I’ve been digging for couture diamonds in the rough at a penny’s price since a teen-age I know what you did last summer stint at the Salvation Army thrift store. Sifting through bags of donated goodies – some flawed, some fabulous- brought unexpected thrills and led to many, many more shopping sprees in the retail dumping grounds for Grandma’s Eisenhower-era duds. Wherever I trod in this world, a retro clothes safari is sure to follow. My goal? To one day have enough stops and stamps on my vintage store passport to put them on the back of a shirt, like that old Rush concert tee you wanted to rip off your boyfriend and wear yourself in 1987. I have traversed in an inestimatable number of store doors on the way to my goal, criss-crossing the globe to establishments in Tromso, Rome and Tokyo. I’ve found many a memorable outfit. One of my favy-faves is the aqua and gold-beaded 1970’s inaugural gown I was proudly given by its original owner, a well-known speechwriter on Richard Nixon’s staff. Not one to let my dresses sit idly by, I wore it to the opera in Minneapolis, taking more than a tad bit of attention away from the mezzo-Soprano soloist during a red carpet walk. My beaver fur coat, genuine flapper confection, WWII wood-block bathshoes and cadre of polyester-blend shirt-skirt combos that could pass in the dim light of winter as Prada ready-to-wear, are also cherished holdings. I confess my closet looks more Nicole Richie and Mary Kate Olsen than Pamela Harrington cum Clinton/Pelosi.

I wear my found treasures everywhere, from the Dairy Treat to the office. And why not? While one time out of ten I look like a Project Runway fashion challenge gone freakishly wrong, I’m usually the chicest girl on the K Street catwalk, about 3-6 months ahead of the Phoebe Couture, Tracy Reese and Marc Jacobs trends. Andre D’Natale would be so proud! Buyers beware though: donning blasts-from-the-past is truly for the brave as you must be prepared for the circus-freak stares, whiplash headturns and shocked second looks. Is a fox head stole or 60’s velvet robe worn as an overcoat really so wrong? People ask me at least one a week what drives my passion for recycled fashion. (Note: Save an apocolyptic mushroom shift dress, my loving, bearded Mr. Kotter man has grown to accept it, happily dropping me off at the thrift shoppe while he shops at the computer superstore. Mr. Kotter, have I told you today how very grateful I am you have the patience of a saint and can spend 60 precious minutes weekly looking at motherboards?)

I’ve thought about my synthetic fabric addiction long and hard and here’s the rub: just like my DVF wrap-dress original, vintage treasure hunting fits me like a glove. I have a taste for the unexpected, constant surprise, unique stand-outs and luxe on a Happy Meal budget. Retro pursuing gives me all of this, and the intoxicating mystery of the frocks’ storied history. Peasant or baroness, debutante or showgirl, it’s often hard to tell who owned it. If only genealogical charts could be done on cheongsams. While the general public may not understand the sprint to Porta Portese at sunrise, it seems uber-designer Vivienne Tam does. She waxes in China Chic, her insightful new tome of Pac Rim culture,

I was curious about ways of dressing and fascinated with second-hand clothing. I bought bags and bags. Each dress has its own story. I can imagine the woman who wore it and the details of her life. When I looked at the dress to study its construction, I could almost see her skin inside. It made me aware of the past.

While not quite as academically pure as studying the rise and fall of the Roman Empire, vintage fashion is anything but vapid. It enables us to uniquely express the essence not only of who we are, but who were by slipping on a little bit of old magic. It’s also 75% cheaper than a shopping spree at Anthropolgie.

For those wanting to try vintage treasure-troving on for size, I offer the following learned hints culled from my very own glorious triumphs and tragic mistakes: always seek out a fall church sale and absolutely be there when the doors open for the very best selection; if it’s in an Episcopal house of worship, all the better. Those Anglicans not only possess the quaint Book of Common Prayer and the most authentic communion wine, but older female parishioners with the most fabulous gowns, shoes and capes on the planet. Next, don’t be afraid to brave the line and try garments on in the store. Dust and discarded clothes on the fitting room floor shouldn’t scare you, urine should. Sizing and fit for a dress from decades past is wildly unpredictable. If you have a waist bigger than 27″ or a broad swimmers back, breathe in very deeply and look in the large section. Many golden-oldie outfits are made for freakishly thin June Cleaverites and a size small would only fit Kirsten Dunst. Lastly and most importantly, get a marvelous seamstress and have original vision for your purchase. Imagination is your only limit. I chop up my frocks like Edwina Scissorhands and have my Cinderella sewer stand at the ready to revamp the zippers and put it all back together again. Good luck. I wish you good times and thrilling finds, like the Louis Vuitton purse I snapped up for less than a sushi dinner at Nobu or a pie at Waldo’s Pizza. Please write me and tell me of your adventures and favorite found merch stories. I’m thinking of writing a book on the topic. As for me, I’ll be walking the floors of my local vintage warehouse with visions of Dita Von Teese and Shirley MacLaine – sparkling as she did in the original Ocean’s Eleven – dancing in my head.

Signed,
TLRG
(Otherwise known as Duchess of the Throwback Frock)

P.S. I can’t compose a column mentioning couture without giving a shout-out to my good friend and beloved fellow fashionista who writes our Postcards from A Sandy Place Column. She’s back in the sandbox and we are holding her close in our thoughts. While donning her camoflauge, I know she’s dreaming of Prada and BCBG’s best. Can’t wait to be back in the Saks shoe department with you soon! I’m holding a pair of Marc Jacobs peep-toe shoes for your return to our shores. SWAK!

The post Granny Chic: Why Old is Gold appeared first on That Little Redheaded Girl's Internet Den of Delights!.

Let me start by saying that Branson is a lot like Vegas only with more cowboy boot outposts and a communist country’s worth of neon backlit theatres dedicated to B-List stars who you thought were long dead, like Mickey Rooney and Andy Williams. Where else can you hear an aging impresario performing impressive vocal imitations of Scotch-swilling Rat Pack favorites like Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett and 70’s elevator music rock stars like Inglebert Humperdink? And just as a point of order and oddity, I must observe that you know you’re in a throw-back to the past kind of town when the words DSL and elliptical trainer are foreign to the natives.

I fulfilled one of my life’s dreams while in Branson which is to get this ol’ cowgirl a pair of riding boots. Not to be braggadocious but I’ve got a prime pair of Justins that have already been used by yours truly in the “saddle”, if you catch my California king hotel bed and sullied linen drift.:) Gidee-up, ride’em cowboy. Oh and ignore all calls from the hotel desk to control the hootin’ and hollerin’.

Other trip landmarks of note were the copious Amish furniture stores littered on the paved wagon route from Branson to KC, home of Robert Altman and in scary proximity to that security guard cum ladykiller BTK. And of course we can not overlook the only place in our great nation where you can get a slab of cow with cheese, mayo and peanutbutter — Sedalia, MO. Nothing induces culinary happiness and IBS like the famed, pre-McCarthy era Guberburger. If the Planters peanut man had a scuzzy, charming bachelor pad that churned out sizzlin’ funions and beef all the live long day, this place would be it.

From food to frocks, I, TLRG, am a roving hipster reporter that brings it all to you, sort of the anti-Stone Phillips. To that end, I relay that my long plane journies to the Heartland and fro have provided ample time to pursue the spring fashion mags like Vogue and Elle. While I frown at the reintroduction of peasant skirts and 80’s neon plastic bracelet ala Debbie Gibson, I have to tell my readers that the Prada 2005 Spring collection is postively to DIE FOR including must have tri-color wood wedge shoes and a 40’s looking bakelite watch that I just might sell all my plasma to purchase. And while I’m in the confessional, I will reveal my uber splurge purchase this month which I am thoroughly enjoying. Are you ready? Big-rimmed Gucci sunglasses. I feel like a real Beltway bandit NOW! What’s next? The Hermes Birkin briefcase?:mrgreen:

Moving on to the world of film, did y’all get to see the Oscars? Actress Hilary Swank looked stately and statute-worthy in her clingy number and Brit actor Clive Owen followed suit in an extra yummy tux. Leo DiCaprio on the other hand and his once dimply youthfulness has turned into something resembling a puffy Krispy Kreme donut coming off the assembly line. As that girly proverb goes, it’s true nothing scrumdillicious lasts forever. Good thing he has Brazilian armcandy to up his hot quotient, si?

I must bring this meandering blog to a close as my jetlagged eyes are about as red as my dress. Know though that I give two ranchhand thumbs up to the world of Branson and urge you to check it out, preferably when the go-cart tracks and Jim Stafford crooning is in full swing. It’s a whole country music hall’s worth of good ol’ fun! As I ride off into the sunset, grace me with your thoughts, will you pardner?

Itchin to Get a Cowgirl Leg Up,
TLRG :redhead:

The post Branson Boot(y) Camp appeared first on That Little Redheaded Girl's Internet Den of Delights!.

Those of you who know me well are keenly aware of how I fight the power, buck the trends, and give little thought to adhering to the of-the-moment “it trends” whether it be in fashion, culture or traditional gender roles. After all, who else dons a bright green polyester sundress in the summer Beltway heat to visit conservative Senate staffers beloved by the Christian Coalition? Not the Policy Wonkette, I assure you.

Alright, enough gafawing. I have a confession to make. Got your priest collar ready? With a little urging from the medieval maven in my life, I have put my initial feminist misgivings aside and gone to a corsetiere to find out what the mysterious pattern cutting and whale bone wows are all about. I admit to being pleasantly surprised. Other than standing in my skivvies, having every inch of abdominal fat on my body measured and recorded, it was a very empowering process. One that ended up with me as the owner of a snazzy dual-colored mid-hip stunner. My “maker” is a true artiste who pursues her stitch-in-time calling with zeal and carefully thinks through and improves on every aspect of corset construction. The one catch to making a purchase?…you have to snatch a co-conspirator willing to lace you up from the back and must also entertain the notion that your bod will fit into a garmet four inches smaller than your REAL waist size, with more than a little time and training. 26 inches here I come!

Looking to improve your posture, feel savvy and sexy during a business meeting or get that special someone to stand up and take notice? Check out http://www.waspcreations.com/ You won’t be disappointed and neither will your partner in crime.

Signed,
(TLRT) That Little Red-Headed Tightlacer

The post Corset Bound appeared first on That Little Redheaded Girl's Internet Den of Delights!.

Every relationship has milestones…for some it is the first overnight slumberparty stay. For others, it’s the inaugural joint purchase of articles ranging from a supermarket potroast to a lawnmower. For me, one was watching my Highland honey gladly scrub and ring out EACH of my panty pairs (twice) and tenderly put them on our hotel heater to dry. The act of stepping outside himself (with nose pinched) to do something sub-Brahim meant more to me than any roses and $2,000 Liberty shopping spree ever could. He not only touched my undies, he touched my heart. I therefore nominate him for scrub-a-dub-dub sainthood. And give him latitude for his frequent bodily eruptions. Hail RJQ! Remind me never to travel on a trip longer than W’s attention span without him.

With Love and Detergent Bubbles,
TLRL

The post Underneath it All appeared first on That Little Redheaded Girl's Internet Den of Delights!.

I searched my soul with that query this morning after walking by a maintenance man hosing off the sidewalk and smelling the most enchanting hearty, musky scent. Sadly, these days coming across a boy all Old Spiced Up is rarer than a WMD in Iraq.

How can this be? You’d think with the gender-bending of male culture (men wear rubber-banded ponytails, women wear ties) that smelling good would be a top-notch priority and anything but an embarassment. I am confident Bill Clinton would wear Pablo Raban or more than a splash and dash of Dunhill, if only it were put on his Chappaqua nightstand.

In a culture where chunking cream is more popular than Lowenbrau, why tremulous male trepidation at smelling like a sexy lumberjack out amongst the evergreens? I’m not talking about spritzing on some of those girly potions with relaxing sandalwood, vanilla, juniper and green tea extracts but instead about he-man scents that make women turn their head, take notice and forcefully back up their man against the wall for some bump and grind dream time….or at least that make you fantasize about your homeboy shirtless, and on his knees laying some linoleum tile and sweating profusely. “Ah, excuse me honey, can I bring you a tall glass of lemonade? Go get you a dremel drill bit?”

Bring on the oak moss. Michael Kors for Men be damned!:mrgreen: A penny or two and a sample of Drakkar Noir for YOUR thoughts…

Signed,
That Little Red-Headed Girl

The post My Two Scents appeared first on That Little Redheaded Girl's Internet Den of Delights!.