Is this true? Hell no. You need food and shelter, a steady income, clean water, indoor plumbing, a solid belief system, morals, principles, faith and if you're me, those brown leather studded Manolo Blahnik sandals that are currently on sale at Holts. Then love. But first familial love and friendship, then romantic love.

I have most of those things, except for the Manolos (but I'm devising a plan!) and the romantic love. (And honestly, even the familial love is spotty depending on the day and where I am in my PMS cycle.) But according to Robin Cleland, the Toronto-based psychic counselor and energy clairvoyant I paid a visit to last week, I have "a lot of friends who really love and care about me." Now I'm sure you're asking yoursel(ves)f, reader(s), why I'm seeking out the services of a psychic. And being the textbook cynic that I am, I understand your confusion. But sometimes when we are struggling for answers and all our other traditional sources have been proded, explored and exhausted, we stretch one tentative arm outside of our comfort zone and try our hand at something completely different albeit unorthodox and maybe even questionable, in our quest for guidance.

That, and it was free (thanks DDB PR!).

It must be said that Mr. Cleland didn't divulge this information about all the love my friends have for me until we had almost reached the end of our 30-minute session. And I gotta say, it was worth going through a half-hour of improbable predictions on my career and love life just to hear that. I'm not saying that I'm writing off everything else he said as bunk, I just have a tendency to take things like this with a big fat grain of coarse Mediterranean Sea salt. I admit we had a couple of no-shit-Sherlock moments, like when he boldly declared: "You are grossly underpaid for what you do." Naturally, I deadpanned, "I didn't need to come to a psychic to know that." But the power of suggestion is a, well, powerful thing. I'd be lying if I said some predictions he shared about my career haven't shaped how I'm approaching things today. He gave me a lot of positive professional reinforcement that is currently acting as the kick in the pants that I needed. Bullshit or not, it's working. As for the love stuff, well, let's just say it's going to take a lot more than visions of a smart guy with intense eyes and lots of emotion for my phone to ring, if you catch my drift.

What we didn't talk about was how much love I have for my friends. And yes, there are a lot of them. I've lived in different cities and I've lived different lives in those cities. And in each case, I've had a cast of pals who have left an indelible mark. They stretch from the Americas to Europe and even Africa, and I love each and every one of them. They are my peeps, always and forever. Or as long as Mr. Cleland says so.

The Emperor's Clothes

2009-07-07T15:33:00.008-04:00

I scare men. I don't just mean first thing in the morning when my curls look like Medusa's snakes, my eyes look like a boxer's after a fight and my breath can melt plastic. No, I mean all the time. Without fail. Apparently I'm intimidatingly smart (read: ball-bustingly annoying), frighteningly intuitive (a.k.a. judgmental), and fiercely independent (shamelessly selfish). It seems some men are intrigued by these qualities at first but rapidly come to realize I'm too much of a pain in the ass to put up with. Oh well, nuts to them.

Obviously they have no idea what it means to deal with a difficult character. Which is why I think all men should be made to watch Valentino The Last Emperor (valentinomovie.com). And ladies, it would behoove you to drag them to it kicking and screaming, if necessary. (I normally don't endorse that sort of conjugal behaviour. I have never, for example, taken a boyfriend shopping with me against his will, forcing him to join the legions of emasculated men who are made to seek out the sporadic chairs strewn about any given department store, handbag in tow and sit for hours as their ladyfriend tries on sixteen different pairs of jeans in sixteen different washes and sixteen different cuts, each time asking "do these make my ass look fat?") Because watching the legendary couturier and all around genius Valentino Garavani in action, chewing out his partner Giancarlo Giammetti and generally causing everyone around him quake in their bespoke boots is sure to make even the most dour woman seem like Little Miss Sunshine.

That said, however, it's magic to watch this man in action. Just like the old belief that it's acceptable for a girl to be bitchy as long as she's really pretty*, Valentino's diva is forgiven once those awe inspiring dresses come down the runway. (*It should be noted that I've only ever heard that belief espoused by my friends in Italy. So, you know, consider the source.) His genius with a ruffle, his eye for a paillette, his intuition with colour is, sadly, something that will die with him. Oh sure, we've all thought this before. Who could ever carry on the legacy of Coco Chanel? No one will ever hold a candle to Hubert de Givenchy. Christian Dior cannot be replaced! And yet those houses carry on, with new and groundbreaking talents at the helm. But couture is a dying art. Or at least the brand of classic couture that makes princesses out of chambermaids is. And if anyone can make a Jackie O out of a hot mess it is Valentino. As Matt Tyrnauer, the movie's director, said to a theatre of fashion lovers last night, Valentino learned his craft in the 1940s from Jean Desses who learned his craft in the 1920s. As this generation starts to take their last bows, a stitch of that authenticity, that art, that passion and that belief that beauty conquers all will unravel and so too will some of the magic.

And ladies, even if all the promises of foot rubs and fellatio can't get you to drag your man to this flick, go alone. Like I said, nuts to them. The Emperor calls the shots.

The last gym to take money from me moved to Florida

2009-07-03T12:36:00.012-04:00

Have you ever noticed how one of the key cures to every ailment save for an actual broken limb is exercise? Cancer prevention: exercise. Menstrual cramps: exercise. Headache: exercise. Heart ache: exercise. Depression: exercise. I'm waiting for the day that some maverick doctor — perhaps the same blessed soul who deemed red wine "Good! For! You!" — announces that exercise is not in fact all that and a bag of low cal gluten-free granola.

Of course, I exercise regularly despite my intense disdain for it. Sadly, I was blessed with neither a fast metabolism nor a bird-like appetite. And despite myself, I admit that most days taking a long run along a wooded trail is enough to help me swallow the daily pill of humility that encapsulates unemployment, poverty, singledom and the crushing inability to buy Chloe shoes. I've tried to make myself feel better about working out by trying to look better while working out. But something about the way Stella McCartney for adidas clothes are cut make them only attractive on models and already-toned bodies. Go figure. Besides, I'm not the type who looks sexy when flushed or for whom sweat pools in all the right places. There are those women whose perspiration shows through in the suggestive area between the breasts or on the small of the back. Mine is in the pits.

I've also never understood women who put on makeup before going to the gym. While sure, it's probably the last bastion of meat markets left where you get face-to-face with a potential date without the use of a computer mouse, it just involves too much strategic face blotting once the treadmill starts to get the better of you. Although, and here comes my token embarrassing admission, I would routinely apply undereye concealer and blush before attending my Pilates classes in London. I never thought I would stoop so low, but age is not being kind to me and yes, the ex-footballer Aussie instructors were that hot. And I guess I was kidding myself into thinking that there was something sexy about them coming over to my reformer machine and spreading my legs wide for an inner thigh stretch when in fact it was more likely incredibly awkward for those poor blokes. I suspect most of the Notting Hill clientele, married or otherwise, was doing a lot more than apply makeup in their attempt to bed one of them.

But even as I sit here writing this post in my sloppy running gear, procrastinating hitting the trail, I acknowledge that exercise has cured me, albeit temporarily, from the dark demons that inhabit the back of my mind and from having to go up a size in jeans this season. I've seen my future, my friends, and it is fat. And for that reason alone, I will continue to slug it out on the mean streets of Forest Hill. No matter what the good doctor says.

And on the 73rd Day She Wrote Again

2009-06-29T14:36:00.003-04:00

You've noticed my absence, yes? I apologize, dear readers. Ok, dear reader. It's been difficult making the transition from blogger/freelancer/dilettante to full time puppy mama, but I think I may be getting a handle on things now. Over the course of the last couple months I've made some astute observations that I've been dying to share with, well, anyone really. So why not you?

1) Madonna scares me

2) This year's Costume Institute Gala can be summed up in one word: snore. Based on what attendees wore to the fashion party of the year, the exhibit should have been called "Model as Snooze." (Madonna was especially frightful in her over-the-knee boots and turquoise horns. Shudder.)

3) Michael Jackson's passing was sudden and sad. The face of pop music will forever be changed. But if I see Justin Timberlake or Chris Brown do an MJ send up in their next music video, I cannot be held accountable for my ensuing actions. Sadly, my gut tells me it's just a matter of time...

4) Jamie Foxx on MJ: "We want to celebrate this black man - he belongs to us - and we shared him with everybody else." Uh, whut? I guess if we're going on that rationale, I belong to Statler and Waldorf, the heckling critics from the Muppet Show, and they're sharing me with you.

5) Men do not find it attractive when I speak to my puppy in a lispy baby voice. In fact, it could explain why one in particular won't return my calls.

6) May Bernie Madoff rot in jail for eternity. Or at least the next 150 years. Ha!

7) If this Twitter business is going to continue, I sincerely hope the next generation of twitterers (tweeters? twats?) will express themselves in Haiku form: Got wasted last night / Had sex with some random dude / Can't find my panties

8) Now that Topshop is officially on North American shores can we all stop trying to recreate the pantsless London look or has the arrival of Alexa Chung just brought us right back to square one?

9) Jimmy Choo is next in line to design a capsule collection for H&M. Looks like la Mellon is desperately trying to claw her way across the pond, not unlike another skeletal Brit* who pandered to the masses in the hopes of conquering America. (*Name that Brit and win a chance to do my laundry for a month!)

10) The end is nigh. I will never have Gisele's legs. Let's get pissed!

Dear Mom

2009-04-16T15:35:00.007-04:00

I don't receive many emails from my mother at all. Despite the fact that I have lived hundreds and even thousands of miles away from home for years on end, my mother's preferred mode of communication has always been the telephone. I prefer it too...when I have caller ID. But the few emails she has sent me over the years prove that she has no concept of the modern speak we have adopted in this 21st century technological era. Her emails read like a Dickens novel, but in Italian. And honestly, there are few other languages in which one can flourish in such an over-the-top manner than Italian. When I read her emails they might as well show up on my screen in her perfect cursive, so exacting and polite and complexly conjugated are her verbs. It's like a letter from Dante. Except I doubt he would write to bitch about my father.

The worst part is that I often react to these communiques like a teenager who shows up to her grandmother's birthday party in ripped jeans and a lumberjack shirt. Last winter, while I was living in London, I received a particularly effusive email from my mother telling me that she and my father had extended their annual winter trip to Acapulco by a few weeks due to the particularly harsh weather conditions back home. She proceeded to paint Toronto as a winter wasteland, an arctic hell of thigh-deep snow, frigid winds, treacherous road conditions and the ensuing implacable rage of cold Canadians. Thus, she and my father decided instead to bask in the glory of Mexico's unrelenting sun and cloudless skies, enjoying the company of their Snow Bird friends with whom they would while away the days playing cards, taking day trips on the yacht and eating a lot. My mother claimed to have (and I translate directly from Italian) "rounded out even more." Her email closed with a "really, really tight hug and lots of big kisses." To which my lumberjack shirted self replied: "Nice life, lady. I'll call you later."

My mother eventually caught on to the fact that my brother and I would snicker about these emails behind her back, but she still can't help herself. Instead, she's taken to adding a post script wherein she acknowledges the formality of her writing and encourages us to laugh openly about it. I guess after all these years of being submitted to our taunting she's learned that she stands a better chance of survival by allowing it to happen rather than feign offense. Thing is, we'll laugh either way.

Much as the emails from my mother can often make my head spin, they don't hold a candle to some of the missives others receive from their dear old moms. Check out this new book: "Love, Mom: Poignant, Goofy, Brilliant Messages From Home" by Doree Shafrir and Jessica Grose. Relentless emails about grandchildren and safe sex practices from you mom? I'll take Dante anyday.

F Words

2009-03-26T16:24:00.012-04:00

My favourite part of Inside the Actor's Studio is when James Lipton pulls out the Proust questionnaire and asks his celebrity guest: "What's your favourite curse word?" Mine would be motherfucker. It's polysyllabic, emphatic and achieves that delicious mixture of profanity, vulgarity and deep, personal insult. I just wanna pour it into a greased 8-inch pan and stick it in a 475-degree pre-heated oven until the whole house is full of its acrid sentiment. But that's not what this post is about.

When I talk about "F Words" — and usually I'm rolling my eyes while doing my best Billy Idol sneer — I mean fashion words. Those obnoxious adjectives and glib turns of phrase that have been so overused that, well, to borrow a stale joke from my schoolyard days, my grandmother farts dust. These are the words that are so often turned against those of us who work in the fashion industry and thrown back in our faces. It's fodder for the ridiculous which is, sadly, perpetuated by ridiculous fashion characters themselves. But we all suffer in the end. Herewith, a list of my most hated F Words:

Fabulous
—also, Fab, Fabu
I cannot stress enough how much this word drives me crazy. Everytime I hear or read it I automatically think of a screaming queen wearing head-to-toe fuchsia and a sequinned turban backstage at a fashion show where the fall collection is awash in shoulder pads and feathers. (I may have just described the behind the scenes at a Heatherette show, but I can't be certain as I've never been backstage at Heatherette.) Or worse, it reminds me of Sex and the City. Also, if I see one more magazine coverline claiming the season's new looks to be FAB! I'm gonna...oh, I'm gonna...oh...well I don't know what I'm going to do, but it won't be pretty for anyone standing around me at that moment.

[Fill-in-the-blank] Is The New Black
Know what the new black is? Nothing! Nothing is the new black because black is always black. Just like red is always red, green is always green and chartreuse is a colour that looks good on NO ONE. So don't you dare ever tell me that chartreuse is the new black. Because that's bound to make me all kinds of angry.

It's All About [Blank] This Season
This phrase is especially laughable today because as anyone who follows fashion knows, it's never, ever, about one thing. It used to be. Twenty years ago designers across the board would draw from the same muse. If, for example, that muse was the Far East, almost all the collections on the runway would use chinoiserie in one form or another. In which case, yes, it was all about Mao. But today, when seasonal must-have lists have gone from "Top 5" to "Top 25", it's pretty clear that muses are a dime a dozen. So I'd really appreciate it if glibby fashion reporters would cool it with the "it's all about" business. The only thing it's all about these days is a 90% off sale.

Fashionista
—also, Stylista, Beautista, Bargainista, Frugalista
Bascially, any English language word with ista as its root makes me want to put on a tuxedo jacket, red sweatpants and topsiders and have lunch at 4 Times Square. What can I say? I'm passive aggressive sometimes.

Are there any F Words that drive you nuts? If so, please post a comment. Because if bittery enjoys company, I'm gonna be your new best friend!

A tale of four cities

2009-03-16T13:32:00.022-04:00

As the round of international fashion weeks comes to a close, I would like to take a moment to pay homage to those cities that have raised dressmaking to a fine art, piqued our interest in what we (and others) are wearing today and ignited dangerous bank-breaking passions in so many of us.

To New York I say thank-you for giving us the all-black uniform, Marc Jacobs, Barneys, Seven Easy Pieces, affordable restaurants, beautiful people, cheap cabs, an uptown and downtown Bloomingdale's, street jewellery and 90% Off sales.

Dear London, you so crazy! Only in a city where the snaggletoothed, scrawny and bow-legged are viewed as iconic beauties can girls walk around pantsless, men swathe themselves in leggings and grandmas rock pink and purple hair. Oh Londontown, your trains run late, your bars close early and yet you are ever ahead of the fashion game.

Carissima Milano. What to say to a town where you can't swing a size zero model without hitting a Prada boutique? Where ready-to-wear means so much more than finding something that fits and Sundays are reserved for parading the whole stylish family for all to see? Where clothes are an artform and style a mantra? To her I say grazie, grazie, a million times grazie!

And lastly, Paris. I bow down to the elegant lady who has graced the world with Dior, Balenciaga, Lanvin, Givenchy and of course, Chanel. With your pinched nose raised high in the air, your judgemental gaze cast decidedly downwards, you have told us that la vie en rose looks like couture and smells like No. 5. And we are still listening. Paris je t'aime.

With that, I bid you so long, farewell, arrivederci, adieu until next season.

Screw you, Flanders, er, Combs

2009-03-11T16:21:00.004-04:00

Anyone who knows me knows that my television viewing tastes are fairly traditional. I will always stop for The Simpsons. Always. No question. Full stop. Then it's a tie between Friends and Seinfeld reruns, sprinkled with a near-guaranteed Jeopardy! viewing, a now sporadic stopover at 60 Minutes (I miss Mike Wallace) and what is becoming a slavish devotion to all things Food Network related. It sounds like a lot of TV watching, but I assure you it's not. Most of my time is occupied with online "research," which really means surfing the internet for weird news stories and shoe sales.

But I have a soft spot for Ellen Degeneres. Not that I watch her show religiously by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, I don't even know when it's on. But I've always liked her brand of humour and frankly, what with her straight-leg jeans, sharp blazers and skinny ties, she's kinda becoming a real style icon for me. So when I got on the treadmill yesterday for a tortuous 33-minute uphill run, I turned her on to distract me from "the burn." Sadly, her guest yesterday was Sean PuffyDiddyDaddy Combs. (Does anyone else think he's taking his moniker cues from Ned Flanders?) I have a lot of issues with S.P.D.D.C., which stem first and foremost from his sampling of a Led Zeppelin riff in one of this "songs." Is nothing sacred?! But it doesn't stop there: I believe S.P.D.D.C. to be part of what I have termed The Problem With America. He, along with the likes of Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie and every cast of every reality television series, perpetuate the idea that with no talent, no education, no ethics and no regard for the law you can become rich and famous. Nay, you can become a STAR. And with waning parental guidance and increased exposure to crime, this is the last message kids these days need to receive. But that's only part I.

Part II: Ellen asked S.P.D.D.C. if he was condoning Chris Brown's actions by hosting him and Rihanna over the weekend, thus abetting their reunion. After defending his actions by saying he was merely opening his house to his friends and being supportive (fair enough, I guess), he asked everyone to pray for them. For starters, I'm not the praying kind, but when I do feel the need to communicate with everyone's favourite upstairs neighbour, I choose to ask for things like: "please feed the starving children in Africa" or "watch over my family and friends" or "help me to remember the eBay auction for that vintage Chanel bag ends in 3d 22m." In other words, shit that matters to me. If I'm gonna be praying for Chris Brown and Rihanna, I sure hope someone else is praying for me that I find a suitable therapist and meds that work, fast. Also, I really wish Mr. Bought My Way Out Of Weapons Charges And Don't You Dare Make Eye Contact With Me! And Where's My Servant With My Dish Of Peeled Grapes And Umbrella Because Damn, This Sun Is Getting Hot, Dawg would stop invoking the name of God. Because seriously, dude, God's running out of proverbial cheeks to turn, and there's talk that Gandhi, Mother Teresa and Louis Pasteur are gonna stage a protest if you get in up there.

Part III: Velour track suits do not a fashion label make. That goes for you too, Juicy Couture.

Foiled again

2009-03-04T00:13:00.007-05:00

When I was a kid I had an insatiable appetite for books. I would reread my favourite books over and over again, sometimes two or three times in a month. (A sweet little book by Veronica Tennant about a young ballerina at the National Ballet School who lands a small role in The Nutcracker sticks out in my mind. I loooove the ballet and still wish I was a ballerina. Someone recently told me I had the feet of a ballet dancer and I was so flattered I actually blushed. Sure, it was a drunk on the F train in New York but hey, I'll take it where I can get it.) I did most of my reading in bed at night — my days being occupied with school, homework and getting wailed on by my brother as we fought for the remote control. And anyone who's logged in hours of reading in bed knows that in order to attain that delicate balance of comfortable reading distance/sufficient night light/ample back support you've gotta sit up, thus leaving your upper body exposed. Despite layers of insulation from Strawberry Shortcake sheets, nonna-knitted blankies and a rainbow variety of Care Bears, I would still get cold. I'd be lying if I said this didn't pose a very serious conundrum for me. I tried (on advice of my younger cousin) to lie horizontally, pulling the covers over the top of my book and creating a little fort of sorts, but it made for poor lighting and added strain on my neck. "What if I had a blanket with sleeves?" I would ask myself. "Then I'd be able to sit up and my arms wouldn't be cold!" And so, 25 years ago, my precocious little brain created the prototype for this:

https://www.getsnuggie.com/flare/next

Sadly, back then I had neither the wherewithal nor the dexterity to design the sleeved blanket. And now the makers of Snuggie are reaping the rewards that come with creating a cult product that has gained popularity as much for its functionality as its absurdity. Meanwhile, I'm still wearing cardigans backwards to stave off the arctic chill that sweeps through my bedroom.

And for the record, my Snuggie would have come in a cashmere blend.

GOOP this

2009-03-02T17:51:00.003-05:00

This is rich. Gwyneth Paltrow to People magazine in defence of the heat she's been getting for GOOP.com: "I think the people who are criticizing it or criticizing the idea of it, don't really get it, because if they did, they would like it." I'm not even sure where to begin, here. First of all, I don't know what it is that I (or the New York friggin' Times http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/22/fashion/22gwyneth.html?scp=5&sq=goop&st=cse) don't "get" about the concept of her website, which basically consists of signing up for a daily newsletter that tells you how "nourish your inner aspect." I'm not sure what kind of food my inner aspect craves, but I have a feeling it's not into vegan breakfast muffins. And frankly, G, I don't need anymore sanctimonious reminders about how my life isn't balanced. I have a mother, thank you very much.

But putting aside all the chakra-tastic bullshit she blathers on about, and the poetic disconnect between her life coach-ery (i.e. ground yourself) and her spending habits (I heart Balenciaga!), it was where la Paltrow was when she spoke to People that's the kicker. That is, "at a New York City benefit she hosted for Bent On Learning, a non-profit organization which arranges yoga and meditation classes in the city's public schools." "I'm sorry," you're asking yourself, "but does that say 'a non-profit organization which arranges YOGA and MEDITATION classes in the city's public schools?'" Call me crazy, but it seems to me that kids these days might benefit from more arcane teachings like, uh, math or English or science.

But what do I know? I fed my inner aspect Fruit Loops for dinner last night.

I know I'm broke but....

2009-02-27T16:21:00.008-05:00

So, I don't know if you've heard, but there's a recession on. Apparently the asswipes who work(ed) in finance and whose take-home pay was equivalent to the GDP of a small island nation, totally screwed up the economy while the rest of us were being paid in paper clips and good wishes. (Although in my case it was more like shampoo samples and good wishes.) As a result, I'm having a really difficult time mustering up empathy for the bankers and brokers who can't afford their bloated mortgage payments and have to terminate their Porsche SUV leases early.

But the worst part is the domino effect it's had. Now we're all broke. One the one hand sure, misery enjoys company. On the other, screw company! I want next season's YSL cage-pumps, right? In response to this, the shopping-obsessed among us have decided a viable alternative is to have a clothes swapping party with our equally fashion-minded friends, otherwise known as "swishing." Oh, how coy to use a variation on the word "swish", as though resorting to wearing your friend's discarded t-shirt isn't just a teensy bit anti-climactic. It's one thing to pass on a blouse or a handbag to an admiring friend, it's quite another to cull your spring wardrobe from the closets of women you know and hang out with.

Reports abound these days about how even socialites are holding swishing parties, exchanging high-end designer frocks with their pals in an effort to be more money and eco-conscious. Seriously? These women are the reason waiting lists were invented; I find it hard to believe they would run the risk of being photographed in the same coat their BFF was wearing in last month's Page Six spread. Also, we're talking about a contingent of society whose sole purpose in life is to tow the rich-thin-beautiful line. You really think if one of them was feeling bloated one day and bought a pair of trousers in a size 4 she'd be putting them on display for all her bobbleheaded friends to see and judge? C'mon.

But aside from all this, why am I so reluctant to wear my friends' clothes when I've been known to troll a vintage store or flea market in my day? Clearly I'm not grossed out by the idea of used clothing. In a nutshell: it makes me uncomfortable. What if my friend sees a blouse or a blazer on me and regrets handing it over? Will she ask for it back? What if she thinks I'm not wearing it right? Or worse, I'm wearing it better than she ever did. What if I'm not treating it with respect and care? Or I accidentally refer to it as "this old thing"? But worst of all, what if the proverbial shoe is on the other foot and I'm the one thinking all these things about her? We live in a world where women dress for other women, where if our friend is upset over a bad haircut we console her with lies of "But The Rachel is back!", and where oftentimes our greatest fears are realized when the women we think we know so well land up with a mate we cannot stomach. Why make things more complicated? I, for one, will avoid shopping for the time being. And if I'm really jonesing, will dip into my mom's closet for some vintage finds. After all, I'm used to her judging me, quietly or otherwise.

Shooting the chic

2009-02-26T18:18:00.006-05:00

In this ongoing section I will be scouring the wires for outlandish, outrageous, cah-raaazy snippets of fashion-speak that deserve to be brought to the attention of the greater consciousness. If for no other reason, because it gives me a chance to (virtually) point and laugh. Won't you join me?

"I am completely drunk with compliments." —Valentino

"Now that hat signifies even more things: the moon, isolation, ambition, showbiz and space travel." —Casey Spooner of Fischerspooner

"I have designed a T-shirt which has more of a street/jeans feeling which I feel fits in with this project." —Paul Smith on designing a t-shirt for charitable organization War Child

"I don't want cherries or strawberries at Christmas anymore. I want to eat, dress and live on time." —Stefano Gabbana

"I don't know Heidi Klum. She was never known in France. Claudia Schiffer also doesn't know who she is." —Karl Lagerfeld

"I'm so involved in melancholy." —Isaac Mizrahi

"You like? You are happy? Yes? Okay, go! Go in the street!" —Domenico Dolce

Save the models!

2009-02-25T01:13:00.009-05:00

Because I have a knack for spotting a shadow of evil in a ray of good: Apparently Premier Model Management in London created a "Model Safety Pack" for the crop of young foreign girls who are working London fashion week for the first time. It contains tips for travelling safely through the city [ya, don't take a cab or you'll have to sell your body to pay the metre fare], emergency address and contact details [how long until some poor Brazilian girl realizes The Hospital is actually a private members-only club in Covent Garden?], and a phone with a pay-as-you-go SIM card [presumably there's no money on the SIM card. So, uh, thanks].

Vogue.co.uk reports that the girls were given a base in central London, provided with nutritious meals and a 24-hour helpline manned by Premier staff to ensure their week went without a hitch.

Here's what I imagine to be a sample helpline phone call:

Premier Helpline: 'ello 'ello

Confused Model: I am lost. I come for meeting with designer and cannot find office.

PH: Right, what you need to do is trot down to Bumrush Road until you hit Cockfosters. Go to the Tit's Nips and ask for Dick, e's my best china. Tell him to give you some judy and punch. He'll probably throw in an oily rag if you're a good ribbon and curl. But whatever you do don't soil your baked beans!

CM: But.... I..... Uh..... What?

PH: Don't. Soil. Your. Baked. Beans. You know what they say, love, how can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat?

CM: But I'm not hungry.

PH: Oi, we're all hungry for a little gay and frisky every now and again, love.

CM: I am gay?

PH: Eyes of blue.

CM: O, Cristo!

Colour me bored

2009-02-24T00:27:00.000-05:00

There's an old, really tasteless joke that goes: What's black and white and red all over? A nun falling down the stairs. I don't know who told me that "joke" (is it even funny?) or why I remember it, but it's what sprang to mind during Sunday night's Oscars. Not because there were any clumsy clergy people messing about, but because the red carpet was awash in boring gowns in those same colours.

Black: the safest of them all; revered for its slimming properties, and ability to mask wrinkled fabric, dimpled bottoms and spilled skim chai moca lattes with low-cal chocolate shavings; boring.

White: the riskiest of all colours; reviled for its knack for highlighting the area of the thighs where 4am pizza binges go to die, and its ability to attract stains without being anywhere near dirt or a dirt-wielding tool (I swear, I once got a white dress dirty just by standing in the middle of an empty room and looking to the left); evil.

Red: friend to both blonde and brunette; the go-to colour for middle aged ladies looking to "mix it up"; Valentino's favourite, therefore garnering insta-chic appeal; attributed to Santa Claus during the period of mid-October through early January, and really, who wants to be linked to a fat man with a sweet tooth?; predictable.

I'm not saying there weren't ladies who looked smashing last night — Nicole Kidman, Penelope Cruz, Jennifer Aniston (in time, you will learn of my love for her), Amy Adams, Evan Rachel Wood, Robin Wright Penn, Taraji P. Henson, John Legend's smokin' hot date — looked beautiful, resplendent even. I will even tip my hat to the ones I don't particularly care for: Angelina Jolie, Anne Hathaway (though I feel like this young vixen is consistently shopping in the seniors aisle. Wear something flirty and youthful, already!). But I long for the days of swan dresses, backwards tuxedos and sparkly showgirl getups with headdresses. Why is everyone so afraid of landing on a worst dressed list these days? Don't we all buy those trashy tabloids specifically for the "fashion police" and "what were they thinking" sections? Isn't it more enjoyable to bask in the glory of red carpet premiere schaudenfreude? Weren't Gwyneth's pit stains way more interesting than her Pepto pink dress? Didn't we all want Drizella to get the Prince really wasted and have her way with him on Cinderella's bed? I think I've said too much...

Don't get me wrong, there were definitely some stinkers out there. Beyonce, Sarah Jessica Parker, Miley Cyrus and Vanessa Hudgens pop to mind. But theirs were not risks, they were just examples of bad stylists and poor judgement. And in Miley's case a reluctance to exorcize the Disney demons. I long for the Bob Mackies of yesteryear. I'm talking about over-the-top, out-of-the-park, off-her-rocker, forgot-her-meds, just-off-a-bender train wrecks. I want Cher! Bring back Bjork! Where's Cybill? And if one of them could top off her look with Aretha's Inauguration Day hat, that would be really cool too.