Category Archives: Fashion

Word Nerd Attack! (featuring Janelle Monae and Nicki Minaj)

Among the many beautiful words in the English language, there is one that I hold above all others, one that is nearest to my heart, one that rolls around my mouth and off my tongue in such a pleasurable fashion…that this is getting pretty weird. Which word you ask? Amalgam. Confused? Go on, say it. Now say it again. Hot, right?

Right. But upon visiting my word crush, ’cause I like to get my lovin’ while I got it on my mind (one of the many joys of spending my days with Merriam-Webster’s), I was generally and unfortunately horrified by what I found: “a mixture of different elements“. Really? Can “mixture” truly capture the meaning of this spectacular term? Wouldn’t “blend” be at least nominally more accurate? I’m disappointed in you Webster’s, and I do not want to talk about it.

So I decided to take a crack at capturing the essence of this lovely word by creating my own awesome amalgam, or by amalgamating my awesomeness, if you will. So I took one part Janelle Monae:

who is super cool and slim enough to pull off menswear like a champ

and carefully BLENDED one part Nicki Minaj from The Creep video

in which she gives big-bootied girls everywhere hope for wearing men’s inspired fashion, and came up with this:

Is that a successful amalgamation or WHAT? I’m way into it. So take that Webster’s (seriously though…we can make up now, if you want. Oxford’s American means nothing to me. It was one time. I love you).

Ok, nerd out.

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I Have Found the One My Heart Loves. I Wore It and Would Not Take It Off.

Do you believe in love at first sight? Have you ever seen perfection and thought “I want that on me. NOW.”? Well, I have.

Now, I’ve been with a lot of sweaters. And I mean A LOT. Pullovers, cardigans, v-necks, crew-necks, turtlenecks, wool, cotton, short sleeve, long sleeve, three-quarter…you name it, I’ve had it. But it never really felt right. Sure, they would make me happy for a season or two, but then my eye would wander, or they would lose shape, or my tastes would change and they just wouldn’t suit me anymore. One way or another, we would grow apart.

Oh, bittersweet fickle fashion, don’t  you know that all I ever wanted was to find that sweater I could grow old with? You know, the sweater I would wear when I was having children? The one I would eventually die in? A beauty that’s a little bit Bardot…not crazy 21st century Arab-hating, PETA-loving Bardot,

but Nouvelle Vague sex-pot Bardot, in all her striped glory

and a whole lot of Audrey, in her infinite elegance,

with just a dash of my most under appreciated style influence

Alas, I’d all but given up hope. Where would I, how could I find such a beauty? Surely, a love like this could never exist in such cynical and untrustworthy world. I resigned to spending my life shivering in the cold, with only a meaningless string of the thinnest gray low-cut v-neck American Apparel shirts barely sheltering me from the harsh elements of this cruel world.

Then, just when I’d given up hope, I saw it,

and I knew this was the one. I mean, really, have you ever seen me so happy?

No, you haven’t.

Ain’t love grand?

As it is, these remain: faith, hope and love, the three of them; and the greatest of them is love. (1 Corinthians 13:13…Bible, y’all)

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You’re Nobody ‘Til Somebunny Loves You. But Even Then, You’re Probably Not Rihanna (You Know This)

About a month ago, I was utterly plagued by a question that I think is pretty common among women my age: how, exactly, do I get my gentleman callers to love me like I’m a hot guy? Putting the extreme fag-hagness of this ponderance, and of my life, aside, I made an important life decision to immediately cut, style, and dye my hair so I would look like Rihanna:

Then I would curl it and wear a tiered dress,

and my general quality of life would improve, right? Right? Well, not exactly. I know, I was as baffled my this misequation as you are, but despite my best efforts, the simple act of nearly shaving the sides of my head and dying my hair black was NOT enough to make me look like Rihanna:

I mean, ALMOST:

but not quite.

So WTF? How could this (not) happen? Is it because she looks like a My Little Pony,

and I more closely resemble a bunny?

Is that why? Can someone help me solve this mystery? In the meantime, I turban on.

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Turban Power

Ah, the end of the year. Time to get serious, to reflect on the tragedies, triumphs, mistakes, missed opportunities, and lessons we’ve learned over the past 12 months. But what can really sum up a monumental year like good ol’ 2010? One thing, babies: Turbans.

I recently had a pretty huge lifestyle-validating breakthrough after reading this article in The New York Times. Yes! Turbans! Back in style! (As if they could ever be out of style.) Finally, our favorite unfit mother

can be vicariously brought to life through you, me, June Ambrose, and Catherine Baba:

And we can all find new hope as we aspire to Garbo greatness, since the Garbo in a turban look

is much more practical and easily attainable than the Garbo burrito

Seriously though, this article is fantastic for several reasons, listed here in order of ascending interest:

First of all, it directs viewers to the Glamourai’s tie-your-own-turban tutorial, thus introducing them to the awesomeness of said fashion warrior AND turning every scarf 30″ x 30″ and larger into a turbantacular wonderland. I’ve recently become obsessed with the tie-your-own-turban after realizing that, contrary to Oliver’s claim, the turban is actually perfect for covering uncooperative hair. In fact, I didn’t wash or cut my hair for over a month after I read this article. Really. I’m that gross. But the turban is so powerfully fabulous, no one even noticed.

Appropriately, I publicly debuted this look at the birthday of The Schmick, (Half)Prince of Persia, future father of my children, and King of my heart:

Let’s get a close-up of that one:

And, while we’re at it, let’s take a look at The Schmick himself, back in 2008, rocking the first turban I ever bought:

That, right there, is my past, present, and future. What a guy.

Anyway, this brings me to the second point of interest I found in Oliver’s article: the debate as to whether or not the turban trend is specifically linked to the conflict in the Middle East, or, more generally, whether we internalize social, political, and/or cultural influences that then manifest in the way we dress. This one should be a no brainer. I wouldn’t go as far as June Ambrose does by saying that wearing a turban is a political statement (I will, however, say that that woman has the sweetest job on earth. I mean, she gets to physically put pants on Jay-Z), but I also find it unlikely that, as Harold Koda suggests, modern turban wearers are very influenced by the fin-de-siècle designer Paul Poiret or his view of Orientalism, albeit subliminally. Even if they were, why are we looking toward “a sense of the other that is visually compelling” at this very moment? It’s hard to believe that this particular trend is experiencing a resurgence at this particular moment in time, completely unrelated to any world issues or the current state of complete media saturation otherwise known as our lives.

So it’s not necessarily an overtly political statement, a call for peace in the Middle East, a show of solidarity to our downtrodden Arabian sisters, or a specific homage to the late greats of fashion. It may be, but not necessarily. What it is, certainly, is an artistic statement. That’s right. Getting dressed, choosing how you want to present yourself to the world, is an act of artistic expression. Ever heard the phrase “fashion statement”? As individuals, we all internalize different aspects of our lives, then we channel those influences into some kind of artistic expression. It’s how we stay sane. Music, writing, painting, drawing, dancing, acting, singing, building, designing, playing, strategizing, etc, etc, etc. Among these, getting dressed is probably one of the most common, and the most looked-down-upon. Why? Because it will never make you rich, it will never earn you more than the most fleeting, superficial respect, it doesn’t reflect the human condition or save lives or win awards beyond the odd high school superlative. It takes very little training to become good at it, and anyone can, and in fact everyone does, do it. It’s materialistic, capitalistic (eek!), and utterly meaningless. No one wants to hear you talk about what you wore except your vapid girlfriends, and many people under the impression that every day fashion and style cannot be analyzed in any way other than comically (btdubs, it’s a sad state of affairs when humor is not equated with substance).

This is unfortunate. Because getting dressed, really putting effort into it, and looking good, can also make you feel really, really good. It’s just like any other art and you get the opportunity to do it every single day. You’re not going to win a Nobel Peace prize or start a revolution, but the highs are still very high. Remember how you felt that last time you knew you looked good? Or the last time someone complimented you on your style? You’re also unlikely to be pushed to the brink of suicide by the demons swimming in your head, but the lows are still very low. Remember how it felt the last time you felt like you had nothing to wear? Or how your bank account felt last time you bought something awesome?

Once again, I digress, and must find my way back to point of interest number three. It takes confidence to wear a turban. True, perhaps, it may take a little verve to strut the streets of your small suburban town on a Wednesday afternoon wearing the pinkish-flesh colored Patricia Fields turban your best friend bought you two Christmases ago.

But it’s also a surprisingly effective way to build confidence. Not just a turban, but any equivalently gutsy-fabulous, subliminally substantial item. How do they do this? Are they like magic carpets? Will they make you the most powerful sorcerer in the world, with phenomenal cosmic powers and itty bitty living space? No doofus. They’ll make you look awesome, and I assure you, the confidence pendulum swings both ways. Lauralou, pictured here not turbaned, but still madly hatted,

who’s seen me through some especially dark times, once came home to find me sitting on the couch, wearing grey sweatpants and a(n almost matching) grey shirt. Seeing me in what was obviously a rock bottom moment, she tough loved me out of my misery by informing me that I was “really depressing” her and ordering me out of my drab, slubby attire, which was really only making it worse for both of us.

One of the greatest things I’ve learned from that moment, from writing this little blog, and over this past year in general, after months and months of Holocaust, heart attacks, hospitals, heart break, heart ache, homelessness, hopelessness, and even the frantic, dizzying highs, often characterized by a desperation even more hopeless than the hellish lows, is that no matter how bad I feel, at least I can always look good. Even in the depressive throes of unemployed boredom, I can always wear a turban. It may not work for everyone, but it’s worked for me. So turban, I tip yourself to you (get it?) and humbly thank you for doing your part in keeping me alive.

So for the New Year, wear something grand, something inspired, something that takes a little courage, enjoy the reactions you get (even the negative), and see how it makes you feel. And above all, stay awesome.

Happy New Year!

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You Can Lead a Horticulture, But You Can’t Make Her Think

So as the job hunt draws close to three months, what with the economy and all, one begins to give up on life. I mean, you know you’re losing it when you begin to describe your writing goals as a quest for “general awesomeness” and start signing your cover letters
MORTAL KOMBAT!,
Kim Daly

Clearly a shift in strategy was needed and, as I am what I am, I started with new interview attire. Why? Well, let’s take a look at what I was working with: 

In the grand tradition of getting by with a little help from my friends, I took heart when, in discussing professionally appropriate skirt length post-interview one afternoon, Ariel replied with an emphatic “THAT’S the skirt you wore?” when I indicated the garment pictured above. My eyes were further opened later that night, when I explained to another friend that when going on interviews, I did in fact wear stemmed stockings with my 4-inch patent leather Mary-Jane pumps:

Upon showing these items to said friend, I was rather creepily informed that “that’s hot.” Perhaps not exactly what I was going for.

This scenario really alerted me to the dangers of narrative fashion. It seems in planning my professional attire, I confused Tess McGill, Melanie Griffith’s character in Working Girl,

with V, Melanie Griffith’s character in the 1994 smash hit Milk Money,

Oh, you though I was gonna say Loretta, Melanie Griffith’s character in Fear City, didn’t you?

Because of your intimate familiarity with Melanie Griffith’s oeuvre? Seriously though, Billy Dee Williams IS the man. Can you believe the cool on that guy?

As usual, I digress. But I think I got back on track with the new professional wear:

Not too bad. The skirt’s a bit longer, the heels a bit lower. Oh, and the top isn’t transparent white silk. That too.

Anyway, on account of this whole ordeal, it’s been brought to my attention just how much my wardrobe is inspired by strippers and prostitutes. So much that I find myself encouraging those I love to enrich their own outfits with sex-worker-inspired narratives. Case in point:

Ariel’s 1970’s Las Vegas stripper/single mother on her day off, late for picking her son up from school, which further developed into

1970’s Las Vegas stripper/single mom at her first PTA meeting, eager to prove herself to the other moms, who are mostly snotty, skeptical housewives and haughty, cynical women with more “respectable” careers. Wait, let’s get one more:

She’s comfortable with her body and sexuality, but unsure of her worth as a mother and role model! Man, these action shots are priceless. That, my friends, is a classically trained actress right there. Thanks Ari.

I also went digging through my archives a bit and found this little number:

Clearly inspired, in a muted and not nearly as awesome way, by Jodie Foster’s breakthrough role (unless you count the original Freaky Friday. But why would you do that?) as 12-year old prostitute Iris in Taxi Driver:

Isn’t she great?

Actually, I imagine that getting a job will be a lot like that most clichéd of sex worker films, Pretty Woman. For example, if/when a potential employer makes an offer, I’m almost positive it will be like the famous necklace scene:

Except instead of a necklace, Richard Gere (potential employer…or Richard Gere, at this point I’m not really picky) will offer me a plentiful salary. And instead of laughing maniacally, I’ll weep with tears of gratitude and shout “Dear God, it’s finally over!!” to the sweet, sweet heavens. 

I’m also pretty sure the general experience of being employed will be a lot like the last scene of the movie:

That’s right Richard Gere/Potential Employer, I’m gonna save you right back with my attention to detail and “general awesomeness.”

Maybe I’m looking for the wrong kind of job…

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The Squirrel That You Kill in Jest, Dies in Earnest

Ok, let’s do this.

First of all, Halloween. Let’s get this out of the way. I had big plans for a Halloween post. I already had everything I needed for a Tin Man costume (what does this say about a person?), along with completely earnest intentions to walk around all night telling people that “now I really know what it’s like to have a heart, because it’s breaking” and homoerotically rubbing up against anything made of straw. But there comes a time in everyone’s life when it doesn’t matter what you dress up as, because you just end up going as a dumb drunk slut. The holiday season is upon us people, and may God/Allah/Buddha/Shiva/Justin Bieber/Tom Cruise/Taylor Swift have mercy on our souls.

That said, I’m gonna go ahead and ask for your assistance. Last night I sent out this mass text:

Thu, Nov 4 9:52pm Me: Umm…as a 25 year old woman, do I need a sweater with a big furry tailed squirrel on the front?

That’s right, another important issue that we’ve all been faced with at some point in our rapidly paced modern lives. What happened was this: as per usual, I went shopping with a singular purpose, to obtain this beauty

which I had spotted on a penniless night in the city a few weeks ago. I was sadly confronted by the last two in stock, sizes 12 and 2. The 12 was out of the question, despite the fact that earlier in the day I had nearly crashed the car trying to butter a roll while driving, smearing butter all over the wheel in the process (that’s considered fat behavior, right?). I tried to sausage myself into the 2, to a sort of inverted Randy Parker effect:

It wasn’t cute.

So what did I do? Leave the store disappointed but with extra money to stash away for my escape from suburban dread? No. Have you met me? Even if you haven’t and you just happened upon We Look Awesome during a routinely innocent engine search for “Golden Girls insemination”, it should be obvious to you by now that I didn’t go quietly. Instead, I bought the most outrageously ridiculous and proportionately over-priced item in the store:

Hence the text. Before I go on, let’s get a closer look at this bad boy:

Yep, this exists. But what am I to do with it? Seriously, this shit cost me $50, I actually want to know what you think. Am I past the age where I can buy things just because they’re this ambiguously awesome? At what point are we supposed to stop wearing clothing with depictions of wild life? Will this sweater get me beat up at 3rd grade?? How many squirrels were injured in the making of this garment?? Is a squirrel really just a rat with a cuter outfit?? Is it EVER appropriate to quote Carrie Bradshaw?? SHE’S NOT A REAL PERSON, IS SHE????

As a jumping off point, I’ll give you the feedback I’ve received so far.

First, Lauralou:

Thu, Nov 4 9:52pm

Umm…as a 25 year old woman, do I need a sweater with a big furry tailed squirrel on the front?

 Thu, Nov 4 9:53pm

Laura M: Like a 3D furry tail? For once I’m gonna say probably not.

 Thu, Nov 4 9:54pm

Me: Yeah, like with actual fake fur.

 Thu, Nov 4 9:57pm

Laura M: That doesn’t sound cute. Probs because there’s currently an actual squirrel tail on the sidewalk where I run. And that’s what I’m picturing.

 Thu, Nov 4 10:00pm

Me: Ok…I’ll return it. I mean…I won’t buy it and never saw anything like that.

 Thu, Nov 4 10:02pm

Me: Although, given your personal history with squirrels, you might not be the best person to ask.

 SIDE NOTE: Lauralou went to school in Kingston, Ontatrio. Apparently the squirrels there look like this:

Thu, Nov 4 10:03pm

Laura M: This is true. I am very biased. Whateva you do what you want.

 Thu, Nov 4 10:05pm

Nah, it’s probably gross.

 BUT IS IT????

Next…well, I’ll protect this guy’s anonimity, since he digs privacy. Besides, we’re not supposed to be texting about squirrel sweaters due to extreme mutual emotional distress. So I’ll just call him “Chet O’Ronald”. You know, he’s the guy that Whitney Houston is singing about in this video, one of the best dance videos of ALL TIME? 

Yeah, that guy. Let’s see what he had to say:

Thu, Nov 4 10:29pm

Chet: It depends upon the girth of the squirrel’s body and the diameter of its head.

 Thu, Nov 4 10:32pm

Me: For diameter I’d say approx 6 in. bunched and 3×5, respectively. Also the tail is real fake fur. This shit’s for real [Chet]. Can you be there for me on this or what?

 Thu, Nov 4 10:35pm

Chet: Do it. It’ll be funny.

 Thu, Nov 4 10:40pm

Me: Srsly though, this squirrel sweater cost a pretty penny. It has an actual squirrel nail gunned to the front of it.

 Thu, Nov 4 10:41pm

Chet: That’s fucking fucked up right there. That’s nuts. SQUIRREL PUN.

Was that helpful?

Lastly, Ariel, with trademark precision:

Fri, Nov 5 9:10am

Ariel: Um the answer is yes!

So what do I do? Or, as Whitney wondered how will I know??? I’m askin you what you know about these things.

**Coming next week: Matthew Bourne and nominally less trivial material. Check it out!!!

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Love in a Time of Tiny Top Hats: The Shopping Edition

For someone whose clothing addiction will very likely lead to a featured spot on Hoarders (fingers crossed!!!), I very rarely shop anymore. This is mostly due to years of over-spending and impulse control problems that I’ve only recently been able to quell with the use of psychotropic drugs (too real?). Still, looking awesome requires a certain amount of output, and last week I found myself forced to leave the comfort of my own computer for some necessary items.

Anyone who’s ever had the displeasure of shopping with me will tell you that it’s a frightening experience. While I pride myself on my remarkable efficiency and eagle-eye for excellent items, most of my friends and lovers find the experience jarring and stressful. So in the words of that tall, light, and handsome leading man, now I go out alone if I go out at all. However, now that I’m back in the ‘burbs, there are some pleasures in shopping that you don’t find so much in the city. You know, games like “Which Shapeless Sack Should I Buy?” 

Where you have to choose between the short shapeless sack or the slightly longer one (note that both are marked as size 2). So fun.

Games aside, my mission was clear: I needed a new (preferably mini) bowler and a blazer for interviews, both of which I successfully acquired:

Hmm…my bangs could use a little poofing there…

Pretty good, huh? You’d hire me, right? With gams like that? Sure, I’m no Lauralou or anything:

But that’s just sick. Like, female body builder sick. Nah, I’m just jealous. But what can I do? Not all of us are willing to crush the skulls of babies and small animals between our thighs just to tone our legs.

I digress. In addtion to the acquisition of these exceptional necessary items during my shopping trip, I also took the time to learn a few really valuable lessons.

First, sometimes things cost $10, and so you have to buy them. For example:

I also learned that sometimes you find a mustard color sweater, and since mustard is one of your favorite colors, and sundresses aren’t really appropriate in October, you have to buy that too:

More importantly, I learned that sometimes the things that cost $10 are so awesome it’s actually ridiculous, and so you have to buy them too. These things are frequently pink, pleated, ruffled, AND tiered:

But perhaps most importantly, sometimes things are so magnificent that you are actually powerless against them. You are drawn to these things, compelled, as if by forces beyond your control. You don’t know if it’s right or wrong, all you know is the benefits so outweigh the consequences, you have to take the risk. In the end, this is the story of one of those things:

That’s right, if you just believe it, there’s nothing to it. So now here I am, living the dream in a tiny white top hat, complete with sequin bow and open net veil.

But wait, does this mean I’ve forgone all progress and fallen back into old habits of over spending? No way; costs for the day totalled just under $50. Sometimes I’m the best.

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An Ode to Transition

Two months! Did you miss me?? After being too stressed from writing about trauma, then being too stressed because I’m going through trauma (yeah, that’s right, I just made a vague reference to my personal life. Whatcha gonna do?), I decided to suck it up a bit. I mean I can’t keep coasting on search engine hits forever, you know? “Magical land of alakazem,” “stewardess fucking pilot,” and “white big butt thick thighs” (has ever a phrase descibed me better?) just aren’t enough to get me to the top.

So I decided to turn my frown upside down for a minute and write a little ode to this transitionary period in my life. Because one day, when I’m Senior Executive Editor at Really Important Publishing Co., I want to look back at this time and laugh in a way that is perhaps a bit too maniacal and over the top.

But first, the cold hard facts. That’s right everyone, your (and my) worst fears have come true. I am a waitress with a master’s degree. Serving up your morning coffee with a side of rhetoric, and a pinch of regret. But hey, there have been awesome waitresses before, right? And the cafe I work at is super cute, despite the fact that my uniform consists of a t-shirt (gross!) and JEANS (GROSSER!!). They do allow me to wear my little do-rags though, so I work it.

That’s right, red hair: an indicator of pre-transition times. Oh [nominally]      happ[ier] days, how I miss you so[-so]!!

Now before I proceed, I should make it clear that I in no way look down on waitressing or waitresses. In fact, if you’ve ever had one, you’ll know that there is nothing better than a professional waitress. However, there’s also nothing worse than being a waitress when you really don’t want to be. Although, I imagine this is true of any profession. It probably also really sucks if you’re a brain surgeon but you really want to be a tap dancer. I once had a nurse who said he was really a DJ. I mean, as his patient, that was just scary.

On that note, let’s take a look at some awesome waitresses. Like Dawn from Season 1 of True Blood:

Yeah, that’s right, I watch True Blood. So what if it’s not cool? It makes me happy. I deserve to be happy. I don’t have to defend myself to you. But why Dawn, you ask? Two words: nice ass (not pictured here).

Or Shelly from Twin Peaks (maybe I could get away with wearing that hat):

Why Shelly? Because her husband beat her with a sock full of soap bars! Come on, I’m obvs a trauma junkie. I eat that shit up.

But the be all end all of cute waitressness? The one and only Sarah Connor, before she became the mother of the future leader of the free world (You cannot prevent judgment day. You can only postpone it.):

Grad school did not prepare me for this. But this whole situation is only temporary, right? RIGHT????

In other news, it’s Dollar Bill’s birthday today!! Happy 61st Dad, and get well sooner. In the meantime, I’ll post embarassing photos of you on the interwebs (left, circa 1955ish):

I know what you’re thinking, and yes, high-waisted pants DO run in my family.

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The Great Legging Debate

All right bitches. I’m here to settle this once and for all. Why is it ok to wear leggings “as pants”? BECAUSE AUDREY HEPBURN DID IT.

And she’s awesome. Duh.

So next time you want to rag on someone for carrying out this practice, ask yourself:

1) Do I want to rag on someone for doing something Audrey Hepburn did, thus implying that Audrey Hepburn herself might not have been awesome?

2) Do I really give a shit what other people are wearing when I myself look so awesome? Shouldn’t I be concentrating on my own awesomeness?

Can’t we all just get along?

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Hold me closer, Tony Danza. Featuring the Body of Christ!

Sometimes these things work backwards. Sometimes you put something on and you need to unpack the subliminal influences that inspired it. Why? Because you’re me and you have nothing better to do than overanalyze the shit you wear. Duh. Take this little number, one of my recent faves:

I couldn’t really get a good picture of it, now that Lauraloo, my primary photographer, has gone off to the fruit farm. In her absence, I’m experimenting with new angles like bird’s eye view:

and this one depicting me as I pay my respects at the clothes chair, where outfits go to die:

Aaaaanyway, this lacy white concoction made me think of that scene from She’s Out of Control, the 1989 comedy starring TV zensation Tony Danza as a father who is cursed with a really, really hot daughter. You know the scene right? Because all of you have seen this movie? It’s taught in most post-WWII American film courses. Haven’t any of you ever taken a film class???

Seriously though, it’s actually a piece of crap, except for this one scene where Tony Danza comes home from his business trip to find his newly hot and dateable daughter (makeover montage!!!!) walking down the stairs in slow motion to Frankie Avalon singing “Venus”. Check it out at 4:01-4:45 on this clip (but don’t watch the rest…it WILL ruin your life):

Hot right? Come on girls, don’t act like you don’t ALWAYS wear exclusively white outfits on all of your first dates.

Upon closer inspection, however, I realized that my all white experiment was shockingly similar to the dress I wore at my first communion. Oh, first communion, when little girls get to wear mini wedding dresses while consuming the body of Christ for the first time…a preparation for one’s wedding night in so many ways.

And who could forget the 1992 first communion fashions? So poofy and over the top with their puffed shoulders and full tulle skirts. I, however, opted for a simpler silhouette with a chic lace overlay for that fateful day, throughout which I acted out the aforementioned scene many, many times.

The moral of this story is two fold. Little girls don’t often get to wear their first communion dresses twice, but if you pick the right one, it will inspire them to look awesome well into their twenties. And as anyone who remembers Jean Paul Gaultier’s Spring 2007 Couture collection knows  (check it out! http://nymag.com/fashion/fashionshows/2007/spring/main/europe/couturerunway/jeanpaulgaultier/), Jesus’s crew got great style.

(Thanks for the pics Ali-Z, you look awesome!).

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