Mod-dot button shift mini dress by Milly
this dress is unfortunately no longer available online
Showing posts with label mini dress. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mini dress. Show all posts
02 December 2007
Since I don't (yet)
14 November 2007
10 October 2007
I heart DC Style, pt. II
After you've finished fantasizing about the creamy beige asymmetric ruffle-necked Lanvin mini I have vowed to someway, somehow* make mine before next October, please be sure to check out my second DC Style installment, a thoughtful critique of DC's ubiquitous butterfly collar.
*in all seriousness, aside from harvesting my dog's organs and paring down my cable package, I will go low - very low - for this one. Lest you forget...
01 October 2007
23 September 2007
23 May 2007
I've officially become my mother
With all the recent blowback I've received in my blogospheric life over my claim that there is indeed - or should be - a universally accepted set of rules when it comes to what an individual should, shouldn't, can or can't wear, I was honestly beginning to question my convictions. You might, too, if you had nearly a 10:1 ratio of "you're-what's-wrong-with-Washington-style!!" flung at you and your beliefs in setting what seemed to you like obvious venue-and-figure-appropriate boundaries.
But then, just as I was about to put fingertip to Word document in the form of a why-do-I-believe-what-I-believe? piece, I came across this picture of Demi Moore, Ashton Kutcher and her daughter, Tallulah "Lulah" Willis at last night's Mr. Brooks premiere at Grauman's Chinese Theater in Hollywood.
Aside from Ashton's unnecessary Bret Michaels 'do-rag, my first impression of the threesome was that they made a nice-looking bunch. Nothing tremendous, nothing traumatic, but somewhere in the middle. And just as I was about to click "back" to spend some quality time skipping Jessica Alba's highly annoying new InStyle interview but gazing upon the hot accompanying snaps, something hit me and I stopped short.
How old is Tallulah? 14? 15? Can't be, because Demi was pregnant with Scout in '91 (I remember like it was yesterday sitting on the Meijer floor in Traverse City, wide-eyed and big-dreamed, flipping through that Vanity Fair spread), and Tallulah is the youngest of the Willis girls. That must make her...12?
Well, I was close. She just turned 13 in February.
When I look at this picture (and those below), I can't say Lullah doesn't look fabulous, because frankly, she does. Her shoulders and birdlike limbs are perfect for the halter trapeze mini. Her hair is right at the equidistant point between coiffed and tousled, and her fierce posture - oh, the posture! - belies the fact that she's only been eligible to watch Mom get her bikini-bod on in Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle for about two and a half months.
I know this is Hollywood, and I know kids there grow up quickly, especially those with three A-list movie star parents, but 12 and 13 year olds clearly braless in very adult-looking mini dresses? I just can't get on board. Not at a premiere, not at a party, not even if she wanted to dress up as Edie Sedgwick for Halloween. I have no groundbreaking explanation as to why I disapprove, but I suppose it all goes back to what my Mother told me when I begged her to let me trade-up to silk Victoria's Secret bikinis from my striped cotton Jockeys briefs back in 6th grade:
"Be a girl right now. Give yourself something to look forward to when you're a woman. You'll thank me."
So yes, in addition to venue and figure, I throw age into my setting-boundaries rulebook as well. Though for different reasons, seeing a minidress on a 13 year old is just as likely to elicit from me a pair of pursed lips and a slow, downward-looking head-shake as seeing one on a 43 year old. Sorry, Demi, you've got the gams, but you've also got a shorter hemline than your daughter. Not good.
For a couple more pics of Lullah wearing dresses (and heels) I wish I could've worn to my 8th grade dance but would never have passed the Mom-test, see below:
Mr. Brooks premiere (22 May 2007 - 13 years old)
Open Season premiere (9 September 2006 - 12 years old)
14 May 2007
Best minidress of 2007: Cameron Diaz
Aside from her home-kit-looking transitioning-back-to-blonde hair color and the recylced-too-soon metallic pointy-toed pumps, last night Cameron Diaz donned my favorite cocktail party look of the year - and perhaps my favorite mini EVER - at a post-VH1 Rock Honors soiree at the Mandalay Bay in Las Vegas.
The liquid jersey fabric, the reasonably short hem, the high neck, the cinched waist, the 3/4 pouf sleeves, the unique criss-cross twist with button detailing back, the blue tourmaline jewel tone -- this dress and the fit of this dress are flawless.
The charcoaled eyes, the sunkissed skin, the minimal accessories - just two gold-and-pearl bangles, a cocktail ring and skinny hoops - it's like Cammy took a page out of my own style book.
Now if I could just get her to ditch the witch-points and go for something like these instead, we'd be all set.
Well, except for that whole went-through-the-Bass-o-Matic looking face* of hers...
*don't be fooled by these she-doesn't-look-that-bad pictures -- let's just say I didn't include a close-up for a very good reason.
02 May 2007
I've seen your future, Smith Pointers, and it ain't pretty.
Last night was a night of firsts for me.
I made my first trip to the Ralph Lauren store in Bethesda.
I attended my first non think-tank book launch.
I tried - and promptly abandoned - my first sip of Ketel One lemonade.
I girl-crushed on my first author (Jill Kargman, at right).
And finally, finally, I left a party with my first bag of real swag.
But among all that good, among all the delicious displays of structured crocodile doctor's bags, linen slip dresses and patent leather d'Orsay peeptoes, believe it or not, was an overwhelming, inescapable tragedy.
Shockingly, no, I'm not referring to the bizarre Wet Seal-like collection of full-length sand-blasted denim bustier jumpers ($895), rhinestone-lettered message tees ($195 each) or the dressy metallic brocade culottes ($595). And painful as they were to look at, I'm not even talking about the pair of girls who decided last night was the night to quite literally test the limit of Michael Stars' one-size-fits-all label by stuffing their size 12 frames into his signature clingy knits.
It took my companion R and me two flutes of Veuve each and a half-hour of "No, it's not that, maybe it's..." conversation before finally, flush up against the faux fireplace and adjacent to the 36-inch Sharp Aquos flat-screen lush with images of the most recent Black Label ready-to-wear runway collection, we realized our malcontent was not something to be located, nor was it something to be contained. Frankly, it couldn't have been located or contained. Not easily, anyway, because the tragedy was not only to our left and to our right but it was surrounding the perimeter of every room and in bunches of threes and fours on the staircase; it was at the bar affectionately calling me "darling girrrl" and inquiring as to where I bought my ruffled silk halter; it was in the bathroom invading my personal space and enthusiastically fawning over my short black nails; and it was at the raffle table awkwardly leaning on the closest thing it could find - in this case, me - pulling up the slack on its four-inch lucite-wedged slingbacks while simultaneously cooing at a 5 cocktail octave to anyone who would listen how it "simply uh-DORED" this season's Calypso resort wear.
It was everywhere, just as likely to be in that conversation as this one, just as inclined to try on this article of clothing as that one, and just as likely, from behind, to look as much like a co-ed as a Georgetown University sophomore.
The tragedy, as you might have guessed, was the all too common suburban affliction known as older women desperately - and I mean, desperately - trying to pass themselves off as women 10, 15, even 25 years their junior.
To be fair, I should make clear that the majority of the 35-55 year old women at last night's party certainly had the figures to be pulling off the Lacey Parker blousant mini dress and bejeweled Giuseppi Zanotti t-strap stiletto sandals look. No doubt about it. When I reach their ages, I can only hope to have as toned and lean a frame as their ladies-who-lunch lives have afforded them. In addition to their sick bodies, most of these women - most notably a prominent senator's wife, a well-known pregnant cable news anchor and the pregnant wife of a well-known cable news anchor - were also objectively stunning women. Gorgeous well-rested skin, flawless only-there-to-enhance makeup, shiny movie star hair -- no feature, no accessory, no stitch of cosmetic had been left untended to, uncared for or was included or applied without the premeditation of a comprehensive cost-benefit analysis.
Except, of course, just about every article of clothing they were wearing.
I couldn't believe the hemlines, the prints, the necklines and the trendy and embarrassingly blatant tips-of-the-hat to Fergie and Lindsay in which these middle-aged women were indulging. If I had put forth the effort, I'm pretty sure I could have counted upwards of two dozen Intermix minidresses in look-at-me colors, three of which were sported Tori-Spelling-style over third-trimester bumps. I'll be the first to say I don't believe in specific, you-can't-wear-this-and-you-can't-wear-that fashion rules. I'll also step up and admit I know firsthand the personal satisfaction to be gained from sharing with the world the fruits of your hard-earned gym labor. But still, still, there is a world of difference between that which a 26 year old with a killer body and that which a 46 year old with a killer body should be wearing.
At any age - 20s, 30s, 40s and beyond - adhering to some semblance of age-appropriate dress needs to be as highly ranked a priority as dressing to fit your frame and dressing for your audience.
Because even with the kindest disposition, the most killer wit, the prettiest face and the most fantastic pair of 60-minutes-on-the-elliptical-six-days-a-week gams, if you're one of these older women intent on bringing Smith Point style to the 'burbs, no one is going to focus on all your good -- they'll be too busy choking back pity.
30 March 2007
24 March 2007
What will they expect at my age?
Cusp is a new, very high-end, very fashion-forward boutique that opened two weekends ago in the heart of Georgetown's uppermost upper-crust.
Though I went through a significant amount of trouble to wrangle an invitation to attend its champagne opening, I decided at the last minute, Bay Dayliner performance notwithstanding, to go for a run and watch a documentary on the rather creepy phenomenon of Purity Balls instead.
Why, you ask, would I so easily pass up this opportunity to mingle with women who love fabrics, cuts and Marc Jacobs tops as much as I do? Well, to be frank, I really wanted to see this documentary, and since my Tivo was already committed to another program, I had to be home to see it. Also, it would have been too painful in light of my new resolution to differentiate between that's-cute-and-I-want-it and that's-cute-and-I-need-it. Apparently, making that distinction and acting accordingly - i.e. only buying that which falls into the latter category - is something someone in my financial position should have learned years ago.
Cusp, unfortunately, doesn't carry a single item of clothing, accessory or beauty product, from their Milly eyelet mini to their Christian Louboutin patent-leather t-strap stilettos to their fast-dwindling collection of Chanel Vernis 'Black Ceramic' nail lacquer that isn't (a) cute (b) something I want and (c) not something I need. In fact, if you visit their blog, you'll see that for even the most casual outfits, following their recommendations will set you back $1300.
It's one thing to look longingly at these items in Harper's Bazaar or to covet them online, enlarging their pictures, gazing at them from every possible angle and in every available color, but it is quite another to physically enter through those two-story glass doors and surround yourself not only with every top, bottom, coat and shoe you could ever want but with people who can afford to just drop $444 on a black and blue Alice + Olivia sequined tank mini for no other reason than they saw Sarah Jessica Parker wear it to a charity event last week and the sparkles somehow made her pony-face look less pony-like.Despite my reservations, I decided today, while I was in the neighborhood helping L find an ensemble fit for a Kennedy Center ballet opening, I would face my demons and just go inside.
So I did. And it was even better and even worse than I knew it would be.
Better was the selection and the spectacular quality of the DVF wrap dress collection, the Rebecca Taylor blouses with perfectly constructed sleeves and unique necklines and the bounty of Kiehl's products resting in what looked more like an armoire you'd find in a French castle than a toiletry display-case.
Worse was the clientele. Way worse.
Like a starstruck Midwesterner walking up Robertson Boulevard in Beverly Hills, I wove through the by-designer sections recognizing celebrity after "Sugar Daddy" celebrity. Everything was so beautiful, so well-crafted, so elegantly displayed. There were definitely items I didn't like, many I couldn't imagine wearing much less paying an entire month's rent for, but I still appreciated the aesthetic layout and loft-esque feel of the space. Had I not ov
erheard the following conversation, I probably would've stayed a few minutes longer, shot a maybe-we'll-meet-again smile at my Catherine Malandrino wishlist dress and been on my way. "Those are super cute. Super you, you know? You should get them."
"Yeah, I know, but they're like, not the ideal shade of pink for my dress, and I didn't get a Cavalli for nothing, you know? I have to get the right shoes or else it's not even worth going."
"How about these?" another girl, this one wearing a Sidwell Friends Crew jacket (a prominent private DC high school), asked her friend.
"Shut up, Lauren, those are hideous," the Cavalli-girl said in a shrill tone, "what are they, Nine West? This is prom, not a graduation party." And with that, she tossed the gold python Manolo Blahnik 'Ayers' strap sandals ($745 at neimanmarcus.com) to the hardwood floor as carelessly as she would a dirty tissue.
As soon as I shook the shock that anyone - especially someone so many years younger than I was - would treat such a lovely not to mention expensive pair of shoes so shabbily, something else hit me. Did she say "prom?" These girls were shopping at my fashion Mecca trying on and nonchalantly dismissing Manolos for prom? I looked around for an adult, some sort of parental figure, an immigrant nanny, anyone, but came up empty. These girls were alone, I realized, which meant they would be the ones signing the four-figure dotted lines. I looked at each one, there were five or six, and all of them had on premium jeans and designer shoes, and a couple of them even carried this butter-soft Kooba handbag ($635 at pinkmascara.com).
"Whatever, I'm just gonna go with these (picking up the first pair, ironically, also Manolos), try them on with my dress at home, and if I don't like the way they look, I'll just wear 'em with jeans and a cute top or something."
"That's totally what I would do," the insufferable sycophant on her left said, nodding vigorously, "Totally."
The two got up and started to walk to the front to charge their wares - which, in addition to these Manolos , included a pile of DVF, Twinkle and Milly that had been sitting next to them on the floor - when they realized they'd left their other shopping bags behind on the for-trying-on-shoes-only divan.
"We are such retards. We like, always forget, don't we?" one giggled to the other as they each snatched up their sizable Barney's Co-op, Kate Spade, Ralph Lauren and Intermix bags. "You're the retard," the Cavalli-girl whipped back in a tone I would never use with a friend, "you got your dress in DC."
As I walked instead of cabbing the 14 blocks back to my apartment in the grazing rain - a tidy savings of $8.80 plus tip - I couldn't decide for whom I felt more pity -- the girls themselves for having been raised with Black AmEx expectations, or the future husbands who would likely have to explain to them the concept of a lifestyle downgrade.
16 March 2007
Seqin-sash tie-dress11 March 2007
A first
This was a first for me.
And like watching a Jennifer Aniston movie on my own volition or comfortably eating in its entirety a meal at Picholine that included a terrine of seared foie gras with black cherry reduction, four as-rare-as-the-chef-will-grill-them buffalo medallions, half a cheese platter and an overflowing Martini glass of Cointreau-infused chocolate mousse, this was a first I never saw coming.
This afternoon, I actually spent a significant amount of time - time I could've used to take the puddlebug squirrel-chasing in Lafayette Park or to focus more raptly on "Supermax: Pelican Bay" - to identify something worn by Mischa Barton.
I wasn't able to find the exact crescent-neckline trapeze-shaped mini, but I'm near positive, aside from the print on the collar, this is in fact Mischa's dress.
So, if you have around $200 to spend on a great year-round mini, I recommend picking up Fighting Eel's 'Egypt' dress in either black, red, mustard or steel-blue at any of the following online boutiques:
Rok + Lola ($209 at rokandlola.com)
Girlshop ($218 at girlshop.com)
Queen Bee Girls ($209 at queenbeegirls.com)
Blondette ($152 at blondette.com)
Shop Honey West ($209 at shophoneywest.com)
Lola Y Maria ($201 at lolaymaria.com)
28 February 2007
I would sell my soul for this Prada dress
And if the devil threw in the Brian Atwood round-toeds, I might even sell my minidress collection, too.
After seeing Kerry Washington's Miuccia-designed dress and clutch at last week's Independent Spirit Awards, I'm now even more inclined to type in the keywords "sell" "soul" and "Prada" into the Google search prompt.
Though they look like distinct entities - a cream satin shell and burgundy tulip mini - this is actually a runway-modified two-toned dress from Prada's Spring/Summer 2007 collection.
It's sophisticated, it's prim, and with the simple black, round-toed patent-leather Brian Atwood pumps, it's a look that could easily be pulled off in our buttoned-up city.
It's also an ensemble that could easily be replicated for a price friendlier to my meager military analyst budget.
To see me recreate this Prada and Brian Atwood outfit for a whole lot less, login later tonight.
23 December 2006
The magical mini dress
The mini dress has been touted as the item to have since last winter. For a trend that can only be worn by a select few, let my rephrase, *should* be worn only by a select few, the minidress has stayed remarkably in vogue for months. Those singing its praises in the early days were primarily the style watchers who work for elite fashion magazines; you know the kind, those who put items from Barney's CO-OP in their token don't-break-the-bank features. I'm usually wary to listen to any advice those people give, not because I think they're wrong - not at all - but because I know I'm not part of their target audience. That being said, in the beginning of this whole mini dress phenomenon, I tried not be wooed by it. Let me be clear, the operational definition of "mini dress" is the high-fashion mini, not the tops-turned-dresses Britney's lady bits have been peeking out of lately. Up until July, I had convinced myself the mini was an impractical, undignified, just-not-me article of clothing. I liked not having my bare ass exposed to taxi cab vinyl, and with the strong winds that come out of nowhere in DC...from an analytic standpoint, donning a dress cut 8 inches above my knee didn't make sense. Down boys, down.
But then the East Village happened. That part of New York is fashion Narnia for me. When I first found myself at the corner of 9th and some letter street, it wasn't the fashion that drew me to the neighborhood, it was the Cuban restaurant with the spicy corn on the cob, the old record store that had an entire section of hard-to-find Teddy Wilson music, and the conveniently situated Rite-Aid that carried the ever elusive Diet Minute Maid orange soda. After a few blocks and a mouthful of corn, I discovered its true draw -- the vintage stores. Oh, the vintage stores!
It was in one of these lovely, tucked away little shops that my scorn for the minidress made an abrupt transition to adoration. In the space of one sunny July afternoon, I fell in love. Like most relationships, falling in love with my ivory knit mini dress with exaggerated puff sleeves and girly collar wasn't an easy or immediate process. As many vintage stores are, the racks at this particular store were so jam-packed in a melange of varying colors, fabrics, and styles that I got both a headache and a tricep workout moving each hanger. Fortunately, the drama in my dress was so severe I caught it right away. When I liberated it from the others, I truly had a moment. One of those I-will-never-forget-this-moment moments. I had just found my favorite dress. If in that store, that day, at that moment, I had been given the chance to swap that dress with any other dress - even this Marchesa dress - I wouldn't have. That's how much I loved it. And it wasn't even a mini when I found it, but thanks to Ahmet at Marrakesh, an alteration store a few doors down, it was 3 hours later. The store where I found my prize dress is unfortunately no longer in business, but that makes the story that much more charming. It's as if it appeared for the sole purpose of bringing my dress and me together, and once we'd found each other, poof, it was gone -- off to matchmake somewhere else.
The story of my magical mini dress is one I'm sure I'll tuck my daughter into bed with one day. It's about as face-to-face with fantasy as I've ever come. Or ever will. The life lesson, or fashion lesson, is to never close your mind to something before you try it. You may just get lucky like I did and fall head-over-stilettos in love.
The picture of Cameron Diaz really serves no purpose other than to reinforce the point that a minidress is indeed magical. She actually doesn't look heinous in this photo, does she? Not from the neck down, anyway.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
