I’m Not a Cat Lady

Got Ray-Bans?

I'm really glad the weather's getting better and the sun is shining and all that. But not so psyched about some of the unfortunate sartorial sights: stocky, hirsute jocks in baggy khaki cargo shorts and flip-flops, gaggles of girls sporting identical tunic-and-leggings ensembles or shorty-shorty-short-shorts. And smock tops galore--it has never been so challenging to play the "Fat or Pregnant?" game.

But perhaps the worst offense has to be the resurgence of the Ray-Ban Wayfarer. They are ev-ery-where. Naturally all the self-appointed Hollywood Hipsters kicked it off, no doubt thinking they're all super-cool and cutting edge.

I'm sorry, when I see the Ray-Ban Wayfarer, everyone just looks like this.

Nogurt Anyone?

 

So that trendy treat that's sooooo gooooood  people call it Crackberry, well, hey! It's a little more cracklike than we thought. Seems Pinkberry--the designer frozen yogurt that created such insane mob scenes when the first store opened in West Hollywood that guards were hired for crowd control? The fabulosity of which resulted in 13 outlets in Los Angeles and 4 in New York? And inspired in a mini-explosion of copycats? It isn't yogurt at all. The airy, tangy concoction is created from a powder base, which, according to a civil suit filed against the company, is then "mixed with water and/or milk on site." Ain't no bacteria cultures in there. No healthy, clean, organic goodness at all, despite the fancy fruit toppings and healthy-chic flavors like green tea.

Now if this delicious allegation is true, there's really only one thing to say about it.

Source: Defamer

No! More! Whiskered! Jeans! EVER!

I love Martha Stewart for this. Now that we've finally broken 70 degrees, summer fashion faux pas are here! This year it's especially appalling, with the micro-mini and short-shorts trends being embraced by many who have no business even thinking about them. For in a town that prides itself on being a world-class style capital, New York is teeming with walking fashion disasters. Rules need to be laid down. And Martha has done it.

What does it say about women in the workplace that such a screed is even necessary? Perhaps that we've gotten a little too comfortable in the office place? Whatever it is, personally, I've seen one too many crusty bra straps and pasty thigh expanses at the conference table and have been subjected to so much obnoxious thik-thok thik-thok thik-thoking as a clueless flip-flop princesses flap up and down corridors, I have actually contemplated murder. So you tell 'em, Martha. Bitches need guidance.

Herewith, the email:

How to Wear: Jeans
Save ripped, stained, bleached, whiskered, or otherwise overly distressed denim for the weekend. Ditto for any styles that sit so low that they reveal flashes of your midsection when you reach up to grab a book, or your bottom when you bend down to grab your bag. Sometimes, wearing a longer top can be the solution. But the basic rule is, no peeks of skin between the top of your jeans and the bottom of your shirt. Pair jeans with a nice shirt and shoes (not a T-shirt and sneakers).

How to Wear: Sundresses
Many summer skirts and dresses are made from gauzy material, so make sure the fabric's not see-through (don't forget the back view). Coworkers should never be aware of what color/cut of undergarments you are wearing. Wear a cardigan over a dress that's strapless or low-cut. Bra straps should never be visible. Putting on leggings does not make a super-short hemline any more appropriate. Keep hems somewhere right above the knee, or lower.

How to Wear: Sandals
Feet should be clean, well-groomed, and generally presentable. If you aren't sure what this means, stick to closed-toe footwear. Flip-flops can be worn in a fashionable way, but the rubber kind--generally associated with the beach, the pool, and the dorm shower--should be saved for the weekend.

How to Wear: Tank Tops
Those tight, ribbed cotton tanks are usually better as layering items than as stand-alone tops. Bra straps should never be visible. Wear a cardigan over a strapless top.

How to Wear: Shorts
Capris and "city shorts" (the type that reach the knee) are fine, especially when paired with nice flats or heels. Short-shorts, cargo shorts, board shorts, and pretty much any other kind of shorts, are not.

Source: Gawker

Go to Whole Foods, Feel the Burn!

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I just got burned at Whole Food. No, I mean really burned. I was unloading my groceries onto the checkout counter and as I reached in my wallet for my credit card, I noticed a white residue on my fingertips. I know how that sounds, but it wasn’t that. It looked like my fingertips had been dipped in white paint, and as I held my fingers up to look closer, the white began to spread into splotches and started to sting.

I was very confused by this and just stood there with my mouth agape looking at my fingers and watching the white splotches spread, and then the stinging intensified and I suddenly thought something really weird was about to happen, that my whole body would spontaneously break out in white splotches and start burning all over ... And then I thought, “Anthrax!” My mind went from zero to panic in two seconds flat. I held my hand out for the cashier, who by now was looking at me askance, and said, a bit wimpily, “There’s something on my fingers!” and she nodded, kind of, “Yeah sure whatever,” but I insisted, “This is really weird, it’s really stinging,” so she handed me her hand sanitizer, which I rubbed on but it just stung more. So I asked if there was a ladies room and she escorted me way to the back of the store—walking a little casually, if you ask me—as I trotted behind convinced that my skin was about to blister and fall off like the Incredible Melting Man and then what would I do? 

We finally go back there and, hey, not too glamorous where the poor Whole Foods employees have to go to seek relief. Clean, but cheerlessly industrial, and only two loos. Naturally, both were occupied, so I headed for a huge sink and rinsed the hell out of my hand in cold water, and the stinging stopped. But the chalky white residue remained. Then it dawned on me that this was the kind of reaction peroxide has on the skin—I’ve bleached my own hair enough times, it’s happened. But this was seriously out of context in the Palace of All Natural and Organic, I must say.

A very nice girl who was back there arranging batches lovely Whole Foods flowers (in a sad, grey little room, bless her) called a floor manager and they both helpfully produced burn-relief items from a first aid kit. The manager was seriously puzzled by the idea that anything in the store could possibly burn a person, but still, he donned rubber gloves and searched through my bags to see if he could find anything untoward. He didn’t. He took my name and number, gave me his and advised me to go to the D*O*C*S nearby, where they have an account, to have it checked out, which I did—just in case I did suddenly self-combust later on, I wanted it to be on record. The guy at the reception thought it looked like an acid burn. Eek!

By the time the doctor saw me an hour had passed, my Ionic Awakening frozen pizza had defrosted, and 90 percent of the white whatever had disappeared. But there was still enough left for her to deliver the prognosis that it was, indeed, a reaction to peroxide.

Sure enough, when I unpacked the groceries at home, white splotches reappeared on my hand, and disappeared again shortly after I rinsed it. I still don’t know which item or items are drenched in peroxide, and I’m a little nervous about eating anything I’ve bought today. Which is not how you’re supposed to feel after shopping at Whole Foods, now are you?

Joke's on You, Ladies!

So this, everybody, is the must-have shoe of the season. Women are sacrificing their newborns to get a pair. Waiting lists are a mile long. It always amazes me that women are so willing to put their name on waiting lists for fashion items—it's the biggest cliché ever. So Sex and the City Season 2.

I have a thing about super-high heels like this. I see women wibbling preciously along on the streets in their stiletto heels looking so… compromised. It’s not easy to walk with all your weight shifted onto the ball of your foot. I always hear that you get used to it but really high heels always make my feet hurt and, call me crazy, but I hate being in unnecessary pain. I also like to get from A to B without too many complications. I don’t want to be at the mercy of my stupid high heels when I'm navigating cracks and grates and cobblestones and unexpected shifts in pavement heights and angles. I’ve been known to lose it out there in a completely flat shoe.

However, millions of women seem to think that wearing stilettos is powerful and sexy and an absolutely mandatory part of being a woman. As a fashion writer rhapsodizes in the New York Post today: “…there’s something confident, gutsy and cool about a girl who can get that high.” Oh please. How about “slavish, gullible and vain?” Except not vain enough, apparently: Super-high heels might look sexy, but they really, really fuck up your feet. Just look at serial stilettoists Sarah Jessica Parker and Victoria Beckham, who both have the ugliest, buniony, bulgy-veined feet you’ve ever seen. “Granny feet,” Posh calls them. There's even a rumor that SJP’s feet are so funky, she had to have her feet digitally altered in Failure to Launch. She once tore several tendons in her foot after running in heels, yet still chirped, “I’ll never give them up!”

Well I guess she can’t, she’s about 4’11”. But honestly, why would anyone knowingly do this to themselves?  How different is risking deformity for the sake of looking “hot” from the archaic Chinese practice of foot-binding? I reckon the must-have sky-high heel trend is one of the meanest jokes gay fashion designers have ever played on women. “Let’s make a six-inch heel with a two-inch platform and watch them claw each others' eyes out for it. Haha, bitches!” I mean, they don’t have to wear them. Not in public, anyway.

The other day, a writer for the Daily Mail bought a pair of the new Yves Saint Lauren It Shoe to road-test. A male shop assistant "purred" that they made her look sexy and assures her that she could “dance all night in them.” Yeah, he'd know. He totally lies about how the ratio of platform to heel makes it super comfy. Look at that vertiginous drop. That is pain, sister. Still, Miss Daily Mail believes every word. Sucker.

I guess these shoes are fine if you're one of those people whose feet never ever touch pavement and you never ever have to stand and you’re escorted or perhaps even carried around on all your nights out. And, why, darling, they’d be just fabulous for the red carpet. But for anyone who's not a celebrity, model, trophy wife or Anna Wintour to get off on the idea that she's so cool to get that high? Not very clever. The only way to wear this shoe is when you’re on your back. For once, Miss Fergie-Ferg gets it right.

 

Best Thing I've Seen All Day

Kate Moss's clothing line launched yesterday at Topshop in London and there was a mob scene outside. People had queued for hours and were allowed inside in designated groups, each allotted 20 minutes to buy five items tops. The ladies went mad. Literally, I think—witness their photos. (Click to enlarge for the full effect.) Look at these clothes. You could do better at Conway! Admittedly there's a little mutton-dressed-as-lamb going on here, but even the three under-20s look a tad heiferish here. Today, this Daily Mail fashion writer rails about the "horrible synthetic fabrics and dingy colours" but gets caught up in the frenzy anyway, buys a bunch of crap and then hates herself later. Hey, y'all, guess what? You're not Kate Moss! The line is coming to Barneys this month. Girlfriends, you've been warned.

Horsies Go Bye-Bye

These are just two sad stories about the all-too-frequent-lately demise of various New York institutions: The Claremont Riding Academy near Central Park, Manhattan’s only riding academy and the nation’s last standing livery stable, built in 1892; and the 66-year-old Empire Roller Rink, “Brooklyn’s ONLY roller rink,” according to its website.

Two establishments, worlds apart, one thing in common: They're over. Each is closing for very different reasons. The Claremont, claims its owner, Paul Novograd, simply became too expensive to run, and riding in the park especially with all them pesky joggers and Bugaboo-weilding parents claiming entitlement to commandeer the bridle path. (Plus, he got $11 million for the landmark building. Won’t it make awesome condos?) The Empire, it seems, saw one too many shootings outside. Kids today, huh?

Shutterings of New York institution seem to occur at least once a week lately. Does this happen in Paris or London or even San Francisco? I’m betting no.

images courtesy of Gothamist and citilore.org.

Is Nothing Sacred?

This is what I get for listening to too much NPR: Today I heard a report about how a bunch of Brooklyn “artists” have launched a contest to reinvent the Mr. Softee jingle. Now I know that jingle can be crazy-making when a truck is parked outside your window, but I mean, really, do we have to reinvent everything that happened before 1985?

Naturally I had to go and listen to them all. And I must say, “Ice Cream Balinese” is rather pleasant. “Happy Kone” made me go into a nice little trance. Didn’t say “yummy sticky ice cream,” though.

As for the rest: Do we really need a beatbox version of this jingle—or a beatbox version of anything at all? Or an ambient version with a vocal that sounds like Bjork on smack? Or—my ears!—a guitar-wailing rock version? If any of these end up out there on a constant loop, I’m sure the murder rate will rise.

Except, hmmm. When I think about it, that might be exactly what this city needs right now.

photo courtesy of gothamgazette.com.