Posts Tagged ‘gladiator sandals’

DO YOU OWN A FULL-LENGTH MIRROR?

Saturday, August 2nd, 2014

In the winter you have your big parkas and long wool coats to cover up whatever atrocities you might be hiding underneath.  But, alas, in the summer, each summer, on the streets of New York, my eyes must be assaulted because Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar or Selena Gomez told you what to wear.   It really doesn’t matter to me whether you are a size-six nineteen year old who’d look good in a potato sack, (um – no, you wouldn’t…), or you’re a 55-year old who hasn’t gained a pound since she was married 30 years ago and has convinced herself she can still rock a mini-skirt and Doc Martens.  You haven’t convinced me or anyone else on the street pointing at you and laughing.

 

So what follows is this summer’s list of mistakes you’ve already made…

 

 SPANDEX MAXI DRESSES

Not even an iota more attractive than a Spandex Maxi Pad.  We wore maxi dresses in the late sixties/seventies.  For the most part, these dresses were 100% cotton and even if they were tie-dye atrocities, at least we were really, really high when we bought and wore them.  Today, I am visually assaulted by Spandex maxi dresses in revolting colors like bright orange and royal blue.  Orange may be the new black, but that’s at Riker’s, not Hudson River Park.  And then there are the maxis in a variety of offending striped patterns.  Even if these assaults-on-fabric don’t make you look like you’ve draped the Big Top around you and sewn in some elastic, they flatter no one.  “Oh, here comes a zebra,” is not a thought I want to have walking down Lexington Avenue.  An Escher lithograph is meant to be hung on a wall, not worn out for cocktails.  Here’s another bummer for large-breasted women– terry cloth is not a support fabric.

 

 

BIRKENSTOCKS

Along with Nazis, Limburger cheese and Lederhosen, this is a German product worth putting back the Berlin Wall back for.  Why are you wearing these?  Is it the “they’re-so-ugly-they’re-good-looking” myth?  That’s why they’re called “myths.” One word for Birkenstocks. No.  Not “comfortable.”  “Repulsive.”  “No, Mollie – you’re wrong – they’re so comfortable, it’s like I’m not wearing shoes at all.”  That’s because you’re not.  And, there’s only person concerned with your comfort. That would be you.  I’m concerned with aesthetics when I walk down the street, and seeing shoes only Fred Flintstone could have pulled off is not a pretty sight.  I’m sure shoeboxes would be equally comfortable, as would aluminum loaf pans or swimmers’ kickboards.  They’re great for hiking?  Then fill up your canteen, spray on the OFF!, and get the hell out of Manhattan.  Now.

 

SEMI-SHEER BLOUSES AND SKIRTS

Please tell me that the thought of the entire “L” train seeing your leopard bra under your gauzy sheer peasant blouse doesn’t make you feel “powerful.”  Where does this “need-to-wear-see-through-clothing-outside-the-bedroom” come from?  I certainly hope it’s not a “Daddy” issue.  Ewwwww. “  Your skirt is sheer but not completely see-through.  What’s that about?  “I want to expose myself but I don’t”?  I’m a little bit whore-ish and a little bit coquettish?  This is the fashion equivalent of the nectarine, (thanks Mel Brooks), – a “little bit peach, a little bit plum.”   How many Dumkinis did you throw back before you thought, “Oh, a maxi skirt that’s sheer from mid-thigh down – now there’s a good look!”   If you want to wear a mini skirt, wear a mini skirt.  Why would you wear one with a “curtain”?  Is this a show?  Are you going to pull it away and a lady will be sawed in half?  Six orphans from “Annie” going to run out singing, “It’s a Hard-Knock Life”?  Don’t tell me you’re a Libra – mini or maxi skirt.  Make a decision.  This is a schmata, not a DNR directive.

 

SHRUGS


Cheaper and more honest to wear sign that says, “My upper arms are too heavy for sleeveless tops.”  You’re not fooling anyone.  Makes a bolero jacket look like a bathrobe.

 

DORKY PLASTIC EYEGLASS FRAMES

Pssssssst…. It’s 2014.  You can finally get some frames you actually like because the secret’s out.  We already know you’re a hipster, (which, contrary to what your self-righteousness-in-a-beanie brain tells you, is not exactly an incentive to want to get to know you),  by the SXSW admission bracelet you still haven’t taken off.  It’s covering up your red thread Kabala bracelet, by the way.  Black plastic frames do not make you cool.  Nor do they make you smart or witty, especially the ones with no glass in the frames.  The point is to be as prolific and brilliant as Woody Allen, not to look like him.   I promise you —  If Woody Allen could both master the pithy punch line and look like George Clooney, I’m pretty sure he’d opt for that.

 

CUT-OUT SHOULDER BLOUSE


Really?  (beat)  Really?  Because….because Kate Hudson wore one on a red carpet?  Because some drunk one-night stand told you, “Nice shoulders, babe.”?  It’s like complimenting you on your earlobes. You look like a five-piece board puzzle with two pieces missing.  Or like you have a second pair of ears.  I promise you – when you look back at a picture of yourself wearing one of these monstrosities ten years from now, you will deny being you.

 

SHORT-IN-FRONT/LONG-IN-BACK DRESS


This is the dress version of a mullet.  Business in the front and party in the back?  Nice message. Hope you still have the tags and the receipt.

 

ROMPERS


What are you – four?  Whatever made you think you could pull this off?  “Well, Adrianna Lima wore one on the runway during Spring 2014 Fashion Week!”   Perhaps.  But Adrianna Lima could wear a ham-and-bean can on the runway, look great in it and get paid $100,000 for doing it.  Repeat after me.  “I am not Adrianna Lima.  I am not even a hand model, let alone a super model.  I look good in certain clothes and certain colors, as long as certain of my body parts are concealed and I’m not bloated or having a bad hair day.  I am not a fashion trendsetter.  I am a fashion trend follower and often a fashion victim.”   The “Lolita” look looked good on Lolita, and that’s only if you’re a deviant middle-aged man lusting after a twelve-year-old.

If you’re on a beach, I don’t care if you’ve rolled your body in Crustacean shells and salt-water taffy.  But in the middle of Manhattan?  Where the fuck are you romping to here?   Through the crowd of stinky, arrogant Brooklynites who won’t let you get on their crowded F train at West 4th Street?  Thanks to bike riders, pedestrian malls and Halal carts, there’s barely room to walk down the street in the city, let alone romp.  It’s not 1961 – you’re not at Brighton Beach with a bucket and shovel, waiting for the knish man to pass your blanket.  Take out the pigtails.  Wash off the Mercurochrome-and-Johnson’s Baby Oil suntan lotion.  Grow up and put some clothes on.

 

GLADIATOR SANDALS

I know – they have been considered stylish for at least five years.  They’re like the herpes sore you thought was going to lie dormant.  But not only has it erupted – it’s grown exponentially.    Now, it’s not uncommon to see women wearing gladiator sandals that come up to their knees.  This is  visually offensive, even on women with great legs.  They look like the rope wall you have to climb in basic training, wrapped around your calves.  And, of course, because fashion is a choice, and you don’t need anyone’s permission to wear anything, I’ve seen too many chunky-legged women wearing these knee-high gladiators.    If anything is poking through the strips of leather, like, I don’t’ know – calf fat – there should be an internal neon sign in your head flashing, “FLIP-FLOPS!  FLIP-FLOPS!” “You might not mind the fact that your calves look like a trussed-up rump roast, think of the rest of us.  I have to hold myself back from running up to you and trying to pop each square of fat, as though your calves were human-flesh bubblewrap.

 

ONE-SLEEVED BLOUSES


This blouse is fine under only two conditions – either you have one arm, or it started out as a two-sleeved blouse and somehow, one sleeve caught fire. Even then, I’d like to see something else on the other side – a hook, pincers, a clarinet, something.  Have you no idea what you look like as you’re walking toward me?  Would you wear pants with one side long and the other Daisy-Duked?  “Well, that’s how much you know, Mollie.  This was one of Olivia Palermo’s “Picks” on Piperlime!”  I’m guessing you’re over 18, I’m guessing you have the right to “reject” Olivia Palermo’s “Picks”.  Did she decide where you were vacationing this year?  Is she picking your breakfast cereal?  Your dish detergent?  While we’re on the subject, who the fuck is she?  I can’t distinguish her from Olivia Munn or Olivia Wilde or Olivia the Pig, for that matter.  I’m just guessing they’re all thinner than Olivia the Pig, which makes their opinions pretty important to you…

 

 

 

 

I LOVE NEW YORK IN JUNE – THAT’S SO NOT TRUE…

Sunday, June 13th, 2010

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Every Friday morning, I have to walk west on East 40th Street.  On the northeast corner, there is  a “Hamptons Jitney” bus stop.  Having now walked past there eight Friday mornings in a row, I have drawn many conclusions, including the fact that, other than Puff Daddy, who does not take the Hamptons Jitney, there are no black people weekending in the Hamptons.   As I stumble over the J. Crew satchels and the tan-wannabes whose shoulders they hang from, THE giant Jackie O sunglasses and whatever length linen shorts Banana Republic is pushing this season, it is a picture, and not a pretty one, a sign that  summer is upon us.   Yes, I know the unofficial start of summer is Memorial Day Weekend,  but let’s keep things real – summer officially arrives on June 21.  It’s an important day for me, because from that day forward, the days, though by mere minutes, get shorter and shorter.  I love it.  Why?  Because I HATE the summer.

But Mollie, you wonder, how is that possible? Summer is the  season of the year.  The barbecues!  The iced teas!  Tennis!  Swimming!  Hiking!  (Am I the only person on the planet who hated Hike Day at sleep-away camp more than I hated Write-a-Letter-Home-to-Get-Into Dining Hall-Day? ) Okay, then, Mollie – what about the people who don’t feel well when the days are shorter?  What about them?  Those pathetic unfortunates who suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder?  Wait. I have to stop laughing.   It is not a “disorder.”  It is a “whine.”“OCD” is a disorder – call me when you’re washing your hands 113 times with liquid anti-bacterial soap before tapping the faucet elevendy  times, and then tapping the bathroom door-knob 3x the number of second cousins you have.   ADHD  is a disorder.  Let me know when you can’t sit still for more than 9 seconds without wanting to color in the Bronx with a box of Crayolas.  Those are disorders. Seasonal Affective Disorder?  Note that it doesn’t specify which season.   I like cloudy, cool, rainy days so if August is all sunshine and bright skies, do I get a mental health day too?   What could I possibly hate about the summer in New York?  Well, for starters…

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Even if it’s toned and tanned, polished and pedicured, sexy and slamming,  I would like a choice, when I walk out onto the streets, as to whether or not I want to look at your body.   In the winter, at least things are covered up – in the summer, my eyes are assaulted by your asinine tattoos, belly button rings, ugly toes,  – pedicures are like neon signs that call attention to one of the ugliest parts of the human anatomy. Is the toe next to your big toe longer than your big toe?  Isn’t it bad enough that you know it?  Do you think the fact that it’s polished Petal Pink makes it any less gross?

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What’s up with the giant liters of water? Are you a survivalist?  Then go back to your crazy cabin in the woods with the bear traps and your freeze-dried packs of inedible shit, and your guns — let’s not leave out your guns.  Are you in the middle of the Serengeti? Just finished running some stupid marathon for no reason other than “I can!”  No, you are probably eight feet from a Duane Reade or a CVS.  Yet there you are, carting around a gallon or Fiji Water like you’re some sort of urban mule, corner man at a prize fight, or member of the Bucket Brigade.

Summer footwear.   Chuck Taylor High Top sneakers and Capri pants don’t look great on a 47-year-old woman, even if she’s a hard body.  Crocs don’t look good on anybody.  Gladiator sandals. Oh you have them.  You know you do. Are you throwing Christians or lions into the Colosseum or participating in a chariot race or meeting Ben Hur for a mojito?   Why are these atrocities on your feet?  If Elle and Harper’s Bazaar and Glamour were telling you to wear chandeliers on your feet or watermelon rinds,  would you?  We both know the answer. Those of us who refuse to become Anna Wintour pod-people use this as a good rule of thumb:  if I’m walking down the street and someone yells, “Yo, Agrippina!” and I don’t turn around, I would probably feel silly in gladiator sandals.   Get a pair of Keds so I don’t have to laugh at you.

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Outdoor cafes.  In Paris, maybe.  In New York, get them off my sidewalks.  I don’t want to walk down Madison Avenue and have to watch you chow down on a Caesar Chicken Salad.  Nice piece of Romaine stuck between your teeth and by the way it’s me and not the person you’re dining with that’s pointing that out.  At the very least, let them pick up the check.   Do you think eating a turkey burger outdoors on 9th Street  between Avenue A and Avenue B makes you look European?  Your dead ancestors, the ones who shoved newspapers in their shoes to make them fit, who made a boiled potato last for a week – they are laughing at you.

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I have to wait even longer at Starbucks.  A White Mocha Valencia Double Espresso Non-Fat DeCaf Machiatto is now also served as a an Iced Mocha Valencia Double Espresso Non-Far DeCaf Machiatto.  People don’t fare well having to choose among chocolate, vanilla and strawberry.   Double their choices, I’m buying a can of Diet Coke from the falafel guy.  Thanks, summer.

Just because there is physical room to set up a habachi or grill someplace doesn’t mean you should.  Do you think I should look at a bunch of people  roasting a pig in East River Park while I’m driving on the FDR?  You’d kill for a hotdog right off the grill?  Go camping, go to a family reunion – a gas grill on your 2foot by 2foot terrace is only one  lit cigarette away from KABOOM! .  Dying for a ‘Smores?  Go back to Boy Scouts Camp – maybe you can earn another badge…

If you have to blast music from your car  with the windows rolled down so that the glass windows of every store on the street and every person’s spleen shake like they would during a 3.4 earthquake, then you are not only selfish, but moronic.  Do you think anyone, on their way to or from work, stressed people, put-upon people, people in a hurry, are really impressed that you have  a Monoblock Jackhammer Amplifier, 6” x 9” three-way speakers, dual 4 ohm sub-woofers?  Do you think random people will just either tune it out or really want to hear 50 Cent, at 85 decibels, impart the following?

You can find me in the club, bottle full of Bud
Mama, I got that X, if you into takin’ drugs
I’m into having sex, I ain’t into making love
So come give me a hug if you into getting rubbed
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Yo – read a book.  Word.

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Now I have to read your ironic t-shirts.  In the winter at least they are layered under your Army surplus  jacket and flannel shirt.  Now it’s coming straight at me in 72-point type — MEAN PEOPLE SUCK.  So does your shirt.

You love your girlfriend?  Swell. You’re hot for your new boyfriend?  Cool.  But when you walk in front of me in the summer, and you have your hand down her jeans back pocket, or you’re cupping her butt or you stop to shove your tongues down each other’s throats, or think grinding on the street as though you’re at some middle school dance,  makes me remember young love, you’re as wrong as you were when you thought Los Angeles was the capital of California.  You have crossed the line.  It’s getting’ hot out herrr-rreee – but keep on all your clothes.  And get a f**king room.

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Sweat.  It’s not pretty in a gym.  It’s not even pretty during sex and it’s certainly not pretty when you are a strap-hanger on the “D” train, standing above me.  Body odor + cologne = Aramis-scented body odor.  Shower. This is not only hygienic – it is a public service.

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July 4th.  In concept and in history it’s a significant, meaningful date.   In New York, it’s ADHD kids throwing cherry bombs and blowing a finger or two off in the process.  Fireworks.  Oooooh.  There.  I said it. Ooooooh.   Ahhhhhhhh. I said them both.   Now you don’t have to.  And for all of you who think you got a real bargain with the Old Navy $5 Fourth of July t-shirt when what you really got was a shirt that says, “I Didn’t Go Anywhere and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt.

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