day 11: i admired an ice queen

For as inept as I am when it comes to makeup and clothes – if it were socially acceptable, I would go around barefoot wearing hippie skirts and never brush my hair – I am nonetheless fascinated by fashion and the world that has been created around it.

This is mainly because I’m a sucker for tragedy. The runways are filled with hungry young women – hungry for fame, money, love, acceptance, and perhaps most of all, a big fucking sandwich.

Even more interesting are the people who helped create this artificial, impossible standard of female beauty. And no one can argue that one of the main culprits is Anna Wintour.

Vogue editor-in-chief since 1988 and famously aloof bitch, the skinny 60-year-old’s trademark dark sunglasses and severe bob have become iconic, as has her tendency to overuse the one F word that seems to matter more than any other in modeling. In her position of power, she has the last word in what is considered "in." And each year, it all starts in September, the "January of fashion."

The 2009 documentary The September Issue follows Wintour and the Vogue team as they plan and shoot the largest issue in Vogue history, weighing in at nearly five pounds and being hailed as the "Bible" of fashion.

As a documentary, September is most revealing in what it ignores: most people aren’t chauffeured to Starbucks each morning, taken seriously for saying things like “I’m really feeling whites this season,” or aware of who designed their gym towels. The only outsider’s perspective comes from Wintour’s daughter, a 20-something law student who feels "there’s more to life than fashion."

Despite Wintour’s apparent obliviousness to the fact that most designer clothes are not accessible to anyone who is not both rich and thin – the documentary opens with her saying most people avoid or poke fun of "her world" because they are "afraid" of it – there is something to be admired in the singularity of her vision. She knows what she wants, and she knows how to present it in a way that inspires both interest and desire.

day 9: i went on a shopping spree

Along with drinking, swearing, and ogling pretty girls, shopping is another thing I do like a man: I go in, grab a few things I like, try them on, and buy the ones that look good. Then I leave. I don’t go back and try other sizes or colors. I don’t browse the discount racks for that elusive bargain. The whole ordeal takes about 25 minutes.

I also suspect my feelings about weddings are atypical. To me, weddings are like new cars – sure, they look nice, but I don’t seriously expect to get to have one of my own. I have grown emotionally detached from the idea of weddings in the same way I’ve trained myself to believe that as long as it runs and gets me from A to B, one car is as good as another. That’s why, in the event I’m still single ten years from now, I have what I consider a pretty solid backup plan to become a crazy cat lady.

I must confess, though: I am ridiculously excited about my friend Rachel’s wedding. I have known Rachel for nearly 20 years, so I want her special day to be beautiful and fantastic, and I fully expect to be teary-eyed and puffy-faced by the end of it. Today we went shopping for bridesmaid dresses, about which she is being really cool – she wants us each to pick out a plain black dress. No neon pink or peacock blue or tulle or satin here.

The task sounds fairly simple, but I’m not gonna lie – the thought of dress shopping with four other girls, even girls who are some of my best lifelong friends, stresses me out a bit. That’s why I’m surprised when I enter the store and spot a cute dress in the juniors section, and it’s like salve on my bedraggled soul.

Here’s what I learned during my shopping spree:

1. Workouts work. Seriously. I can fit into a size four now. Not that I have ever been overweight, but a few months ago I was a size eight. I’m shrinking, and it’s awesome, and it makes me want to spend my entire tax refund on new clothes. As anyone who has been with me while taste-testing gelato knows, when I get excited, I swear loudly and uncontrollably. Everyone in the fitting room when I zipped up those shorts undoubtedly heard me exclaim, "Motherfucking size four, bitches!"
2. Retail therapy is real, and it works. When I arrived at Macy’s, I was in the middle of a fit of self-loathing. Then I bought a bunch of crap. When I left, I felt lighter. I even sang along to Frightened Rabbit with my windows down the whole way home, and I didn’t care when this dude at a stoplight totally stared and laughed at me. 
3. People find Jesus in their filth. After shopping we went to Barnes and Noble for coffee, and we discovered a book called Look, It's Jesus!, in which people claim to have found images of Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and even Buddha in common, every day objects such as a closet door or a grilled cheese sandwich. It would appear many of these religious fanatics live in something akin to squalor – one submitter found Jesus in his moldy door jamb; another found him in the brownish stains covering his white couch. It’s as if they’re saying, "Yes, I may be disgusting, but I’ve been blessed for it."
4. Clothes can be confusing. I tried on one garment today that could have been either a skirt or a really poofy tube top. I had to ask the cashier for confirmation that it could feasibly be worn as either, and she said yes, even going so far as to suggest you could start off wearing it as a top and then pull it down and wear it as a skirt if you got bored, though it seems various parts of your body would be awkwardly and perhaps illegally exposed before, during and after this transfer.
5. Being girly can be fun. There. I said it.

day 4: i attended a fashion show

A lot of people I know worked hard to put on the Blue Summer Eclectic, a fundraising event for KKFI and KC Fringe Fest combining fashion, music and performance art, including my boyfriend Jason Harper, who made the awesome promo video.

All I did was show up and get trashed.

Because my fridge broke on Friday, I have no food in the house, only a sad sack of spoiled condiments moldering on the porch. I ended up getting a salad and a bottle of wine for dinner, concluding that I would rather drink my calories that evening.

Of course the wine saturated my brain like a sponge, and while teetering around the Uptown Theater's Conspiracy Room I found myself discussing the potential hazards of masturbating with hooks for hands ala Jon Hamm in the most recent episode of 30 Rock and how I wanted to personify the music of KC soul band The Good Foot into one being and sleep with it.

The event itself is kind of a blur, but a very pleasant blur. I remember hot chicks dancing with light-up hula-hoops, hot chicks strutting down the runway in clothes by local designers that I would actually wear (unlike most “high fashion,” which in my mind only falls under the broadest possible definition of “clothing” in the same way a trash bag poncho can be considered “a raincoat”), and hot chicks dancing and twirling while suspended ten feet in the air between two colorful pieces of fabric.

It was the kind of event that made me proud to live in Kansas City and to know such awesome people. And it made me wish I’d gone to the Jamaican restaurant instead of the salad bar.