Gray matters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.