I WANT TO EAT YOUR FACE: ROSALIND RUSSELL

I Want to Eat Your Face, celebrating icons of bite-worthy style.

Active in Hollywood from the 30s through the 70s, Rosalind Russell was known for her poised yet spunky demeanor, her powerful, brassy singing voice, and her mad-cap comedic chops (she could deliver an on-point, wide-eyed shocked face like no other).  Her most notable roles include a scoop-hungry reporter in His Girl Friday opposite the caddish Cary Grant and her turn as the mother of all stage mothers in Gypsy.  But she also stars in two of my absolute favorites: The Women (1939) and Auntie Mame (1958).  It is her wild style in these films, as much as her performances, that make her a winner.  Let's take a look at some iconic looks from these movies, shall we?

The Women follows a group of upper-class female friends, some of whom have little else to do but visit the salon and gossip.  Oh, and go the the "gym" in these get-ups:

I think we should bring those back...see you at Equinox, everyone!

Just kidding, I haven't been to the gym in over a year.

Anyway, Russell's character in The Women is both the comedic sidekick to the villain (Gloria Swanson) and the daring fashionista of the group.  Here we see her alongside her scheming cohort:

Please note two things: Russel's ridiculously drapey and shoulder-padded gown topped off by a mini-turban, and Swanson's swanky bathroom.  She has a see-through tub in there.  And a pillow.  And a phone.  Call me old-fashioned, but even in this age of having smartphones readily available, I still think having a phone and/or TV in your bathroom is the height of luxury.

Here is Rosalind's evening gown and hat (far right), that seem to be decorated with birds or maybe small planes?  The other two look downright boring next to her.

And the piece de resistance, the following dress, which Russell's character wears to a quiet luncheon with friends.  It looks like noted costume designer Adrian took a cue from Salvador Dalí.

And now on to Russell as the outrageous Mame Dennis in Auntie Mame.  It took the magic of both Techirama filming and Technicolor to bring forth this jewel-hued glory.  The gist of the movie is that free-wheeling socialite Mame is suddenly put in charge of her young orphaned nephew.  

Her wardrobe is incredibly lush and extravagant to play in contrast to her sheltered nephew and the huffy, grey-clad trustee minding the boy's inheritance:

And much of Mame's vast wardrobe is inspired by her slightly flighty, though well-intentioned, exploration of other cultures.  She changes her apartment decor nearly as often as changing outfits, so the movie is a real visual treat:

As much as the costumers should be credited with these daring and highly-stylized wardrobes, it is to Rosalind Russell's credit that she did not let these outfits to out-shine her, but instead cleverly used them to illuminate her characters and her charming screen presence.

"Calm Down, Dummy," Notes to My 16-Year Old Self: Stop with the Musicians

Advice for me as an anxiety-ridden teenager from my slightly less neurotic current self.

Hi there,

I'm just going to come right out with it: I don't like the kind of boys you are chasing after.  By now, you have realized that the young men you meet doing school musicals are, for the most part, not for you and you have moved on to guitarists and drummers.  Quit it.  The troubled musician stereotype exists for a reason.  Listen, I get it: they seem sensitive, mysterious, and creative.  But what can initially read as these charming characteristics can soon turn into moodiness and unreliability.  They aren't necessarily bad people, but they are not for you.  You turn into a real goon around them and become pretty unbearable yourself. Deep down, you know you aren't really all that cool and you will eventually realize that it is untrue to yourself and just exhausting to try to keep up the persona that you think appeals to these guys, which probably isn't even what they want anyway.  Just give everyone a break and stop pretending that you like Television (or have ever listened to even one of their songs).

I recommend focusing on your own creative pursuits and stop trying to live vicariously through some dude's artistic endeavors.  By now, you should have figured out that you are tone deaf and a bad dancer (I know you got cast in 42nd Street, but did you ever wonder why they put the 4'9" girl in the back row?), but you have plenty of other talents to explore.

I also don't want to leave you with zero options, so I have a suggestion: go after comedians.  They share some traits with musicians: they are smart, cool, and spend time considering the world.  But they tend to be more easy-going and, if you are lucky, slightly less pretentious.  Granted, comedians can have schedules similar to musicians and they also like to be the center of attention, but if you are dating a decent one, you will always have a good laugh.  And as a raging stressed-out nutbag, you can always do with a good laugh. 

I don't know why I am bothering to tell you this since I know the power that even the slightest of opportunities to kiss a bassist has over a 16-year old girl, but it is my duty to pass along the knowledge that you and musicians do not a perfect match make.  Though you will get some decent t-shirts out of it...

Best,

2014 Adrienne

(That's right, it is 2014 and guess what? You are married to a comedy writer.)

I Want to Eat Your Face: Prunella Scales

I Want to Eat Your Face, celebrating icons of bite-worthy style.

First of all, 100 million points for the name alone.  Prunella Scales starred alongside John Cleese in the infamously brief but infinitely hysterical British series, "Fawlty Towers."   The show followed Cleese as Basil Fawlty, a gruff and bumbling hotel owner, and Scales played his dry and sometimes shrew-ish wife Sybil.  I suppose this is really more a tribute to Sybil Fawlty's style, since I haven't ever seen Scales in anything else, though her IMDB page lists tons of British TV roles other than "Towers."

With a color palette as loud as her shrill laugh and a hairdo as high as her husband's hotelier aspirations, Sybil's style was magnificently tailored to her character.  Her typical look consisted of button earrings, frosted waves of artfully arranged hair, a tailored skirt, and a ruffled blouse.  Man oh man, the ruffles and bows on this one!   

The look below is one of my favorites: peach sheer blouse, gold lamé belt, and black satin skirt.  Pretty much screams mid/late 70s, upwardly-mobile British style.

With all the flair of her usual daytime looks, Sybil's choice for a formal outfit in the "Gourmet Night" episode is a bit disappointing, but I guess a flashier dress would distract from the extra 4 inches of hair on her head:

And Sybil's boudoir looks were just as bright and frilly as her daytime attire.  The examples below also feature some of her frequent accessories: extra hair pieces, a cigarette, a paperback novel, and the phone permanently attached to her ear, her never-seen friend Audrey on the other end complaining endlessly about her husband George.

Extra points for the boxes of bonbons.

DIY Beauty (Those Who Can’t Do, Try Anyway), Part III

I wish I played grown-up as well as Sue Ellen.

...continued from Part I and Part II.

Back in the city, I landed a “temp-to-perm” position at a science journal publisher that turned out to be very perm; I was there for three years.  My personal style was very much in flux at the time. You would think that being back in New York at a full-time job in an office, my style would mature, but it just became an odd mix that belied my own internal personality struggles.  I tried to balance what I, as an inherent brown-noser always looking for approval from authority figures, thought was appropriate professional attire, with what I thought signaled me as someone with super-cool, punk-rock, fashion-forward style.  The result was that I wore a tweed skirt with a t-shirt that had a black rabbit screen-printed on it.  The party-on-top, business-on-the-bottom disaster mullet that was my wardrobe was at least topped off by a decent haircut.  Receiving regular pay-checks, I decided to ante up at a pricy, but casually cute, salon on the Lower East Side.   For the first time in my life, I was getting compliments on my hair.  It was an attractive, easy style combining bangs and long layers that worked with my wavy hair.  The wavy hair was actually a new thing.  It had been stick-straight as a kid, then turned wavy when I grew out the Tank Girl look, but I fear the curl progression will continue as I age until I resemble a permed 70s porn star...

I continued visiting that salon until I had a near panic attack there brought on by taking too much acetaminophen on an empty stomach.  I was too embarrassed to return so after that I bounced from one salon to another, usually only having one appointment at each.  It was not that I was getting bad cuts, I just had such a mental block based on my anxiety/doctor’s appointment mentality.  I finally settled into a routine at a walk-in place by my office that employed mostly foreign-born stylists.  Their limited grasp of English meant little conversation, which was fine by me, and the walk-in structure ensured I could drop by when I was having a low-anxiety day and could mentally prepare myself.  

Really only looking for maintenance on my existing style, I always came out of that place with a fine cut.  The only bad experience I had there was when I went in to cut my Zooey Deschanel-do shorter.  I had in mind the style of Florence Welch from Florence and the Machine, but I had failed to bring in a reference picture.  The stylist assigned to me sported an asymmetrical cut and tattoos, so I thought that clearly she would recognize me as a fellow cool chick and get what I was saying.  She did not.  She cut it short, removed the layers, and blew it out, so that I resembled a 44-year old suburban mom.  I stood outside on the sidewalk crying to my boyfriend over the phone, “I look like the wife from ‘Everybody Loves Raymond!’”  But in my true non-confrontational style, I had said it looked nice, paid for it, and tipped the stylist generously.  As an Irish-Catholic, I, of course, put the blame on myself for not bringing a picture.  I was upset about the cut, which did look better once I washed it and let it dry naturally, but something deeper irked me.  Was this the cut I deserved?  When this trained, edgy-looking hipster stylist saw me, did she not see herself reflected back as I had hoped?  Had she instead seen the boringly stable, Ann Taylor-wearing office worker that I was terrified I had become?  That alone tempted me to again pick up the shears and do my best to form the look I wanted.   However, better judgement prevailed as I reflected on all of my past self-inflicted haircuts, and I instead decided it was probably better to be an adult and settle into a relationship with a stylist I could trust and see more than once.  

Exiting my 20s, I had to come to terms with the fact that yes, I am an Ann Taylor-wearing office worker, but I do still maintain some of that DIY punk spirit.  Except for that appointment before my wedding, I have never had a professional manicure or pedicure.  My wardrobe has now settled into one that I have cultivated to what I think truly reflects me; contemporary professional by way of Elsa Schiaparelli during the week (a lot of black pencil skirts and bold-colored blouses), and something that is a cross between 80s mob wife, Joan Jett, and Angela Chase on the weekends (fur jackets, black leggings, and clunky boots).  I let a professional stylist regularly tend to my hair, but do give occasionally give into the urge to make a few snips on my own to get it just right.  It took 30 years, but I will say that unlike poor Dr. Loomis, I have finally tackled a long sought-after demon, though maybe not the one I thought I was seeking.  So maybe it is if Dr. Loomis snagged Jason Vorhees instead of Michael Myers?  This analogy might not work as well as I thought.  All I know is, all of the awkward exploration, battles with anxiety, and nitpicking my flaws may not have resulted in impeccable personal style, but in the confidence to not give two craps what people think, myself most of all.

DIY Beauty (Those Who Can’t Do, Try Anyway), Part II

...continued from an earlier post:

I had the sense to start growing out my pixie cut in my freshman year of college, but that just created an even more awkward transition style that resembled Carol Brady’s hybrid bouffant/mullet.  I met my now-husband when I had this haircut.  I think it at least partially explains why we didn’t date until six years later.  Through college I continued to take my hair cutting and coloring into my own hands, for several reasons:  

1) I wanted to save my money for disco fries and Miller High Lifes.  Also, jars of salsa, bottles of flavored non-dairy creamer, Diet Dr. Pepper, and questionable sushi from the student deli. There. Now you essentially have my college meal plan.

2) I did, and still do, consider salon appointments akin to doctor’s appointments.  They are something you have to go through the effort to call and set up, remember to keep, and during which you have to make very awkward small talk with a person who has more marketable training than you.  As someone who tends toward social awkwardness unless I have a minimum of one and half glasses of wine in my system, I spend the entire time in the chair planning my escape route if I suddenly needed to vomit and wondering if the stylist can see the spot on my head from where I compulsively pluck hairs when I am anxious.  

3) During my later college career and for a few years after, I fancied myself an ardent feminist and part of the DIY punk movement.  This means I would never conceive of paying someone for something (I thought) I could do myself and contributing to such a bourgeois paragon of idealized Western beauty as the salon.  It also involved less showering.  I am still an ardent feminist and continue to hold some of the punk ideals I formed at that time, but now I bathe on a regular basis and wear false eyelashes every chance I get.  I’ve learned to see the shades of grey in everything and stopped taking huge, hardline moral stances on such issues.  I think that is a part of growing up.  Plus being a radical is time-consuming and exhausting.  You have the time and energy to be so in college when your biggest commitments are finishing High Fidelity (book or movie) in time for your 3:30 PM Contemporary British Fiction class and a tentative date to make a gravity bong and watch "Survivor" with the other editors from the literary magazine.  But after you graduate, (hopefully) take on a full-time job, and are responsible for cooking your own meals and sorting your own recycling, there is less and less time to dedicate being an activist (or a close approximation thereof).

Not all of my haircuts in college were so bad.  There was one asymmetrical bob that was blonde in the back, but black on the top and front that I didn’t think was so bad.  Now, I was drinking a lot of cheap vodka at the time, so I can’t say for sure.

After I graduated, I begrudgingly adopted more conservative look, at least for the job interviews I attended for the better part of a year.  I dyed my hair all one color, took out my lip piercing, and bought some ill-fitting polyester “career wear” from the professional apparel corner of H&M.  I was living at my parents’ house in the Pennsylvania suburbs at the time, so most days I wore pajamas as I submitted resumes online before putting on scrubs for my evening part-time job at the veterinary hospital.  If someone had painted my portrait at the time, it could easily have been entitled, “Mildly Depressed Woman Wearing Layers of Clothing Pulled from Childhood Dresser and Local Salvation Army Dreams of the Far-away Freedoms of New York City College Life While Eating Lots of Cereal.”

Fortunately, my college roommate Lindsay had her ass in gear and got a job back in New York, offering me an opportunity to live with her again.  My parents were ever supportive as I propositioned that actually living in New York would make it easier for me to get a job there and they agreed to help me out financially until I get settled.  I had saved them four-years of college tuition via a scholarship, so I think they thought paying my rent for a few months was a worthwhile kick-start investment to get me out of their den, washing my hair, and maybe putting that degree to use.  

Stay tuned for the thrilling conclusion at a later date.  I have to note that as I post this, I am enjoying a really great new cut and blowout courtesy of my professional stylist.  This is the best I will look for the next few months.

That is My Jam: Stuff You Missed in History Class

This is My Jam, where I share the things I like. If you’ve met me, you know those things are pretty rare.

I have been a frequent listener of the Stuff You Should Know podcast, but I only recently started exploring How Stuff Works’ other shows including Stuff You Missed in History Class. Despite enjoying history class (I took AP History in high school and actually tested out of it in college, but still took it as an elective. Because I am a nerd. And clearly very humble about my decade plus-old achievements.), I seemingly retained very little knowledge of it.

This informative but highly enjoyable podcast covers pretty much anything in human history: famous pirate bios, subterranean architecture, major scientific discoveries, and lots of witch trial and disappearing settlements/ships/people stories, which are my favorites. But maybe most appealing are the hosts, Holly and Tracy, who cover their topics in a fair, thorough but concise manner, and always lend a bit of humor. Their appreciation for and genuine interest in history is apparent and infectious.

I also like that the average length of the podcast is timed perfectly for my shower/post-shower routine, which may be weird but I don’t tell you how to run your life so butt out!

http://www.howstuffworks.com/stuff-you-missed-in-history-class-podcast.htm

My Favorite Sub-genre: Blended Family Comedies of the Late 60’s

Notable works: With Six You Get Eggroll (1968, Doris Day, Brian Keith), Yours, Mine and Ours (1968, Lucille Ball, Henry Fonda), “The Brady Bunch” (premiered in 1969, Robert Reed, Florence Henderson)

Even though I am the product of a prototypical nuclear family (mom, dad, brother, sister), I have a real fondness for the blended family comedies that emerged from Hollywood in the late 1960s.  I grew up on “Brady Bunch” reruns and find movies like Yours, Mine and Ours and With Six You Get Egg Roll charming, though in some cases titled in a slightly racist manner.

So what do all of these have in common?  All follow the same basic plot: two middle-aged single folks with kids from previous relationships meet, fall in love, and marry, bringing together their heretofore separate households.  In all the above titles, there are clashes between the newly-siblingized children and in some occasions, pets.  In both the movie variations, the difficulties of merging the two families and the eventual reconciliations serve as the crucial plotline.  There was not so much reluctance to become a family in “The Brady Bunch,” but there were occasional boys vs. girls episodes.  There are just gobs of kids in each movie/TV show, ranging from 4 in Eggroll to the classic 6 of the Brady’s to the absurd 18 and (spoiler alert) eventually 19 of Yours.  With those numbers, you are almost led to believe the missing parent just slowly extricated themselves to get some goddamned peace and quiet. 

Which leads to the reason why these harried, yet surprisingly trim and good-looking, parents are single in the first place.  In every case, they are widowed.  It is certainly so in both movies, and while I can’t remember if that is ever explicitly stated in “The Brady Bunch,” the fact that we never encountered a pitting-divorced-parents-against-each-other-for-new-bike-gains episode left us believing death was to blame for the parents’ single status.  Plus who would ever leave Mike Brady?  Dream.  Boat.

All of these titles had a variety of zany secondary characters and of-the-times references to provide comic relief.  Each featured wacky housekeepers, as you would expect in middle-class, single-parent households in post-baby boom America.  While Ann B. Davis’ Alice is of course the most recognizable, With Six You Get Eggroll has my favorite: the fantastically, perpetually frantic character actress Alice Ghostley serving as Doris Day’s maid.  Yours, Mine and Ours had a delightfully madcap succession of housekeepers run through the ringer at Henry Fonda’s house.  Eggroll features both a running joke around a drive-in restaurant and a plot-crucial encounter with a bunch of hippies, while Yours, Mine and Ours positions a Japanese restaurant as the most out-there and exotic of locations.

Why such a sudden spate of them in such a short time period?  Well, Hollywood always does things in multiples.  If it worked once, let’s churn out dozens more until the public is choking on tropes and hackneyed character types.  Whether it is female-centric tween book adaptations, asteroid/alien disaster pics, or Steve Prefontaine bios, they just can’t stop at one.  Interesting enough, both the movies were released by the same studio and promotional material for Eggroll referenced it as an answer to the popularity of Yours, Mine and Ours.  And even though “The Brady Bunch” aired after both movies, its script was in development before they were released.  It seems they were genuinely just a product of the times.

Rates of divorce began to increase in the late 60s/early 70s.  While Hollywood was a bit slow on the uptake to reference divorce directly, they did see the opportunity to address an increasing audience of single parent and blended households in a light-hearted way.  And somehow the death of a parent was seen as more acceptable and better fodder for  family comedy that someone simply moving out into a sparsely furnished condo.

These movies also created mid-career roles for popular female comedic actors who had aged out of swinging single gal and bumbling newlywed roles.  Studios could still capitalize on their popularity as audiences aged up with them, though Eggroll would serve as Day’s last film role and Lucy only really helmed one movie after Yours (1974’s Mame).  Hollywood wanted to wring one last screwball comedy out of these great dames before sending them out the seemingly less green pastures of 1970s TV.  

Why are they appealing?  To put it simply: happy endings.  Despite new sibling squabbles, suddenly close quarters, and accidentally drunk mothers (Luuucy, you’ve got some ‘splaining to do), everything in these movies/TV shows wraps up quite nicely.  Whether you have had a relatively happy and stable family life or not, that is comforting to see.  They are also neat little time capsules of the period; check out this mod club scene from Eggroll.  The performances are all very delightful and it is a pretty easy way to pass the time.  

So, I would highly recommend revisiting “The Brady Bunch" or watching either movie. It is at least worth it to see Alice Ghostley losing her shit.

DIY Beauty (Those Who Can’t Do, Try Anyway), Part I

I shall call you Donaldona.

I was 30 when I first got a “mani-pedi” and that was because it was two days before my wedding and I had a gift certificate to the spa and I was essentially told I had to.  This is not to say I am the kind of woman who eschews make-up, beauty products, and trends, instead opting for the freedom of comfortable slacks and gracefully letting gray hairs populate my head.  On the contrary, my relationship with make-up, hairstyles, and fashion has been a very long, involved, and complicated one, which I can only liken to that of Dr. Loomis and Michael Myers.  One’s continuous pursuit of the other is punctuated by tragedy and instances where the object of the search is grasped but for a fleeting moment, and ending with the pursuer descending into a obsessed mania that ironically approaches the madness of his intended mark.  Obviously, I am playing the role of sad-sack Dr. Loomis, and flawless personal style is my Michael Myers, such as it a devilishly allusive monster only steps ahead of me. 

There is probably a more apt analogy out there, but I am frankly knee-deep in a marathon courtesy of AMC as I write this, so I have Donald Pleasence on the brain.

Like Dr. Loomis, my attempts at DIY beauty have on occasion left those around me to roll their eyes and back off a few feet.  If I were smart, I would learn a lesson from that beleaguered man and keep my distance from beauty endeavors, leaving it to the experts (i.e. a qualified police force/ and psychiatric professionals not in immediate danger of having their licenses revoked or, in my case, trained stylists and aestheticians), but I tend toward believing I know better and just cannot resist taking matters into my own hands.

This misguided sense of DIY style really gelled when I was a teenager. Thinking myself Winona Ryder at age 16, when the stylist at the Supercuts in the Montgomery Mall wisely did not give me the close-cropped look I wanted, I took scissors to my hair in the upstairs bathroom of our house and cut it down to less than an inch all around.  When I came downstairs, I was greeted by my mother’s wide-eyed stare and quiet request that I “never do that again.”  It should be noted that at this time, while my parents’ only daughter had barely any hair, their hockey-playing, heavy metal-loving only son had long locks that reached well past his shoulders.  My mom always says we were easy to raise and never gave her any trouble, but the Christmas photos that year cannot have been easy for her to stomach.

I feel like there was an epidemic of pixie cuts at this time, which had followed on the heels of the “Rachel” long layered look that had preceded a few years before at the height of Friends’ popularity.  The difference being that a series of well-cut layers framing the face and some tasteful highlights will flatter just about anyone, whereas cutting off all but a scant few centimeters flatters only those who are in possession of all of the following attributes: delicate features, a symmetrical face, small ears, low body fat, a slender neck, and no cheek acne.  That describes very few teenage girls and I was no exception.  My ears are okay and my acne always targeted my chin so hair cover was never an option, but the rest of my face was not a fit for that haircut.  I have since been told that I have “cute” features, but at that point they were obscured by the 2 inches of baby fat that enveloped me until I was 20.  

But I persisted with the style for more than a year, to my poor mother’s dismay.  It could be best described as “unfortunate.”  It is particularly unfortunate that I sported the haircut in my senior portrait and, for some reason, my college used our high school senior pictures on our student IDs.  For all four years.  Now, most people use college as a forum to reinvent themselves physically, emotionally, politically, etc, but it is just slightly harder to to do so when you are faced with your 17-year-old chubby mug every time you try to enjoy Taco Tuesday in the caf or check out a book at the library.  I know that last one is not relevant today as most college students get their research from the lower-third scroll during TMZ or via Buzzfeed’s Top 10 Critiques of Consumer Culture in Don Delillo’s White Noise, but still…

I think we both need a break; to be continued at a later date.