Cosplay

My name is Jennifer Worick and I am a geek. A Coke-bottled, bookworm, comic book-reading, Nerdist-loving geek. But apparently, I’m not a cool one.

I have never been to Comic-Con. And I don’t have a closet filled with Logan’s Run, Xena, Zira, Bellatrix Lestrange, or Jem and the Holograms costumes. I’m just a run-of-the-mill geek who, sad to say, doesn’t own any wigs.

And I’m okay with that.

See, I’m also a grown-ass person. Everyday isn’t an opportunity to recreate Halloween and indulge in a flamboyant case of arrested development. I get it, Stormtrooper, I get it. You were a kid with Star Wars sheets who doesn’t currently have a girlfriend and wants to take out your agro-bro feelings under the guise of white plastic while trolling for a slave Leia who's DTF. And sexy Uhura with your skirt up to there, I know you had braces and crippling shyness as a teen so now you’re making up for lost time and looking for a Mr. Spock who will appreciate both your human and Vulcan sides. I bet you’d even settle for that Klingon over there, even though that goes against Starfleet regulations.

Take the lead from kids, who save the serious costuming for Halloween. Dressing up for every comic book, pinball, sci-fi, supermachiner, manga, Magic the Gathering, videogame, Trekkie conference co-opts what should be ONE special day and frankly, throws you into the same sorry bunch as Steampunkers and Ren Faire enthusiasts. You just have more interesting eyewear. 

So go away. Go to a galaxy far, far away. Wrap your knitted scarf around your neck and step into your TARDIS. Here's' hoping you run into some Daleks who are looking to exterminate a Time Lord. 

(photo: ogeeku.com)

Yoga pants

Ladies of the yoga-pants-as-streetwear persuasion: Don’t get it twisted.

You’re just as bad as the pajamas-as-outerwear People of Walmart, except you have a 401K and a will to live. In fact, you live the hell out of your life. You’ll sleep when you’re dead.

Meanwhile, you’re overscheduled and you don’t want anyone to forget it. You’re far too busy with carpools and important deadlines at your WFH consulting gig to bother changing out of your workout gear.

Because, oh yeah, you work out. The yoga pants say so.

You know your way around a Pilates Reformer and can stay in Crow pose for more than a minute in your hot yoga class. Yoga pants are your way of broadcasting that you—and your toned ass—are better than me.

Yoga pants, camel toe, and a messy topknot announce to the world that you’re fit, body and SoulCycle. On the flip side, however, you might be of the yoga pants subset who wears them despite having never stepped foot in a yoga studio. You don’t live the hell out of your life. You just live for an elastic waistband, bless your heart, and you’re not quite ready to make the leap to maternity pants, the ones with the stretchy panel.

Regardless, if you insist on wearing your Lululemon outside of the gym or yoga studio to go shopping or out to lunch or even to a business meeting, men should start wearing some OG David Lee Roth spandex action. Because, you know, everyone wants to see that, too.

(Photo: betabrand.com)

Sexy Halloween costumes

Sexy is going down today, and not in a good way. 

When did every woman's Halloween costume get preceded by the adjective "sexy?" The Wicked Witch of the West's hemline has traveled well north of her green knees, and Halloween parties are now littered with sexy kittens, sexy devils, sexy nurses, and any profession or animal that can be tramped up. I've even seen sexy Bert & Ernie costumes, for the love of Sesame Street.

Until I see a whole gaggle of Magic Mikes shivering in their cock socks and bow ties, I'm sticking with my pregnant nun getup. Stop looking like you're turning tricks when you're trick or treating, baby doll, or I'm going to have to tighten your kittycat corset until you toss your candy corn. Meow.

(photo: completelybonkers.co.uk)

Platform shoes

To know me is to know I love shoes.

I have somewhere in the neighborhood of 75 pairs, stored in clear boxes with laminated photos of them taped to their outside. I love, love, love them. I want to hug them and pet them and call them my own.

Most of all, I like to wear them. I love how long and sinuous my gams become when I slip into a stiletto, or how badass I feel when I zip up a pair of calf-hugging sky-high leather boots. Shoes can make me feel like a Hitchcock heroine, a dominatrix, or a straight-up lady. I’m down with all of that.

What I’m not down with is hobbling around like a 19^th-century Chinese woman with bound feet. 

Which is what platform shoes turn women into. I don’t care if you’re Beyoncé, Dita Von Teese, an elfin Olson Twin, or the celebutard du jour, there’s no way you can walk easily, let along comfortably or safely, in these mobile diases. When I slip into a spendy designer platform pump or a cheap hooker shoe, I might as well be toiling away inside a Pearl S. Buck novel, what with my crippled feet. They turn your dogs into horse's hooves.

And why is it so important to be six foot four? I have a hard enough time dating. I don’t need to elevate out prospective men with my glamazonian ways. Kick off these torture devices and kick them to the curb before you become an actual fashion victim.

(photo: compulsivestyle.com)

Holiday-themed clothing

We get it, Star-Spangled Dumbass, it’s the Fourth of July. With the pop-up fireworks stands, numerous picnic invitations, and my calendar, I had an inkling.

While I think a jaunty scarf or baseball cap in our nation’s colors can set off an outfit and proclaim your Independence beautifully, I take issue with clothing purchased solely for a holiday. Whether it’s an emerald-green outfit befitting a leprechaun, a Quacker Factory sweater adorned with jack-o-lanterns or Christmas trees, or a Valentine’s Day heart attack, seasonal clothing is as gauche as wearing a white gown to someone else's wedding.

And, American Idiot, tricking yourself out head to toe in red, white, and blue $5 Old Navy or Target clothing that was made by one-armed Asian toddlers isn’t the way to convey your national pride.

That’s what illegal fireworks are for, Thomas Feel-Some-Paine. That’s just common sense. 

(photo: flagclothes.com)

Special-occasion fleece

As the curtains opened on my evening, things looked promising. I bellied up to the bar, where I was greeted by a handsome man in a natty suit. We moved on to the theater to see Lewis Black's charming and funny play, One Slight Hitch.

There was, however, one slight hitch. Actually, there were a few hundred hitches surrounding me. Men and women alike were sporting fleece vests, cargo shorts, baseball caps, polo shirts adorned with Microsoft logos, and grotty comfort sandals. The audience looked like they were ready to gut a fish, not watch a performance by professional actors (that they paid good money to experience).

Like weddings, job interviews, and black-tie galas, the theater is a special event. Like spotting a unicorn or rainbow, it's not something that happens every day, at least in my world. The theater is a reason to get dressed up, not give up. Akin to wearing pajamas as outerwear, wearing convertible pants and your favorite hoodie is a sign that you don't give a shit, either about yourself or the cultural institution. I know I live in Seattle, but for fuck's sake, people and REI employees, would it kill you to wear tinted lipgloss or pants that reach to the floor?

If you keep insisting on wearing the same garb for weeding the garden and supporting the arts, I'll have no choice but to bring the lights down on your sorry performance. And...scene.

(photo: theepochtimes.com)

Cosby sweaters

It makes me angry when I see the world’s resources going to create bad fashion. This pretty much means I’m angry every time I watch a rerun of The Cosby Show. Not to knit pick, but Bill’s sweaters were hiddy in the 80s; in 2011, they’re downright offensive.

Pull on one of these Magic Eye rejects (is that Malcolm Jamal Warner I see when I stare at that Not-So-Fair Isle pattern on your chest?), and you’ll pretty much look like a walking Christmas ornament or a straight-up billboard for fugly. Rugs belong on the floor, not encasing your body in a hot mess of wool.

One Size Fits All

I was recently in my favorite boutique trying on January clearance items, namely sweaters. So a “helpful” salesgirl the size of my pinky put a black cami in the dressing room to wear underneath some of the items with plunging V-necks.

One Size Fits All.

Uh huh. More like “One Size Fits Small.” The manufacturer left off a couple of letters and they left off a couple of inches of fabric. My boobs were bandaged tighter than Gwyneth’s in Shakespeare in Love.

On the other hand, some OSFA garments are like those thneeds from The Lorax, shapeless whatsits that swallow you up and are as flattering as wearing a Truffula tree.

Let’s implement a new rule, mmkay? If there’s a closure of any sort, there needs to be a few different size choices. In other words, unless you’re pushing Snuggies and shawls, you’d best give me more than a tourniquet-sized option, or I’m going to give you a reason to need a real tourniquet.

I’m all for egalitarianism, but it doesn’t apply to clothing.

(cartoon: www.toonpool.com)

Bridesmaids dresses

You can wear it again! Um, yeah, for Halloween!
The color is universally flattering! If you’re from Mars.
The silhouette is slimming! Just like a 4-person tent.
The price is reasonable! If you’re Oprah.

I have to say that I’m pretty lucky. I’ve been a bridesmaid three times and have always managed to dodge the tulle bullet. The first two dresses, while not my taste, were inexpensive and the third I got to pick out myself. Others have not been so lucky.

Most gals I know have been maids to a few brides, women, who prior to becoming engaged, were reasonable, smart, and kind. Then they get a ring on their finger and a veiled and gartered beast is awakened. Taste goes down the toilet, along with any regard for their girlfriends. Who cares that Diane looks dreadful in chartreuse or that Sandy is a little too Rubenesque to pull off a peplum? These friends, if they’re genuine, will damn well stuff their bits and pieces into that sherbet-colored confection and smile until the last note of the chicken dance wafts through the hall!

Karma’s a bitch, and so is the maid of honor’s toast.

What’s the most atrocious bridesmaid’s dress you’ve ever donned?

(photo: thegloss.com/odds-and-ends/gallery-these-10-bridesmaid-dresses-are-uglier-than-yours/gallery-page/9/#gallery)

Convertible pants

These days, versatility is key. I know this. I am on board, at least in theory. But you know what? When I buy something that does double or triple duty, like, say, a lipstick that doubles as a blush or a coffee table book that turns into a coffee table, I always end up using it in just one way. Take fug convertible pants, for instance.

Weekend warriors who spring for a pair of pants that convert to shorts by unzipping the legs always end up wearing the half-assed pants around town. This is gear, not clothing. If you’re living out of a backpack, throw those fuckers on. If you’re going to the farmer’s market or out to dinner, put something on that’s not in the middle of an identity crisis.

Neither stylish nor complementary, convertible pants are an example of least-common-denominator design. They are designed to be functional for everyone but universally unflattering. When wearing the pants, the zipper seams cut you off at the knees—if you’re lucky; more likely, they encircle your thigh—surely the feature we all long to showcase—at the widest point. If you do actually step out in the shorts, you’re likely to be asked to give a wildlife tour around the neighborhood, since you’ll be masquerading as a park ranger.

Stow these REI-sores in your 70 pack and instead pull out a pant or short that suits you. Just keep away from the Utilikilt.

(photo: outdoor-equip.com)

Crocs

I used to think Birkenstocks were bad.

Then I got a load of Crocs. Shaped like a pair of kitchen or gardening clogs, or maybe a bludgeon (these clown shoes give new meaning to the term “clubbed foot”), Crocs have spread like a rubber foot fungus around the world. I suppose the holes in the Croslite upper are designed to help sweaty feet breathe, but I think they act as an odor diffuser.

Crocophiles also cry comfort about these eye blisters. I’m not buying it. There are thousands of footwear brands that are comfortable and don’t look like Fred Flintstone made them on his lunch break. The Dutch used to wear wooden boats on their feet because they didn’t have any other choice in material. What’s your excuse? Do you also wear your pajamas to do your grocery shopping?

The footwear equivalent of a white flag, Crocs pretty much announce that you’ve given up. So unless you want to stand trial for a serious fashion crime, you’d best beg for mercy and get yourself a pair of cute Earth Shoes.

(photo: melbourne.metblogs.com)

Teddy bear sweatshirts

There are times when I miss my stuffed animals, sure. Usually, it’s when I’m sad and there’s no one with a heartbeat around to hug or punch in the face.

I’m sure as fuck sad when I spot one of these tragedies offending my sightline. Teddy bear and other novelty sweatshirts aren't adorable, they're unbearable. What possesses a grown-up to cling to a plush toy, let alone wear it proudly across her ta-tas? That’s what the fetal position is for, obvs.

The upshot? The only accessory you need is a thumb to suck.

(photo: docmae.com)

Dogs in bandannas

Is your dog sweating? Are you trying to catch stray kibble crumbs? Protect his back from a nasty sunburn? Cover up a bald patch like an aging rocker (sorry Bret Michaels)? Are you trying to brighten his complexion? Add a spot of color that complements his coat? Draw attention up and away from his ample girth?

No?

Then untie that doggone neckerchief and let him be a dog. If you haven’t noticed, dogs come with built-in clothes called fur. The only accessory they need is a collar. Wrap them up in your love, not squares of cotton festooned with stars or pink ribbons or dancing bears. They don’t need a porn star neckerchief or a redneck bowtie or a bib or a little color to draw the eye up. You, on the other hand, are another story. May I suggest something in a shade of black or blue to match your muzzle after I punch you in the face?

(photo: mysportsbandanas.com)

Ed Hardy clothing

Doode, I already know you’re sporting tats on your arms…and abs…and shoulders (not to mention a spray tan) under that tattooed tee. You don’t need to add another layer of ink blots.

Jon Gosselin used to be the company’s poster douche but his position is being seriously threatened by The Situation and Jersey Shore’s other resident goombahs. When they pull on a studded Christian Audigier abomination to go out creeping, it flat-out creeps me out. It’s as if a dye pack of lameness exploded all over them as they left the surf shop.

Attention, oily bohunks! Wearing Ed Hardy doesn’t wipe out a paste-eating past. Pulling on a tattooed trucker cap is a low-forehead’s sad attempt to be cool. It’s more “tattoo ewwww!” than Tattoo You.

On the bright side, there’s an upshot to all this crap; the garments act as makeshift cotton billboards announcing a tool has just entered the workshop. And they provide lots of targets for my fists.

(photo: herestheproblem.wordpress.com)

Back fat

It’s bad enough that I have boobies busting out of my front side. Do I really need my body jutting out of my back? No matter my weight, when I strap on a bra, the layer of fat I’ve accumulated for winter hibernation oozes under and over the band.

Needless to say, this is decidedly not hot.

Don’t misunderstand me: that layer of fat is insulating me, but it’s the only thing keeping me warm since no one wants to get near my built-in pillow. It’s like spooning with Quasimodo. It’s not all bad, I suppose. My punchback is great for uncomfortable plane flights—no need to take up space in my carry-on with a bucky pillow when I’m rocking the Maidendeform.

But that might be the only upside to my body goo. Oh, and I suppose there’s one other consolation: if I punch back fat in its face, it will absorb the impact and prevent any damage to my internal organs. There I go again, being all glass half-full and shit.


(photo: losefatfrom.com)

Pajamas as outerwear

While I’d like to think of life as one big pillow fight, it’s not. It’s not a slumber party, and the frozen food section is not Maria Greene’s basement, as much as I sometimes wish it were. So why are you wearing pajamas and slippers as you’re reaching for those Totino’s Pizza Rolls? Put them back and put some clothes on. I think you can find some in aisle 10.

Dressing has become more and more casual as we slip on flip-flops and pull on fleece hoodies for all sorts of occasions. But nightgowns, flannel PJs, and bathrobes cross the Casual Friday line and step into crazy, depressed, or another state of mind that might demand medication or, at the very least, light therapy.

Admit it: you’ve thrown in the towel. You might as well just curl up in the fetal position under a Snuggie and give up. I won’t kick you while you’re down but do me a favor and keep your crazy behind closed (perhaps locked) doors. If you don’t, I’m going to surprise you in the bedding aisle and whack you with a big-ass pillow until you wake the fuck up and change out of your crib clothes.

(photo: reidaboutit.com)

Shoeless households

Increasingly, when I enter someone's home, I’m shoehorned into a foyer lined with shoes and instructed to add mine to the pile.

Um, I came for a party, not for a pedicure.

I get that folks don’t want their hardwoods scratched and scuffed by my stilettos. I understand that paranoid parents are afraid of the germs that I’m tracking in on the soles of my shoes.

Call me a heel, but I don’t want to walk around in my socks or bare feet. My shoes deserve to be seen as God and Manolo Blahnik intended: on my foot. And without the boost of the heel I am never without, my jeans sweep the floor. From my POV, this has only one bright side: My friends’ floors never need to be mopped. My pant legs and socks do it for them.

If people keep demanding that I kick off rather than kick up my heels, I am going to kick them in the face—right after I shuffle around their house with 80-grade sandpaper taped to my feet.

(photo: flickr.com/photos/26714560@N00/84600731/)

Celebrity fashion lines

Lindsay Lohan recently collaborated with Ungaro for a train wreck of a fashion show. Why would a venerable Paris fashion house trust its reputation and scissors to a girl whose nickname is “Firecrotch?” She certainly hasn’t set the world on fire with her style, which lately has involved a lot of leggings. They weren’t a good idea in the 80s and they aren’t now.

But LiLo isn’t the only celeb I have a beef with. I pretty much loathe every actress or singer who thinks that, because she got a thumbs-up on the red carpet from the TV Guide Channel, she should develop a clothing line. Hilary Duff and Lauren Conrad (who sort of went to school for fashion) have had lines at Kohl’s. Amanda Bynes had one at the now-defunct Steve & Barry’s. These chicks are hardly out of their teens and yet they are dictating style to middle America middle-schoolers.

Of course it’s easy for a celebutard to look good but it doesn’t mean that they should start designing sequined leotards or introducing a line of hair extensions. Plus, by and large, they aren’t designing a single sorry thing. They just lend their name and favorite color and, poof, poop is being shipped to Wal-Mart.

Like the dude in The Crucible said, in the end, all you have is your reputation and your name. Well, these rag hags will go to the grave knowing they exploited children in Southeast Asia, expended the world’s resources and for what? Snagged, damaged thneeds that are going to wind up at Goodwill next to collection of abandoned Cosby sweaters.

In a word, Firebotch.

Jumpsuits

It’s tricky enough to go to the bathroom in a one-piece bathing suit. Why would you want to wear what's basically a body stocking out and about?

Think about it. If you have to take your top off to pee, you could easily drop a sleeve in the toilet…or get a chest cold. This fashion victim’s onesie needs to hustle back to where it came from—1977, to be specific. Whether it’s a strapless romper or an homage to skydiving style or that thing in the photo, chumpsuits belong on the trash heap of bad ideas (along with Utilikilts and mullets)…unless you are changing my oil.

(photo: onceuponawin.com)

Mariah Carey's closet

There are certain folks who would give their right tit for your wardrobe…if they had one. See, Mimi, you have one dragalicious collection of clothes. Come to think of it, drag queens would probably turn their powdered noses up at your trashy-assed closet too. Your body is bangin’, but stuffed into sequined, skintight, skimpy clothes, you look like a space-age sausage. Vision of Glove is never gonna get you on a best-dressed list. Stylists like Clinton and Stacy are always harping on proper fit, but tight is equally as bad as baggy. Rule of thumb: if you can see your belly button through a garment, ditch it.

And for God’s sake, put the girls away. We know you’ve got pipes on you…since you showcase your chest at every opportunity. Side boob, underboob, bouncing-around-like-a-sack-of-puppies cleavage… Get those things under control and out of sight. You could take out an innocent passerby, you could blind a young fan.

Paula created a diversion for a few years with her sartorial junk show but now that she’s gone from Idol, you’d best clean your shit up. Soften up your look, find some jeans with more than a 1-inch rise, look for things that allow you to sit without your bits and pieces sticking to the seat (Was “Touch My Body” an ode to your favorite chair?), and buy a fucking bra. And maybe then, I’ll only deride you for your music.

(Photo: examiner.com)