Fashion/Style by Liza Van Horne

I think they must enjoy it on some level, because Lord knows they love to go through the motions every single time. After Victoria spent around eight misty-eyed hours ridding Victor's office of her "personal belongings" - which frankly could not have consisted of much more than a box of Kleenex, a couple of pens and an emergency tampon - she and Nick got together for their decaf soymilk pity party at the Jitter Joint. For this somber occasion, Nick had donned a pale-yellow shirt and applied an extra half-cup of gel to his hair, while his sister was wearing a blue-and-gray-dappled peasant blouse over dark jeans. I don't expect them to be clad in black from head to toe or anything, but Sir Buttercup over there and his sister Princess Ponytail were dressed for a cheerful brunch, not for mourning.

At least they were wearing clothes, which is more than I can say for Victor Adam Junior Wilson Newman Adam Whatever-the-fuck and his pointlessly anemic girlfriend as they rolled around on the sage-green sofa under the scornful eye of His Broodiness. Talk about embarrassing moments! Given the choice, I think I'd rather be sad-sack Nikki, rolling in the surf and screaming Victor's name to a bunch of uninterested seagulls. I mean, if she gets bored, she can get up at some point, dust herself off, and stagger about fifteen yards through the sand back to the dive bar. (We're not supposed to think that crappy little cave-hut was miles away, were we? I mean, The Hauntingly Beautiful Child couldn't be delivering room service unless it was practically right next to the dive bar's dumpster! Get real.)

But alas, getting back to that couch, Wilson Victor Junior Newman Adam's afternoon delights did not go as expected and he and Miss Heather Stevens were awkwardly sent a-packing. While Adam was slinking out the door of the Ponderoso as Zapata spitefully pissed in his general direction, Chloe Mitchell was making her grand entrance at the Chancellor Mausoleum, declaring that Big Daddy Cane was being mean to her - and as stressful circumstances were not good for the li'l tadpole, she would be moving in immediately. Not that anyone had made the slightest overture to make her feel welcome to do so, but then, she sees herself as the bearer of the Sainted Chancellor Fetus right now and she's going to work that angle for all it's worth.

In order to make her eighty-five pound frame appear more pregnant - at least that's what I assumed - Chloe had draped herself in yards of diaphanous, billowing fabric, in an empire-waisted goddess-type tunic top that featured bizarre jeweled clasps on the shoulders from which jutted feathery embellishments that resembled cockroach wings. Well, that's apt - Chloe is nothing if not a cockroach who simply will not scurry away, and who resists all attempts at fumigation. And such gracious manners! Nothing says "I love you, Mom" like thrusting a suitcase full of dirty laundry in her face with brusque orders to clean and press it all. For someone who claims to want a better life for Esther than that of a "servant", Chloe certainly has no problem treating her like one! Shit, she and Adam should get together. They could sit around being rude to the help all the livelong day! Jeez - I feel sorry for Estella too, while we're at it. There, there, it's all over now, dear!

Cheers? Jeers? Fashion archives? See below.

Please visit this merchant