Wednesday, April 28, 2010

A Young Girl's Fancy

Hola, Beeches!

I am back from Miami, where I mostly worked my butt off, although I did scare up enough time to run on the beach every day, eat fabulous food, observe at all manner of street fashion (gladiator shoes reign, whether sky high or street-level), gaze longingly through the designer windows at Bal Harbor, spend some money at more moderately priced boutiques along Collins and Lincoln Avenue on Miami Beach, and note with interest that designer or knock-off, the trends for spring are floaty, tee-shirty, and pale, pale, pale.


I debated for days over an Alexander Wang T draped back grey jersey dress. In the end, I left it in the boutique, but put it in my queue of eBay searches.

Did I purchase anything? Of course! Mostly, however, I learned a few things. Like Zara isn't all that I thought it would be. I tried on tons of things, nearly popped for a brilliant pencil dress with architectural seaming and ruched sleeves (the color was like death on me, though), and ended up instead with a cotton red and white striped sailor top with gathered shoulders and long sleeves. Both of which I'd show you if only the stoooooooopid Zara Web site would load for me. Grrrrrr.

I also learned that Nine West shoes are doubly not all that. Tres, tres cheap in every way imaginable. As Pirate and I often say regarding shoes: the one time you most definitely get what you pay for. Flats I'll go cheap on, but heels, never. However, how could I possibly resist a 30 percent off sale AND free shipping? I simply had to find something both well made and comfortable. And, I did:


The color on these shoes is absolutely perfect – a pale dove grey that gets me off the hook in my search for a neutral spring shoe. Praise baby jeebus, because I was getting oh-so-tired of looking at fifty gazillion versions of bone.

Also crave worthy were a splendid eyelet dress at Ralph Lauren, an impeccable white cotton blend blazer at Sisley, and the BEST linen/silk drape tees at Club Monaco. In the end, I sprung only for the Club Monaco tee.

Oh, and I totally forgot to mention, I spent the most time at Nicole Miller oogling her ├╝ber sexy, beautifully made, and very body-conscious-but-totally-flattering dresses. With any luck, I will snag one at an upcoming sale, thanks to the groovy sales boy who will call me the instant they go on sale.

But the thing I'm craving the most for spring are those INCREDIBLY chic, chopped cropped haircuts that Georgio Armani featured on the runway for his Fall/Winter 2010/2011 show. Oh my, these are cute, cute, cute!

Check 'em out:



Oh, I soooooooo want to chop!

Saturday, April 24, 2010

Where the Boobs Are


If you live under a rock (as I often claim that I do), you may not know that this coming Monday will be the day we celebrate "Boobquake." I know, it totally sounds like a bad porn movie—but it's not. It's the brilliant yet scandalous idea of a blogger in Indiana who is, as she puts it, testing a theory for the sake of science.

Here's the background: an Iranian Muslim cleric was recently quoted, claiming that women who do not dress modestly are, in a roundabout way, responsible for a high incidence of earthquakes in his country. By his reckoning, slutty clothing leads to promiscuity, which causes adultery, which leads to poor faith, which causes earthquakes. At this point you could be forgiven for drawing a parallel to the witch trial in Monty Python's Holy Grail—that's where I went.

It seems that the Clerics have, in the past, blamed the earthquakes on politics, as well as on the populace not being good enough Muslims. Never mind the fact that Tehran is sitting on a fault so earthquake prone that some experts suggest moving the capital somewhere else.

Let's not trouble ourselves with facts—back to the loose women thing.

Our friend the Blag Hag has put forth the theory that if scantily clad women are to blame for the earthquakes in Iran, why not try to really shake things up by seeing if it's true? Make Monday the day that you wear your trashiest, most revealingest clothing, and if there's a big earthquake then we'll really know that immodest women are the cause.

I know—Monday! What was she thinking? That's like, a work day for some of us! She does point out that the level of immodesty is up to the wearer—if showing a centimeter wrist skin is your idea of skanky, then let Monday be the day you go bare!

As an avowed feminist, I'm torn. The way I see it, I'm being asked to wear clothing that allows me to be objectified, in order to support the rights of women impacted by religious oppression. Boy that's complicated—did I get that right? I'm not too worried about the damage. The amount of press on this issue generated by indignant women all over the world tells me that feminism is alive and well. I for one plan to wear my Mexican pole dancer shoes AND my most boobtastic bustier.

Doe she really want to bury all those nice Iranian people in a pile of rubble? I think her objective is perhaps to force the Cleric's hand, and perhaps give him a graceful opportunity to explain to his followers why the earth didn't move when hundreds of thousands of American women dressed trashier than usual.

If there is an earthquake, however, I assume we get to take full responsibility.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

boy bonding

Whilst Moi is away enjoying the sights and sounds of fabulous Miameeeee (lucky bitch) I'll do my best to entertain. Gather 'round chillruns, mama's got a story to tell.

Spouse and I were invited to a dinner party this weekend by an old friend. This particular friend is decidedly the most colorful of my old friends. Allow me to 'splain...

Back in the day when we were young and dinosaurs still roamed the earth, he was on the cusp of the first of many careers he would take on in his action-man life. We met and spent many an evening riding motorcycles, and at least once that I recall, we evaded police on said motorcycle. His first career after we lost touch was racing bikes for money. Evidently, this is how you start your career in racing: you get chased by the cops.

Not long after, I understand he was also a cowboy (a career ended by a mishap with a bull) and a writer (and still a pretty decent one). He now plays bass in a local punk band and makes interesting movies.

My old friend, way back when, was also the captain of the local university rugby team. And this is how my friend and my spouse come to know each other, since spouse is deeply involved in local rugby (captaining, coaching, generally yelling at people). It wasn't long before old friend and old spouse eventually made their acquaintance.

Like most rugby players, they seemed to hit it off within a couple beers of meeting. The two of them are from opposite hemispheres of the world and they seem to understand each other—much like spouse and I do. They are, in many ways, uncannily similar people.

Mid-Saturday I got an invitation to a dinnery type event from my old friend. Being one who is always up for new stuff, I said sure, WTF, why not—haven't seen his sorry ass in too many weeks; it's about time we said hello. So we left the kids at home with a bottle of beer and some crackers, as good parents do.

Having not seen my friend's new house we got the grand tour: the wife, the baby room, the grownup room, the man cave, the kitchen, etc. We eat food. Much wine is consumed, partying ensues.

I discover at some point that my husband has disappeared, and I go trotting off looking for him. I find the two of them in the baby room, thick as thieves, trying on a collection of vintage ugly cowboy suits.

Yes, I said Cowboy Suits. Because this sort of costume is de rigeur when you're the bass player in a punk band. These are no ordinary ugly suits, these are pants and coats of the same teflon impregnated polyester material, dyed in garish hues of greenish turd and brownish poo.

What is it about the ugly that these two of my favourite men share a love of it? I'm still not sure. But they were mutually overjoyed at the sight of these hideous fashion crimes. My friend has shown a real talent for finding these things. He'd been traveling right to the heart of where one should find old ugly cowboy suits: thrift shops in my old home town in the arse-end of nowhere, New Mexico. This is where old suits go to die.

I should mention that spouse and friend are getting on like a house on fire, trying on these suits.

Weirdness of weirdnesses, the collection fit spouse shockingly well.

Were it not for the appalling color of this thing, I'd say let's take three!

Who knows how cheap he picked them up for, but when they were made, they were clearly top-of-the-line items, with the owner's name stitched on a tag in the pocket:

"This item carefully tailored for Bubba"

Now, some of these specimens were fine, fine items back in the day—with careful western-style details, like double points on the back, some with arrowheads, points and peaks on the pocket flaps. Despite the ghastly colors and material, these suits included marvelous exposed stitching, leather-covered buttons, and sharp well-tailored details. These were good suits that have withstood the test of time. They may not have not held up to fashion standards, but they will likely be in good nick for another 50 years, with proper care.

I said, I know the guy who wears these suits. He's about this tall, and has a pot belly that extends about this far past the pants. And he calls you "darlin'."

And he opens doors for you.

And he has really really nice, expensive, exotic skin boots, and a hat that cost more than your pickup truck.

This triggered my friend to disappear and come back with a stack of well-made cowboy hats, which was followed by more show-and-tell. My spouse is of foreign extraction, so perhaps it was the cultural gap that prompted it. My friend gave spouse careful pointers on hat etiquette. Such as, you never ever pick up a hat by anything other than the crown.

And it is acceptable to wear one's hat to any occasion, indoors or out, be it funeral or wedding.

And one must never, ever touch another man's hat. He claims people in Texas have been acquitted of murder charges because the assailant had touched the killer's hat.

"Well, he touched his hat, he deserved to die."

And what the shape and curve of a hat means . . .

"This hat says, I'm a cattleman, fuck you."

And he would know, my friend. He's seen quite a lot of life in his not-so-old years.

So what does it all mean, my rock-star friend, my spouse, and their shared love of hideous couture? I'm not sure, but I know you could probably catch my friend sporting them at local gigs, despite my warning that these were decidedly not in his color palette. I gather this is part of the deal: the uglier the color, the more conflicted the viewer's eye. This makes the nastier colored suits a far better aesthetic choice than something potentially attractive. Apparently ugly is the new Edgy.

I suspect that before long one of these treasures may find its way into my home for some seemingly legitimate event, whereupon I shall take it immediately to a dry cleaner.

It may be ugly, but by God, I will make sure it's clean.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

April 14 cometh

Dear Mr. IRS,

It has come to my attention that you want a lot of money from me this year. I am writing this letter in protest, to state my case.

It's really unfair, Mr. IRS, that you need me to fork over right in the middle of the spring season. Why, just this week, the temps have finally hit the reasonable mark. Spring is finally here, and every day I receive another coupon and another sale flyer beckoning me to come purchase lovely frocks and shoes that are just perfect for warm weather.

Mr. IRS, if you take all my money, I won't have any left to spend on this
or this


or these!


Do you understand what you'll be putting me, and the rest of my family through, if I'm deprived of shoes? Do you really? How's a bitch supposed to stimulate the economy?

Let's not forget my poor little wains, bless them, they need to be clothed too! How will I ever be able to afford to dress them in the manner to which they've become accustomed?

So please, Mr. Taxperson, Please, think of my fashion needs. The economy, the children, sure. But mostly think of my fashion needs . .

Can we strike a deal on this whole tax thing? I promise to give you a good writeup on my blog!

Very truly yours,

The Bitches