It's no secret, dear readers, that I in fact am not
a glamorous fashion queen myself, wearing as I do my
plain old jeans and hoodie every freaking day of my
life, but I flatter myself to think I have some
rudimentary understanding of certain styles and
fabrics. I know what a peplum is and I know about
hairstyles, and even though I am not inclined to
paint my face up like a whore, I know about makeup.
But every once in a while, someone in Genoa City
wears an item of clothing that reduces me to
scribbling "WTF AM I LOOKING AT?!" in my notes. Last
Thursday was such a day, thanks to Phyllis "Oh Shit,
Nick's Going To Bleed Us Dry" Newman.
Phyllis showed up on Thursday in something that
resembled an apron but not quite. It was intended to
be a blouse, yet it wasn't quite that either. What I
can tell you is it was a muted shade of
lavender, and seemed to be cotton, and was
tunic-length with a fabric sash around the waist; it
had no sleeves, but the armholes were embellished
with THREE layers of micro-pleated ruffles which
continued along the jog-bra-like racerback such that
Phyllis looked like a frilled lizard when she turned
sideways. She was a Phyllisaur! I would like to
further point out that when she and her Cro-Magnon
husband were at dinner with Adam McFly, she had a
flippin' NAPKIN tucked into her neckline. Who does
that?! Not to mention, why is the hoity-toity
Athletic Supporter restaurant "seat yourself"? Jeez,
even corny joints like Souper Salad have a hostess.
But ol' ManJaw herself was not the only person who
had me scratching my head in bewilderment late last
week. Victoria's best (and only!) friend, a gay male
Cher impersonator calling himself "Sabrina",
displayed his very Continental taste in clothing by
arriving at the Tool Shed in a wine-colored silk
short-sleeved blouse and gray trousers which came up
to his armpits. I mean, seriously. High waisted
pants are for elderly men who don't know any better
and can't remember their own wife's name, not for
young gay drag queens.
Sabrina then commenced to blow my mind on Monday by
swooping around town in what can only be described
as a semi-sheer black tent with baggy sleeves shaped
like watermelons and bizarre metallic gold symbols
form the ancient Mayan calendar down the front and
around the hem. Was it a dress? A long top? I
couldn't tell - and when asked, my cats just
shrugged and went back to licking their privates,
which I have repeatedly asked them not to do in my
presence as it's vulgar and entirely none of my
business. Suffice it to say Sabrina was trotting
around in a black Aztec ceremonial blimp, half
deflated.
In better news, dear God in Heaven! Porniel dyed his
hair back and looks human again! No longer must we
endure the love child of Owen Wilson and Donald
Trump! Speaking of blondes who shouldn't be blonde,
Ashley looks like dried shit with her L.A. mop of
bleached curls. The stuff framing her face looked so
brittle it would only take a mild ocean breeze to
break it off and send it wafting over the Pacific.
And that mauve Monroe-esque halter dress she was
wearing to the Cheesiest Tiki Bar In Town was a
horrible color for her complexion and altogether
inappropriate for such a casual atmosphere. Did she
think she was gong to the frickin' prom? Sharon's
bright yellow spaghetti-strapped dress with silver
geometric trim screamed "HI I'M A MIDWESTERN TOURIST
OH LOOK I AM WEARING SANDALS IN FEBRUARY WHEE!"
which was just embarrassing for all involved.
In other instances of public embarrassment, Cane
needs to wear a goddamned undershirt already. I
would not kick him out of my bed for eating crackers
but for God's sake, every shirt he wears -
unbuttoned - over his bare skin strains at the chest
and gives him the appearance of adolescent breast
buds, as I've bitched about previously. The trouble
is, they want to put him in tight, fitted shirts
like the young skinny Emo boys wear, but he doesn't
have the young skinny Emo boy build. He's a little
barrel chested and his shoulders aren't that wide,
so his shirts all gap at the boobs and it's just
gross. Use Ace elastic bandages to bind that shit or
wear looser shirts, sweetpea. I still love you, I
just don't want to see your mancakes all the time.
Since we're on the subject of things I'd rather not
see, Lily's modeling career seems to consist of
placing her hands on her hips and shrugging her
shoulders while grinning vapidly. Outfit Number One
for the "fashion" "shoot" was a scoop-necked black
dress covered in shiny pailettes, accessorized with
red ankle length tights, which was random and made
me raise an eyebrow. Her second ensemble consisted
of a gorgeous midnight blue gown with teeny straps -
but it was completely ruined by her um, "jewelry",
if it can be called that. First of all, a very busy
black sparkly ornate choker and dangly earrings.
Well, possibly she could have pulled that off. But
then on top of that she had strands of what appeared
to be Mardi Gras beads hanging all the way down to
her babymaker and it looked like a child playing
dress-up. Then there was the red feathery thing
stuck to her left shoulder. Why ruin such a pretty
dress? With her hair up in a French twist, all she
needed was some simple silver jewelry and it would
have been fine.
What an exhausting week. All this exasperation has
given me another headache and my Cabana Boy Glenn is
MIA so no one is around to bring me umbrella drinks,
which I don't mind telling you sucks. In conclusion,
dear readers, will somebody please mail Nikki a
brassiere? Anyone? I'm not even kidding. If her
bosoms sink any lower she's going to be kicking them
with every step. Ow! Ow! Ow!
Editor's note: Liza is a struggling freelance writer
who gives her talent at no cost to the Genoa City
News. If you like her work and would like to
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