Posts Tagged ‘clothes’

Favourite Things: My Cardigan

Tuesday, November 30th, 2010

I have an emotional attachment to a lot of my clothes. There are quite a few pieces in my wardrobe that have stories behind them. When I put them on, they remind me of a place or time or feeling. The cut of the cloth, the feel of the fabric, it’s the little things, that make wearing them that much more of a treat.

I’ve spoken before about Mama Bangs and her history with fashion. The above cardigan is a Mama Bangs creation. (It’s probably supposed to be called some sort of weird hybrid word now like a ‘cardi-coat’ or a ‘coat-igan’ but whatever). She knit this for me back in 2005, just before I moved to Japan. We came across the pattern as we flicked through Vogue Knitting one day (yes, this is what we do with our time). I fell in love with it and begged her to make it for me.

Wool bought, knitting needles at the ready, she started. For two weeks we listened to the click clack of the needles as the cardigan grew. She made a mistake in the back and wanted to undo it all so she could correct it, but I told her not to – I liked the quirk. When it was finished, putting it on was the best thing ever.

The cardigan came with me to Japan, then Montreal, then Toronto, then Halifax, now back home. Wherever I’ve been, putting that cardigan on feels like getting a big hug from my mum.

Without fail whenever I wear it, people stop me and ask me where I got it and I beam with pride as I say ‘My mama made it.’ I keep trying to pimp her out and get her to start making them for other people – it’s a rough economy out there, let’s make a little money on the side! But then, my Mama Bangs original wouldn’t be so original.

What clothes do you have that conjure up certain memories for you?

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Vintage Bangs

Thursday, April 15th, 2010

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That’s me, as Junior Bangs. I was always a bit of a poser. I believe that was my moody/brooding look. It’s funny how sometimes the things you’re around/interested in as a kid carry right through to adulthood. I figured maybe taking a look back at a little vintage Bangs would go some way towards explaining some things about me now, particularly my passion for style.

scan0004I was born in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada, to a Canadian father and Irish mother. My mother, known round these parts as ‘Mama Bangs’, was a weaver. That’s her on the left, weaving.

This was the late 70s/early 80s and Halifax, at the time, had a thriving arts and crafts scene, which my mother was very involved in.

She’d weave fabrics and make clothes.

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She had a shop, Clique (pictured left) and would put on fashion shows (pictured right).

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And all in all, she was kinda ridiculously stylin’. I mean, look at her. (That’s her with Brother Bangs, before I came on the scene).

scan0006So you see, with all that going on around me, it was kinda hard for me to not take an interest. Mama Bangs always made my clothes and though I was just a kid, I remember being conscious of style, what my mother did and seeing people in her fabrics.

I moved back to Halifax, Nova Scotia for a while a few years ago and there’s a shop there called Mills Brothers who still use Mama Bangs’ fabrics in their Christmas displays to this day.

Being surrounded by all that as a youngster, it seems almost inevitable that I’d have an interest in style. We still have a few of the clothes my mother made with her fabrics, including some wonderful capes and I will never get rid of them.

She made clothes for me well into my teens and will still make the odd thing now. She and I share this passion for style to this day and it’s been something we’ve bonded over all my life.

So you see, for me, my love of fashion goes a little deeper than the need to waste money on a shopping spree. It’s about creativity, watching something being made from scratch, seeing someone continue to wear it years later, the bond between the women who fawn over it. It’s about having something of my mother’s that I can hold onto forever and being miles away from home but catching a little slice of Mama Bangs in a shop window.

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Europeans Dress Better Than Americans: Fact

Tuesday, March 23rd, 2010

I stated on Twitter the other day that North Americans dress badly and it ruffled a few feathers. I don’t even see this as a debatable point. The evidence speaks for itself. Put someone from Europe next to someone from America or Canada and it’s game over. No need for discussion. However, people wanted me to explain my viewpoint, so here goes.

North American ‘style’ is lazy and unoriginal for the most part. (I did mention I was gonna ruffle a few feathers, right?) I lived in Canada and the States for years and not a day went by where I was not completely underwhelmed and unimpressed by the style choices of the majority of people there.

When I lived in New York, I found it laughable that it considered itself to be a ‘fashion capital’. Everyone dresses the same. It’s like a uniform. You can even break it down by ethnicity. Most white people wear Gap or Banana Republic and where I lived in Spanish Harlem (a predominantly black and latino neighbourhood), I was pretty much the only one not in Rocawear or Baby Phat. And before you get your knickers in a twist, I do realise that not every white, black or latino person falls into these categories.

Every outfit is a variation of jeans and T Shirts. Oh except when they go to work. For work, men will wear what they call, ‘dress pants’ (which I think is a complete oxymoron, but whatever). Show me an American man that doesn’t own at least three pairs of these and I’ll give you the £5.72 in my bank account. They’ll team that with a ‘button down shirt’ – Americans make the distinction that the shirt has buttons, because they need to know up front that it will require some effort to put it on. Like I said, North American fashion is lazy, so wearing a shirt with buttons is a big deal.

And of course, everything is ill fitting. I think the concept of tailoring has completely escaped North Americans. Mens pants are always too baggy. Naturally, American men refer to European style trousers as ‘gay’ because they are what they consider to be ‘tight’. In actuality, those are how your trousers are meant to fit. Ladies clothing on those shores never seems to hug the form correctly. But, it would require time and effort to change those things and that would infringe on the time they get to spend in their jeans and T Shirts, so why bother?

In New York I was complimented on my clothing on virtually a daily basis, probably because I put some effort into my style. But there really is no excuse to dress badly in NYC – there are boutiques selling nice clothes (which, I’d like to point out, they import from Europe), but I guess JC Penney or whatever, is easier for most people. God forbid you make a little effort or stand out from the Gap uniform!

In Toronto, I despised shopping. Everything was the same. Even boutique stores that were two doors away from each other were stocking the same dresses (which really just comes down to poor research and business skills on the part of the shop owners).

The whole theme in North America seems to be casual comfort. And, due to the growing obesity problem, there soon won’t be any other choice.

But a great deal of this is cultural. Here in England, we are lucky enough to have the rest of Europe as our playground. From a young age, we go on holidays to France, Spain or Italy and get to absorb all the different styles there. Our style is a constant fusion of what we are lucky enough to be surrounded by. Since most Americans don’t have passports, well, I’m sure you can see where I’m going with that one. Few people on the planet dress better than French women or Italian men. There’s experimentation, there’s flair and there’s a genuine desire to always look your best.

Don’t get me wrong. Of course there are people on this fair continent who are yet to master the art of style and the constant cheapening of fashion through discount stores is definitely having a negative effect on the way people dress, but that’s a whole other debate.

If North Americans are honest with themselves, their favourite designers are most likely, European. From McQueen to Missoni – we produce the best. You’ve either got it or you don’t and when it comes to fashion, we Europeans definitely have the edge.

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Mixed Signals

Thursday, July 16th, 2009

 

Ladies, we need to start dressing for men again. Yes, you heard me! We’ve gotten so caught up in the new found freedom of loose, flowy clothes that we forgot that the fellas might miss having something pretty to look at. 

 

Oh and save all your feminist ‘we’ve come too far, we should be able to dress how we want’ nonsense. If you’re a straight woman, you want the attention of men. Admit it and get over yourself. 

 

And frankly, if you’re still wearing baby doll dresses, empire line dresses and loose tops with leggings and wondering why men aren’t looking at you twice, you need to step your game up (and praise the baby Jesus that you came across my blog). 

 

Men are simple creatures. You know what they like? Tits and ass, that’s what. And for the last few years, women’s fashion has been doing it’s darndest to cover these things up. Form fitting clothes have fallen by the wayside. Why? Because we’re getting fatter. God knows we all rejoiced a little when loose, flowing tops first came in and we could hide our multitude of sins. But if you know how to dress yourself, you can still accentuate your figure and strike up a happy medium somewhere between dressing like a stripper and donning a burka. 

 

Men just don’t understand certain ladies fashion fads. Take these for example: 

 

 

You think men understand this shit? I barely understand it. I don’t care if they were on the catwalks in Milan, these pants are ridiculous. They pretty much only make sense if it’s 1992 you have an army of backing dancers wearing the same thing. But it ain’t Hammer Time no more bitches. Men look at this and, rightfully so, think you’re a douchebag. Don’t just blindly follow fashion because this is supposedly a trend. Men don’t want to have to go on a military mission to find your ass. Where is your ass in those pants, I ask you?! 

 

But there has to be a balance. If it was up to men, we would all dress like this all the time: 

 

 

Skirts should be short enough to show off enough leg, dress should be tight enough to accentuate both tits and ass and heels should be worn at all times (regardless of whether or not to choose to throw clothes on with them). I hate to burst the bubble fellas, but it just isn’t practical. I mean, I, of course, dress like this on a daily basis (call me), but for most women, they may not be down with dressing like they’re dancing for dollars every day. 

 

So ladies, it’s time to regroup. Find a happy medium. Tighten some things up. Really look at yourself, figure out what your assets are and don’t be scared to show them off (but remember to keep it classy and leave something to the imagination). 

 

And fellas, you need to fix up too. For too many years we’ve been proud of you for just managing to put clean socks on. Time to step your game up.

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Costume Drama

Tuesday, July 8th, 2008


There are times in life when you can’t keep up with the demands of your wardrobe. You find all of a sudden, you don’t have anything to wear to that interview. Then, if you actually get the job, you’re cursing the day you ever sent them your resume, because you have to invest in umpteen new outfits to look the part.

 

Sometimes you just have to throw caution to the wind, as I did this past weekend on my trip to Nova Scotia. I don’t own suitable ‘country and cottage’ attire, so yes, I show up completely overdressed every time. It’s a running joke in my family, but you know, you can take the girl out of the city and all that.

 

Though, nothing has changed the horizon of the pressures of wardrobe upkeep more than my love-to-hate obsession – Facebook.

 

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve gone to take a picture recently and heard one of my girls say “wait! wait! I’m already wearing this outfit in my Facebook pics!’ My response is usually something along the lines of ‘Listen, this ain’t Broadway, bitch. There’s no time for a costume change. Just shut up and vogue so I can take a snapshot already.’

 

Honestly, the whole notion of not allowing yourself to be pictured in the same outfit twice is beyond ridiculous. Do you think they’re gonna end up in Us Weekly or something? It’s Facebook. The only people who’ll see it is your friends and I know this may be a crushing blow to your belief that the world intensely watches your every move, but I would like you to consider the following points:

 

a) most people couldn’t give a flying crap what you’re wearing.

b) your friends are probably aware that you wear your clothes more than once.

 

So, in an effort to get the ball rolling on that road to acceptance, I bring you, my wardrobe confessions:

 

- I spend a stupid amount of money on clothes. I love my clothes like they’re my family. You best believe I’m wearing that shit more than once and I don’t care if Mario Testino himself has a camera pointed my way.

 

- I don’t own property or furniture or have any savings. My clothes are my investments. I will be fly till I die, bitches!

 

- I wear my clothes so much that when they’re threadbare, they are merely relegated to ‘house clothes’ and eventually make it all the way down the food chain to ‘dish cloth’.

 

- If I go off an outfit, I donate it to goodwill and feel all warm and fuzzy inside that I just made someone less fortunate than myself the flyest bitch on her block.

 

So, next time you get caught in a repeat outfit bind, it’s important to remember, no one is assuming you haven’t laundered said clothes. And if it concerns you that much, get creative and accessorize that shit. Either way, hold your head up, vogue and Work. It. Out.

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I Love Everything About You!

Thursday, April 3rd, 2008


Like any woman, I love being complimented. But how much is too much? It’s a thin line between ‘I like your dress’ and ‘I want you to have my children’, you know what I’m saying? What you might perceive as the most innocent of comments can take you from ‘cool chick’ to ‘stalker bitch’ in the blink of an eye. I had a couple of ‘compliment overload’ situations recently, which got me thinking about how and when it is appropriate to douse someone with praise.

 

Scenario number 1 – Going through airport security.

 

Last week, when I was going through airport security at the ass crack of dawn for my big move, I wasn’t really in the mood for chatter. So when it was my turn, I just wanted to throw my bags on that conveyor thing, shimmy and shake through the metal detector and move on with my life.

 

I step up to the plate and come face to face with this chirpy cheerleader security chick. As I’m unloading my stuff, she starts in with the compliments. ‘I love your jacket! I’m gonna have to ask you to remove that and put it in the tray. Oh, it looks to be about my size too!’ I’m sure she was expecting me to giggle along with her, but I really wanted to jump over the conveyor belt and put her in a choke hold. You’re damn right it’s a nice jacket biyatch! And it would be totally wasted on someone working airport security in the boonies. ‘Oh, your boots are so cute too!’ she says. As I take off my fabulous fuck me boots and lay them in the tray, she picks them up and examines them. But not in a ‘security check’ kind of way, in a ‘shopping in a shoe store’ kind of way. ‘I’d love to know where you shop,’ she swoons.

 

Here’s the phrase that would have covered that situation quite nicely: ‘I like your outfit.’ That’s all she needed to say. But the comments about us being the same size and her wanting to know where I shop make me think, she just wants to be me (and frankly, who could blame her? I’m frikkin’ fabulous – but lets stay on point), so that put her into the stalker category. Not to mention the fact that she’s making those comments, while asking me to remove the items from my person, in a situation where she could confiscate them under false pretenses, saying Bin Laden manufactured my fuck me boots or something. Next thing I know, this bitch is swanning around town in my garms. Oh yeah, I’m onto her and her games.

 

Scenario number 2 – waiting on line in the bank

 

As a general rule, if there are crazies, drunks or homeless people around, they tend to flock to me like I’m Jesus healing a leper. The other day, I’m at the bank and a lady, looking a little worse for wear, decided to strike up a conversation. It wouldn’t have been so bad if her teeth hadn’t all but rotted out and she didn’t have the most intense case of halitosis and some power B.O (much stronger than just regular B.O). ‘I like your hair’ (naturally, I was rocking the bangs and a bun). I was momentarily stunned because the word ‘hair’, given the ‘h’, blew a wave of halitosis at my face with the force of a thousand suns. It took me a few seconds to muster up a thank you. Then she wanted a step by step as to how I style it like that (honestly, I get asked this all the time – apparently, it’s a very impressive hair do). She then went on to compliment my outfit, eyes, nails and accent. I was beginning to think she wanted to make out with me (the thought of which, made me choke slightly on my own vomit). But then she showed me she’s going bald and rambled for a while about government conspiracies. It was a very strange encounter.

 

So, to avoid coming off like one of those creepos, limit the compliments to just one. Make it a broad sweeping one that doesn’t weird the person out. If you go past two plaudits, it gets uncomfortable. Go past three, I want to call the cops.

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Wash 'N' Go

Monday, January 14th, 2008


I hate not having laundry facilities in my house. Frankly, it’s barbaric! No one should have to live in these conditions.

 

Any way you look at it, it’s a pain in the ass. But it’s a pain of hemorrhoid proportions when there’s a snowstorm and you have to haul a week’s worth of laundry on a 10-minute assault course over snowdrifts and black ice just to get to the Laundromat.

 

If only I had no sense of personal hygiene and didn’t care about walking around in dirty clothes. Fortunately (for other people’s olfactory senses), I do care about personal hygiene, so I battle through the storms to launder my threads.

 

I’ve never before had to live sans washing machine, so hadn’t had the pleasure of going to a Laundromat.

 

The first time I went, I walked in and put my bag on the counter.

“Can I leave this with you for a service wash please?” I ask.

A small Greek man looked at me, looked at my bag.

“What is it?” he asked.

I looked around me at all the washing machines, thinking it was a trick question.

“Laundry?” I say, hoping it was the right answer.

“Over there,” he points at another counter.

I walk over there and put my bag down again. He gets behind the counter.

“You have soap?”
“Yes.”
“Fill this out,” he says pushing a piece of paper at me.

I fill in my name and number and slide it back cautiously.
“Ready after four,” he barks, giving me my ticket.

 

Wow, what a conversationalist. I could barely wait to get back there to see what deep and meaningful discussion he’d engage me in.

 

I went to work and all day I was a little on edge about what the laundry Nazi might be doing to my clothes. He seemed pissed. What if he decided to take it out on my fabulous wardrobe by mixing my whites and colors? What if he washed something too hot to make it shrink on purpose? And what if he put that top in the dryer? That top can’t go in the dryer!

 

Yes, I am obsessive about my clothes. I love them dearly. But cut me some slack. I’m a gypsy – I don’t own a home or have any furniture. The only thing I have to show for my useless existence (and where my pay cheque goes) is the clothes on my back (and in my closet, and stuffed in various drawers and in suitcases and filling several boxes in my parents garage in England…)

 

I finished work at 6pm and power walked to the Laundromat, afraid that I’d find my clothes shrunk to toddler size.

 

Laundry Nazi saw me and immediately grabbed my bag.

 

“You have lovely clothes,” he said.

 

A little taken aback by Laundry Nazi’s change in spirits, I thanked him, feeling secure that he showed my garments the respect they deserve.

 

Maybe I was a little hasty in calling him the Laundry Nazi. Maybe Laundry Peace Core would be more appropriate.

 

Now, when I drop off and pick up my clothes, Peace Core and I have a good ol’ chinwag.

 

I’m still usually a little tense on laundry day, but not to the extent that I was before.

 

And maybe I’m right to be tense. A few nights ago, I dreamt that I had to ride on horseback to Texas to get my laundry done. God, I hope that’s not a sign of things to come.

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