Deep Down, We're All Mad Libbers

Finally, after many requests and many cold, lonely nights, Fashion Mad Libs is back!

In case you're new to Daddy Likey, Fashion Mad Libs is the most self-explanatory feature ever, in which I callously steal a fashion-related blurb from a respectable source, turn it into a Mad Libs, enlist the vocabulary of my readers, and voila, we're talking about albino peacocks.

If that description didn't help at all, check out the FML introductory post for more guidance. The most important things to remember are:

1. Post in order (first commenter fills in the first word; fourteenth commenter fills in fourteenth word, etc.)
2. Number your comment so other Mad Libbers can tell where we're at. Otherwise, people will get confused, start posting out of order, worldwide chaos will ensue and Pat Robertson and Al Sharpton will start doing TV commercials together (oh...wait...).
3. Have fun! (I totally agree with my junior high health teacher that every set of rules should culminate in "Have fun!" Woohoo!)

Ready? Good. Here's what I need from you lovelies:

1. Verb (Present Tense)

2. Adjective

3. Noun

4. Verb (Present Tense)

5. Noun

6. Noun

7. Time Period

8. Adjective

9. Plural Noun

10. Adjective

11. Plural Noun

12. Adjective

13. Adjective

14. Notable Place

15. Plural Noun

16. Verb (Present Tense)

17. Verb (Present Tense)

18. Noun

19. Plural Noun

20. Adjective

21. Adverb

22. Plural Noun

23. Plural Noun

24. Verb Ending in "ing"

25. Plural Noun

26. Type of Journey

27. Noun

28. Adjective

29. Noun

I'll post our collaborative Mad Libs masterpiece later tonight!

The High Price of Gas

I tried on a pair of Cole Haan wedge sandals at Marshalls yesterday--the kind with Nike Air Technology--and they were shockingly comfortable as well as super cute and affordable. So why did I not take them home with me and place them on a pedestal constructed of the sorry, melted remains of every inferior shoe I've ever owned?

Well, I'm afraid the Nike Air Technology was a little too airy--walking around the store, I sounded a hell of a lot like the infamous kid in my sixth grade class who once farted every step of the entire mile run. By the second lap, the whole class had abandoned our dreams of personal bests and lined up behind him to heckle and laugh.

I can only imagine wearing the Cole Haans on the streets of Portland, followed by a hysterical mob and whimpering, "It's the shoes! I swear! It's the Nike Air Technology! Really! They're cute though, right?"

So. Not. Worth. It.

Don't Show-cha Your Chocha!

That's right! It's finally time for another edition of the popular feature Don't Show-cha Your Chocha, in which readers send in examples of waaaayyy too high hemlines and the valiant models who try to make them look normal.

It would be a gross understatement to say that Shopbop and American Apparel are repeat DSYC offenders. In fact, if they were people, they'd be those petty criminals on Cops who break the law so often that it becomes kind of quirky and charming, like, "A robbery at the 9th avenue 7-11? Sounds like Byron and Ziggy again!"

Here's the latest crop from these two crazy crooks:

A perfect example of Shopbop's MO: Normal length shirt. Worn as dress. Model hates her life.

Says Antonia: Either this girl had an overnight growth spurt or there'll be a chocha sighting in 5, 4, 3, 2, . . .

Charlotte spotted this profound lack of pants:

Are they serious with this shit? I feel cold when I look at her.

This is probably one of my favorite ones, ever:

Says Nicky: She is stone cold serious about showing her lady bits and trying to maintain that fierceness while wearing half a Glad bag as a bolero. And it originally cost $522! I love what Shopbop describes it as, "This is brilliant design unlike anything we've ever seen before." Ha!

Here's one that horrified me while I was innocently browsing and not exactly in the mood for porn:

The fact that it's listed under the "skirt" category says it all.

And American Apparel's gotta join in the fun too!

Ania found this gem:

It seems she figured out how to deal with this "dress."

Theoretically not a dress, says Cate, and yet presented as one...

THISCLOSE to chochular viewing.

Next, a few that were actually not from Shopbop or American Apparel (weird, I know!).

This dress is described as "in the style of Paris Hilton" on ASOS.com. Seeing this girl's exposed vagina as she exits a car would also be in the style of Paris Hilton:

Says Jules: I'm not sure if she is hanging her head in despair or just keeping an eye on how much of an eyeful she is giving the photographer!

Rachel found a DSYC moment featuring Jonathan Rhys Meyers' girlfriend:

Check out the leg-crossing towards the camera on this one! Also, he's really creepy looking. [Editor's Note: Good god, yeah he is.]

Brittney found this extraordinarily awkward photo, which also illustrates a clear violation of my junior high school's hemline-below-fingertips dress code:

She says: If that slit went down any more or that hem went up any further, we might have
a chochaster on our hands. ...kind of like dis-aster...but with..okay you get it. Also look at what's going on in the shadow. It looks like the opposite of a chocha is happening...maybe a penicha?

I think I'll end with "penicha."

p.s. Keep them chocha sightings rolling in! Daddylikeyblog@gmail.com!

The Time Has Come--Let's Vote!

Alright, with the help of some unbiased friends and family members, I have finally identified three finalists in the Junior High Fashion Confessions contest. I was so impressed and touched by all the stories. Every single entry made me laugh, smile, or, dare I say it, shed a tear (Inside the Pages--I totally tried to match spandex outfits with a much skinnier best friend, too! Lisa--way to show those Babysitters Club bitches!).

After I read the whole bunch aloud to my little brother, who just began junior high himself, my mom took him aside and said, "You have just learned a very valuable lesson that few other people your age realize: there is life after junior high. There is better life after junior high."

Life goes on after junior high, yes, but the fashions never die.

Let me just reiterate that you are all winners--ironically, because you were such losers :)--and that this was pretty much the hardest decision ever. But now, without further ado, and in no particular order, here are the three finalists:

From Mortified:

Unfortunately, I have several from which to choose. I think I'll go with one of my most memorable...and horrendous. A look I like to refer to as "Portly Poser."

The year: 1988. The setting: small town Texas. Me: A chunky 7th grader with a can of LA Looks and a dream.

Let's take the outfit from the top...the "rooster" bangs, a stark contrast to my straight black hair (courtesy of an iron...a REAL iron).

Giant hoop earrings that would put Janet Jackson and her key earring to shame.

Big red Sally Jessy Raphael glasses (What 7th grader didn't think this talk show host exemplified the phrase "fashion forward?") I wanted them so much that I actually lied to the eye dr. and said I couldn't read the last few lines of the optical exam. I know. Loser.

White Vision Street Wear t-shirt.

Red knit bubble skirt from Units or Modules, can't recall. Now, I know these have come back in style somewhat, but I STILL don't think they are a good idea. Did I mention I was a chunk? Knit...bubble skirt...strikes 15 and 16.

To top it off, I had these killer red and black Vision Street Wear high tops. They were actually the best part of the outfit and something I would totally wear today.

The kicker is...the extent of my skateboarding was riding up and down the tiny wheelchair ramps at the local nursing home. Hardcore, I know.

Thankfully, the skater phase was short-lived. Less than two years later, I ditched my VSW duds for Hammer pants, matching vest and one of those red, green and yellow leather Africa necklaces. Yep. White girl was representin'.
--------------------

From Cate:

In junior high, I was obsessed with silk. I thought that silk could make any garment classy and worth wearing. I was also obsessed with boxer shorts, despite having been caught with my fly open several times...by peers, teachers, 5th graders, my horrified parents..you get the picture.

After purchasing about three thousand oversized silk short-sleeved buttondowns in a wide variety of extremely intense colors, I found what I considered my crowning glory. Silk, maroon, Animaniacs-printed boxers. In size XXL, so they wouldn't "dig in" to my youthful chub (or raging case of needing-to-put-the-food-down-fatty, whichever). I decided to wear these with white sheer knee highs, black patent leather mary-janes, and a black cotton tee shirt, to a party where the boy I was in LOVE with was in attendance.

Needless to say, I returned home boyless and traumatized after having "She's an Animaniac" sung to me all night long, to the tune of the Animaniacs theme song. Although I will say....I still wore the boxers. Furtively, at home, and under my man-jeans, but with a sense of "the bastards will never get me down."

An honorable mention goes to the "As If!" and "Whatever!" shirts that dutifully strained around my pudgy midsection in eighth grade after Clueless came out.
--------------------

From Katie-Lilga:

im not sure what the equivalant of junior high is here in ireland but ill just pretend ok? alrighty. well all through school i had to wear a set uniform (like most schools here) but every now and then we would haul our asses into assembly only to be told the exciting news that we had a colour day coming up. and SWEET mother of god did we make the most of those days. you'd come in in the morning and everyone would seem far more awake and excitable in the corridors, huddled in groups talking fashion only glancing up to have a goo at what everyone that passed by was wearing. and you'd want to see the teachers trying to get us to do any kind of work on those days. HA. anyway on my first colour day in a new school my outfit went a little something like this...

the most conspicuous big blue chunky CHUNKY blue skecher PLATFORM runners. (i refused to let this craze go a year beforehand when everyone else did.)

jeans that were made out of a variety of different coloured but equally manky retangles of denim. they were too short (platforms did not help) and the fly had to be SUPERGLUED CLOSED. (they were my favourite favourite jeans and i didn't care how i kept that damn zip up.)

a BRIGHT RED 'nope' fleecey hoody with a big WINKING cat on the front. (why oh why is that cat winking??)

all topped off with a long rainbow scarf (it wasn't even cold) that used to get caught in between my legs when i walked leading one good friend to start calling me 'multi-coloured pubes' or mcp for short. (this was actually all in good fun but still added to the hilarity of the outfit)

oh oh and i'd just discovered make-up...gold cream eyeshadow and tonnes of orange bronzer.

i got a lot of wear out of that outfit. the jeans could alternated with beige 'o'neills' tracksuit bottoms (yes with platforms). in fact o'neills were the must have at the time, the waist band had to be folded down and they had to be dragging slightly on the ground so you were constantly tripping up. (i was ok in that regard, mine hung halfway down the platform heel, not such a silly choice of shoe nooow are they?!)

oh and everyone thought i looked cool.

apparently.

now that wasn't long ago at all but you should seeee the kids in my old school these days, all kitted out in their designer labels, fake tan and professional looking make-up...YOU'RE LIKE TWO YEARS OLD!!!
----------------------

Now, dear readers, it's up to you.

Who should win the totally phat junior high flashback giftpack?
	Mortified--A Can of LA Looks and a Dream
	Cate--She's an Animaniac
	Katie-Lilga--Multi-Coloured Pubes
pollcode.com free polls

I told you I was gonna nag.

Time is running out for my Junior High Fashion Confessions contest! The stories posted so far have been AMAZING (my god, you guys make me laugh so hard!), but that doesn't mean that those who have yet to enter should remain on the sidelines. Remember that time at the school dance when you totally wanted to ask the popular guy to dance with you, but instead you sat by the punchbowl, pretending you were extremely thirsty, but really just too timid to take the plunge?

Well, this is just like that! Except it's probably good you didn't dance with the popular guy, because he was probably a douchebag and he probably would have copped a feel of your ass and then things would have gotten awkward. So actually this contest is different. It will not move its hands lower than your waist, I swear.

Enter!

Cordially,
Winona

p.s. Shoegal's comment made me aware that my lovely international readers don't have junior high, but most of you do have middle school, and all of you (hopefully) had puberty, so just tell me what you were wearing around the time you got your first pimple. I'm not picky (wow, that was a really poorly timed phrase).

p.p.s.s. Also, just in case you have bad peripheral vision, allow me to point you toward the ad in the right sidebar for a 20% off coupon for Jane's Closet! Feel free to use it to shop and repent for your past fashion sins.

CONTEST! Junior High Fashion Confessions

Me (left) with a doily in my hair, circa 8th grade

Today was my little brother's first day of junior high school. We've all had a lot of fun convincing him that he would have to be measured for his jock strap on stage at a school-wide assembly, but today the jig was up, and he was off to reality.

I seem to write about junior high a lot (see here, here, and here). I'm not sure if it's because I'm still emotionally scarred (well, OK, I'm sure of that), or what, but middle school analogies just pour out of me in every facet of life, from job interviews (that was awkward) to their almost daily occurrence on Daddy Likey.

I got to thinkin' that I haven't done a contest for quite awhile, so why not celebrate my little bro's life change and my apparent obsession with a junior high themed contest??

I want to know about your junior high fashion sense. What was your favorite outfit? Your least favorite that your mom made you wear? The garment you look back on and cringe? The garment you look back on and secretly want to revive? Did you get teased for wearing the wrong thing? Did everyone hate you because you dressed so right?? How did you wear your hair? Who was your style icon?

There are no specific criteria for this, just tell me a true junior high fashion story. Make me laugh and/or cry. Leave your entry in the comments section. Treat it like a confessional; just let it all out, honey. There's no need to leave your full name if you don't want to (I totally understand if you don't want prospective employers googling you to find your past penchant for Converse and fishnet gloves); your first name and last initial or a nickname (maybe your junior high nickname? Mine was Winoner Boner...damnit) will be fine.

This contest will run for a week, during which time I will hound you incessantly to enter, and then I'll choose the top 3 (or maybe 5) and have you guys vote on the winner. The lucky winner will receive pride, validation, and a totally sweet junior high flashback giftpack, including a bottle of Revlon's Charlie perfume, Bonne Bell chapstick, a Boyz II Men cd, and much more!

I'll get you started with a couple examples:

My very favorite outfit in junior high was the intriguing combo of my giant, bright purple American Girl jacket, purchased from the back of American Girl magazine; my Zoo volunteer t-shirt, complete with rips around the neckline from a possum attack (yes, really); a pair of plaid short shorts; mismatching kneehighs; and a pair of lace-up, faux-suede boots. If you can't guess, I wasn't that popular.

-or-

In 8th grade, a kid named Billy Williams came to our school. He was immediately popular because he looked like a prepubescent Abercrombie model, and there was a rumor floating the halls that his dad owned Budweiser. The first thing I noticed about Billy was his shoes--pristine blue and white Adidas Superstars. I knew I had to have a pair, so I saved up, had my mom drive me to Fred Meyer, and got my very own. I literally wore them to bed that night; I had never felt so cool. I was opening my locker the next day when I heard a voice behind me.
"What do you think you're doing?"
I turned around. It was Billy, staring at my shoes.
"Why are you copying me?" he asked.
"Umm...er...I had these before you!" I lied.
"Yeah right," Billy said. "Those are men's shoes anyway. What are you? A man?"
He teased me daily for the rest of the year, through two more pairs of Superstars, but I didn't care. A boy had never paid any attention to me before, and I decided it was better than nothin'.

So there you go. Obviously, they don't have to be that long--"I dressed like Kurt Cobain." would suffice. Please tell your friends, and if you have a blog and would like to link to this contest, I would love you forever. I'm so excited to read these, and thank you in advance for sharing your stories!

Want to send a picture of your hot junior high self? Email me at daddylikeyblog@gmail.com

Confessions of a P.E. Drama Queen

So, I don't know about you, but I didn't really enjoy junior high P.E.

My gym teacher was a documented (well, at least in my mind) sadist who would force us out to the track for long runs in the summer heat, set up a lawn chair and a glass of lemonade for himself, and say things like, "Sorry, I can't record your mile time because I only have a stopwatch, not a sun dial," as we limped by (and by "we," I mean, "I"). Looking back, maybe he was kind of clever, but still, I spent many hours of my adolescence organizing an anti-hustle movement (the very successful Ten-Minute Mile club) and searching for legal precedents for suing over forced physical activity (never did find anything).

Even now, whenever I see someone running (fairly often, since I live in Oregon, and we, like, invented running), I take it as a personal affront. "OK!" I lament at the sight of a jogger at a crosswalk, "I get it! You're better than me! You can run more than fifty feet without needing a lung transplant and only the right parts of you are bouncing and I'M SO SLOW! I know you're laughing on the inside, you vile beast!"

Of course, the jogger never acknowledges the pain she is causing me, and simply continues on her ponytail-swinging path of self-esteem destruction. But that's just how joggers are.

Now, don't get me wrong, it's not that I'm averse to all exercise--quite the contrary--it's just jogging that causes me to regress into an insecure, 13-year-old puddle. Yes, I should probably get some therapy for that, but in the meantime, cute workout gear is always helpful.

In fact, super-cute 70's style running shorts have been popping up everywhere lately, and they almost (almost) make me want to go for a little jog:

I actually bought a pair of these in a way cuter bright blue color (shown here--click on "Just Blue It"), planning to become a famous (and fashionable) marathon runner within a few weeks. I put some Timbaland on my Ipod, did a couple stretches, ran about fifty feet and decided to screw that idea. Now I wear them to class with black leggings underneath, a white ribbed tank, and sporty sandals, and pretend I just came from the gym. Look cool, no sweat (literally). Heh. Heh.
New Balance "Kaya" Women's Running Short, $28, newbalance.com for locations

Pretty simple, yes, but you gotta love the classic shape, and the splash of purple is adorable.
Women's "Response" Split Shorts, $28, adidas.com

I've seen these Nike ones in multiple stores and on multiple celebrities, and they never fail to induce a jealous growl. I just think they're beautifully designed, really flattering, and come in a great array of colors (the black on black is especially cool).
Nike "Tempo" Track Shorts, $28 (am I seeing a trend here?), nordstrom.com

If you're in need of some workout inspiration, I encourage you to head out and try some cute new shorts. But hustle it up--don't make me get my sun dial.

Abercrombie & Fitch: My Secret Shame

I have a really weird relationship with Abercrombie & Fitch.

Sure, I hate their gang-rape chic advertising campaigns. I hate that their clothes cost about three times what they're worth. I hate the "Oh, poor thing. What are you? A size 10?" look that the perfectly bronzed and toned employees* give me when I walk in.

But even so, I harbor a shameful A&F obsession. I find myself perennially attracted to their pre-distressed denim, the frayed logos on their sweatshirts, even the ostentatious initials blaring from the asses of their chocha-baring gym shorts.


I think my problem is that the A&F cool factor was singed into my brain at a vulnerable stage of development. While this was probably the effect of savvy marketing techniques targeted at adolescents, I prefer to blame my friend Milena.

You see, I first became aware of Abercrombie's existence on a trip to the mall with my junior high class. This particular excursion was a privilege reserved solely for "Warrior Club" members, which was a club based on "outstanding citizenship" that you were automatically a member of if you didn't, like, stab your math teacher with a shiv. I spent the whole time lurking around Orange Julius deciding how to spend the $2 my mom had so generously allotted me, but when we all got back on the bus, Milena was hauling an Abercrombie bag. The borderline porn on the front grabbed my hormones' attention.

"What'd you get?" I half-expected her to pull out one of the so-called "dildos" I'd heard about on Loveline.

Instead, she drew from the bag the single most beautiful object I'd ever seen--a dark hunter green crewneck sweater with ABERCROMBIE lettered in bold white across the front. My jealousy leaked out in the form of a gasp/grunt. It was incredible. It had a big tag sewn into it. I got a strong urge to reach out and touch it. Maybe some of its coolness would rub off on me?

I went home and plastered the walls of my room with half-naked Abercrombie models torn from magazines. I ordered their catalog (which actually cost money--aren't catalogs supposed to be a god-given freedom, like air?) and lusted after each new collection...er, well, I guess I lusted after what I imagined each new collection looked like, because there were no clothes featured in the catalog, only abs.

And, like a young girl whose distant relationship with her father leads her to a lifetime of pursuing cold men, I find myself still, at 21, yearning for a $60, pre-ripped hoodie. This one, to be exact:

Yes, it's $60. Yes, I've never wanted anything more. Perhaps the same God who grants us free air and catalogs will also grant me the strength to resist! Yeah, probably not.


*If you happen to be one of those perfectly bronzed and toned employees and are totally offended right now, just remember, anyone who reads Daddy Likey is a friend of mine. Maybe we could get together sometime and talk about a discount? Kidding! Kind of.

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.

The Toxic Designer Relationship: Are you afflicted?

So, every once in a while (by "every once in a while," I mean "everyday") I fall completely head over heels infatuated mega in love with a designer. This process begins in an innocent manner, with the designer making a collection or two of awesome clothes that I genuinely love, but soon the relationship inevitably turns toxic: the designer gets a little cocky and starts putting out some horrible things, but still I remain loyal and start fervently defending them to friends and family and myself. Pretty soon my friends get tired of it and move on, my family drops me off on the side of the road somewhere, and then it's just me, alone, shivering and clutching a dog-eared Designer Spotlight page torn hastily from InStyle trying desperately to hold onto the dream of my perfect designer.

One of the first times I found myself engaged in the toxic designer relationship cycle was in junior high. I used to love Paul Frank; I adored everything he made. I spent all my babysitting and birthday and Christmas money combined on Paul Frank clothes and accessories at Nordstrom, and so did everyone else my age. But then things started to turn bad. I mean, the Julius monkey thing was cute for awhile, but pretty soon it got a little tired, then a little obnoxious, then it was just ugly.


Still, I defended him to all my friends. I didn't buy as many Julius-printed boxers as I used to, but I still bought some. I gave Paul my total 14-year-old love and trust, and a year later I was buying monkey head shirts that I didn't even really like. I'm pretty much over him now, but I'll admit that even today when I spot a cheap leather Paul Frank monkey wallet at Nordstrom, I feel a pang of nostalgia for our beautiful and pure relationship from once upon a time. Compared to the high-end designers I'm infatuated with now, my relationship with Paul was puppy love. But it was toxic puppy love, a mark on the low end of the toxic designer relationship spectrum that fashion-obsessed women know all too well.

Now that you've heard my story, here's a handy quiz to find out if you are or ever have been involved in a toxic designer relationship. Answer "yes" or "no" to the following questions:

1. Have you ever bought something not because it was cute but because it was by your favorite designer and you could kind of afford it? (Give yourself two "yes" points here if you really couldn't afford it)
2. Has one of your favorite designers ever held a runway show that included huge martian hats or models wearing garbage bags or Spice Girl size platforms and you found yourself thinking something like, "Gosh, I never realized that trash bags could be so wearable!"
3. Do you refer to your favorite designers by their first names (Michael, Betsey, Marc, Alexander, Christian, Stella, etc.) and count them among your friends?
4. Were you a junior high devotee of Paul Frank, and still buy Julius shirts today?
5. Do you go to swanky websites and troll your favorite designers' collections late at night the way other people look at porn?
6. When you hear a story about your favorite designer being an ass to a reporter, do you explain to people that he's really not like that, he was just having a bad day?
7. Do you get jealous when you see another woman (probably Lindsay Lohan) wearing your favorite designer?
8. Have you ever bought something completely wrong for your figure (read: skinny jeans) just because a designer you love made them and you feel that he/she would never lead you astray?
9. Would you scoff at the shoes below if I told you they were Dr. Martens?

10. Would you yearn for the shoes above if I told you they were Marc Jacobs (which they are)?

If you answered "yes" to 5 or more of these questions, you are engaged in a toxic designer relationship. I don't really have any advice for you, since I'm engaged in about six at the moment, but if it makes you feel better, even bigshots are afflicted. Consider the incredibly chic people over at the Net-A-Porter designer shopping site. Their description of the Marc by Marc Jacobs collection includes the sentence, and I quote,"Marc Jacobs can do no wrong." Yep, sounds like a classic case.

Saw you at Daddy Likey on Wednesday. You smiled. Coat shopping sometime?

I realized the other day that I get the same fuzzy feeling reading fashion blog comments as I do when I read missed connections. Just in case you're not familiar with missed connections (I wasn't until a few years ago), allow me to explain. So, say you're a hipster in the big city, and you go to an alternative coffee shop and order your organic fat-free latte, and you look over at one of the tables and there's a totally hot hipster girl wearing owl-rimmed glasses reading Sartre, and she looks at you and smiles, but you're too scared to go talk to her, so you kick yourself in the ass for the rest of the day until finally you go home and submit a missed connections ad to craigslist or your local hipster paper, and here's what you write:

M4W, OrganiCoffee, Saturday morning
You: dark hair, glasses, hemp pants, thoughtful, reading Sartre.
Me: dark hair, glasses, tight jeans, ordered organic fat free latte, clutching Kafka paperback.
You smiled at me; intrigued, but I didn't follow through. Discuss existentialism over dinner?

Anyway, back to my long-forgotten point: if you read the missed connections section of a paper or website you'll see the vast variation of types of people that others think are beautiful. You'll see people wanting everyone from "brunette plus-sized beauty at the grocery store" to "dreadlocked street dancer" to "Ben Stein lookalike." I love looking through them because it underscores how different we all are and how there's someone for everyone (which totally disproves my junior high thesis that I would die cold and alone since I didn't look like Britney Spears) and how even Ben Stein can spark a passionate tingling in the loins.

I get the same tingly (not Ben Stein tingly, that's different) there's-something-for-everyone feeling when I look at fashion blogs and see the wide variety of love and hate comments for all the items featured. Someone will say "Oh my god that blue dress is so ugly it should be burned and its ashes buried even though another ugly dress would probably sprout from the soil in its place" and then someone else will say "Ooohh that blue dress is so pretty!"

So today, to celebrate individuality, missed connections, fashion blogs, and Ben Stein loin tingles, here are some coats I would never pick out for myself (I'm so not hatin', they're just not for me) that might totally be your thing:

Mike & Chris, $322, girlshop.com

Mackage, $495, girlshop.com

Coffee Shop, $68, nordstrom.com

Searle, waaaayy expensive, nordstrom.com

$78.50 on sale, Delias.com

Turning junior high I think I'm turning junior high I really think so

The other day I got an urge to relive the glorious years that were junior high and high school (oh my god I can't believe I just typed that), so I went for a little trip down memory lane, aka Alloy.com. Alloy and Delia's were my favorite catalogues in junior high because they were pretty much the only mail that ever came for me and they had the cutest clothes ever. One time, after months of reliably receiving the two catalogues in the mail and calling friends to discuss the new fashions immediately upon arrival ("Okay, now, the dress on page 24. Would that color work on me?") my friend Tracy got her Alloy catalogue in the mail but I didn't, and I was seriously convinced that the people at Alloy had decided I wasn't cool enough anymore and had cut me off, and I became the first person in the history of the world to call a mail-order company and literally beg them to put me back on their mailing list.


My recent nostalgic perusing led me to this dress, which I think I love. Alternatively, I think it also might look a little bit like a dish towel (it is made of french terry after all). Ooh! Let's pretend that we're all in junior high, and you're my best friend, and we both just received our Alloy catalogues and within minutes had gone through them multiple times and marked pages and circled must-haves and asked our parents for money, and I call you and say "Okay, now, the mod blue dress on page 24. What are you thinking?"

A lot of collarbone but no payoff

So, I know that every other fashion blogger in the world is posting photos of and commentary about the various fashion weeks occurring around the world like so many earthquakes triggered by the US's acceptance of gays into the military (radical Christian groups have the best logic, don't they?). But as my dedicated fans know, Daddy Likey has remained fashion-week-photo free. I just can't handle looking at picture after picture of identical, emaciated, prominent-collarboned models sulking about being paid to walk back and forth in gorgeous foreign countries. When I do look at more than a few of these photos, I start to feel like I'm doing one of those Magic Eye books that were really popular when I was in junior high, where you have to stare at a page of blurry colors and focus and unfocus your eyes and maybe take a hit of acid and then, if you're lucky, after about five minutes of angst and pain a happy family of 3-D dinosaurs appears and it's so cool but then in the excitement you focus your eyes and they're gone. However, in the case of fashion week photos, when the models and the clothes all start to blur together and my eyes unfocus and I get really bored, nothing happens. There is no happy family of 3-D dinosaurs, no glorious moment that makes it all worth it.

I think I might go buy a Magic Eye book now.

Daddy. No. Likey.

Okay. It's time to call out the stretch jersey cropped gaucho. If you happen to own a pair of these, don't worry, you're not a bad person. I just really want you to know, as a friend, that whenever you wear them, every last one of your downtown lady bits are on clear display.

I'm just gonna be blunt here. You look like this:


And this is a professional photo, people. I get it, I get it. I'm sure they're super comfy and they can so easily transition from casual to classy blah blah blah...lies! A girl walked by me today wearing these, and I could have given her an accurate body fat assessment from 20 feet away. They show everything.

Jersey is a notoriously unforgiving fabric. Jersey is your mean friend from junior high: phony, disloyal, and determined to make you look fat. So why are we stretching this mean friend as tightly as possible across our backsides?

Ditch 'em. It's for your own good.





Usually down here I would give you the link so you can find the products in the pictures, but...no.