Char-Leave Her Alone Already!

So apparently my mother and I are the only two people in America who not only didn't hate Charlize Theron's "big bow" dress at the Oscar's on Sunday. In fact, it was one of my favorite dresses of the night: Gorgeous fabric, structure, and a big, floppy bow on her shoulder. What's wrong with that?


Loving the bow.


Loving the fabric.


Loving the cut. Of course it helps when you look like CHARLIZE THERON.

I was very bothered by everyone insulting Charlize's stunning gown. It brought back to mind a dress I wore to the sixth grade prom... A dress people also chose to put down... Ah yes, I remember it like it was yesterday...

(low budget fade out)

So there I am, the day of the sixth grade prom. I was 10 years old, 5 foot 7 inches, and the butt of every joke, insult, bra-snapping and face punching. (See, also, my current foray into comedy.) It was prom night, and I wanted to look GOOD. So my mother and I went shopping for the perfect dress, one that would highlight not only my decolletage, but also the oversized glasses, braces, and short haircut that helped mark me as the easiest target in class.

And I found it. Oh, ladies and gentlemen reading this blog, this dress was perfect. Strapless, just below the knee, the top of the dress, and bottom of the flouncy piped in hot pink satin ribbon, with a navy bodice, and the bottom a beautiful plaid of hot pink, white and navy that looked as though it was painted on with a watercolor brush. The entire dress (other than the ribbon) was covered in clear sequins for that added level of glamour and spark.

Here's an artist's (my) rendering of the dress, with me in it:


It really loses a lot of it's "nuance" and "dimension" when you're dealing with a paint program for apes.

So there I was, all primped and dorked out for prom (Was this the prom where I was supposed to lose my virginity? This dress was telling me YES.) My parents, God bless them, had no idea they were just dropping off fresh meat for the devouring. I got out of my parents' Caddy (Jews in Miami, what do you expect), and like a re-re Cinderella, made my way up to the auditorium where the "dance" was being held.

Immediately, I was accosted by one of the more proactive bullies, Blair Lustman (and God knows, I only hope prospective employers are Googling her so they know who they're getting involved with.) Blair Lustman, the horse-faced, braces-clad bane of my nightmares who once punched me in the stomach at the bus stop, even though I was a solid 9 feet taller than she. Blair Lustman, who had beady yellow eyes similar to Scott Farkus of "A Christmas Story" fame, and who I only hope now, at the age of about 25, I'm praying has felt the after-effects of raging syphillis.


Blair at prom, waiting for the perfect opportunity to attack. Davy Crockett hats were all the rage in 1991, along with those crazy "backward pants".

So Blair approaches, and my ass cheeks clench in fear. "Nice dress." she says. Me, 10 years old and just coming out of that whole "awkward child prodigy" phase, thanks her. "Where'd you get it?"

There are moments in life that you regret. Things you blurt out without thinking. I was proud of my dress -- why lie about where I bought it? You'll understand in 5 seconds.

"Marshall's!!" I exclaimed. Sigh. In my defense, it was one of the more expensive dresses Marshall's* had to offer. But still -- to this day, why didn't I say "Bloomingdales!" or "Macy's!" or "Your Grandmother's dead body, bitch! I dug her up and peeled it off her corpse, motherfucker!"


*For those foreigners or trustafarians out there, Marshall's is a discount department store that sells some great stuff, some mediocre stuff, and doody-laden pampers at bargain prices. The sign alone has me drooling.

"Marshall's, Marshall's, Marshall's..." it echoed. "Marshall's!?" Blair screamed. "Hahaha Marshall's!" What happened next is fuzzy. I'm pretty sure she yelled out "Hey everyone, Michelle got her dress at MARSHALL'S!" and my night was ruined, but again, details, childhood-scarring shmetails. Goddamn, how I hate bitches. And it's really my fault: I actually believed she liked my dress, when clearly she was setting up a trap. And like the compulsive eater I am, I went for the bait.

I have no idea where that dress is. I can only hope some poor, homeless girl is wearing it to her prom this year. I bet she'll look great.

Anyway, what's the point of the story folks? The point is: It's OK to be different! If I've learned anything on Project Runway, it's that people should take risks! And whether it be a $100 dress bought "off the rack" at Marshall's, or a priceless haute coutoure custom gown shipped in from Paris, what is the difference? It's people trying to make a statement. What I'm saying is: I understand how Charlize feels. I have lived her struggle. I AM CHARLIZE. YOU ARE CHARLIZE. WE ARE ALL CHARLIZE. And I want her to know: I loved the dress, but either way, just feel good about yourself - YOU DESERVE IT CT.

Sandra Bullock on the other hand... Listen, Sandy B-Lock, you're sweet but...


Someone should've told you that pantyhose are supposed to end at your waist, not above your rack. Again, pull em up, when you get to your waist: Stop pulling.

On a not entirely unrelated note: Come see me tonight at the Bar Mitzvah Disco show!! I'm singing 3 hits from the 80's! Information here...