On this day like every other one (2012 redux)

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!

 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

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.