Second Hand, Second Thoughts

    So, I'm finding all this Marc Jacobs stuff at the Goodwill--and I'm buying it like it's going out of style. Which, maybe it is. Because I can't seem to sell it. It usually is impossibly small sizes, including child's size 6, so that's not helping, but I don't understand it: I read about Marc Jacobs brilliant designs. I have heard that people love Marc Jacobs. There are at least 10 people who are NOT models that can wear his strange, twink-ish cuts and severe lines and odd layering. I'm starting to think maybe Marc Jacobs really mostly loves himself. But , after all, let's face it: what's not to love? Oh, I love myself! I mean, you! I meant you! Look at them! I mean, him! He's so pretty! Okay, him, too! Now, can we get something to wear? Or is that not the point at all? Okay, so, maybe it's not the point.

Andy Warhol famous line, that everyone would be famous for fifteen minutes has entered the common lexicon of cliches and I'd like to kill him for it. In the first place, it's because, it seemed at the time, he was being kind of snotty--implying that most people (besides him) were too silly to tell the difference between 15 minutes of fame and a career of being famous. But then, we also have Liz Claiborne, who's been famous for a lot longer than that and doesn't look like she's ever going to go away. Even though she's been dead for god-knows how many years.  I don't hold anything against her success personally--the first Fortune 500 company founded by a woman and all the other feminist landmark accolades. And it is nice I suppose that there was a designer out there who designed for the feminine figure--small waste, bigger hips and butts, than for the 12-year-old boy, model's size 0 body, although her clothes don't fit me personally, with my non-exis...

This is how I felt If it weren't for my stash of stiffly ironed shirts, for a while there, I wouldn't have been able to stand up. I have been in a place that feels not unlike a dark, black wet paper sack--a very thick paper sack--Tyvek or strapping tape--the kind of stuff you can't rip or tear with your teeth--I was in one of those. And it started to scare the hell out of me. I had no idea how to fight my way out of it. Ideas are my stock in trade. And I was completely out of 'em. Good ones, anyway. And that's a scary thought. Oh, I had a few, very bad ideas. I was practically infested with those. I felt like a tightly crushed container of toxic waste--black and greasy and twisted and heavy and the bad ideas were making their little wormy ways through the little black banana peel that was serving as my heart. Nope. I couldn't fight my way out a wet paper sack. And every day seemed like a fight. So, I turned to clothes as my armor. I dressed carefull...

I have found myself making raspberries as part of my vocabulary.      The other day, in the Goodwill, I had a sudden prophetic vision of me--the tangle-haired old woman with a Goodwill shopping cart full of crap--making big, fat, farting noises with my tongue at every butt ugly holiday sweater I saw, including those on actual people.   Look, I'm not going to go toe-to pointy-elf-bootie toe with you on fashion, but if you need a holiday sweatshirt to get you in the Holiday Spirit, maybe you deserve what you get, though.      Occasionally, like the clothes in my closet, I have to do a certain amount of inventory and culling of personal habits--like going to the thrift stores every day, or chewing my thumb cuticles into bloody hamburger--after I get senile that won't matter to me so much, but right now, I've got to be at least a teeny bit vigilant, lest I stop showering or start muttering to myself in grimy subways or start putting child...

C Make checks payable to: Dept. 2 SH, Cocktail Hour Enterprises, St. Louis, MO 63132! "When Happy Hour talk turns to Astrology, this guide's brief summary wll spark your conversation...and help you know what enthusiasts are talking about. In fact, it will help you have the greatest Happy Hour Party ever!!" This fabulous kit, and its helpful companion guide, made in Florence, Kentucky, is just a wealth of information! (It is always helpful to know what your guests are talking about! It comes with numerous nuggets of wisdom, such as: "Did you know that every person is said to be born under a "sign of the Zodiac?" the Zodiac is a kind of cosmic calendar... " Ah, the good old days when all this was just pure gibberish to most of us!)  I mean, who wouldn't want to have a swingin' party with these funsters? My folks used to have groovy "happenings" in the '60's and '70's, too, but I don't remember any clear-comple...

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1181997/This-dress-far-small--Ill-Women-waste-millions-clothes-theyll-slim-shed-wrong-kind-pounds.html  This dress is far too small... I'll take it: Women waste millions on clothes they'll never slim into as they shed wrong kind of pounds By Daily Mail Reporter Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1181997/This-dress-far-small--Ill-Women-waste-millions-clothes-theyll-slim-shed-wrong-kind-pounds.html#ixzz11XLU9XLu   "I don't know if I can sell these," my friend said, walking the white carpet from her second huge walk-in closet and into her first walk-in closet. She was teetering on a pair of truly gorgeous Jimmy Choo snakeskin heels. I wouldn't have been able to sell them either.    Then again, after the second ankle surgery, her orthopedic surgeon had warned her that if she wanted to avoid further ankle surgeries, she'd ease up on the six inch stilettos. The surgery had been a couple months a...

Used to be the coolest possible man's accessory So, what is going on with the wristwatch? I know more and more people are relying on cellular technology to automatically synchronize their mobile phones to Greenwich Mean Time, which is all very well. It might be likened to a return to previous centuries' pocket watch--without the elegant watch chain. Or the little charming tics of winding it when you're nervous, or swinging the watch chain around one finger while waiting on a date. Or the possibility of bequeathing it to one's heirs. ("Gee, dad, did your dad leave you his old cell phone?" "That's right, son, a real iPhone GS3. I dropped this phone in the toilet when I was just six years old--and some day, this dead piece of corrupted, corroded electronics in a bag of rice will be yours. With my grand-dad's old vacuum tube television with the tinfoil on the rabbit ears.") I personally can't wear a wristwatch. Maybe it's some sort of...