To: Eloquii, misnamed hosiery division
From: Miss Plumcake, Editor, Manolo for the Big Girl, Owner of a Dictionary
Re: “Super Opaque” Tights
I do not think that word means what you think it means.
alas, my search for top-quality truly opaque opaque tights that fit continues.
Recently, I’ve entered into the exciting world of Skype meetings.
I’m not a fan.
First of all, call me old-fashioned, but when I attend a meeting I like to be fairly confident everyone involved is wearing pants. I’ve been on the internet for a good long while now and I’m pretty sure the number of men who voluntarily wear pants when working from home is on par, or slightly below the number of nymphomaniacal college coeds who really do want to meet you right now.
Secondly, as the tallest person in almost any meeting, but also the only woman, the camera always, always hits me at nip-level. Whether it’s by default or design, both Thelma AND Louise get more face time than my face does.
And that, boys and girls, is why Miss Plumcake bought some camisoles.
Years ago I had a fantastic cami from Jones New York, It was solidly constructed, nicely tailored and –miracle of miracles– actually hit the middle of my hip.
Unfortunately, it met a sad and untimely end at the hands of my grandparents’ neurotic whippet and I’ve been holding the torch ever since.
While the Eloquii camisoles aren’t quite as good as my dearly departed Jones New York number –we live in a broken and sinful world full of bad fashion and stupid whippets– they’re pretty great, and a fantastic deal.
The Eloquii camis come in a variety of colors from Frida Kalho fuchsia and emerald green to a pale French blue and butter yellow. Oh, and did I mention I got them on sale for about five bucks a pop?
My favorites are the pleated trim camisoles whose straight necklines are embellished with four tidy rows of trim reminiscent of crêpe de Chine. Sadly, the adjustable lingerie-style straps are not bra-friendly, but the armholes are fashioned nicely and the back is high enough to conceal your boulder holder without adding bulk.
Go get you some and be prepared for your next high-powered questionably-pantsed Latin American eSummit.
Are bleached eyebrows coming back? Because I am NOT doing that again.
Let me take you back to a dark and mysterious time I’d like to call the fall of 1997. A young and not-quite-sartorially-together Miss Plumcake was a college freshman with peroxide red hair and bleached eyebrows.
Let me give you a complete list of people who thought that was a good idea:
Let me give you a list of people who thought that was a good idea and were right.
But it was everywhere in the September issue of Vogue.
At Prada:
At Versace:
At Balenciaga:
(Gingers can be tricky, so I looked up Marton Dorfler’s catalog. He definitely has eyebrows)
At Alexander McQueen:
At Pucci
I’m so glad Amber Valletta is still working. If you want to see how models have gotten so much thinner in the past 20 years, just look at Amber Valletta’s early covers. Not a sunken eye socket or hollow cheek to be seen.
Gucci
Jil Sander and Bottega Veneta
Readers will recognize Codie Young —the scapegoat for last year’s Topshop Photoshop debacle— as the model for Jil Sander.
And while it works editorially –although Mert and Marcus, the photographers behind many of the best campaigns and editorials, can make anything work– I cannot wholeheartedly recommend it for daily wear.
Still, it’s an interesting look. So what do you think? Would you bleach your brows?
The other day I was watching The Three Musketeers and The Four Musketeers: Milady’s Revenge. I love these films dearly, as I have since I saw them when they were first released. The costuming is spectacular, the scripts witty and engaging, the cast amazing, and the spirit of Dumas shines through both films.
The Three Musketeers was, I recall, the first time I saw Michael York, who has remained one of my favorite actors ever since. He was perfect for the passionate – albeit not terribly likely to think things through – D’Artagnan. With his ability to maintain equal amounts of wide-eyed innocence, terrier determination, and kid-in-a-candyshop love of all ladies at the same time, it remains one of his finer performances.
And yet I have firmly maintained for decades that the finest performance he might ever have given is one that, alas!, he never did.
You see, the instant I first read Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, I saw Michael York in Wilde’s damned protagonist. As I read of Gray’s descent into hell, I knew that York would be the perfect person to carry both the innocent beauty of the outer shell and the fiendish, decadent cruelty of the man within.
Unfortunately, nobody ever cast him in the role. And, of course, Dorian Gray is a role that may only be played by a man in the first blush of youth. Michael York is still a brilliant actor and a handsome man… but the time has passed. We will never see his Dorian Gray. The world, I think, is a tiny sliver less wonderful for it.
Have you ever just known the perfect role for an actor who never wound up playing it? Who and what? Tell me all about it!
Oh my beloveds.
Last week I walloped you all with this deathless image:
And was smacked right back in the kisser with eleven painfully appropriate responses. You did not make this easy for me. You hit me on my weak side with references to Dr. Who, tacky dances of my childhood, and superstars who make me wince.
But in the end, there can be but one winner. This week it’s the deliciously deranged BJ who officially owes me a new monitor for this unexpected offering:
And it’s also a can opener.
Congratulations, BJ! And thanks to everyone who played.
Well, I’ve been left on my own for more than 24 hours for the first time in 2012, and apparently I’ve turned into my grandfather because now I’m just one of those people who stands in the middle of the house in her underwear looking for things.
One of the manifold splendors of living alone is when you put something somewhere, it stays put.
So if I put my teal suede d’Orsays in the oven after a Grace Jones night in mid-spring with the intention of letting them sit unmolested in their glittery glory until suede came back in season in the fall, that’s where they’ll stay.
Now I just stand flapping helplessly while Hot Latin Boy –who commandeered all Putting Away of Things after I proved chronically incapable of remembering not everyone can reach the top shelf– patiently explains that the dog shampoo is in a box marked gloves behind the yellow wok, next to my 2007 tax return. Well, obviously.
I’m determined to go through all the cabinets and drawers and make an inventory of each one in my little green notebook, so next time I need to locate my spare bottle of OPI’s You Don’t Know Jacques, my trusty notebook will tell me it’s in the Twinings Transport Bus, along side an empty Nuva Ring box, Dozer’s heart worm pills and my passport.
So that’s what I’m doing this weekend. Well that and I managed to get the last copy of the September issue of Vogue –the only issue of American Vogue I ever read– so I’ll be working on my upper body strength by hurling it against a wall repeatedly.
Next week I’ve got a review on Eloquii (hint: get some of their camisoles with a quickness), my favorite dance shoe for the fat of foot and a few more goodies.
What’s on your plate this weekend?
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