Fabulously Fashionable

We have natural disasters, some big some small. We have something going on with the politics- all around the world actually… but what is truly important, and what will be shaking the international media universe up for weeks to come and not only has the full potential to have palpable repercussions upon your life and private bubble, but also on inspiring thousands upon thousands of people is, Fashion Week 2010.

Hello and welcome to one of the biggest shows spattered with colour, pazazz, style and size 0. Although the fashion world has been in uproar over the recent death of Alexander McQueen, who else better to tell you, that The Show Must Go On? And dammit it does. The designers design, the models perfect the art of clothes horse and sashay, whilst the rest of the world await with baited breath to see what Style will dictate our wardrobes for the coming months.

It would appear as though the famous peoples are setting a trend for the frills and bold colours, whilst the designers are having more of a field day with the different shades that can be found between white, whiter, black, blacker and that fine line in between…

I kid, of course. We also have a range of metallics making their way into our lives. It is being called Grubby Gold, which of course instantly makes one think of being filthy rich, which by the by, you would have to be to own some of the pieces being paraded.

I’ll tell you what does have all the promise of being terribly thrilling though; wearing ones underwear on top of ones clothes. Now, I am not talking about doing your own little version of Superman with your Speedos on the outside of your trousers, because, well, just, don’t do it – for everyone’s sake but mainly mine...

No, we are talking sexist fashion for women. We are talking corsets under a blazer, sexy bras peeking through and most probably suspenders akimbo, but I feel this is a more personal preference. It is the very image of the empowered woman walking nakey down a street, because bloody hell, she can – this is how much we’ve advanced over the years. And men, this is not for you, because although you are more than able to fanny down a street in your boxers I am sure it would not be the height of fashion, but more so a question mark on your mental health.

Another thing that has appeared to make a comeback, other than denim - yes, denim is slapping us all in the face again; as if it weren’t hard enough to find that perfect pair of jeans, we are now being confronted with how best to fashion the hillbilly dungarees PLUS the golden rule we have all grown up with, (I have anyway), that denim on denim is a resounding No. Well, we are now being encouraged to become a walking advertisement for a Western, but in the most fashionable manner…it’s nice when life’s not a challenge, right?

Other than this delightful denim affair, another matter which has appeared to slip unnoticed through the fashion net is size 0. They are everywhere. You know how that little kid saw “dead people”? Well I’m seeing nobly knees and lollypop heads. Everywhere.

Once more the fashion world is being represented by the abnormally thin. And this is not some personal size-ist rant, rather, a point of view that I believe begs the question of what is it that we consider Art these days?

Is it to see fabulous materials clinging softly to the sensual curves of the female body, punctuated with a gait full of passion for the beautiful? Is it for every turn and swirl to be infused with a wondrous perfume full of flare and finesse? Or is it for the materials to hang off the bones our society craves so badly, with knees protruding rudely from beneath wild silk? Every gasp from the audience not being one of amazement at Art encapsulated, but concern for the tottering human before them?

This portrayal of art tarnishes slightly the glorious world that is that of the fashion dreamers. But as humans, we adapt and conform and mustmust seek the silver lining in all. Though I must say, I believe the silver lining in denim on denim has been deeply sewn in and we could find ourselves searching for some time…

Rite of Passage

It’s like a rite of passage. Some walk over hot coals; others have that lil’ bit of extra skin cut off their woohoo; others have a good ol’ drink; others have a party at a certain age – but actually, with the consumerist society that we are, the parties come more often and less far between! The important birthdays are no longer the coming of age, but the coming of ages: we have 13, we have 15 in some circles, we have 16, we have 18, we have 21 and it really does go on. But they are all rites of passages. And this was what I thought when I got told I would have to have my wisdom teeth removed.

Upon viewing an x-ray, not only were the two at the top ready to be removed, but the ones at the bottom were not in fact ready to grow vertically, but set to torpedo themselves in a horizontal manner against the rest of my teeth. The dental nurse gasped when she saw the image, I panicked and said “Oh no! Is it bad? I’ve only ever had fillings. And they’re white.” Ashen, she didn’t answer but took me back to the dentist. I quickly explained to my mother and told her I had been alarmed by the nurse’s reaction.

The image suddenly came on the screen for all in the room to see. There was a unified, sharp intake of breath, my mother the most dramatic – whilst I sunk deeper in the chair and wondered if it kept my mouth firmly shut whether it would all go away…

Instead, dental surgery dates were made; I went a little paler than my natural shade and the nurse stroked my forehead.

Finally the day for the worst of the surgery arrived. First, they messed up the times and told us it was very possible that we be made to wait for 2 hours. I had no intention of sitting in the waiting room for a terrible thing to be done to me! It was the same concept of the ECT waiting room in psychiatric units; why on earth would one go and voluntarily wait to be electrocuted?!

So, we waited. A grown man went in for a normal extraction and came back looking like he was about to cry. My heart panicked and my mother went to reach out to him. I told her it wasn’t PC.

The anesthetic was administered and I broke down.

My only concern was that the anesthetic wouldn’t work and that I'd have the bad luck of not passing out before I had felt too much pain.

The surgeon stepped in and after having been assured by the nurses that he was one of the best in Madrid, he said, “Which are we taking out today?” my eyes widened and as indignantly as possible, given my thick tongue, I answered, “The bottom ones!!”

Silent tears streamed down my cheeks as he pressed down and jimmied away at my tooth. I imagined he was going at the tooth like one would with a car jack. The nurse pointed the sucking tube in all directions, which at one point made me wonder whether she may suck up one of my tonsils by mistake…

Finally the surgeon said, you may hear something break now. The only thing I could think was that it had been such a mistake to not have worn waterproof mascara.

The other side was less anesthetized and my panic grew as he touched the drill to the gum. Being an English student, my attempt at a rather long, incoherent sentence escaped my wide open mouth, trying to inform all that it bloody well hurt. Message was conveyed and on it went.

I was stitched up and the room cleared, all except the matronly type of an Eastern European nurse, who I’m sure had stroked my forehead at intervals throughout the operation.

I stood up and she stuffed two rolls of gauze in either cheek. More silent tears escaped as I tried to tell myself not to cry, it was over now! But for heaven’s sake, I wanted my mother! The nurse looked shocked and asked me whether I was upset because I was leaving them? I cried a little harder.

I walked into the waiting room with cheeks thrice as puffy as when I had walked in 2 hours earlier and stared at my mother. She and the other 6 people there stared back at me. It was quite possibly shaping up to be the end of the world.

I spent that day with an ice pack and on very high pain meds.

The next day I woke up with no pain, but then looked in the mirror. My cheeks were huge! I looked like the Elephant Man’s long lost sister! Such was the size of my cheeks that my mouth had been pushed into the tiniest constant pout and my chin had disappeared!

Bending down was not an option as my cheeks weighed too much. Walking swiftly or running was also completely out of the picture as I would need a support for my cheeks. Eating, yawning and copious amounts of talking were also out of the question as the backs of my cheeks had been sewn to the backs of my gums. This was like a gastric band but in the mouth!

I spent three miserable days, looking like I was trying to smuggle hoards of little people in the pouches hanging off my jaw line. Leaving the house was done by wrapping a scarf up to the tip of my nose and ending up looking very much like a highway hit-man.

By the fourth day, the swelling had gone down noticeably, I had recovered a chin and also yellow bruising. I now looked like I was going fabulously mouldy.

I have decided this rite of passage is horrific and fully intend on being as high as a kite for the removal of my next pair in March. I will also go armed with waterproof mascara and a large scarf. I will have some pre-written cards in my pockets, the one at the top of the stack will read, “You have 3 seconds to back away from my mouth before I scream bloody murder.” Or something to that effect, possibly less polite.

Wrong Room 101

Let’s make life fun. Let’s turn all little miss-haps into something positive. Learn to laugh at yourself! These words are disgustingly familiar as the ones I try and live my life by. But frankly, sometimes it’s kinda hard even for those that laugh easily, to laugh at everything.

This week has been hectic. I have kept unsociable hours, my life has been turned into a merry go ‘round of car, hospital, home, car, hospital, home- and the only way to get off the dizzying ride was to close your eyes, wish upon a night time star and await the morning call.

My grandmother had a hip replacement operation, which if you’re anything like me will send your imagination into overdrive. I imagined the surgeon rocking the table with the saw in one hand and the flaps of thigh skin moving in the wind of the air conditioned operating theatre. Nurses at the ready to take the piece of bone that was being taken out, chuck it to a pack of waiting dogs and replace it with a steel tube, which by the way, is said to eventually fuse with the real bone of the leg and become at one with it. Now, the only way I imagine this happening is if you put the steel tube in with superglue at either end…apparently it doesn’t work that way. Also, it is not a steel tube, but one made of Teflon. I say Teflon, you think frying pan with a hotspot in the middle? No? Well I did.

Suffice to say the operation I imagined would take a few hours and then a few more for her to come around after the anesthetic. But no, 30 minutes and the Teflon had been slipped in and she was wheeled to a room of her own, on the same floor as the gypsies.

Ahh the gypsies! The entire family/troop/brood/football team/clan took up the downstairs waiting area. Four gypsy generations sat there as hospital life whizzed past them. The men differing in height and size, but all in black. The women, half of which were toting a kid on a hip like the latest accessory, all wore platform shoes, differing in height and colour. I believe they were there to keep the Family’s Sacred Grandmother company. I also believe they were a mafia and that somewhere between baby, hip and platform a discrete dagger nestled.

I’ve been taught to cross myself after happening upon a gypsy. And dammit, I did. I’ve also been taught not to stereotype. And dammit, I’m working on it.

My grandfather went to visit one day. He parked, he walked past all the gypsies, got into the lift and got out when the doors slid open, made his way down the corridor and arrived at the room. Waiting there for him was not my grandmother surrounded by her home comforts, (because in this family we do not travel lightly anywhere), but instead, the blinds were drawn, the bed was empty and had been made and a printed note lay on the starched sheet, stating that the patient had been taken into surgery for a heart operation.

Now, my grandfather also has a delicate heart and the poor sod kept it beating whilst he turned on his heel and frog marched his way to the nurse’s station to find out just what in God’s name had happened to his wife, her hip and now her heart! The nurses offered little information, each claiming to know less than the first and each promising to ring somewhere and find out.

Whilst the promises and the telephonings were going on, the poor man walked himself back to the room only to find three more people had appeared. They all stared at each other. And then my grandfather asks, “Are you from here?” Make of that what you will. Are you from the hospital? Were you born here? Is this room where it all began for you? Are you au fait with the law of the land regarding this room? I can only assume he was in shock and a question had to be thrown out and some sort of an answer had to be produced. Finally, one piped up, “You’re not from here, you’re from the 3rd floor.” All hospital visitors speak the same lingo apparently.

And indeed; grandmother was found, home comforts strewn everywhere, hip still Teflon, heart intact and mystery solved. This was the only politically correct giggle of the week and since then, I have scrubbed clean the scrawl across his forehead which read, “3rd floor.”