Auntie Fashion

The Evil AntiZob

Some people believe that I have an unhealthy obsession with Marc Jacobs, including my therapist.  He’s been trying to get me to confront my fear of the designer for a couple of months now.  We sit around his office watching Louis Vuitton shows online while debating the inherent evil of the collection.  I tell him that that wearing the clothes steals your soul.  He tells me that I’m being irrational.  I tell him that he should try to walk a mile in my Louboutins.  He asks me if they make a nice slingback in a men’s size thirteen.  I ask him if he’s kidding.  He tells me to call him “Joyce” in his Michael Caine-like accent.  I ask him why there’s a blonde wig sticking out of his desk drawer.  He tells me that our time is up.

Anyhow, he also suggested that I try to take baby steps in order to deal with my so-called issues.  And I’m proud to say that I did!  Yesterday I bought something from the Perry Ellis collection.  Sure, Marc Jacobs hasn’t been involved with the brand since he virtually ruined the company in 1992 with his self-indulgence and lack of artistry, but that doesn’t matter.  What matters is that I put on something that had a Perry Ellis label sewn into it and nothing bad happened to me.

Perhaps the spirit of Zob is still watching over me.  I’ve noticed that my hair has been especially lustrous lately — maybe I haven’t lost my powers after all!  A couple of weeks back I also mentioned that I’m not as disturbed by the designer’s ugly mug as I used to be.  Have I just grown accustomed to his face, or immune to his hideousness?

This is an intriguing development, and it’s something I’m going to need to investigate.

Miss Tawdry Hepburn of Portland, Oregon sent me this snaphot she took of the word Zob written in the cement outside an apartment building.  Although she believes that the apartment building was built in the 20s, she figures that the cement was poured in the 50s.

I’m a little surprised that Zob had disciples in the Pacific Northwest during that era.  While the name Zob was on the lips of beautiful people worldwide by the middle of the century, most Oregon natives were still clad in burlap sacks and homemade Birkenstocks crafted from sinew and driftwood.  Until the Seattle-inspired grunge era of the early 90s arrived — paving the way for the opening of several Value Village stores – Oregonians didn’t have anywhere to shop.  As a result, fashion was not their primary concern.

So it’s strange to know that someone in Portland would even know me back then – never mind knowing me well enough to scratch my name into the sidewalk!  Perhaps there is a secret Order of Zob based in Portland, laying in wait until they are needed.  With the Zobpocalypse looming, it’s a mystery I will need to investigate.

Mac the Moose

Auntie Fashion had another one of her cryptic dreams.

In this one I was visited by the spirit of Zob who told me “If you build it, they will come.”  Soon I found myself staring upward at the biggest moose I had ever seen.  For a few seconds I couldn’t decide if I had stumbled into the world of David Lynch, or into one of Tim Burton’s films.  I was puzzled.

A moment later I was bathed in the glow of a spotlight, and the first few bars of Karen Young’s Hot Shot began to play.  Then a seemingly endless runway appeared before me and I looked down to realize that I was wearing Christian Dior Couture.  Naturally, I did what any reasonable woman in my present position would do: I got busy.

I sashayed and chantéd like the supermodel I was born to be.  I twirled and aswirled so hard that the crowd got dizzy.  And I wasn’t just throwing shade.  I was giving everyone what they wanted: More of me.

Soon the audience began clapping and cheering, and I had to stop because the catwalk had become littered with red roses, hundred-dollar bills, Cartier boxes and panties.  Then my alarm went off.

If I wasn’t the most fabulous woman on the face of the earth I probably would have asked myself “What does it all mean?”, but I already knew.  Auntie Fashion needs to start her own “fashion week” to celebrate her beauty, benevolence, and many contributions to gorgeousness.

Since Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, is the only city in the world that doesn’t currently have a fashion week, it’s the logical choice — I can’t imagine why else that giant moose would have been in my dream.

Anyway, mark your calendar, because Moose Jaw Fashion Week is going to make a trip to Paris look as glamorous as a trip to Paris Hilton’s podiatrist.  See you in 2012!  I have to clear a few things on my calendar first.

Tyra

Today is a rotten day.  Not only is it the birthday of the Evil AntiZob, but it’s also my first day in therapy.

I didn’t want to see a therapist, but my friend Greg (whom you read about a couple of days ago) urged me to go.  He thought that I needed to confront some of my issues regarding Marc Jacobs and the special brand of evil the designer promotes.  I agreed to go, but only because Greg promised me that he would bring over a bottle of Veuve Clicquot to drink during ATNM tonight.

My therapist turned out to be quite a dapper man.  He sort of reminds me of Michael Caine in that movie he did with Angie Dickinson (the name escapes me).  However, he seemed to very eager to focus on the manner in which the spirit of Zob deserted my body.

It’s all just a blur to me, so he suggested that I try hypnotherapy in order to remember something about that fateful day in 1992.  A few minutes later I was reclining on a chaise, falling into a trance as his gentle voice coaxed me backwards through time, traveling closer and closer to the moment when I saw immortality snatched away from me.

And then I hit a roadblock – a great big roadblock.  Tyra was standing there, urging me not go back.  The strangest thing was that she was wearing Marc Jacobs for Perry Ellis.  I awoke from my trance, not sure what to make of the vision.  With my appointment almost over, my therapist recommended that I take some time to reflect upon what I had just seen.

I tried to get the vision out of my head, but I couldn’t do it.  Instead, I Googled Tyra’s bio.  What I discovered shocked me more than Mollie Sue’s elimination or Saleisha’s win: Tyra modelled for Marc Jacobs at Perry Ellis!

I’ve always associated Tyra with everything that is good in the universe.  Now I’m second-guessing her role in the Zobpocalypse.  Is she an evil minion of the AntiZob, or is she an avenging angel, infiltrating his camp?  Was she hiding something from me, or trying to protect me from the hideous truth.  It’s something I’m going to have to investigate.

In the meantime, I’m going to book another session with my therapist.  I don’t know why I’m so attracted to him.  He wasn’t all that handsome, but I’m a sucker for a guy who is dressed to kill. . .

Jade

Just a moment ago, I was wondering what on earth I was going to blog about today.  I’m in one of those moods where nothing seems to inspire my usual cleverness.  Then I stumbled across this gem!

That’s Jade from America’s Next Top Model.  When I first saw the picture I said “Wow!  That tranny spent a bundle on her rack!”  Then I read the caption.  What a freebie!

It just goes to show you: Zob works in mysterious ways.

When I was a young girl, segregated from the ugliness of the world in my own private Shangri-La, the high priestesses of Zob would tell me the most enchanting bedtime stories.  One of those tales was about a handsome, heroic man named Drofmot.  According to legend, Drofmot was the protector of Zob and the guardian of all things gorgeous.   I asked the priestesses why I hadn’t met Drofmot yet, since I was the chosen being who had been possessed by the spirit of Zob.  They told me that Drofmot had not been born yet.

Later in my life, when I began to comprehend the eternal nature of beauty and the timelessness of Zob, I started to realize I that I might not ever meet Drofmot.  Everywhere I went I looked for my handsome hero, yet I knew that the Evil AntiZob was conspiring to keep us apart.

On that fateful day when the spirit of Zob was forced to flee my body, I had to come to terms with my newfound mortality.  I also had to accept the fact that I would never see Zob reunited with her protector.  I resigned myself to a life of humble mediocrity, like the rest of you plebes.

Anyhow – to make a long story short – I read something today that me realize that Drofmot and I were nearly together again at the end.  I don’t know how I didn’t see it; I must have been blinded by the hideousness of the Evil AntiZob.  The spirit of Drofmot has taken a mortal form known to the world as Tom Ford!

Now Tom Ford wants to adopt a baby.  Deep in his soul he must know that the spirit of Zob has possessed another mortal form.  Rather than risking another tragic encounter between Zob and the AntiZob, Drofmot has chosen to rear the latest incarnation of Zob himself.  As long as they are together, the AntiZob will be powerless.

It is the news I have waited my whole life to hear.  The end of the Marc Jacobs era is near, and the reign of ugliness is almost over.

The protector of gorgeousness

Since February 29th only comes around once every four years, it is a lot like Zob’s gloriousness: Fleeting and priceless, it must be celebrated when it graces the humdrum lives of mere mortals.

Today is Zob Day.  Please observe the holiday by being fierce and fabulous, just like the goddess herself.  And if you happen to run into the evil AntiZob (he should be in Paris this weekend), honor the glory of Zob by peeing on his shoes while he’s being interviewed by Jeanne Beker for Fashion Television.  Just don’t tell the cops that I told you to do it.  Zob doesn’t look kindly upon stoolies.