Category Archives: Fashion

My Maiden Voyage in Girdle Top Pantyhose

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photo by Rob Thurman

photo by Rob Thurman

Must they be called that? Geez. I plucked a package from the display rack and quickly slid my thumb over the words Girdle Top, while hunching my shoulders around the cardboard package. The g-word made me cringe. I couldn’t believe I’d gotten myself in this position. It brought back a vision of my grandmother, a hardy, thick-waisted woman who expended considerable effort donning a girdle – the kind with dangling metal clips that attached to thigh-high nylons.

The fact of the matter was I needed a word like girdle. It was unapologetic and assertive. I had no time to waste on sugar-coated euphemisms. They’d just create doubt. I needed a guarantee.

I had three hours to lose twenty pounds. These pantyhose were my last hope.

I guessed on the size, made the purchase and ran to my car to get home. I had to dress fast and be back out the door in a hurry.

When I removed the pantyhose from the package, they cascaded to the floor. Then down the hall. They were at least 8 feet long−no exaggeration. The girdle part alone was 4 feet. A quick inspection of the package confirmed I’d bought the correct size and there was no sign of the word “irregular” anywhere. If I wasn’t late, and panicked that my dress wouldn’t fit, I’d have a real belly laugh over these. Clearly, they were designed for a bloated Yao Ming. Let me clarify, while they were extra-long, they were not wide−by any stretch. Even a good yank at the waistline had me perspiring with fear that I’d never get one leg in, let alone 2 legs (with thighs) and a stomach.

I sat down on the closed toilet seat and took a deep breath. This had to be done right the first time. Once these bad boys were on, I was pretty sure a pair of scissors would be the only way out.

Perplexed by the four foot-long girdle, I examined the back of the package which demonstrated a silhouette wearing them. The waistline was not at her waist at all; it stopped right beneath her breasts. Hmmm? Could that mean that all the unwanted rolls of flesh below my waistline would be pushed and squeezed up to my breasts? That’s freaking brilliant! I started to feel tingly with anticipation.

Of course, if that held true, these supernatural-nylons would need a new name, like tummy flattening-bust enhancing  hosiery? No, not zippy enough. I’d work on that later. Right now it was time to concentrate.

I won’t bore you with the details. There was a good deal of swearing, hopping, sweating, teetering and yanking. It was a blessed miracle that the girdle stretched enough to engulf my entire mid-section.

I thought I might like the new svelte me, but pain obscured any joy. I began to feel tingly again, now, lack of circulation. Even my breathing was hindered. Short breaths only.

No time to pity myself, I was on a tight clock. I’d even have to surrender to the sagging crotch−two inches below its intended position. Short strides for rest of the day.

I grabbed my dress off the bed and wiggled in. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a spot on the back of my leg, in my knee pit. It was a small green splotch. Did I burst a blood vessel?!? No, it was a small boxwood leaf squashed against my leg. What the hell? No time for questions. I had to remove it. But not with a quick slip of the hand down the back, because there was no room! My hand, literally, could not weasel into the tight grip of the girdle! I had to lower the damn thing all the way to the knees to get that leaf out. This brought the crotch down even lower. Too bad. Had to go.

I arrived at the restaurant and eased my way out of the car.

Short steps, short breaths, flat stomach, full breasts.

I walked up the path to the door, and noticed the faint smell of newly cut grass. I pinched my nose to ward off what I feared was imminent. Too late. Robust sneezes came fast and furious. The waistband was no match for the third sneeze; it curled in submission. The laws of gravity and physics assisted the curling momentum until my ample tummy sprang from its constraints and rippled over the top. It was free.

I took my first deep breath in an hour. Nonplussed, I continued to inch my way to the door.

Short steps, deep breaths, fat stomach, flat breasts.

Fashion Designers Microbe-Manage NY Fashion Week

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photo by Swamibu

photo by Swamibu

It’s hard to believe, but the same folks who’ve instigated fashion induced bunions, sciatica, sprained ankles, deep vein thrombosis, acid reflux, yeast infections and constipation, have concocted ways to avert colds and flu during NY Fashion Week crunch time.

The fashion industry might’ve been in typical panic mode, but this year the 2013 Fall Collections were smack in the not-so-flat belly of the most serious flu epidemic in history. While designers oversaw the final stitches and selections, models were dropping like busty mannequins due to influenza. This prompted a handful of clever designers to nix the bug with their own personal brand of achoo-voodoo.

Side note: to protect my sources, names will not be disclosed.

If you saw Designer #1’s show, you’d swear you had lied your way into the Cirque Du Soliel tent by mistake. Don’t let the nymphes vertes fool you; it was actually the debut NY show of one notable European designer, who winked to his newcomer status by dipping his models in green from head to toe. While some think he procured tubs of Smash Box Fern, I’m here to report otherwise. This clever designer discovered (by way of his Alsatian great-grandmother) that Absinthe’s stiletto-high alcohol content kills cold and flu germs on contact. Mix a little Absinthe with the adhesive used for fly strips, paint this concoction on the limbs of models and voila! You’ve got yourself a human germ trap. Bravo Designer #1!

What if models are already sniffly? Ask Designer #2 and she’d say: voluminous sleeves. Where else they gonna tuck those tissues? (#obvi.) While traveling for inspiration for her upcoming line, in the Uttar Pradesh region of India, this designer went mad over the abundance of peppermint and menthol, specifically for its varied medicinal benefits. She couldn’t get her hands on enough menthol crystals to bring home to NY. (Unfortunately, since the airline allowed only one carry-on, her supply didn’t last long once metro-side.) Sadly, the folks at Duane Reade are unfamiliar with menthol crystals, so Vicks Vapor Rub will have to do. A bit fortuitous, as she resourcefully discovered when creating the makeup look for her runway models. Unable to locate a tube of M.A.C. Lipglass, she insisted the makeup artist try Vicks Vapor Rub swiped across lips. Not only did it create ice-like shine, it doubled as a super intense nasal decongestant! No cold’s gonna stop her show. #boom. Hey, all you sneezy ladies, Gesundheit!

You may have read about the fashionistas’ current obsession with hand sanitizer (as pedestrian as that might sound). One accessories designer, #3, inspired by her #sociallyacceptableaddiction, commissioned a master Murano glassblower to create vibrant-chic amulets filled with this bacterium-buster, strung on satin cord making it exceedingly wearable. I’m told that when these mesmerizing trinkets caught the light of the cameras’ flash on the runway they became dangerously hypnotic. (#oops.)

To ward off flu juju, Designer #4, the Woody Allen of the fashion cosmos, doled out a daily dose of schmaltz to his staff and models. It’s not exactly clear who makes the huge vats of this thick gelatinous rendered poultry fat and bottles it for the office, but swirling rumors point to his mother. The secret to “her” schmaltz is the minced cloves of raw garlic that go into every shot glass (served with a spoon). The fact that so many models scramble to work for Designer #4, even in the midst of cold season, is a testament to their love and respect for this fashion genius (#mamasboy). Anyway, some of the girls say it’s not too bad after a couple Gailoises. (How ‘bout a shot of Schnapps? I’m just saying.)

Designer #5, of all things haute couture, has always preferred the bold, pull no punches approach and chose to send her models down the runway wearing white paper surgical masks. À la Michael Jackson. Her supporters say it was fashionably irreverent and shouted “I like me!” Others say it was infinitely more modern than last season when her models walked with their head’s stuck out of toilet seats.

There you have it! NY Fashion Week in all its chafed-nose gloriousness! If you found yourself getting caught up in the fever, shivering with excitement and aching for more, call your doctor, you sound terrible. (#purellanyone.)

 

Behind the Scenes: The making of the Chanel No. 5 Brad Pitt ad

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photo by stringberd

Having worked in the cosmetics industry, I’ve been on scads of photo shoots. Most people would be surprised to find out just what goes into a luxury brand ad campaign. Let’s just say, a lot more than meets the eye. Using the newest Chanel No. 5 fragrance ad, featuring Brad Pitt, let’s take a look.

Planning the new ad campaign for Chanel No. 5 was a serious affair. The fragrance was originally launched in 1921, so it was important for Chanel to keep the fragrance from appearing staid or old fashioned. Portraying a classic as mysterious, sexy, modern and exciting is always a challenge. Choosing Brad Pitt to be the first man to represent this iconic woman’s fragrance, for Chanel, was the easy part. But what to do with him? What should he wear? Look like? Say? Sitting, standing, squatting, surfing? The questions were endless. There were myriad ways things could go wrong. Chanel couldn’t risk any of them so they chose to put the decisions in the hands of a master.

They spared no expense and hired Ingnoff Smoolpnar for creative direction. For those of you who’ve never heard of him, Ingnoff (or Ingie as he’s known in his native Greenland) is an olfactory artiste (with an e). In fact, he’s the only one in the world. In the history of the world. He uses his sense of smell to inspire art. His ritual of sitting in silence, blindfolded, clothed from chin to toe (so not to permit the slightest breeze against his skin to distract from vibrissae [nose hair] arousal,) is all true.

Over a year ago, two marketing executives from Chanel went to Ittoqqortoormiit, Greenland to retrieve Ingnoff, who only speaks Kalaallisut, and with a translator, transported him back to New York City. The voyage took eleven months and twenty three days as he uses only two modes of transportation: the short-hair mule (they’re smarter than donkeys) and kayak. Transportation utilizing fuel of any kind is damaging to the nasal chambers, and more specifically the respiratory mucosa.

His emotional reaction to Chanel No. 5 was immediate. Through his translator, Ingie told Chanel executives that the top notes of aldehydes and bergamot, mid notes lily of the valley and iris, and base notes vetiver and amber, while not the sole components of the fragrance, were the ones that shaped his vision.

A production assistant in the studio that day told me that after initially smelling Chanel No. 5, Ingnoff called out, “Sewage!” Others heard him say “Cabbage!” That’s Kalaallisut for you. Either way, that’s where it all began.

The backdrop of the set was to look like the inside of a corroded iron pipe. One that might be found underground. It took Ingnoff Smoolpnar and his two assistants (who flew to NY) six weeks to get the corrosive patina−layers of chipping, rusty, dank metal−Ingnoff “smelled.”

As for Brad Pitt, he needed to look sallow, unkempt, grimy. Rank. This took a hefty team of hair and makeup gurus copious amounts of time. Greasy, straggly hair and anemic, jaundiced complexion take fo-ev-er to get right. One of the stylists spent the better part of a weekend scoping every homeless hangout in New York City to find the right shirt for Brad (which was traded for a plump check and a clean lightweight sweater). Thankfully, this perfectly wrinkled, reeking shirt had all its buttons!

The script was the last and most critical element of the shoot. Ingnoff Smoolpnar believed the script would grow organically from the combined odors of the physical elements. Ingie sat on set with Brad Pitt and the rusty pipe backdrop while his two assistants sprayed the fragrance until the aura was created. He inhaled deeply. Ingnoff’s vision was instantaneous. It was the smell of John Lennon and Yoko Ono a week into their self-imposed bath strike. Ingie’s assistant raced to one of the last independent music stores in NY to get a vinyl copy of Double Fantasy. In playing the record backwards the script was born. Most people don’t have a clue as to what Brad Pitt is talking about in the commercial, but Kurt Cobain fans do. And yes, it’s something about a stalker, a ghost and a bad burrito.

They shot the ad in one take. It probably should have been shot twice because an insect of some kind kept distracting Brad to look off into the distance, but in the end Ingie thought that gave the ad the mysterious quality it needed.

Gut Feeling

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The strangest thing happened to me today while I was outside “exercising.” On the days I don’t play tennis (that sounds like I play a lot!) I “exercise” by walking. Okay, carbo-loading is not exactly necessary for one of these walks, but at least it’s something.

If I’m going to be completely honest with you, it had been some time since my last “workout.” However, as I was out there hustling butt, I felt something I’ve never felt before. Exhilarated? No. I wish. I know some people get a high from exercising. I think if I were ever gonna feel that way I’d have to get high beforehand. Anyway, it wasn’t endorphins. No, what I was feeling was in my gut. Actually, it was my gut. And it was jostling to and fro.

This was a new sensation for me.  I’ve never felt my stomach jostle before.  In fact, I’ve never used the word jostle before.  This fleshy appendage lapped against itself, like the waves of a stormy sea smacking against the surface of the ocean. It made a sound, thwap−the thought of which still makes me cringe. Even the sides of my waist were gyrating like those massive brushes at the car wash. I promised myself to get back to my desk as soon as possible.  It would be better there.  I always look fantastic sitting at my desk.  And by that time, hopefully, all movement would have ceased.

I did a 180 and headed for home. How could I stand a chance at feeling high now?

With a burst of energy, the likes of which I’ve rarely experienced, I ran through my front door and straight to the hall closet with the full length mirror. I took a long look at myself. Front view. Side view. I had the silhouette of Saturn. How did I not see this coming?  Or going. This was a blow below the belt, if there ever was one.

I had to think fast and shift into problem-solving mode.  Could others have already noticed?  If not, there was no time to waist. Oh gosh, waste. Wasn’t there some kind of hologram or optical illusion that I could utilize until I could properly dispense with this thing?  Perhaps I could create a garment with a color-block hourglass design, duping passersby into seeing a slim waist mirage. Yes, indeed!  I don’t think anyone has done that before.  Sorry Donna Karan−but shoulders, shoulders, shoulders−really?

I ran to the computer to start typing a business plan and although I should’ve been elated for being so dang genius, my mood quickly deflated as I caught a glimpse of my stomach. My God, it was on my radar without having to lower my head! My belly, now stationary, rippled over itself like ribbon candy.  My thighs looked like two water balloons−spreading out and challenging the tenacity of their latex.

A sobering kind of sad seeped through my ampleness.  It was a deep, profound sad, one that I knew would not be fleeting. I’ve felt this kind of thing before.  It was the kind of sad that only a warm dark chocolate lava cake with a dollop of whipped cream could nudge. Would it erase the sad? Of course not, but it would be a start. And as I thought about the lava cake the strangest thing happened to me.  I can’t be sure of this, but it felt very much like endorphins.