Notice I said "Guidelines", NOT RESTRICTIONS.
The too-thin model debate continues with the, Council of Fashion Designers of America (CFDA) weighing in and issuing guidelines that revolve around education, not exclusion. "Designers share a responsibility to protect women, and very young girls in particular, within the business, sending the message that beauty is health," read the guidelines. "The fashion industry [will] begin a campaign of awareness and create an atmosphere that supports the well-being of these young women." CFDA president Diane von Furstenberg led the panel that is asking that designers do such things as not hire models under 16 for runway shows and not allow girls under 18 to work past midnight; to provide healthy meals and snacks backstage at fashion shows and ban smoking and the consumption of alcohol; and to educate the industry through workshops about eating disorders. The CFDA Health Initiative will present a discussion on this topic on February 5 during New York's fashion week. ...
While some are saying "at least they're doing something," others, like myself, don't believe this is enough. These should be mandatory rules. Other countries have mandatory rules in place, so why shouldn't the U.S.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Spring '07's Biggest Trends
So I've been trying to figure out what the biggest trends are going to be next season, and I'm coming up a bit short. The best I can come up with has been "fashion is being influenced by architecture once again this season, so expect more volume and dangerous heels." I know, lame! So luckily as I opened up my elle.com newsletter this week I spotted their semi-annual Runway ABC's guide. Check it out (click here for more).
I know the pic's a bit hard to read so let me list out the ABC's for ya.
A - Anime
B - Bond Girls
C - Classical Style
D - Dominatrix Gear
E - Ethereal Elegance
F - Futurism
G - Graphic Attack
H - Haute Handiwork
I - I ♥ the 80s
J - Japonisme
K - Khaki
L - Luxe Lingerie
M - Menswear
N - Never Never Land
O - Off-White
P - Psychedelic
Q - Quite Bright
R - Roses
S - Swan Lake
T - Tent Dresses
U - Uptown Girls
V - Very Brief
W - Warrior
X - X-treme Sports
Y - Yin and Yang
Z - Ziggy Stardust
----
--> with these fashions I'm sure this will become a "sweet" pick-up line soon: "Lookin' like a model, lookin' like a superstar
You're out of sight"
I know the pic's a bit hard to read so let me list out the ABC's for ya.
A - Anime
B - Bond Girls
C - Classical Style
D - Dominatrix Gear
E - Ethereal Elegance
F - Futurism
G - Graphic Attack
H - Haute Handiwork
I - I ♥ the 80s
J - Japonisme
K - Khaki
L - Luxe Lingerie
M - Menswear
N - Never Never Land
O - Off-White
P - Psychedelic
Q - Quite Bright
R - Roses
S - Swan Lake
T - Tent Dresses
U - Uptown Girls
V - Very Brief
W - Warrior
X - X-treme Sports
Y - Yin and Yang
Z - Ziggy Stardust
----
--> with these fashions I'm sure this will become a "sweet" pick-up line soon: "Lookin' like a model, lookin' like a superstar
You're out of sight"
I'm a Natural
Your beauty aura is Natural!
When it comes to how you present yourself to the world, you strongly believe that keeping things simple — whether it's your relationships, career, or face soap — is the best way to be beautiful. You're satisfied with what nature gave you and aren't afraid to show your confident, unadorned self to the world.
Your beauty routine is all about maintenance. You keep your skin clean, your body moisturized, and add a splash of color to lips and eyes when the situation demands it. Other than that? You feel best looking as fresh as nature intended. In the course of being au naturelle you may sometimes forget to cut loose and have fun. You should feel free to dress up now and then or splurge on a scent. Spoil yourself, now and then, as nature intended.
Handbag Help from WhoWhatWearDaily.Com
Dear reader,
We understand your feeling of being caught in the horns of a handbag dilemma. We feel that when in doubt, it’s always best to go for the classic bag. Ideally you’re looking for something that can’t clearly be identified as being from a specific time period—skip seasonal hype. It’s one thing if you have a ton of money, like celebs do, and can easily afford the trendy bag, however, for the rest of us it’s best to look at your purchase as an investment—especially if you’re only looking for a single piece.
Some excellent choices, in terms of longevity, are the Hermes Birkin, anything by Goyard, woven bags by Bottega, or a Chanel chain bag (either quilted or caviar style). Stay away from seasonal textures and prints, as well as trendy hardware. For example: Traditional logo Louis Vuitton bags will serve you well for decades, but the ones embellished by artists are trendy and you’ll retire them before getting full usage value. Take Ashley Olsen and Jessica Simpson in the above image. They’re both carrying Fendi bags, but which one do you think get more wear?
If at all possible, do not sell bags from previous seasons, even if they are specific to a certain collection as opposed to basic. Today’s trash is almost guaranteed to be tomorrow’s eBay treasure. You never know when that piece will come back into style. Katherine rues the day she gave away her 1997 Prada backpack, especially since the company has recently released a new fantastic version for spring.
Hope this helps!
WWWD
------
so the lesson for today kids is: buy something that lasts, not the latest "it" bag
Justin Timberlake, Cameron Diaz Officially Announce Breakup
Stars — who dated for more than three years — spoke out because of 'inaccurate stories,' statement reads.
by Jennifer Vineyard
Last week, Justin Timberlake didn't want to address the rumors that he'd broken up with Cameron Diaz — even as his longtime girlfriend's absence at the Los Angeles premiere of his new movie "Alpha Dog" seemed to speak volumes. But now both Timberlake and Diaz are ready to confirm what the rest of the country has been gossiping about all week: It's over.
"We have, in fact, ended our romantic relationship and have done so mutually and as friends, with continued love and respect for one another," the two said in a joint statement released on Thursday (January 11).
Tabloid reports had placed the split as happening over the holidays, since Timberlake spent time at home with his family in Tennessee while Diaz went skiing with her family in Colorado. Rumors of breakups and marriage plans had plagued the couple throughout the course of their three-and-a-half-year relationship, but they kept silent about all of it.
"It has always been our preference not to comment on the status of our relationship," the statement read. "But out of respect for the time we've spent together, we feel compelled to do so now, in light of recent speculation and the number of inaccurate stories that are being reported by the media."
Timberlake and Diaz didn't specify which stories, but the most likely candidates are those linking the singer to pre-Britney girlfriend Veronica Finn (based on spending time together around Christmas), Kate Hudson (based on spending time together on New Year's Eve) and Scarlett Johansson (based on spending time together during the shooting of a video for his next single, "What Goes Around ...").
Both Diaz and Timberlake voice parts (as Fiona and a young King Arthur figure called Artie, respectively) in the upcoming "Shrek the Third," out May 18.
--------
Now it's time for my own 2 cents. While I don't think he's dating this Veronica girl or Kate Hudson, he could be spending time with Scarlett. Then again who wouldn't want to hang out with Scarlett, have you seen her!? She's awesome and one of my favorites. My mom was wondering if his breakup had anything to do with Britney's breakup; I don't think so, he seems to be "so" over her, but you never know what's really going on in someone's head. And my mom was also speculating that the breakup might have something to do with comments Cameron made on the Ellen DeGeneres Show in early December where she called herself a "commitment phobe". I don't know about that one, but it seems everyone's splitting up -- Michael Jordan & his wife, Jason Kidd & his wife, Justin & Cameron, yadayadayada. It seems as if once you look at a celebrity couple as the paragon of the "perfect couple" they split up. Maybe it's something in the Evian and/or Perrier.
--> right now he's probably slow dancing with a bleached-blonde tramp and she's probably getting frisky
What Shamu Taught Me About a Happy Marriage by AMY SUTHERLAND
Found this on nytimes.com
AS I wash dishes at the kitchen sink, my husband paces behind me, irritated. "Have you seen my keys?" he snarls, then huffs out a loud sigh and stomps from the room with our dog, Dixie, at his heels, anxious over her favorite human's upset.
In the past I would have been right behind Dixie. I would have turned off the faucet and joined the hunt while trying to soothe my husband with bromides like, "Don't worry, they'll turn up." But that only made him angrier, and a simple case of missing keys soon would become a full-blown angst-ridden drama starring the two of us and our poor nervous dog.
Now, I focus on the wet dish in my hands. I don't turn around. I don't say a word. I'm using a technique I learned from a dolphin trainer.
I love my husband. He's well read, adventurous and does a hysterical rendition of a northern Vermont accent that still cracks me up after 12 years of marriage.
But he also tends to be forgetful, and is often tardy and mercurial. He hovers around me in the kitchen asking if I read this or that piece in The New Yorker when I'm trying to concentrate on the simmering pans. He leaves wadded tissues in his wake. He suffers from serious bouts of spousal deafness but never fails to hear me when I mutter to myself on the other side of the house. "What did you say?" he'll shout.
These minor annoyances are not the stuff of separation and divorce, but in sum they began to dull my love for Scott. I wanted — needed — to nudge him a little closer to perfect, to make him into a mate who might annoy me a little less, who wouldn't keep me waiting at restaurants, a mate who would be easier to love.
So, like many wives before me, I ignored a library of advice books and set about improving him. By nagging, of course, which only made his behavior worse: he'd drive faster instead of slower; shave less frequently, not more; and leave his reeking bike garb on the bedroom floor longer than ever.
We went to a counselor to smooth the edges off our marriage. She didn't understand what we were doing there and complimented us repeatedly on how well we communicated. I gave up. I guessed she was right — our union was better than most — and resigned myself to stretches of slow-boil resentment and occasional sarcasm.
Then something magical happened. For a book I was writing about a school for exotic animal trainers, I started commuting from Maine to California, where I spent my days watching students do the seemingly impossible: teaching hyenas to pirouette on command, cougars to offer their paws for a nail clipping, and baboons to skateboard.
I listened, rapt, as professional trainers explained how they taught dolphins to flip and elephants to paint. Eventually it hit me that the same techniques might work on that stubborn but lovable species, the American husband.
The central lesson I learned from exotic animal trainers is that I should reward behavior I like and ignore behavior I don't. After all, you don't get a sea lion to balance a ball on the end of its nose by nagging. The same goes for the American husband.
Back in Maine, I began thanking Scott if he threw one dirty shirt into the hamper. If he threw in two, I'd kiss him. Meanwhile, I would step over any soiled clothes on the floor without one sharp word, though I did sometimes kick them under the bed. But as he basked in my appreciation, the piles became smaller.
I was using what trainers call "approximations," rewarding the small steps toward learning a whole new behavior. You can't expect a baboon to learn to flip on command in one session, just as you can't expect an American husband to begin regularly picking up his dirty socks by praising him once for picking up a single sock. With the baboon you first reward a hop, then a bigger hop, then an even bigger hop. With Scott the husband, I began to praise every small act every time: if he drove just a mile an hour slower, tossed one pair of shorts into the hamper, or was on time for anything.
I also began to analyze my husband the way a trainer considers an exotic animal. Enlightened trainers learn all they can about a species, from anatomy to social structure, to understand how it thinks, what it likes and dislikes, what comes easily to it and what doesn't. For example, an elephant is a herd animal, so it responds to hierarchy. It cannot jump, but can stand on its head. It is a vegetarian.
The exotic animal known as Scott is a loner, but an alpha male. So hierarchy matters, but being in a group doesn't so much. He has the balance of a gymnast, but moves slowly, especially when getting dressed. Skiing comes naturally, but being on time does not. He's an omnivore, and what a trainer would call food-driven.
Once I started thinking this way, I couldn't stop. At the school in California, I'd be scribbling notes on how to walk an emu or have a wolf accept you as a pack member, but I'd be thinking, "I can't wait to try this on Scott."
On a field trip with the students, I listened to a professional trainer describe how he had taught African crested cranes to stop landing on his head and shoulders. He did this by training the leggy birds to land on mats on the ground. This, he explained, is what is called an "incompatible behavior," a simple but brilliant concept.
Rather than teach the cranes to stop landing on him, the trainer taught the birds something else, a behavior that would make the undesirable behavior impossible. The birds couldn't alight on the mats and his head simultaneously.
At home, I came up with incompatible behaviors for Scott to keep him from crowding me while I cooked. To lure him away from the stove, I piled up parsley for him to chop or cheese for him to grate at the other end of the kitchen island. Or I'd set out a bowl of chips and salsa across the room. Soon I'd done it: no more Scott hovering around me while I cooked.
I followed the students to SeaWorld San Diego, where a dolphin trainer introduced me to least reinforcing syndrome (L. R. S.). When a dolphin does something wrong, the trainer doesn't respond in any way. He stands still for a few beats, careful not to look at the dolphin, and then returns to work. The idea is that any response, positive or negative, fuels a behavior. If a behavior provokes no response, it typically dies away.
In the margins of my notes I wrote, "Try on Scott!"
It was only a matter of time before he was again tearing around the house searching for his keys, at which point I said nothing and kept at what I was doing. It took a lot of discipline to maintain my calm, but results were immediate and stunning. His temper fell far shy of its usual pitch and then waned like a fast-moving storm. I felt as if I should throw him a mackerel.
Now he's at it again; I hear him banging a closet door shut, rustling through papers on a chest in the front hall and thumping upstairs. At the sink, I hold steady. Then, sure enough, all goes quiet. A moment later, he walks into the kitchen, keys in hand, and says calmly, "Found them."
Without turning, I call out, "Great, see you later."
Off he goes with our much-calmed pup.
After two years of exotic animal training, my marriage is far smoother, my husband much easier to love. I used to take his faults personally; his dirty clothes on the floor were an affront, a symbol of how he didn't care enough about me. But thinking of my husband as an exotic species gave me the distance I needed to consider our differences more objectively.
I adopted the trainers' motto: "It's never the animal's fault." When my training attempts failed, I didn't blame Scott. Rather, I brainstormed new strategies, thought up more incompatible behaviors and used smaller approximations. I dissected my own behavior, considered how my actions might inadvertently fuel his. I also accepted that some behaviors were too entrenched, too instinctive to train away. You can't stop a badger from digging, and you can't stop my husband from losing his wallet and keys.
PROFESSIONALS talk of animals that understand training so well they eventually use it back on the trainer. My animal did the same. When the training techniques worked so beautifully, I couldn't resist telling my husband what I was up to. He wasn't offended, just amused. As I explained the techniques and terminology, he soaked it up. Far more than I realized.
Last fall, firmly in middle age, I learned that I needed braces. They were not only humiliating, but also excruciating. For weeks my gums, teeth, jaw and sinuses throbbed. I complained frequently and loudly. Scott assured me that I would become used to all the metal in my mouth. I did not.
One morning, as I launched into yet another tirade about how uncomfortable I was, Scott just looked at me blankly. He didn't say a word or acknowledge my rant in any way, not even with a nod.
I quickly ran out of steam and started to walk away. Then I realized what was happening, and I turned and asked, "Are you giving me an L. R. S.?" Silence. "You are, aren't you?"
He finally smiled, but his L. R. S. has already done the trick. He'd begun to train me, the American wife.
Amy Sutherland is the author of "Kicked, Bitten and Scratched: Life and Lessons at the Premier School for Exotic Animal Trainers" (Viking, June 2006). She lives in Boston and in Portland, Me.
AS I wash dishes at the kitchen sink, my husband paces behind me, irritated. "Have you seen my keys?" he snarls, then huffs out a loud sigh and stomps from the room with our dog, Dixie, at his heels, anxious over her favorite human's upset.
In the past I would have been right behind Dixie. I would have turned off the faucet and joined the hunt while trying to soothe my husband with bromides like, "Don't worry, they'll turn up." But that only made him angrier, and a simple case of missing keys soon would become a full-blown angst-ridden drama starring the two of us and our poor nervous dog.
Now, I focus on the wet dish in my hands. I don't turn around. I don't say a word. I'm using a technique I learned from a dolphin trainer.
I love my husband. He's well read, adventurous and does a hysterical rendition of a northern Vermont accent that still cracks me up after 12 years of marriage.
But he also tends to be forgetful, and is often tardy and mercurial. He hovers around me in the kitchen asking if I read this or that piece in The New Yorker when I'm trying to concentrate on the simmering pans. He leaves wadded tissues in his wake. He suffers from serious bouts of spousal deafness but never fails to hear me when I mutter to myself on the other side of the house. "What did you say?" he'll shout.
These minor annoyances are not the stuff of separation and divorce, but in sum they began to dull my love for Scott. I wanted — needed — to nudge him a little closer to perfect, to make him into a mate who might annoy me a little less, who wouldn't keep me waiting at restaurants, a mate who would be easier to love.
So, like many wives before me, I ignored a library of advice books and set about improving him. By nagging, of course, which only made his behavior worse: he'd drive faster instead of slower; shave less frequently, not more; and leave his reeking bike garb on the bedroom floor longer than ever.
We went to a counselor to smooth the edges off our marriage. She didn't understand what we were doing there and complimented us repeatedly on how well we communicated. I gave up. I guessed she was right — our union was better than most — and resigned myself to stretches of slow-boil resentment and occasional sarcasm.
Then something magical happened. For a book I was writing about a school for exotic animal trainers, I started commuting from Maine to California, where I spent my days watching students do the seemingly impossible: teaching hyenas to pirouette on command, cougars to offer their paws for a nail clipping, and baboons to skateboard.
I listened, rapt, as professional trainers explained how they taught dolphins to flip and elephants to paint. Eventually it hit me that the same techniques might work on that stubborn but lovable species, the American husband.
The central lesson I learned from exotic animal trainers is that I should reward behavior I like and ignore behavior I don't. After all, you don't get a sea lion to balance a ball on the end of its nose by nagging. The same goes for the American husband.
Back in Maine, I began thanking Scott if he threw one dirty shirt into the hamper. If he threw in two, I'd kiss him. Meanwhile, I would step over any soiled clothes on the floor without one sharp word, though I did sometimes kick them under the bed. But as he basked in my appreciation, the piles became smaller.
I was using what trainers call "approximations," rewarding the small steps toward learning a whole new behavior. You can't expect a baboon to learn to flip on command in one session, just as you can't expect an American husband to begin regularly picking up his dirty socks by praising him once for picking up a single sock. With the baboon you first reward a hop, then a bigger hop, then an even bigger hop. With Scott the husband, I began to praise every small act every time: if he drove just a mile an hour slower, tossed one pair of shorts into the hamper, or was on time for anything.
I also began to analyze my husband the way a trainer considers an exotic animal. Enlightened trainers learn all they can about a species, from anatomy to social structure, to understand how it thinks, what it likes and dislikes, what comes easily to it and what doesn't. For example, an elephant is a herd animal, so it responds to hierarchy. It cannot jump, but can stand on its head. It is a vegetarian.
The exotic animal known as Scott is a loner, but an alpha male. So hierarchy matters, but being in a group doesn't so much. He has the balance of a gymnast, but moves slowly, especially when getting dressed. Skiing comes naturally, but being on time does not. He's an omnivore, and what a trainer would call food-driven.
Once I started thinking this way, I couldn't stop. At the school in California, I'd be scribbling notes on how to walk an emu or have a wolf accept you as a pack member, but I'd be thinking, "I can't wait to try this on Scott."
On a field trip with the students, I listened to a professional trainer describe how he had taught African crested cranes to stop landing on his head and shoulders. He did this by training the leggy birds to land on mats on the ground. This, he explained, is what is called an "incompatible behavior," a simple but brilliant concept.
Rather than teach the cranes to stop landing on him, the trainer taught the birds something else, a behavior that would make the undesirable behavior impossible. The birds couldn't alight on the mats and his head simultaneously.
At home, I came up with incompatible behaviors for Scott to keep him from crowding me while I cooked. To lure him away from the stove, I piled up parsley for him to chop or cheese for him to grate at the other end of the kitchen island. Or I'd set out a bowl of chips and salsa across the room. Soon I'd done it: no more Scott hovering around me while I cooked.
I followed the students to SeaWorld San Diego, where a dolphin trainer introduced me to least reinforcing syndrome (L. R. S.). When a dolphin does something wrong, the trainer doesn't respond in any way. He stands still for a few beats, careful not to look at the dolphin, and then returns to work. The idea is that any response, positive or negative, fuels a behavior. If a behavior provokes no response, it typically dies away.
In the margins of my notes I wrote, "Try on Scott!"
It was only a matter of time before he was again tearing around the house searching for his keys, at which point I said nothing and kept at what I was doing. It took a lot of discipline to maintain my calm, but results were immediate and stunning. His temper fell far shy of its usual pitch and then waned like a fast-moving storm. I felt as if I should throw him a mackerel.
Now he's at it again; I hear him banging a closet door shut, rustling through papers on a chest in the front hall and thumping upstairs. At the sink, I hold steady. Then, sure enough, all goes quiet. A moment later, he walks into the kitchen, keys in hand, and says calmly, "Found them."
Without turning, I call out, "Great, see you later."
Off he goes with our much-calmed pup.
After two years of exotic animal training, my marriage is far smoother, my husband much easier to love. I used to take his faults personally; his dirty clothes on the floor were an affront, a symbol of how he didn't care enough about me. But thinking of my husband as an exotic species gave me the distance I needed to consider our differences more objectively.
I adopted the trainers' motto: "It's never the animal's fault." When my training attempts failed, I didn't blame Scott. Rather, I brainstormed new strategies, thought up more incompatible behaviors and used smaller approximations. I dissected my own behavior, considered how my actions might inadvertently fuel his. I also accepted that some behaviors were too entrenched, too instinctive to train away. You can't stop a badger from digging, and you can't stop my husband from losing his wallet and keys.
PROFESSIONALS talk of animals that understand training so well they eventually use it back on the trainer. My animal did the same. When the training techniques worked so beautifully, I couldn't resist telling my husband what I was up to. He wasn't offended, just amused. As I explained the techniques and terminology, he soaked it up. Far more than I realized.
Last fall, firmly in middle age, I learned that I needed braces. They were not only humiliating, but also excruciating. For weeks my gums, teeth, jaw and sinuses throbbed. I complained frequently and loudly. Scott assured me that I would become used to all the metal in my mouth. I did not.
One morning, as I launched into yet another tirade about how uncomfortable I was, Scott just looked at me blankly. He didn't say a word or acknowledge my rant in any way, not even with a nod.
I quickly ran out of steam and started to walk away. Then I realized what was happening, and I turned and asked, "Are you giving me an L. R. S.?" Silence. "You are, aren't you?"
He finally smiled, but his L. R. S. has already done the trick. He'd begun to train me, the American wife.
Amy Sutherland is the author of "Kicked, Bitten and Scratched: Life and Lessons at the Premier School for Exotic Animal Trainers" (Viking, June 2006). She lives in Boston and in Portland, Me.
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