Posts Tagged ‘mollie fermaglich blog’


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…



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.




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.



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.



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.



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.



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.



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.



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.



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.



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…






Tuesday, February 11th, 2014

Those of you who know me may be thinking I’m so cynical, this is one holiday I  could never embrace.  And you’d be right.  But not because I’m against romance.  I love romance.  I just don’t find love and predictability and crazy expectations compatible.  Or romantic.


            Romance, like art and fashion taste, is subjective.  I cry every time I watch Brief Encounter or read Anna Karenina and I will believe in the love of Meggie and Father Ralph ‘til the day I die.  I think it’s romantic to endlessly browse in a bookstore on a Sunday afternoon or to step out onto a New York street right after it snows and hasn’t yet been slushified.  Cape Cod is romantic.  The Parisian cemetery Pere La Chaise is one of the most romantic places on earth.  Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On” is romantic.  Anything sung by James Taylor oozes romance.  Sinatra’s One For My Baby” is the romantic equivalent of orange juice concentrate.


            Now, for you, walking around with an amusement park stuffed bear the size of a loveseat that your date just won for you, might do the trick.  Or eating spaghetti like “Lady and the Tramp, or sipping those alcoholic neon-colored drinks with more fruit garnish than your Weight Watchers points for a month floating in them – these might spell romance for you.  Clearly, one person’s romance is another person’s laugh-riot.


      Maybe you find it romantic to buy pounds of chocolate or Shari’s Berries or gold chains or teensy diamond chips glued around a sterling silver heart on the same day as 20 million other people.  Perhaps you enjoy the “romance” of your spouse, your girlfriend, your mom, your kid, all having their hands out like Oliver Twist at the orphanage/workhouse, only gruel’s the furthest thing from their minds?


            If you do the math, few of you actually wind up feeling good on Valentine’s Day because:


1)   You’re alone and you don’t want to be

2)   You just dumped someone

3)   You just got dumped

4)   You just got dumped by text

5)   You just got dumped by text and emoticons

6)   You’re with someone and you don’t want to be.

7)   You’re married and you’re pretty sure you settled.

8)   You’re married and you’re positive you settled.

9)   You’re married and you’re positive you settled and the rest of us know it.

10)                 You’re still in love with that girl or guy from camp or college.

11)                 You delusionally think this first love feels the same way and is pining for you on Valentine’s Day.

12)                 You still remember how it felt in third grade when you got two Valentine’s Day cards when the class average was eleven.

13)                 That jerk from Accounting puts red and pink foil chocolate hearts on everyone’s desk, “just because…”

14)                 Your last girlfriend wanted yellow roses and you got her red ones.  Or carnations.

15)                 Your lover expected a box of Vosges chocolates, not a Whitman’s Sampler, you cheap bastard.

16)                 You got her jewelry instead of chocolate because “you think I’m fat—right?  Right?  Just say it!”

17)                 Last year your boyfriend got you that Jane Seymour fugly double-heart atrocity necklace and now you just shudder at the mere thought of the word “Jared.”



So, Happy Valentine’s Day to the believers among you, but just remember….


·      A chocolate rose wrapped in red tin foil is just stupid and you will wind up eating teeny bits of foil along with the low-grade chocolate-flavored lard that thing is made of.



·            *      Valentine’s Day cards that say, “I Love You Thhhisssssss Much” with paper arms popping out when you open them are not romantic  — they’re cumbersome, clichéd and there is no   such word as “Thhhhissssss.”


*    Anyone who gives you a single rose couldn’t afford the whole dozen. 



·                  *If you’re over 12, homemade Valentine’s Day cards are not romantic.  They’re an Arts & Crafts project, made by  the same people responsible for turning the words “craft” and “scrapbook” into verbs.  Those who say they really prefer giving and getting homemade gifts are like the people who say Brooklyn’s a better place to live in than Manhattan. Liars.  Unless you need to borrow some Scotch tape or a glitter glue gun, develop some self-esteem.



·      Any day that ‘s good for the Hallmark Channel has nothing to do with nostalgia or romance.  It has to do with money.  A huge and annoying offshoot of  Hallmark Cards, whose CEO is still sad they can’t come up with cards and paper tablecloths and “World’s Best Memorial Day Celebrator!” statuettes, will flood its television channel with films like “Destiny’s In Love,” “Love Is Destiny,” “A Dozen Roses for Rose,” “Will You Marry Me?”, “Love Will Keep Us Together, “Love Has Torn Us Apart,” “Love Has Torn Us Apart and Now We’re Together.”  All of these will star Lisa Hartman-Black, Kelly Williams-Presley, or Alexa Bledel.  Don’t believe in happy endings?  Hallmark does.  Cha-ching.


·      And while we’re on the subject of Hallmark, how about the Valentine’s Day cards that are “from the dog,” or “from the cat”?  Really?  Really?  I’m kinda thinking that if my cat or dog were granted opposable thumbs, a MetroCard and the chance to do something human, mailing a greeting card would be pretty low down on the list.  “And guess who else has a card for you?”  If you’re going to anthropomorphize your puppy or kitty, why not have them pretend-pick up the dinner check or clean the apartment.  Or better yet, mine.


·      You don’t know me, and, chances are you wouldn’t like me if you did.  So when I walk into your Walgreen’s or Gap, unless your greeting comes with a Cartier tank watch or Botega Veneta Napa Tote, please – no “Happy Valentine’s Day!”  Can I get an “amen”?


·      “Love” is not all you need.  Just ask anyone whose healthcare premiums have just quadrupled.


·      Please – for the sake of every sane person in New York who is not your child’s parents, (think about that for a minute), don’t dress your ten-month old with the Michelin tire-thighs up as Cupid on Valentine’s Day.  We don’t think it’s cute.  We don’t think your child is cute.  In fact, we think you and your partner should have used a condom.  Thanks in advance.


·      Why are you wearing red to work on Valentine’s Day?  If you’re at work, then it isn’t a real holiday because – well – you’re at work.  Also, it’s so predictable.  It reminds us that in four weeks you’ll be wearing that “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” t-shirt and stinking from green-beer-breath.  This year, why not try a “Kiss Me, I’m Bill Gates” t-shirt, which I’m certain would be both unique and more effective.


·      Don’t put giant red hearts on your front door.  No one’s trick-or-treating.  No one’s stopping by for egg nog.  If you and your partner are so in love, why, when I’m waiting for the elevator, must I listen to the two of you shout, “Why did I marry you – you’re a pig!” and “Hitting you would be worth the night in jail – at least you wouldn’t be there!”  Just because the holiday’s a charade, it doesn’t mean you have to be one, too.