Julie R. Neidlinger: Lone Prairie Art Works

A bad look.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 3 comments link this post

A few weeks ago, good friends Jon and Kate came through Bismarck. I suggested we meet at a restaurant, but they wanted to meet somewhere else. I told them to call me when they got into town. I knew, as soon as they called, what restaurant they'd suggest; it was right off the exit they were at.

"How about Paradiso?"

"Um, I'm not big on the North Dakota version of Mexican food."

There was some chatter in the background, but I already knew what they were going to say next...

"...how about Chinese?"

"I tell you what. Let's just go to Paradiso."

North Dakota Chinese is even worse.

"Are you a picky eater?" Kate asked.

"I don't think so. Define picky."

Our conversation at Paradiso was fun and witty, as I've come to expect from these two. Somehow, we got to talking about men tucking their collar shirts into khaki pants. This is a topic wide open for wittiness, as you can well imagine.

"I admit, I rather like the look," I said. "I must be getting old." I then mentioned someone who dressed like that, and expressed that I thought it looked good. Somehow, the neat factor is now a factor for me, and the sloppy look is really just sloppy. Remember, every girl crazy 'bout a sharp-dressed man.

"Yes, that can be a powerful look," Jon agreed, sounding very authoritative and professorial. "Unless, of course, he isn't wearing a belt. Does this man wear a belt?"

"Yes."

"Good. Because otherwise it's a bad look."

You know, he's right.

Labels: fashion, food, friends

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The best photo of me, ever.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 10 comments link this post

My sister Jacqui has taken the best photo of me, ever. It was taken while I played the piano for my niece's wedding this past weekend.

I'm totally hidden from view, except a bit of scandalous ankle exposure.

Check out those awesome shoes. I love heels, for reasons that are completely inconsistent with my various convoluted philosophies on life. My sister-in-law Julie verbalized her admiration for them, too, so I know I'm not off base.

"Those shoes are fabulous," she said (or something like that).

"I know," I said. "They are very cool shoes."

Women, as you may or may not know, actually wear shoes to impress other women. Guys don't care, unless they are gay, in which they tend to be a great source of excellent shoe advice.

"And you know how I know they are very fine?" I continued. "Watch this."

I called my sister Janet over to where we were. Janet and I seem very dissimilar (though that's not necessarily true). Compared to her, I am very girly despite the fact that, compared to many other women, I'm anything but. (Remember, I like chainsaws, and I'm pretty good at shoveling concrete in Nicaragua.)

"Janet, what do you think of my shoes?"

"Ugliest thing I've ever seen," she retorted, shaking her head before walking away.

I turned back to my sister-in-law. "See? I know they're great shoes for sure. Janet is my litmus test."

I later asked my brother Jerry his opinion. He boldly stated that he thought they were very cool. He will still be receiving his monthly support check from me.

Regarding the music I played at the wedding, it ranged from some contemporary Christian praise music that my niece said she'd like to some classical and movie soundtrack pieces. For example, if you look closely at the books on the piano, you'll see that I played a few pieces from the recent Pride and Prejudice film, as well as a book that featured music from a variety of Jane Austen films over the past decade. I also played a few pieces from the film The Piano, as well as a little Bach.

And of course...Canon in D, from the original one-hit-wonder Pachelbel.

If Pachelbel were not already dead, I would gladly take care of it for him. With a chainsaw.

Labels: family, fashion, music, my life, summer 2008, women

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Conversation: Knickers.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 2 comments link this post

This morning, as my parents and I got ready to go eat breakfast at the restaurant near the motel, I took notice of dad's pants.

They were too short.

I wasn't going to say anything. I had no intention of mentioning that his dark gray dress pants floated high above the tops of his shoes and that his brilliant white socks almost blinded me. Surely mention of such would get the day off to a foul start. So I turned my head and laughed uproariously inside.

I mean, floods. White socks. So cute and hilarious.

He continued to busily pack his duffel bag, and then walked out of the room to put it in the vehicle parked in front of the door. He was back just moments later, with the duffel bag in hand.

"These pants are too short," he grumped.

Mom began apologizing, for she had shortened them and evidently gotten really medieval about it.

"If only you had dark socks," I said, trying to make the best of it, "the pants would be fine."

No. Not really. They were too short.

I began to envision ways to lengthen them, such as sewing a ruffle on the bottom.

"You know," I said, adding further insult to injury, "when I was in elementary school, knickers were really popular. That's what you have going on here. You have knickers."

I thought it was funny.

Dad put on a different pair of pants.

Labels: conversations, family, fashion

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Lovin' this purse.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 4 comments link this post

I recently purchased a purse with the goal of having a bag that wasn't huge but could hold the small hard disk camcorder and other items I'd be wanting to tote around with me while traveling.

I'm a purse freak.

I have many, and though I like most of them, I'd never quite hit upon that "perfect" purse. Some have a strap or a clasp that I don't like, or maybe not enough (or too many) pockets. Or, they aren't sturdy enough or easy to care for... things that I know my guy readers are extremely interested in knowing.

But lo and behold, ladies, I have found the perfect purse. It is Sherpani, and it is the Milli SS 08 model. Perfect size, clasp (strong magnet, all hidden beneath the tough fabric), great color and style, perfect adjustable strap...

Love it.

They had a lot of other great bags, too, that looked well-made, easy to care for, and definitely for women without being all frou-frou and annoying and full of dorky bows and ribbons.

Note: This post was pre-written and published as scheduled. Read more about this here.

Labels: fashion, product placement, women

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Aussie boots.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 3 comments link this post

I'm gettin' me some Aussie boots.

I've wanted a pair for years. Blundstones. Everyone had them down in Australia. I thought they were so cool. I never got around to buying a pair, though, and so I took to nagging my brother about once a year.

"I want some boots."

"Get me some boots."

"Hey, how about some boots."

At long last...Australian-looking boots shall be mine! Rossi boots, maybe.

My sister-in-law emailed me instructions on finding my foot size:

How to measure your feet

Place a piece of blank white paper on a hard floor.
Stand on the paper wearing a sock of medium thickness.
Holding a pencil vertically, place a mark at the end of your heel.
Place another mark at the tip of your longest toe.
Mark the sides of your foot at the widest part.
Measure your other foot using the same method.
To find your size, measure the heel-to-toe mark in centimeters. For example, if you are a man and your foot measures 28 cm long, you will wear a size USA 10, UK 9, EUR 44, CM 28 shoe.

I replied back:

25.5 cm!!! (10 in.)
You know I'll be blogging this.
Everything gets blogged.

You can see my advanced technical drawings here.

Fabulous. I can't wait.

Labels: australia, family, fashion, my life

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I will not wear a dickie.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 4 comments link this post

This past weekend I participated in a "style show."

I will not go into details, because I find it terrifying and mildly humiliating, that I had to stand on a stage in front of people and be looked at while my clothing was described. To even suggest that I have "style" and that I want to "show" this alleged style is unthinkable to those who know me. Suffice it to say that it involved a local winter festival that my employer participated in, along with other retail clothing stores from the town.

I had to wear a turtle neck shirt.

I don't like turtle necks. They are claustrophobic clothing. They are, essentially, knit beasts that are trying to strangle and choke. I don't like any shirt up around my neck. I haven't worn a turtle neck since high school.

My co-worker and I were having another of our non-productive Seinfeldian discussions.

"You wear a scarf. That doesn't make any sense. That's around your neck," she pointed out.

"That's different. It isn't attached to clothing that's entombed around my body."

"It's the same thing. It's around your neck."

"It's not the same thing. It's easily removed and not as restrictive."

"In that case, why not just wear a dickie? They aren't attached to a full shirt." she asked.

"I refuse to wear any piece of clothing called a 'dickie.' That's against at least three of my personal rules."

Lousy turtleneck shirts.

Labels: fashion, work

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Bank Columbo.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 4 comments link this post

I was at the bank during my lunch hour to get cash for Nicaragua. I'd reserved crisp bills last week because the money changers on the street in Nicarauga -- yes, that's how we exchange our money -- don't like crumpled or written on bills.

I opened my checkbook and a bunch of stuff fell out. Barely any check blanks left. No deposit slips. Yet this is my "checkbook."

How did all of this crap get in here, I thought, trying to shuffle through and find the checks I was there to cash. The teller had no expression, which was nice, because I felt stupid.

I feel stupid a lot.

Movie receipt from National Treasure. Check.
Grocery list from two months ago. Check.
Sketch of the loud, bald guy at the coffee shop. Check.
Receipt for gas with car wash tacked on that I forgot to use. Check.
A small slip of paper with a phone number -- for who knows who -- written on it in green pen. Check.
Three paper clips. Check.
One bobby pin. Check.
Candy bar wrapper -- pre South Beach Diet. Check.
A piece of cruddy, yet unchewed, gum. Check.
Checks. Check.

My checkbook is like my purse: a huge dump. When my cell phone rings, I about drive off of the road trying to find it in a purse filled with a couple of books I'm in the midst of reading, a set of sketching pens, a notebook, two kinds of chapstick (never know when you want mint or just plain), and just....stuff. Junk.

A pack mule wouldn't carry that much stuff around.

"Sorry," I said, pulling out the rumpled checks and handing them to the teller. I felt like Columbo, and would have tried to give my checkbook a pat down if it had pockets. "A little disorganized..."

Yes, I felt bad about my lack of put-togetheredness...until I heard a raspy smoker's cough and turned around and saw the woman behind me. She was just shy of 50, I'm guessing. Hair like John the Baptist. She had on a huge, sloppy green sweatshirt. And -- bonus -- she was wearing flannel pajama pants. Blue plaid, with yellow ducks.

At the bank.

Car wreck, I thought, though I smiled at her politely. I didn't want to arouse the wrath of all those ducks.

Why would a very grown woman wear pajama pants to the bank, of all places? Pajama pants are meant for wearing to bed.

At least I keep my mess to my "checkbook" and don't parade around like a flannelized Ducks Unlimited sandwich board.

At least I have that.

Labels: fashion, my life, women

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About that sharp-dressed man...

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 8 comments link this post

A book I read recently made mention of something I've noticed when I travel to Nicaragua: we Americans, with all our money and access to clothes beyond clothes, dress...like slobs. The Nicaraguans, though -- even in some tough living conditions and extreme heat and the blowing dirt -- look sharp. They really do. I have no idea how they keep their clothes clean and tucked in and hair pulled back. It always amazes me; I can't seem to not get dirty and messed up.

The book pointed out a difference in high context (in this case, Nicaragua) and low context (in this case, us) cultures. Essentially, in Western cold-climate cultures, our societies are so fluid and have had such an influx of cultures, and that, combined (especially in the U.S. and Australia) with a relatively young country, means that we don't have excessive amounts of unwritten social norms and rules.

In other words, we like casual, we like comfortable, and our culture no longer demands that we dress in a suit and tie.

But, I gotta say, it's true about that sharp-dressed man.

Just seeing a guy who has bothered tucking in the shirt, for example, now catches my eye.

I'm not saying guys have to pull a McGyver and button their collars up to the very top (that's actually creepy), but there's something to be said for a guy who shows up clean, with evidence of shaving in the past 24 hours, and neatly dressed.

This is, of course, actually against some concepts of style now, which dictates un-tucked shirts and jeans and a certain kind of tennis shoe and purposefully messy hair. And hideous white belts. Oh, yuck.

There's a line in the movie Clueless (that classic take on the story of Emma from the 1990's) in which the character Cher sums up her own similar traitorous take on the style of the day:

So okay, I don't want to be a traitor to my generation and all but I don't get how guys dress today. I mean, come on, it looks like they just fell out of bed and put on some baggy pants and take their greasy hair - ew - and cover it up with a backwards cap and like, we're expected to swoon? I don't think so.

This, of course, applies to women as well. All joking about my showing up looking like a disaster...I do understand that the same applies for me and so I have been making a good-faith effort to dress nicely and take some time with my appearance. I've long been an advocate of fabulous -- even if uncomfortable -- shoes. I know the sacrifice. I don't do it every day here at home, but when I'm out and about...sure. Crack out the cute shoes and shirts. Why, I now even own a few dresses. This is huge.

Yes, I'm tired of the Youth-Pastor Slacker Video-Game-Player Live-In-My-Mother's-Basement I-Wear "Vintage"-T-Shirts-From-Children's-Cereal-And-Other-Ironic-Themes - look that a lot of guys wear. I think it would surprise some guys (as well as their female counterparts who insist it doesn't matter) at the reaction they'd get if they pulled it together. It doesn't have to be Armani or even a suit, but just...you know. Sharp-dressed man. Nice khakis. Fresh, neat shirt. A tie on Sunday, maybe, not out of obligation to be holy or churchy, but just because it's definitely not going to be a place where, if you're a farmer for example, your tie will get caught in the PTO. Dress nicely for whatever size and shape you are; it makes a huge difference. No one thinks you're thinner than you are if you wear huge, shapeless clothes.

There's just something to be said for the neat appearance of the non-cool dork.

Look, if the goal is to be comfortable, by all means, be comfortable. Wear the Lucky Charms T-shirt and scroungy cap and the ratty jeans. But just know that it really is true: every girl crazy 'bout a sharp-dressed man. Call it whatever you want; chalk it up to women being awful for not seeing the true you inside. I'm just telling you the way it is.

It is for this reason, thinking as I do and finding myself advocating tucked in shirts for guys, that I realize I am old.

Labels: fashion, relationships, women

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I curled my hair just now.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 6 comments link this post

This kind of post is, indeed, the glory of blogging.

A play by play of personal care!

As you may recall from my Hall of Shame posts from some time back, there was a time when I was "high maintenance." A gallon of hairspray. A truckload of eyeliner. A pound of eye shadow. Years of youth conventions and pastors and events in which vanity was guiltified* to us young people -- "How many hours do you spend in front of the mirror? How many in prayer and Bible reading?" -- finally cured me of that and I sort of...went the other way. With gusto.

I brush my hair every so often.

Sometimes.

In fact, I've had to backtrack a bit and whip myself into shape and insist that, at least on Sundays, I would attempt to put on makeup and look human. And brush my hair.

Today, I curled it.

This is breaking news!

There's no beach in sight, but I have "beach hair", thanks to my new triple-barreled curling iron. (Which I bought because I thought that, with three barrels, I could just get that whole process done all the faster.)

I sort of got bored, standing there with the curling iron and waiting. I wished I had something to read, though I don't know how I would manage a book with a curling iron that came with a warning that it could "burn eyes."

I have no idea why they call it beach hair. It's mainly just wavy and I look sort of old fashioned.

I call it "done hair."

Because I'm done!

Now, off to find a clean shirt...

This post will rank up there with my post about how to make your own lipstick: pointless and with no obvious benefit for the rest of the world.

-----------------------------------

*New word.

Labels: church life, fashion, my life

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Don't waste your time on Vinyl.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 3 comments link this post

No, I'm not talking about records vs. CDs.

Bath and Body Works is a store that makes me sneeze just thinking about it. It's a stinky store. I go there, of course, because I love perfume. I love perfume in single doses, a limitation that, unfortunately, Bath and Body Works does not follow. I always regret going there because it never fails to give me a headache before leaving.

Stinky store. Some scents ought not be mingled.

A few months ago I purchased a bottle of Deborah Lippmann's Overpriced Nail Polish "Vinyl", Exclusive at Bath and Body Works. (That's not exactly the name it goes by in the store, mind you.) I chose the pale color aptly named "This Must Be Love" which, as such things often are, it wasn't.

"I love this non-color," I said to myself in the store, and I bought it.

As with all cosmetic purchases, I mistakenly think I'll use it and become fabulous and lovely once I'm wearing it.

"This Must Be Love" is really "This Must Be Hate." Because it is.

"You'll love this polish!" the clerk said. "It's so tough -- never chips on me!" She then sprayed my bag with some horrid floral scent and left me gasping for oxygen and brain cells.

Who wears this nail polish and never has it chip? I'll tell you: people who do very little with their hands. "This Must Be Love" certainly didn't hold up today at work as I scrubbed, sanded, cut and fought with the laser machine and some toxic plastic material that stunk up the whole store and made Dennis tell me that I was "stinking up the whole store."

"You're stinking up the whole store."

"Thanks. It's every girl's dream to hear that," I said.

Stinking up the whole store, like Bath and Body Works, except they have yet to offer a line of "fresh cut PVC" spray.

I wish I could be more eloquent in describing this hideous nail polish that cost $8 for .2 fl. oz.(!!!) but I really can't. It just sucked. And I still can't figure out what color it is.

Labels: fashion, my life, product placement

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The skinny on skinny jeans.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 1 comments link this post

Skinny jeans are hot now. Skinny jeans are a big mistake if you aren't skinny.

I'm slow to catch on to the obvious.

Skinny jeans make the normal to larger sized woman look like an inverted triangle, dangerously near to falling to the left or right. Great for politics, horrid for attracting the whistles of construction workers.

If you were that kind of person. Which I'm not.

The skinny jean had seemed a good alternative to the uber-baggy-too-sloppy jean of the past decade. Which it wasn't.

The adjective that prefaces the word "jeans" is important, it seems. It used to be "blue" and I'm naturally depressive; I gave my denim nary a thought back then. But in this new age, I'm in trouble when it comes to jean shopping.

I also like the boyfriend jeans; it's a cute cut. Of course, you can see the problem already, can't you?

When did the adjective become so limiting? When did genes cease to work with all jeans?

It's just not fair. And I'm stuck with the skinny jeans because I took the tags off. I suppose chubby jeans wouldn't be a big seller.

I use the word "big" consciously.

| tag: skinny jeans |

Labels: fashion

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Walk a mile in some shoes.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 5 comments link this post

It's not a recent post, but one I've been keeping my eye on.

What is the deal with shoes, anyway?

The first thing I notice when I meet a woman is her shoes. I don't know what guys check out when they meet someone new, but I look at the footwear. I used to tell my friend Sarah that you could tell a lot about a person by the shoes they wore.

I like shoes that aren't typical, though they must be inexpensive. Pointy-toed high heel boots, classic 1940's ankle strap high-heel shoes, loafers (not really meant for loafing), tennies held together by tape, bright yellow vinyl rain boots, Ropers, red leather boots, velvet slip-on flats from Germany, shoes from the second-hand store that I have altered into oblivion...I dress dowdy but the shoes get to sing.

But wearing shoes for attracting men? Huh? Do they even notice? I've long thought women only wore cool or exotic shoes to get other women to ask where they got them so they could perpetuate the cycle. I really didn't (and still kind of don't) think guys even notice the stupid things on the feet of women. Why would they? They're shoes. There are sweaty, stinky feet inside. Yuck. Women wear shoes to impress other women. That's my theory.

"We became best friends over a pair of shoes."

"I lost my best friend over a pair of shoes."

I wonder if guys ever realized how common the phrase "I like your shoes" is among women, and the secret meanings behind it. These meanings are:

I like your shoes so I don't like you.
I like your shoes, but I bet you have bunions.
I just like your shoes.
Boy, she's an idiot to be wearing shoes like that. Her feet must kill.
I wouldn't be caught dead in those ugly shoes.
Show-off.
Ha. I'd like to see her get away from an assailant in those shoes.
What a waste of money. How many outfits are going to go with lemon yellow pumps?
I like her shoes, therefore I think I'll like you.
I'd like to borrow your shoes but I'm concerned about athlete's foot.

It's a complicated language. It takes years to understand.

But now, in light of GirlFriday's post, I wonder. I wear high heels because (dramatic pause here) - I'm really short. It seems a practical solution to looking people in the eye, those higher heels. They also give me a chance to trip and fall, an activity I'm known for, which is good for keeping me humble. Plus, as all women know, no matter how depressing and impossible it is to go shopping and find clothes that both fit decently and modestly, you can always find a pair of shoes that will fit.

That, or a book.

You should see my book collection. Do books attract? At least there's nothing sweaty and stinky inside. Except maybe in something written by Michael Moore.

| tag: shoes |

Labels: fashion, women

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Julie's tips on getting the perfect hair style.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 8 comments link this post

The title alone should be making people who know me laugh.

Hairbrush? I don't need no stinkin' hairbrush!

Today, however, I am going to spend about two hours in a beauty salon getting the red out of my hair. A few drops of Visine may do it for the eyes, but hair? No such luck.

Yes, I've thoroughly enjoyed having red hair; I started to dye it myself back in August. But I've decided the upkeep is a pain and frankly, I get bored with things quickly. So out the red comes. I can scarcely believe all the time I've spent in beauty salons recently! I just had my yearly haircut about three weeks ago, losing six inches in preparation for spring! I must be a girl, after all. Twice, within as many months, I find myself in a salon!

And that brings me to the meat of this post: my tips on getting the perfect hair. Now, this isn't a step-by-step styling guide because I have no idea. This is a guide on things to think about before getting your hair cut. These are all based on experience, so rest assured, I know what I'm talking about. Here we go:

1. If the woman who is about to cut your hair has a mullet, think twice before letting her cut it. As the stylist's style goes, there will yours go also. In college I had long hair. After a bad run-in with a Mulletinator at a Cost Cutters, I had the long hair in the back but I could now conveniently curl the sides. That's what she told me, as I wept. I was an art major; do you really think I was spending a lot of time with the curling iron? After two attempts at different salons all on the same day to fix it, I went from hair down to my waist to Winona Ryder hair (about 2" all around) without the cute Winona Ryder face to go along with it. Let this be a lesson to you. For a year I looked like a misshapen boy.

2. Just because Julia Roberts' hair in Pretty Woman was gorgeous, it doesn't mean your hair will look similarly gorgeous when you get a perm. The gorgeous hair from a movie star in a movie does not translate as such into real life, even for the movie star. That was the last perm I ever got. This was before the frizzy, afro look was in, so I couldn't even pretend to be stylish. It was unfortunate all around. I've never seen that movie in the same light since. It took over two hours for three women to roll my hair up onto the rods (I have lots of hair and it was long), they weren't happy about it, I felt like they wanted to kill me because I threw off their entire day's schedule for having more hair than a "normal" person, and they took it out on me by including the kissing cousins of lye or battery acid in the perm solution. That bad.

3. You cannot cut your own hair.

4. You should not attempt to clip your brother's hair with an electric razor, either, even he swears up and down that he has confidence in you. He won't talk to you for a few hours while he tries to salvage what's left.

5. The Flowbee is just a bad idea. Ever get your long hair all wrapped up in vacuum parts? You'll have a cut by the end of the day, but it might not be how you planned it to go.

Anyway, stay tuned for photos of my new-return-to-old hair color. I know you're thrilled and excited.

Pre-red hair | pre-color removal | post-color removal

| tag: hair |

Labels: fashion, my life

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Luxury goods and high fashion: they take your money and leave you looking stupid.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 5 comments link this post

There was a time when "luxury" meant something rare and special. Now it's an over-priced mass-produced gaudy boho fringed purse that some 21-year-old college student from Omaha is convinced she must go into debt to buy.

I seem to be reading more and more articles on the influx and "need" of luxury items, from clothes and shoes to handbags and visits to exclusive resorts in the Seychelles or Tanzania. The message I get is clear: people who aren't rich don't have to be left out. We should all make luxury items part of our every day lives. We can pretend to be rich.

Really.

The obsession with Louis Vuitton bags, ugly-looking bags if I've ever seen any, is a prime example. Why does your average woman with a middle-class job need a $600 bag? She doesn't.

In fact, no one needs a $300 or $1200 bag, although some obviously want them. No one needs to spend $1,100 on an ugly blouse that will be last-season in about five minutes, although if you have lots of money you can get away with it. I was flipping through a recent copy of Harper's Bazaar and saw the most hideous clear plastic hair pin in a model's hair. The magazine called it a "jewel-toned lucite hair pin" and priced it at nearly $1000. Yeah, and the emperor's new clothes were designed by Derek Lam. No one needs this over-priced junk, especially people who don't pull in gazillions of dollars a year and can't afford it. It's a hard pill to swallow, but there are people who are richer than some, and if you don't have the money you shouldn't try to live like they do. It might not seem "fair" but really, is it so difficult to understand?

In recent years the message from media and magazines and our celebrity-obsessed culture where all the puppets buy Gucci or Burberry or Prada or Zac Posen is simple: luxury goods are for everyone. You "deserve" it. You "deserve" to go into debt to be in style for five minutes.

I've read nearly as many articles talking about women who work like dogs yet are in debt and have no savings because...they can't stop buying Jimmy Choo or Manolo Blahniks. I remember one article in the WSJ where the in-debt young woman acknowledged her financial woes and made herself out to be some sort of down-trodden victim, but a few paragraphs later was showing the reporter her vast collection of Manolo's. Thousands of dollars wasted on shoes, and trips to New York to buy the shoes. And many are ugly shoes.

Living in rural North Dakota has probably spared me from such compulsions, even though I could certainly order them online. Where, exactly, would I wear a pair of $900 beaded stiletto shoes? Down the gravel driveway to the car? Through the mud across the yard to the garage? To church? Once the expensive shoes arrive in the mail, what would I do with them? They'd be worth more than my car, and I have a long-standing rule of never eating or wearing anything worth more than my car.

I wonder who sold all of us the message that because we work so hard, we deserve designer junk. I worked hard and earned all that money, so I'm going to go blow it on a pair of Juicy Couture jeans and hope to God I don't spill anything on them. I worked hard and earned all that money so I'm going to go throw it away on some ugly Gwen Stefani L.A.M.B. outfit because, even though I think it's ugly, it's in fashion.

I simply don't get it.

Why do people waste their money when there are perfectly good, and much better-looking, shoes, bags, clothes and vacations that fit the budget better?

Actually, I do get it.

Supposedly, if I want a piece of the celebrity or wealthy jet-set high-fashion action, I'll buy the same purse that Kate Moss uses (minus the cocaine pocket). It'll put me in debt, but I'll have it.

"Look," I'll tell my friends, "I have a designer purse."

And you know what? Big flippin' deal. A cheap purse holds the same junk, too. And I still don't look like Ms. Moss.

Perhaps women find ownership of designer junk to be empowering, a word I truly hate. Because of HBO's Sex in the City, women started to equate Manolo Blahnik with power or something similarly silly. The new feminism is the Manolo Blahnik feminism. Personally, I feel less powerful in my $20 stiletto boots from Target than I do in my leather steel-toed men's Wolverine work boots, but that's just me.

The dirtiest secret of all, beyond the fact that people are throwing their money on plain old stuff they don't need is this: Most of this designer luxury crap is ugly. Look at the fashions on the runway. Really look at the Vuitton bags. You like that? It looks stupid. People have been brainwashed into buying something they'd normally find ugly because of the brand.

Save your money. Don't look stupid.

::For you women out there, if you're looking for a handmade and unique bag that few others have which would prevent you from becoming a lemming, make your own or buy from some place like Yukiko Sato and support new designers. If you must have stuff that doesn't come from JC Penney, find a new designer, or an artist to come up with something unique and see if you can't kill two birds with one stone: help them out and get yourself something truly unique.::

Labels: fashion

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Conversation: Knickers.

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Lovin' this purse.

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I will not wear a dickie.

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About that sharp-dressed man...

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Don't waste your time on Vinyl.

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The skinny on skinny jeans.

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Walk a mile in some shoes.

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Julie's tips on getting the perfect hair style.

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Luxury goods and high fashion: they take your money and leave you looking stupid.

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