Yeah, yeah–I realize this ad is old. But it’s not old to me. I grabbed a stack of old In Styles while at the used bookstore yesterday and this shot in a 2010 issue made me stop. Not to collaborate and listen, but to wonder WTH? Are her clothes in the bag? Does her driver have a brush she can borrow? Is she fresh from some coke-fueled rambage with ex, Pete Doherty?
This demands a caption contest. I’ll start with the lamest one that dates me:
Raise your hand. Raise your hand. If you’re sure.
Just take a moment to really take in all that is Argentina Coral. That’s it. Deep breath. Before noon today, I had never heard of her, nor seen her. But now I have. Now we both have.
I hope she had an endorsement deal with Nike, because she painted Nike swooshes across her eyebrows and beyond the natural borders of a human eyelid. Just do it, Argentina! And while you’re at it, smear some Avon coral lipstick beyond the borders of your natural lipline. You cannot be contained. You cannot be “corraled.”
The name of this LP is Cante Gitano, which means Gypsy Singing. A looser translation might mean “emitting a fetid smell,” because her facial expression reveals something putrid this way comes, and it’s not just flamenco music.
Now I consider myself fairly musically-savvy, and I have seen enough of Stevie Nicks singing “Gypsy” to know that it entails white lace and prairie skirts, along with dizzy spinning in front of a mirror to catch one’s reflection, perhaps reassess one’s perm. But just to be sure, I rewatched the video. I was correct, but had failed to remember the ring-around-the-rosie scenes in a nymph-filled forest while it rained sequins and Tinkerbell dust. Nonetheless, this is not what Cante Gitano offers. Far from it.
Translated as only Google can, one of the songs says:
In this bar I first saw you, and without thinking I gave you my whole life. This offer bar with beer, amid sadness and pain. This bar opened our souls, and delicious phrases said. In this bar so many things happened, so I always come to this corner. Pour me a glass of rum and drink your beer with my heart, you are the steward of my love ..
(And if you don’t pour me a glass of rum, I will park my smoking hot body on the hood of your car like some exotic Tawny Kitaen and glare at you through your windshield as though I am Cher’s evil twin.) Case in point:
Hell hath no fury like Argentina scorned. But time passed, and it softened her. She traded her swoosh eyebrows for thin arcs, her turquoise blouse for a raincoat adorned with upside-down birds.
Alas, we all grow old.
Now fly like your inverted flamingos and go to that corner of your favorite bar and drink rum with the steward of your love and say delicious phrases. Sing “Amor Hablame Dulcemente,” and he will sing sweetly to you and your mole. And maybe, just maybe, he will buy you another cubic zirconia pinky ring for the other hand to deflect bullets like you are some sort of Latina Wonder Woman. Adios, Argentina. Adios.
I pulled this ad out of my Vanity Fair magazine and set it on the coffee table for further inspection, as it seemed curious to me on several levels. My son walked by and asked why a scorned Taylor Swift was lying near the remote and tub of coconut oil, and I explained that Miss Swift, fickle as she may be, is nothing if not ladylike–nay, princesslike–and would not be caught dead in a bedazzed jungle cat motif.
This honor goes to Karlie Kloss, the Juicy Couture model for the Fall 2012 campaign. Now when I hear Juicy Couture, for some reason, the Brit’s voice pops into my head singing in her stilted robotic voice: I’m Mrs. Lifestyles Of The Rich & Famous (You want a piece of me?) I’m Mrs. Oh-My-God, That Britney’s Shameless (You want a piece of me?). No, thank you, we do not (and apparently, neither does Jason Trawick). The point is, Juicy Couture brings to mind velour tracksuits.
So there we have a JC designer wedged between JLo and The (Green) Material Girl. Are these the best examples of juicy derrieres? One of them has an ample booty, and one of them has a boney booty, but neither of them can claim “juicy” anymore. Perhaps Madonna could suggest that her designer daughter, Lola, start a line of clothing for post-menopausal women, with a more accurate label. Something like “Wither Couture.”
with-er
But back to Miss Kloss, the anti-withered. In fact, she’s not even legal to imbibe yet, at least not in the States. I’m no Anna Wintour, so I can’t tell you what they WANT this ad to say to the consumer. But I can tell you what a common woman between the age of Britney and Madonna sees when she looks at this ad.
Animals, animals, animals! Where is Hal Linden when I need him?
And just in case you missed the animal references, here she is ON ALL FOURS in a leopard-print jumpsuit hoodie monstrosity, cavorting on the sand after she had her Gatorade to rehydrate. Who’s a happy girl now? Who’s a happy girl?
More than anything, this reminded me of my college roommate’s cat, Misery, when she was in heat, rump raised and ready to rumble. I think I’ll take my couture pulp-free this year, perhaps altogether juice-free. Lola, have you got any etchings done yet??
I just watched a clip of Romper Room (for the first time in my life–purely as research), and I made an observation: not one of them was wearing a romper.
Webster defines a romper as “a jumpsuit for infants.” These rompers look like onesies to me. The Free Dictionary describes a romper as “a loosely fitted, one-piece garment having short bloomers that is worn especially by small children for play.” Neither of these definitions include garments for grown people. And Webster should know; he’s been defining for a while now. But I definitely remember seeing fashionable gals wearing rompers a couple decades back. Check out this animal and floral print. Looks like someone borrowed grandma’s negligee…
What we do know is that rompers are worn by those who romp. Romp is defined as rough and energetic play. Lively, merry play. One site equated it to capering (playful skipping). And here I thought capers were only in my Olive Garden chicken piccata. All I know is that I definitely do not romp. I move like a basset hound with hip dysplasia.
The urban Dictionary, however, our go-to source for slang nearing obsoletion, defines a romp as the nasty, like a romp in the hay. You know, frolicking boisterously. In which case, one would shed all clothing, not put on a uniform to perform it. So why does http://www.ioffer.com label this a romper? 
I’m not catty, so I’m not going to comment on a butter face wearing a butterfly belt. Wait–is that Posh Spice? Nevermind. But I do take issue with this as a romper. It is obviously a jumpsuit, more genetically related to an Elvis Jumpsuit than to a romper. And that material clearly lends itself to dromedary toe. So, ioffer, you may offer, but I politely decline. A jumpsuit extends to the floor. A romper has blousy bloomers that allow for gusts of wind to air out nether regions. See below.
Don’t act like you don’t remember this silky little number. I wore something almost identical in a fetching shade of maroon to my uncle’s wedding the week that Whitney Houston topped the charts with Dolly Parton’s song. Yes, it was appropriate garb at the time, unfathomable though it be. It was a very Contempo Casuals time in our country’s history.
Being a square may no longer be hip, but I can’t imagine that even the women who fall all over themselves trying to get a copy of Fifty Shades of Gray would want to see their man in this (yes, that’s what they called it) romper. Don we now our gay apparel!
Surely this is impeding his cavorting. But with that tat and that wedding band, romping is definitely on the agenda. You go, middle aged man! Way to keep your BMI down. See, P90X does work.
And now we arrive in modern times, right here, right now.
They say you can’t wear it the second go round if you wore it the first go round (oh, remember Merry-Go-Round? And The Wild Pair? Sorry.) These celebs look young enough to be abiding by that rule. But that doesn’t defend these rompers. They look wrinkly, and none of these denims is a proper dark rinse. And is the pseudo-Applegate wearing acid-washed? There is NO excuse for that!! They can try to play it off as fun and flirty, but, ladies, we know the romper truth. We know how they extend bathroom stall time by up to thrice a normal amount. And then you’re basically hovering, buck naked, over a public toilet. Or you resort to the tug-aside. Either way, no, thank you. Let’s send this look out to pasture and retire the romper for good.
I know, right? You’re already uncomfortable.
I love makeovers. LOVE them. And even though I love food, the makeovers are my favorite part of Rachael Ray’s show. And even though I love me some kooky, tipsy Kathy Lee and Hoda banter, my favorite part of Today is the ambush makeover. And don’t get me started on Clinton and Stacey spiffing stylistically-challenged folks up in straight leg, dark rinse trousers that elongate them.
So I understand the irresistible lure to fix the ugly and the outdated to market a product (although, apparently auto companies have not quite grasped that idea, and have actually gone in reverse for the past forty years, producing uglier, blander models, but that’s neither here nor there.) Successful advertising often requires changing with the times, and–in the case of the Quaker Oats Company–the need to stop offending particular groups. On her 100th anniversary, syrup icon Aunt Jemima received her latest makeover. I totally get the desire (read: pressure) to update her image, but do all transformations have to include a younger, thinner version?
Truth be told, I’m not digging this current Jemima. I’m not feeling the nurturing. Those pearl earrings are more for the boardroom than the kitchen. I’m not saying you need a do rag to cook, but I do have concerns that stray hairs from her more polished coif may find themselves in my pancake batter. And I just feel like if I asked her to whip me up some flapjacks, she might not be so keen on it. And before you call me racist, just know that the original Aunt Jemima, Nancy Green, actually was born into slavery in 1834, so the look was indicative of the time, like it or not. I imagine she did have the last laugh (all the way to the bank). Now onto a W.A.S.P.ier icon…
Unlike the changing Jemima faces, who–let’s remember were all paid to represent her–Betty Crocker was never a real person. Her name and face were contrived to appeal to homemakers. Well, I’m a homemaker, and I’m not down with any of these Betties. Talk about a lack of nurturing. The portraits all look so sterile. These faces don’t say yummy walnut brownies to me; they say news anchor or banker wife (or “no wire hangers!”). And I’m almost certain one of them is a Baxter-Birney. Next!
I think we can all agree the 2006 Sun Maid Raisin girl makeover was an epic failure. I prefer the happy Gilda Radner to this creepy CGI no-indentation-in-her-upper-lip-Julia-Roberts-smile Little Red Riding Hood. The cheerful immigrant girl was clearly up at the crack of dawn to pick grapes, but I doubt the “new and improved” Raisin Barbie would have stumbled home yet. And something about her armpit bothers me. And finally…
In retrospect, maybe the 70s Brawny dude does look like he did a little porn on the side, but at least he looks like a real guy. Depending on your age (white people) you either have an uncle or a brother who looked like this guy. And he probably had a name that rhymed with “hairy” to match: a good, solid era-specific name like Gary, Larry, or Barry. He changed the oil on his Camaro himself (while listening to his Boston eight-track), he drank beer out of cans–not bottles–and gave no thought to wine pairings and manscaping. This is the guy I want representing the durability and strength of my paper towel. This guy knows how to clean up a mess.
But the new effete guy? The one in the red plaid shirt that he just picked up from the dry cleaners? What’s his name? Perhaps it rhymes with “Aiden,” as in Brayden, Caden, or Jaden. How is he going to clean up spilled milk and vodka vomit if he just had his mani-pedi done? A Brawny guy should not know what exfoliating is, but Caden does. Honestly, I think fem queens will dig either one, depending on their preference for bears or not, and I’m certain the wording of “Pick A Size” beneath the blonder Tom Selleck is not lost on them. But speaking as a straight woman with an opinion, I say: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
Being sick for a week now has made me realize that I took for granted two very dear senses: smelling and tasting, neither of which I’ve been able to do in seven days. If I’d have known that Chuy’s Combo #4 was going to be the last thing I tasted in 2012, I would have relished it more. I also realize that although the decongestants, antihistamines, zinc lozenges, Airborne powders, neti pots, steam baths, shots of Tabasco, 147 wasabi peas, and one hot rum toddy have put not a dent in this sickness, at least I have Kleenex and/or Puffs to contend with the sniffles. After blowing your nose nonstop, the skin on your nostrils begins to get raw and dry up and flake off. The only thing that could have made it more painful would have been a nose ring.
I suppose if you have a nose ring, you could take it in and out at your leisure, but my question is: why ever put it in at all? And no, earrings are not the same thing. The holes in my ears do not aid in respiration. They do not have cause to ooze with fluids, such as noses do. I have always felt that one should draw as little attention to the nose as possible. Don’t pick it in public, wipe it carefully on the DL, don’t attach things to it that reflect light and consequently may cause a stranger to think you need a handkerchief. And don’t tell me that it doesn’t hurt, like those of you who say tattoos don’t hurt. Don’t wear that like a badge of honor. It is precisely because that nasal tissue is so sensitive that rings were placed inside bull’s noses in the first place, to make them compliant and easily led when someone yanked the ring. To boot, only the bulls who are handled OFTEN require such rings. By that logic, does wearing a nose ring imply a man or woman is handled often as well? Does it imply they will be used to breed repeatedly or be displayed at livestock shows?
Every generation has its trends. You get your nose ring, so you’re part of the group, the group that rebels against conservative values. The group that allows you to display your individuality and raise your flag of noncomformity, to the extent that you all agree on what exactly the new conformity is. It’s the same idea every decade: ducktails and leather jackets in 50s greaser culture, tie-dyed shirts and long hair and bellbottoms for hippies, mohawks and punk rock. So now we’re in the nose ring phase? This is what’s edgy? Are young adults doing this more out of a desire to showcase traditions of Indian and Asian culture or because they saw Miley Cyrus wearing a nose stud?
Maybe the level of risk is what makes it cool? Just humor the fuddy-duddy, because I don’t get it. I’ve never been a fan of infection, permanent scarring, or getting my clothes caught on my facial accessories and having them yanked off in a bloody mess. It seems less about individuality and more like the exact opposite: to reveal yourself as a sheep able to follow trends and mimic celebrity. Baaaaa. All well and good then; at least it’s easily undone. Better to go through a phase without obvious permanent mutilation. Reference the booming tattoo removal industry. The lovely Megan Fox has almost entirely removed the Marilyn Monroe tat with which she so identified in her youth. Fifty/Fiddy Cent says his motive for tat removal is to encourage his acting career and prevent hours in the makeup chair. And then of course, there will always be love gone wrong. Johnny Depps disappearing his Winonas, Angelina Jolie disappearing her Billy Bobs. We have all been young and passionate and believed THIS IS THE ONE, THIS IS FOREVER, or I WILL NEVER GET TIRED OF SEEING THAT CHINESE SYMBOL ON MY CHEST (which, as it turns out, meant something entirely different). But of course we do. Nothing has that sort of staying power, unless it’s along the lines of U.S.M.C. I won’t wear those Gap jeans from 1999, so I sure as heck wouldn’t want to carry around ink from then. But again, I am not a Millenial.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, right? I behold nose rings as icky, plain and simple. But thank God we live in a free society, full of choices, where we can do to our skin as we like, be it permanent or temporary. Blessed are we to have many different ideas of beauty–although. let’s be frank–many women still want to look like Jennifer Aniston, even if she is in her 40s. And you don’t see her rocking a nose ring
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I Don't Get It 