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.

Carried Away

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

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

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

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

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.