...and her little monsters

I really like being a part of groups with great names. That's the main reason why I joined my college English honors society, Sigma Tau Delta. Because then I could tell people that I went to an STD conference with my straightest of faces.

So, when I found out that Miss Gags had taken to calling her fans "little monsters," I was beyond thrilled. Yes! That means she personally cares about me, right? Right. Because no one wants to dissapoint someone as amazing as the Lady, her fans came dressed to the elevens Friday night. Again, pictures? HELL TO THE NO.

Allow me to set the stage for you--for one of the first times in my life, I was underdressed. While wearing a thifted sparkly blazer and huge cocktail rings on nearly every finger. I may as well have been wearing "University of Pink" sweatpants and a Snuggie. Many ladies (and gents) did their best to copy her most infamous outfits, which means that I saw a lot of homemade geometric shapes taped to black catsuits, bows made out of hair, and tulle wrapped around heads. For the MASSES of girls who weren't feeling insanely creative, but still wanted to feel like they were going to a crazy concert, they chose sequins on top of sequins with some fake eyelashes thrown in for good measure. Seriously, if Forever 21 has any stock left after this past week/weekend, color me shocked. I've never seen so many sequined minidresses.

Sidenote to Project Runway contestants (JANUARY 15!)--don't do "avant-garde" or "directional" clothing. Go to Mood, buy all the sequined fabric you can afford, and make a collection of strapless, long-sleeved, or one-sleeved dresses. Michael Kors may not fawn over you, but you will be rolling in cash.

Since I was apparently feeling understated, it's no surprise that my favorite costume is one of her more tame ones. It's in the "Bad Romance" music video when she's standing in front of the mirror. She's wearing a black, long-sleeved bodysuit with sunglasses and a tall, spiky crown. This girl did a fantastic replica! The construction paper crown held up nicely, and she even exaggerrated her bodysuit (I've never typed that word so much) with some geometric shoulder pads on the outside of the garment.

That being said, the show/her fans was and were hugely inspiring. I may not be walking around with a disco stick in the grocery store, but I'd say the new year calls for some GaGa-inspired risks. I need to earn my title as a "little monster," dontcha know.

The GaGa...

I have seen the Lady in concert. That's right--this past Friday, Sanja, her lovely sister Sanda, and I trekked to the Rosemont Theatre to catch a glimpse of the legend. That glimpse was actually an incredibly satisfying 3+ hour concert experience. And of course, because I don't have to explain the musical merits of a gem like "Bad Romance," you best believe I'm here to write about the costumes.

SWEET JESUS, THE COSTUMES.

First of all, I have to give quick props (kids still say that, right?) to her first opening act, Semi-Precious Weapons. Their music is a little screamy for my tastes, but I'll be damned if they're not trying to set themselves up to be the next Of Montreal. The male lead singer has the greatest set of gams I've ever seen, and walks in heels far better than I ever will. Tie-dyed tights and sparkly silver ankle boots? I considered rushing the stage just to beg him to be my shopping buddy. Oh, and any band that sells a t-shirt declaring "I can't pay my rent, but I'm gorgeous" earns an A+ in my gradebook.

The main event? Guys. GUYS. She didn't dissapoint. I mean, at one point, she was wearing a metal cutout bikini with a gold viking helmet. She had her Where the Wild Things Are moment with a huge shaggy coat that was later discarded to show off a black leotard contraption. That's one of the best parts about her clothing--all of it is a kind of contraption.

Now, here's the thing about her costume choices that's going to get her into gender studies textbooks about 5 years from now: even though she's often running around onstage in bikinis or hot pants, she goes out of her way to not appear typically sexual. She's not humping the stage or her dancers; she's contorting her body like she's having a seizure, letting the dancers do whatever they want to her, and often letting those same dancers have the spotlight. It's fascinating, because she's said something to the same effect herself--that girls don't need to see any more female artists licking lollipops on album covers. GOD, she's perfect.

Was I good enough to get pictures of this? Of course not. Me? Take a photo instead of write numerous paragraphs? No thank you. I lost track of her costume changes after #7, but that's just because I was too busy trying to hear any faints strains of "RA-RA-RA-ROMAN."

One last thing: anyone who thinks she's not the next Madonna/a better version is cukoo-ka-choo. Half of the aforementioned bikinis featured cone bras. Oh, and Madge? THE LADY LOOKED WAY BETTER IN THEM.

23 years ago...yesterday

So, I've sort of failed and neglected to blog about my favorite gal Sanja. And with yesterday being her 23rd birthday, it would have been a wayyy better present than that pony I bought her. Ah well, here goes (tardy) nothing.

Even though I relentelessly make fun of her for wearing gold Ugg boots that Mariah Carey would covet and still harbor some resentment for the Blazy incident of '09, she is hands-down one of the most creative, stylish, and wonderful people that I know. As long as she's not wearing the aforementioned boots, she always looks more hip than me, and wears patent red ballet flats and purple hi-tops with equal amounts of class and style. So, a fashionable toast to the one, the only, Sanja V. Here's to finding you a gold jumpsuit to match those boots for your 24th birthday!

Dress to Impress!

That adorable little saying used to be in nearly every fashion magazine, and it's completely gone by the wayside--much to my chagrin. While this post may be more about dressing for one's gorgeous figure, that doesn't rhyme, so that title lost.



Anywho, I've got to say that this post is inspired by Amy Elisabeth Olson, of Fingers, Figures fame. We were hanging out the other night, and she was still wearing her "teacher clothes" from her work earlier in the day. She was sitting down, and I was all "oh, that's a nice look. A lilac button-down , a brown knee-length skirt, and brown tights. Cute." Then, she stood up, and I was all "WHOA. LOOK AT THAT 12-INCH WAIST. WHERE ON EARTH DID THAT COME FROM? DID SHE GET TALLER? LOOK AT THOSE BOOBS! CAN I STOP THINKING IN ALL CAPS YET?!" Once I composed myself, I offered some clumsy compliments and secretly vowed to make an example out of her.



I've always been aware of the oft-referenced concept of "dressing for your figure" instead of hiding under yards of fabric or stuffing your body into an ill-fitted pair of pants. But, it's only when I wear a dress with a nicely nipped-in waist or see a friend in a spectacularly fitted outfit that this concept hits home. Let's outline what worked about this outfit for Miss Olson's figure, shall we?



First of all, Amy's a petite lass. She's on the short size, slender, but still has a little bit of a shape--meaning that her waist measurement is smaller than that of her hips, and her chest isn't concave. In other words, she's got one of the more coveted body types for wearing vintage clothing. While isn't often difficult for the Chesty LaRue's of this world to wear button-down shirts without looking boxy, her's was just fitted enough, and the buttons didn't begin until right above her bust line. So she got to show a lil' peek of the girls without looking obscene.



Then, the skirt. Sigh. It was extremely simple, really. Just a brown pencil skirt. But it hit at the smallest part of her waist, making her look like she was a slim, yet super sexy secretary. Interestingly enough, it fell just below her kneecaps--which, as some of you may know, can be a hard length to wear well. Thanks to her choice of a heeled boot though, she elongated the leg rather than making it look stumpy. A stellar, and flattering outfit for work or slightly structured play.



The moral of this story? DEAR GOD, dress for the body you have. Not the body you think you'll have it you keep your 2010 resolution of running five miles every day and eating fruits and vegetables instead of cookies and chips, but the lovely one that you have now. Look in the mirror, and instead of saying what's bad about yourself, think about what you'd like to highlight. That butterfly tattoo on your bum? Invest in a pair of quality hot pants! Your collarbone? Wear a boatneck sweater. If you do this, I swear that I'll be thinking IN ALL CAPS about how great you look too.

Strap on yer goin' out shoes

Now THAT is a New Year's Eve shoe.
Or, if you're my sole-mate (THE PUNS! THEY SLAY ME!), you think that's a shoe to wear to brunch.

For some reason, everyone (including yours truly approximately every other year) gets their knickers in a knot over what their New Year's Eve plans will be. It seems like the only other holiday that people unnecessarily freak out more over is Valentine's Day. To that, I say HARUMPH.

Guess what--unless you're getting proposed to at a specific location that you have to find without the aid of your future husband/wife, it doesn't really matter where you are on New Year's Eve. The year will still start whether you're kissing someone, throwing up in a bathroom, or watching The Holiday in your leopard-print Snuggie. And no, I'm not referencing my own plans with that last option. I'm not lucky enough to own a leopard-print Snuggie.

So, relax. The only plan that I have so far--no matter where I am--is to put on the most audacious shoes I own and possibly wear my secondhand fur coat that smells like someone died while smoking 50 packs of cigarettes at once. If you can't procure a fur, I suggest you at least put on tranny shoes. Especially if you happen to be of the male persuasion.

Tar-jayyy. It's pronounced Tar-get, world.

Target's "designer collaborations" have never impressed me all that much. Frankly, I like going to Target because I know I'm going to find clothes at "how many children do they employ in sweatshops?" prices. I'm not going there because I want to walk out with an Anna Sui dress. If I want a designer dress, I'll just be patient, save up $600-$1,000, and somehow justify spending that on a couple yards of fabric with a label sewn on it.

I understand that it's that exact mentality that Target is attempting--successfully--to change. I can only assume that they've acheieved success, because each collaboration has featured a more popular designer than the last, and shoppers begin anticipating the latest collections several months before they hit stores. Gasp! Just like in the real high fashion world! Where Target doesn't, and shouldn't, exist.

This impossibly elitist rant is going somewhere soon, I assure you.

Today, I went to Target looking to buy new slippers. Exactly the kind of simple, $10 item that I trust them to have in at least 3 different colors. THEY FAILED ME. I am still slipper-less. However, as I was sulking out of the store, I noticed a sign for their latest design partnership with Rodarte. I love Rodarte. LOVE THEM. Those two sisters can do no wrong in my eyes. All of their clothes look like they came straight out of a gothic, S&M-infused tea party. And I'm not alone in my admiration--this launch has had people on the edge of their seats since summer. Shocked that they still had anything in stock, I adopted the "crazed holiday shopper" persona and grabbed about 8 things, rushing into the dressing room before anyone could steal my bounty.

Verdict? Meh. I feel like they were inspired by a retired, drug-addicted ballerina. There's an enormous amount of tulle--almost to the point where I feel like someone should have pointed them in the direction of cotton--and everything is uneven or ragged. We've got slips with tulle overlays that are at least three inches longer than the slip, a tie-neck blouse composed solely of tulle, lace t-shirts, and the hooker dress to end all hooker dresses. It's mid-thigh-length with long sleeves (fine so far), made of lace (still sort of fine), leopard print (hmm...), and has three grossly oversized leopard-lace bows running up the back zipper.

WHAT? Of course I grabbed it, but after trying it on and giggling at the $40 price tag, I realized that I looked like someone who'd be worth about $5 on a busy corner. I'm not entirely suprised that the glory of Rodarte's runway shows didn't translate to a bargain big box store. I just really wish that people would stop pretending like it did. These aren't handmade dresses. They're not "directional" or avant-garde. They're lined up next to $12 Mossimo cardigans (which, let's be honest, is a much better purchase than a tacky dress that costs more than 2x that). So please, shoppers. Before you rush to Target to buy a "designer" label, remember what you're purchasing. A shoddily made, overpriced garment with an extra-special name sewn in the collar.

On allure

I'm obsessed with women who look like they have a secret.

Pardon my ineloquence, but I honestly can't think of a better way to describe that look that some women have. I'm obsessed with them because where they look like they have a secret, I look like I want to tell you the password to the treehouse in my backyard. There is nothing mysterious about the way I move, smile, or frown. I am, in a word, obvious. Plenty of praises can be sung of obvious women (right? RIGHT.), but there is something inherently captivating about a woman who is slightly more subtle, whether it be in the way she interacts with people or the way she dresses. I will never stop praising the virtues of a higher-than-high heel, nor will I cease wearing a garish shade of red lipstick to go to church or the grocery store. However, I may start channeling some of the subtlety that I covet into my wardrobe. If only because it's a new decade, and change is good, and blah blah blah. Whatever. I just want to see if I can get as excited about a well-tailored dress pant or simple blouse as I can about a sequined jumpsuit at Goodwill.

When it comes to possessing an alluring, mysterious personality...no dice. I'll probably still laugh like I'm having a heart attack, turn ridiculous shades of red when I'm excited or nervous, and walk like I'm on a mission, but perhaps I can get people to think "Wow, I wonder what's going on underneath the turtleneck of that gaffawing, red-faced speed walker."