Kari Minor, Official Self-Appointed Fashion Police

It was recently suggested to me that I should plan “fake damage on jeans” as the topic for my next rant. Obviously this was a brilliant suggestion from a brilliant observer of the human species in the clothing rack jungle, but I did feel that perhaps my level of rage on the subject was not sufficient to fill more than a couple of sentences. (And to be quite honest, while I think fake holes and fraying is stupid in principle, I love the fact that you can instantly feel comfortable in a pair of new jeans. Still, the Gap used to be able to accomplish this feat without taking lessons in merchandise handling from the “Fragile” material handlers at Fed-Ex – i.e. Dragging Items Behind a Truck Without a Trailer 101, and Dropping Items First in Puddles & Then Down Multiple Flights of Concrete Stairs 202.) Though I was not satisfied with the jeans agenda by itself, I have since discovered some even more disturbing fashion trends to turn my wrath against. Today’s post begins a rant serial of currently unspecified length (this gets me off the hook if I only end up writing two volumes before I lose interest):

Exhibit A
Accidentally-on-purpose misbuttoning of cardigan sweaters on in-store and magazine mannequins. This is ridiculous. The first time I saw it, I thought “How nice! This store must have adopted an equal opportunity policy for blind window dressers.” But then, I kept seeing this disturbing trend popping up everywhere from Macy’s Junior Dept. to BCBG. Apparently, nothings says “I slept in a ditch last night after smoking too much crack with former child stars” like buttoning your top button in the third button hole.

What disturbs me most about this is that on days when I button my cardigan in the morning without the aid of caffeine, I may end up walking around like that the entire day because no one will bother to tell me, figuring it’s a fashion statement. I’m just waiting for spinach-in-the-teeth to make a splash on a runway near you.

Sorry Only Counts in Horseshoes and Hand Grenades

(Or is that never counts in horseshoes and hand grenades?)

An unfortunate byproduct of being an imperfect creature living in an imperfect world is that I constantly feel that I need to apologize for my actions. In general, my tendency to claim fault when I am in the wrong is not all together bad. In fact, it keeps me out of a lot of trouble. However, this inclination of mine often tends to border on the realm of ridiculous obsession and is particularly aggravated to hyperbolic proportions when I feel uncomfortable and self-conscious. Let me give you a simple (and frequently exhibited) example:

On a crowded sidewalk, someone steps on the back of my shoe, causing me to pitch forward, flailing my limbs like a skydiving-newborn-giraffe-with-a-nerve-disease. I catch myself just in time to keep from making-out with the pavement, and turn to confront my assailant with a shy, “I’m sorry!”

See? Utterly ridiculous, no? And that is just the tip of an iceberg that makes the one that hit the Titanic look like a shaved-ice particle. In situations where I am more ill-at-ease I will apologize for everything from having better breath than a person I am kissing to thinking Pauley Shore is funny to not having seen Goonies (I know, I’m horrible right? But I finally corrected that error by watching it the other night.) to being responsible for the Spanish Inquisition (an amazingly little known fact about me). I am often found to be sorry for people disliking me, liking me and licking me all on the same day. Clearly, I must be stopped. I am hoping that I may be relieved of any future desire to apologize for silly things that I may or may not have control over by making the following statement:

I am sorry for anything I have done, am doing or will do that makes you or myself look stupid, feel slightly inconvenienced or annoyed, lose hair, grow hair or bark at cars.

There. That should just about do it. Just for good measure though, I should apologize for all the superfluous “sorry”s that you will undoubtedly hear come out of my mouth anyway in the days (weeks, years, decade) to come as well as those I have already said.

And I’m sorry I just wrote superfluous. I hate that word too.

A Wish for Ears That Don't Work

(At least for this week.)

In a list of things I don’t like, loud and/or surprising noises rank quite high. In fact I would place that somewhere in between being chased by villagers wielding kitchen utensils and watching Gong Show marathons on TVLand. Now, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy making loud noises just as much as the next stampeding pachyderm, but I am also quite easily startled – a trait that I hate – and loud/surprising noises certainly tend to aggravate this condition. I like to attribute any success I had as a high-jumper in high school to the great deal of practice I had in the standing/sitting jumping “out of my skin” category while growing up. (As long as I’m on the subject, let me state for the record that I really am not a fan of persons of the male persuasion who think it’s just a riot to come up and tickle me when my back is turned. I realize that it may seem like fun for all, since it causes me to display my 20-foot vertical leap and squeak like a mouse on steroids, but trust me, only you are amused.)

Well, I have now reached the second paragraph where I explain to you the inspiration for writing the first. (Must have something to do with loud noise, right? Probably at work? – Wow, you’re good.) My office is currently in the process of having some major remodeling work done, but only on one side of the floor, so my side of the floor continues business as usual in medias res la Armageddon. You may think I’m being melodramic, but that’s because you here to hear jackhammers and “Shoot” *loud blast*, “Shoot” *loud blast* at intermittent intervals umpteen times throughout the day. If I had any nerves left, this craziness would certainly be getting on them. Hopefully the demolition phase will be finished soon, but until then please don’t mind me if I seem a bit pancake-like. I’ve had to peel myself off the ceiling entirely too many times today.