Back in the Fiddle Faddle

Good evening, my pretties. It seems a break of, oh, 17 months or so was necessary to continue to bring the high-quality tragi-torial coverage you are by now accustomed to. There have been plenty of garmentous disasters in this elapsed time that I am looking forward to sharing with you. Until then, I will share with you a delicious article about one of my favorite categories of GD: the flesh-tone.

Friday

I randomly left a giant ghost-shaped halloween cookie, an Obama sticker and a post-it with "BOO!" written on it on her desk yesterday when she was out of the office. Every few weeks, we inexplicably exhange little gifties-- last week she gave me a plastic box of mints that taste like dishwasher detergent with a fuzzy rendering of a Japanese imperial print on it. I guess that's why I felt compelled to give her the ghost cookie. The Obama sticker was probably some subconscious symbol of the actual existence of reality, versus office la-la-land. (P.S.: I innocently offered the Japanese-mint-box to Husband this morning, portraying it as a sweet wifely gift. He accepted.)

Anyway, when I came in this morning, she was in a stretchy white cap-sleeve viscose-jersey shirt-- the kind in the high-quality section of Mandee that shows underwire-- black jeans, and those 80s beige stretchy-fabric mules with a square 1" heel and an elevated blech factor. About 20 minutes into the morning she walked over and placed a crumpled white wax-paper bag on my desk. Inside were the crumbs of her raisin scone, being given to me because she had, you know, already eaten too much. I thought: Woman, I DON'T WANT YOUR SCONE CRUMBS. I ALREADY HAD BREAKFAST. Did something about the ghost cookie somehow imply I needed more carbohydrates in my life?

Thursday

This has been a long weekend so my memory is a bit blurry, and some probably crucial brain matter has been irreparably fried by the pattern disaster I feel compelled to relate, despite the fact that I never ever want to have to picture abovesaid pattern disaster in my mind's eye again EVER. EVER EVER EVER.

So: last Thursday there was a copious amount of leopard print. Layer one: a black shift dress which on the hanger was probably fine, but sort of flapped away from her body and was highly unflattering to the clavicular region, giving it a particularly emaciated sheen. Layer two was the coat: the cornea-burning, barrel-shaped, brushed pony-hair color-gradiated freak cocoon of a leopard-print coat.

Around the collar (which, I would be remiss not to note, was accidentally half-tucked in most of the day, inducing in me several silent pleasure cackles), framing the clavicular fear center, the spots screamed from a gold-ish background. Traveling downward, the aforementioned background morphed from gold-ish to bronze-ish to amber-ish to a color I can only identify as the color of my slowly atrophying brain cells (a.k.a sludge). You may be picturing that and thinking it's nice, but unfortunately in reality it's not nice: it's crazy. Moreover, it's textbook Haute Topic, by which I mean it has the medulla-shattering garishness of a preadolescent mall faux-punk emporium at monthly mortgage investment level$.

(The upside is that the coat DID distract from 1) the 75 pounds of face she had on, 2) the flesh-colored stockings that her gold anklet continually strains against, and 3) the leopard-print neckerchief. That's right: homie said leopard-print neckerchief, bitches. Because OBVIOUSLY, no leopard coat-based outfit is anywhere NEAR complete without a neckerchief in the same size print but ever so slightly off in color. Sometimes all a leopard coat needs is a little more leopard.)