Buona Sera

Funny thing about stereotypes. They're funny as hell, because they're generally true. Take my in-laws (Please! Thank-you-I'm-here-all-night-don't-forget-to-tip-your-waitress). They're Italian, which of course means they have plastic covering their couches and a Virgin Mary statue on their front lawn- which should by default also have a red, white and green painted fire hydrant at the curb. Nope. None of that stereotypical Italian (pronounced eye-talian) crap is around. BUT. They are transplants from Jersey by way of Staten Island by way of Brooklyn (naturally) with a crazy cool, long ass Italian last name. There are innumerable Tonys and Nicks and Eddies in the family, with the occasional Rocco thrown in, just for fun. Of COURSE there've always been stories of a Tony or 2 in the "slot machine business" which means they're not in the slot machine business at all. And in their favor, not once have they ever said "fugeddaboudit". But to really bring it home, they're Catholic AND had way too many kids for their own good- not *because* they're Catholic, but because they...well that's gross and now I'll have to drink bleach, just to wipe out the image.

Funny thing about maxi dresses. I generally hate them. On a gal that's already tall like me, wearing a maxi makes me look even taller and feel awkward and out of place and Attack of the 50 Foot Woman-y. Maxis remind me of bad (read: awesome) 70's lounge-y cocktail parties, complete with platforms and ludes. The crazy ass hostess, cigarette dangling out of mouth, spilling her Tom Collins down the front of her day glow brocade gown, mouth kissing "the help" and calling everyone sweety or Steve. Like a white trashier version of Auntie Mame or Mrs. Roper. Yet through my seething rage over 70's party gowns, *I* want to wear the ridiculous lurex and beaded gown, *I* want to drink too many Harvey Wallbangers and *I* want to get grabby with the help. I will never admit it but I secretly really want to be that crazy broad.



Pay no attention to Chrissy's camel toe, riding high onto dangerous ground, threatening to swallow her whole.

And I secretly want to wear this dress from beulahsvintage.

.

It's stereotypically everything I hate- post 50's fashion, long, orange and SO 60's it's painful. Yet it's somehow wonderful.

You tell anyone and you sleep with the fishes, capiche?

I Drink Alone

Every time I never go to the local biker bar, there always seems to be *that guy* already there. I'm sure you know him. The one with the bad (read: awesome) Estrada-esque 'do, rocking either a Styx '86 tee or a nausea-inducing (read: awesome) glitter iron-on transfer that says "Cowboys Stay on Longer and Ride Harder" ringer tee. Now, I'm all for un-PC or derogatory humor, because if we can't laugh at ourselves, we've got problems. And if you can't laugh at yourself, I'll laugh at you.

"Mask" was on the tube not too long ago at roughly 3 in the morning (because who would watch Mask during prime time?) starring Cher-as-Harley-skank and her "I'm-pretty-on-the-inside-so-don't-judge-me" son Rocky and a full biker ensemble cast. Which of course means this is cinema at it's finest. I couldn't not watch it again, not because it's a heart-warming tale full of morals and lessons (wha?!), but because I found myself thinking "daaamn, Sam Elliot is a PIECE in this movie." And his name was Gar. Which was followed by that annoying thing called female guilt for loser-ishly thinking a dirtbag is porkable. It's possible Gar and I could bike away into the sunset, leading a perfectly lovely lower middle class life, rich with Skynard and Miller High Life. But then I would have to thrown down with Cher and I'm comfortable in saying she'd probably give me a good what-for, so no Gar, I cannot run away with you on your hog. I must set you free.

You may not have a Gar in your life, but you can own your own ridiculous (read: awesome) vintage tee, complete with rad-ly un-pc transfer that says "Every Cop Likes a Big Bust" from galaxyvintage.

Because mustache riders need love too.

Hungry Like the Wolf

With Easter breathing down my neck, the idea of spending the day with family makes me slightly stabby. And by slightly I mean chock full of suppressed irritation and annoyance. Hard boiled eggs and the homemade horseradish my Dad seems to think is brilliant could drive me to tears. But it doesn't. It drives me to drink. Drink what you say? Champagne and strawberries, because I'm super fancy. Perhaps a side of lobster (rock. lob. STAH!) wouldn't suck. Too bad I have none of that. Dyeing all these damn eggs has made my will to live, let alone drive to the store, all but gone.

But hold your horses, grandma. What about all of this on a dress? Most excellent. Lemons? Ok! Watermelon? Of course! Salt and pepper shakers? Indifferent! Yet still cool! I'm pretty sure I found the perfect summer dress. I would even say it was ridonkulous how much I love this. But I wouldn't. I would say it was ridiculous how much I love it.

A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips. But a food-y novelty print is forever. Need it? Lust it? Kill for it? No probs, my friend Julie of Damn Good Vintage has it listed right now.

As The Clouds Drift By

While pondering life in blog-land, I sat here for a long time thinking about such mind-shattering things like what to even name this damn thing, what is interesting enough to write about and who am I and why should you care? Two words. Jayne Mansfield. She and I have more in common than our devastating good looks and monstrous racks. See, Jayne is buried in the wee hick town that I was born and raised in and as grim of a connection as that may be, her "presence" about town played a huge role in who I became.



Growing up, it was just normal to hear in conversation things like "Oh, that's the house where Jayne stayed in the summer with her aunt" or "Jayne's makeup case is on display, you know, the one that was with her in the 'death car', wanna go see it?". Any local yocal over the age of 40 had a "Jayne story" and whether they were true or simply wishful thinking, they were some kickass stories. Certainly she was the poor man's Marilyn, we all knew that. Let's face it, the woman couldn't act to save her life and her singing left much to the imagination. But to our town, she was a goddess of legend. To me, she became fashion inspiration.



The woman's fashion sense embodies everything I adore about the era and what I model my own wardrobe after. Lurex? Of course! Springolators? Naturally! Leopard? Always! If you can't move- let alone breathe- while wearing it, it's perfect.



So Jayne, thanks for being a little bit trashy and a little bit rock and roll. I wish I could have met you.

Want to make Jayne proud? Of course you do, you little minx. Here are a few things to glam out with your gams out.
From yours truly, this mankilling silver lurex vintage 50's Ceeb swimsuit, available at Fast Eddie's Retro Rags, click pic to get there:




From Dorothea's Closet Vintage, this ridiculously curve-hugging 60's pink beaded gown: