Posts Tagged ‘caring’
I’m so delighted with myself for coming up with the name BeelZoeBub to describe everyone’s favorite overwrought, overhyped stylist, Rachel Zoe, that I’ve decided to trademark the name. Like “I DIE™” or “BANANAS™,” use of the phrase without written permission will be met with the full force of the law.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m a giver. They don’t call me the Mother Teresa of the fashion business for nothing. You can use BeelZoeBub™ all you want! Just make sure that you put that trademark symbol beside it, because it makes me laugh!
Just when I thought that I couldn’t love Simon Doonan any more than I already do, I stumbled across a link to this column he wrote for The Observer via The Cut.
The man of my dreams second-guesses the trend in fashion for collaborations between labels and charities. I’ve always rolled my eyes up at the so-called “generous spirit” of people who need a physical reminder that they’ve done something nice for someone else. To a sanctimonious windbag like myself, wearing a T-shirt that you got for raising five bucks worth of pledges for some charity’s annual 5K run is the height of vulgarity.
I’ve chalked up the hours to act like Mother Teresa, though. I’ve put in about three-thousand hours of classes — one hour at a time — at a local YMCA where I’ve volunteered as a fitness class instructor for almost nineteen years, and I currently sit on the board of directors for a local nonprofit society. I’ve even appeared at a huge, well-known charity event where I donated my fee back to the organization only to see real celebrities take the money and run. I’m not afraid to tell people how wonderful I am because my accomplishments prove that I have a generous spirit. I also have no modesty! But why should I? Instead of paying lip-service to my causes, I try to give them what I value most: My time.
I won’t begrudge you, however, if you choose to give money. In fact, it would be a lovely gesture if you gave something and didn’t expect anything (except bragging rights) in return. Doonan puts it best when he says “As a guilt-free shopper and a know-it-all, let me give everyone on earth some advice: It’s so much easier to separate your tithing from your tube tops. If you write the check yourself, you can be sure the shekels are ending up in the right hands. You can also keep much better track of how much you have actually given, thereby knowing whether you have been stingy or stellar. At the end of the year, instead of trying to figure out what went where from the proceeds of all the hand-woven organic halter tops you were guilt-tripped into buying, you can simply look at your bank statements. Et voilà! Your generosity, or lack of, is there for you to see in black and white.“
It’s advice like that that makes me remember why I offered to donate my womb to Mr. Doonan in the first place. The children we would have would be a gift to humanity!
Earlier this morning I received an email from my friend Greg. It appears that he’s designed this fabulous new bracelet to help raise awareness for an issue that is near and dear to my heart: Fallen supermodels.
SInce I’m all about caring and sharing, I’ve decided to help Greg in his quest to promote ankle safety. According to The Cut, too many supermodels are falling head over heels on the catwalks of the world, and both Greg and I agree that the designers of the world need to stop putting helpless models in danger. Sure, a girl who is five-foot-eleven and a hundred-and-fifteen pounds doesn’t really fall too hard, but that’s beside the point. What about her feelings? WHAT ABOUT HER FEELINGS?
I may be preternaturally gorgeous and virtually superhuman, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want to crawl into a hole and die if I fell on my ass in front of a crowd of onlookers and photographers. Frankly, I’d probably be scarred for life if it happened to me. Fortunately, I have an adequate therapist who would be able to help me if I was ever put in such a difficult situation.
Many supermodels, on the other hand, have limited resources and an insufficient support network. By offering Greg’s Bracelet for sale, the two of use will be able to create a fund that these poor creatures may be able access in the event that they take a tumble on the runway.
To order Greg’s Bracelet, contact me via the comments section above. Each handcrafted bracelet sells for the low, low price of $19.99. Orders of 500 or more receive free shipping.
Show the models how much you care. Show them that they’re more than just clothes hangers. With your help, we can put an end to sprained ankles and gutwrenching humiliation.
Give, give, give — sometimes it seems as if that’s all I ever do.
Yesterday, I spent a couple of hours cleaning out my closet. That’s a daunting task when you’re a fashion icon like me. But it’s something I try to do every couple of years with reckless abandon. The reason? I believe it’s selfish to archive your clothes.
Let’s face it; if you haven’t worn something for a couple of years, you’re probably not going to wear it again. Fashion is cyclical, but in twenty or thirty years when everyone is wearing low-rise pants again, chances are that your ass will have relocated a few inches closer to the ground.
In the meantime, all those clothes sitting in your closet are becoming more and more unfashionable. In a few years, you’ll decide to move or choose to raise a family. Suddenly, you’ll say to yourself “Why am I keeping all of this stuff I’m never going to wear again?” However, by that time the only people who will want to wear it are the kids who shop at Value Village for Halloween costumes.
Not every item in your closet is going to turn into a once-in-a-lifetime thrift store treasure, like a vintage Pucci dress or an Ossie Clark coat. You’re not Tamara Mellon. Most of your wardrobe is going to become junk that you’ll never need again.
Someone else might need it, though. In fact, some of it is probably still quite lovely and fashionable. Wouldn’t it be great if someone could use it?
That’s what I think when I’m stuffing blue bags full of clothes from my closet. Yesterday, I put a $500 pair of shoes aside at one point and said “I just can’t give them up!” Five minutes later I came to my senses and put them in the bag. I know I’m not going to wear them again. It’s as simple as that. And I’m going to make someone’s day when they stumble across them on the resale rack!
I’m even a little more sanctimonious than usual when it comes to where I send my castoffs, too. I only donate to Goodwill. If you want to know why, just visit goodwill.org for all of the details. Sure, I could earn a little money selling things through consignment, but I’m happy to know that Goodwill is a thriving force in my community.
If that’s not enough, to convince you to clean out your closet, just think of all the space you’ll make for new things. Now get busy!
If I had to name my biggest fault, it would be this: I care too much. It hurts to be so caring. It hurts!
Anyway, in this section of my blog I would love to answer your questions. Ask me anything. I’ll sacrifice a few minutes of my glamorous life to provide you with the sort of “tough love” plebes like you need.
Here’s an example:
Dear Auntie Fashion;
If Marc Jacobs is the evil AntiZob, why are his designs so popular?
Puzzled in Pittsburgh
Marc Jacobs’ designs only appeal to undersexed magazine editors and the homosexual companions they dream of converting one day. If all women wore Marc Jacobs, even the straightest, most vagina-loving men would be hard-pressed to find anything attractive about the opposite sex, and breeding as we know it would cease to exist.
I hope that helps!
. . . and I am the fashion world’s most enduring muse. Throughout the modern era I have provided creative inspiration for almost every designer of significance, from Coco to Cristóbal, Hubert to Halston, and Yves to Yamamoto.
I was born Prunella Crudsworth in 1906. Moments after my birth, my parents were visited by a man of an indeterminate complexion. This dark stranger informed my mother and father that I was possessed by the spirit of Zob: An ancient goddess who had presided over all that was gorgeous since the beginning of time. Naturally, my parents believed the swarthy mystery man; I was a breathtakingly beautiful baby, after all. Soon my entire family was uprooted and moved to a secret, faraway location – a veritable Shangri-la – where I was raised by glamorous, sibylline women who had devoted their lives to the glory that is Zob.
On my twenty-first birthday I was instructed to leave my idyllic home so that I could share the gospel of gorgeousness throughout the world. Soon I was flitting in and out of high society like a beautiful butterfly, inspiring stylishness everywhere I went. I singlehandedly taught Diana Vreeland how to accessorize. I alone convinced Christian Dior to drop his “Old Look” in favor of a new one. I even urged Anna Wintour to take on a monstrously large companion to draw attention away from her preternaturally large feet. André Leon: You owe it all to me!
While the spirit of Zob inhabited my body, I was able to remain ageless. Consequently, I couldn’t stay in one locale for very long. My secret wasn’t sinister, yet I knew that my timeless appearance would eventually arouse suspicion. Like Catherine Deneuve in The Hunger, I couldn’t allow my identity to become subject to investigation. So I moved from city to city, and country to country, influencing the fashionista and reinventing the rules of style worldwide.
Unfortunately, I was in New York City on that tragic day that Marc Jacobs debuted his infamous “Grunge” collection for the Perry Ellis label in 1992. I had never met Mr. Jacobs before, so there was no reason for me to be concerned. However, when the designer was taking his final bow, he looked over to the front row where I was sitting. Our eyes met and in an instant the spirit of Zob fled my body. Marc Jacobs was the Kryptonite to my Zobliness: The antithesis of everything gorgeous in the universe.
Since that fateful day, I have been living a clandestine life as a mere mortal. As a child, I was warned of the existence of an evil AntiZob. Yet I never imagined that the menacing force would infiltrate the fashion world in the guise of a second-rate designer. Now all I can do is await the return of the goddess, and pray that she finds a human vessel with more fortitude than I displayed at that tragic moment when I had the Zob scared out of me.
Until the next incarnation of Zob arrives to save the world from Marc Jacobs and all that is abhorrent, I have chosen to compose this blog under the pseudonym Auntie Fashion. The name suits me ideally, since I tend to dote on the style-impaired like a caring, old aunt. It also describes how I feel about the current state of the world. I would never describe myself as anti fashion – I live for fashion – but what currently passes for fashion isn’t fashion. Until the AntiZob is defeated, I will work tirelessly to spread this message. The existence of beauty itself depends upon it.
The evil AntiZob with one of his minions.