Fashion – Page 49 – I Don't Get It

So You Think You Want A Boob Job?

What ARE those? Isn’t Tori Spelling a millionaire several times over? Can’t she afford a nice rack? What was wrong with her old one?

And Victoria Beckham, it’s bad enough that your smile’s been broken for twenty years, but what sort of atrocity is this? You look like the rough draft of Madame Tussaud’s wax version of Kate Gosling.

I mean, don’t these women have access to the BEST of the BEST? What kind of botched job would I wind up with, if THEIR doctors are the best in their field?

Really, Jewel? That’s not very bohemian and down to earth of you. I thought you lived on a ranch with your cowboy husband; you don’t have to subscribe to the L.A. ideal. Honestly.

Oh, Tara Reid. I have no words.

My advice to starlets: don’t do it. But if you must, you must increase your bust, go small, like Cameron Diaz.

You’ll thank yourself when you’re 55.

Sitting Pretty

Hey, Einstein, why are you wearing ladies’ sandals? It’s the theory of RELATIVITY, not femininity.

And what about Marion Morrison, the butchest guy of all time? The virtual paragon of manhood? What is this get-up? No, I won’t mess with The Duke. After all, he said, “I don’t have to assert my virility. I think my career has shown that I’m not exactly a pantywaist.”

Okay, you two, you can keep your man cards. But it takes a REAL man to sit patiently through this.

I hope he had a steady hand…

Snap, Snap, Mexican Hat Dance

Toro! Toro! Toro! Let me count the ways I so love this ad. Okay, so this ad was in the back of the 1963 Comet, which I posted about earlier today. But I could not just drop this in to the post because it possesses clear and present superiority. It is the bomb. It requires its own post.

I love the black mantilla. Oh, yes, that’s a word for that black veil, which Spanish women wear during Holy Week in Seville, Spain during the week leading up to Easter, which is NEXT week, which means you can catch them live and in person if you so choose! Snap!

Also, I like how the skinny white girl is doing her version of an air guitar, except playing air castanets. Who would have even thunk to play air castanets? Glorious. Her undeniable skill, in combination with the mantilla and sexy red rose, playing off her innocence, is nearly enough to seduce Tim, the newest waiter.

BTW, Tim–that belt that your Aunt Marge sewed from a cast-off curtain sample does NOT look Spanish. But it would work quite well on your Ali Baba Halloween costume come October. But who cares? You get free chips and salsa, so life is good.

Now let’s talk about Janice! Janice and her look of disdain.

She can hardly keep that Saltine down. Yeah, Saltines are SOOO Mexican. I can’t help but think of Sophia Loren’s contemptuous scowl at Jayne Mansfield’s 42DD overflowy cup size.

It’s not like you’re cup doesn’t runneth over, either, Sophia. Just be glad you’re still alive. Poor Jayne never lived to do mediocre films like “Grumpy Old Men,” God bless her. Get over it.

Anyway, back to Janice. Her hair is teased to high heaven, and her blouse is buttoned high, but I think we all know the truth. You can sit there primly, holding that napkin over your nether regions, but we heard the rumors, Janice. You think your blonde friend, Cindy, knows how to keep her trap shut? Loose lips sink ships, Janice. Cindy can’t be trusted. But you just wait til the Mariachi Band shows up. You’ll get yours.

Real Housedogs Of Atlanta

This morning on Animal Planet (the channel), they showed a water spaniel wearing a “snood,” so it could eat kibble without getting its ears dirty. God forbid. A stylish version is shown on the classy canine above. This ain’t no thrift shop snood.

Initially, I thought this might be a Hilton sister, due to the name, the lean Anglo features and fashion foward accessory. But this (female dog) favors Paris more than Nicky. It also begs the question: if poodles wear leopard print, would leopards wear poodle print? As if. They’d be laughed right out of the pride.

Imagine if they showed up in these jazzy little numbers. The Grinch stole Christmas and then some. Alrighty, let’s get our Jane Fonda Workout on!

Let’s be honest: snoods look pretty gay on humans, much less pooches. (And I use the word the way we did in fourth grade, so deal with it. I’m not allowed to say it looks retarded, which it does, because that’s offensive.)

I can understand why clothing on animals is Jay Leno’s pet peeve. They have no choice in the matter; it serves solely to reflect the whims of its owners. And I’m not talking Halloween, when dogs get dressed up as Superman, etc. I mean everyday clothing. And don’t tell me they need a cableknit sweater because it’s cold out. Our dogs live outside. Yes, even when it’s 25 degrees. God gave them fur. They’re still alive.

Is this cute? Or would PETA people cry big salty tears over this?

I weep over this Labrador’s public humiliation.

http://coolkidshavehikingboots.blogspot.com

Can you hear him singing? I wear my owner’s clothes. I look incredible. I’m in this big-a$$ shirt from that Petco down the road.

But I may just have found the Julia Roberts to his Richard Gere.

Or is it Ginger from Gilligan’s Island?

I must admit I found this next bear snood to be pretty fetching. It makes any Doberman look less menacing.

He may look cute as a button, but now he’s burdened with your great-aunt Mildred’s partial hearing loss.

“Come here, boy.”

“What?”

“Come here, boy!”

“Eh?”

Oh, screw it.

I’ve Got My Back Against The Record Machine

I can’t even begin to dissect the awesomeness of this picture. All the elements together blow my mind.

Easy Breezy Caftan Fabulous!

This ad arrived in my mail today, in the stack with Pizza Hut and Ken’s Dressing coupons.

The model is pretty, but the throw rug in which she carved a neck hole is not. Here, you can see that the MSRP was $29.90 (oh, that’s ANOTHER thing I don’t get; why they can’t just list it as $30, like we’re going to dance a giddy jig for the dime saved!), but now it’s HALF PRICE! For only $14.95, you, too, can look like Mrs. Roper from Three’s Company.

Honestly, Stanley’s outfit is the nicest one in that pic. He could pass that one off today. The abdominal area of Crissy’s UPS jumpsuit is creating a curious diamond effect, like one of those God’s eyes we used to craft in summer camp. What you might not know is that Mrs. Roper’s caftan is constructed from the same material used to make Magic Eye 3-D pictures.

Caftans look like nightgowns. They’re hiding something, and not a delightful surprise. Something post-menopausal. Something in a hazy shade of winter.

This looks like the precursor to Snuggies; it’s enveloping the both of them.

So, anyway, I went online to the http://www.fourcorners.com website, and discovered that this lovely safari caftan, modeled by Amy Poehler, is marked down even FURTHER, to $3.95. Well, bust my buttons! For the price of an order of cheese sticks, I can score “an elegant, figure-flattering” piece of silk-like material. Four dollars isn’t even the tax you paid on your last dress.

One of the selling points beside this ad says “So versatile around the house and yard!” Really? Is that appropriate to wear to go check the mail? To walk Timmy to the bus stop for school? To do some hedge-trimming?

It also says, “Perfect for lounging or entertaining at home – even pretty enough for candlelight dinners!” I don’t know about you, but my entertaining does not involve caftans. Let’s invite all the neighbors to investigate what’s underneath this tent of a dress–lions, and tigers and bears. Oh, my–that’s not a bear!

And lest you think you can do better than four smackeroos, let me clue you in on something. This here “double-ruffle MuuMuu” costs a whopping $58.00. But Imelda Marcos is loaded, so she can afford it.

I know, I know, a MuuMuu is for a cow-cow, but this woman (not really Imelda) is (probably) not overweight. Granted, it might look better draping a window or serving as a bed skirt, but let’s not overlook the fact that the neckline is elasticized, for nights when she’s feeling sassy and wants to wear it off the shoulder. But please don’t do that, because either your bra straps will show (and we all know strapless bras are a joke), or you’ll be unsupported , and neither is acceptable. Not even in the land of luaus and lava.

Friends Don’t Let Friends Drink And Operate Chainsaws

I’ve heard of helping your buddies move and then sharing a case of beer, but this is a different breed of cat.

Here’s how I think it all went down. Dapper Dan left the firm early, but not before enlisting Kip and Truman from accounting as his partners in landscaping. They floored their Studebakers to suburbia with an urgency mandating no time to change out of their office duds or set their fedoras down. Curse you, early sunset! In the past two hours, Dan has felled a tree, while Kip and Truman have laid the steps along the pathway. Won’t Betty be surprised?

Now it’s time for a break. Kip raises his spade, and Dan tops off his (third) glass of sociable whiskey (it pairs well with Pall Malls). Don’t snag your trousers while you straddle that trunk. And save some Corby’s for the other two. You remember what happened last time, Dan.

Wing Droppings

What do you think of when I say “wings”? Red Bull? Paul McCartney? The 90s NBC sitcom? Well, if you’re like most gluttonous Americans, probably these:

If you’re a lady between the ages of 13 and 49, currently bloated and irritable, craving chocolate and Pinot Grigio, it might mean this:

But if you don’t foresee buying many more of those boxes in your future, or you’re done with them entirely, “wings” might mean this most awesome of hairstyles. You probably attempted some semblance of it at one point.

http://homesteadinghousewife.blogspot.com

I’m familiar with all of those wings, sometimes incorporating the three of them in the same moment. But never had I seen a power mower with wings until today.

The small print reads, “This giant of precison mowers…is the pride and joy of many men who mow grass for a living–and more than a few wealthy men who mow grass for fun.” For fun! Interpret as you will.

There are also scads of songs with “wings” in the titles. Broken wings, dove’s wings, eagle’s wings, little wings, silver wings, paper wings. But the song I never ever want to hear again, so help me God–not at a wedding or a funeral or a bris–is “Wind Beneath My Wings.” I can’t take it one more time. I really can’t.

INXS told us that, “We all have wings, but some of us don’t know why.” Does this gal know why? To fly from catwalk to catwalk? Those look heavy.

Victoria's Secret model Candice Swanepoel during the 2009 Victoria's Secret Fashion Show — Victoria’s Secret model Candice Swanepoel during the 2009 Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show

Wings have inspired quotes from Shakespeare to Charles Dickens, but only one as elegant and classy as Mae West could have confessed, “I’m no angel, but I’ve spread my wings a bit.” Which reminds me of this:

What’s the shelf life on that tat? A wee bit more than this unfortunate gal’s…

Ouch. Pass the blue cheese.

So whether you are right wing or left wing or a Detroit Red Wing, remember that we can all soar on wings like eagles. Or not.

Life Is Like A Box Of Panties

It’s not too late to get your lady what she really wants for this inane Hallmark-induced holiday. Regardless of her age, her weight, or even her sign (which you probably don’t even know, you CAD), no woman can resist a box of panties. Just the thought of lying down on a yellow linoleum floor, surrounded by a veritable pinwheel of pastel-colored high-waisted granny panties gives me goose bumps. I know what I’m wearing under my Easter dress… Cupid, draw back your bow!

Look, Ma! I don’t have to do the wash for three weeks solid! Nevermind the scent from the hamper…

See how mesmerized she is as they swirl around her, like Snow White singing to the birds? The sheerish netting on the pair she is sporting is so seductive. Earl won’t be able to keep his hands off her once he steps down from his big rig. That’s sexy from the bottom of her bum to her naval. Nothing like scratchy fabric chafing her lower rib cage to put her in the mood for an amorous pretend holiday. Fasten your seatbelt, Earl!

Note how carefree she has become, tossing her brassiere to the wind, strategically placing panties across her bosom, the way Peter Pan mermaids stuck adhesive starfish to their own chests. That mermaid may seem jubilant in this scene, but her joy masks the pain of knowing she will never, ever be able to wear boxed panties. Curse you, Neptune!

Crouching Cody, Hidden Dragon

“Another day on the river brings another opportunity for rescue.”

Well, it’s tit for tat night, and since the hub had to endure the Grammy Red Carpet on Sunday, I am gamely watching my second hour of Discovery Channel’s Dual Survivor. Crouching Cody is present and accounted for, but his former partner, Dave Canterbury, has vanished (due to an embellished resume), replaced with special ops Joe Teti, a younger model. Joe’s beard has less grey than Dave’s, and he wears a ball cap while Cody dons his same old purple do rag. From my perspective, Joe is the boy, and Cody is the girl.

I don’t care about survival or knives or knots. All I see is the patriot and the hippie. Joe is a bit of an eager beaver. He needs to pace himself. He also drank his urine twice in a row, and that’s a no-no. Cody builds the fires. Actually, Joe built a fire tonight with a battery and a gum wrapper on his second try. Yay, Joe! But it was Cody who pointed out that they couldn’t sleep in a baobob tree due to risk of contracting the bubonic plague. Duh, Joe.

If it were me, lost in the wilderness, I would just lay down and die and wait to float up to heaven. I’ve got nothing to prove. Let that hippo trample me. But if I had to be dually surviving with one of those guys, Joe seems the obvious choice. Cody rubs me the wrong way. It’s not just his Sequoia-sized thighs. Even his voice irritates me. And he looks like a steroided lesbian bodybuilder who you only have to look at to know her voice is crazy low. And what is up with all this squatting??

I can think of a handful of men with whom I’d rather be bludgeoned to death than stuck on a desert island: Kevin Smith, Quentin Tarantino, and Michael Moore, for starters. And Cody is not nearly repulsive enough to join the ranks of that trio. Not even close. It’s just a certain je ne sais quoi. I can’t put my finger on it.

Now I know full well that shoeless Cody could provide for me. I’m not against collecting rainwater and composting waste. He’s certainly proven he’s got skills. I imagine those bare feet can tread lightly and those butch arms can carry a big whittled stick. And, really, it should be kind of a turn-on to see him construct a bamboo spear to provide us with a fresh fish dinner, but then again, he’s wearing a handkerchief on his head, and tossing his long braids about. And don’t get me started on his Daisy Dukes.

Tonight I looked at Cody’s left hand and noted there wasn’t a ring. It must be hard to court a woman and start a family when you live off the grid, far from shopping centers and coffee shops.

Truth be told, I’d rather be stuck on that island with Myke Hawke (don’t say that one too quickly) of Discovery Channel’s defunct Man, Woman, Wild. Now that might be worth surviving.

pic courtesy of fellow blogger at protrailtools.wordpress.com

Lookin’ Like A Fool With Your Pants On The Ground

Can you really blame Selena for kicking this one to the curb? There is no way to justify this catastrophe of an ensemble. Does this really appeal to teen girls? Where is the shame in looking presentable? When did we decide to stop dressing nicely? Was it when ladies started burning their bras? Damn you, libbers!

Now this was appropriate garb in a high school cafeteria back in 1943. No hoochie mamas present, thank you.

all BxW pics courtesy of www.shorpy.com — all BxW pics courtesy of http://www.shorpy.com

This was how people dressed in Chicago to attend the movies in 1941. No, it wasn’t even Broadway.

Check out these folks riding bikes…

Even if they leaned forward toward the handle bars, there was no threat of whale tail in effect, no tawdry tramp stamp to mark them past their due date.

See how modestly these gals of the paper mill were attired ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY YEARS AGO? Say what you will about the ruffles that appear to be multiplying and about to attack her head; she’s quite fetching chilling on the railroad tracks. And what comportment!

Even Granny’s mowing outfit looks better than how people dress for church these days.

But this–this is the sad part. Even this GANG from 1916 looks sharp by today’s standards.

Minus the smokes (and the gun), that’s street urchin style! You can bet your bippy these kids were not of grand means, but they took the time to put an outfit together. What happened, America? What happened?

Frankie Says Crap Your Hands

Crap Your Hands, Everybody! Everybody, Crap Your Hands! I think things were actually GAINED in translation. Hopefully, a kind stranger will inform him what a difference a letter can make on his sweater that appears to have been stitched in the style of a Quaker. But at some point, he can remove it and toss it in the Goodwill pile. This lady is not so fortunate.

This pic hails from the Hanzi Smatter blog, dedicated to the misuse of Chinese characters in western culture. The lady who owns this arm believed the Chinese symbol to mean “chi.” Maybe she identified with the idea of vitality and life force and energy. Well, it’s not chi, per that blogger. Sadly, the symbol translates to “rice.” Rice.

But not all is lost. I mean, rice is still consistent with the Asian theme. Toss it in with that eerie koi (not to be confused with Iriquois), and it might make a great meal! Maybe she could stir fry it in a mild chili sauce and fresh orange peel, like P.F. Chang’s hunan style hot fish. Yum! As Winnie the Pooh says, I feel a rumbly in my tumbly. Actually, it isn’t farfetched to be associating food service with this colorful sleeve, since the enormity of it excludes her from many upper level management jobs, save quirky ice cream and sub sandwich shops.

Should we cut her (and the thousands of others who failed to research the symbol they had permanently inked onto their skin) some slack? I mean, there ARE 50,000 characters in the Chinese language. One cannot assume that all tattoo artists are fluent, no? And P.S., simply branding your arm with symbols does not automatically induct you into the spiritually enlightened hall of fame. It doesn’t give you a rich tapestry of character and dimension. Not all Chinese people do Tai Chi and catch flies like Mr. Miyagi, philosophizing near lily pads. It doesn’t make you deep. In the case of rice-girl, it just makes her ignorant.

So what’s the flip-side? When Asian people see things written in English, do they assume it’s all trivial and frivolous? Everyone knows Americans are fun and hip because we’re constantly shouting black music. Even our President does it.

If you’ve ever made a trip to the Engrish site, you’ve seen how desperately Asian designers are in need of skilled translators. But really, why would you walk around, wearing something that makes no sense? How can you make a statement when you don’t know what the statement is?

Maybe they like America’s bold stance on immigration, so they put it on a shirt.

Guatemara??

And who could argue that Pacino reeks of cool? Even if he commands you to say hello to the bad gay…

And check out this question for the Creator. Are you there, God? It’s me Chao-Xing.

My bet is he’s at the nearest head shop. Now this next one is complex.

First, and foremost, lollygag, unless it’s loitering in front of a 7-11. Second, repeat a random Wilson Phillips lyric. Next, the typical association of a foamy kitten and dwarf bravery, because those two go together like peanut butter and jelly. I hate to admit that dwarf bravery has NEVER shone on me. Not once.

Americans have spent so much time thinking Asian culture has the answers, but what if they think WE’RE the deep ones?

Hung in the sky blessing. Need drift on the waves. Preach it, brother, preach. That reminds me, I need to rent “Point Break” again.

Who knew Americans had the secret of life? We had it all along! Honey Boo Boo and Mama June can testify.

Well, it is. And it’s way better than crapping your hands.

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