Every once in a while, I read something that stops me in my tracks.  

Like today, I saw a fascinating article in The Consumerist describing the experience of a woman named Amanda, who went to a well-known department store seeking a cocktail dress in a larger size.  The article contains Amanda’s description of what happened when she found nothing in her size and asked for help from a sales associate, Pam.  

Pam: It’s a demographic thing, ma’am. We do not carry plus sizes of formal wear or business suits. We find, demographically speaking, that most of our upscale clientele is smaller, so we have… just the basics for our plus sized customers… The demographics tell us that plus sized women just don’t need social wear. 

Me: …So what you are saying then is that larger women don’t have good jobs and don’t go to parties.? 

Pam: That’s correct, ma’am. 

Setting aside the fact that my professional experience totally belies Pam’s claims, it seems clear that she rudely parroted some inside information to Amanda. 

What I find most distressing, though, is Pam’s interpretation of that data: that people who require more upscale clothing have greater means, which gives them more control over issues like weight, and that no one with that control would ever choose to wear a size larger than 12.  Wow.  That’s a lot of assumptions.  

Queen Latifah, plus sized AND black tie (from about.com)

Just why would anyone assign so much importance to weight?

It might have something to do with the way we obsess over it.

For example, I have a truly beautiful friend who wears size 18-20.  She is a smart, interesting person with incredible taste, and I’ve never known her to diet.  In fact, I can think of few people who seem more happy with themselves.  But guess how she’s invariably described?  As a “wonderful woman with such a pretty face” or “gorgeous skin” or “lovely eyes”.  There’s always an asterisk next to her beauty, as in “She’d be gorgeous if…” which is only a step removed from “Why can’t she just lose the weight?”  Well, maybe she doesn’t want to.  

And think about the candid yet apologetic way Oprah is talking about her weight gain.  Health concerns aside, why is she apologizing?  What if she never regains her tenuous hold on that coveted slimness?  Will we assume she is not driven, not disciplined?  Are you kidding me?  Oprah?!  

This is serious business because if extra pounds can get the best of someone as stunningly accomplished as she is, what hope do the rest of us have for conquering the tyranny of the scale?

So here’s one thing I’m going to try.  The next time I notice someone has gained weight, I’m not going to jump to conclusions about it.  And if I start thinking, “Maybe she’s got a thyroid condition…” or “I wonder if her marriage is okay,” I’ll balance it out with other thoughts.  Fun ones like, “Maybe she’s been on vacation,” or “She must have a new love who is also a Cordon Bleu chef,” or “Good for her!  She likes to eat.” 

Sadly, though, I know it will take much more than that to get around my own fat fallacies …

So what do you think?  What kinds of assumptions do you make about other people based on weight?  Does your own self image fluctuate with the numbers on the scale?  And most importantly, where did all this insanity begin?      

‘Tis the season of Pilgrims, and as I celebrate Thanksgiving, I’m wondering what their lives were really like and what residue of their experience still exists in our culture.  

Very little, right?  Head kerchiefs, day-long church meetings, outhouses—doesn’t sound much like our America.  And Mayflower era punishments like scarlet letters and time in the stocks?  Forget it; I know people who explode with indignation when they receive parking tickets.  

But when I really think about it, there are lots of ways we’re influenced by the Pilgrims.  For one, fashion. 

Okay, we’re not running around in buckled shoes and wide-brimmed hats, but our attitude towards fashion is tinged with the Puritanical.  Just think about the normalization of mohawks.  Once an aggressive badge of outsider status, they’re now popping up on toddlers.  (Angelina’s almost certainly to blame for this.)  

Even so, our acceptance of the mohawk is limited.  A sassy patch of longish hair in the middle of the crown is fine.  More extreme, more obviously mohawk with psychadelic colors and spikes?  Still not okay. 

Basically, our attitude is, “Go ahead and make a statement, just make a contained one that doesn’t force my participation.”  Getting a tattoo?  Totally normal.  Getting one on your face?  Totally uncomfortable because everyone around you has to deal with it.  They have to take a stand; there’s just no way to be neutral on face tattoos.  

Japan's hime girls (from japanforum.com)

It’s important to note that other cultures don’t necessarily share our distaste for extreme fashion statements.  The Wall Street Journal recently profiled Japan’s “hime” trend.  Think Marie Antoinette sensibility imported for 21^st century Tokyo.  Hime girls, self-styled princesses, deck themselves out in confectionary ensembles from high-priced boutiques like Jesus Diamante and Liz Lisa. 

Hime hair and make-up (from wsjonline.com)

 While American women over the age of six avoid sweet floral patterns, hime girls prize dresses adorned with roses, pearls, bows, hearts, and lace.  They complete the look with satin gloves, parasols, and carefully cultivated babyish voices.  They further complement it with china doll eye make-up and over-the-top hairstyles, most of which feature that same “cocker-spaniel” look so popular with 18^th century royals. 

"Cocker spaniel" look circa 1750. (from crystallinks.com)

It’s an expensive and time-consuming style.  One of the hime girls profiled in the Journal reports that it costs her “…$2000 or $3000 a month… Her parents, who live nearby send (her and her husband) food so they have more money for (her) shopping sprees.”    

Jezebel.com rightly questioned the priorities that put beribboned shoes before food.  A bit like suggesting that the starving masses eat cake, isn’t it?    

I’m equally struck, though, by the fact that non-hime Japanese take the trend in stride.  Just imagine your sister-in-law sitting down for Thanksgiving dinner in full hime girl get-up.  You’d all wonder if she were off her medication or had taken to the bottle or were suffering from a concussion.  

Such limited tolerance for people who want to look different comes straight from the Pilgrims.  They preferred plainness to embellishment and community to separateness, and we are their cultural heirs.  Similarly, if you look at the hime girls in the context of Japan’s geisha and kabuki traditions, it’s totally in keeping with cultural preferences for artifice and refinement.  “Costumey” has a perjorative sting in our country that doesn’t seem to translate there.     

So what do you think?  Can you imagine the hime girl look on the streets of San Francisco or Atlanta?  Have you ever noticed that someone else’s extreme fashion statement put you on edge?  And what else do we have in common with the Puritans?  

from latimes.com

Lately, we’ve heard a lot about lipstick.

It’s been everywhere: on pit bulls and pigs and apparently on women as well. 

The Lipstick Index, which contends that we rush to the cosmetics counter when the economy tumbles, is reasserting itself.  According to the New York Times, sales in the last few months are up 40 percent.

It’s not just coincidence.  Women (always more practical than we get credit for) are quick to cut back when times are tough.  But since we’re also emotional, we need a little boost.  Enter lipstick, which has the semi-mystical ability to transform your face from pale and tired to close-up ready.  And since it can cost as little as $1.99, it’s the ultimate cheap thrill. 

Any talk of lipstick brings to mind my friend Holley, a champion equestrienne.  Her daily beauty routine involves slathering on sunscreen and greeting the world barefaced.  Ever the naturista, Holley makes one, tiny concession to vanity.  You got it– lipstick. 

Even when she has manure on her boots, her lips are as polished and perfect as a Raphael.  I’ve seen her in neutrals, sheer pinks, sometimes red when she’s feeling sassy, but I’ve rarely seen her without it.  Oh, and she always applies it with a brush. 

So I asked her about it.  ”No matter what’s going on, she explained, lipstick makes me feel like I can handle it.  It’s like armor.  When I put it on, I feel just as confident as I did when I was seven and got to wear lip gloss to a party.  So I think I owe it to myself to feel that way every day.” 

I agree 100%.  And isn’t it striking that Holley reaps such hefty emotional rewards from something so slight?

I’m so impressed with her lipstick love that I’ve started asking friends, “What is something readily available that you can count on to give you a little lift?”  I’ve gotten some far-ranging answers.

“Popcorn– not from the microwave– the kind that puffs up on the stove.” 

“Clean sheets, fresh out of the dryer.” 

And my favorite: “New panties.”

Several people mentioned a good glass of wine and quiet time with a spouse.  Many others cited a favorite dress or a beloved piece of jewelry.  One friend told me she literally feels high when she scores that rarest of controlled substances, a great parking space.

So maybe the Lipstick Index could just as easily be called the Jiffy Pop Meter or the Hanes Her Way Bell Curve.  Because while we’re willing to put a new car or a big vacation on hold, we really depend on the simplest pleasures.  A favorite brand of bubble bath.  A crisp, white shirt. 

And there’s something delightfully self-sufficient about loooooooving something that’s totally within reach.

I’m off to buy some lipstick…  

Check out these Depression-era delicacies: “Meatloaf” made with cottage cheese and peanuts, “apple” pie featuring crushed Ritz cracker filling in lieu of sweet Macintoshes. 

The recipes alone tell us that times were tough, hopefully much tougher than we’ll ever see.  But with images of the 30s everywhere, I can’t help noticing something else.  The fashion was INCREDIBLE.

Really, people looked amazing.  Now, I get that the average Dust Bowl wife wasn’t outfitted like Ginger Rogers.  But it’s called the Great Depression for a reason; the belt-tightening touched everyone. 

Dressing on the bias (from nypost.com)

But just how did they look so good when everything was so bad?

Clothing is intensely personal; what we put on our bodies reflects our state of mind much more accurately than what comes out of our mouths.

Then what does luscious 30s fashion– arguably the most worshipped, coveted, and copied of the last hundred years– have to say about the Great Depression? 

The Huffington Post notes:

Erte pendant (from Martin Lawrence)

Whatever the budget of the thirties woman, her dress had to go a long way; it couldn’t look dated after several seasons. This explains the simplicity of the clothes… and the rise in importance of accessories (used for) changing the look of a relatively simple suit or dress from one wearing to the next.

True, the 30s were a heyday of exciting, innovative jewelry.  I imagine that for Depression-era ladies, an Erte cuff felt permanent and reassuring; it seemed like a solid investment–so unlike those undependable stocks.  The fact that it gave an old dress new pizzazz was just a bonus.

The 30s fashionista, whom Huffington describes as older, more sophisticated and much less carefree, sought out clothes that mirrored her mood.

Just think about the classic silhouette of the period: the figure-clinging, bias-cut gown, which totally cast aside the flapper aesthetic of the raging and prosperous 20s.  Hemlines dropped faster than land values, and the new length made it clear that doing the Charleston was no longer priority number one. 

Also consider the emphasis on shoulders.  Any woman in this dress

(from imdb.com)

wants you to know that she can handle the weight of the world.  She’s practically daring you to bring it on!

So with today’s climate of apprehension and uncertainty , I’m remembering something a very wise woman and Depression survivor once told me: “When things are at their worst, put on your best dress just to give Fate a little sass.”

Unlike faux meatloaf, that’s something I can get behind. 

Despite the wildly different visions fashion designers are presenting this fall, one trend is showing up all over the runways: super-sized heels.  Six and seven inchers dominated fashion week, and now women are taking this look to the streets (which is exactly where some of my less charitable friends would say it belongs.)  

Sky-high heels were inevitable, the natural pendulum swing after our recent obsession with ballet flats.  But seven inches?  That turns a woman of average height into Xena the Warrior Princess.  Indeed, the Wall Street Journal describes it as “a superhero, rather than a Barbie-doll, look.” 

Although this extreme image appeals to a select group of trend-following (or folly-ing) fashionistas, I’m sure most women own a sassy pair of three– maybe even four– inch heels.  I think we love their sheer impracticality.  When you slip on a confectionary pump, you’re telling the world, “I’m in no rush.”  Everything can wait until I get there.  Oh, and when I get there, it will definitely be via taxi, if not limo.”  And since heels aren’t suited for any terrain more rugged than the foyer of Bergdorf’s, they signal that wherever you go, your spindly, little heel will be plushly supported by sumptuous carpet.  The mere act of wearing heels puts you squarely in league with Holly Golightly.  And makes the more sensibly-shoed look like Ma Joad.

Scaling new heights? (from the Wall Street Journal)

But of course, there’s a downside to all that glamour.  Apparently, high heels are a greater threat to the modern woman than Al Qaeda.  They get the blame for a stunningly unglamorous list of ailments, including bunions, ingrown toenails, hammer toes (just the name of that one gives me a little shudder), Achilles tendonitis, and good old-fashioned sprained ankles.  And American women aren’t the only ones willing to suffer for beauty.  According to Marie Claire, stiletto-related injuries are racking up quite a price tag Across the Pond; try 29 million a year.

If all that’s not enough, CBS claims that high heels may have actually prevented two women from escaping an oncoming train.

Yet even with common sense against them, we still love heels.  They’re just so exclusive!  They make it clear that you’re not part of the rat race.  If Chanel was correct that “elegance is refusal,” then the heel is the ultimate sign that you are not participating.  And it looks like our love affair will continue for the foreseeable future.

The Journal confirms that, “(Christian Louboutin’s) new 6- and 7-inch stilettos are selling so well right now that he plans to introduce 8-inch platform shoes next fall. ‘I hear they can be painful,’ Mr. Louboutin says, ‘but women keep asking for them.’”

So I’ve got the perfect invention, the next “next big thing”:: gold-plated, Swarovski studded canes, if possible, kissed with the Louis Vuitton logo.  Because today’s fashionista is tomorrow’s orthopedic patient…

So do you love high heels?  If so, why?  And how much pain are you willing to put up with for them? 

Do you think Louboutin’s eight inches are the limit?  Or is there an even more ear-poppingly high heel to come?

Mr. Blackwell (from wikipedia.org)

I’m paying my respects to Mr. Blackwell, author of my favorite annual guilty pleasure.  Every January I looked forward to his famous Ten Worst Dressed List– and not just for his astute fashion observations.  His sassy rhymes and alliterative vigor truly set him apart.

Mr. Blackwell arguably fathered the glut of snarky fashion columnists that amount to visual wallpaper in contemporary media, but he was different.  Today’s commentary frequently smacks of funereal seriousness, and when it doesn’t, it’s defined by a cheap, “anything goes” attitude.  Mr. Blackwell was one of the very few who got the tone right.  He told stars that looking good was an “obligation to your audience” but also described his list as “whimsy” and “camp”.  Basically, he knew that fashion is an art form, but a fun one– somewhere between Picasso and papier mache. 

So I was surprised to read the following criticism in the LA Times:

He ruined the red carpet by dismissing originality. Everyone blames stylists for making actresses wear staid, safe bets to awards shows.  But it’s the countless, snarky and often unqualified fashion critics — from Joan Rivers to Us Weekly’s fashion police — who make the red carpet a blood-soaked runway.

A bold take on Mr. Blackwell’s influence, but “a blood-soaked runway”?! Let’s get real; the Oscars are hardly the Spanish Revolution.  And do you think the instincts of a true fashionista (say, Audrey Hepburn) could ever be cowed by what any commentator had to say?

Let’s just take a look at the ideas that regularly popped up on his list. 

1. Fit is paramount.

1965: Elizabeth Taylor is “a chain of link sausages.” 

1998: Mariah Carey is “shrink-wrapped cheesecake.”

2. Women should dress with decorum.

Perennial star of Mr. Blackwell's list. (from imdb.com)

1992: Madonna is “the bare-bottomed bore of Babylon.”

1999: Cher is “a million beads and ONE overexposed derriere.”

3. Stars should focus on looking polished and feminine.  

1965: Barbra Streisand is “Ringo Starr in drag.”

2003: Diane Keaton is “Queen Victoria on jury duty.”

I’ll concede the LA Times’ point that his vision of style lacked dynamism.  But following his straightforward rules of good taste certainly never got anyone in trouble.  And in this age, his campaign for classic, ladylike dressing will be missed. 

So rest in peace, Mr. Blackwell.  Easier said than done if Marilyn Monroe (Worst Dressed 1961), Bette Davis (1965), Jayne Mansfield (1961 and 1964), and Lucille Ball (1961, 1962, AND 1965) have anything to say about it.

I’m a longtime fan of the Mediterranean diet.  What’s not to love?  Ample portions of fruits and vegetables, fragrant olive oil, fresh fish– no wonder these people live forever.  I would too if the prospect of such good eating loomed ahead. Throw in the customary glass of wine with dinner, and I get what Zorba’s dancing was all about.

I’ve incorporated elements of this diet into my regime.  It takes some effort, though.  Unlike Zorba, I can’t just walk down to the dock and pick up the catch of the day.  I love fresh fruits and vegetables, but I frequently check my crisper and discover that I’ve waited too long to prepare them.  And after a day at work and a drive through infamous LA traffic, takeout sounds so appealing. 

Guess what?  I’m not the only one who faces these difficulties.  The New York Times reports that even actual Mediterranean people are now drifting away from the diet they’ve made famous. 

An endangered species (from geocities.com)

The fact is that the Mediterranean diet, which has been associated with longer life spans and lower rates of heart disease and cancer, is in retreat in its home region.  Among the young generation in places like Greece, two-thirds of children are now overweight and the health effects are mounting.

The article goes on to detail the eating habits of some contemporary Greek children, all of whom are euphemistically described as “husky” or “stocky.”  Officials in the region are so concerned that they have even asked Unesco to designate the diet as an”intangible piece of cultural heritage.”  Part of me cheers this expansive definition of “heritage” while another part is horrified that something as natural as eating must now be safeguarded like the Parthenon.

We all know the culprit in this scenario.  It’s the Western Pattern Diet, sometimes called the Standard American Diet (which has the appropriate acronym of SAD).  Evocatively described as the “sweet-meat” diet, it relies on highly processed, convenience food.  So while we’re coveting the Greek approach to eating, they’re demanding McDonalds and Baskin-Robbins.  And this has me wondering: Why do we export the worst of us?

Okay, I’m not picking on Micky-D’s.  Fast food has its purpose.  But are we really willing to let our fat-and-sugar-laden diet be our ambassador to the world?  Freedom, democracy… diabetes?

In the spirit of patriotism, I’ve thought of some things I’d like to export instead.

Jeans.  Sure, Levis brought down the Soviet Union, but there’s still a number of European cities where I feel out-of-place wearing them.  (Looking your way, Roma.)

A better export, perhaps? (from wikipedia.org)

Blues music.  Not too long ago we were in Paris and saw a guy outside Notre Dame singing The House of the Rising Sun in heavily accented French.  And guess what?  That was one guy who wasn’t participating in any of France’s notorious and much-maligned strikes. 

King-sized beds.  No matter where you travel, you can bet your sleeping experience will be sub-par.  Only 5 star, American-centric hotels have decent mattresses, and of course, when you limit yourself to those establishments, you miss a lot.  Why can’t we share our high sleeping standards with everyone else?  How about this for our new State Department slogan: USA.  Where anyone can sleep like a King. 

After all, isn’t that what’s great about our country?

Like everyone, I’m scared about the current financial crisis, and my typically sunny outlook has taken a hit.  I lie in bed at night wondering just how comfortable a money-stuffed mattress might be.  I’m experiencing an unprecedented desire to stock up on canned goods.  This morning, I saw an article detailing the risk of an asteroid strike, and my first reaction was, “Of course.  Why not?”  Let’s just say that I’m living with some anxiety.

So in an effort to control the situation, I’m trying to come up with positive things about this recession.  After all, the Great (and hopefully only) Depression brought us the Civilian Conservation Corps, which not only employed young people desperately in need of work but also restored countless national treasures.  So isn’t it possible that this crisis has something good to offer?

The first benefit I’ve sensed is the demise of our interest in millionaires, which should finish off all those heiress-centric reality shows.  I don’t care if Paris Hilton can milk a cow or not (and truthfully, I’m on the cow’s side), so I’m looking forward to less Simple Life, more actual simple life.

This goes double for those shows where people stab each other in the back in hopes of becoming real estate tycoons, which just isn’t as promising a career as it once was.

Au Revoir (from imdb.com)

And think of all the extra things that we won’t spend money on anymore.  Okay, that might include food and health care, but on a bright note, I bet small businesses will limit packaging.  Case in point: just last night, my grocer neglected to double bag.  Sure, that’s good for the environment, but it also suits the lazy part of me that hates emptying the recycling bin. 

Everyone’s worried about our compromised dollar, and my fellow travel addicts know it’s going to make our adventures more challenging.  So it’s a great time to plan getaways right here in our own beautiful country.  How about New Orleans?  Why not Yellowstone?  And just in case fuel prices make those jaunts unrealistic as well, there’s always interesting stuff in my own backyard.  There’s got to be something in Santa Monica I haven’t seen yet… 

And speaking of fuel prices, my favorite foreseeable benefit is the end of hideously oversized cars.  This is good for so many reasons (many of them aesthetic), but most of all, it means my car won’t get so many dings from Hummers trying to squeeze into LA’s modestly-sized, 70s era parking spaces. 

Close-to-home thrills (from coastalca.gov)

So please forgive me for sounding like Poorhouse Pollyanna, but I’m making a little lemonade from these bitter recession lemons.  Granted, it’s taking a lot of sugar.  I do think, though, that it’s just possible that the financial crisis will make me a little more grounded, thoughtful, and realistic.  In these tough times, is that so much to ask? 

What do you think?  Seeing any silver linings these days?  Any at all?

Can't we be friends again? (from balducci.com)

Like most American women, I have some experience with dieting.  

Over the past few decades, we’ve been assailed with a barrage of fad diets.  The latest in this tradition is the revolting Banana Bag diet, so named because its followers get all of their nutrients from a bright yellow fluid via an IV drip.  You know, like very, very sick people would do.  Yuck!  The only banana bag diet that interests me is one that involves keeping an actual banana in my bag (an excellent defense against low blood sugar). 

So in the midst of all this madness I was delighted to read the following in the New York Times: 

Consumers and nutritionists say they are seeing a shift toward positive eating: shunning deprivation diets and instead focusing on adding seasonal vegetables, nuts, berries and other healthful foods to their plates. 

Positive eating is one trend I can get behind.  But wait a minute; why is this news?  Ever since our hunter-gatherer ancestors started setting up cities, enjoyment and fellowship have been hallmarks of eating.  So how in the world did we get so off-kilter? 

The Times offers one explanation; “We’ve lost people’s ability and knowledge of how to cook.”  Truly horrifying, but I think we’ve lost more than that.  When was the last time you deeply enjoyed a meal?  It seems that obsessive dieting combined with our increasingly time-compressed lifestyle might have squeezed all the fun out of food. 

Further complicating the issue are the mixed messages we receive from our culture.  On one hand, we’re constantly told that something’s wrong with what we eat.  It’s a big game of musical chairs, featuring carbs, trans fat, mercury, sodium, and the rest.  No matter where the music stops, there’s something you absolutely should not put in your body.  At the same time, we’re bombarded with images of overflowing plates.  Modest portions simply aren’t enough; we’re encouraged to stuff, stuff, stuff.  As a result of all these weird signals, our relationship with food has turned toxic.  It’s like one of those dysfunctional friendships; we can hardly remember why we were friends in the first place. 

I’d love to send Food an email, ask it out for a pedicure and a glass of wine, hopefully have a real heart-to-heart.  But repairing this friendship is a little more complicated than that.

Here are some of my ideas for getting this relationship back on track:

1. Set the table.  Even if I’m eating in front of the TV, I’ll take more time if I have proper cutlery, place mat, napkin, etc. 
2. Turn off the blackberry.  Almost anything can wait half an hour. 
3. Change my thinking.  Consider eating an activity that I must make time for, just like reading or working out.

So what are your thoughts on maintaining friendly relations with food?

And while you’re at it, I’d love to hear your techniques for controlling the constant “eat more, eat more” messages our culture sends us.  I like the NY Times observation, “a growing number of college cafeterias have eliminated trays, meaning students have to carry their food to a table.”  Well, yes.  I think we can all agree that you shouldn’t eat something you can’t carry. Even the hunter-gatherers understood that.

Sarah Palin’s unexpected candidacy has pundits everywhere salivating about a hypothetical Sarah-Hillary debate.  There’s no telling who would emerge victorious, but I can guess which one would win in a foot race.  Despite her extra decades, “Sensible Shoes” Clinton ought to leave “Peep-toe” Palin in her dust. 

Forget their politics; the Dreamgirls of the Left and Right definitely clash when it comes to style. 

Over the years, Hillary has taken plenty of digs for her look.  She even bashed herself in an Us Magazine spread earlier this year.  And how often do people mention her signature pantsuits?  (Off topic but worth asking: Would we even notice if Orrin Hatch had a thing for V-neck sweaters?)

Well-matched (from latimes.com)

While I fall on the side that liked the radiant orange Hillary chose for her DNC speech, I would have paired it with modern, brown slacks.  But jazzy separates need not apply; Hillary Fashion is totally straightforward.  It’s right out of the women’s movement and intent on being taken seriously.  It says, “There’s no dissembling here.  The jacket will match the pants.  And the necklace.  Now, look me in the eye while we talk about health care.” 

Hillary Fashion is the obvious heir to the corporate dress code of the 80s, a reinvention of the power suit– scaled down and colorized for the fairer sex. 

On the other side of the aisle, Sarah Palin makes a very different impression.  When you look past the obvious librarian vibe, there’s a wealth of nonsense in her”No nonsens” appearance.  For example, what did she do when she knew she’d be facing intense scrutiny, the likes of which most of us can’t even imagine?  Damn the torpedoes and pull out the red patent pumps!  All kidding aside, there’s something charming about that. 

Maybe that’s the point of Sarah Style.  The outfit as a whole isn’t important; all those mixed messages are.  It’s a decidedly post-feminist hodgepodge of sober separates, pageant makeup, and long, flowing hair, somewhere at the intersection of Margaret Thatcher and Cleopatra.  Oh, and those pantsuits Hillary favors?  They’re about as welcome as the ACLU.  Sarah is living in Skirt City.

Bare legs and ruby slippers for Palin's first appearance as potential Veep. (from latimes.com)

Such a contrast begs the question: Just how should a powerful woman dress?

Hillary Fashion instructs us to take the whole issue off the table.  Adopt a tasteful, uncontroversial uniform so that people don’t accuse you of worrying about girly things.  And if Vogue calls?  Don’t even pick up the phone. 

Now when Vogue called Sarah Palin, she not only picked up the phone, she confessed that she was trying to be “as frumpy as I could by wearing my hair on top of my head and these schoolmarm glasses.”  Sounds suspicious, like the political equivalent of “This old thing?”  Personally, I’ll only hold it against her if she was telling the truth.

I suspect she enjoys keeping people guessing.  Sarah Style says,”Politics is a boys club, so forget trying to outman the guys.  You’ll do better to keep them off guard.  Be as unpredictable as a “pit bull with lipstick,” and you’ll be as difficult to contain.

So who’s right?  Should a powerful woman take a reserved approach to fashion in order to neutralize concerns (and obnoxious comments) about her time of the month? 

Or are surprising jolts of femininity and sex appeal her best weapons in a testosterone-soaked world?