Image Grenade

I adopted “Danni” because I didn’t think my full Christian name Denise-Nanette really summed up the joie de vivre of my personality. Someday when I’m ready to embrace the adult and oh so sophisticated, yet more subdued side of my psyche I’ll go back. Either way, neither name is outlandish. In the wider world, neither would particularly identify my race, ethnicity, or country of origin. And while it may not conjure images of the exotic, it works for me. What doesn’t work is this stupid naming of children after objects or philosophical ideas. Even when I was younger, you had the odd Paris or Tiffany, but there was none of this trendy, and to my mind crazy, naming of children.  Although I found Paula Yates, charming, witty and a good writer, her inane progeny naming session left me more than a bit cold. Can you imagine spending the rest of your life with a moniker like Fifi Trixibelle, Peaches Honeyblossom Michelle Charlotte Angel Vanessa  or Heavenly Hiraani Tiger Lily? Having heard those, I thought Gwyneth Paltrow’s choice of Apple sounded, well, relatively normal. But this morning I read of a child taken into custody as a ward of the court so her name could be changed. And what was the name of this girl from New Zealand?Talula Does the Hula From Hawaii. The child hated the name so much, her friends referred to her only as “K”. Of course there are those who will say by the court stepping it, it’s another example of life in the Nanny State where government has to hold our hand and tell us what we’ve done wrong.  If that’s the case, then all I have to say is Thank GOD!! As my old Dad used to say, with rights come responsibilities, and I don’t think you should have the right to screw up a kid’s life by saddling them with some effed up name, just because no one else has it. In case you didn’t know, kids are cruel. Even with the most enlightened of us, there’s a hell of a learning curve between the age of “I don’t like you because you’re different.” and “Different is okay.” Fortunately Judge Rob Murfitt, agreed with the child’s lawyer who cited registration for exams or applying for a passport or driver’s license as just a few of the potential obstacles the child would have to face.   The Judge agreed to the name change indicating that Talula et al, “makes a fool of the child and sets her up with a social disability and handicap.” So if you’re popping out wee bairn in the near future, stick with something that isn’t going to unnecessarily burden the child. And if you have twins and think the names Benson and Hedges are good, think again, and postpone the naming ceremony until after the anesthesia wears off.    

When critics were discussing The Dark Knight, the latest incarnation of Batman currently gracing our screens, there were worries that perhaps the film was dark, gorey and too scary for younger viewers. After a weekend that saw allegations that the star Christian Bale had assaulted his mother and sister, perhaps the Dark Knight, was experiencing a Dark Night of his own.

I don’t know what was more disturbing; the fact that I liked him and he could be capable of assaulting two women; that London Metropolitan Police held off arresting him because, they didn’t want to detain him from attending the Red Carpet London Premier of the film or the fact that all this allegedly transpired at the Dorchester Hotel. 

Damn!! That’s so unfair that he can allegedly beat up people in a room I can’t even afford to allegedly sleep in.

Color me Riddler green with envy.

In his partial defense, and as a younger sibling myself, I could relate at wanting to give your sibling a crack, but geez, assaulting your mother? And what’s with the police? Did they think by preventing the star, who is British,  to stroll the red carpet that Londoners would revolt?

Well according to reports, he did turn himself into the cop shop this morning and has now been bale-d out, so I’m hoping this was just a story that got a bit twisted between reality and the front pages of the tabloids because, I’d hate to think one of the best things to come out of Wales, has gone American Psycho.

Poor princess Anne. She’s never really been a fashion plate. Unlike her sister-in-law Princess Diana, who was the muse of designers, Anne has spent her life involved with more sporting pursuits.

While people criticized the amount of money Sarah Ferguson was spending on her wardrobe, Anne was considered the thrifty and frugal one.  Since she often wore simple, unfussy wardrobe, no one ever questioned what she spent on a frock, because, well, by the looks of things, it couldn’t have been much.
Well it now seems that beyond being frugal, Anne has also been very disciplined with her diet and exercise regime. When she turned up at a royal wedding this weekend, she didn’t purchase a new dress, but wore the same one she wore when her  brother Prince Charles wed Diana Spencer, 27 years ago. Anne’s only comment about wearing the dress again, was that her parents believe that things shouldn’t be wasted. Apparently she took heed and not only proved the she takes incredible care of her clothing, but of her body as well. I don’t know many people who can claim they can still wear and look great in something they last wore nearly three decades ago.

So today’s style props go to Princess Anne for proving that classic, well made clothing stands the test of time and with exercise and what I’m guessing is a whole heap of horseback riding, so can your body.

I adore Barbie. She’s held every job from teacher to astronaut; survived every trend from roller disco to Hip Hop; owns a porfolio of real estate including her “Dream House”; maintains a plane, and car park full of vehicles and, as all style icons do, has served as  muse for top designers who created bespoke garments for her tiny frame.

She’s been cheered by millions of girls who reveled in playing with all of her accessories, villified by feminists who accused her of bearing little reality to real women,  and cursed by parents who running down darkened corridors to comfort a crying or sick child, have been impaled, often losing blood as they stepped blindly on one of Barbie’s many (and often pointy) accoutrements.

If she were of flesh and blood, she’d be 5′9′, 110 pounds, and  39-18-33. But with all her looks, Barbie has never been accused of looking edgy, tough or the type who could hurt anyone (well maybe Ken for standing her up at the altar, but in retrospect, and after seeing Ken  in summer togs including a pink polo and coordinating lavender Bermuda shorts, she may have dodged a bullet there.)

Anyhoo, submitted for your approval and released in September 08, Black Canary Barbie has been refered to as S&M Barbie, Kinky Barbie, and Dominatrix Barbie. According to Matel, she’s aimed at the adult comic audience (adult being the operative word) and she’s recreated faithfully from the pages of DC comics replete with leather jacket, boots, gloves and fishnets. All that’s missing is her trademark “Canary Cry” a sonic scream that can shatter objects and incapacitate villians. I suspect the computer geek, DC reading, Comic-Con attenders who comprises a large portion of the target market, has enough imagination to pretend she can scream (and moan and really loves them too.)

Or course there will be objections. The Christian Voice, claimed: “Barbie has always been on the tarty side and this is taking it too far.”

Really? Well personally, I like Barbie a little less hot pink so clad in black works for me. Look, this is not Nelson Mandella Barbie.  This is a character. And, did I forget to mention, with the exception of that vile woman that’s had loads of plastic surgery to look like Barbie,  SHE’S PLASTIC!!

Besides,  Barbie is over 40 (March 9th, 1959) and if the girl wants a little costume and role playing, I say good on her.

In the meantime if you really have an objection to this Barbie, she comes in 1001 incarnations so go get your kid a Barbie Forever doll instead. I mean a Barbie that can feed her dog treats and use a pooper scooper can’t be objectionable to moral sensibilities, can it?

I lost a  friend yesterday. The relationship wasn’t long, but we were in close contact daily. She was a  bossom buddy and keeper of all manner of secrets; beauty, personal and financial. I should have sensed her pending demise. She’d survived being slashed on the street last week. She didn’t even know she’d been hit, until I spotted the wound. Then last night, suddenly the stitches burst and as contents unmentionable spilled towards the earth, I was forced to say goodbye to my favorite purse.

I’m truly devastated!! I was the girl who replaced her bag at least four times a year, but when I found my Sydney Love Vintage Hotel bag with top zipper, outside compartments, one with a pocket with magnetic flap closure; it was love at first sight. I abandoned the wall of purses housed on the third floor. I ceased lingering over photos of bags in magazines. No longer did I haunt the accessories departments lightly fingering the latest in patterns and textures. This was the bag. The bag for every day, and every night. The bag that toured Malta, and London (three times), held allergy remedies and reading glasses, passports and Splenda tablets. I liked the pattern so much, I purchased the matching wallet and dayplanner.

And now, without a bag to house them, what will their fate be?

Right now, I have loads of questions but decisions must be made and towards that end, I guess I’ll be spending a little time on  ebags.com

You know, there’s something to be said for leaving your audience wanting more. I mean in that George Costanza, “leave on a high note ” way; not a Gypsy Rose Lee, “take it all off” way.

And perhaps more women should know the difference when it comes to summer dressing. As discussed previously, there are days when I wonder if Merriam Webster accidentally listed skankwear, tackified foolishness, as the definition for “casual”. 

 
A 20 block lunch walk revealed some of the scariest outfits I’ve seen in a long time. If they weren’t skin tight, they were crumpled and manky looking. With the exception of those wearing uniforms, lawyers, religious types or the last bastion of true ladies, most of it was too baring for the work place. Some of it was too baring for the pool. And some needed to be tossed in the pool, like the dusty looking sisters sisters who must believe they can somehow ameliorate their over exposed arms and double EE breasts by camouflaging the wide expanse of chestal area with a large layer of talcum powder. Someone should inform them that even if Houdini made that powder, making that disappear is gonna need a whole heap of magic.

I’ve seen all the things that used to be verboten in offices including the wearing of shorts, flip flops, tube tops, strapless anything and the absolute abolition of hosiery. (Okay I gave up on that once the temp hit 90, but I do have deeply fake tanned legs, and as long as my skirts are, you probably wouldn’t notice.

Today I saw some mid level office worker wearing a pale linen skirts with a slit in back. The problem was, without the touch of a steam iron the fabric had wrinkled pulling the sides apart  so the slit was remaining open as she walked away with orange peeled upper thighs on display for all and sundry. After that, the thick senior citizen  in a tight red and white horizontal stripe polyester top with matching cherry pants, may have been the  afternoon’s brightest sartorial moment. HORIZONTAL STRIPES!!!! But hey, she was color coordinated and her hair and face were done.

 
Personally I like wearing a nice summer dress, preferably cotton, in a flattering color including but not exclusively aqua, hot pink or coral. I don’t feel the need to put it all out there, so if the girls are visible the dress is longer and if the top is covered I’ll go a little shorter; shorter for me is middle of the knee. No matter how much others feel to need to bare as the humidity rolls in,  I prefer to keep it decent. I’m not saying I’m tolling around in a burqa, but I’m covered and would it kill some of you others to cover it? I don’t care if you’ve got the body of a goddess. Go ahead, make the grotty construction workers wrack their brains for hackneyed wolf calls,  only manage a “Hey, Hey! Look at that.” 

I do take umbrage however, when you’re waiting on me and bend to get something from the cabinet behind you and the skirt is so short I could tell the color of your pubes.  EWWW! I’m also not thrilled when you’re seated at the next table and I can barely eat my salad for fear that you’re teeming tits and will simply cease to be restrained by that wee triangle of fabric and the silicone will try to make a break for it.

 And finally for the love of God my cycling sisters, will you stop using one hand to steer your bicycle, while holding down your blowing dress while cycling home. It’s dangerous, it’s stupid and a pair of spandex shorts under that would solve the problem. Men are stupid and look. More than once I’ve seen a man looking so hard for a snatch of, well, snatch, that he’s walked into lamp post, tripped or crashed a car.

No matter what I’m wearing,when cycling, there are shorts underneath. Because they ride up with wear, sometimes they’re not apparent. But as the dress begins to wave in the breeze I ride with my hands planted firmly on the handlebars knowing no matter how many bubbleheads, slappers and closet exhibitionists ride while supposedly trying to prevent a wardrobe malfunction,  I ride safe in the knowledge, “there’s nothing to see here folks!  Nothing to see here!”

I am an avid reader; always have been. I’m from a family of readers. Growing up there was a plethora of magazines, books and newspapers. Lots and lots of newspapers

We had the local Wilmington News Journal, Philadelphia Inquirer, the Bulletin, and  the NY Times (I had a personal subscription, delivered to the library at my school). Dad received the Christian Science Monitor via mail. Weekends? Same again but add that NY Nex sized Times Sunday edition, and you’ll just about get through all the sections by Tuesday, late night.

 
As newspaper readership declined and papers and news groups folded or began their entry to the 21^st century and what would become full online versions, Philadelphia went from a multi-paper city to a two paper town; both owned by the same company and housed in the same building, When I first visited London in 97, I was in paper heaven. There were loads of papers; local, regional, national and freebees (two in the morning with an additional two in the evening) for just the London area. And I read them all. But over time, I became aware of the differences between papers. Torries read the Guardian, The New Nation and the Voice represented the black community, there are tabloids like The Sun, The Mirror, News of the World and my husband’s favorite, the Daily Sport, which covers sports and un-covers a bevy of beauties with 32 Double F tits. All natural of course.

So when I left London, my  paper filled Nirvana, I found something lacking in my life. So I did what any woman having withdraw from news ink stained fingers, and a need for something a bit more cerebrally enhancing than Philly’s Daily News;  I subscribed to the NY Times. But more and more, I missed that crazy story about the man who tried to rob a café and got stuck in the air vent, or how and 8 year old in Tyneside got an ASBO (Anti Social Behavior Order).

  So I quickly learned that some of my favorite fish wrappers had full digital versions on line with special links to the important news, like Amy Winehouse smoking crack, on so I began checking them. And as occasionally became daily,  I began to be a little less sanctimonious about my papier du jour. New York Times indeed.

 So now I read the express to see Vanessa Feltz’s column, and  have breaking news reports  from the Sun now sent to my email so I can access it through my mobile, lest I miss a minute of the A-Rod (with Madonna in the supportive and inspirational Mother Theresa type) and  C Rod (backed by Lenny Kravitz as the misunderstood lean loner compassionate rock dude.

So know that my devotion and devouring of newspapers has gone digital, I still visit the Times on-line. But when I really need to smell the ink and feel the stink of trash news in a retro-like hard copy model,  the NY Post makes a good substitute.

Sometimes it isn’t enough to worry about your image; you need to do something truly magnanimous, like helping preserve the earth. While I do contribute to several organizations that help environmental issues, one of the best things I can do is to practice what I preach, so at home, we’re going green.  As my husband points out, we are probably greener than even your average Whole Foods granola eatin’ tree, hugger simply because we do not now, nor have we ever, owned a car. True, we do fly internationally a hell of a lot, but since we’re not taking private jets (boy, do I wish) the expenditure of fuel is actually split amongst all of us traveling, therefore ameliorating our personal carbon footprint. Also we recycle, but recently with new rules (at least in Pennsylvania where our recycle men will now pick up plastic) I’ve found a whole new slew of objects I can recycle including plastic bottles and containers stuff I buy (usually at Whole Foods) comes in . But I can and need to do more.I’m gradually making the shift from toxic household cleaners to the staples that  Kim Woodburn and Aggie Mackenzie of How Clean is Your House recommend; lemons, salt, biological washing powder and white vinegar. I’m also taking a hard look at products that I use especially those washes, rinses and soaps that will eventually wind their way through our water supply. I’m also looking for a mini composter to go in the yard. This is taking a bit of time as with a yard the size of a postage stamp, it’s hard to find one that will compost food wastes while providing sufficient filtering to avoid becoming a gianormous dinner bell to the woodland critters like possums and raccoons who call the community garden across the street home. I’ve spent hours going over both manufactured composters as well as plans for DIY versions and still haven’t found one that I think will sufficiently meet our needs. So this week while you’re trying to maintain a fabulous look (despite the cloying humidity) I encourage you to take a look at being kinder and gentler to Mother Earth. And as I do my part for the old girl, I’ll be sure to keep you posted on what I uncover to be both earth friendly and fabulous.

I had a British friend in stitches the other day. She laughs at us all the time because we own a region free DVD player to keep up with UK telly,  use enough phrases and syntax to be British by proxy, and have subscriptions to our favorite mags shipped from the motherland. But what put her over the edge was the things we routinely  do, that she reckons makes us prematurely OLD.
Okay, so we have to be in bed early but that’s because we’re up so early, and I will maintain until my dying day, that mankind was not meant to rise at 4:30. Advertising reps however, are apparently not included in that grouping.  Then when I mentioned something I had been listening to, she stopped dead in her tracks. In the office, while those around me listen to Top 40 radio, sport radio or, for the few who dare to expand their mind with National Public Radio, I listen, on-line, to the BBC.  Now, if I was listening to the BBC’s Radio 1, that would be cool as it remains the channel for the top tunes in the UK. Radio 2 would be acceptable, as I am over 40 and occasionally would like to hear an old Adam Ant tune wedged between K.D. Tundstall and Leona Lewis. Radio 3 would work if I was a devotee of  Classical music or tuned in for the Jazz broadcasts.  But I listen to Radio 4; the self proclaimed station of “Intelligent Speech”.  My mate’s reaction to this guilty pleasure was “What are you, like 80!?!!”  I began back tracking a bit, at her comment.  I mean I do listen to BBC Radio London in the morning, as I love by favorite zoftig blond, Vanessa Feltz for years. Her talk show is filled with the input of average Londoners about topics as diverse as whether the credit crunch is forcing shoppers to abandon high end grocery stores like Waitrose for budget shops like Aldi and Liddles to, and sadly too frequent of late, discussions on the youth of London, 17 teens in all, who have been cut down in their prime, by knife violence. I also listen to Robert Elms who regales me with snippets of London life including Monday’s Listed Londoner, which asks a famous or infamous Londoner to answer Fifteen standard questions including the building you most love in London, and Thursday’s Bus Journey where he covers one of London’s bus routes and points of interest along the way. But after that I delve headlong into Radio 4. Personally I don’t feel the need to defend a bit of cerebral expansion. “A Good Read” fills me in on the latest in literature; I listen to the latest arts and entertainment reviews daily with “Front Row”, hear about news and information for the blind and partially sighted community via “In Touch” and of course, which probably had my mate laughing the most, keep up with the comings and goings of the residents in the fictional farming community of Ambridge with “The Archers”. Sure, there’s the ongoing joke about Radio 4 being only for OAPs (old aged pensioners) but the best thing anyone can do for their image is be a person who’s constantly learning, well informed and well rounded. And while a large part of anyone’s image is appearance, looking fabulous won’t save you at a cocktail party if you’re surrounded by movers and shakers and the best you can come up with is a running commentary about the hostess’s fashion faux pas. Smart is sexy and after 35 you’re much more interesting if you lower your hemline and raise your IQ. So go ahead, laugh at my choice of auditory programming. While the young are kitted out in the latest designer gear, quaffing alco-pops and acting like strumpets, I’m sipping champagne in classic tailoring and working on stealing Mariella Frostrop’s title as The Thinking Man’s Crumpet.