Daddy Likey: Missoni Flats Multicultural Edition

A padre le piacciono*.

$260, zappos.com

*Rough translation: "daddy likey." duh.

All About Ellen

I once read an article in which Ellen Degeneres talked about how she and Portia both get their designer duds on and walk the red carpet, and everyone is like, "Portia! Portia! Who are you wearing??", but, as Ellen said, "Nobody cares [about what I'm wearing] because I have a suit on, even if it's a Gucci suit. That to me is frustrating, because I put effort into getting ready too." Sad, right?

Well Ellen, to remedy this, I am going to ignore all other Oscar fashions and dedicate this post to you and only you! Because I know that one post from a semi-popular niche blog will totally make up for all those years of being fashion-shafted. Yeah, probably not.

Editor's note: So, this post is late because I wrote that happy optimistic above section last night and started looking for pictures of Ellen's suits...and kept looking...and looking...and looking...and when it was 3 in the morning and I had only found one picture of Ellen's top half in one of her multiple costume changes, I realized that homegirl's got a point. Nobody does seem to care that much. She wasn't even listed in the style section on the Academy Awards website, and I think I saw Carrot Top's name in there. I finally found a couple photos on Popsugar (and this morning, another good one on Mollygood), but by that time I was so demoralized and tired that I decided to go to sleep rather than face this cruel, not-interested-in-a-woman-in-a-tuxedo world for another second. But now it's a new day, and I'm sticking to my guns and using these kind of crappy pictures as the basis for an all-Ellen post.

To begin, I loved the burgundy velvet tux and white shoes. The shoes make the look, don't you think?

I would have maybe done something a little different underneath, as the white shirt is a little crumpled and sort of looks like a $19.95 polo from American Eagle, but otherwise, love the color, the texture, and the details. Ooh! And the hair! The hair looked great all night. I was especially impressed with that, because after the 40th dramatic film-clip montage, I pulled all mine out. Way to stay the course, Ellen!

Next, we have the all-white ensemble:

I missed this part of the show, so I'm not really sure why she has an Oscar in a baby carrier, but she's successfully rocking those white pants. I've never worn or gone near white pants because in those sixth grade puberty videos, the main character always starts her period in an all-white outfit in front of the football team, and I just really don't want to risk that.

Even though this is probably the oddest, least-flattering picture ever, this was my favorite Ellen ensemble of the night:

I love the dark, monochromatic look with her light skin and hair. A+!

And another fabulous jewel-tone velvet at the afterparty:

I actually have to give Ellen the fashion edge here. Portia looks gorgeous, but I've always thought that satin only works on this extremely rare body type that isn't too thin or too fat but nicely soft and rounded. Portia is just a bit too far to the bony side for the dress to hang as it should, but what the hell, they look adorable together in their matching outfits and blonde hair.

In conclusion, I for one would just like to say, "Ellen! Ellen! Who are you wearing??"

p.s. If seeing Portia's gown made you realize how much you wanna look at pretty dresses, check out the fashion blog Oscar coverage at Faking Good Breeding, Fabsugar, Go Fug Yourself, Poetic & Chic, Fashion IQ, and The Fashion Bomb.

Etsy: A Fabulous Four-Letter Word

A few days before Valentine's Day, I gave me boyfriend a subtle hint (and by "subtle hint," I mean, "violent threat") that I wanted an awesome necklace I'd found on Etsy.com, and whaddya know, the boy came through.

Ambika over at The Fray (before I go any further, isn't it funny how bloggers always refer to each other as being "over at" whatever blog they write? Is it just me or does this evoke images of a happy little fashion blog shire where all of us live in hobbit holes and pop over to visit each other and borrow clothes from time to time?) first turned me on to Etsy, a site where artists sell their handmade items like clothing, accessories, and art. It's a lot like Ebay, but without auctions or crappy Wal-Mart resale clothes or sellers named ChanelGurl55 (no relation to Chanel over at the Hip Candy hobbit hole, of course) selling "100% AUTHENTIC SERIOUSLY NO JOKE TO SAY THAT THIS BAG IS FAKE IS TO INSULT MY MOTHER AND I VOWED ON HER GRAVE TO ENACT BLOODY VENGEANCE ON ALL WHO WOULD DARE INSULT HER MEMORY FREE SHIPPING" Chanel bags that have "Chanel" spelled wrong on the front. What I'm trying to say is, it's nothing like Ebay. Thank god.

The necklace that I fell in love with and received on Tuesday is this pendant, made from a vintage children's book illustration:

So adorable, right? And only $12 for a one-of-a-kind, handmade necklace!

What's really great about Etsy though, as has been said by many before me, is the personal connection you get with each purchase. Thanks to the artist profiles and messaging option, I know that the jewelry currently hanging around my neck was made by a lovely gal named Susan who actually lives in the city next door to mine and Susan by the way, if you're reading this, why aren't we friends? Come to Portland and let's get coffee! But anyway, my future bff Susan's company is called TV Tray Art Designs, and was named for the time in her life when she was making her crafts on a TV tray. Kind of like if The Gap was named "Sweatshop."

Now, normally I hate the word "whimsical," because it used to be my go-to adjective when I had to think of something nice to say about really crappy paintings in my art classes, by Susan's designs make me wanna bring whimsical back (I swear I didn't mean to make the worst Justin Timberlake joke ever just then) in a good way. Besides that, her pieces are graphic, gorgeous, have a sense of humor, and are almost never more than $20. Here are some of the pendants currently for sale:

This is maybe the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. You put this necklace on with a little black dress, even if it's the totally wrong little black dress for you, like this horrible saggy sheath I tried on the other day when I thought that all little black dresses look great on everyone (that was dumb), and you'll still look amazing. $15.

This one was made out of a fishing lure. As long as you don't normally hang out with hungry bass, this would be a great, funky addition to your jewelry collection. $12.

I think this would work really well as one of the "For Your Boy" gifts that Kristopher over at Kristopher Dukes always features, where you get a cool present for your boyfriend and then take it back for yourself because it's really cool. In this case, I would give it to my boyfriend and say, "You're the king of my heart, baby," and then once he started asking the questions like, "Why did you get me a necklace with a little red heart bead on it? And hey, this doesn't even fit around my neck!" I would say, "Jesus, fine, I'll just keep it then." And then I would. $13.50.

And this, well, this is just perfection. $15.50.

She also sells handmade cards, cuff links, personalized photo pendants, and tons of other unbelievably cute and affordable items. Visit her Etsy shop and buy some things and maybe creepily pressure her into a friendship (actually don't, that's my trademark). This straight-from-the-artist buying experience is really refreshing, so even if these pendants aren't your cup of tea, go check out the million other artists at Etsy. Because let's face it, Nordstrom doesn't give you a handwritten note, J. Crew doesn't wanna hang out, and Chanelgurl55, well, she might kill you.

What A Shame

While cement-pouring accidents are always tragic, it's really a travesty when a young woman with such gorgeous hair gets caught under the mixer, don't you think?

If you happen to like the statue look, it's on sale for $47.90 at nordstrom.com, but I really advise against it.

Glasses: Go Big

As I've said before, my feeling with basically all accessories is go big or go home (my junior high P.E. teacher used to yell that at us when we played football, and I never really got it, but I can totally get behind the sentiment when it comes to fashion).

With prescription eyeglasses especially though, I mean, when you have a fairly large glass and plastic contraption balancing across your nose and over your eyes and wrapping around behind your ears, is there really any point to playing it down? I tend to think that sensible glasses (see example below) are like Pamela Anderson trying to dress modestly, like John Galliano designing conservative skirt suits, like Jamaica invading America: a futile endeavor indeed.


It was with this attitude that I escorted my dear friend Rachel to Lenscrafters recently to help her pick a perfect pair of glasses. Luckily, Rachel is a stylish artiste who didn't need a lecture from me about making a statement with your eyewear (unlike my boyfriend, who tried to buy a pair of rimless silver boooorrring before I forced him to try on a more substantial black-rimmed pair and he got a crush on himself in the mirror), and we found a plastic-rimmed pair that look great on her.

In the course of this great glasses search, however, I spotted some giant, gaudy, mega-nerdy frames and decided to try them on for the same reason I try on velour jumpsuits and pimp-caliber fur coats whenever I go to Goodwill: I get a lame thrill from looking like an ass.


So I put these babies on, which kind of resemble the glasses my dad wore in 1976, and walked over to Rachel to commence the "ha ha ha don't I look bad?" proceedings, but she didn't really laugh, and instead said, "You know, those are kinda working on you." I looked in the mirror and she was right. Somehow these definitely-not-cool-on-a-hippie-in-1976 glasses (no offense dad) were a rocking fashion statement on me in 2007.

And now, true to fashion-obsessed form, I've been thinking about these glasses, dreaming about these glasses, nonstop in the weeks since I tearfully left them at the store, cursing the vision insurance that only funds a pair of extravagantly expensive designer glasses every two years (damn right there's a health insurance crisis in this country!). A couple days ago I was even considering applying to Lenscrafters, working there for however many years it would take to acquire a store discount and enough money to afford my D&G frames, then buy them and quit, yelling, "Suckas!" to my oblivious boss and coworkers as I gallop out the door and into my new life (thank god the thought of real work deterred me before I put that painfully flawed plan into action). Seriously, not a day goes by that I don't yearn for these glasses. Maybe that means I should get a hobby, or maybe that means I should write the next paragraph addressing the glasses as if they were a person:

My dear D&G frames, I want you to know I will wait for you. Since we've met I've forsaken my usual reading glasses, opting to squint instead of marring my face with anything but your almost comically ugly presence. Someday, when my insurance understands, even if the world never understands, you shall be mine.

Not everyone can be a cool kid.

When I first saw these pants, I loved them. LOVED them. I was struck by how cool the model looks in them. This picture is just her bottom half, but look what a cool, laid-back, effortlessly stylish bottom half it is! Don't you want to be this bottom half's friend, even though deep down you know that you would always be a little threatened by the bottom half's cool factor, and whenever you hung out together you'd feel a little fat, a little awkward, a little insecure, and therefore the friendship would never be that great but it would be worth it because we all still have a little junior high left in us and still enjoy a secret feeling of triumph when we get to hang out with the cool kids?


So, yeah, if you can't tell, I think these pants are pretty cool. I spent a long time staring at them and yearning for them and wishing I was someone who could buy $174 pants without batting an eye, but then it hit me: the laid-back cut, the gunmetal gray color, the ironically large elastic waistband--very cool on the tall, skinny, surely-popular-in-junior-high model, but on me? That's gonna be a big "no." As soon as you put short legs and a less-than-flat stomach in these babies, I'm guessing they turn from effortless chic to "Jeez, couldn't change out of your sweats before leaving the house, lazy ass?"

In short, I'm just not cool enough for these pants.

If you're a cool kid, you can buy the pants here. And maybe we could hang out sometime? Unless you're busy. Just a thought.

Premium Jeans as Mutual Funds

Today I did something really dumb. I decided that after a depressing day at school, just after getting over a cold, and directly after a hearty, bloating meal would be the perfect time to go jeans shopping.

Needless to say, I was at the store for over an hour, didn't find anything, and seemed to have misplaced my self worth somewhere in the fluorescent-lit hellhole of a dressing room (the lighting gave me pimples--seriously, how does that work?). But it was the conversation I had with my boyfriend in the car on the way home that really got me thinking. Here is a rough transcript:

Me: Good God. How has my mirror at home been hiding the fact that I'm morbidly obese for all these years?
Nick: Not again.
Me: You know what I think I'll do?
Nick: What?
Me: I think I'll wait til the beginning of next month when I have some money, and then I'll go to Nordstrom and buy some really expensive jeans that will last forever.
Nick: But your Sevens didn't last forever (referring to my 7 For All Mankind jeans that have been repaired more frequently than Joan Rivers' face and once suffered a zipper blowout at a most unfortunate public speaking moment).
Me: Yes they did.
Nick: No they didn't.
Me: Well, they're broken now, but they lasted for, like, EVER.
Nick: Nuh-uh, they didn't really last that long at all.
Me: I've had them since I was a baby!
Nick: They lasted for like a year, tops.
Me: Well, if that's true, I wore them, like, EVERY DAY for that year. And I wore 'em hard! If anything happened to them, it was my fault okay? I didn't treat them right! They deserved better! I should have known I was never good enough for premium denim!
Nick: Umm...okay.
---uncomfortable silence-----
Me: Nick, I have to tell you something. I have to believe that my Seven jeans lasted for twenty years because if they don't, then my entire world view is a lie and I will have to kill myself. I have to believe that $200 jeans are completely worth it or else everything comes crashing down and NOTHING IS LEFT and who would want to live in a world like that?? (as I said in my last post, I've had a fever).
Nick: Jesus.

End Scene.

As you can see, Nick is an imbecile and my logic is foolproof. Everyone knows that they found a pair of Sevens in King Tut's tomb (size 26's I hear, very trim little Pharaoh). Everyone knows that when you go to a financial adviser and tell him, "I'm looking for a safe, long-term investment," he will pull out a folder marked, "Mutual Funds," say, "Just kidding!," throw that crap in the garbage and show you these:

"A great investment with no risk involved," he'll say, "Except maybe the zipper shooting off when you're giving a final presentation to your communication theory class."
7 For All Mankind Dojo Trouser jeans, $187.00

"Listen, I can tell you're a savvy investor, so believe me when I tell you that people who buy these particular jeans always gain back the initial costs...times infinity."
True Religion Joey Big T Flare jeans, $262

"Your great grandchildren will still be enjoying substantial returns on these babies."
Rock & Republic Kiedis Bootcut jeans, $271

"These not only last for at least 800 years, they also give you a hot ass."
Dsquared Carpenter's Skinny jeans, $325 (I just had a small heart attack there, wow)

"Shall we have a cigar?"

All jeans from Saks; maybe don't trust any financial adviser who tells you to buy jeans.

Nothing Makes Sense Anymore

Sorry about the lack of post yesterday. I spent the time I normally spend blogging (approximately 1 am to 2 am) watching Steven Seagal's newest movie, and I was worried that my exhaustion combined with lingering fever and the effects of that film would lead me to write something that I would regret, like "Since I now know that an entire squadron of Navy Seals is completely useless compared to Steven Seagal's fighting skills, and that all Afghani women are secretly lesbians who just wanna get kinky with hot American army gals, and that if a sinister doctor is trying to wipe your memory all you have to do is bribe the nurse who is dressed in a nurse fetish costume to give you a knife and then stab the doctor in the head and say "I don't take kindly to having my memory wiped" and, well, maybe tapered jeans aren't so bad. IT'S SO HOT IN HERE."

And who wants to read something like that?

Gift Guides, Misguided.

Valentine's Day gift guides have always really confused me.

Whereas Christmas, Mother's Day and Father's Day gift guides are vehemently rooted in stereotypes ("How did People magazine know that my dad enjoys golfing, barbecuing, cigars, expensive shaving kits, and aprons emblazoned with funny puns??"), they at least sort of make sense. But the gift lists that come out around this time of year, well, they don't.

Valentine's Day gift guides always include a Victoria's Secret thong, the URL of an incredibly overpriced website that allows you to buy and ship chocolate covered strawberries to your home because apparently strawberries and chocolate are foreign concepts in wherever podunk place you come from, and then a whole bunch of random crap that is only there because it's red, and only exists because some savvy marketer said, "Hey! Let's put out a limited edition red-colored version of our product and then pitch it to every magazine, website, and morning tv news show in the world as a meaningful Valentine's Day purchase."

You know that when this savvy marketer makes his sales calls, he goes, "Listen, I've got a great product for your little gift guide over there--red tampons!", and then all the gift guide editors immediately asked for a photo and pricing info and say, "You know, this world would be a better place if there were more people like you who truly understood the meaning of Valentine's Day."

And this is why we see pages and pages of red spatulas, red soda, red vases, red lipstick (if that guy from Sesame Street were to pop up here and sing the "One of these things is not like the other" song, we would eventually choose the lipstick as the culprit, because it's the only one that sort of makes sense), red sneakers, red cellphones. These gifts are like the dreaded holiday-themed sweater: utterly useless in every capacity but able to continue their facade of societal contribution because of a flimsy tie-in with an established holiday.

I think it's time to stick it to the man and make a Valentine's Day Gift Guide that makes even less sense than the traditional ones, don't you? According to Wikipedia (I feel like such an outlaw right now for writing that, because if I did that on one of my college papers I'd fail), "The first recorded association of Valentine's Day with romantic love is in Parlement of Foules (1382) by Geoffrey Chaucer." Yes, I think my gift guide shall have a Chaucer theme.

The Daddy Likey Chaucerlicious Valentine's Day Gift Guide!

To start things off, I see from Chaucer's portrait that he was a fan of the headwrap:

SO in right now. Good one Chaucer! Approximate this classic style this Valentine's Day with a Pucci scarf:

Dare I say this is even cuter than the look Chaucy's rockin'?
$220, Saks.com

"Chaucer" rhymes with "Saucer." Hmm....

Adorable handmade saucer, anyone?
$125, Daniel Levy, guild.com

Here is a sample of Chaucer's original Valentine's Day poem:

For this was on seynt Volantynys day

Whan euery bryd comyth there to chese [chose] his make [mate].

Jeez, would ya look at that spelling? So, obviously, Chaucer was pretty dumb.

I think a video game that makes you smarter would be a fitting Valentine's Day gift, indeed! Brain Age, amazon.com

Admittedly, I'm only an amateur Chaucer scholar, but still, I'm going to go out on a limb here and declare that when he wrote "chese" in that poem up there, he did not mean "chose," but "cheese."

Delight your man (or yourself!) and honor Chaucer's true intentions with a membership to a Cheese of the Month Club!
$55 a month, artisanalcheese.com

Did you know "Chaucer" means "shoemaker" in French? How about some Valentine's Day shoes? I vote these:

Notice they're not red.
Cole Haan "Anabel Air" pump, $275, nordstrom.com

I'll bet that Chaucer's ladies (if not the Chauce himself) wore bloomers. Check out this updated pair from Free People:

Perfect for lounging or time travel.
$68, freepeople.com

Yep, I think that made even less sense than a special-edition red spatula. Me and Chaucer, stickin' it to the man.

Happy Valentine's Day everybody!

This post will only make sense to two people; I apologize if you're not one of them.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY RACHY AND KHATHY!

This is a post about what I would get you lovely ladies if I had a million dollars. In other words, this is a post about cool fantasy presents that will make the presents I actually got you seem really crappy.

My dearest Khathy, for you, I would use $999,860 to bribe J. Crew into restocking the Piazza jacket, then I would use the rest to buy it for you:

God I could stare at that picture all day.

And actually, since I was sick and had to miss your party, I would embezzle $348.95 back from J. Crew and use it to buy you these Moschino flats, because they are so you and would go perfectly with your new Piazza jacket:



And Rachel, my Beef, I wouldn't just buy you this awesome ring:

I would buy you the artist who made this ring to work as your personal jewelry slave for as long as a million dollars buys a personal jewelry slave (what is the going rate these days, anyway?) so your every whim could be turned into a little ring painting.

And this skirt too, because who knows, maybe a personal jewelry slave would just be kind of creepy:


Love you both times infinity!

jacket: J. Crew
flats: Moschino, zappos.com
ring: Ananda Khalsa, guild.com
skirt: anthropologie.com

Who Knew the Secret Chicness of Math Majors?

I noticed a girl carrying this bag at school last week, and I was so fascinated with it and so intently staring at it that I followed her into the math department and then ran into a door.

Isn't that the point when a hobby becomes an addiction? When it starts interfering with your daily life and causing you pain? Before I admit I have a problem, I think I'll buy this bag. Because, see, that's how you treat addictions, you just give in to all your urges and buy whatever you're addicted to. Trust me, I'm a doctor.

Aaaand it's my first post after a high fever, so cut me some slack.

Betseyville by Betsey Johson "Anchors Away" bag, $68, nordstrom.com

A cyber cupcake makes everything better.

Dearest Daddy Likey Heads,
I've been sick all weekend and still feel much too crappy to even attempt humor (anything I write would probably come out like, "This purse is so cute! You could pair it with WHAT KIND OF VENGEFUL GOD CREATED HEADACHES?? WHYYY???" and see, that's not very funny). I'll probably get a post up later tonight and definitely by tomorrow. In the meantime, so you don't all revolt and never come back, here is a picture of a delicious cupcake for you!


Mmmmm! Just as good as the real thing, right? No? Damn.

Love,
Winona

p.s. Catie in Portland, send me an email at daddylikeyblog@gmail.com and I'll give you all the eyebrow info.

Runway Perfect

I'm sure you've noticed that I don't do much runway coverage, and I explained my reason here a long, long time ago when only my mom was reading my blog. Sure, Martin picks up some shiny slack, but I prefer making cracks about scary furs at Saks Fifth Avenue to saying, "Is that a clear outline of all the model's internal organs through her skin or is she just happy to see me?" like a thousand times.

But exceptions must me made sometimes, my friends (like, if Vogue offered me $4 a word to write about runway collections, a massive exception would be made) and one case where an exception is definitely necessary is Jill Stuart's Fall 2007 line--holy hell I'm completely in love.

This is the collection I would put out if I weren't the type of person to declare my dreams of becoming a fashion designer, make a bunch of pretty sketches, get violently bored as soon as it's time for the real work, hide the drawings under the desk so as not to remind myself of my failures, then go eat cookies and watch Seinfeld and try to forget the whole thing. Damn it, I just reminded myself. Anyway, the clothes are totally mod, totally black, and totally cobalt blue, which are pretty much my three favorite things (wouldn't Vogue be crazy not to hire me when I write sentences like that?). There's also a major focus on cute little dresses, which are my fourth favorite thing.

I'm working so hard not to write that internal organ line right now, but isn't the dress fantastic?

I have no idea how you'd wear this dress in real life unless your boobs were positioned like a deer's eyes. Despite the anatomical issues, I'm still a huge fan.

So, sometimes my college classes will dissolve into haughty and cliche postmodern discussions about materialism, and sometimes I'll throw in a comment or two disparaging the media's attempt to make us capitalist consumer drones or something like that blah blah blah. In other news: if the situation arose, I might kill a man for this coat:

It glows with cobalt beauty! (again, Vogue, are you reading this?)

I am so in love with this collection that Jill even has me convinced this double-breasted diaper thing is like the coolest thing ever:

Admit it. It looks pretty cozy. I'll wear one if you do. You in?

J. Crew Price Pain, Limerick Style

There once was a cute little jacket.
It pained me so greatly to lack it
But then I saw the cost
And all hope was lost
So as not to swear I said, "fack it."

Navy Cashmere Charlie Jacket, $595 (seriously), J. Crew
Really, when will the insanity end?

Martin Does Fashion Week

Disclaimer: I live in fear that Dave Eggers will one day be looking at blogs in search of fresh new literary talent and he will come to Daddy Likey and it will be my big chance but the post of the day will be a Martin one and he'll end up saying "What the hell?" and leaving and giving my lucrative contract to, like, Perez Hilton instead. So if you're Dave Eggers (or if you're a newer reader and missed the Martin intro), read this first. It probably won't help at all, but I'll know I tried.

And now, on with the insanity:

Sadly, due to scheduling conflicts, school, having no money or official credentials, and being way too intimidated to even try, I could not attend New York fashion week this season. However, I am incredibly lucky to have a writer on staff who was not only free and willing, but could also fit in a carry-on. That's right, Martin is blogging from New York and he's ready with the highlights (well, more like the shiny and sparkly stuff). Take it away, Martin!

Thanks Winona. No, friends, your eyes don't deceive you; this is me at the Baby Phat show sitting just one nobody away from Britney Spears. I know she gets a lot of flack for being dirty and everything but I can tell you firsthand that she smells delightful. Like Chef Boyardee ravioli after a day in the sun. I tried to ask her if that was the scent of her newest perfume, but she just said, "Eeew! Who the hell let a raccoon in here? And how did it get a front row seat?" As for the boots on the runway, I'm not a fan. They look way too much like my cousin Jerry.

Here I am at the Luca Luca show. That was one shiny show. Everything went great until I drooled on the lady next to me and she said, "Eeew! Who the hell let a raccoon in here? And how did it get a front row seat?" Then security came and threw me in the dumpster.

Speaking of dumpsters:

If I were in charge, all clothes would look like garbage bags gleaming in the afternoon light. Perfection.

Sparkly. A+

Glittery. Love it. Approved.

XOXO,
Martin

Pictures from style.com. Shiny coat: Abaete. Sparkly minidress: DKNY. Glittery gown: Elie Saab couture.

"How is it that you're so great at finding the ugliest things?"*

As much as I love Nordstrom, as much as every time I go in there I get a major urge to pull a Where the Heart Is and find a way to secretly live there until I give birth (no, I'm not really pregnant, but work with me here) in the shoe section and achieve national fame for my "Nordstrom baby" and finally find happiness in life with my new friends Ashley Judd and Stockard Channing, as much as it is the best store in the world, sometimes it really lets me down.

Specifically, sometimes the Nordstrom website really lets me down. Now, I'm not sure if nordstrom.com is regular Nordstrom's nerdy cousin or if I should count them both as one entity, but either way, if I was sort of able to forgive for this egregious lapse in judgment, what am I supposed to do about these?

Seriously, have you ever seen a worse case of cankles in your life? I would never ridicule an authentic pair of beefy ankles, but these are cankles-by-choice, cankles voluntarily induced as soon as those stirrup pants were pulled on and jammed into those innocent peep toe pumps. And that, my friends, is an act not easily forgiven. Especially when the pants involved cost $139. Good god, I know.

Nordstrom, you keep this up and I'm having my famous imaginary Nordstrom baby elsewhere. You hear me?

*This post is dedicated to Eli, who so eloquently commented the title phrase in response to the Medusa fur atrocity a few posts down. And to answer your question: these things cannot be explained. It's truly a gift.

Invasions and Bodysuits

Woody Allen said, "I can't listen to that much Wagner. I start getting the urge to conquer Poland."

I have a similar response to the American Apparel website. I can't spend too much time on it or I start getting the urge to get a hipster haircut and splay myself out in contortionist softcore porn poses in my underwear in really ironic places, like the bathtub:


Or on the floor in a dirty hotel:


Or maybe in a public locker room shower:

Jesus, is that a subway station?

Conquering Poland actually sounds like way more fun. At least you can't get herpes that way.

On the Edge of Neutrality

In elementary school, every year on picture day my friend Brittany would steal her mom's foundation (among a long list of other makeup definitely not well suited to an eleven-year-old) and pile it on so thick that when she stood in profile you could see that her face had noticeably expanded by a good half inch of flesh-colored spackle. It was horrifying.

For this reason, in sixth grade I swore I'd never wear any facial makeup whatsoever for the rest of my life. I upheld this vow until my freshman year of college, when the realization set in that I'm a honky (as my Italian mother refers to my blonde father and I), and therefore I really do need some sun protection and a little shmidge of color.

I read an article in a random fashion magazine that claimed Clinique's tinted moisturizer made your skin look dreamy perfect but was light enough that freckles still show. It was the classic "Looks like you, only better!" line that appears roughly 400 times per women's magazine beauty section, but for some reason the pitch got to me and I went out and bought it (foolish, really, considering that I've read in these same publications that men find toe cleavage just as sexy as breast cleavage--seriously give me a call the next time you catch a guy staring at the line between your big and second toe and you have to say "Hey, I'm up here. Like, way up here. Keep going. Almost there. Yeah, here.")


Well, for once those crazy beauty writers turned out to be right on, and I've been wearing Clinique Sheer Moisture Tint in "fair" ever since (still haven't ever had my toes ogled, though). I took it with me to school in Hawaii, ready to rock my dreamy perfect but still naturally freckled complexion in the land of dreamy perfect sand and sun. But within a week, the tint of my usually super-blendable tinted moisturizer started to look a little weird every time I put it on. I assumed this was because I was actually gaining some color in my face, and despite my love of the product I happily abandoned it for the remainder of my stay, convinced that fair skin was so Oregon and I was on the fast track to tan city, baby.

A few days after I got back to Oregon, I triumphantly marched up to the Clinique counter at Macy's to share the news and buy a new supply. "I used to be a 'fair,'" I explained to the faux scientist in the Clinique lab coat and gaudy green eyeshadow, "but then I went to Hawaii for four months and got a tan and everything, and, well, I think I'm ready to upgrade."

She looked discerningly at my face for a moment and then smiled. "Yep, I think you're a 'neutral.'"

I squealed with delight and sat down in the makeover chair for the official test. "I'm so excited!" I said as she dabbed the new color, my new life, along my jawline. She laughed.

Then, all of a sudden she looked very much like a veterinarian who had joyously told a family that their new puppy had miraculously survived being hit by a bus, but then realized that she'd picked up the wrong medical records. The puppy was dead.

"Oohhh..." she said very quietly.

"I'm still a 'fair,' aren't I?"

She held up a mirror for me to look, to see the proof that I'd been in Hawaii for four months and had somehow remained the exact same color. "It's so close, but the 'neutral' just looks a little orange on you. I guess if you blended it rea--"

I held up my hand. "It's okay. I'll take a tube of 'fair.'"

I paid for the makeup and left. Sometimes life isn't fair. But I am.