Nail art

I’ve slowly but surely turned into a fuddy duddy, a finger wagger of the first degree. I don’t like exposed bra straps and still believe in slips. I think hair colors not found in nature are stupid (I’m looking at you, Nicole Richie and Kelly Osbourne). And I find nail art to be like nails on my beauty chalkboard.

I prefer short nails in one color, often Black Onyx or Russian Navy. I don’t like talons that have been whittled down to the point where they could pick a lock. And I certainly don’t like nails with crazy designs and different colors.

My distain stems from several reasons. One, fingernail designs and colors can skew trashy, like Hello Kitty just got hired at the Bunny Ranch or Tara Reid, well, just Tara Reid.

And I know nail art is anything but cheap, unless you’re using the press-on variety. I rarely paint my nails because it chips so fast. Getting your favorite team’s logo or a complicated basketweave pattern on your fingertips just seems like an expensive venture for such as short lifespan. I’d rather put that money in my pocket, not on my hand.

And if you’re doing it at home, it invariably looks sloppy unless you’re ambidextrous and detail-oriented. You start out with the best of intentions and bottles of pink, green, and yellow polish and wind up looking like a crazy colorblind person wearing a botched craft project.

And I finally put my finger on it: the biggest reason that I turn away from these manic-cures is that they pull focus. I want people to look at me, not my clothes, accessories, and beauty choices. I’m not a vehicle for miniature portraits, landscapes, and abstracts; I am the work of art. My manicure doesn’t make me interesting; it just makes me polished.

Guys who wear sunglasses on their forehead

If you' haven't figured it out by now, I'm pretty fucking picky.

I make no apologies.

Admittedly, this may have something to do with the fact that I'm single, but I stand by my gripes.

And one said gripe is dudes who wear their sunglasses on their forehead. Not the top of their head, mind you, but just above their eyebrows. 

When I see this optical billboard advertising a blue-collar, blue-blocking frat boy, I can't see straight. I should turn a blind eye to such a small thing, but it drives me bananas. 

Are you too lazy to hinge your shades to the top of your head? Have you converted your Cro-Magnon brow ridge into a portable ledge for your Ray-Bans? Are you trying to shield your five-fingered forehead or receding hairline from harmful rays?

My only hope is that you wind up with an awesome tan line.

Equally as bad: Oakleys hanging off the nape of your neck.

(photo: marxists.org)

Designer luggage

Flipping through a fancy-pants fashion mag, I happened upon an Annie Leibovitz photo of Angelina Jolie drifting down a Cambodian river, accompanied by only her Louis Vuitton travel tote. 

Bitch, please. 

Sit too close to the edge and that Alto bag is a croc’s snack bag.

I don’t care how rich you are, crazy expensive designer luggage seems as ill-advised as buying a mansion built on quicksand.

Total money pit.

At some point, darling, you’re going to have to check that shit and if history has told us anything, it’s that baggage handlers and the cargo hold are not kind to luggage. And a Louis Vuitton steamer trunk is like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Those dudes are going to head straight for it and play kick the can. Sure, it’s sturdy and exquisitely made but it’s a suitcase. It’s suppose to encase your suit and protect your fabulous belongings, not be one of them.

Leave such gross excess to the likes of Karl Lagerfeld and his pets, you know, mammals we can all get behind hating. 

(photo: upscalehype.com)

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)

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.

Duck face

I’ve done it. I don’t know why.

Maybe I was going for a Real Housewives blowfish look and was trying to mask my lack of Juvederm or lip implants. Maybe I was blowing a kiss to the cameraman. Maybe I was just knee-deep in gin.

Maybe, but more likely, I was going for sexy and thought duck face was a quick way to look like was I single and ready to mingle. Instead, I—and every other trout mouth out there—look like I have a bill instead of lips, like I’m ready to sample some sardines instead of a tasty man’s mouth.

I don’t want to ruffle any feathers but ladies, when a camera is pulled out, please remember “quack is whack.”

Steampunk

I don’t want to belong to any club that would have me as a member. —Groucho Marx
Or this guy. —TIWTPITF


I like imagination. I like creativity. I don’t like this Victorian goth take on the renaissance faire. Instead of a jongleur in a jester’s cap, steampunkers strap on leather goggles and embrace a good Rube-Goldberg machine or Tesla coil for shits and giggles.

The thing is, the good old days weren’t always good, as Billy Joel would say. If you’re going to fire up some steam-powered contraptions using your erector set, you’d best showcase the tuberculosis and smallpox that rocked 19th-century Britain as well.

You aren’t edgy or alternative. You’re just a former LOTR/Star Wars/D&D fan dressed up as an H.G. Wells’ wet dream. Doff the leather waistcoat and travel back to the present before I engage in a little time travel of my own and sic a Morlock on you.

(photo: flickr.com/photos/nathaninsandiego)

Non-prescription eyeglasses

Guess what? I’m selfish.

I’m also blind as a bat. I’ve worn -13.5 Coke bottles over my eyes since second grade. Combine these two and it makes me blind with rage when I see hipsters trying to look emo, ironic, brainy, sexy librarianish, or Weezery by donning a pair of frames.

If you don’t need them as your third and fourth eye, if your peepers don’t look like tiny blinking specks or giant dilated saucers behind your lenses, back way from the Oliver Peoples and pass by Pearl Vision.

Buy a hat or get a tattoo, and let me have this.

(photo: loulove22.wordpress.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)

Crunchy hair

We always want what we don’t have. Curly-haired vixens always want to kick their corkscrews to the curb in favor of stick-straight hair, while those of us with only a hint of a limp wave want undulating, Keri Russell-like locks of love.

We spray, rub, and massage curl-enhancing unguents into our manes. We scrunch. We dry with a diffuser. And voilà! We achieve the follicular stuff of which pre-Raphaelite dreams are made. One problem: we could blind a passerby with our crunchy curls. More post- than pre-Perseus Medusa, our hair is a mass of stone-cold locks.

Put down the can, jar, and bottle and learn to love yourself, limp hair and all. You could poke an eye out.

(photo: omgihavethat.blogspot.com)

Salon smocks

A spa or salon is generally supposed to make you feel serene, zen, pampered, beautiful.

At least I expect this every time I walk through the doors, and then it quickly goes to shit. I become agitated and feel like a tub o’ lady lard.

The problem? The chintzy, flimsy smock I’m invariably expected to wear. While I’m a busty gal and currently a few pounds over my fighting weight, I always hope that the salon's robe is going to cover my ass, not to mention my glorious ta-tas.

Not so much. I’m expected to cloak myself in a black or iridescent flame-retarDONT kimono-type dealio, “cinched” with a thin fabric tie. Aside from being wildly unflattering (and yes, cold), the robe gapes before I even leave the dressing room, causing me to clutch at my chest in hopes of avoiding a Janet Jackson moment.

Add some snaps and buy a few bigger robes, you cheap fucks, before I flash my fist at you and smack your smock back to Asia, from where I'm sure you ordered it. Namaste.

(photo: bshtextiles.com)

White guys with dreadlocks

Hey you! Yeah, you with the dreadlock fountain sprouting from your head. Guess what, Medusa? You’re not cool or interesting or indie. You’re dirty. With dreads, you look like Sideshow Bob, not Bob Marley. Cut that shit off and stop co-opting someone else’s heritage and style.

Note: While I’m not crazy about dreads on any Caucasian, it’s the dudes I am most annoyed at.

(photo: mobyrebuttal.blogspot.com)

Handlebar moustaches

Back in the days of Victorian gents and Wild West outlaws, dudes waxed the ends of their bushy moustaches until they could poke a cowpoke in the eye. While an excellent way to mask a questionable cold sore, these crumb-catchers and coat-hangers have no place in modern society. We now have ample access to napkins, so I have to deduce that you’re trying to make a follicular style statement.

You are definitely making a statement, Wyatt Twerp, and it doesn’t say “steampunk.” It says, “steaming pile of oh HELL no.” Trim that fucker down into a lustrous Magnum, PI or I'm going to go Sweeney Todd with a straightedge. Now, that's steampunk.

And don't think you're off the hair hook, mutton chop sideburns, I'm coming for you next.

(photo: 39x21.blogspot.com)

Face tattoos

I have nothing against tattoos or the people who have them. Really. But I do have to question someone’s intellect or blood alcohol content when they put their face under the needle (and I’m not talking about Botox).

A face tattoo doesn’t read “cool,” “edgy,” or “intimidating.” Nope. You know an inked-up face is really saying? “Unemployable.” Unless you’re a Maori warrior or Mike Tyson (who can pretty much do whatever he wants to his mug), a facial tat indicates that you’re independently wealthy and don’t need a job…or that you really, really, really like checkers.

(photo: findtattoodesigns.com)

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)

Vera Bradley bags

You wouldn’t think that Vera Bradley would scream “An American in Paris,” but when I was strolling the cobbled streets of the City of Lights, I was continually blinded by American tourists tricked out with Vera Bradley’s treacly quilted backpacks, suitcases, and totes who were looking for the nearest Starbucks.

It was at this point I adopted a Canadian accent when ordering up a café au lait.

Don’t get me wrong. J'adore quilts. But I like them on my bed, not on my shoulder or the overhead compartment. The accessory equivalent of a Beanie Baby, Vera Bradley bags are a paisley pastiche of granny not-so-chic, a five-year-old’s pajamas, and the clearance aisle at Linens N Things, with a bit of QVC's Quaker Factory thrown in.

If I had a fat quarter for every time I wanted to punch a Vera Bradley purse in the face, I’d have a queen-sized quilt.

(photo: only-designer-handbags.com)

Designer luggage

Status luggage is impractical, like penis-extender sportscar impractical. You might as well light wads of cash on fire. Your vintage Louis Vuitton train case and sleek Hermes carry-on are bound to get beat up and dragged around, much the way you deserve to be treated for buying such an unnecessary status symbol.

If I’m going to drop coin on a designer label, you can bet it’s going to be something I can drape close to my body and keep in my line of sight. While you may enjoy first-class treatment in the main cabin, your luggage doesn’t—it’s just targeted for pilfering by baggage handlers and then thrown into suitcase steerage with the rest of our lowly bags. Call me cuckoo crazy but I think luggage should be what you carry your money around in, not what you get carried away buying. Back away from the matching set of Gucci luggage and stick with the Samsonite. If you don’t, I have a sneaking suspicion that your luggage might not make it to your final destination.

(photo: handbags800.com)