So here's my boyfriend Barack out biking last weekend with his wife and daughters:
I was about to write a little tough love piece on not tucking that shirt into those jeans with those big white sneakers. I was about to say that all claims to the contrary, he can't possibly have "a Jewish problem" seeing as his weekend attire makes him look exactly like Jerry Seinfeld circa 1994. But then I read in the NY Daily News that Tim Gunn said: "I am grateful that he is not wearing sweats. I am grateful that he is wearing athletic shoes and not Crocs, and I am grateful he is wearing a collar," Gunn told the Daily News. "For a weekend out with the kids, I think he looks great. I give him a B-plus."
You KNOW I'm not going to disagree with Tim Gunn on anything. So all I will say is, "perhaps boot cut jeans next time?" and leave it at that.
In further fashion faux pas: Me. As you know I have to avoid the sun assiduously. Especially while I'm on this latest immunosuppressive that not only causes diarrhea but also skin cancer. Yeah, you read that right. Not "may lead to conditions that might perhaps some day lead to the precursors to what might be skin cancer." No. "This drug causes skin cancer in susceptible individuals." Like, take this drug, recover from your transplant. And while recovering, look forward to all that skin cancer you're getting! Sweet. So I've been walking around looking like a beekeeper in my 60's. (Not that there's anything wrong with being in your 60's. There's just something wrong with LOOKING like it when you're in your 30's). No longer, darlings. Bambina and I went to Target to buy a pump to blow up her kiddie pool. While there we both saw the same hat at the exact same moment and it was in the cart in no seconds flat. I would describe it as a "cowboy" hat, but that doesn't suffice. I'd describe it as "so last year" but that (although true) also doesn't suffice. I'd describe it as "something a 4 year-old would pick" but that would belie the fact that Bambina was given the "Stylin' BandAid Queen" award at her preschool end-of-year party due to her dual penchants for outre/iconoclastic/in the vanguard clothing getups and her desperate need to put a bandaid on anything that looks remotely like a cut or blemish (such as a red pen mark or a freckle). Those of you who know her and saw her school picture know what I'm saying: white peasant sundress, pink/green/blue polka dot long sleeve shirt with flower on front, purple tights, black and silver sparkly shoes, 5 braids in her hair in no particular order--and three bandaids visible in the photo.
No, darlings. The only way I can substantively evoke this hat for you is to say the following 5 words:
Bret Michaels Rock of Love.
Oh yeah, baby! Behold, my hat:
Sans bandanna underneath, however. I'm done with bandannas. They all just say "chemo" to me now so I can't wear them without gagging a little bit. But how about that cheeseball hat?! And worse: it's workin' for me. I don't know how it's working for anyone who's looking at me, but it's working for ME. And, seriously, that's all I care about. Because I'd rather look like a washed-up hair band rocker than an antediluvian albino sesquicentenarian with a raging Vitamin D deficiency.
Or something like that.