Read all about it: Stylaholic, whyioughtta's new vintage style blog

To help me get through the long, endless hours of staring at a computer screen while I work each day, I've developed the habit of spending long, endless hours (when I should be working) surfing online purveyors of vintage wonderfulness.

Mostly for psychological self-assessment, I've decided to track and share some of the gems I come across. Most of the stuff I feature on stylaholic is already sold -- too bad! But it's still drool-worthy not to mention interesting from a 'history of style' point of view.

If you are stylin' -- and I know you are, baby -- check it out.

I am the anti-matter of the Internet

Waaay back in the 1920s and 30s, scientists discovered the existence of anti-particles. An anti-particle is the dark shadow particle of the regular particles we all know and love. These anti-particles have the same mass (which is how you distinquish the 'flavour' of sub-atomic particle--electron, neutron, etc.) but the opposite charge of their workaday counterparts. And when a particle and its anti-particle come into contact, they annihilate each other in a blast of energy.

The anti-particle of an electron is a positron. The anti-particle of hydrogen is antihydrogen. The anti-matter of the Internet is me. When it and I collide, the result is annihilation, accompanied by a loud blast of energy emanating from the vicinity of my mouth. Just in the last 3 days, my computer has been completely frozen by my security software--which, ironically, I use to protect me from the predatory menaces of the Internet that can get into my system and freeze it--my e-mail host is down again (it happens at least once a month), and for some reason I seem to cause time to slow down for Mozilla Firefox, because every Web page takes at least 2 minutes to load, which as we all know is just a hair shy of eternity when you're surfing.

I don't blame my security software, e-mail host, or Mozilla. I know it's just physics--me, coming into contact with the Internet = annihilation. The regular laws of the universe no longer hold. Really, it's a miracle that I'm able to blog at all.

Honey, $2,995 is such a small price to pay when you REALLY love someone...

Made before 1837. Must stop drooling. Keyboard short-circuiting.

Coming this Fall: Clan of the Cave Bear -- Starring YOU

This post isn't about books, it's about fashion. Bear with me (pun sort of intended)...

I loved loved loved loved (quadruple love--that's a lot) Jean Auel's Earth's Children series. The first novel, Clan of the Cavebear, introduces us to Ayla, a tall blonde homo erectus girl raised by neanderthals. (Obvious joke alert: "..Ah, brings back memories of my own childhood...") You may remember the film starring Darryl Hannah. She was disturbingly convincing as a cave woman.

If you read the novels, then you know that Ayla is quite the heroine. She is a brilliant inventor. She teaches herself to hunt. She befriends horses, wolves, cave lions, and wandering cave men. She spontaneously learns speech (her neanderthal family is physically incapable of it). And she is a snappy, innovative dresser. When all you've got is animal carcasses to work with, a little inventiveness goes a long way.

It's fun to read those books and try to picture Ayla in her cave-wear. It's hard not to imagine her as Darryl Hannah, of course, because of the aforementioned movie, but if you try really hard, you can. Disturbingly, though, it looks as though this fall you'll be able to dress like Ayla yourself.

Apparently, fur skirts are coming in. Or as I've taken to calling them, furts. I guess this is an option for women who are a little unsure about wearing dead animal around their shoulders. It's not quite so bad if you're just wrapping carcass around your midsection. Can someone explain the outfits on the right to me? I dare you.

Listen, as I irritatingly mention in almost every post, je suis Canadienne. An inhabitant of one of the coldest countries in the world. But it will never be cold enough for me to consider wearing a furt. And in light of the fact that most of the fashionistas live south of here, I wonder who is supposed to benefit from this new trend of adding pieces of fur to everything (pockets, collars, shoes, etc.)? And what's next, fur dog sweaters? (Me --> retching)

Speaking of neanderthals, what is going on in this image on the left? The caption that went with it exclaims that 'Wool has been rediscovered.' Mark your calendars. March 16 - the day wool was rediscovered. Hadn't you missed our old friend wool? I know I had. Guess I'll have to pack up all my plastic suits...

One of the things I really like about the last few seasons, and the upcoming spring/summer season is the return to a more feminine, close-cropped silhouette. Let's all join together in prayer that this thing on the left doesn't mark a return to baggy androgyny.

And furthermore, at least give us a chance to wear one or two of our pretty sun-dresses before foisting this greige itchy-looking oversized wool nightmare on us. I mean it's still technically winter 2006, for God's sake. I don't want to be looking ahead to next winter already. That's depressing even without the grey-green-sack-suit hybrid and furts.


A last thought on shoes. At least I think that's what these are. Now don't get me wrong--I like them for animated puppets. They're perfect for animated puppets. I'm just not sure they'll work on homo erectus females.

Buy a pair of these little numbers on the left and you get a free time-travel ticket to ancient Venice.

I like to think of these ones on the right as 'Christmas shoes' - nutcrackers.

Have you ever injured your ankle? I have. It was caused by a high-heel boot. A plastic rain boot with smooth plastic bottom worn in March (icy). Went over on my ankle. Permanently stretched the tendons. Would have to get them surgically shortened to fix the injury. So just looking at these makes my blood run cold. Because my injury was sustained from a 3-inch heel. These are at least 5 inches, plus a platform. It would be like falling off a building.

These shoes would have come in handy for Ayla when forging the stream on her way to visit the Mammoth Clan. Or on the many occasions when she had to spear fish or kill charging wildlife. It's a shame, really, that they were invented so late.

Or at all.

Thinking of changing psychological disorders

I'm thinking of trading up from obsessive-compulsive disorder to manic-depression or possibly bipolar disorder (if someone can explain the difference to me). I'm looking at my options. It's just ..,'hmmm...obsessive coffee-stir-counting versus manic episodes where I believe I'm invincible...hmmm' (moving hands in an unbalanced-scale-like fashion). Maybe it's just me, but even brief episodes of invincibility have to be better than my slavery to the coffee spoon...

See, the thing is that now the OCD has me fixated on the online vintage clothing shopping. I'm concerned that I'm turning into a Type A Hoarder. I don't want them to find me one day, buried under old mink stoles and antique petticoats, having had to track down my body through a maze of 10-foot high corridors of vintage Harper's and Vogue.

That's no way to go.

I'm living in a Stephen King novel

Ever feel like you're living in a novel by the Master of Horror? If yes, then you understand my life at the moment. Nothing is what it appears to be. Time-space seems to ripple around you in strange contorted waves. You speak, and people look at you as though you're screeching in ancient Mesopotamian. You find blood in the oddest places...

I'm staring into the grease-clogged pores of reality, and I can't look away. And it's not even Monday yet.

Liz Taylor Moviethon

My eyes are about to explode. I have been staring at the computer since early morning. It's now evening. This will be barely coherent, but I wanted to share.

Why, oh why, have I neglected the Liz Taylor films? I mean, I'm kind of embarassed to admit I saw Cat on a Hot Tin Roof for the first time this weekend. It's such an excellent film.

Once, when I was 18, I was at a party and a man told me his theory about how some people were born to greatness, some were born to wealth, and some were just born to be gorgeous. Like that was their 'calling.' (Gag) Anyway, he used Elizabeth Taylor as an example of someone called to the altar of gorgeousness. He was wrong. I mean, she's gorgeous. But she's also a great actress. It's too bad she doesn't work any more. (She was awesome in Butterfield 8--I think it shows her range more than any of her other films. And I even loved Father of the Bride despite my feminist indignation).

Okay. Paul Newman. Lawdy, lawdy, lawdy. Those eyes. Those lips. Sigh. ...Oh and the acting is great too. But seriously, he's almost impossibly handsome. Ancient Greek sculptors would have given their left arms to sculpt him (making the sculpting very difficult...). If Taylor and Newman actually did reproduce (that's part of the story in Cat), the result would have been one whacked-out world-peace-inducing uber-gorgeous superhuman. Its unbearably beautiful blue-violet eyes would bore holes through solid steel. I'm afraid just thinking about it.

I loved Burl Ives as Big Daddy. And the actress (name escapes me) who played Big Mama. I want to strangle the brother and sister-in-law. Everyone's performance is fabulous, even the terrible 'no-neck' kiddies who are so good at being obnoxious that you really wonder what kind of adults they grew into. Somewhere, those kids are adults now, with kids of their own. Yikes.

Father of the Bride was very...1950. It's really amazing what a difference 50 years makes. This promotional movie poster on the left shows the father (Spencer Tracy) about to whack the bride (Liz Taylor) upside the head. Pretty funny, eh? Yeah, I'm not so hip to that whole 'whackin' the ladies is good comedy' part of that era either. There's also a disproportionate amount of gratuitous ass-slapping going on.

Still, I just can't get enough of the 50s/60s movies. I'm obsessed. The bonus with Cat is that the story, writing, acting, direction, is so fabulous that it's a treat all around. But even with the less perfect films of this era, you can always get lost in the cool sets (dig the jazzy colours and elegant minimalism, man) and the a-ma-zing costumes.

If you haven't seen Cat, don't be like me--don't wait. And please see Butterfield 8 and let me know what you think of the ending.

The lynchpin of the celebrity universe?

I've been to NYC about 3 times in the past 2 years...have a cousin who lives in Brooklyn...try to get down as much as possible. I love New York.

Anyhow, so I've had 2 celebrity sightings on 2 of those visits. Like, the only sightings in my life. Hey, I'm from freaking CANADA, okay??!!!

The first time, I saw Mike Myers at a Starbucks in Soho. It was kind of funny because 1. he DOES have a huuuge head (said with Scottish accent) and 2. because he is Canadian like me, I felt somehow entitled to go up and say hi...like we're relatives or something (I stopped myself).

The second time was Rachel Wiesz. She was coming out of the Soho Hotel and I just briefly glanced at her because some weirdo seemed to be following her and shouting things at her. So I thought she was some poor lady being stalked. It was actually the look she gave me that made me realize that I'd seen her before. The look said 'For God's sake, please don't stare at me just because I'm famous'-slash-'stare at me; I'm famous' . If she hadn't looked at me like that I probably wouldn't even have registered her.

Okay, so those were my two celebrity sightings. They didn't happen the same day--they happened in different years. Now today I'm checking out the recent big kahuna fashion parties on style.com, avoiding working on this financial article about the economic boom in Chinaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa...

...shit, sorry. Dozed off at mention of article...

So I'm surfing around on style.com. Can't believe what some of the people are wearing, etc. And whose photo pops up?





Christ, I can't seem to shake these two...Do you think they're stalking me?

Look at the way they're looking at me...Like they're staring right into my soul...We see you...You are the glue that binds us...Come, join us in our superstar universe....

That's some moderately weird stuff.

Bye bye bonsai

Leaves lie on the floor
Bare branches reach forlornly
Winter, drought, an end

Death by guilt

Witness the spectacle of my inner turmoil and be very afraid:

I feel bad for my previous post. But that doesn't make me wrong! I still think there's truth to what I said. I'm just ...just feeling kinda guilty for saying it ...in a public forum....But dammit, this is my blog, I shouldn't feel bad. ...I should be able to say what I want....I'm just trying to get it all out...But I am a being of love, not hate...Wait...did you hear that? What's that loud, kind of echoy cracking sound? Ow..My head...oh the pain...I think it's going to expl...

RANT: The 'User'

I just realized that I can use my blog to vent my feelings of frustration towards people in complete anonymity. Oh, the power.

Okay, do you know this person: They seem nice at first. They are all pleasantness and laissez faire wonderfulness. But over time, something about them starts to make you uneasy. You can't put your finger on it. Maybe there's something wrong with YOU. I mean, here is this nice person just going through life and all you can do is grow more and more resentful and suspicious. Maybe you're projecting. Maybe you should talk to someone; your obsessive disorder seems to be morphing into paranoia...

And then it hits you: It's ALL ABOUT THEM. Always. There is no 'relationship' here. There is only THEM, aka 'Centre of Known Universe'. Their wants, their needs, their irritating little ongoing dramas. Warning sign: They never ask 'what's new?' or 'how you doing?' and when they invite you to do things it's never 'haven't seen ya in a while, would love to get together,' it's 'I have a disturbing hole in my social calendar that could be filled by anyone; you'll do.'

Them --> oblivious to everything but the vortex that is themself. You--> considering fleeing to a small desert island with no telephones. Also feeling a little upset for letting yourself be used.

One day, you realize you have become a gynormous listening device for this person. You feel the onset of rigor mortis during endless accounts about endless non-issues that never ever end.

And then the scary part happens: they start to assume ownership of certain aspects of your life. Suddenly you realize, no matter how far you run, they will be there, MEMEMEMEMEEMEing you into an early grave. You momentarily consider coming out to them about your fear, but suspect this kind of depth would be fruitless in the one-dimensional universe of THEM.

And then you remember: your blog. Your wonderful, nonjudgemental blog. Always there, always listening. And so you call it up. And you start to tell it all your problems. Your issues. Your concerns. Your little dramas. It's all about YOU YOU YOU glorious YOU!!!

Question: Are we all unavoidably self-absorbed? What separates the users from the used?