Give 'em the Slip Skirt

From left to right: Vylette, Kohl's; Vylette, Kohl's; Candies, Kohl's

Remember the '90s, when slip skirts and dresses came into style, and people were worried about girls going out in public in their underwear?

Yeah, me neither.

Well, these not-so-slinky styles are back.  To, you know, not cause a stir.  Sometimes, seeing old stuff resurface makes me feel -- well, old.  Like, if I last wore something in high school, then how old does that make me now?!  I say this a lot -- but that's because I feel it a lot, especially as I edge toward forty.  Mind you, it's not that I feel decrepit.  It's just weird that I've been around this long.  That said, getting older isn't all bad, especially because it means getting to be part of history.  And when it comes to fashion, everything old becomes new again, proving that old things are not only still relevant, but sometimes better than new ones.  Kind of like when you find an old jelly bean stuck under your couch cushions and discover that not only has it not lost its flavor, but that time has made it tastier.  So, I snagged a few.  Slip skirts, not jelly beans.  (I don't know about you, but I have no desire to end this trend rebirth train with a trip to the gastroenterologist.)  The skirts that I scored are satin (okay, a satiny polyester), that fabric of fabrics for grunge era wannabe lingerie.  The dress has a sheen, too, although it's more matte.  It was fun shopping (online) for them, like I was in Wet Seal burning up my Fashion Bug paycheck, only not in Wet Seal and with more money to spend.   

Speaking of old vs. new, I had a rager of a time pairing my new old threads with the ones already in my closet.  So, what delightfully mad mix debuts in outfit number one?  Why, it's my new tie dye slip skirt with my beloved old Polaroid tee!  You may remember me wearing it here and here.  What can I say?  This tee was made for pictures.

 Striped bangle: Mixit, J. C. Penney's; Other bangles: B Fabulous; Bag: Sugar Thrillz, Dolls Kill

Outfit number two is all about this leopard slip dress.  The husband said I look like I'm (angrily) waiting for my prom date to get out of prison.  I disagree, though, because 1) this dress is nowhere near prom level formal and 2) this leopard is more Barbie than Bratz.  Still, it makes a statement.  And that statement is, "Don't mess with me, or I'll hit you will my "kiss my patch" purse."

Bag: Olivia Miller, J.C. Penney's; Sunglasses: Mudd, Kohl's; Maroon bangle: Iris Apfel for INC, Macy's; Pink bracelet: Amrita Singh, Zulily; Other bangles: B Fabulous

Belt: Belt is Cool, Amazon; Shoes: Chase & Chloe, Zulily 

Finally, outfit number three brings a cold front with an Icee tee.  It was a gift from the husband, and I've had it forever.  When I put it on, I was surprised by how long it was, then I remembered that that was the style circa 2010.  One hair tie later and it cropped up and got with the program, all the better to flatter the red slip skirt.  Rock on, Ronald McDonald color palette!

Bangle: Gifted; Black and white bracelet: Mixit, J. C. Penney's; Choker: Kohl's

And that about does it for this '90s throwback.  It's been real.  Thanks, slip skirts/dresses.  Also, Courtney Love and Cher (of Clueless, not Sonny and Cher) and every other '90s icon who wore you so well. 

Next up, crocheted beanies with matching hacky sacks.  Just kidding.  

Or am I?

Find me on the quad to find out.

The Hairy Truth About Scrunchies . . .

. . . is that they're totally awesome!  I know, I know.  I once vowed to resist this resurrected eighties/nineties trend.  To never fall for its amorphous allure or wind its graffiti-print, calamari-like rings around my precious ponytail.  Because there's something provincial about it that makes you (okay, me) feel like you're admitting defeat.  I blame such snobbery on that episode of "Sex and the City."  You know, the one where Carrie and Aidan argue about whether a scrunchie-sporting woman at a restaurant is a New Yorker.  Carrie says that she isn't; Aidan insists that she is.  When they ask her, she reveals that she's on vacation and gushes that she's flattered to be mistaken for one of Gotham's glamazons.

Then I saw the reboot.  (Of the scrunchie, not "Sex and the City.")  And it's more than just a, as my mom used to say, ruffle wrap.  It now comes in a myriad of colors, prints, fabrics, and even structures.  Some look like old-school telephone cords.  I was really excited about that and snapped up this fluorescent foursome.  Sure, when I tried to wear them in my (admittedly unruly) locks, they got lost and looked like dead jellyfish.  But that only inspired me to string them on a ribbon and wear them as a necklace.

In other updo doodad overhauls, the elastic part isn't even the, ahem, mane event, but a mere anchor for scarves and bows.  They're so pretty, like something you'd see on a bobby soxer or Disney princess.  I snagged two in red and yellow, Ronald McDonald style, albeit in autumnal florals, as well as a hot pink one printed like a bandanna.  The effect is summer fading into fall.  Kind of like an acid rain-spiked watermelon crashing Thanksgiving's still life of corn and cranberries.

That's the thing about trends.  Sometimes, it takes more than a minute for them to make sense to you and secure a place in your heart's true blue wardrobe.  Sometimes -- like the Cranberries -- you have to wait and let them linger.

And also, admit that a comeback can overcome a comment from New York's couture queen.

Movie Moment: (Diagnosing) Love and Other Drugs

When I first saw the trailers for Love & Other Drugs, I thought, oh, another romance to put on my must-see list. Identifying a new flick as a romance or a comedy prevents me from being disappointed. But it doesn't leave a lot of room for surprises, either.

Then I saw Chelsea Handler interview Anne Hathaway about Love & Other Drugs and found out that Anne's character has stage one Parkinson's disease. That threw me (although in retrospect I should've realized she had an illness, given the movie's title). I thought, this could go one of two ways. It can be one of those movies about a guy in love with a sick girl. Or, it can be really good.

Let's just say I was surprised.

Anne Hathaway shines as Maggie, an unflinchingly honest artist who challenges Pfizer drug salesman Jamie (Jake Gyllenhaal), a playboy and chronic failure, at every step in their relationship, beginning at their first meeting in a Pittsburgh hospital exam room. (He catches a glimpse of her breast; she beats him over the head with her handbag, then snaps a Polaroid of him for an art project.) But they meet for coffee anyway, during the course of which Maggie erupts into a speech about why she, the woman, is supposed to reject Jamie's advances, all the while indicating that she does want to sleep with him via nonverbal cues. A little flummoxed but ultimately relieved, Jamie suggests that they just get on with it, which they do in the first of many unabashedly realistic sex scenes.

They talk. They fight. They have more sex. Before either of them knows what's happening, they fall in love.

We aren't always reminded of Maggie's condition. But sometimes (unrealistically timed with critical plot points, as one critic put it) we see her fingers trembling. I disagree with that critic, though. I think the trembling is selectively shown to signal that Maggie's spirit isn't bound by her Parkinson's. To me, the post powerful scene in the movie takes place when Jamie comes home during one of Maggie's particularly bad episodes. Maggie pours herself a generous drink and tells him about her terrible day, how the pharmacy was closed, even how she almost went home with a guy from the clinic. She doesn't look like herself either, a point she cuttingly mentions to Jamie in an attempt to scare him off. She's screaming, raging, utterly transformed from the charmingly awkward Anne we got to know in The Princess Diaries. Jamie leaves, only to return moments later after hearing her melt into hysterics over a dropped bottle. What makes this scene so heartbreaking is that we are as unprepared for it as Maggie and Jamie are, having been swept up along with them by their budding relationship.

Jamie lands Pfizer's coveted Viagra account, launching his career into the stratosphere. He takes Maggie to a pharmaceutical convention in Chicago, where someone notices her tremors and tells her about a Parkinson's convention across the street, where she can find out "what's really going on." She goes, connects with people who are going through everything she is, and texts Jamie to join her. He does, only to be waylaid by a man whose wife is a stage four sufferer. He unburdens himself about having to dress her and clean up her shit and tells Jamie to find himself a healthy girl. Then, as if stricken by his own honesty, he apologizes and walks away. You can tell that Jamie is troubled . . . and that he doesn't want to be. So, instead of distancing himself from Maggie and the inevitable crumbling of their relationship (as we suspect he is tempted to), he goes into overdrive trying to help her, dragging her to hospitals all over the country in search of better treatments. Maggie eventually snaps, declaring that he gets credit for his good guy act, but that it's over because she'd rather live her life then spend it hunting for a nonexistent cure.

They break up.

Jamie's career is better than ever. He beds industry bimbos and gets a promotion that requires him to move to Chicago. Then he runs into Maggie, who's on a date. And he realizes that everything in his life is wrong.

Fast forward to him speeding alongside her senior citizen-filled Canada-bound bus. So what if it's reminiscent of those cliched eleventh-hour airport movie scenes; everything comes into focus when he sticks his head out the window and calls out to her. The bus pulls over. She says she doesn't want to need him more than he needs her, but he says it's okay. Then we see them back in her loft in Pittsburgh and learn that Jamie's dropped out of the pharma rat race to return to medical school. Some may say it's a schmaltzy ending (such as the raucously laughing women sitting behind me who cackled, "'We're laughing and she's [yours truly] crying; what must she think of us?"), but I think it was perfect. Maggie didn't die and she didn't get better, and that's what made it realistic. Jamie's commitment to her proved that he wasn't a failure when it really counted, and that's what gave it its heart.

Well done.