What NOT to wear, truly

“I want everyone to wear what they want and mix it in their own way. That, to

me, is what is modern.” ― Karl Lagerfeld

With all due respect to Mr. Lagerfeld, I beg to differ. Clothing is often designed with a purpose in mind. Don’t believe me? You don’t wear a swimsuit to go grocery shopping, now do you? (And, in making this statement, I am discounting anyone that is now or ever could appear on the People of WalMart website.) And when’s the last time you wore a tuxedo to cut the grass? You don’t wear a low-cut cocktail dress and 4” FMPs to the PTA meeting, either. You don’t wear your Sexy Mother F’er t-shirt to work. And you do not, or should I say SHOULD NOT, wear ripped jeans to the theater.

The Engineer, the Landscaper and I recently attended a production of “The Ghost Brothers of Darkland County,” written by Stephen King with music by John Mellencamp at the Akron Civic Theater. It's a gorgeous old theater lovingly restored to baroque resplendence. In the lobby, brightly colored walls and ceilings adorned with medallions drip with gilt work. You enter the theater itself and you're transported to what I imagine an amphitheater in Verona, Italy would look like. You sit under a starry night sky, thanks for clever lighting and paint. Intricate columns, arches and statues surround the stage.

In short, you’re sitting in show-stopping opulence. Don’t you owe it to every hand-painted medallion, every lovingly restored statue, every twinkling (fake) star, every velvet-covered seat, every snappily dressed usher to wear a pair of pants without the seat ripped out??? Don’t you at least owe it to your mama who raised you better, for the love of all that’s holy?

Let me just give you a smattering of who attended the theater that night. There was the simply delightful gal in front of us who truly believed that skinny, low-cut ripped jeans were designed for any body type … even an apple-shaped girl who had to jump high into the air every time she stood to get the denim over her ass crack. Yes, I saw nearly her entire ass crack 4 times that night. Yes, I was counting.

Then there was the man who wore dirty, rumpled clothing that had that “just-slept-in” look. I mean, if you can afford a ticket to see Ghost Brothers of Darkland County, surely you can afford laundry soap, too, right? 

Next, there was a man wearing an outfit that my 20-something employee assures me is “hipster chic.” I’ve almost recovered 100% of my vision after being struck fashion blind by the horror of his ensemble. He dressed his tall husky frame in gray skinny ankle pants, a checkered flannel lumberjack shirt, white socks, black Converse shoes and a gray bandana to match his butt-flattening pants. And, let’s not forget the neon-green tape on his glasses.

First, FIRST of many atrocities – the skinny ankle pants. GENTLEMEN, skinny ankle pants are NOT for men. I repeat, they are NOT for men. They do NOTHING for your physique. Less than nothing. They flatten you butt and make it look like you grew 3” last night and didn’t realize it. Just because a company manufactures a garment, doesn’t mean someone has to wear it. Let’s recall that someone created culottes, stirrup pants and strapless terry rompers. If no one wore them, they’d go away, now wouldn’t they? And I don’t care if they have an Ab-bore-crumbie & Bitch label on them. It just means you paid too much to look that stupid.

I would say less than 1/3 of the audience had on what I’d consider “theater clothes.” I don’t understand why everyone can’t dress up a little for fine musical theater. The Landscaper said, “Maybe they don’t own nicer clothes.” I called bullshit on that one. Everyone owns a pair of “funeral pants,” no? You can’t tell me there are people who go to funerals in ripped jeans and Sexy Mother F’er t-shirts.

The Engineer was having fun “poking the bear” by pointing out every rumpled T-shirt, exposed thong and pair of ripped jeans. She really had me worked into a froth in the lobby during intermission. I was opining, “Part of the joy of going to the theater for me is seeing men in suits and ladies in evening attire dripping with jewels.” And, wouldn’t you know, a lady wearing jeans happened to be walking by during my diatribe? She came right up to me and said, “I know! I know I shouldn’t wear jeans to the theater. It was just so cold out and I wanted to be comfortable.” I was almost mortified. Almost. And, I told her, in all truth, that she looked quite nice. She was at least wearing dark-wash trouser jeans with a nice sweater. Nothing on her was ripped, rumpled, dirty or adorned with a curse word. She was not ruining my “theater experience.” The woman with the thong hanging out of her trashy pants was.

I don’t care what anyone says. Your clothing does speak for you, so think about what you’re saying with it. If you want to say, “I don’t use soap when I bathe,” that’s your choice. Or, if you want to say, “I’ll follow any fashion trend whether it looks good on me or not,” that’s all you.

But, please, the next time you go to the theater, consider putting on your “funeral pants” to soothe my genteel sensibilities. Pretty please? 

Time to make the Hatenuts

Internet dating has not been my friend. I have had some classic Flypaper for Freaks moments from my Internet interludes and ZERO good dates. Yet, a good friend of mine met her husband online. So, it’s clearly not all bad. Maybe the difference is she was using The Onion personals – which just about guarantees a sense of humor – and I used traditional dating sites.

So, I meet the Doughnut Man online. He owns three doughnut shops in the area. Great! Employed. Gainfully employed. Must have some business (and common) sense. And, he can bring me free éclairs. Bonus! Sounds promising so far. The only drawback I see is he’s blonde. I’m blonde, too and I really don’t think blondes should date each other. Someone has to be the smart one in the relationship. (Jeez! I’m kidding. I do not want the National Organization of Blondes to start hate-mailing me.)

We’ve talked on the phone a number of times, mainly about innocuous things. He seems nice enough. We agree to meet for dinner. The conversation is light and breezy, like a warm summer afternoon.

“What kind of movies do you like?”

“Comedies. I love things that make me laugh.”

“Me, too. If I want to see reality, I’ll look out the window.” (Hey! Something we agree on.)

“Do you read much?” he asks me.

“I read voraciously. Every night before I go to bed.”

“Me, too! I just adore a good book.”

Dare I hope that my Freak Magnet is losing its polar powers?

“In fact, I just finished reading Rush Limbaugh’s new book.”

Oh, Lordy Lord. I now know that he’s a Republican. I have not had good luck dating Republicans – which may be because I’m a flaming, hair-on-fire kind of liberal. OK. Not the end of the world, even if my family will shun him at all holiday events for voting for a Bush.

[Author’s Aside: I shouldn’t make generalizations about Republicans. Have I met every Republican in the U.S. of A? No. Have I even met the majority of them? No. It’s just been my (dating) experience that any Republican I’ve gone out with has been a hater and has expressed his homophobia or racism to me within the first 30 minutes of meeting him. So far, I have not had this experience with any Democrat that I’ve gone out with, but this may just be a coincidence. And, I just cannot tolerate intolerance. How funny is THAT for a quote?]

“Really? Because I just finished reading The Way Things Aren’t by FAIR” which is a book that refutes most of the nonsensical things that Rush Limbaugh says. Yeah, this is going well.

I steer the conversation toward our jobs so we don’t start fighting about what a giant goober I think Rush Limbaugh is. I tell him what it’s like to run a magazine and touch on the struggles I’ve had as a first-time manager. He starts to tell me about the doughnut shops he runs.

“It’s hard to find good help,” he says.

“I’ve heard that it’s hard to find good part-time help,” I reply. How many managers actually love their part-time employees?

“I mean, I try to find good employees, but only blacks apply.”

“Pardon me?”

“It’s because of where my stores are located. You know, in the Hood I just can’t get good help.”

Oh, this is taking a very bad turn. This table is kind of small, but maybe I can still fit under it so no one will know that I’m with this racist freak.

“Well, you know, it’s those people’s fault that I’m overweight.”

WHAT???

He had expressed over the phone his concern that I would reject him because he was somewhat overweight. (Who says that to someone before they’ve even gone on a date with them and WHY didn’t I see that giant red flag flapping in my face? Was I that desperate?)

In truth, I didn't really think he was overweight. He had what I'd call a “husky” build and short cropped blond hair. With his short crew cut and thick frame, he reminded me of a former marine who'd just started to go to pot. He could probably stand to lose 20 pounds, but let she who doesn't need to lose a spare 20 or so cast the first doughnut. I thought he was a rather nice-looking man in an Average Joe sort of way. And, I'm no raving beauty, so we probably looked like we belonged together.

“Those people? Who are those people?” (I tried to make my tone as frosty as possible in hopes of discouraging him. In fact, I think a few snowflakes flew out of my mouth while I was speaking.)

“You know, the blacks.”

“No, I don’t know. Perhaps you need to explain it to me.” (Can he really not hear the antagonistic tone in my voice? Does he think what he’s saying is OK? He must, or he wouldn’t still be flapping his giant cakehole¹.)

“See, doughnuts cost the least to make and have the highest profit margin. Bagels and cream cheese are my most expensive item and have the lowest profit margin. So, I only allow employees to eat the doughnuts.”

I understand this concept. That’s a business decision. Many restaurants have a similar policy – we’ll give you free food, but you need to choose one of these four or five low-cost entrees. I’m still waiting to see how Captain Crazy Train is going to bring this back to black people making him fat.

“I would really prefer to eat a bagel with cream cheese every morning since it’s much lower in calories (yeah, not so much, Sherlock), but I can’t because of those people.”

Still not getting it.

“If those people see me eating a bagel, then they think it’s OK for them to eat a bagel, too, and my profits go down.”

If an employee doesn’t listen to your rules in your store, you give them a warning and explain what they did wrong and what the correct course of action is. If the behavior continues, you fire that specific person. You do NOT attribute an inability to follow the rules to an entire race of people.

“So, because of those people, I have to eat doughnuts for breakfast every morning, which is making me fat.”

“Do you have a refrigerator at the shop?” I ask him, knowing damn well that the answer is yes.

“Of course we have a refrigerator,” he replies.

“Then why don’t you bring low-fat yogurt and granola to the shop and eat that for breakfast?”

“Don’t you think that I’ve thought of that? I’m sure that those people would just eat that, too, so what would be the point?”

Right. You’re one of those people. You know, the ones who blame their shortcomings on everyone EXCEPT themselves? I’m sure in your world, it’s also the fault of Native Americans that your hair is thinning on top since one of your relatives was scalped during the French-Indian War.

At this point, I excuse myself to go to the restroom. While I’m in there, I actually find myself gazing at the window wondering if I can fit OUT the window and escape from Mr. Fantastic. I then remember that my coat is back at the table. He probably would have been suspicious had I taken my coat with me to the restroom. And, who am I kidding? I would only climb out that window if the restaurant was on fire and the bathroom door was locked from the outside. My mother raised me properly. I am going to have to go back out there, thank him for dinner and bid him a good eve . . . even IF I have to choke the words out. Stupid manners. You know that he asked me out again. I told him that I just didn’t see it working out.

¹cakehole (kāk·hōl) n. 1. This is a technical term, synonymous with piehole, that refers to someone whose mouth should only be opened to shove cake (or pie) into it. Any other opening or closing that occurs is simply the flapping about of hot air. Please note: This is similar to the term, “claptrap” that refers to a mouth from which only clap and drivel spill forth.