Daddy Likey Is Not Dead

I'm so sorry for my absence last week. I wish I could say that I was so threatened by your warm reception to my brother's guest blog* that I declared Daddy Likey dead and moved into a cabin to pout with JD Salinger (yes, he accepts disaffected fashion bloggers on occasion), but really, I was super-busy with other projects. Some of them are exciting writing projects, and some of them involved binging on turkey and playing with my parents' cats.

As soon as my brother sends me the photos, I'll share some of my Thanksgiving experience. Since it involved my dad examining a dead salamander wearing the head-mounted magnifying glasses he first debuted here, I thought you guys might be interested. But in the meantime, please accept my earnest promise to be a better blogger this week!

I'll start things off with a high fashion haiku in 3...2...1...

*Seriously though, I loved the response to my brother's post--such funny and cute comments! The praise definitely went to his head though: he called me on Tuesday and said, "The people have spoken, Nona, and they like me more than you."

High Fashion Haiku: Penny Pinching Edition

One word: recession.
For nine-hundred bucks, give me
at least five bows, Marc.

Marc Jacobs Bow Gladiator Sandal, $897 (sweet mother of god!), nordstrom.com

To Up-Size or Not to Up-Size: A guest post from a straight-talkin' junior high boy

Today's post is by my 13 year-old brother:

The most defining moment in anyone's life, the most important moment, is getting a kickass winter jacket. A jacket you truly love will choose the path that your life takes, and keep you warm. But choosing a coat that fits the aforementioned guidelines, and is truly awesome, is a tough decision. And it becomes an even harder task when you have to make the ultimate choice: Will you get a winter jacket that fits over a T-shirt, or one that can go over a sweatshirt? And as much as we don't want to think about it, this can happen to all of us. In fact, I had to face this very dilemma recently.

My parents decided that my coat was getting too small, so they made the decision to get a new winter jacket for me. Now, I didn't know much about jackets or coats, or clothes in general, and in fact, I still don't, but when it came time to try on some jackets, I had to choose. I found a good one that was water resistant, and all the other stuff that my dad said would keep me from dying instantly in the rain.

So we had the coat picked out, and I tried it on over my hooded sweatshirt. It fit with room to spare, but when I took off my hoodie and tried it on over my T-shirt, I didn't know if I liked it or not. I tried a size down, and it fit well, but when I had my hoodie on, it felt kinda cramped. I had to make a decision right then and there. As usual my thoughts were focused on what I would do if zombies poured through the doors of the mall and I had to escape. After a while of deciding what to do in the event of of a zombie invasion, I tried them both on like 6 more times, then finally it dawned on me to look in the mirror.

With the T-shirt fitted one, it felt good, and looked good. The hoodie fitted one felt good, but without the hoodie I looked like I was trying to sneak a bunch of cocaine bricks past the border. I finally decided to go with the non-drug smuggler one.

So in summary
-find a jacket you like
-find a bigger jacket of the same kind
-stare off into space for 10 minutes
-try them all on a few more times
-does one make you look like a drug smuggler?
-use the other one.

Neon Yellow Jeans. Make It Work. Attempt #1

Remember how, awhile back, I used shaky impulse-buying logic to convince myself that these jeans would save my life?

Well, today I took a wrong turn on my walk home from the coffee shop, and within minutes, found myself edging along the shoulder of a 50 mile-an-hour road in the pitch dark, balancing my completely impractical Betsy Johnson laptop bag and an overstuffed purse between speeding traffic and a drainage ditch. As I approached a blind curve, I prepared to hurl myself into the abyss to avoid certain death, but then, the beam of oncoming headlights caught my jeans, and suddenly my legs were glowing brighter than a safety vest. I was visible, invincible! The yellow denim lit my way home; oh yes, these pants saved my life.

Finger guns could save your life too.

O! Whimsical Printed Panties!

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways:

OK, let's see...1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8...well this is sort of boring for you guys, huh? Luckily the only things written on my calendar today are "count ways I love whimsical panties," and "pray for a better exchange rate so I can afford whimsical panties."

As you can see, I'm pretty busy. I better go.

Hilary Laing "Jemima" frilly knickers, £20.00, here.

Don't Show-cha Your Chocha, Volume XVI

I'm back, and I come bearing (baring?) chocha!

If you're just joining Daddy Likey, click here for an intro to the phenomenon previously and currently known as Don't Show-cha Your Chocha, and if you're like, "Yeah yeah get on with it" I'll leave you with this illuminating quote, from one of my fabulous, bilingual readers:

In Spanish, "chocar" means "to shock." Not sure about "chochar" though.

And now, time to chochar!

From Gabbi, a submission "featuring a very confused model:"

She says: If I'm going to spend $279 on a complicated grey...thing, I would like to know what I'm buying. While the description says it's a "top," this depressed-looking model with weirdly-twisted legs seems to think it's a dress. Good thing she put that black...thing (Is that a skirt?)...on underneath.

Jo sent me this one:

I just found this shining example on girl's football site, Kickette. It's Claire Merry who is currently attempting to divorce Thierry Henry for £10million. Maybe if she gets it she can buy some leggings or something to make this a whole outfit.

From Poppy:

Showin' your chocha from a brand new angle...

While visiting the American Apparel website (always a risky endeavor), reader Kate came across the next two offenders, and offered up some hilarious commentary:

This lady seems deeply troubled. Like, "Oh, God, I was changing - did you just walk in without knocking? I can't believe you'd do that. Why would you do that?" The thing that gets me most is that it is sheer. Sheer. So if by some miracle it is long enough, you can still catch a glimpse of her lady-area.

And, regarding the appropriately titled "Too-Short Tube Dress:"

They know it's too short. They know. The implications that has for my world view are terrifying.

Tessa found this at Forever 21:

Editor's note: Is that Heidi Montag?

From Sara:

I saw this dress and I felt so violated like I had actually seen this poor model's chocha. I'm not sure who feels worse about this get-up...her or me!

Reader Folu saw this Shopbop promo and determined that their normally half-naked models had staged a chocha-covering coup:


I would agree, but my inbox is still full of Shopbop offenders, including this one, from Emily:


And this, from Madoka:


And these, from Heidi:

But maybe someday the Shopbop coup (and hemlines) will really go down.

And finally, lovely reader Alison submitted this link, which is sort of not safe for work, unless you have the kind of boss who takes kindly to pleas of "But it's a prosthetic wax pudenda!" Well, now you have to click, right?

Remember--next time you're shopping online and find yourself saying "Where are the pants?," do the right thing, send the offender to me: daddylikeyblog@gmail.com

I'll Be Back

Posting has been light this week for a couple of reasons:

1. There was an election. Maybe you heard about it? No? Yeah, it wasn't really a big deal.

(Click to enlarge the cutest picture in history)

I spent the evening crying and eating lemon bundt cake. At a little past 11, people were running down the street by my house shooting guns in the air and screaming, "YES WE CAN!" I was like, "I don't think that's what it means."

2. My internship is ending and I'm flying home tomorrow! It's been so much fun and gone by so fast, I can't believe it.

My last week consisted of interviewing Leanne from Project Runway (click here to check it out), researching Pakistani boy bands, posing as a sexy penguin in a photobooth with my friend Catherine, and forcing my amazing coworkers to spend so much time with me that they'll probably rejoice when I leave. ("Is that needy intern girl finally gone?") I'm going to miss them. A lot.

I'll be back in the blogging game on Monday, but in the meantime, feel free to check out the new podcast over at The Sunday Best, featuring moi. Thomas always does a bang-up job, and if you push that play button you'll be treated to juicy secrets like why the hell this blog is called Daddy Likey and how much I would pay for cheese.

Thanks so much for the opportunity, Thom, and I hope you guys enjoy it!

Source

When I Was Your Age, I Walked 10 Miles in the Snow to the Polling Station

So, any crazy voting stories yet? 

Oregon is a vote by mail state, which is both blissfully convenient and depressingly anticlimactic. While putting a stamp on an envelope hardly feels patriotic, I'm not going to complain, since I've already heard some harrowing tales from the polling stations in other states—how's it goin' out there? 

I'm working the polls in Virginia later (I think my official job title is "KEEP THE PEOPLE IN LINE HAPPY SO THEY DON'T GO HOME"), so maybe I'll see some of you there, and if I do, I'll tell you a knock-knock joke.

Tonight we make history.