Though 4th-grade me probably would have found this to be a totally legit getup, this photo slightly shocked me as a 23-year-old (wasn’t Posh’s demographic composed of impressionable little girls??). Then I realized she was just teaching kids like me an important lesson: always coordinate your underwear with your miniskirt. Hope she instills that kind of wisdom in her own little girl!
I would like to pay homage to an icon of yesteryear who sadly passed away before her time: Posh Spice. Slick and leggy in her LBD’s and strappy sandals, Posh was the epitome of sex appeal and glamour when I was in fourth grade (what? It’s not normal for 10-year-olds to be obsessed with sex appeal?) She’s was, by far, my favorite spice lady. I suspect that even in my tender youth I recognized Posh’s brand of slutty elegance as superior to the other Spice Girls’ blatant streetwalker garb (not to say that I wasn’t FASCINATED by the pornerific Ginger Spice).
Alas, Posh Spice is no more. An orange alien with rock-hard spherical boobs killed her. But I still conjure her up from time to time, remembering how perfect I thought she was, her outfits each immaculately styled, her wide pout perennially lined in a shade of mocha. Gazing at Posh on my 1996 bedroom wall, I imagined that I too would one day wear a black bikini top under a blazer. Girl power, indeed.
Thank you, Miu Miu Resort Collection of 2012. Not for keeping me humble, practical, or kind (hah!), but for keeping me open-minded. I had long ago resolutely sworn off gingham as fodder for consumers of stupid Victoria’s Secret picnic blanket dresses, wannabe pin-ups (invariably colored with pale skin, tattoos, and over-processed red or black hair), and White House Black Market shoppers (don’t get me started on the persistence of the black/white gingham shirt cinched with a thick red patent belt…). However, you have proven me wrong to bar gingham from my sartorial diet. By dying it bright orange (my life-long companion) and pouring it over a perfectly elegant slingback with kicky heel bows, you have showcased gingham as a modern, versatile pattern. Whimsical, not saccharine. Badass, not precious. And I love you for it. Now give me the shoes, please. Size 41. xoxoxo.
“I sleep in my own sheets, for instance, 1920s heavy linen with embroidered pillowcases. My great-aunt’s carnation Spanish shawl is spread over a sofa, and the rest of the furniture is removed before I arrive. My couture collection is reverently hung in the wardrobes, and my photographs are placed in the right order on the marble mantelpiece below a vast gilt framed mirror—my old blue whippet Lupin, Lucian Freud and a fox cub, sunset at Shrawardine, Tessa Traeger’s moving black-and-white image of a tree bowed by winter gales. My shoes are laid out in a row in the fireplace, heels standing at attention.”
- Amanda Harlech writing in Vogue about the accommodations made for her since 1998 at the Paris Ritz, which is (gasp!) closing to renovate for the next two years, thus leaving the well-heeled few with nothing to do but eulogize a bygone eraand downgrade to Le Meurice for the next several seasons. I can’t believe the poor thing has been plagued throughout her career by accusations of frippery.
…this is Ferrell’s film, unfortunately, and it plays to his own, well-worn ideas of hilarity – scenes that go on for too long, big dolts who don’t realize how stupid they are, and male nudity. (At this point in our careers, I think I’ve seen more of Ferrell’s rear end than his proctologist.)
This movie looks somewhat promising despite Witty’s review. But it will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me (or, honestly, to anyone who has remotely been in any drinking/social/political/shopping/eating situation anywhere with me in the past several years) that my reading of the review came to a halt after the above sentences. OOOOh shit.
Of course I had no choice but to post an unwieldy, long-winded rebuttal to this sorry man’s mention, however brief, of irritation in the face of onscreen male nudity. I sent the following text to the prestigious cultural authorities at NJ.com/The Star Ledger:
“I will submit that I haven’t seen the movie yet and I am focusing on a very specific aspect of your review, and I apologize ahead of time for the length of this rant, but I would like to contextualize your issue with the overabundance of male nudity. Man ass is very rare in the film landscape compared with lady ass. As a straight woman, I would like to see a lot more man ass in films, and if it has to be Ferrell’s, so be it. You don’t even mention that Rodriguez also shows her ass - apparently that’s not half as noteworthy, since it’s totally cool and comforting to see women disrobe in practically every goddamn comedy, drama, etc. But heaven forbid that Will Ferrell show his flabby, flat ass. You poor straight guys objected to the occasional naked dude. C’mon! Movie-going women are constantly confronted with waxy, idealized images of naked women onscreen.
If you were complaining more about the idea of male nudity for humor than about onscreen male nudity in general, I can share in your complaint. It’s time to steer away from using average-looking naked guys as a vehicle for laughs and to start using gorgeous, idealized versions of masculinity like Ryan Reynolds and Ryan Gosling in basically every new film and tv show for the next decade to even things out a bit. My lady friends and I guarantee that straight girls will shell out some serious cash to see hot, naked actors (or, even better, models) on the big screen.”
It’s weird, they haven’t posted my comment yet…. Too much?
“I wear a long, full-length white shirt, in a material called poplin imperial, made for me by Hilditch & Key in Paris after a design of a 17th-century men’s nightshirt I saw at the Victoria and Albert Museum.”
- Karl Lagerfeld talking sleepwear