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Category — OOH LA LA BEAUTY

The Eyes Have It

Jeepers creepers….where’d you get those peepers?

‘Tis the question…..

When I was a little kid I had showstoppers. Crazy eyes. Big, blue and beautiful. As I grew older, they got greener. Still my best feature – or so I thought. Yet, with each blue-eyed baby I birthed I’d hear it over and over: where did they get those eyes? I’d open up big and doe-like and pretend I didn’t understand the question. Because I kinda didn’t. Hellooo?!? Green eyed lady, ocean lady???

How could this be??? Bodies come and go and stretch and shrink….but eyes? The windows to the soul? I owned eyes. They were my parts. The ones. IT.

Or were they?

Apparently, it was time for maaaaaaake-up. I’d never worn make-up. Looked like a tranny – or a granny. Specifically, my friend G’s granny who was known for her baby blue… eyelids. That said, they kinda worked for her. For me? Erm….no.

I’m just not a make-up person. Products? Yes. Potions, lotions, tonics and tinctures? Yes, yes, yes, and yes. But now that tans are verboten, the wrinkles are creepin’ in, and my eyes have apparently turned to mud, I knew the time had come.

First stop was the eyelash lady for extensions.

Two hours and $200 later I looked like Carol Channing. Crazy, right? But they were a gift. One that kept on giving because they all fell off after 4 days. Correction: they all fell off of ONE EYE after four days. Hello Clockwork Orange!!

Luckily, I have a couple of make-up artists as pals and they, together with the lovely and talented Katie at Laura Mercier, sent me in the right direction…I soon found salvation in a handful of tubes, bottles and palettes. And if I, who hail from the Crayola School of Makeup, can apply, so my friends, can you. Here goes:

Step One: Primer. Laura Mercier Primer.

I still don’t know what this is or how it works. All’s I DO know is that a little shmear of this topped with a couple o’dots of Origins “Sunny Disposition” and you’ve got a mini face lift. Whether you thought you needed one or not. Looks awesome. Smooth, glowing skin.

Step Two: Concealer. Nars Concealer.

As I said, Crayola School of Macquillage. Which is why this concealer, in a little lipstick tube, works every time. No fuss, no muss, no f&ck ups. Whether you’re over-forty or just over-tired, there’s really no excuse for not using this. Even on the weekends.

Step Three: Invisible Eyeliner. Laura Mercier Again.

This stuff is the coolest. Looks like a small pot of dried up paint. Add a few drops of water, swirl with your handy eyeliner brush and apply UNDER the upper lid. Sounds weird. Looks great. This is where the magic happens, ladies and Lamberts. Once you get the hang of it, this stuff doesn’t come off – ever. But in a good way.

Step Four: Mascara. Any kind, any time.

Of course you can keep on keeping on. Blush, lids, liners, and lips. But I can’t. The tranny thing. Plus, after so many years of living au naturel I was loath to commit to a daily regimen. And I’d hate to go to bed as one woman and wake up as another… Trippy and kinky as that may sound, the only thing less appealing than morning breath is morning face.

Laura Mercier Primer: $40
Nars Concealer: $22
“Invisible” Eyeliner and brush: $50

Looking like a million bucks having only spent $122 plus tax: Priceless.

4 comments:

Anonymous said…

Donna Mills

2:09 PM

laviandbelle said…

Good tips!! Lord knows I can use all the help I can get these days….

2:40 PM

Anonymous said…

The eyes do have it. As your sister in non-makeup I have to say, makeup really makes a difference, who knew ?

4:24 PM

Anonymous said…

American Idol, please.

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January 28, 2010   No Comments

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Storm in a B-Cup

Boobs. Tits. Jugs. Knockers.

Helloooooo there!

When I was younger, I’d go down South to visit my grandparents every Christmas. Aside from the weather, the Apple Jacks, and the all-you-eat early-bird specials, there was the shopping. Aventura, Boca Town Center, Galleria Mall, Pompano Fashion Square. They all had one thing in common, aside from Burdines: Victoria’s Secret.

One of the highlights of each trip would be my annual Vicky’s Secret excursion with my grandmother. My Bubby would install her plus-sized self in one of the fitting rooms – preferably with a snack – while I grabbed as many 34-B bras that I could find. At first they were simple: nothing too lacy, nothing too showy and absolutely no falsies! I’d bring armloads of bras and start trying. One after the other, until she’d find herself at the bottom of a sea of underwear – and underwire. We’d bring them back to Palm Aire and I’d model them for her underneath my various t-shirts and dresses.

This went on from my teens until well-into my twenties. Sure, I erred on the nippy side, but I didn’t care if my headlights were showing. Heroine chic was all the rage. And while I couldn’t compete with the waifs, I certainly had the chest for the tops I liked.

And then I tried on a WonderBra.

Well! Helloooo ladies indeed!

Victoria’s Secret? Out. Marks and Spencer? In.

And so it went. I lived in London and the Florida trips became more sporadic. I still went and we still shopped, but I’d moved on from Victoria’s Secret. A large and in charge Marks & Sparks bra fitter had helped me to see the light – not the headlight. I was loyal to my bras. And they were loyal to me.

And then I got pregnant. And breastfed. Repeat three times. Lovely babies. Lovely boys. Less than lovely boobs despite my fabulous M & S underthings. They helped me through the ups and the downs. And the further downs. Until I noticed there was an awful lot of…room…in them there cups. It was time. To reinvest.

And then a few weeks back I found myself staring into an enormous pair. It was a Victoria’s Secret window and it was huge – as was the bust. Or was it? I stepped over the threshold and let myself go. Shopping American Style. Claire guided me to the bra area. Vivian whipped out her tape measure and got to work. Lynne ushered me into the fitting room. With a bra box. And a t-shirt.

This was not my grandmother’s VS.

Gone were the rummaging through tables and rifling through drawers to find my size, shape and colour. No more undressing mannequins to find a bra that wasn’t fuchsia. This was civilized.

Inside the bra box was each and every bra in the Victoria’s Secret arsenal. In black. The idea being you try ’em all on and find the ones you like. And that like you. Then you ring the “service bell” and they get to work finding your choices.

Incredible.

25 minutes later, I emerged, head held high, tits even higher. Leopard-lined and seamless, biofitted and bombshelled, there were some new bras in town!

The icing on the cake? I was the same size as pre-children. A little lower, maybe, but with the new boob technology out there, who cares? Comfy AND sexy were no longer a contradiction in terms. No fuss, no muss, no knives.

Their latest bra is The Plunge – guaranteed to add two bra sizes for “hourglass ooomph”. A boob job for $45! If my Bubby could see me now….

1 comments:

Rob H said…

Need more Blog Postings… what the hell is up! This year has been sooo slim!

November 23, 2009   No Comments

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Isa- what?

There’s a new crash diet in town. And I’m all over it. All. Over. It.

Look – I’ve tried every diet there is. The nutrisystem deliveries? Revolting. Nutritionists? Evolved into whack-job emotional eating therapy sessions. One summer I tried the Montignac/GI Diet/Suzanne Somers thing with a friend of mine. After a month or so we agreed we’d never felt better; never had more energy; never enjoyed so much cheese. She looked tremendous. I couldn’t do up my pants. And of course as any who know me know….I’m a Weight Watcher lifer – right down to the app on my iPhone.

I know what you’re thinking – obviously having been on every diet means that I….erm… needed to be on every diet. Not so. OK, maybe a little, but I was rolling along quite nicely until I got pregnant. Over and over and over again!

With each weekly WW meeting I figured out new and improved ways to beat the system. And then suddenly, the system stopped working for me. Or maybe I stopped following it….Either way, I’d reached that dreaded zone we never-say-diet-it’s-a-lifestyler hates: The Plateau.

So when my dear friend told me she was going to do a “cleanse” I poo-poo’d her. Crash diet now, gain it back later. That’s what I’d heard, read, studied. Belittling her efforts became a bit of a sport. What was she thinking?

Question is, after she lost 11 lbs in 11 days – what was I thinking? And when could I start?

September 8 was D-Day. After all, Labour Day’s the new New Years, right?

Bring on the Isagenix.

My new mantra became shake, shake, meal. Breakfast and lunch are replaced with these shakes, followed by a “healthy” meal. And I must tell you the first day was brutal. BRUTAL. I was warned I might suffer a headache or two, but when I crawled under the covers, fully clothed, ice pack on my head and gel mask on my eyes, I thought I was in rehab. Turns out this cleanse was, in every sense, a detox. I also happened to have had a tetanus shot that morning. I can blame the shot. Or the lack of Diet Dr. Pepper. Either way, I was sure this was it. The end. The end of isagenix, and the end of my life.

But the sun rose again and I carried on. Shake, Shake, Meal. Shake, Shake, Meal. I ditched the gag-inducing Ionix (a Vitamin B liquid/motor oil that failed to get my engine running) and stuck to the shakes. I added a few pineapple chunks and a smattering of mango to the vanilla and I swear, it could’ve passed for a pina colada. Almost.

And then came cleanse day number one. The moment of truth. I shot back 4 ounces of the Cleanse for Life liquid and waited for the magic to happen. I had to do 4 glasses of the stuff which, while not completely vile, isn’t something I’d ever savour. But whatever natural speed/appetite suppressant was in there was working. It was a breeze. So much so that I went for it and did another cleanse day the next day.

Now, if someone had told me I’d drink nothing but 16 ounces of some sort of aloe vera berry juice I’d have shown them the door and ordered Chinese, just to prove them wrong. But I did it. With only mild cheating. A couple of carrots here, a cuke or two there. And then there are the oddly compelling IsaSnacks. Strange little wafers that taste like chalk and yet…..become somewhere comforting when there’s nothing else to chew.

And so it went….For 11 days.

I stepped on the scale, whipped out my measuring tape – supplied by the kind folks at Isagenix to prove their point – and….Lo and behold, I’d lost 10 lbs. And 18.5 inches. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. And to be honest – I don’t care. I did get a bit nervous that there may be some sort of heart-attack inducing natural speed in there – but according to my trustworthy chiropractor – it’s all good. In fact, he wants to start taking it now too!

It’s no secret that the whole isagenix world is based on a pyramid scheme. Tho’ I guess it’s not a scheme if it works. But there’s a shady feeling about the whole thing. And yet… I’m all over it. Hook, line and sinker. I don’t miss my diet pops or my processed turkey sticks. I have a new-found appreciation for water, almonds, and tea. I know how evangelical I sound – ironic when you consider one of my many sidelines of work is writing inspirational blogsites – but when something works, it works.

Oh – and for those naysayers who wonder how much more I’ve gained back? I’m down another 3lbs . Schadenfreude – kiss my shrinking ass! Everybody else, hop on the IsaTrain – it’s a sweet, clean ride…..

2 comments:

Anonymous said…

you should send this to them and get paid – I’m serious

3:15 PM

kyra said…

yay! i’m about to do another 11 day. starting thursday. the day after my birthday. gotta have my cake and eat it too!!!!!!!

September 9, 2009   No Comments

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Lulu’s for Lemons

Check out the following statement:

“Look at your cute clogs…I remember when you only wore high heels, were dressed to the nines, and had your hair cut ‘n coloured by that rip-off guy….Now you’re all comfy and relaxed….”

How would you interpret this?

a) that you’re fabulous and chilled; mellowed with age.
b) that the person speaking has a secret ladies’ shoe fetish
c) that you’ve let yourself go

If you said anything other than (c) you’re a moron. Or a man. Same same sometimes. “Comfy”? There’s not a whole lot worse you could call a person, without being straight-out rude! Fact is, lululemon is the best – and worst – thing to happen to a girl since the invention of lycra.

Lulus, and all their knock-off compatriots, have definitely helped the humble sweat pant grow in leaps and bounds. (Excuse the phys ed refs.) But when once they were seen as a somewhat chic way of dressing shlubby (in my mind that is) they’ve now become the ubiquitous uniform for stay at home moms, exercise fanatics, and those of us who need to shed a few.

In other words, they’re the new Fat Pants.

They’re black. They’re flattering. They suck you in in all the right spots. We all wonder how we lived without them…And yet…they let the world know you’re got nothing to wear, something to hide, or both. Outside of the gym, that is. I have one friend who refuses to wear her yoga pants after 12 noon. Another who will only wear them once she’s inside the actual gym. And then there’s me, who (until the clog/relaxed/what happened comment) refused to wear anything but!

Erm, “butt” being the operative word here.

Having a four-month old baby should be excuse enough for kicking back a la lemonata. And yet, it’s not. With my other kids I always knew another pregnancy was on the cards, so never really invested. Sure, I joined a gym (or two) but rarely went. And of course I’m a Weight Watcher lifer. I always got back down to the starting line, give or take 5 lbs. But this time, it’s done. No more babies to be born from this body. It’s time to get back on the horse. The clothes horse that is.

But with an unforgiving, post-partum, 3-baby body it’s easier said than done. Hence the yoga pants. And now it seems they’re no longer an option. Or are they? Sure I remember the days of yore: not necessarily skinny, but definitely stylish. I was the chick who was dressed and blown dry on Sundays. In my apartment. And now? Jeans are my fancy pants. What happened? Have I let myself go? Is the most stylish thing about me my beloved iPhone?

It is pretty stylish…

But I digress. Someone suggested I don’t care as much now about how I look.

WHAT?!?

I straighten my hair for god’s sake. I may colour it myself now, but I still straighten. With products. So I must care. Right?

Let’s set the record straight.

I’M.NOT.GOING.ANYWHERE.

Or anywhere exciting. It’s a short drive from my home to my kids’ schools. Throw in a couple of detours for food ‘n sundries and I’m done. For that I should dress up? How? Back in the day when I did get styley, I was also getting paid. Most of my money went towards feeding my shopping habit. Nowadays, my money isn’t really mine. It’s “ours”. (Well, actually…my money is mine, his money is ours… but I don’t really have any…And that’s another story…) Either way, it’s spoken for.

But not anymore. I’m turning over a new leaf. Or reverting back to an old one. I’m packing up my yoga pants. Putting away my sensible shoes (albeit high-heeled ones). All dressed up with no place to go? That’ll be me. Suited and booted and rarin’ to go. Nowhere. But in style.

At least for this week……

October 30, 2008   No Comments

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Beauty is in The Eye of The Beholder

A few weeks ago, my eldest son looked up at me and told me I was ugly.

Suddenly I flashed back 30 years, when I met my father’s then-girlfriend for the first time. I came home and told my mom all about her, stressing that while the girlfriend was much prettier, my mom was much nicer. As if that were a god thing! How could I have been so dense? And so blind? As it was, this chick wasn’t nearly as attractive as my mom. And I’m not just saying that in hindsight. (Or because she’s my mom. And there’s a family resemblance.) No, I’m saying it now because it’s true. The girlfriend’s long gone now, but memories of her tiny mouse-like face and curling-ironed hair still remain…

As does the fact that my 5-and-a-half year old thinks I’m ugly. UGLY!!!!!! I may not be a supermodel but I’ve been known to turn a head or two. And with 3 babes and 40 years under my belt I may not be at my peak but I can say with certainty that I am not, I repeat, NOT ugly.

Or at least I wasn’t…..

Maybe this is some kind of intergenerational, cosmic payback. According to my eldest, I’m a hag. What the f&ck?!?!?!?! Aren’t your children supposed to see you as the epitome of all that is good and beautiful in the whole wide world? When my second son socked him for insulting me (yeah, he does that), my bigger boy explained through his tears that I looked ugly because my skin looked a little bit green. Green!

Now I know I’m coming out of a pasty-faced winter, but I tend to be more peaches and cream…OK, white… rather than green. Hence the sunburns. If I were green…olive… I’d bronze like a goddess. Or my husband. But no, according to my five and a half year old, I was green. Ish. That said, he did watch the Wizard of Oz recently….

Coincidence?

Perhaps. Or not. Maybe I am green. Maybe I do look the wicked witch of the west. Or maybe I’m just, gulp, getting old?

There’s been a lot of talk about aging lately. “Lately” meaning I’m the one talking about it with my people. Is that what happens when you enter your 40’s? Suddenly, I find myself checking out the surgercized chicks with more wonder than cynicism. I’ve been contemplating growing out my bangs but think that maybe now’s the time to keep ’em. That or botox. I’ve become invisible at the cheap ‘n trendy shops, yet a star in the pricey ones. All these older women keep checking me out. Or are they older at all?!? I notice that I don’t often spot people my own age in the streets and on the town….because maybe, just maybe, all those oldsters ARE my own age?

YIKES!

But it’s what’s on the inside that counts, right?

Right?!

Luckily for me, my second son thinks I am all that. He likes my toes – painted or plain. Doesn’t mind me in glasses, and likes pony tails. And when I wear red. Which I never ever do, but that’s what he says. I’m thinking it’s ‘cuz Elmo is red, but I’ll take it. Anyhoo, he tells me I’m beautiful. Daily. And that he’s going to marry me when he grows up. OK, so maybe he’s the kinky one, but still. They all seem to know what they like. Or like what they know. Whatever. My biggest boy cried when I got my hair cut (“you don’t look like my mommy anymore!”) My middle one likes jewellery. The more the better. Even my 9-month baby seems to have a fetish for high heels. Literally. He sits in my cupboard and sucks on them. So the particulars and preferences obviously start young. And they tell it like it is.

Which can be a god thing too…Because I got all spiffed to go out the other night and both of my big boys looked at me like I was a movie star. They actually gasped. Told me I looked nice. Reeeeeally nice. A princess-y dress would be better, but in bad-guy, Darth Vader black, I was beautiful. It made my night. Even coming from the under-6 crowd, hearing you look good never gets old.

Unlike the rest of me….

2 comments:

Anonymous said…

The boys told me the other day I looked like a boy. I said, why because my hair is short and I don’t wear dresses? They said yah! Then we talked about all the girlsthey like – and well, none of them wore dresses or were girlie girls. I guess that’s something, but ihit me wear it hurts. I have always secretly thought I looked like a boy!!!

7:19 PM

Anonymous said…

time does wonders for the mind…
fantasticasalways

April 18, 2008   No Comments

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Boots Made for (Winter) Walking

April showers bring May flowers.

So what do March snowstorms bring?

Not a lotta good, that’s what. Icy roads. Snowdrifts taller than most children (and seated seniors). Unpassable sidewalks. An extension of the winter blahs. A renewed interest in weather patterns, records and our role in all of it.

And an excuse to go out and buy new boots. La Canadienne boots.

You haven’t heard of ’em yet? Or you have, but didn’t bite? Whichever, whatever, whoever you are – go go go. Now is the time to bite the bullet, spend the big bucks and spend the rest of this never ending winter in style: toes toasty, feet dry and – believe it or not -in style.

Let’s face it, winter is an ugly time. Sure the snow looks pretty falling down, and when it’s all white and clean it’s quite peaceful. But really, how long does that last? Virgin snow lawns soon give way to grey slush, black ice and worse. The whole season can take its toll on a girl. Especially a footwear girl and, really – are there any other kinds?

I tried Uggs. Of course they’re comfy – they’d better be if they’re that ugly. The suede ones don’t keep your feet dry and the leather ones I had were so halucious they lasted but a season. Yeah, I was that person who went for the leather. Probably the only one. There’s a reason you don’t see more of ’em. H-I-D-E-O-U-S. I tried putting substance before style. It wasn’t easy, And it didn’t last.

So I ruined a pair of hot boots. Froze my tootsies off and wrecked ’em. And for what? So I tried again. This time, went for Sorels. Hard-core Canadian boots. For hard-core Canadian winters. And yeah, I stayed warm (ish) and dry. But again, not the most attractive. Or feminine. Even the long ones that we pretend are kinda like go-go boots aren’t. Not even close.

And then, it happened. A friend of mine discovered winter lady-boots. Lady boots…winter… Contradiction in terms, right? Wrong! La Canadienne boots are warm, cozy, and, dare I say it – kinda hot. In all the right ways. I admit I was skeptical at first, especially with the upwards of $200 price tag. But after another winter of alternating between salt-stained whore or hefty hefty slush slag, a couple hun seemed a small price to pay to be a cozy snow bunny.

My high-to-the-sky lady boots rock. And they work. I’m not sure how – some kind of secret recipe of ultrasuede, rubber and god-knows-what. Who cares? They look fantastic! And trust me kids, they really, really work the winter. And despite their all-kinds-of-hotness, they’re pretty basic. So even if everyone’s wearing the same boots – you can’t really tell. Which beats the hell out of showing up for dinner in your foxy furries – along with half the other girls.

Now that that we’re entering our fifth month of winter, maybe it’s time for a quick shoe shuffle. Snowbanks to climb? Easy. Salt stains and splash back? Laugh it off – they fit over calves of all shapes and sizes. Heels? They’ve got ’em. And need I mention they’re Canadian?

Are you still here? They’re on sale all over town. If you can still find what’s left of them. It’s mid-March after all. What are you waiting for?

2 comments:

John Boy said…

No mas de-boots for me. Why are there no decent boots for dudes on the market? I’m talking winter boots, not fashion boots – I have a million pairs of those (well a million bucks worth at least). I work in a corporate environment and am a self diagnosed fashionista and I wreck a great pair of shoes every winter because I cannot find decent winter boots. I refuse to wear “toe rubbers” as my father still calls them so what’s a boy to do?

2:16 PM

Anonymous said…

I resent the go-go boot comment. They ARE groovy and sexy.

Also, La Canadienes are only guaranteed waterproof for 6 months – did you know that? Although, I am finishing my third season and have yet to feel the water. That being said, I have worn my sexy Sorels a lot! Too much!

March 13, 2008   No Comments

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Almighty Stench

“Gee your hair smells terrific”.

Remember that? Betcha haven’t heard it in a while, huh? Not the ad, the sentiment. Know why? Cuz we’re stinkers. That’s right: Stinkers. Yep, like it or not, that’s what we’ve become. A civilization of stink bombs.

From cloying creams to sickening spritzes, we all reek. And not of B.O. Nope, the smelly days of yesteryear, where a somewhat high pit could make or break you, are long gone….Replaced by a slew of pharmaceuticals designed to cover up anything remotely natural and replace it with fruity not-so-freshness.

Look, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for fragrant, erm, enhancements. I slather on the deodorant and enjoy a squirt of perfume as much as the next gal. In fact, I’m a product whore! But it’s the actual scents – or should I say flavours – that put me off.

Get this – I went to buy shampoo the other day. Hardly brain surgery. But finding one that doesn’t smell like honey-coconut-butter with a hint of cherry? Nearly impossible. I popped open practically every bottle in the shop, hoping against hope of finding something, well, nice. No luck. Only Finesse deserves kudos, stinkin’ it old school clean.

What happened to the blue and green smells? Y’know what I mean – the fresh ones? Hop into your local and it’s all red, yellow and orange stenches. In other words, candy, fruit and puke. Even white smell is gone, replaced by vanilla. Gross.

And don’t think you’ll score with a high-end bottle of bubbles either. Not only does it not make one lick o’ difference in how your hair turns out (or so my salon savvy spies tell me), but you’ll spent upwards of fifteen bones for a bottle of cucumber-melon-sage. Yep… Food.

In some places, they take their fragrant issues quite seriously. My stinky Bikram yoga classes used to have a sign saying no perfumes of any kind, from deodorant to fabric softener. I of course ignored that one. 100 degrees sans deod? Uh, think not. And a towel without fabric softener is like, well, a towel without fabric softener. Sandpaper. At least Bounce has the whole outdoor fresh scent going for it.

The deodorants are as tricky as the shampoos – one day you buy something called Optimism and it smells like, well, deodorant. And when you go back for more it’s called Courage and smells like peaches. That they could ban.

In some cities they don’t let you out in public if you’re too smelly. Manufactured, chemical smelly, that is. I swear! I think it’s Halifax. If you’re too whiffy, you’re off the bus. I kind of get it. Especially in the morning rush hour. I mean, puh-lease, something like Angel or Giorgio or a handful of uber-musk aftershaves are most pungent in the AM – AND they last all day too. No rest for the wicked. The wicked stench.

So please, somebody stop the madness. Stop the Paris’ and Jessica’s of our overexposed world from putting out….anymore candy coated lotions and potions. Cities and smog and ozone oh my! Can’t we at least smell so fresh and so clean clean while we’re here? Maybe, dear readers, you could tell two friends, who’ll tell two friends, who’ll tell two friends…and so on… and so on… and so on….

3 comments:

Anonymous said…

here’s one friend who remarked that your new eye cream smelled foodie and you said I’d get used to it. Well I haven’t! It stinks of fruit and I smell it all day (Ok, maybe until noon) and I will never buy this. Thank god for samples!

7:43 PM

Mother of all Mavens said…

No, no…the eye cream had a teeny tiny hint of vitamin smell. Yeah, OK, the chewable kind. But if it helps with the lines, who cares how it smells? Shampoo’s a whole other story….

9:30 AM

fin said…

I’m sick of fragrances. Aveda makes a nice shampoo without smelly stuff.

August 29, 2006   No Comments

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Not a Croc

I remember my first spotting. A neighbourhood chicita making her merry way down my street. Nothing out of the ordinary…until I noticed her shoes. Garish neon pink, holes on the top, kinda cloggy, completely hideous. I chalked it up to a one-off fashion crime, never dreaming that what I saw was one of zillions…..

Crocs. They’re here, they’re HIDEOUS, get used to it.

And then a funny thing happened. Amid all the hoopla, I did. Get used to ’em, that is. And then an even funnier thing happened. Funny-strange, not funny-haha. I became a little intrigued.

The thing is, I am and always have been a clog girl. My faves were my old brown ultrasuede ones with the raffia band over the top. Fabulous. I had black suede ones too. Showed dust something awful. And of course who can forget the true classic: treetorn clogs. Come on people, you know the ones: navy or white leather…A sleepover camp staple if there ever was one. Until they were banned. ‘Cuz all the girlies (and some boys) were tripping over their feet and spraining their ankles. But still, dragging your heels, clip-clopping along in your clogs…nothing beat it.

Until now. The clog, in the form of the almighty croc, is back. And, tho’ I hate to admit it, I’ve kinda jumped on the bandwagon…

WAIT!!! It’s not like I’m wearing them – puh-lease. They’re revolting. But at least now I get it. Sorta. You see last week family friends came to visit us at the cottage. I hadn’t seen them in years. And there they all were: Mama Croc, Papa Croc and two little Baby Crocs. The only one NOT in the damn shoes was the baby. And he might’ve been had they come in smaller sizes. After many furtive glances at the family’s feet I had to ask: Why? They rsvp’d with the usual litany of praise – they’re so light, so comfy, so cheap.

So what? They’re ugly!

But then I watched the ease with which Mama Croc got her babes to put their shoes on. Saw the pleasure Papa Croc got from whipping ’em off to jump on the trampoline. My man thought maybe he’d like a pair and I realized:there really was no escape.They’re here to stay.

And if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.

After hitting the streets to track down a couple of pairs – one for the Boy, one for the Man, I realized not only were they hot – they were sold out. Everywhere. DEVASTATION! And now I’m desperate. And have hit the world wibe web to track down any non-beige ones. No, no, not for me. Why would I subject my size 9’s to such fashion agony? It’s not winter. For me, the quick-fix-all-purpose-summer-shoes have been around forever. They’re called flip flops.

But I reasure myself that I mst be the perfect wife and mother. Not only letting my boys be seen in such fashion fiascos. But encouraging it.

Hey, it’s not like I’ll ever be caught dead in a pair. Not yet anyway….

10 comments:

jojo said…

Well, I’m laughing out loud as I read! You know who just received a pair for his 71st birthday and is extatic!
Is walking around the house in them even with his suit on…yuk! Loves the feel…. not to mention that all the grandchildren wear them in & out of the water…. and back in the house!!!! By the way, they stink! They are rubber! The holes are suppose to take care of that but, I don’t think so!!!!
Keep looking for them! Costco has them in all colours!
BUT, not “crocs”……. a knock off of course!
Keep writing; you make me smile…. & laugh.

9:44 AM

jojo said…

Well, I’m laughing out loud as I read! You know who just received a pair for his 71st birthday and is extatic!
Is walking around the house in them even with his suit on…yuk! Loves the feel…. not to mention that all the grandchildren wear them in & out of the water…. and back in the house!!!! By the way, they stink! They are rubber! The holes are suppose to take care of that but, I don’t think so!!!!
Keep looking for them! Costco has them in all colours!
BUT, not “crocs”……. a knock off of course!
Keep writing; you make me smile…. & laugh.

9:44 AM

Anonymous said…

Thanks Jojo for finally telling me what I always knew – they stink!!! There is no way someone with testosterone in their body and feet could have a pair of this shundah footwear without them smelling!! My kids sandlas stink – there is no way a full coverage rubber nightmare won’t! I will resist the masses and say no, I will not go gently into that croc night.

1:13 PM

Anonymous said…

You can get any colour any size at the shoe store on bathurst at melrose, in plaza that has Dani’s hair salon. that’s were I got my babes a pair. none for me though.

2:23 PM

Anonymous said…

Crocs are actually designed NOT to stink- you may want to shell out the extra buck and buy the real ones….and wash once and a while

6:00 PM

jojo said…

JoJo again…… for the last person on your list of comments!

My 71 year old honey does have the “THE CROCS”,
the real ones. They really do smell and I know it is not his feet….. they never smell!!!
The knock off ones are at costco!

6:05 PM

Anonymous said…

Croc pot: These things are ubiquitous, horrendous, and the hit of the summer. Can you imagine the fence at the swim docks when the kids check in– the tens of crocs and the confusion when swim is over. Label ’em up with a magic sharpie– otherwise, your kids is gonna be wearing someone else’s crocs when they leave the docks. A pox!

8:45 AM

Messy Mom said…

LMAO! They are EVERYWHERE here. The “real” crocs, the fake ones, etc. My 7 yr old daughter wants them really badly, but I just keep telling her no. I don’t care if everyone else is wearing them, they are u-g-l-y. When I see them in the stores and see everyone wearing them, I just keep thinking of all the other fashion crazes that I have seen in my almost 40 years on this earth. I actually start to laugh at the multicolored rows of this things. Aren’t they supposed to be GARDENING shoes? I just can’t bring myself to look at those “shoes” and laugh and just say no! I am glad to see that I am not the only one that finds these things amusing.

8:20 PM

Anonymous said…

Incredible…..How many people left comments regarding “ugly shoes”????? Fake??? Real??? Who are we trying to impress??? Garden shoes, wear everywhere shoes??? Is this must have trend exclusive only to the 416,905 area??? Is is worth the hunt??? Threr have been many ugly shoes that have made there mark. What color will you be wearing???

July 27, 2006   No Comments

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Jean Genius

VIVA LA REVOLUCIONE!

The jeans revolution, that is. Yeah yeah, I know it’s been going on for aaaaages, but still. It’s quite extraordinary the lengths (lengths!) people (like, ahem, me) will go to find a good pair of jeans.
Ebay? All the way. Sample sales – um, only if you’re a certain (sample) size. Vintage? Uh, OK. But the glut of Levi’s back in the day? Prison. Uh-huh. From the prisoners’ butts to your own. I doubt many inmates are sporting Citizens of Humanity…
Gone are the days of the Levi question – red tab, white tab, button, or zip. (red tab, button fly for me). New or used? A non-issue. It’s always new baby, new. But they need to look used. And no, not in a dirty denim sort of way. I never bought into that whole dirty denim. They just looked too….too…what’s the word I’m looking for? Oh, I know – DIRTY! Blech.
I know jeans were never passe compose, but they weren’t as dress-up-dress-down-wear-’em-to-work as they are now. Were they? I don’t think so. But I’ve been wrong before and (gasp!) I just might be again. I was definitely wrong when I said I would never pay over $100 for jeans. HA HA HA HA HA.
Gap? Whatev. I was a gap girl for years. Modern boot cut? Loved’ ’em. As I said, I never believed in paying for jeans. But then something happened. My sister-in-law convinced me to try on her 7’s, and I never looked back. My husband agreed – goodbye Gap, it was time for the grown up, low slungers that all the cool kids were wearing. I hit the streets a skeptic and came home a changed woman.
I blame it on Adriano Goldschmied. You know, AG? The Angel and The Legend especially. I tried on the Angels and walked out 3 pairs richer (and several hundred dollars poorer). For jeans! JEANS! I didn’t get it then and I still don’t get it now. And yet it makes the $10,000 question (“does my ass look big in these?”) so much easier – and cheaper than 10 grand – to answer…
But here is a legitimate question: what’s with the oh so long legs? I don’t get the ultra low rise – really, I don’t get them. It just wouldn’t be a pretty sight. A bikini wax? For jeans? Why? WHY? But despite any unsightly overhang one (er, not me, one) might experience with low risers, there are always the long shirts to hide it. Double them up and you’re a bean pole. But lady long legs? They’re just a pain. I’m no shrimp, yet every time I get a new pair of jean genies I have to get them shortened. And as any girl worth her – well, worth her jeans – knows, when you buy something, you kinda wanna wear it ASAP. No? Yes! Especially jeans. You buy new ones and suddenly the oldies aren’t such goodies. But you have to hold off and shorten ’em. Original hem to boot (boot!)
I take solace in the fact that, for the most part, the denim thief, I mean merchant, willl shorten ’em free of charge. As they should – at these prices… People, look around at all the lovelies shakin’ their thangs in their jeans. Take a good look. Because y’all should know that tapered, high wasted jeans are on the (ahem) rise. God help us all….
But for now, enjoy your jeans. After all you’ve spent on them, you have tooo. Even if it’s hot – no, sweltering. And even if you’re not really going anyplace. As the saleschicky said, “Dress up, dress down”. And get ’em straight (straight!): Chip & Pepper? Not a band. Paper Denim? Not stationary. James Jeans? Not an actor. My latest find are Paige jeans. AWESOME. And no, they aren’t over $200 like some other “new and improved” jeans you can find. Who buys those? Don’t answer – I’m sure I’ll be slinking aorund in ’em soon enough.

1 comments:

Anonymous said…

Alternate titles to your latest posting:
“I Dream of Jean-ie”,
“Beyond the Rainbow” (points if you get the reference), and my fave
“Jean Smart”
(who by the way, ROCKED on “24”. Hello, Emmy–are you listening?)

June 16, 2006   No Comments

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Women be Shoppin’, Women be Shoppin’, Women be Shoppin’

Live from New York, it’s Mother of all Mavens!
Except I’m not really live from New York at all. I’m live, post-New York and I gotta say, I heart New York. F&ck the spas….Looking to rejuvenate? Then pack your bags – and check ’em, why not?! – and head to the Big Apple. That’s what I did – sans babes or my man. No offence boys, but it was A-W-E-S-O-M-E. The sights, the sounds, the smells….THE SHOPPING.
Bear in mind I haven’t been alone in 3 years. And I haven’t been on a successful shopping spree in longer. ‘member? Pregnant, post-pregnant, almost-there. Pregnant, post-pregnant, etc. Not a great look, no matter how you slice it. Back in the almost-there phase, alone, with a pal, in NYC, how could I resist?
Answer: I couldn’t.
So after lounging (alone!) and coffee (alone! in bed!) I hit the streets, Visas blazin’.
Ladies, and those who love ’em, take note: Olive and Bette’s. That’s all you need to know. I was sent there by a fashionista friend and boy-yoy-yoing was she on the beam with this one. Unreal. All pink and girly on the outside, hip and not too-too-trendy on the inside. Talk about girls gone wild. This place was the bomb.
I walked in wearing one outfit, walked out in another. And then shopped at a different Olive & Bette’s in yet another O & B combo. Talk about wearing the concert-T to the concert!! But I did, proudly. It was one of those places where you try to hold off but just can’t. I think that could be the number one rule when it comes to shopping (and dating, kind of): if you love it, buy it. Sounds obvo, I know. But bird in hand, folks, bird in hand.
And guess what? There are four of these lovely boutiques across the city – something for everyone, everywhere! I only hit two: West Village and Soho. And here’s the scoop (aside from being better than Scoop, another clothing emporium par excellence): Bleeker was better.
I met a lovely lady named Amy who quickly became my new best friend. She had me trying – and buying – everything. And she got me, really got me! Knew her butt-skimmin’ skirts from her cling-ons. The look-like-you’ve-had-your-boobs-done tops from the where’d-they-go’s. We played dress-up girlfriends for about an hour before I was utterly spent – literally.
Or not. Because I couldn’t resist checking out the Soho shop (concert-T to the concert, remember?). Now these chicitas saw me comin’ a mile away. How could they not when I was dressed to the nines in my new duds from their sister shop? They circled my pal and I, hurling so many compliments it made us want to, well, hurl. Sure, they introduced my ass to a lovely new pair of jeans (Paige, since you asked) but after entering the changeroom with piles of stuff and emerging with only the jeans and a cardy, all these new best friends dropped us. But fast. We could barely find someone to take our money. That ain’t right!
Soho staff aside, it’s a mighty fine find. So remember, when next you find yourself in New York: ditch your men, hit the streets, and run, don’t walk to Olive & Bette’s.
And then cut your Visa cards into millions of itty bitty pieces because this place’ll break the bank. But at least you’ll look good. Damn good.

4 comments:

Anonymous said…

okay that was the shopping– but the FOOD– hello? Where’s the food? No trip to NYC is complete without a sampling from the delights to be found (insert turista exclamation) “only in New York!” And I know you MOAM– you sampled some tasty vittles. Fess up!

5:25 PM

Anonymous said…

Your “fashionista friend” thanks you for the shout out and assumes you found your way back to Sullivan St. — O&B bags unharmed.

I miss you already!

12:06 PM

Anonymous said…

Concert t to the concert! You are a maven!

4:33 PM

Anonymous said…

you feel very very alive and in somewhat of control ….or not

June 13, 2006   No Comments

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