Fashion Police State

The Monolo calls her a Scrawny Raccoon baby--huhlarious.

My sister almost gave up, but still hasn't quite, on my fashion unawareness. Only one friend I know is worse than me. J. you know who you are. Otherwise, fashion escapes me. Or more than escapes me, I just don't care. If I have a choice between comfort and beauty, I'll choose comfort every time. In fact, if I could be the female Hugh Hefner, I would. Wearing my pajamas everywhere, sipping a mixed drink and being surrounded by beautiful young men, now that's style (you'll have to decide for yourself if I'm being sarcastic or not).

That doesn't mean, of course, that I'm not above being snarky about other people's (celebrities--regular people get a nice long rope unless they wear thongs that I can see in any way--then they get a well-deserved thumping) lack of fashion sense. Which is why I drew you attention to The Monolo--he actually uses the word biotch to describe Shannon Doherty. Ha! I love it.

But then he turned on me. In his Gallery of Horrors, it's as if he went into my closet and pulled out every pair of my favorite shoes, and spit on them. With the exception of Betsy Johnson's atrocity and those Uggs I could never get around to justify buying--I live in Houston afterall--but I really, really liked them, every other shoe/clog inhabits my style sphere. In fact, I wore my fuzzy clogs yesterday. My partially-Italian husband is, of course, horrified.

A girlfriend, from church no less, came right out and asked me, "Melissa, are you a lesbian? Because I read that only lesbians wear clogs." (She must be forgiven, she is from the hills of Arkansas and exposed to very little culture--cliches are lost on her.)

"Ah, no, Princess, I'm not, but I'll suffer your implications for comfort anyway!"

Ah well, fashion is fleeting, but comfort lasts forever. The Anchoress lets her inner gay out Out OUT! to kvetch about the Golden Globes. The Monolo, predictably, has some astute observations, too.