Entries Tagged as 'Snark'
 I stopped shopping at Victoria’s Secret in 2008, when I walked into the Georgetown location and saw two girls, who weren’t yet old enough to drive, talking about whether their boyfriends would like the pink and black bras better than the leopard print ones. At that moment, I decided to upgrade to Coup de Foudre in Penn Quarter, because I had clearly exceeded some kind of unposted age limit. Then, last week, I swung by their Pentagon City location to give the Bombshell bra that I’ve heard other bloggers raving about a try.
What a mistake.
First off, let’s talk about color. If I had wanted zebra print with red lace trim, they had it. Lime green with hot pink polka-dots? They had that too. And if I needed bright aqua, harlot red, neon yellow or gingham check, I was covered. But nude, black or white? That was going to take the stockgirl 40 minutes and a bloodhound to track down.
Ridiculous.
After they finally found my color, I went into the dressing room to try the bra on and discovered that the Bombshell bra (which promises to double your cup size) has a flat wall of stiff padding where the cups would normally be. So the bra doesn’t so much lift you, as it squishes your girls until they pour out the top like prisoners escaping from a trash compactor. This prompted two thoughts:
1) Ouch.
2) Who are they kidding?
This bra crosses the line between pushing up the breasts so that they look awesome, and engaging in blatant, mind-blowingly obvious fraud. Seriously, this bra is false advertising at its most egregious.
Were you to try to hug your date, it would feel like there was couch cushion between you. And were the date to go well enough that the bra would be shed later on, your date would be wondering where your breasts went and how they deflated so quickly.
Victoria’s Secret made push-up bras and sexy lingerie available to the masses. Hell, I’m so old that I remember when VS was delivered in a non-descript box, sans company logo because it was considered vulgar, and you didn’t want the postman to know that you were receiving black, lacy things in the mail. But while the chain was once groundbreaking, the products that they are hocking now are just ridiculous.
VS has become a caricature of its glory days. The colors and patterns they sell are garish, unflattering and clearly designed by color blind Oompa Loompas. Their products have substantially decreased in quality, and the taste level has vanished along with the high-waisted Granny panties they once sold. In 2011, they stay in business by selling PINK track pants, treacly sweet perfumes and neon lime thongs to teenagers.
I don’t care to know what Victoria’s Secret is. But frankly, judging from the wares she’s currently selling, I wouldn’t be surprised if the big mystery is that Victoria is an overly-tanned, 55-year-old drag queen from New Jersey who drinks Mad Dog 20-20 and smokes Kools.
At 29, I am simply too old to sort through drawer after drawer of infantile prints searching for a non-existent nude bra that I can wear to work. I am obviously not the chain’s customer base, and watching teenage girls shop for trashy underpinnings in the sale bin is not my idea of a good time. So you won’t be seeing any pink striped shopping bags among my purchases any time soon.
When my friend KL told me this story at breakfast on Monday, I laughed so hard that tears were flying off of my face. So I knew that I had to get permission from her to post it.
Our conversation went something like this:
Belle: So how long have you and the New Boy been dating?
KL: Two months or so, but I’m ending it.
Belle: Why? I thought things were going so well.
KL: Umm, not to overshare, but he’s a Ripper.
Belle: Like the serial killer?
KL: No, moron (she didn’t actually call me that, but it was implied). The gets overly excited during foreplay and starts ripping my clothes off of me, ripper.
Belle: Wait, wait, wait. He actually rips the clothes? Like tears them… Or is he just removing them in a violent manner?
KL: No, he rips them. Two cocktail dresses and four blouses, so far. The plum Matthew Williamson dress that I wore to Sinatra Soiree is completely destroyed and I’m heartsick about it.
Belle: (laughing) Have you talked to New Boy about this? I mean, maybe he could replace the items or at least stop doing it?
KL: Yeah, we talked. He said it was beyond his control, that when he’s in the moment he’s just not thinking clearly. He thought that I should be flattered that he is so into me.
He also mentioned three times that no other women had ever complained about it, and then told me that they were just a couple of dresses.
Belle: (chortling) And your response?
KL: That my dresses cost as much as the payment on his car.
I also pointed out that his longest relationship lasted for four months, and suggested that maybe he had burned through so many girlfriends because once they ran out of clothes the relationship had to end.
To say that I was angry about his indifference would be putting it mildly, which is why it’s over tonight at dinner.
My alterations guy will be sad, I think I put one of his daughters through college this month, but I think this is a deal breaker.
Belle: (chokes on frittata while laughing uncontrollably)
***
I thought men only ripped clothes in bad romance novels. And while I can see how some women might think this is hot, I would probably freak out at the sound of the tearing thereby completely ruining the moment.
So what do you ladies think?
In fashion, there are rules and then there are faux pas. No white after Labor Day. Don’t mix black and brown. Never wear tights with open-toed shoes. These are rules, and rules are made to be bent or broken. But a faux pas is something entirely different.
In my opinion, most faux pas are the result of one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Most often, sloth–you buy an item for a utilitarian purpose but over time, that purpose is obfuscated by your laziness. For example, Uggs.
You buy a pair of Uggs to keep your feet warm on chilly Winter evenings at home. Then one day, you decide to wear them to the grocery store because you don’t feel like getting dressed for the store. Then the next day, you decide to wear them to brunch because it’s just a casual meal with friends.
And so on, and so on, until one day you’re wearing them to work because the office is cold, and your feet hurt, and they’ll be hidden under your pants, and who’s looking at your feet anyway, and besides, everyone is doing it?
Today’s faux pas, however, is a sloth and greed combo pack that would make a Catholic priest’s toes curl.
Uggs: Stud-ly, but still not Fashionable.
Meet the new Uggs designed by Jimmy Choo. That’s right, I said Jimmy Choo. The creator of sky high stiletto’s has decided to go slumming in shearling. That is if you consider paying $795 for a studded pair of Uggs slumming.
The idea of paying that kind of money for a pair of glorified bedroom slippers is astounding to me. The insanity of it almost makes wearing regular Uggs with their $140 price tag seem fiscally responsible. I hate Uggs in all their forms, but the idea of paying eight bills for a pair is just beyond the pale.
And what on Earth is Tamara Melton thinking? Her brand is a symbol of glamour and elegance, a beacon of hope for fashionistas everywhere , and she pairs up with UGGS! Perhaps it would make more sense if she had embarked upon this collaboration three years ago when Uggs were at the peak of their popularity, but like Juicy Sweatsuits and Crocs, Uggs are on a bit of a downswing.
Bottom line, if you really want a pair of studded Uggs, buy a Bedazzler. Because if you spend $800 on a pair of shearling boots, you deserve to have your credit card taken away from you.
 Full Pockets Make You Look Fat
As a supplement to the intern posts, I have decided to re-post a rant from over a year ago about male staffers (and men in general) who carry too much crap in their pockets. This is mostly because I got stuck in line yesterday behind a man who needed five passes to get through security. Seriously men, this is desperately irritating.
On your average weekday morning, the line to enter the Cannon House Office Building snakes out the door toward the street. Staffers wait impatiently bopping to their iPods and reading their newspapers shivering against the cold or melting in the heat. And when a holdup in the natural ebb and flow of the security screening process occurs, the perpetrator is either a tourist or a man with overly full pockets.
Such was the case this morning. And as I watched a tall, dark and overloaded gentlemen empty his pockets item-by-item, I was truly astonished by the amount of crap that he had shoved into them.
From his pants pockets, he removed a Blackberry Curve, a cell phone, a money clip, a pocket knife, a handful of loose change and another Blackberry. From his jacket pocket came an iPod, a metro card, a set of keys and a lighter. And just when I thought there was no more room at the inn, he extricated two portable memory drives and a billfold from his inside jacket pocket. All of this was in addition to the laptop bag that he was carrying.
He then stepped through the metal detector and was quickly followed by the tell tale beep of a job poorly done.
As loud groans filled the corridor, he rechecked his pockets and discovered another lighter and two more pieces of change. I expected him to go all Mary Poppins and pull out a floor lamp or a tea set.
Another try through the machine, and another beep. The belt. He forgot the belt. The very belt that I was moments away from strangling him with.
Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime to the people in line behind him, he cleared security. Suddenly conscious of how much time he had wasted, he dumped two bowls worth of detritus into his laptop bag (where it belonged in the first place) and jogged toward the elevator completely oblivious to the fact that he had just made a half-dozen mortal enemies.
As I walked back to my office, seething like a Shakespearean villain, I kept returning to the same question, “Why do men carry so much sh** in their pockets?” Frankly, it’s infuriating.
In an effort to cleanse the security lines of this scourge, I have compiled a list of why men should limit the items in their pockets to only most necessary and leave the rest at home.
- Carrying excess items in your pockets make your pants bulge, and not in a good way.
- Only elves should jingle when they walk.
- Constantly sifting through your pockets in order to find things makes you look like a dope.
- Bumping into people on the Metro gives other riders bruises and abrasions.
- Your girlfriend does not want to wind up carrying all of your crap in her purse every time that you go out. She is not a Sherpa, and her Kate Spade clutch is not a yak.
So, what is necessary?
I carry a Blackberry, my House ID, a wallet, an iPod and a tin of Rosebud Salve in my purse. If you are a man carrying more stuff than I am, you are officially high maintenance. And coming from me that is a sad commentary on your existence…
So unless you want every person you encounter to think you are the Zsa Zsa Gabor of the House Office Buildings, empty your pockets. Or at the very least, start emptying them while you wait in the security line, and don’t wait til you get to the metal detector to begin disarming yourself.
The Capitol Police and this blogger thank you.
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