It's Time To Invest In A Full-Length Mirror

I just realized that I went to the grocery store wearing ankle-skimming palazzo pants, harlequin-adorned socks and Mary Jane slipper shoes. People probably thought I was an off-duty mime:

There should be a rule that the next time I dare to wear this combination, The Music Box Dancer should suddenly start playing, and I should have to twirl and skip around regardless of where I am at that moment.

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Things You Should Know About French Fashion

Image source:
http://easyfashion.blogspot.com/

1. Everyone (men and women) knows how to wear a scarf. It is never lazily tied in a knot in front of your neck, like how yours truly dares to venture out into the world. It is expertly draped in ways that look effortless but aren't - should you be a North American trying to recreate the look.
2. They hem their pants. If you see a scuffed pant leg, it is a sure sign the person is either homeless or a tourist.
3. Unless they're wearing a sweater and jeans, you can bet the outfit has been seen by a tailor. "Why wear something that isn't for me?" is the rationale de nationale.
4. The final touch to the perfect, tailored, well-thought Parisian ensemble is to urinate in it. That's the only explanation I can come up with for the persistent (and I mean persistent; from every Metro station to the most Jesus-y corners of the Louvre) waft of eau de peepee that I kept smelling everywhere I went. I figure wetting yourself is like tucking a carnation into your jacket lapel - it's the extra touch of effort that gets one noticed.

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This Is Why You And Your Husband Don't Have Sex Anymore

Edited to Add: If you can't see the embedded video, you can watch it here.

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Now Vs. Then: Toilet Paper Edition

Here's something you probably already know: When advertisers have nothing clever to say about their product, there's a tendency to make up a problem that doesn't really exist and then claim their product corners the market in solving this fake issue.

Like what?

Oh, like having the CONSTANT PROBLEM of toilet paper pieces sticking to your anus. Uh-oh, that's not going to "pass inspection" (by whom, I'd rather not ponder too long on).



What do you mean that doesn't happen to you?

Oh, that's right, because that happens to NO ONE.

The thing is, I bet people now think this really is an issue because we're all somehow too embarrassed to admit out loud that this commercial is based on pure fiction and that our rectums aren't, in fact, made of Velcro (my bum, however, DOES get all Twilight-y when I clean it. Doesn't yours?).

And what's with the rubbing of the toiler paper against the face? Have any of you been so impressed with your toilet paper's softness that you took a bit with you for a post-wipe cuddle?

Have advertisers always been this silly?

Scott Soft-Weve ad from 1958

Yes, yes they have.

This ad isn't just goofy because no one ever stopped in awe over the luxuriousness of "facial quality" toilet paper, but because of what she's wearing in the ad. If you read the copy, you find out that that isn't an evening gown - she's in what advertisers suggest are essentially pyjamas:

Is it pathetic that, despite finding it all rather ridiculous, I sort of love how overly glamorous that ad is? In any case, it sure beats a sales pitch anchored around the idea of toilet paper "bum crumbs".

Edited to Say: Ok, a few of you have emailed and a few of you have commented to say that Charmin actually does address a real issue with its "toilet paper bits left behind" shtick. WHA? I don't ... understand. Is there a way you guys can explain this to me without me throwing up? How does hair (and how much hair could people possibly have around there?!?) cause bits to shred off and cling?

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The Pin That Stole My Innocence: How A Recent Purchase May Have Ruined Mark Twain For Me

Fact: I am a total try-hard.

Proof: I recently decided that I needed a "signature item" - some charming thing I could frequently wear that would be "my thing". Most people come about these things organically, but not a try-hard. A try-hard decides this, hunts something down, and then lies through her teeth when people ask about it.

"Oh this old thing? It was my Grandmother's. I've been wearing it since I was a girl."

But before I could start giddily acting like a giant fake, I had to find that precious little something that would give me personality. I decided that an antique pin would do the trick. For whatever reason, one jumped out at me on eBay - a tiny little colourful angelfish. It felt a little familiar to me but I couldn't place it. Maybe I had seen it in one of my vintage magazines? The age of the pin was unknown, but based on the hinge and the clasp it was likely pre-1940s but still probably 20th century. Fine by me! So for the (outrageous? fantastic? fair?) price of $12, it was mine.

This is a close-up picture of my new try-hard-apolooza signature item:

C'est cute.

Naturally, I decided to do a bit of searching to figure out where I might have seen this pin before, given that it felt familiar. My magazines turned up nothing, but it didn't take long to track the pin down once I turned to Google (what did we ever do before the Internet?). Pretty darn close, no?:

Those pins are part of a collection of Mark Twain memorabilia.

Upon finding that website, I immediately remembered having read about Mark Twain and a thing called The Aquarium Club. As I understood it, Mark Twain was without grandchildren and felt a need to fill that void. And so, he created a correspondence group of kids and he would send them an angelfish pin as part of their membership (the two pictures above are gifts from Twain to those young people). Sweet, right? That was as much detail I knew about the club at the time - and had forgotten. Somehow my brain decided that retaining facts like J.Woww's dogs' names (Lean Cuisine and Juice Box, just so you know) was a better use of storage space.

Now, I'm not saying that the pin I have was one of the pins Mark Twain gave to his Angelfish Club members (I doubt there's a way to tell, is there?). However, I squealed nonetheless about owning something that looked a whole lot like something Twain was connected to.

Mark Twain is one of my literary heroes. I pity the fool who hasn't read his work. Twain was one of the best storytellers and humourists around. His ability to write realistic dialog was all kinds of juicy goodness that many modern writers can't hold a candle to (especially the kind of writers who barf out the words "juicy goodness" to describe classic literature). He was ever so clever that even a number of his off-the-cuff quips are well known and still referenced today. (And to geekify this post even more, one of my favourite Star Trek: The Next Generation episodes is the two-parter in which Data goes back in time and meets Mark Twain. Remember that one, nerds? Yes, yes you do.)

So - it was only natural that I spend a sunny Sunday afternoon online reading all that I could about this Angelfish Club of his. In the early 1900s, Twain was working on his autobiography and dictated the following (which I found on this site, which is from the book, Mark Twain's Aquarium: The Samuel Clemens-Angelfish Correspondence, 1905-1910):

After my wife's death, June 5, 1904, I experienced a long period of unrest and loneliness. Clara and Jean [his daughters] were busy with their studies and their labors and I was washing about on a forlorn sea of banquets and speechmaking in high and holy causes... I had reached the grandpapa stage of life; and what I lacked and what I needed was grandchildren.

Aw.

More info about the pin that's like the one I have was found in this note:

... All the ten school-girls in the above list are my angel-fishes, and constitute my Club, whose name is "The Aquarium" ... The Bermudian angel-fish, with its splendid blue decorations, is easily the most beautiful fish that swims ... The club's badge is the angel-fish's splendors reproduced in enamels and mounted for service as a lapel pin -- at least that is where the girls wear it. I get these little pins in Bermuda; they are made in Norway.

Neato. But as I read further, though, I came to realize it wasn't simply grandchildren Mark Twain longed for, but granddaughters. Which ... OK ... some parents have preferences for a girl over a boy, the same can be said about wannabe grandparents, right? Twain elaborated:

I suppose we are all collectors... As for me, I collect pets: young girls -- girls from ten to sixteen years old; girls who are pretty and sweet and naive and innocent -- dear young creatures to whom life is a perfect joy and to whom it has brought no wounds, no bitterness, and few tears. 

 Ummmm? "Collecting" naive teen girls ... whom he calls pets. Heh. Well, this was just a pen pal group, right?

The billiard-room will have the legend "The Aquarium" over its door ... I have good photographs of all my fishes, and these will be framed and hung around the walls. There is an angel-fish bedroom -- double-bedded -- and I will expect to have a fish and her mother in it as often as Providence will permit.

Twain with Angelfish, Dorothy Quick

Image Source: TwainQuotes.com

Oh Jesus.

In the above, Twain was describing a house he was having built in Redding, Connecticut. He decided to call the house "Innocence at Home" in honour of his Angelfish. And that's not at all similar to any other celebrity-owned property that infamously hosted other people's children. Well, at least Twain mentioned hosting the mothers too. The girls who were a part of his club were the daughters of his friends and of people he had met on his frequent trips to Bermuda, so maybe he was also eager to enjoy the mother's company as well?

Margaret is due to arrive here with her mother at 5:45 this evening. It is an event: an event like the advent of spring after winter. The scamp will be welcome. Also her mother.

So ... maybe not. While I may not be a big time writer, I can assure you that there is a big difference between saying, "The scamp and her mother will be welcome" and "The scamp will be welcome. Also her mother." Trust.

I hope I'm just jaded from hearing too many modern tales of old men and their not-so-innocent adoration of little girls. This all could still be completely grandfatherly ...

To Dorothy Quick, he wrote:

I went to bed as soon as you departed, there being nothing to live for after that, & the sunshine all gone. How do you suppose I am going to get along without you? For five hours this has been a dreary place, a sober & solemn place, a hushed & brooding & lifeless place, for the blessed Spirit of Youth has gone out of it, & left nothing that's worth while. Aren't you sorry for me, you fresh breeze blown from fragrant fields of flowers?

To an 11-year old? Really? He later described "worshiping" Dorothy in his personal writings. Alrighty.

Twain with Aquarium Club
member Irene Gerken
Image Source: TwainQuotes.com

Reading further, it sounds like the press at the time made a point of noting Twain's friendships with young girls (like in this 1907 article about Twains recent voyage where he "made a particular pet of little Dorothy Quick, daughter of Mrs. E. G. Quick of Brooklyn, and during the time he was on deck would not let her out of his sight.") - but never went to so far as to suggest impropriety.

However, it's clear that some people close to Twain were somewhat cynical about his Aquarium Club. Twain's daughter, Clara, who had been overseas, was so not impressed with her father's activities and basically demanded that he take a step back from the girls. What she specifically said to him isn't recorded, but I imagine it was the 1909 version of saying, "Dad, that is fucking creepy. Cut it out."

Twain's biographer noted that immediately after Clara's return to America, the Twain household stopped saving the correspondence from Twain's Angelfish and the home's name was changed from "Innocence at Home" to the much less little girl-friendly "Stormfield".

Yup.

I'm holding out hope that everything was truly innocent in this club because I just hate the idea of an admired genius like Twain turning out to be some kind of perv. Suffice to say, I now have a better idea of how Michael Jackson fans feel.

But me and my little pin are skeptical. I know it's selfish, but I really hope my new signature item isn't tainted with gross-old-man vibes.

Because that's not very charming, is it?

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My Spring Jacket Find

While an evening snowfall the other day seemed to threaten things, it looks like spring has sprung around these parts. This means I get to access some outerwear that I haven't seen in many months.

It's kind of like getting new clothes, except if you're like me - a person who doesn't take exceptional care of her things - they look the furthest thing from new. It's only when I pull a spring jacket out from storage do I see the little stain on the lapel or the missing button that I somehow managed to go all season without noticing. I'm sure if I inspect my winter jacket right now, I'll finally realize that there's a dangling thread in the back and, uh, remnants from The Day I Ran Out of Kleenex.

Anyway, one of my favourite simple pleasures in life is going in the pockets of jackets past. There's always something to discover. Sometimes it's some change or a $5 bill, lipstick I thought I lost or some gum. But most often, it's a list of some kind. I like taking a look at it and seeing what I was buying then and try to remember what meal I had in mind at the time. This year, my spring jacket find was quite the flashback:

So, at first, I was like WTF?!. I don't do a lot of baking, so flour and sugar aren't very typical buys for me. But even stranger were the mentions of chicken livers and canned peas. What on earth was I .... OOOOOOH!

Ha. And I even love that I wrote "hot dogs?" on the list - with a question mark - knowing full well that I'd need to buy them as a back-up dinner.

By the way ... I'm hoping to share some news about the 50s housewife experiment (and other things) shortly, so hang tight!

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60s Hair & Classic Cocktail Flair

It should come as no surprise that I'm a fan of Mad Men. It combines so many things that I love: vintage fashion and decor, an exploration of a different time in history, advertising, and scenes with aggressive barfing great writing. I must admit that I'm especially wowed by the styling of the show and even wrote an article about it a few years ago. Naturally, when my friend Siobhan won tickets to an event hosted by the LCBO called Classic Cocktails, an evening that would include special guest, Janie Bryant (the costume designer for Mad Men), I was beyond delighted to attend.

The invitation encouraged guests to arrive in '60s cocktail wear, so I used the event as an excuse to get my hair did (I was also long overdue for a trim. Hello, Split End City). My hair stylist, Lesley, was all too happy to do a retro-inspired 'do, especially since I brought some inspiration - How To Set and Care For Your Hair by Elaine Budd. This booklet is part of a series from The Amy Vanderbilt Success Program for Women from the 1960s. I have a ton of the Amy Vanderbilt booklet series and I'm sure you'll see more of them in the future. They are way too good to not be shared.

Check out some of the 60s hairstyles (with instruction!):

Love it! The lovely people at Mélanger were so pumped about the idea of vintage style that Lexi, the salon's cosmetic darling, did my eyes for free! So nice of her, right?

As it turns out, I really don't have much in the way of 1960s-era clothes. The closest thing I own is a late 1950s dress. In the end, my look was more 50s than 60s, but I decided to convince myself that I was an early 1960s girl figuring that some people were still wearing their clothes from a few years back. I mean, when it was New Years Eve 1990, you didn't suddenly toss out your frayed jean jacket and instantly adopt Hammer Pants, right? (And I actually hope you managed to avoid that look altogether, truth be told.)

So here I am, looking positively late 1950s early 1960s. Oh, if only every day was a dress-up day!

The most impressive thing about my hair style is the back of it - check out this shelf of hair! You could rest a book on it (provided the book was small, like, say, Why I'm Fit to be President by Sarah Palin):

Anyway, off we went to the event at the Carlu. I'm sort of surprised that the LCBO thinks they need to do a whole lot of marketing and put on PR events at all. For one, they have no competitor (bah! I loathe that this province hasn't privatized alcohol!) and two, people will always buy booze. It is the number one recession-proof industry, hands down. But, hey, free drinks for me, so I'll STFU now.

First impressions:

• Drink tickets? And just two drink tickets each? Two? Who do they think I am, a toddler? Kind of a cheapo move, considering it's obvious the event was basically paid for by the promoted liquor brands ... /whine
• Adored the selection of drinks, though. I'll happily lap up hard liquor from the carpet so the featured cocktails (including the Moscow Mule, the Negroni, the Tequila Sunrise, the Manhattan, and the Rusty Nail) were fun to dive into and / or look at. I personally went for a Vodka Martini with extra olives and a Negroni. Siobhan opted for a Lime Daiquiri and a Tequila Sunrise. If you love old-timey cocktails check out the free magazine in LCBO stores or Blair Frodelius's website Good Spirits News.
• Appetizers were darling - a mix of modern and vintage eats were available. Definitely helped myself to my fair share of Monte Cristo bites, deviled eggs and shrimp puffs.
• A group of outfits from the 1960s were featured in the room. There wasn't any signage about the clothes, so I have no idea if any of these were from the Mad Men closet or if they were just a sampling of fashion from the era. I'm guessing the latter.
• The crowd consisted largely of girls in their twenties who spent the majority of time giving other girls the look-over and audibly snarking and / or pumping themselves up. I overheard one young pseudo-socialite tell her friend that people are often interested in meeting her because she "has been such an important part in bringing culture to the city." Riiiiight. She shall remain nameless, in large part because I can't remember her name (Newsflash: Toronto socialites are not the hot shit they think they are. Why? It's because they live in freakin' Toronto).

I had hoped that with the right opportunity and a little nerve (I loathe approaching people I don't know), I could get Janie Bryant to sign my copy of the 1969 booklet, How To Be Well Dressed, also from my amazingly fun Amy Vanderbilt Success Program For Women.

Sadly and surprisingly, Janie Bryant didn't give a little speech or mingle with the common folk (If anyone was there and she did actually speak to the crowd, please correct me. I arrived at the event at 7 PM and left at 8:35-ish - right around the time they stopped serving appetizers. It's a TOTAL COINCIDENCE THAT I LEFT THEN, OF COURSE. Heh.). She was instead booked with back-to-back interviews with "media" types who I suspect from their giddiness were mainly bloggers.

Edited to Add: Apparently she *did* do a Q&A right away at the event and we missed it. My bad - but from an event-planning standpoint, that's strange timing.

So, that was kind of disappointing to not get to really hear from her. I took a picture of her though - but from the back. I will say this: The lady has a cute bum:

My rear view of Janie Bryant of Mad Men

With Janie not expected to speak to the crowd, our drink tickets cashed in, and appetizers cruelly disappearing, we decided to get our coats. We made our leave to the Beer Bistro (where I didn't at all look like a lunatic in my dress and hair) where we could have all the drinks we wanted, we just had to pay for them. All in all, a decent night!

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New Year, New Humiliations

Hi everyone! How's 2011 treating you so far?

Our New Year's trip to Las Vegas was all kinds of giddy fun - but we predictably did not come home millionaires. I could pretend we did, but then this blog would look like the last season of Roseanne, and we all know how crappy that was.

Instead, I had a lineup of work waiting for me, including a meeting with a client on Bay Street (Canada's version of Wall Street). I bring this detail up, only because in the humiliation I'm about to relay, you'll gain a greater understanding for the environment I was in - one of suits and money and people who undoubtedly think they are better than me.

Upon returning from vacation, the laundry situation in our home was looking grim - which resulted in me opening up a new pack of pantyhose to wear for the meeting. This was a pair that I had received in a gift bag at some random event - so they weren't my usual, trusted brand of super control-top sausage casings. In fact, this style of pantyhose bragged about being totally opposite to my usuals - these were seamless. I put them on, they fit and off I went to walk to the meeting.

MISTAKE.

As I now realize, seamless means zero control. Seamless means no holdy-uppy elastic. Seamless means disaster. As I was heading toward the office, I could feel the sickening sensation of pantyhose shimmying down my body. I grabbed hold of the southbound waistband (through my dress) just before the hose could slide over the hump of my bum. I had to get myself to a washroom - stat. I'm sure I looked like a lunatic - taking tiny quick steps, keeping my body as stiff as possible, creepily smiling to fake to the world that everything was alright, while tightfistedly clutching my dress at the hip. I probably looked like Pee Wee Herman on the verge of drawing a gun.

Once in the restaurant bathroom, I yanked the hose up as high as they would go. I contemplated removing them all together but black hose with the dress sort of pulled the outfit together - plus my legs were in need of a trim shave and it was below zero, so walking around bare-legged would be completely bizarre and far too casual a look for this meeting.

The hose miraculously stayed up as I got to the client's office. He suggested we continue the meeting at a nearby coffee spot - so off we went again. Slight clutching was necessary, but I thankfully made it there intact.

Meeting complete, I walked with my client back toward his office as we chatted about a few last minute details of the project. And then it happened ... my pantyhose started sprinting down my body as if it was a fugitive and my ankles were the Mexican border. I tried to discreetly catch the waistband but missed and couldn't do anything but keep walking with my client and pray that the downward shuffling would stop. I could feel that the pantyhose had made its way past my butt and was now truckin' down my thighs. I started sweating and locked my knees together as we walked. I have absolutely no idea what my client said during those few steps because all that was going through my head was, "Please, please, please, please let this not be happening to me!!!" I pressed my arm against my body, hoping to clamp the tights while putting my purse in front of me, dangling it at the level of my dress's hemline to disguise the possible emergence of my hose. The wind blew a little and I could feel the cold flash of air on my previously hosed thighs. Nooooooo! I could feel the pantyhose starting to bunch just above my knees. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

This is Bay Street, the scene of the crime.
Image Source: ElliDavis.com

"Well, here's my stop, looking forward to working with you on this!" my client said. We shook hands and he walked into the building. It didn't seem like he had noticed my crazed, sweaty disposition or the pantyhose - although it's for certain that other people did. When my client was out of view, I moved my purse aside and looked down to survey the damage. My pantyhose has fallen to the bottom of my knees. My dress length? Just above the knee. There, on the busy sidewalk in the financial district among all the suits and money and decision makers, I was standing there with my hoses's gusset in plain view (that's a random pic from the net - it's not of me). If you had been walking or standing behind me where my purse could do no hiding, you surely saw all this and wondered if I was an idiot, really eager to use the washroom or a pervert.

Horrified and yet relieved to have not been literally caught with my pants down by the client, I dashed toward a nearby building column for a bit of shelter (although not much - I was still very much in plain sight of the world), tossed off my shoes, tore off my pantyhose and stuffed them into my purse. It's not everyday that a woman starts stripping on the sidewalk, so, yes, people were looking, no, I didn't give a damn, and no, I will never wear seamless panythose ever again. They are so effing dead to me.

"Uh, Jen?" a voice said.

I almost vomited from shock and embarrassment.

It wasn't the client whom I had just been with, but someone else I had met in a business setting the month before. As my luck would have it, as I turned to face him, I still hadn't yet put my shoes back on. Nothing says HIRE ME, I'M A PROFESSIONAL like taking off your undergarments and standing around barefoot, publicly, downtown, in the winter.

"Oh, hi!" I said, as if nothing completely insane was happening.

"Umm ...Do you need some help?" he asked, now obviously looking at my feet.

"Oh, I, uh, just had something in my shoe," I said, red-faced. He had clearly seen me rip my hose off - something that isn't exactly the standard thing to do when one claims to be getting a pebble out of her shoe. And even if he hadn't seen me tear off my tights - and he had - what's the explanation for having BOTH shoes off? I believe the answer is this: She's crazy.

"Oh ... ok, then. Uh, Happy New Year," he said and then went on his way.

"Sure thing, same to you!" I said as I put on my shoes and stuffed a dangling leg of the pantyhose deep into my purse.

Cringe x 10000000000. Just a wild guess, but I'm pretty sure that if that guy requires writing and marketing services, he won't be calling me up. In fact, he's probably warning people about me now. UUUUGGGGHHHHH.

Image Source: Digital Daily

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Looking The Part of the 50s Housewife

The 1950s housewife had a fairly iconic look – the perfectly coiffed soft perm, sharp make-up and a lovely dress that accentuated a nipped-in waist.

I’ll be going for the spirit of that in the 50s Housewife Experiment, if not the authentic costume. I won’t put chemicals in my hair but I will “do” my hair each day (which, sadly, isn’t the current norm). I don’t own dresses in the 50s style or petticoats, so I’ll sub in contemporary versions.

The beauty regiment of the 50s housewife starts right away. Here’s some advice she received:


I like how the advice above considered whether I had a "maidless kitchen." How thoughtful.

After getting her husband off to work, she then did a 10-minute morning exercise routine:


(Basically, a bunch of bending while wearing a bra, underwear and one of those hair handkerchiefs popularized by Rosie the Riveter and Aunt Jemima.)

She then showered, washed her face, and did her hair and make-up. She went about her day, all the while aware of her appearance. Here are some basic tips for staying 24-7 glamorous:

In addition to the daily maintenance, she had a beauty schedule for maintaining her look. Here’s a suggestion from Today’s Woman Magazine (1952):



I’m a little stumped on the washing of one’s hair just once a week (and scandalized that they mention that someone might not need to wash it that often). I’m not sure if I can handle that. Let me put it this way: You know that scene in the Breakfast Club in which Ally Sheedy’s character created a gentle dandruff “snow fall” on her drawing by shaking her hands through her hair? I’m guessing after just four days of Denorex-free living, I would create such a snow storm that Toronto would be inclined to call the military in again.

Anyhoo – apparently it was quite normal for women of the time to go to the hairdresser each week and have their hair shampooed and styled there – which seems like both underkill and overkill at the same time.

We shall see.

Image Sources: The Bride's Reference Book; Today's Woman, November 1952.

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Overheard While ... Holiday Shopping at Winners

In the men's shoe section at Winners, a 45-year old-ish woman is talking on her cellphone while holding a pair of sneakers:

Mom: ... you know those shoes your brother wanted? They're canvas sneakers with the rubber on the toe ...? Chuck Browns?

....

Mom: Converse? Chuck Taylor? Which one?

...

Mom: Ok - well, these don't say Converse or Chuck Taylor, but they look like what he pointed out.

...

Mom: I'm not sure - I don't really see a label ... but these look like what Robbie showed me - but the pattern on the canvas is more, you know, punky. I actually think he might like these more than plain black ones.

...

Mom: Mmm, no. On the outside of the shoe? No, it doesn't say Converse anywhere. Lemme ... ok, it says "Ed Hardy" on it.

...

...

Mom: Whoa. Whoa. Ok! That's why I called! How should I know those are "totally disgusting"?

...

Mom: Fine. I put them down. Your uncool mom promises not to buy them for anyone, ever.

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Dresses, Drama and Denizens of the Web

Oh, trubs is a brewin'. I swear, in the age of social media, snark, news and reputation burners spread like wildfire. Throw in fashion, girl-smack and local business owners, and you have a gossip wet dream.

In the wee hours of the morning, Toronto Life posted its Best Dressed pick of the week. This week's Fashionista laid claims that the dress was an old vintage find that, through her instruction, was tailored and updated. Enter the Comments Section. As you can see, a local designer and shop owner - along with fans of said shop owner, are letting it be known that this is an off-the-rack dress from their store, Champagne and Cupcakes.

Enter e-mail.
Enter Twitter.
Enter Facebook.

Gah.

Naturally, I don't know the entire story, but the fact that this has swept along the interwebs as quickly and as as decidedly as it has, has me feeling all kinds of horror for those involved (and yah, am I helping that? Noooo). It's like spotting Information Highway Roadkill. Cringe-worthy!

Let it be a lesson (regardless of whether she did or not) that little lies have no safety on the web.

UPDATE!: So, yes - the dress truly is by Champagne & Cupcakes. According to a follow-up story by the Toronto Star, the Wannabe Fashionista in question was "overwhelmed by the media attention and perhaps felt she needed to elevate her story." Um, sure. Whatever the reasoning, it was a total d-bag move. Support local business, people!

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Hosed!

My experiences with tights and pantyhose have never been great. Some of my earlier memories are of my mom trying to get my cable-knits up my chubby child legs as I squirmed with every awful pinch of her nails. Even then, I chose fashion over comfort. Or I guess my mom chose it for me as I probably would have wanted to go to school in my bathing suit and Wonder Woman bracelets, but you get the idea.

Today, the problem with hosiery is still all about getting them - and keeping them - up. I buy the correct size of pantyhose every time (at least according to the charts on the back of the package), and yet, without fail, it seems as though they were made for someone a foot shorter than me. It's an unsexy battle to get the hosiery's crotch up to its parking spot and one that I have to fight each time I go to the washroom.

What's worse though, is when the shimmy or the roll-down happens. You'll be sitting or standing there, and suddenly the waist part will just give up and start rolling down to your hips like Frank's Slide. It's a bad, bad feeling - especially when you're in public as I was this evening at our staff's holiday dinner party.

What makes the Roll-Down particularly special is when you're sitting and your skirt's waist line is still where it should be and your panty-hose roll has rested just above your lap - creating a magnificently accented gut. Very nice.

And then, when you stand-up - you can only pray that the hose roll stays where it is (precariously at your hips) and doesn't decide to just keep on' truckin' southbound. If this happens, your range of motion gets stunted and you have to get yourself over to a bathroom pronto - all the while looking like one of those hilarious bastards in March Of The Penguins.

I'm sure it doesn't help that I buy the world's cheapest pantyhose ever - never with the control-top or control-thighs or control-the-universe features. Perhaps I should look into that.

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Five Disturbing Things Found In This Month’s Issue Of Glamour

This morning at brunch, Patrick and I turned to our literature for a little post-gorging relaxation (we could have talked to each other, but why?). He had his Toronto Star and I had my equally intellectual Glamour.

The most entertaining parts of this magazine were its disturbing elements. And since I long to entertain, here they are for you:

Example 1:
Aw, crap. I see before me a fashion that the magazine is trying to push on people that I hope to god I don’t cave for like I did with the shrug. This is UGLY. This is WRONG. This is TAPERED JEANS.

And it’s not tapered jeans alone. It’s tapered jeans on Beyonce. Beyonce is a gorgeous woman with a hot bod – but she said it herself – she’s Bootylicious. Anyone, and I mean anyone, that has even a little something on their hips, thighs or bum should NEVER wear tapered anything. Something that makes one’s ankles look tiny (and who cares about that?) comes at the cost of the rest of the body.

Example 2:
Like any women’s magazine, there’s a long article about sex in it that’s supposed to tell us something we don’t know. In true form, this one is called “20 New Things Every Woman Should Know About Sex.” Sex has been happening for thousands of years, yet it seems that Glamour has not only found out one new thing about it, but twenty. Riiight.

They all sucked, but this one was a magnificent example of disturbing (I'll let you read if for yourself):

Now, had Eminem sang a song called “Hipbones Like That” I’d remain an undesirable pig – but thankfully for me, he didn’t. I owe all my boinking to Slim Shady. Glamour was right - I totally learned something new.

Example 3:
Later on, I come across an ad that has one of those perfume sample things. I’m a sucker, so I peel the little fold back and inhale the trapped scent. Floral, fresh – not bad. I even rub a little bit of scented page on my wrist to see how it would smell on me. Still decent.

I then turn the page to see what scent I’m enjoying and I’m horrified:

Oh, fuck me! You can't be serious! Don’t even get me started on how stupid I think scented tampons are – but the fact that they got me to bury my nose in tampon-smell is TWISTED.

Example 4:
Every magazine is a big, fat hypocrite. Care to see what I mean? At the beginning of the magazine, the editor raves about how beauty isn’t a one-size-fits-all deal. Things that we view as flaws should be embraced because they make us different and somebody out there thinks it’s hot. She points (quite literally) to Venus’s gut (what gut?) and Frida’s unibrow and says something to the effect of “See these freaks? See what’s wrong with them (we’ve highlighted the areas in case you didn’t catch them)? These women are still admired! Now, run out there, you monster, and apply this logic to yourself!”

Glamour gets us feeling all empowered over our looks (after all, the subtitle shouted, “Got flaws? Big deal!”) and we hurdle through the rest of the magazine. Pages later, we come across this awesome article:

At first, just looking at the title, "Out-Of-Control Bulges", I was thrilled. I thought I was finally going to see what all the hoopola over Milton Berle was about.

But noooo. That’s not the kind of bulges Glamour cares about. A bit of fat pressing against your clothing is a REALLY BIG FLAW and apparently IS A REALLY BIG DEAL. So much so that it deserves a full page spread, with meticulous categorizing of all the kinds of bulges out there. In fact, the owners of these bulges needed to have their identities protected due to the humiliating nature of this kind of disfigurement.

So, just to clarify Glamour's stance: Frida, who was probably the inspiration for Bert's look on Sesame Street, should be applauded for keepin' it real, but a little bra strap bumpage should have you running to the hills in shame. Got it?

Example #5:
Now it’s time to launch some very paranoid, suspicious girlfriends onto unsuspecting boyfriends. This too, comes compliments of Glamour. It happens like this:

Girl Internal Dialogue: La la la. I’m reading Glamour. La la la.

Girl comes across article entitled “Men & Cheating: Will He Or Won’t He?”

Girl Internal Dialogue: La la .. Oh! Will he? I guess I never thought about it. Hmm, maybe I should read this.

Girl reads on to discover that 91% of guys are tempted to cheat, and that some of them just “find” themselves getting it on with a chick they met at Starbucks – no warning signals given!

Girl Internal Dialogue: What? Why, that could happen to me!

Since the article doesn’t do anything but fear monger (it provides no advice on how to talk to your partner openly), girl is left to only look up from her Glamour magazine at the completely unaware male in front of her and wonder “will he or won’t he?”

Will he? DID HE? Her eyes narrow … she reaches for the butter knife … her jaw clenches … she leans forward as her fingers tighten around the base of the knife …

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I Am Fashion's Bitch

My quest to be fashionable has left me very irritated this morning. It’s raining like a mofo so the bottoms of my jeans (which are longish – all part of that fashion quest) are drenched. Because I’m wearing sling-backs (also part of the quest) the wet part of my jeans keep touching the skin on my foot, sending a gross shiver up my spine.

Why can’t big over-the-pants galoshes be in vogue? Surely if people embraced Uggs, galoshes couldn’t be too far away, right?

I have to laugh at fashion (and mainly myself!) sometimes because it’s funny how you can start liking something clothing-wise that you thought looked so silly a few months earlier. For example, I recently bought a shrug. It looks kinda like this one on the right (mine has slightly longer sleeves, though).

A year ago, I thought shrugs were the dumbest thing. I recall seeing Cher wearing one in some video and thinking “Eck, I hope THAT doesn’t catch on.”

Fast-forward to now and I’m busting out my ninja moves to beat out the women at Winners for one. By ninja moves, I just mean that I stealthily yet quickly sneak toward the item I want without being detected. It’s all about keeping your cool. At Winners, if you leap all anxiously toward something, the surrounding women will immediately sense it and will instinctively start running toward whatever you’re after. It’s like a group of pigeons that see another bird dive-bombing nearby – they all KNOW there’s gotta be, like, a whole bagel or something on the ground for that other bird to be so speedy, so they all swoop in to snatch whatever the keen bird was heading for. That’s what shopping at Winners is like. It’s an art form and a strategy.

But where was I? Oh – right, my shrug. In a few months I’m sure I’ll desert it. But right now, I’m loving it. How did that happen???

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Materialism, I Salute You!

Along with documenting my meals and exercises and moronic things that occur on Sex and the City, I use my little journal for one more disturbing task:

Coveting!

The shiny parts in the photos are actually the puddles of drool I left while viewing these beauties.

Some of these items are things I would buy if I had oodles of money (like the boots from Essence), some are things I’ll buy if they go on sale or if the mood strikes me (the American Eagle blazer) and some are things I’d like once I achieve a more respectable girth (the Citizens of Humanity jeans).

I see in my future more Pages Of Want, but I’ll be sure to branch out into other areas. Perhaps electronics, kitchen stuff and maybe even Things I Desire After Having Suffered Through an Episode of Desperate Housewives (Botox! Something to strangle Susan with! Tubal ligation!).

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