When we started this blog for the documentary, I promised myself I would never go more than two weeks without posting. I also promised myself that I would never start a blog post with something lame and apologetic like, Read more
I don't flirt. Ever. Not because I don't know how, but because I just don't like to. Being funny had always been my technique as a server and it was more profitable and less exhausting to maintain than keeping Read more
It's 2012. I hope I don't need to remind anyone (other than Conservatives and misogynists, if you'll pardon the redundancy) that women are so much more than their looks. We are capable of anything we set our minds to Read more
A couple of weeks ago, my brother Dan came up for Mum's 75th birthday celebration with his five kids (Paul, 18, Em, 15, Lauren 14, Jon, 12 and Briana, 6), all of whom reminded me of what is was Read more
I stand before you, a sinner. I have broken my word. I have not practiced what I preached. I have failed!
Contrition was a big thing in the 80's. People were always apologizing for something or other and apparently it Read more
How did I come to care so much about clothes? According to my Mum, as early as three years old I had a definite idea about my personal style. She would carefully choose my clothes in the morning and lay them out for me, but I would come downstairs in a completely different outfit that she would have never thought to put together. She pretty much let me go at that point, realizing that some battles weren’t worth fighting. Once a week she got me into a dress, sadly it was a brown and orange Brownies uniform, but it was a dress, dammit and that’s what mattered. She had been surrounded by boys her whole life, first her brothers, then her sons, so you can’t blame her for wanting a girly-girl. Unfortunately she got me.
Being the only girl in a neighborhood of boys meant that I had no fashion role models. If that weren’t bad enough, I grew up in the Seventies, one of the god-awful worst decades for fashion. Between the swaths of poly-blends and corduroy, and the Cold War colour scheme, it’s not hard to understand why Quaaludes were the drug of choice for the era. If I saw a sorry group of kids dressed like that today I would hastily organize a telethon in their honour.
My awesome "Dukes of Hazzard" shirt made this whale cry… on the inside.
[/twocol]What came next was in some ways worse: the label craze. The Eighties ushered in an era of status icons like Polo, Nike and Esprit. One had to non-verbally communicate one’s income, because saying it out loud was tacky. However a ten inch neon Gucci symbol on your shirt was not. It’s not hard to understand why cocaine was the drug of choice for this era. My Mum refused to play the label game, “Those designers should be paying you to advertise for them.” So at the age of fourteen I got my first job so I could afford to keep up with the Joneses. But wearing designer clothes didn’t make me stylish, it made me a sheep. Thankfully, I outgrew that trend. Read more
Without irony I might add. Strange as this may seem my fiancee pointed out a site called skinnygossip.com which, amongst other perplexing features, sported a section called ‘Starving Tip of the Day’. Initially I was a little suspect of her reading, as she has a tendency to literalmindedness. Not only was that a touch condescending, I was also completely incorrect. Double bad on me.
Now there are a lot of ways to go from here. I could launch into a screed against the blatant idiocy of the ethos at work– which would definitely make Sarah (the aforementioned fiancee) very happy. I could try and parse the underlying lack of self worth at work and try to deconstruct it. I could ignore the whole issue and move along to something more useful.
A few things I hate: People who don’t wave ‘thanks’ when you let them merge in front of you, Uggs, willful ignorance and bra shopping.
A few things I love: Nick’s smile, curling up with a good read, Mikke’s head on my lap and my amazing Mum.
What happens when we transpose these things? My dog in Uggs? A willfully ignorant book ~cough~’Donald Trump’s Memoirs’~cough~? Or bra shopping with my Mum. On second thought, Mikke would look awfully cute in Uggs, why don’t we just do that?
I also dreamed I took the brown acid.
[/onethirdcol]I’ve never enjoyed bra shopping. Not even when my teenage dreams came true a month before high school graduation and I finally got boobs. Our first conversation went like this: Yay I have boobs! But it would have been nice if you’d shown up a little sooner so every guy in school didn’t think of me as a ‘friend’ . I was a little ungrateful, but isn’t every teen?
I guess it’s true about first impressions, because I have a love/hate relationship with my breasts. Sometimes we’re on the same team, and when we are, we’re unstoppable. Oh the fun we’ve had together! Getting jobs we weren’t qualified for, weaseling out of speeding tickets, unlimited VIP room access and free drinks. But it isn’t all fun and games; the unwanted attention, ill-fitting button-down blouses, and reluctance to go for a jog. And I’m woefully outnumbered. These days we’ve declared a kind of unofficial detente. I don’t bother them and they don’t bother me, but we try to make the best of it since we’re stuck together. Read more
The weather forecast for Montreal included an ‘extreme rainfall warning’, which is fine when you are already in the mall. Unfortunately we were stuck on the Decarie bumper to bumper for an hour, all four of us growing increasingly antsy and yawn-y (no, not Yanni. None of us grew spectacular moustaches or dated Linda Evans in the time it took to get to the mall, although that would have been awesome). When we finally pulled into the parking lot of the Carrefour Laval, I wasn’t much in the mood to shop.
Maniacal Woman Steals Credit Card's Innocence
[/onethirdcol]Of course between the car and the entrance to the mall my mood changed considerably and I got, well, butterflies, truth be told. Because I didn’t really have any idea what I was shopping for, my mind raced with all of the fantastical items that I could potentially buy. If my life were a cartoon it would have shown me surrounded by rainbows and unicorns and chocolate fountains with the words ‘Shoppingland’ in glowing neon arcing over my head. Mmm…chocolate unicorn rainbows! Read more
When did this happen? Can it be laid at the metaphorical feet of Lululemon or does it predate our current Yoga epoch. And more importantly, does it imply the return of bike pants for guys—because if so, I’m so out of here.
Actually tracing the origins of any particular motion or trend in the world of fashion is a fascinating exercise. Often, in these cases, there is a confluence of interests that create Perfect Storms of consumerism. Usually the results are, in retrospect, regrettable. Read more
In less than twelve days I will be officially ‘wardrobe-frozen’ for a full year. So far I have resisted the temptation to indulge in a mass-consumptive gorge-fest, opting instead to be responsible with my money and my urges. All of this fiscal maturity may come to an anti-climactic halt tomorrow when we venture to Montreal. Oh, and did I mention I have in my possession my very first credit card? Ever? That’s a lot of poutine to swallow, mes amis! Read more
“It is not enough to conquer.
One must know how to seduce.”
I use the word ’interesting’ quite a bit. Often people seem to think there’s an underpinning of some kind of sarcasm or irony attached. There is not. I mean interesting in exactly the way it’s defined in the dictionary.
For instance, to me this fish is interesting.
Fashion, I’ve come to understand, is also interesting. I mean fashion in its broadest and most encompassing sense. I don’t mean the shit that they peddle in ‘fashion’ magazines or segments on TMZ. Or even those grinning monkeys that are trotted out whenever the word ‘designer’ is spoken. What I do mean is an expression of a particular aesthetic—clothing that isn’t just clothes. Nor is it just an overt display of gender identification or status or any of a myriad of things fashion is a delivery system for. Read more
Imagine a circumstance where someone was telling you what you could or couldn’t wear based on some arbitrary condition. Poor, a woman, born to the wrong family, not a specific denomination, you are a specific denomination, whore, not whore (male and female).