The Butter Files: Back to School Shopping

My youngest starts school next week.  We have not bought one single practical thing.  We have bought a very exclusive set of Pokemon cards and a Pokeman Ball.  You can't start school without some winning Pokemon cards, according to littleb.

When I was a kid we went back-to-school shopping every August. One year, my step mom gave my grandmother some money and asked her to take me shopping.  I loved my grandmother to pieces and we were both quite happy with this arrangement.  We hopped in the car and headed for the K-mart.  We bought the obligatory under garments and socks, gotta have those, and then we started perusing the aisles for clothing in my size.  Everything was boring.  There wasn't anything special enough for the third grade.  Not until, that is, my eyes lit on something that stood out.  Something in the purple family.  I separated it from its dull pedestrian neighbors and held it up against my body.

It was purple pant suit perfection.  The entire garment was constructed of the finest machine knit fabric that Taiwan could produce.  Even then I could spot a quality garment.  The tunic-styled top was purple with a gold belt knitted into the waistline.  How practical!  The pants were, you guessed it, purple.  I couldn't believe my luck.  How could this fashion-forward treasure still be hanging on the rack at the end of August?  It was fate, obviously.

We bought it immediately.  It took all of the rest of our money and my grandmother paused, but I wheedled and pushed.  I needed that pant suit like a chimney sweep needs a chimney. That pant suit was my ticket into the elite world of Mrs. Yates' third grade classroom.  This much comfort and style would propel me to dizzying intellectual heights, and the stretchy knit fabric would allow me to run faster than a fifth grader on the playground.   I was finally ready for third grade.  "Bring it", my 8-year-old inner twerp proclaimed.

I was perplexed when my step-mom didn't seem to consider our shopping expedition a resounding success.  I proudly emptied my one small shopping bag on the couch and held up my first-day-of-school ensemble.  She seemed confused.  She looked at the bag. Then she looked at my grandmother. Then she looked at the bag.  Then her face kind of fell as I stood there, beaming, with the purple pantsuit clutched against my skinny frame.

I was intuitive enough to know something was wrong.  I was smart enough to keep it to myself. No need to stir up a nest of hornets which might, possibly, result in the return of my outfit, so I just stood there, resolutely, beaming and petting my tunic. I pointed out how the belt was built into the garment, how the color was so grand, and how warm the knit fabric would be in the crisp fall weather.  I willed her to see how this outfit would make me a better third-grader.

On picture day that year-in fact, on most days that year-I was a pig-tailed, fleet-footed, speed-reading, rock-stealing, purple-wearing beauty.

I think this must be the way littleb feels about his Pokemon cards.

Chicken out

P.S.  Sorry.  Those records are sealed.

Fun Fashion Friday

I don't have time for a real post today but I do have time to entertain you with some delightful, cutting-edge fashion images that I borrowed from the internet:

Do you think she sees us?  (fashionevents1010.blogspot)

Did she just give birth to a dragon?  (fashionevents1010.blogspot)

Because 33 heads are better than one...(www.urlesque.com)

Is this menswear of foxwear? 

I think he goes with the head lady.  Unless there's someone walking around with a bra made of hats.

In other news, I'll be blogging from a remote location for a few days.  If I miss a day or two, rest assured it's not because I'm not thinking of you.  It's because I've got a frozen beverage in my hand and five under my belt. #margaritaville

Namaste, Bitches (this is still making me laugh)

Chicken out

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: Sunglasses

Sunglasses say a lot about a person, don't they?  There's the big diva sunglasses that take up half your face.  There's the elegant retro Jackie O look, there's sporty wrap arounds, hipster tinted, and then there's the classic too-cool-for-my-school aviator style.

I like aviators.   They have style without appearing as though one is attempting to be stylish.  And I'm  super sneaky that way.  I don't like to look as though I've put much of an effort in.  Most times I haven't.  One need only take in the holy, maroon Columbia sweater, circa 2005, that I wear most days to intuit lack of style on my part.

Actually,  it's not even how one looks in their sunglasses, but how one feels.  Putting on sunglasses is a little like putting on a disguise.  You hide part of your face and keep it for yourself.  There's power in that.  And then you subconsciously project what you feel to the outside world, whether that's a big, sexy, curvaceous man eater, a triathlete, or a rock-star.  I've seen this, I'm not kidding.  I've seen a woman sashay  a little sassier, an athlete prowl more gracefully, and an icognito rock-star's insouciant saunter down the sidewalk.

Of course, you have to be careful with sunglasses, as with all things related to fashion.  You may be thinking and projecting Diva, but your sunglasses just may be shouting "Get out of my way, I'm mad and I'm drunk".  Your tinted wrap-arounds may be smirking and whispering, "Thinks he's Bono, What a tool!"  When I wear my aviators, I suspect they are broadcasting, "Highly delusional Chicken channeling Carrie Bradshaw, make way, coming through.."

Why all this talk about sunglasses?  Because I can't find mine, dammit.

What do you like about your sun glasses.  How do they make you feel?

Chicken  out

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: Old Fashioned...

This is the year I am officially old.  No, it doesn't have anything to do with my actual age, wrinkles, or droopage ratio.  I feel old because I've scanned several fashion magazines this week and I have not found one fall fashion that I want to embrace.

I feel like I should be lounging, newly permed,  around my neighbor's pool with a gaggle of older gals, gossiping away in our one piece skirted bathing suits, wrinkled evidence of too much iodine and baby-oil tanning in the 70s all on display, talking about the crap that passes for fashion these days.

High waist jeans?  Gross.  Crop tops?  Nightmares.   And I don't wear pastels in summer.  Why would I wear them in winter?  Leather?  Let's not.   Bollywood?  But what?  Bolly what?  That's a trend now?  Funnel coat?  I'm not wearing anything that sounds like it might add pounds.  And I believe we covered the scrunchie comeback last week.

It's true, I've never been a fashion maven.  There was that time when I was 21 and admired another girl's way with leg warmers.  She would wear them with pointy-toed pumps.  She was a beautiful  girl with a bird-like bone structure, and could pull off the odd fashion choice. With my athletic build, I was neither beautiful nor bird-like.  It was like putting leg warmers on Rocky.  It didn't stop me from trying.  I tried again  in 1984 when I paired a baby blue cotton dress with red pumps and pink ankle socks.  I don't even think that was a trend at the time.  I think I might have been stoned.

At some more lucid point in my adulthood, I adopted a classic, simpler way of dressing; structured, clean lines in neutral colors and quality fabrics, with an occasional pop of color. This is what looks good on me.  If it weren't for the way I attract dirt, cat hair, loose threads and food stains, I might even pass for well-dressed in some circles.

But now, it would seem, a classic style no longer passes for a style.  Fashion has become diverse and complicated.  Clothing is made to layer in odd ways.  It wraps and ties and serves multiple purposes.  Is it a dress, a shirt, a skirt?  How the fuck am I supposed to figure that shit out?  I see odd combinations of fabric, styles and decades.  These new clothes, they have holes in weird places....I don't want a tan on just the middle of my back, for Christ's sake.

I can feel myself faltering. I can't compute the code that allows two fabrics with different size stripes to be worn at the same time, and even though I lived in the 80's, I couldn't pull off an 80's style if I wanted to. Not that I want to, exactly, that's not what I'm saying.  I'm saying that even if I wanted to, I couldn't. Do you understand?  I feel as though I've passed over some invisible line into the realm of the style-less.  I've become one with the masses, dressing daily for practical purposes.  Like being adequately covered in public. Like someone who wouldn't know a statement necklace if it jumped up and bit her on the nose.  Which is why I don't wear statement necklaces, incidentally, because that seems like a valid concern.

And this feeling of not relating to current fashion trends makes me feel old.  This is not to say that older people are unfashionable.  Style is ageless-we all have heard that.  I have many friends who are walking proof.  I have other friends who have transcended fashion and are simply elegant.

But as for me?  I  may as well buy some elastic-waisted jeans, a velour sweatshirt featuring kittens, and some comfortable walking shoes.  And a fanny pack.

Chicken out

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: Hair Got You Down?

Does your hair hang low?  Does it wobble to and fro?  Can you tie it in a knot, can you tie it in a bow? Can you  throw it o'er your shoulder like a continental soldier? Does your hair hang  low?

Well,  you're in luck, friends, because the scrunchie is back!  That's right, that 80's  staple has bounced back into fashion's highest circles.  It is once again totally cool to gather your unruly mane and contain it with a wide stretch  of elastic material covered in a fabric that complements your outfit.

The scrunchie is like the loud, colorful cousin you don't realize you've missed until you run into her at the family reunion.  There she is, governing the horse shoe pit with an iron glove, dressed in a lime green and fuchsia muumuu, and throwing back tequila like a tourist in Cabo on Cinco de Mayo.  You can't help but smile when you see her.

At least you might feel that way.  As with all things fashion related, however, my experience with scrunchies is a bit more unnerving.

My last scrunchie encounter took place in 2001.  The thing was crouching in a corner under my girl's bed, covered in dust balls, and I swear it had tiny, feral eyes that glared out at me, daring me to come in after it.  Bat, rat or hair piece, I wasn't sure what it was, so I stilled my pounding heart, narrowed my eyes, and took up arms.  The battle commenced, as I swiped wildly under the bed with my broom.  It was intense, but I emerged victorious after shoving the bed aside and exposing the rogue scrunchie to sunlight, a phenomenon it hadn't experienced in years.  Temporarily blinded, it remained still long enough for me to scoop it up on the end of my  broom and deposit it  in the trash.

Our home has been scrunchie-free ever since and, like denim on denim and leopard print,  it's not a trend I intend to embrace this fall or ever.  But you go ahead.

I'll  just tuck my unruly mane behind my low-hanging ears per usual.

Chicken out

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: Closet Tech

Late adopter that I am, I've just only recently  discovered the  usefulness of apps.  I've got a fitness app, a running app, a financial app, real estate app, and don't get me started on all the educational  apps I've downloaded.

It would be nice to have a personal shopper app.  An app that would shop my closet, pulling together looks that never would have occurred to me.  Unlike most personal shoppers, whose primary mission is to spend all your money, my app is like a classy, stylish, environmentally concerned friend; the friend who rolls her eyes when I complain I have nothing to wear,  throws open my closet door, rummages through hangers, occasionally pulling things out and tossing them on the bed.  She'll bark at me to try this and that together with the nude pumps and, oh, look, we can take this old ribbon and these bottle caps and spray paint them gold to make a statement necklace.    Then she'll smirk at me and say, "By the way, Chicken, why do you have bottle caps in your closet?  That seems bad.", and I'll say, as I struggle to tuck in a shirt tail, "Never mind that, where the hell did the ribbon come from?"  She'll study me as I stand before her in the appointed outfit, tapping her index finger to her lips, finally declaring, "No, no, not like that, like this."  She'll yank here, pull there, and voila, there I am, suddenly presentable.  Fashionable, even.

Wouldn't you pay for an app like that? 

She would be like Siri, but with a fashion sense.  Maybe we could call her Jane.  Doesn't that seem like a nice name for an app?

Oh, I can hear you thinking, out there,  don't think I can't.  "Surely you already know what's in your own closet and what goes with what?"  To that I would answer, "Have you met me?"  Most of you haven't, so allow me to illustrate.  I have little sense of style and multiple personalities.  I buy clothes completely on impulse.  Some days my gut says, "I'm a pirate", and other days it says "I'm sporty".  For quite a few years, my gut insisted I was a Cub Scout.  It's no wonder my closet is confused.  Have you ever seen a sporty pirate?  I mean, I can almost see it....maybe a plaid kilt-like tennis skirt with a laced up, flared sleeve shirt, paired with an eye patch and classic Tretorns, for instance.  My gut says fabulous.  My common sense tells me this is not a good work look.  I'm also practically color blind.  Have you ever seen a sporty pirate wearing a black heart on her t-shirt?  Oh, you think, she's being an ironic sporty pirate, but she's not.  She thinks the heart is red.  She's feeling flirty.  Ironic sporty pirate; kind of twisted and cool, pair with some heavy black eyeliner and send her out the door.  Leaving the whole mutton dressed as  lamb issue behind for a moment, it could work if she was internally channeling Marilyn Manson instead of Marilyn Monroe.

Of course, like all things fashion-related, it is only a matter of time before Jane begins mocking me.

"Jane", I'll command, "I need an outfit for Saturday night.  It's date night."

To which Jane will respond, "How about pajamas accessorized with Ben & Jerry's like all your other date nights?"

"No, Jane, I really think it's going to happen this week.  We're actually going to go out.  On a real date.  I can feel it in my gut."

"Is this the same gut that told you to buy the bateau neck sailor's shirt last week?  The one that made you look more whale than sailor?  I wouldn't listen to that gut."

"There was a hurricane warning in effect, Jane.  I was just being practical.  Can we focus  on  Saturday night?  I'm thinking dressy casual, but not like I tried too hard.  Look Jane.  I pinned this on Pinterest.  This could work, right?"

"If you hadn't also pinned 20 pounds to your ass, maybe."

"Jane, that's unkind."

"What?  It's not like I pinned 20 pounds to your ass, Darling."

You know what?  On second thought, maybe I'll just keep winging it.  Who needs the scrutiny.

Chicken out

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: Sandals

It's getting hot out there, the summer solstice is nigh upon us, whatever the hell that means, I don't know, but my socks know and have already started creeping to the back of my drawer, where they are constructing their horrid, tangled nest.  I can hear them back there, hissing, and biting holes in one another.

It's sandal time. Do the sandal dance. Just kidding.  There is no sandal dance.

But it is time to go sandal shopping because the sandals I bought just last year appear to have aged and died in my closet over the winter.  What was once sleek and supple is now a dried hunk of old leather.  Don't look at me. I didn't do it.  They were fine the last time I wore them.  Then October came, it got a little nippy, and I pressed my socks back into service. The sandals went into the closet.  And now, here I am at the start of summer and needing a new pair.

Oh,  I know what you are thinking.  "What, you only have one pair of sandals, what are you some kind of freaky prairie woman minimalist?".  No.  I'm not.  If I was, I'd be sewing my own sandals out of gopher skin, now, wouldn't I?

I'm a bad shopper, is what I am.  I will actually buy four pairs of sandals.  This is how it will go down:

I'll be looking for a simple, casual pair of leather gladiator sandals without a lot of embellishment, but with some style, some structure, some je ne sais quois.  I won't find them.  Anywhere.  And I need something, don't I?  So I'll buy something.  And at the time, it will seem like a wise purchase.  

The first pair of sandals I buy will be so pretty. They'll be cute and trendy and on sale.  They will probably have a wedge heel and might be sporting some faux turquoise.   I'll imagine wearing them with capris and t-shirt dresses, or worn jeans and a white button down. To a cook out, maybe, or a summer music festival because, even though I haven't been to a music festival in, oh, twenty-five years, I can now picture myself dancing to the music of some Grateful Dead tribute band, shaking my groove thing, my moneymaker, if you will, even though it's never made me a dime, to my knowledge, in my turquoise adorned sandals. The vision is so strong, I make the purchase and drive home in a haze of summery anticipation.  After two months in my closet, during which time they will be tried on with numerous outfits, including the aforementioned capris and t-shirt dresses, I'll realize that wedge heels don't suit me and neither do capris and t-shirt dresses, and oh my God, fake turquoise?  Really?  

The second pair will be flat heeled and classic, but in a trendy color. Like orange, say. The problem will occur when I realize they clash with 98% of my wardrobe.  

The third pair will be a pair of flip flops from Wal-mart. They will have a slight lift in the heel area.  Just enough. I will wear them everywhere and sometime during the first week of August, one of the thongs will rip out, leaving me bereft and sandaless.  

So I'll go shopping again, halfheartedly picking through the sale racks, looking for something I can put on my feet that will downplay my cankles and bunions, while highlighting my delicate arches and narrow foot. Suddenly, a golden light will shine down from the ceiling of the Macy's shoe department and onto the very pair of sandals I've coveted all summer long.  Angels will sing.  I'll fight off three determined ladies slashing at me with their 50% off coupons (if you purchase with your Macy's credit card and aren't buying anything practical or desirable), but I'll emerge victorious, shoes in hand, with nary a paper cut, finally ready to take on summer.

I'll wear those sandals every day and every night and they will be perfect.  But soon the weather will cool, my toes will beg my socks to come out from the back of the drawer, and I'll reluctantly commend my most favorite pair of sandals ever to the recesses of my closet for a peaceful winter slumber.

"At least", I think, "I can still wear them next year."

Yeah, and maybe when I pull the socks out from the back of my drawer, they won't all have holes, either.

Peace out, Chicksters  

  

When Clothes Go to War

Contrary to what you might think, clothes do have feelings, and I'm not just talking about the colorful ones. The thing to remember about clothes is this:  They are narcissistic, vengeful bitches, and they will turn on you for no reason at all.

Their typical strategy is to confuse and humiliate.  I think this tactic is devised in many closets on a cold January night when clothes are feeling neglected because you've been wearing the same pair of stretched out yoga pants and an oversize sweatshirt for five days straight.  The holiday clothes, those glittery, festive, velvety creations, are especially bitter because they know it's going to be a long 11 months before they see the bright light of day, not to mention a vodka tonic.  It is my belief that post-holiday depressed clothes are responsible for 90% of closet mutinies.

It might start with a beaded tunic casting a sympathetic smile towards a highly neurotic silk blouse.  "Oh, look", it will say, "You've lost a button.  It's a shame she doesn't take better care of you."  And then the silk blouse will obsess about this button until it is seething on its hanger.  It will turn to the fuchsia sweater hanging next to it and sneer, "I don't know how you can be so complacent with that oil stain so prominent.", whereupon the fuchsia sweater, normally quite cheerful, will burst into tears because she had convinced herself that no one would even notice that tiny little stain.  When she dries her tears, she'll helpfully point out the dropped hem on the work pants hanging next to her, and so on, all down the line, until everyone turns and looks wordlessly upon the beleaguered white dress shirt with the massive red wine stain down the left side.

"Don't look at me!  I said don't look at me!" the shirt will cry out, ashamed and trying in vain to turn away from the pitying looks of its peers.  All the twisting and commotion will eventually shake the poor thing right off the hanger, where you had left it a month ago with every intention of looking up red wine stain removal tips on the internet.  The sight of this formerly pristine shirt lying in a dejected, neglected heap on your closet floor will unite your clothes in a common cause, at which point they will condemn you in the name of their fallen comrade.

All of this will take place while you sleep, blissfully unaware that your clothes have just declared war on your lazy, neglectful, carbohydrate-overloaded ass.

Clothes are patient.  They'll wait until just the right moment; the big date, the annual convention, that important interview...that's when they'll strike.  On your big day, you'll pull out the clingy, wrap dress you scored a few months ago in a post-fall, pre-holiday plus extra 30% off the sale price sale. The memory of that shopping experience still lingers.  The dress was a perfect fit and even self-critical you couldn't help but preen and pose in the dressing room mirror thinking, "Damn, I look good".

So how the hell did that dress become THIS hideous dress with the bulging boobage, the tight arm holes, and the back fat spillage?  How did that happen?  You'll try on another outfit, and then another, with the same horrifying results each t ime.  You'll lower your expectations and pull out those larger sizes you swore you would never need again but kept anyways. It won't matter. Blouses will pop cleavage buttons, committing hari-kari for the cause, pants will refuse to meet in the middle, zippers won't zip, and you will cry.  Don't think you won't.  Because if their timing is perfect, and it usually is, you'll go to your special whatever wearing the most shapeless, waist-less dress you can produce  from the way back of your closet, with an ill fitting cardigan pulled over the mess as camouflage, and boots pulled on to hide your suddenly swollen calves.

You won't get a second date, or that dream job, but guaranteed, you will get singled out and called on stage in front of all your colleagues, and your photo will be taken for the corporate newsletter.

The irony is that while your devious clothes are hanging in the closet celebrating their victory, you are planning a post holiday, pre-spring 40% off the sale price sale shopping spree.  You'll find a new, bigger, better party dress. When you get home you'll pack up all that old crap and consign it. Clothes might have feelings but they are not very bright.

Even the colorful ones.

up to no good

Chicken out

The Warmest Coat Lands End Sells

This is a re-post from November 2011.  It flurried here today, which brought this post to mind, and I spent all day working on a new project, so didn't have time to post something new.  

I hope you are warm and cozy wherever you are.

For Christmas, I gave Teenager-who-lives-in-the-Basement (TWLITB) a new parka. And not just any parka, no. For TWLITB, because I love him so much, I sought out the warmest coat that Lands End claims to sell, and I bought it. This is what it looks like.

Nice, right?

But because his father and I are not the world's most effective communicators, he also received a coat from his Dad. Now, Dad's coat was nice-it was. I'll concede that. Sort of a fleece lined canvas army-inspired job. It was sharp. It wasn't the Warmest Coat Lands End Sells.


You can probably guess where this is going. He loved the coat his Dad gave him and refused to wear The Warmest Coat Lands End Sells. The hell? This was distressing to me. I need to know that my kids are warm. It is a deep-seated need. And this fashion over function bull, I'm just not buying it.

The coat sat around through a snow storm or two and I hoped that freezing temps would drive him to wear it. Well, that and repeatedly being sent out to shovel the driveway. But that did not happen.

It was time to return the coat.

First, just for kicks, I tried the coat on. And it fit. And it was the warmest. coat. ever.

I began to covet the coat. Like many Moms, I am reluctant to spend money on warm outerwear for myself. I admired the coat from afar, but still fully intended to return it. The coat and I exchanged meaningful glances over the next few days, but nothing happened.

Enter R, my youngest daughter. A couple days a week, R takes the public bus to her classes. To get there, she has to catch one bus from our neighborhood to downtown, where she waits outside for 20 minutes, and then catches another bus from there, back past our neighborhood, and to her school. The whole trip takes about an hour and half of that is spent outside. R is always cold. She complains non-stop about how cold she is. An idea began to take root. Maybe I couldn't keep TWLITB warm, but R clearly was in need of The Warmest Coat Lands End Sells.

She wouldn't wear it either.

That's when I said to myself, "Screw you ungrateful ingrates, I'm wearing the warm coat. That's right. I'm keeping it, I'm wearing it, and I'm going to be warm. I'm in love with this coat.  I want to marry this coat and have warm coat babies.".

I enjoyed a few super cozy days with my new coat. We were inseparable. In an email exchange with my best friend, GG, during which I expressed my dismay that my children would rather freeze than wear the Warm Coat, and my delight in my new smoking hot relationship with the Warm Coat, GG suggested a song and dance routine I could use to taunt my children the next time they complained about winter and all its frosty coldness.

Sing it with me: (to the tune of Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me)

Dontcha wish your body was warm like mine?
Dontcha? Dontcha?
Dontcha wish you had a nice coat like mine?
Dontcha? Dontcha?

Can't you just picture the video?

So anyway, along about 10 pm a couple of nights later, I went to pick R up from her evening class. I was wearing my new coat. She climbed into the car and said, "Brrr. I'm freezing. I should have worn the coat. You were right."

Wait. Could you repeat that? I was right?

Cue the music.

Oh yes, I did. Right then and there, in my new coat, I did my best Beyonce' imitation. It was hot. And not just because of the coat.

Fast forward a week. Suddenly, whenever I go to the closet to grab MY Warm Coat, it is not there. We seem to have a loosely formed Society of the Warm Coat situation going on. I did not authorize this community of sharingness! I oppose this regime.  However, like Mubarek, I've been outnumbered. The Youth have revolted.

R decided that being warm trumps looking hot. Her interest in the coat caused TWLITB to see the Warm Coat in a new light. A cooler light. "Wait", I imagine TWLITB thinking, "maybe an expedition-style, fur lined hood IS cool...maybe it is just as cool as the Russian-style fur hat I ordered over the internet and spent all my Christmas money on and lost within two weeks." "Maybe", thinks TWLITB, "I'd like to wear that Warm Coat".

And just like that, I'm sharing my warm coat with my fickle children. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Other than cold.

Chicken out (in the cold)

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: Dresses. Who's to blame?

Every once  in awhile I like to play a game called "Creative History".  Would you like to try your hand?

Here's what you do:  You ask yourself a question.  Not an easy question.  A question  you don't know the answer to. A question that has skimmed the surface of your mind here and again without ever rooting far enough down to fire neurons.

Next, you let the question seep down through your brain's nooks and lobes and crannies and all those other places your brain has.  Maybe it settles down all the way to your medulla.  Wait.  Do brains have medullas?  I'm  pretty sure they do.  I believe I read that word in a brain book one fine day.

Hey, there you go, excellent question, right there, perfect example.  What the hell is a medulla,  where is it, and how many do I  have?  But I digress.  The second part of the game, after you've let your question settle down to your medullah and marinate awhile,  is to answer the question. There's only one rule.You can't look up anything.  Not even a word spelling.  You just write out your answer as it comes to you.

When you are done, you can look it all up and see how you did. That's the glory of the internet. You wouldn't be able to play fun games like this without the internet.  If you play this game, you will learn something and if you don't learn anything, you didn't ask yourself the right question.

HEY CHICKEN, NONE OF THIS HAS ANYTHING TO DO WITH FASHION.

What? Did you say something?  Oh.  Fashion.  YES, thank you.  Here's where I was going with that.

The question that popped into my head today, just in time for F=2FB Friday AND, as it turns out, Creative History Game day, is why do women wear dresses?

Who thought that would be a good idea?

I've been stewing on it for a couple of hours and this is what I think:

Would you like a glass of wine?  Beer?  No?  Okay...
How about tea? Would you like some  tea?
Pillow?

Touchy touchy.  Alright already.  Here we go.

It was all about sex and having babies in the beginning. The women had to wear dresses to keep their lady bits accessible, while pants were introduced for men to protect their manly bits from sharp teeth and claws and tree branches and other potentially emasculating devices.

So the women were accessible, the men were protected,  fire had been invented and evolution continued. But then what happened? Why did the women continue to wear dresses?  And why did they complicate them even further with multiple petticoats and corsets and hoops and bloomers and stockings....

Accessibility was getting to be a bit of a pain in the ass, I'd guess.  And the church wasn't very fond of it either. So they threw some road blocks in the way to keep things seemly.  And evolution continued.

Then, I think there was a period where things got kind of loosey-goosey and flowy accessible garments had another moment. There was a population boom, an industrial revolution, a war, a particularly raucous prohibition, if  The Great Gatsby is to be believed, a great depression, another war, and finally it occurred to some riveters that if there were no hose available, they might as well wear pants.  So they did.  And then the war ended and the men came home, there was much celebrating and dress wearing, another population boom, a baby boomer rebellion, and finally, finally, despite the reign of free love, pants on women became sort of mainstream.  At least in America.  It was probably different everywhere else.

So women started wearing pants, people who like women appreciated the streamlined view, and pants were here to stay. A shift began, and it was a good one.

Or maybe it had something to do with peeing.

The end.

This is the fun part.  Now you research your question and find out just how well you did.

I did poorly. Very poorly. This is not surprising to me. But at least I am not the only one to have pondered the question.  Here's an interesting chat thread I found on the very same subject.

http://boards.straightdope.com/sdmb/showthread.php?p=933691

Yeast infections?  Really? And so we all learned something today.  Isn't that great?  Happy F=2FB Friday.

No yeast infections here

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: I got nothing....

Yesterday being Halloween, I had no time to shop for this Friday's F=2FB post inspiration.  Like any quick-thinking, under-prepared professor, today I will make you do all the work.

Ready?  Notebooks on the floor.

Jump suits:  Good fashion idea or bad fashion idea and why?

Next question:  This is an opinion piece.  You'll be graded on the originality of your reasoning.

Hot or not hot?

And finally, what was your favorite all-time ensemble?  What did you wear to death and hate to give up? What fashion trend did you mourn the death of?  I'll tell you mine if you'll tell me yours.

Have a happy and productive Friday, friends!  

Chicken out

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bi.........We Preempt this Regularly Scheduled Programming..........

Hello Global Fashionistas!

I apologize for Chicken's absence.  She is....on vacation.

In Kentucky.

This is your Guru, Gin Tumm!  I'll be guest posting this morning.

I'm here today representing all of the designers and stylists you know, love and trust, as well as future designers, stylists, and fashion icons you have yet to meet. And Hollywood.  And reality stars, too. What the hell.  They spend a lot of money.

The thing is, Global Fashionista audience, you have been misled.  You have been lied to.  We will not permit ourselves, and our small inclusive world, to be maligned by this dowdy, snarky, misinformed Chicken person.  Clothes don't talk, people.  They are not making fun of you.  Fashion loves you.  You and your money.

We've seized this blog today to deliver the Good News. The Truth! There is only one Queen and her name is Fashion.  Defy her rule at your own expense.  For in her house are many labels. If it were not so, we would  have told you.  We go there to find the perfect label for you.

But only if you stop reading this Chicken smut.

You should be angry, Dear Readers, that Chicken has led you down this dangerous path of defiance.  Did you learn nothing from the People of Wal-mart?  Do you not know what happens to the unfashionable among us? How they are ostracized and deemed irrelevant?  How their photos are taken anonymously only to be tweeted, blogged, emailed, you-tubed, instagrammed, and pinterested to infinity?

Sure, those sweat pants, the ones with the hole in the thigh, are super comfortable, and that stretched out hoodie is warm on a cold morning, but do you really want your backside to end up in a magazine in four color graphics under the DON'T column?  Well?  Do you?  Or worse yet, on some anonymous blog  that goes viral until you eventually get forwarded an unfortunate photo of yourself in pajamas, leaning over in the aisle comparing cat food brands?

What does the Fox say now, aye?

The Fox should be saying, "Shit.  I'm going to buy a Marc Jacobs suit pronto and lose this stupid Fox outfit.

And you, Dear Readers, should do what the Fox said.

Yipp Yippp yiupppppp yippppp!!!

Gin Tumm out

Far out.

This message brought to you by the ILGWU

Poor fashion choices, People.  Don't let this happen to you.

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: Dress Down Friday

Casual Fridays got you down?  Are you tired of khakis, crisp white shirts and blazers, but not sure where that thin line lies between relaxed and professional?  Never fear, my lambs; Chicken is here to guide you with a carefully curated collection of relaxed Friday looks.

A helpful tip:  Ideally, your Friday look should say something about your personality, interests, and how you might be spending your upcoming weekend.

For example:

Vivienne Westwood:
This is a perfect Friday look for a stodgy, conservative environment like Wall Street or JP Morgan.  This look says, "Yes, I'm managing hedge funds right now, but later I will be hunting pheasant at my country manor or perhaps spanking a naughty Scottish banker."

Next up Philli Wood:
Who doesn't like a cozy cable knit in a cheery color?  This look says, "Later, I'll be playing the part of the large intestine in our local community theater group's production of  The Magic School Bus:  Digestion."

Gilles Mendel:
Do you work in a start-up environment?  Here's your Friday ensemble!  This look says, "Tonight I will drink absinthe, write a dark poem about League of Legends, troll neighborhood pubs, and consume an unsuspecting biology major."

Anna Sui:
This look says, "I love butterflies and trees and Orlando Bloom.  Later I'm going to sit on my couch with my five cats and watch all three Chronicles of Narnia movies. Again.  And then I'm going  to plant a tree and maybe paint a pentagram on my living room floor.  And, also, I love Johnny Depp.

Monclerre Gamme Bleu:
Here's one for you men in the audience. Striking the right balance in any work environment, this look says, "I live in France because I'm cool like that and I like plaid. You should like plaid, too. Because I like plaid.  Later, I'll get drunk and pontificate on a variety of subjects."

Balmain:
This fabulous Friday look says, "First, I'll take out Batman and his annoying little sidekick, then I'll make a video with Snoop Dog."

Kate Spade:
"Later I'll be attending a Stepford Wives reunion."

Marc Jacobs:
"Would you like to buy a Dalmatian? I have 101 of them in my trunk."

Have a great weekend, friends!

Chicken out

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: Clotheszillas

Late at night, after the stores all close shop for the evening, the merchandise stretches out, gets comfortable, and enjoys some downtime.

Inevitably, the conversation turns to that life-changing moment in every fashion piece's existence when they will be plucked from the shelves, purchased at the counter, and taken to a new home, their own home, to live happily ever after.

The mood softens, the voices fill with longing, and somewhere from the back corner of the store a whisper thin silk shirt in an impossible size waits on the final clearance rack and croons a torch song in a high clear voice, while the silk cocktail dress, recently arrived, sways dreamily on its hanger.  The pencil skirts describe their dream closets, while the pumps talk about the ones that walked away.

Like newly engaged couples, the clothes dream of a future that only exists, for 99% of them, in their fevered, lovesick imaginations; padded hangers, fashionable friends, svelte bodies, fancy restaurants, society pages, and Broadway shows.

The entitled 1% will indeed enjoy an existence of luxury and ease in their well maintained and spacious closets and will only be worn several times before being lovingly consigned to, filmed and fawned over by, the southern belles of Resale Royalty.  They will move on, after a retail refresh, to a second, and possibly more fulfilling, relationship with a young starlet obsessed with vintage.

Oh, of course, most of them are born into this privileged existence; the Birkens, the Coaches and the Lily Pulitzers, for starters.  And let's not get started on the World of Ralph Lauren.  Every once in awhile, however, an upstart from humble beginnings, an Alex and Ani bracelet, for instance, or a Tom's shoe, shows up on  the red carpet or a coveted foot, starts a new trend, and all of a sudden finds itself living large and taking names.  These success stories are the stuff of dreams for the "off the rack" fashion lines.

"But what about the remaining 99%?", you ask.  "What about them?"

Well, my Darlings, after an auspicious and hopeful beginning, they will, of course, be brought to terms with reality.

The most unlucky will pick an owner (typically based on body type), consummate their relationship in the dressing room, legitimize it at check-out, and travel to their new home with high expectations.  Upon arrival, they will be disappointed by a messy abode, a minuscule closet, and the negligence that accompanies over consumption. They'll notice signs of neglect; a missing button here, a dropped hem there, stains of every sort, and the smelly evidence of infrequent dry cleaning.  At night, they'll cry softly for the sale rack they left behind.  It was crowded, sure, but at least they were hung up and not thrown over a stationary bicycle with 25 other sweaty, misused garments.  The energy will be stilted and the air suffocating, as all the Clotheszillas come to terms with a future not filled with parties and lilting laughter, as expected, but debt collection calls, jello shot vomit stains, and yard sales.

The average experience is sure to be something more heartening, one must hope.  A cute dress is found by an average woman who chooses it among all the others on the rack and purchases it with hard earned cash. She will take it home, to a regular sized closet, and a small but carefully selected wardrobe.  It's a hard life, sure, being worn once, sometimes twice a week.  A dress slows down more quickly, shows some wear and tear, but at least it can count on being cleaned regularly, hung up nightly, and repaired as needed. It will develop affection, over time, for the woman, who will likewise come to rely on it when she doesn't know what else to wear.  It will have space in the closet to spread  its wings and it will become close friends with the accessories it is paired with on a rotating basis.   This dress will learn to accommodate and forgive the occasional stretch required of early or post pregnancy weight, date night at Texas Road House, and middle-age spread.  When it grows old and beyond repair, it will be recycled in a respectful manner, and find new life.

These clotheszillas are the lucky ones.  They get to fully live.

Chicken  out

And then, of course, there's eccentric fashion

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: What My Accessories Say About Me

As I walked past my bedroom, I heard  voices.  I stepped into the room and found it empty, yet the voices persisted. They seemed to be coming from  the closet.

It was just my accessories; talking about me again.

Snakeskin  belt:  Oy, I feel like a bungee cord must feel at the end of a hard day.  If that woman keeps inhaling cookies,  I swear I'm just going to come flying apart one of these days. Guess what she had for lunch today?

Scarf, Summer bag, Baseball hat:  What?

Snakeskin belt:  Chipotle.  The bitch had Chipotle, and not even the burrito bowl, no.  She had the whole burrito with the carnitas, the cheese, sour cream...everything.  And she didn't hold back on the guacamole and chips,  either!

Scarf:  (laughs) Yeah,  she claims guacamole is a "health" food.  I heard her tell someone that. I wanted to scream,  "Avocados, Moron! Avocados are a health food. A cup of guacamole  stuffed into your face on fried tortilla chips, not so much!."

Baseball hat:  (snickers) What, no beer?  Was she sick?

Snakeskin belt:  She was working. I was spared the beer.

Baseball hat:  Aw, man, you're lucky.  Last time she wore me there was a lot of beer, and by a lot, I mean a bloody ocean of beer.  She left me hanging on the stall door hook in the restroom at Chili's.  Ewww.  I need a shower just thinking about it.  Then, when she finally comes back again, she sees me hanging there, and says, "Oh!  There you are."  Like I grew legs and walked off.

Necklace: (chiming in from the jewelry box)  So what did she have for dessert?

Snakeskin belt: What do you think?

Necklace:  Dairy Queen?  Peanut Buster Parfait?

Snakeskin belt: You got it, 'cause what's a little sugar rush when you've already consumed 5,000 carbohydrates anyway, am I right?

Scarf:  And plus, peanuts are GOOD for you, bwah ha ha ha...

Necklace:  Did she dribble it down the front of her shirt?

Snakeskin belt:  Of course!  Why should today be different from any other day?

Baseball hat:  (laughing) Were any of you guys there that time she went to Fenway?  Oh. My. God.  It was epic.  All her favorite things-hot dogs, peanuts, beer, fries and testosterone.  And still, it might have been okay, if it hadn't been for that fly ball.

Summer purse:  Oh my God,  I remember that!  She looks up, see's the ball coming right at her, stands up to catch it, gets a little dizzy, trips over me.....

Summer purse and Baseball hat:  (in unison) AND FALLS INTO THE NEXT ROW!  BEER EVERYWHERE!

(Insert screaming laughter here)

Scarf: Classic Chicken!  What a klutz.

I yanked open the door and glared into the darkness.

Complete silence.

They don't fool me.

Chicken out

Accessories for sale.  Dirt Cheap.  

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: Socks. They Resent You

If you live in a less temperate climate, like New England, you may have recently noticed that the nights are getting chilly.  It's time to go through your closets, pull out those sweaters, and possibly shop for a new pair of boots.  Good luck with that.

My favorite thing to do, when I return home on a chilly fall night, is to pull on a pair of socks.  For me, there is nothing like their soft, cottony warmth after a long day in hosiery.  I only wish my socks returned my ardor.

A couple weeks ago, I retired my flip flops and called my socks back from their summer vacation.  The problem with socks is that they never want to come back from summer vacation. I think many teachers must feel the same way at the end of the summer; however, they can usually be relied upon to put down their summer reading, store away their beach chairs, and spruce up their classrooms. Then again, teachers collect a pay check.  The only thing socks collect is dead skin cells.  Perhaps this explains their saturnine personas and selective hearing.  While socks have no problem hearing the phrase "Summer Vacation", they do not seem to recognize the phrase "Summer's Over".

My socks wouldn't emerge from my drawer of their own volition.  I had to hunt them down and pull them, one by one, from the tangled nest they had constructed in the dark recesses of my bureau.

I lined them up and addressed them like the little foot soldiers they are. 

Well looky what we got all up in here.  A bunch of  soft, girly socks!  Did you have a nice summer off, socks?  Did you enjoy lounging in my drawers?  Did you get all rested up?  I hope so, cause it is fall now, bitches, and Momma's home.  This year is going to be a little different, you hear me?  I am not buying new socks every other week just because 7 of you decide to hitch hike to Orlando in the neighbor's suitcase.  You are not even close to retirement age, and Florida doesn't need the burden of unnecessary footwear.  They have enough problems with pythons. In addition, I expect to find you available and hole-free whenever you are on call.  And you are always on call.  There will be no workers comp for injured socks this year.  I'm wearing you anyway, but first I will stick needles in you, over and over again, and infiltrate your holiness with cotton reinforcements.  And you clever socks?  The ones who like to divide and conquer?  Listen closely: I will destroy you.  I will hunt you down and  turn you into sock puppets.  I will clean my bathroom with you.  This ain't no democracy, socks.  This is my house and you serve at my pleasure. Do we understand each other?  

Socks are okay, but you have to let them know who's boss; otherwise, it is two against one all day long.

Of course, socks hate this imbalance of power.  You can't really blame them.  In their minds, you are one mouthy head,  obviously inferior to a pair, and they can't help but wonder how they ended up on the bottom of this equation, stuck between your feet and a hard place.  They are constantly trying to unionize or plan a mutiny. Luckily for us, they are divided among themselves and find it difficult to agree on a cohesive plan of action.  They will try all kinds of things to escape indentured service, including shrinking to barbie doll size, escaping through dryer vents, and committing harikari on that nail head sticking out of the floor in your hallway....

I feel sad for socks sometimes, but if it comes  down to socks or my cold  feet, my cold feet are going to win every time.  Succumb socks.  Or pay the price of betrayal.

Chicken out

Ha.  Take that socks!  By the way, does this remind anyone of Hyperbole and a Half?

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: You Can't Trust Shoes

It was a typical Wednesday afternoon at DSW. The stilletos were preening, the men's tennis shoes were trying to look masculine, as were the women's tennis shoes.  The women's were winning.  The hiking shoes were making fun of the extra wide sizes, the flip flops were being all nonchalant, and back on the sale rack, the purple dotted clearance shoes waited in a dejected slump, while the blue dotted shoes still maintained a healthy optimism.  The running shoes were running in place, and timing themselves.  The sales clerks went about their duties oblivious to the cacophony.

I had barely made it through the door when I was bombarded on all sides with shoe pitches:

"Hey Lady, You like?  Me love you long time" 

"Girlfriend.....This is your lucky day"

"We're too good for you, don't even come over here, we'll slap you  We don't care how much money you have, we will break. your. ankle if you even try us on."  (reverse shoe psychology. It's over my head)

"Ooooohhhh hi!  HI!  Over here!  See us!  Ohhhh we're so comfortable you won't believe it.  You can run in us. Didn't you see the commercial?  Try it, you'll see! " 

And cat calls:

"Well,  looky what we got here. Looks like we got ourselves a Lookie-Lou, fellas!"

"Whatchu lookin for, Baby? We got whatchu need, right boys?"

The bored whispers:

"She wouldn't know an age-appropriate pair of shoes if they stepped on her toes and sang the Star Spangled Banner.  Just ignore her girls."

"She couldn't walk in us if she tried!"

"ssshhhh.  She's not one of our kind"

The taunts:

"Clearance shopper.  Don't even waste your breath kids.  Hey. Purples.  Incoming!!"

"OMG, Chicken, do you even look in the mirror before you leave your house?"

"Ha.  Good luck with those cankles.  I think you're going to need a bigger shoe!"

And finally, the pity talk:

"Poor dear.  She's let herself go"

"Ohh...she seems nice...we should  try and help."

And amazingly,  through it all, the sales clerks remained oblivious.  Not one approached. I was left on my own to deal with the onslaught of judgement, harassment, snobbery and pity in this lonely shoe city.  I really just needed one good friend. One good  pair of black pumps that I could wear for a season; classic, comfortable, not too pricey and wide enough to accommodate the bunions.  Was it too much to ask?

I headed for the back of the store to the clearance rack.  You never know what you might find in the aisle of misfit shoes.  The purples shivered in their boxes, cowering away from the Toes Who Ate Tokyo. The blues wanted nothing to do with me.  The Greens refused to yield a shoe in my size.  The cacophony grew even louder,  I got overwhelmed.  I was about to give up and then I heard it.

A quiet, elegant voice from the end of aisle 5 called to me.  It said, "You should try me on,  Dear.  I think we might be a perfect match."  It was a pair of  Joan and David black leather kitten heels. They were a  classic pair of shoes with a reserved air, and heels that could back a chicken up through a long day of sales calls.  And they had a purple dot. 75% off?  Oh happy day!   But would they fit?  They would!

I bought them at once.   They thanked me for saving them from the hell of 300 sweaty feet per day trying to force a way inside their roomy toe boxes.  I wore them to work the next day, excited to have finally found a pair of moderate height shoes that I could walk in all day.  Or at least until 9:30 am.

At 9:30 am, my shoes and my feet started getting snippy with each other:

"You said you were a size 9. I think you lied.  You're a size 8.5, don't deny."

"I'm a size 9, you impudent peasants. YOU claimed to be a size 9 when clearly you are a size 9.5!  This would never happen in Europe. In Europe, feet know their size!"

"Oh yeah?  Well, in Europe, all the shoes have Mad Cow Disease!"

"You feet are such cretins.   How did we ever get stuck on you!"

"Oh, well, feel free to leave any time, Queens O' De Nile"

"Would that we could, but you ignorant feet have swollen so much we can't escape"

"Hey!  Hey,  you up there!  Call the rescue!  We're going to need the jaws of life to get free of these bitches."

"I'm not going down alone, feet.  I will take you with me."

And this is why I hate shoes.  They all turn on you.  Eventually.

They look trustworthy .  So did Ted Bundy.

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: The Original Post

Hi all-this was the original post, published in August 2011,  that inspired the Friday fashion series. I've procrastinated as long as I can and have to buckle down and do actual work tonight, so no new post is in the queue for this Friday.  I hope you like this one.  Happy Friday to you.  I'll be back. Like it or not. 

Hi World,

You look great!  Have you lost weight?

You may be wondering what fashion must haves you should be stocking up on for fall.  Well, I've taken some time to peruse the latest fashion mags, and have put together this short synopsis which I'm sure you will find clears things up a bit.

My dears, for fall, straight legs are in.  Unless you like flares, because they are also in.  And bootleg?  So hot right now.  Oooh, and don't forget to stock up on boyfriend jeans for weekend tailgate parties.

Wear your straight legs with cute ballerina flats.  Or heels.  Or sandals. Or boots:  Short boots, riding boots, cowboy boots, slouchy boots, thigh-high boots, motorcycle boots or cement boots.  Whatever.

Long skirts?  In!  Wear them pleated or pencil skirted.  But you know what is also in?  Metallic minis, yes! But an A-line skirt is flattering on everyone and remember, for fall the buzz word is menswear.

The silhouette for this year is fitted and classic.  Unless you prefer asymmetrical and boxy, because guess what?  That's so hot right now!  And fitted and slutty is always in style.  And the peter pan collar?  So In!

Colors are bold and jewel toned.  Unless they are pastel or neutral.  We forget.  Oh, speaking of which, don't forget to wear earthy tones, so in right now.  And, AND, sweet prints are IT this year.

Shoes:  We still like a nude heel, it so elongates the leg.  Also, don't forget to add a punch of color or two because strong jewel tones are in.  Kitten heels are still all the rage for fall.  Of course, a killer heel never hurts either-try a stacked heel peep toe.  But you know, take it down a notch this fall because flat pointy shoes are where it is at.  Oh, and get yourself a pair of moccasins for fall, extra fringe, please.

Handbags:  We like totes this year.  And clutches.  and backpacks.  And really tiny purses that only fit your lipstick and a $20 bill because this year it is all about minimalism.  But also it is about sustainability-the girl who has everything she needs definitely wins.  Who has a rose lipstick, a chapstick and a NYC Red lipstick?  You?  You win!  Oh, but you are carrying it all in a faded red 1990 LL Bean knapsack.  With your initials embroidered on the side.  Oh that is sad.  Wait a minute...that's not sad!  OMG that is so fresh.  So different.  LL Bean vintage, OMG!

Accessories:  Ladies, dainty is in.  Unless you like big, bold and ethnic because that is a classic that will never go out of style.  Diamonds and pearls are oh so timeless but so are leather cords and Native American accents.  Multiple bracelets recycled from used rubber tires?  Oh you go, Earth Child.  That's so fresh. But then again, we like our silver, gold and gems, am I right girls?  So pile them on anyway you can get them. Let your lights shine, girlies.  Oh, and that reminds me of the Irish.  Have I mentioned...

Sweaters:  Thick and chunky, friends.  Think Irish fisherman.  Over a long flowing chiffon skirt. Ethereal is supposed to be out, but when you pair it with a a trendy cable, presto, it is in again. So hot.  You know what is also nice? The boyfriend sweaater in a nice cashmere, yes, over a tailored white button down.  But really, forget about sweaters for a minute and get yourself a varsity jacket because that's so trendy this fall.  Outerwear this fall is classic and timeless but also youthful with a playful element.

Fabric:  Ummmm.  What do you like?  Because we like, like, everthing....we like tweed, silk, wool, cotton, polyester....really...we like everything.  What do you like?  Huh?  Huh?

Pair your fall look with bold makeup moves, like cat eyes, bright red lips, and a noticeable blush. But don't overdo it. Remember, demure is the key word when it comes to fall makeup. A nude lip, a barely there blush, and you are on your way. Don't forget your Bonne Bell Watermelon Lip Smacker for that sweet retro feel.

Our style icons this fall are Audrey Hepburn and Brigette Bardot.

And Farrah Fawcett.  And all three of the Kardashian sisters.

And Mia Farrow.

So let's recap, shall we?

The look for fall  is classic and feminine, bold and masculine, demure and over the top.  It's a mix of 20th century chic and 70's country sweetheart.  It's disco meets square dance with a pinch of dirty dancing just to spice things up.  It's chocolate milk in a martini glass. stirred, not shaken.  It is 20th century Ice Queen meets 1950's pin up girl.

Still confused?  You totally get it!  Yes, fashion is a two faced bitch, friends, so my advice is wear whatever the hell you want, just wear it like you mean it.  Somewhere out there, every Glamour don't is being paraded as a "do".

Except the exposed thong look.  I think that trend is well and truly over.  I know.  I'm sad too.

photo borrowed from http://fashionisrael.wordpress.com

Happy shopping, World

Chicken out

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: Clothes Medium

Intro:

I'm Chicken.  I like to think of myself as a typical Rhode Island Chicken.  But I have a very special gift.  I talk to your clothes. No matter where I go, clothes call out to me,  and I am compelled to help them.  This is not my job.  This is not even my life. This is my blog post.

Episode 1: Scene 1 

As a Chicken, I love shopping!  Today I'm at the Garden City Center with BigB. We're shopping for yoga clothes, but first we have to stop at Starbucks because I can hear a caramel soy sugar free extra extra macchiato calling my name.  I also hear food products sometimes.   I didn't mention that before.  

Delicious Latin American Voice:  1, 2,  cha cha cha, 1, 2 cha cha cha, ooohhh want to dance, dance, take me dancing, cha cha cha, let's dance cha cha cha, don't be an oaf, cha cha cha, oh why did you buy me if you weren't going to take...me...danc...ing cha cha cha

Me:  Big B. Do you hear latin music?

BigB:  No I don't.  Can we go home?

Me:  I hear tango music.  I think it is coming from that guy's pants over there.  See him?  Wow,  he's...kinda big....and scary looking... but I have to help these pants.  I'll be right back.  Don't forget the whipped cream on my macchiato!

BigB:  Shit, not again.  We can't go anywhere anymore.

Me:  Excuse me, Sir?  Sir, hi.  What's your name?

Chuck:  I'm Chuck.  Why?  Whaddaya want?  I'm not buyin'

Me:  Hi Chuck.   I'm Chicken!  I'm a Clothes Medium?  I can hear the thoughts of your clothes?  Chuck do you like to dance?

Chuck:  Whaddahya, a joker or something?  Ya flirtin' with me?   Sorry, Chicklet, I don't dance!

Chuck's Pants:  See?  See what I deal with? He never takes me out, never takes me dancing.  He sits at home with the potato chips and the porn.  Don't get me wrong.  I don't mind the porn.  But I was made to dance.

Me:  Chuck, did you like to dance as a little boy?  Did you...Chuck, did you take ballet?

Chuck:  How did you know that?  You been talkin' to my sister?  I'll kill her.  I. Will. Kill. Her. This is a joke, isn't it.  Kimberly?  Kimberly, get the BLEEEP out here.

Chuck's Pants:  Ohhhhhhhh!  Oooooh you touched a nerve.  Good!

Me:  Chuck, please know that this is your pant's way of stepping forward and validating your love of dance. Take a Salsa lesson already,  you big goof ball

Chuck to  BigB:  Hey you, over there, ya you.  This your wife?  You gonna get this crazy broad  outta here or we gonna take it outside?  Your choice.

BigB:  Sigh.  We're gonna take it outside, Chuck.  Nobody calls Chicken crazy except me!  (Scuffle,  xo#$%) punch, SLAM, Bang)

Me:  Mmmm.  God, I love Starbucks.

Two Hours Later with the film crew at Billy's Frosted Mug:  

Chuck:  Yeah, I gotta admit, I danced when I was a kid.  My mom signed me up. Secretly, I loved it, but guys in the neighbahood made fun of me, ya know, so I quit.  Been completely heterosexual all American ever since. That Chicken, give her credit, she tapped inta something. When I bought those pants, I was thinking they might be great for a night out,  ya know, but I don't really go nowhere but Billy's, here, so..not much dancing, ya know? I might havta check out Arthur Murray or somethin'.

Chuck's Pants:  Yes!  Thank you, Chicken!

BigB: Hey, Chuck, it's your round.

Episode 1 Scene 2:

Chicken:  I have a private reading today with Michele at her home in East Greenwich. Michele just moved into her home and has been experiencing loud voices, unsettling feelings, overwhelming discomfort, and a sense of suffocation.  She feels her house might be haunted.  I think Michele might have me confused with a different kind of medium. Let's see what happens. 

Chicken:   Hi Michele, I'm Chicken!  What a beautiful home you ha....

Dark Entity:   Arrrrrgggghhhhh Arrgggghhhhhhhh Geeetttt OUT!  No. I mean Get ME out.  Get me outta here or I will kill this BLEEP BLEEEP, I will. Let me loose.  I'm in helll.

Michele:  Hi Chicken.  So, what I've been experiencing here has made me really uncomfortable

Dark Entity:   Mwwaaahhhhhhh, BLEEEPPP....You're uncomfortable?  You're Uncomfortable???  Give me a break. Chicken person, help me out here.  I am begging you.

Chicken:  So Michele, you've been feeling this...aggression... since you moved in?

Michele:  Oh, before that.  I think it started a few weeks before that. The day after we put in the purchase offer, in fact.  I remember because we went out shopping to celebrate our new house, and after that, I just kept getting this uncomfortable feeling.   It's tied to this house, I know it is.

Chicken:  Oh you like shopping? I like shopping too!  Wait a second, I have to sage this place, whooo, I love the smell of sage, don't you?  So tell me, where did you go?  What did you buy?

Dark Entity:  Me! She bought ME...a size too small! Are you gonna help me or are we gonna burn sage leaves all night?  Focus, Chicken!

Michele:  Oh, the usual, you know  Macy's, Chico's, Victoria's Secret,  DSW...

Dark Entity:  Arrrrgggghhhh Worst BLEEEEEEPPP day of my life....

Chicken:  Did you buy a bra that day?   Black lace?

Michele:  Oh my God, I did.  I did buy a bra like that!!!

Chicken:  Oh,  look, see how I just wrote down Bra right here? Please know that this is your Bra's way of validating the connection.  Your bra is telling me, "Chicken , I can't breathe. She's got my straps pulled up to her ears.  And her implants are suffocating me!  That's what I am hearing.  Does this make sense to you?"

Michele:  Oh my God, it totally does!  My shoulders hurt.  I've been in such pain.  I thought it was the stress of the voices.

Dark Entity:  And here we go again, it's all about you, isn't it Princess? Are ya kiddin' me??? 

Michele:  But I look so hot, I've been ignoring it.  

Dark Entity:  Well, we do look hot.  Have to give us that.

Chicken:  Michele, did you also buy a pair of of shoes that day?  I'm getting...black....hmmm.  Black  pumps, slingbacks?  

Michele:  Oh my God (starts to cry).  I did. You're amzaing, Chicken.  I bought a beautiful pair of black sling backs and our new puppy ate one last week.  I miss them so much.

Chicken:  Your bra is bringing forth the shoes, now.  Your shoes want you to know they are fine and they would have given you plantar fasciitis eventually, anyway.  Please take what has been given to you today as a gift and allow your soles to heel.  This is your Bra's way of saying that, while you do look super hot, it might be time to loosen your straps a little and relax.  Maybe even get a back up bra with a generous cup and nice wide shoulder straps for extra support.  Give your girls and your bra a rest, you know?  You've had a beautiful reading today and your bra wants you to know it will  watch over your breasts and keep them supported and safe.  When you hear the song, 'Wind Beneath Your Wings', please know that this is your bra's way of validating its connection to your breasts.  

Later at Michele's House:

Michele:  I can't believe how quickly Chicken tuned into my discomfort.  I took off my bra as soon as she left, and I haven't felt anything but peace, and love, and just this general feeling of well-being ever since.  I think that sage thing she did really worked!

Dark Entity:  

Dark Entity?

Apparently Dark Entity has left the building.

Even Later at Billy's  Frosted Mug:

BigB and Chuck:  Yo, Dark Entity it's your round!!!

Episode 1 Scene 3:

Teenager Who Lives in the Basement (TWLITB) just got his permit.  Today, we are getting in some driving practice!  I' m so nervous!  Look at me.  I'm shakin' over here!

Me:  TWLITB, I'm trusting you with my life here, and I take my life very seriously.  I have important work to do.  So don't kill me.

TWLITB:  Chicken, relax, it's all good

TWLITB's pants:  hhhhhheeeelpppp meeeee.  I'm gonna diiieeeee.  h-h-h-h-elllpppp.  

Me:  TWLITB, your pants are very scared right now.  Have you talked to them about driving with you? What to expect?  How it's going to go down?

TWLITB:  What?  What are you talking about?  No, I don't talk to my pants.  It's bad enough YOU talk to my pants.  I prefer not to think of my pants as animate objects.

TWlITB's pants:  Screw you, TWLITB.  The only reason I'm inanimate is because you never wash me.  I'm so tired.  I don't think I can go on.

Me:  When's the last time you washed your pants?

TWLITB:  What do you mean, washed them?  Why would I wash them?  I just got them like a month ago.

Me:  Seriously, that's abuse. No wonder your pants are suicidal.  

TWLITB:  My pants are not suicidal.  Stop it.

Me:  They are.   I"m sorry, we can't drive today. I'm not going anywhere with suicidal pants.  

TWLITB:  Seriously?

Me:  Note to self:  Must call AAA about driving lessons.

TWLITB's pants:  So that's it then?  You're not going to make him change? You are just going to let me languish here?

Me:  I'll pray for you, pants.  

Later at Billy's Frosted Mug:

Chuck, Big B, Dark Entity:  Hey.  TWLITB.  It's your round.

TWLITB:  I'm not 21

Dark Entity:  Are your pants 21? Come to Mama, pants

Much cackling ensues.  

Tune in next week when Chicken talks to the shoes of a runway model in Milan

Chicken out

Chuck's Pants.  The fantasy.

, 

Fashion is a Two-Faced Bitch: Mean Clothes

Hi World,

You know what I hate about clothes?  They are nice to your face until you buy them and then they turn on you.

They make your ass look big behind your back.  They pretend to be blue to get you to buy them, but turn purple in the bag on the way home.  When you confront them,  they stare back at you, all innocent-like, "What?  Me?  Blue? Prove it, Bitch."

Clothes also love to mess with your head by changing size.  That blouse looks great on you in the store but the minute you cut off the tags it will start its metamorphosis into the most ill-fitting garment Taiwan ever produced.   "Wait a second", you'll say,  "Why would I purposely buy a a shirt that somehow appears  to be camouflaging a watermelon, while simultaneously showing way too much  cleavage?  How did that happen?"

Because.  Mean Clothes.

Another trick that clothes find hilarious is the invisible stain/tear. At night, while you fall asleep, fantasizing about running into your secret crush while wearing your hot new dress, that same dress is giggling in the closet with its new friends.   Do you know what they are doing?  Drawing on each other with lipstick,   ripping out their threads, and growing sweat stains.   It's true.  Don't expect to catch them at it.  Clothes are sneakier than Santa Claus.

The meanest,  most two-faced  clothes in the universe are made from 100% cotton.  Cotton is the Gywneth Paltrow of fabrics.  Society Darling.  So wholesome looking.  If cotton  had teeth,  you can bet they'd be bigger than a Kennedy's and overly whitened. Cotton seems to have it all, but it has a dark side. Cotton is moody. Seriously, Cotton should be heavily medicated.  One minute, it's all granny panties, sweats, and your favorite t-shirt.  Next minute it's a white dress shirt that gapes at your chest and rides  up your back,  or it's a dress that looked good exactly once before it lost its shape.  Cotton secretly thinks that you are not good enough to wear it and wishes it was only available in Europe.

If Cotton is the alpha fabric, then Silk is her high-maintenance, neurotic best friend.  Silk is great as long as it's getting its way.  Silk is the Glenn Close of  fabrics.  It will not be ignored. Do not think, for one second, that you can wear a silk gown to a gala event, and then throw it back in your closet like a cheap rayon slip. You will pay for that mistake with a whole closet full of clothes that smell like body odor. Compliments of Silk. Silk looks normal on the outside but,never forget, it was raised by worms.

There's probably a new girl in your closet.  She's called Spandex and she's in your jeans.  She's not actually new. She made some unfortunate style decisions in the 80's and people talked bad about her.  She went into hiding for  awhile, but then she ran into Denim on the sale rack at Walmart one day, and they hit it off.  They've been together ever since.  You see them everywhere.  They might look like a classy pair, but give them a few drinks and things  go downhill fast.  They start fighting. Denim says something nasty.  Spandex gets upset and storms out, leaving the seat of your pants hanging somewhere just above your knees.  Call them the Liz Taylor and Richard Burton of clothing.

And that brings us to denim.  Denim is a sadistic a-hole bully most of the time.  Cotton is bad, but cotton is merely vapid.  It doesn't mean to do the things it does,  it just has no filter. Denim knows better. Denim is streetwise, not to mention manipulative.  It enjoys showing off your butt crack, making your waist scream for mercy, and forcing your intestines to take up residence in your rib cage. It invented muffin top. If you ever expect to get along with Denim, you have to show it who's boss.  Keep throwing it in your washing machine until it breaks.  This might seem mean,  but so is camel toe.

It is you or them.  If you take just one thing from this post,  please hear this:  Your clothes are nothing without you. You do not have to take their crap.  I heard about a safe house in NYC.  It's called "What Not To Wear". They can help.  Call their toll free line, and never be bullied by your clothes again.

Chicken out

Nice Girl.  Victim of Mean Clothes.