"Major Model Management has a special way of keeping their girls stick thin. Agents have told some already too-thin models there that they need to lose even more weight, which isn't unusual. It's the diet that has the models upset. "One was told she had to lose 15 pounds," said our source. "She got strict instructions. She was told to only have a little bit of orange juice and a big coffee in the morning, which would make her go to the bathroom. Then she was told to keep sucking down coffee all day until at least 3 p.m., when she could eat lettuce with a tiny bit of tuna with a drop of mayo. Dinner is a tiny square of broiled fish about 2 inches long and a glass of wine." Our source adds that the girls are also discouraged from hitting the gym because the stylists don't want the models to have any muscle tone."
The following item appears in The New York Post today. This is the ideal to which we allow our daughters and neices and sisters to be held? Let's do what we can to make sure that they know the "perfect" looks they see in magazines are often airbrushed little souls under layers of make-up, sometimes living tortured lives that are designed to prevent them from achieving good health and well being, in pursuit of an unrealistic presentation. (Back in the day, I wish someone had told me that about the women on the pages of Cosmo.)
"Major Model Management has a special way of keeping their girls stick thin. Agents have told some already too-thin models there that they need to lose even more weight, which isn't unusual. It's the diet that has the models upset. "One was told she had to lose 15 pounds," said our source. "She got strict instructions. She was told to only have a little bit of orange juice and a big coffee in the morning, which would make her go to the bathroom. Then she was told to keep sucking down coffee all day until at least 3 p.m., when she could eat lettuce with a tiny bit of tuna with a drop of mayo. Dinner is a tiny square of broiled fish about 2 inches long and a glass of wine." Our source adds that the girls are also discouraged from hitting the gym because the stylists don't want the models to have any muscle tone."
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It's a fashion blog again today. I'm struck by the return of leggings and how few women understand how to wear them. It's a fiesta of nearly naked bums out there and that's not necessarily a good thing.
Leggings were all the rage in the mid to late '80s, as were torn sweaters worn off one shoulder and long tunic tops. Think Jennifer Beals in Flashdance. There's a reason why long tops and leggings were hot at the same time - you're supposed to cover your butt and thighs when they're encased like sausages in the stretchy fabric. Leggings are not jeans. They're not meant to be worn with a baby-tee. Yards of flowing fabric are not slimming and many larger women have learned this, so they don body hugging fashions instead. But a large buttock in a black legging uncovered and, frankly, out there, still looks like a large buttock. It's so incredibly unappealing! I was unfortunate enough to be walking behind one such woman in a mall on Saturday, whose black leggings were hanging on within an inch of their lives, and allowing white panties to peek through. If she dropped her keys and had to bend over, there would have been big trouble! How can these women not look around and see how others are wearing this fashion item? I'm sick of unwittingly ending up in close proximity to what amounts to the nude bum of a stranger! Just check out how some of our younger sisters are wearing these clothes, in a classy way. I'm all for making the most of what you've got, sisters, but this is just wrong! And it's not flattering, which is the most important factor. I spent a solid couple of hours shopping for new clothes on Saturday morning and I was very disappointed by what I saw in my favourite stores. I did alright with capris and dresses but virtually every top was a variation on the maternity look!
Yes, I know, they're actually "empire waist tunics" I'm talking about but on me, they look like maternity tops. In fact, on a lot of people, they look like maternity tops, but that doesn't stop many women from becoming slaves to the latest trend that - hopefully - has already burned itself out in the fashion hotspots of Europe and will soon follow suit here. They're simply awful on me! In fact, if you have hips and are over the age of 25, you probably need to stay away from this style. I'd much rather invest more money into something classic that I'll wear a long time, than purchase something cheap that's "in" right now. Still, a girl likes to poke around for something new and sort of hip and it's disappointing when every single store is determined to make you look five months along toward a bundle of joy. The Toronto Star has an article this morning on gaggles of men flocking to see Sex and the City in theatres, in an attempt to try to better understand the fairer sex. Fellas, all you're going to understand from that movie is what we like to watch. Those women aren't "us". If Carrie really bought Manolo Blahnik's on a columnist's salary in Manhattan, she'd be in credit card debt up to her perky little butt! It's fantasy. Think of it as our Iron Man.
Speaking of fantasy, I read a fascinating statistic this week. Less than one half of one percent of women have the bone structure and genetic predisposition to develop the body of a supermodel. They're freaks! It's time we as a genre stopped comparing ourselves to the women in the pages of magazines. Think about what these publications are telling you: that you're not good enough. But you are! And here's something else to think about. When one of these genetic abnormalities happens by, your man's head may swivel but it's not because he's making an unfavourable comparison to you. He'd act the same way if a Lamborghini went past. It doesn't mean he's going to chase it and try to trade in his Volvo for it. And speaking of body image, a pal and I were lamenting this week about being "up a size" over the past year, and how difficult it is once you pass the age of 40 to get back down again, while eating more than just celery sticks. Her husband said to her, look, you're healthy, you look great, your body is more flexible and stronger than ever and I love you! So let it go! After she told this story the women in the room all smiled warmly, thinking, wow, that's a wonderful man! And she does look great and she is strong and healthy. And isn't that enough? It's spring, the weather's warmer and we Canadians are shedding our winter coats. And we're starting to notice what others are wearing and, in the case of teenage girls, not wearing. I know it's typical of a mature woman to tsk tsk that 16 year olds are dressing like little whores but...they really are! I've seen less cleavage on Dolly Parton.
Even though there's a revival of the patterns, colours and styles I wore in the 1970's fashion has changed dramatically since then, for better or worse. We didn't bare our bellies when I was in high school and we certainly didn't show the tops of our boobs unless we wanted to pass Grade 9 geography. I will never forget how you ignored me, Mr. Purchase. But I digress... I had occasion to experience the joy of a walk-in medical clinic on Monday and in it I witnessed some of the most unusual fashion picks I've ever seen. There was a woman in a sweatshirt, formal ric-rac and sequinned skirt and running shoes but she wasn't the winner of this little contest. Best in show was the woman wearing bright white sweat socks INSIDE her fuschia flip-flops. You know how that little gripper thingy goes between your first and second toes? Well, she had SOCK bunched up there. It was so incredibly weird I could hardly take my eyes off it. She seemed rather normal and pleasant, as did the skirt and runners woman. But she is in desperate need of a fashion magazine. Or a television. Or radio. Or perhaps some honest friends. Now, I'm no runway model but I think that on a pretty regular basis I know how to put an outfit together. My habit is to wear something that needs to "go" just one more time - and that last time makes me feel very uncomfortable and like I'm the only kid in school wearing pyjamas. (We ALL had that dream!) But sweat socks with flip flops and a formal skirt with a threadbare sweatshirt and runners? Never in a million years! I wish I had had my camera with me just to submit these two gems to Glamour Magazine for their fabulous "Don't"s page! Back in the day when I was a Cosmo Magazine devotee, before I figured out it was all about telling me I would never be good enough and advising me on how to "trap" a man, I absorbed a lot of what Helen Gurley Brown and her staff had to say. One of the Cosmo rules I remember is, Always Always Look Your Best!
Cosmo reasoned that you never knew when you could run into Mr. Right or someone who could advance your career. It might be while knocking on melons in the produce aisle of a grocery store or washing your unmentionables in the laundromat. So, said Cosmo, always look smashing, with full make-up and perfect hair, even if you're dressed down. I recently ignored this advice and paid an embarrassing price. It was Monday, after my typical 3 am start for the morning show. I was very sluggish and slow, with no plans to leave my little Shoebox. After my nap, I stayed clad in my tank top and shorts and plopped in front of my computer to work on a Sun column, a cup of yogurt and berries to fuel me. Being on the dopey side of smart, I glopped a bit of yogurt on my top. No matter, it wiped up, sort of. Did I mention I wasn't wearing a bra? It was about that time when a knock came to my door. It was Dimitri, the condo caretaker. I opened the door slightly and peeked out, keeping my body behind the door, thinking perhaps he had a quick question to ask and then he'd be on his way. "I'm here to service your furnace - it will just take a couple of minutes!" What could I do? I had to let him in, doing my best to unsuccessfully hide my splotched, free-flowing, PJ-clad condition. Then I remembered what was in front of the little room that houses the furnace - piles of laundry! I skittered into the bedroom after him just in time to see him pick up a pile of my to-be-washed underwear and move it out of his way. Even thinking about it, my cheeks flame a bright red! I didn't have a chance to stop him. He seemed non-plussed but I was embarrrassed. Dimitri isn't Mr. Right or an important business contact but it was a little bit humiliating, in a funny way, just the same. I didn't look anywhere close to my best and I have to say I've never had a relative stranger handle my underthings with such purpose. Helen Gurley Brown would be horrified. Every spring I do it. It always starts out the same. I think, THIS year I'm going to get a cheerful, colourful coat! I've had a black spring trench coat for a few years. It's London Fog so I will likely wear out before it does, but it's really time to replace it.
So it happens on a warm spring day like today. A delightful case of spring fever hits me like an an ostrich feather across the face and I think, maybe this year I'll pick out something in a fresh periwinkle or lemon yellow. To heck with practical. Perhaps I'll go for a bright red or a pretty green! Even khaki would be a crisp addition to my wardrobe and it would go with nearly everything. So off I go, in this case, to Winners, to check out the selection of designer duds. It tried on a goodly selection of jackets and coats. (And jeans and pants and tanks and tunics and skirts and dresses!) There was a Liz Claiborne number in cream that was alright. Another one in white, with black and white lining that showed through, had some potential but the length didn't suit me. I considered navy and yellow (which made me look like the victim of a recent nuclear accident) and light blue (but I already have a lot in that colour). Only after I had sifted through all of the racks, including off-season and clearance, did I allow myself to return to the gorgeous, classy Simon Chang 3/4 length trench I spotted at the start. I slipped it on and it felt like it was tailored for me. It was comfortable and the belt sat at the right spot. It's heavy enough to be a quality item but light enough for this time of the year. And of course, it is black. Not even greyish or brownish but pure, pitch black. The London Fog coat is now destined for Goodwill and replaced by an updated version of the same concept by one Mr. Simon Chang. I guess I can't help it. In my wardrobe, black is the new black. I wasn't looking to replace them. I wasn't searching for boots at all. But there they were, just sitting all adorable in an open box, shiny and alluring. "They" are my new shortie, fake croc, dark brown boots and what's special about them is that they're awfully darn close to looking like a previous pair that got wrecked on a Bay escalator. Those were my favourites and I never imagined I'd find another pair like them!
Guys I've known just seem to pull on their clothes and get on with it. At some point, perhaps in the purchasing process, they decided the jeans/sweater/jacket/shoes looked good on them and that's how the items will forever remain in their minds. That's how it SEEMS. Women are not so much like that. We fuss and pull and check from the rear and watch for signs of wear and looseness and tightness and not just with the fabric but with our own seemingly ever-changing bodies. It appears that a man can be reasonably certain he will be the same size in the morning that he was the night before. Women can never be so certain. It's strange but it's true! So when you find that outfit, that piece, that "thing" that fits well in every occasion and just works for you, you want to hang on to it like grim death, or until styles change to such a drastic degree that it just looks plain goofy. We remember previous "finds" like they were old friends. There was the bright blue dress I bought in Vegas for $30 that had little tiny buttons all the way down the back. It was gorgeous and looked at once very expensive and damn sexy. At a crowded house party after a staff Christmas party, someone spilled some sort of thick liquor on it that left a permanent stain. There was the long, deep red skirt that went with anything from a sweater to a sleeveless tank top. It got caught in a car door and shredded beyond repair. And the faux fur black and white jacket that drew compliments every time I wore it - until one so-called friend told me it looked like the one Cruella DeVille made out of dog hides in 101 Dalmations! The croc boots were beautiful. The pattern was separated by thin black lines so the deep brown boots looked totally smashing with black or with brown. Then one day as I innocently rode an escalator, the teeth of a step grabbed hold of the back of a heel and only panicked kicking tore me free seconds before I would have tumbled onto the steel. But the boot was lost. A footwear tragedy! The new boots don't have the black-line component but they are closer than I ever imagined I could get to my beloved previous ones. Hello new boots. Welcome to the closet of love! Be careful what you wish for! These new boots are HOT - not just in looks, but on my feet! I wore them the next day and I nearly passed out in a mall after walking around a bit. Whew! My feet were smokin'!! No, no, noooooooooooooooooo! It can't be true!
I have just breezed through MSN's preview of upcoming fall fashions and to my horror I have witnessed the impending return of the gaucho pants! These half-pants, half-skirts should be in the fashion hall of shame, not back on the runways. Gawd. One of the best blink-and-you'll-miss-it, low-key exchanges in one of my favourite chick flicks, Never Been Kissed, involves a throw-away little conversation between Josie (Drew Barrymore) and her brother Robert (David Arquette). Robert asks the nerdy Josie, "What is that you're wearing?" And she responds, "They're gaucho pants. I got them on sale." That's the sinister little secret behind gaucho pants, or culottes. They hang on a rack forever, until they're finally marked down and then some poor budget conscious soul scoops them up and ... well, frankly, looks ridiculous for the rest of the season. I'm old enough to have seen several fashion trends come around a second time, but this is one I thought had been eradicated from stores for good. Beware. Gauchos and culottes are coming for you. Once it gets out, a little fashion fact about white clothing will revolutionize the fashion industry! Money back if you’re not completely satisfied. Never be a Glamour “don’t” again. I’m surprised that this tidbit hasn’t become as ubiquitous as, say, the so-called rule about not wearing white after Labour Day. By the way, supermodel Kathy Ireland claims that the Labour Day white rule no longer holds, but I’m not sure whether to believe her. She designs furniture and rugs these days. Maybe she’s out of the fashion loop? But I digress. So few women seem to know this truth: white underwear should never be worn under white summer garments.
But what, pray tell, should we wear, Lisa? We don’t want VP’s (visible panty lines) or any other obvious signs below the fabric that underwear even exists. Well, that’s exactly what you’ll get with a white undie of any type. It creates an obvious line to where the panty ends and the flesh begins. A white thong acts like an arrow pointing down your coinslot. If that’s the look you’re going for well, you go girl. Me? I like a little more modesty and that’s achieved with nude or flesh-coloured undergarments. They are magical at creating a seamless look when worn under white. I thought of this at a wedding yesterday, when I saw two different women in very light coloured, tight dresses and white underwear. Everything about the underwear was on display: the texture, size (too small!) and if I had looked closely, I probably could have read the brand label. It was, in a word, hideous. And if you think I’m only being catty, let me just say that Wray leaned over to me after one of the women wandered past us and whispered, “something is definitely wrong there”. I replied, “She just needs a…” and before I could finish my sentence Wray said, “housecoat?” We giggled. What I was going to say was a slip, a nude-coloured one. I was embarrassed for her because she was embarrassing herself and didn’t even know it. Heads turned, but for the wrong reasons. She had taken a lot of time with her hair, nails, make-up and to pick outshoes. She had a very pretty dress on, but she hadn’t given enough thought to her under-things and the whole look was basically ruined. It works the same with T-shirts and blouses. A white bra under a white T-shirt is totally obvious. A nude-coloured one is not. A female colleague recently took me aside, and in a hushed tone reserved for drug deals asked through clenched teeth, “so, how come I can’t see panty lines with those white pants?” Flesh-coloured, baby. I’m flesh-coloured all the way. |