Boulder and the Beautiful

I have three white dresses, a black gown and a jacket that I didn’t really want and certainly couldn’t afford, but I now own.

You see, I tried — unsuccessfully — to join the cult of the beturners, folks who buy something with the explicit intention of using it one time and returning it. It’s part stealing, part retail-borrowing, and pure evil. We all know about beturning, but no one likes to talk about it.

The five flaws with beturning, as well as the barriers that keeps me safe from its tempting grasp, are as follows:

1. You cannot lose the receipt. (Bam, I am already doomed.)

2. You cannot squirt spaghetti sauce/cranberry juice/red wine on, say, your white dress(es).

3. You have to be willing to wear your clothes with itchy tags grinding on your armpits, and be willing to slither away in shame when someone sees said tags.

4. You must be versed in every store’s specific return policies. Remember this one. It will come into play when we talk about the “beturn block.”

5. You have to have no soul.

The only exception to No. 5 is the what I call the hurried beturn. You’re scrambling for an outfit because you are too important and busy to set aside proper shopping time, or you are a procrastinator. So you grab the first five things to try on at home, or in the car on your way to the fundraiser, and you plan on returning the four reject outfits.

That is how my boyfriend ended up with three pairs of black pants and four white button-ups. Late for fundraiser. What receipts?

I told him he should get a job as a waiter to pay for the unneeded items; after all, he’s now got the closet for it.

Some stores have more relaxed policies than others. For example, according to urban myth, you can beturn anything at Wal-Mart.

Here are three real-life examples of the Worst Beturns In History, Ever:

3. The hoses. It was the Fourth of July, and we wanted to fill up water balloons in the park. But parks don’t have spigots. So my friend bought about 25 garden hoses, hooked them together and attached them to the spigot at her house. She then carried the hose chain through the neighborhood, across busy streets and to the park. As the tale goes, when she beturned them, they were dripping water and were covered in fresh tire tracks. Wal-Mart didn’t flinch.

2. The carpet cleaner. Judy (name changed to protect the guilty) had a carpet cleaner. Her carpet cleaner quit working, but she had thrown the box away. So she bought another carpet cleaner. She put the old carpet cleaner in the new box, and used the new receipt to beturn it. Wal-Mart didn’t flinch.

1. The snake. I can’t bring myself to tell this story in full sentences, so here goes my best staccato effort. Toilet. Clogged. Home Depot. Plumber’s snake, aka electric eel. Unclogged. Snake in a box. Snake back on the shelf. Poor Home Depot.

There is yet another kind of beturning: the beturn block.

Brittany was checking out at Forever 21 when she noticed the sales associate had accidentally scanned a nearby yellow striped shirt and placed it in Brittany’s bag.

“Oh, that shirt wasn’t mine,” Brittany explained.

She was shocked by the associate’s response: “Yes, it was. It was in your pile.”

Brittany explained that it must have already been on the counter or somehow got into the mix, but she really did not want it. The woman said, “It was in your pile.” The fight raged on.

“No. I don’t want it. It’s ugly and not even my size.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but we don’t take returns.”

“What? This is not a return. I never wanted it.”

“We don’t take returns, ma’am.”

“Let me see your manager.”

Manager: “What is the problem?”

“She accidentally charged me for this shirt that I don’t want.”

“Well, our computers cannot return anything. Sorry.”

I suggested Brittany just beturn the shirt to Wal-Mart. Even with Forever 21 tags and no receipt, I’m sure the Mart would take it. I mean, this one wasn’t even run over or dunked in a toilet. It was Wal-Mart’s turn to benefit.

Got a soul? Does the mere mention of beturning fill you with self-righteous rage? Here are two fashion-forward and socially responsible shopping options for you:

We Are Overlooked, (www.weareoverlooked.com) designs cool T-shirts to promote and raise money for humanitarian causes around the globe. One black tee reads in white scribble letters: “This shirt feeds starving children.” For $20, every shirt sold provides one person with a meal a day for one month.

We Are Overlooked even takes on the uncomfortable topic of child trafficking. A gray shirt has a Dr. Seuss-esque child locked in a cage, with the words, “Because some things were never meant to be caged.”

The company also features a shirt to raise money for mosquito nets on April 15, World Malaria Day.

Annie O (www.annieoboutique.com) is a Boulder-based biz that works with needy artists in Peru to sell adorable belts, bags and accessories that are inspired by traditional embroidery techniques. Annie O is fair-trade and supports women who are victims of domestic violence.

The products are available in about 22 boutiques around the country. The colorful belts are hand-embroidered out of sheep wool, with horn buckles. They look great on top of a summery dress.

Plus, all of the products have a story behind them — and not one of these stories involves an electric eel.

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

Because I refuse to force upon you yet another fashion column attempting to cleverly announce that “green is the new black” (where ever do newspapers find this kind of originality?), I’m going to do this Earth Day thing a little differently. It will start with an excerpt from a story I wrote when I was 9.

Swoosh goes the sound of the water around Leah’s ears as she spins, deeper and deeper, into the pipes under the school building. Let’s back up an hour. A bunch of kids were gathered after school for noodle making. (Adult interjection: No clue what “noodle making” means.)

A little while later is when Leah had to go to the bathroom. She went to the bathroom near the fourth-grade classroom, near the closet where Mrs. Quinn keeps the prizes for her Uncle Rodney’s Box contest. Leah was in the bathroom when, oh no, she accidentally dropped her ring in the toilet. It was the ring she had won in last week’s Uncle Rodney’s Box contest! (Adult interjection: Sorry about the exclamation mark, and several more to come.)

She had to get it. She

closed her big eyes and reached, down, down, down, and then –

Swoosh! The force pulled her hand under, and then her shoulder and head. Then her feet were sticking up in the

air until her whole body was going down the pipes!

Everything was wet and a blur until –

Thud! She landed in a pile of trash. Junk was everywhere in huge piles. Broken cars were upside down and the sky was black with pollution. There were no trees, grass, horses, birds or anything alive. Everything was smelly.

“Welcome to Earth 2,” she heard a small voice say. She looked down to find a worm at her feet.

“What is Earth 2?” Leah asked in fear.

“This is how the Earth will look in the future if no one takes care of it. Everyone killed each other and destroyed everything. There is nothing left except me. And now you,” said the worm.

“What…” Leah started to ask a question but the worm interrupted.

“No time for questions except one: What are you going to do about it?”

Ah, yes. Earth 2. When little Aimee wrote this story from the top of a tree in my parents’ backyard in Loveland, it was long before it was trendy to be green. In fact, I’m pretty sure I was more interested what might happen if I got sucked down the toilet than making a political statement about what might happen if our environment went down the tubes.

Still. It seems like the perfect story to remind us to pay our Earth Day dues. (As if we could forget; during the new “Earth Hour” a few weeks ago, I was out for a fancy dinner when the restaurant shut off all the lights. I think they cooked my steak by rubbing sticks together.)

Because it’s the right thing to do, and also because I tend to drop objects in my toilet once a week, here are my top five Earthy fashion tips to help keep the Earth 2 worms at bay:

1. Edressme.com– This is an online dress retailer that sells duds made from biodegradable, organic materials. From today through Earth Day, this site will offer 20 percent off brands, such as Trinity, Dresses by Kate and Synergy Organic.

2. Being an eco-diva goes beyond simply respecting Mama Earth; you also need to love your sisters. All month, in celebration of Earth Day, the lucy store at the Twenty Ninth Street Mall in Boulder invites women to trade their used exercise pants for $10 off regular-priced lucy bottoms. Lucy will donate the old pants to a local charity. For more info, check out www.lucy.com.

3. Share your hair — On Earth Day, the Crazy Horse 2 Salon will be holding a “Hair-Raising” hair-cutting event to collect donated hair to be made into free wigs for cancer patients.

Erika Carlson, 34, came up with the idea in memory of her sister, who fought breast cancer for three years. Then, shortly after Carlson began organizing the event, she was diagnosed with breast cancer herself. She had a full mastectomy on March 16, and recently begun chemotherapy.

The clipped ponytails (at least 8 inches long) will be donated to the Pantene Beautiful Lengths nonprofit. The Crazy Horse, which opened 20 years ago in downtown Louisville, will offer free haircuts to donors. For more info or to make an appointment, call 303-666-5802 or visit http://hairraising.livelymarketing.com.

4. If your ponytail is too short, your hair can still be your philanthropy. On April 26, Chicago Hair Salon, 4550 Broadway St. in Boulder, will be doing cuts for $40. All of the money that day will be donated to buy new clothes for children entering the social services system.

The idea came from one of the salon’s clients, who works for social services, and said many children arrive with only the clothes on their backs. The event hopes the new clothes symbolize the start to a new life. For more info, call the salon at 303-442-1690.

5. OK, so your hair is too short and you don’t need a haircut. I’m not taking any excuses this week. Everyone likes to shop. Tough Lucky Cowboy, 2050 Broadway in Boulder, is having a hoe-down to celebrate the owner’s recent cancer scare.

On Saturday, 20 percent of the sales will go to There With Care, a nonprofit that supports children and families with critical illnesses. The store will offer special discounts on “things that are just too dang expensive at the regular price,” a raffle for Ryan Michael shirts, beer and bubbles and cake (a magical trifecta) and a showing of new Boulder-made Sweet Bird jewelry designs.

I might swing by to see if Sweet Bird has any rings. I’m looking for a backup, you know, in case my “Uncle Rodney Box contest” ring makes any unfortunate plunges.

Not to sound trite or elderly, but how ’bout this weather?

I shave my legs for spring, but the hair rushes back to the follicles before I make it outside, a form of self-preserving padding in anticipation of the impending blizzard. My dark winter wools are forced to co-mingle with my white cottons. And my skin, following Colorado’s schizophrenic lead, is simultaneously dry, chapped, oily and broken out, but only in one quarter-sized patch.

Then there is the man. Oh, the man.

As if putting together a quasi-matching outfit is not challenging enough for the retrosexual male, my boyfriend has become straight-up neurotic.

The first thing he does in the morning is text Google to check the weather. Then he argues with it. After his fight with his cell-phone screen, he must walk around the block with his finger in the air, checking the wind. On mid-April blizzard days, he checks with his middle finger before settling on his one of two outfit possibilities: jeans or shorts. Then he has to ask my permission: “Can I wear this?” This is man-speak for, “Help. Me. I am scared.”

This week, Colorado has graced us with summer. So far. And this unexpected sun has transformed my boyfriend into the Phantom of the Opera. The right side of his face is white. The left side — the driver’s-side-window side — is lobster red, topped off with a one-armed farmer’s glow and a literal red neck.

So now he is pained between wearing a T-shirt and compounding his fry lines or wearing a sleeveless shirt and looking, in his earnestly distressed words, “like a total d-bag for a few days.”

My advice: Wear sunscreen, dude. There isn’t a cream, powder or plasma that I smear on my skin that doesn’t contain SPF. But still, I’m more of a Corpse Bride than a Malibu Barbie, and my transparent skin has been known to frighten small children.

This weather is more than one fashionista alone can handle. That’s why I have called in the pros: a spa/salon and a meteorologist-ish.

The spa: Twig Salon and Spa, 1831 Pearl St., Boulder, www.twigsalonandspa.com.

Twig Salon, which opened March 3, is an Earth-conscious biz dedicated to the “art of natural beauty.” Can natural beauty stand up against Mother Nature?

The source: Haley Brekken, stylist and co-owner.

The tips:

A re-mineralizing seaweed wrap. This restores the moisture in your skin. Plus, maybe if we think about the ocean more, we can keep the snow away.

Moroccan oil. Put it on your hair as a treatment, before you blow-dry it or on the ends to calm the frizzies. Moroccan oil penetrates your hair, moisturizing from the inside-out. Because it absorbs, it does not coat your hair and leave it greasy or weigh it down.

A sinus relief facial. Who knew you could get a facial to ease your dry sinuses?

Acupuncture. Your external beauty relates to your internal health. And soon, Twig Salon will be offering acupuncture for facial rejuvenation — basically, an acupuncture facelift that reduces fine lines.

“If you’re healthy internally, your skin and hair are going to be healthy,” Brekken says.

The weatherman: Jimmy Himes, of Boulder, the Camera weather reporter and also a male fashion god.

The forecast: Himes expects weather to stay warm for the next few weeks. But there is a chance we’ll see another big snow event sometime this season. Of course. (Groan.) So start rotating out your winter clothing, but keep a warm coat, trench and boots nearby.

The tips:

Layer. If you have lived in Colorado for more than eight seconds, you should be well versed in this.

Keep an umbrella in your trunk. Marc Jacobs umbrellas are Himes’ favorites, and they’re cheaper than you might expect.

A skinny, long scarf. When it’s warm, this scarf makes a nice fashion statement, but as the day grows colder, it can bundle you up.

The Canadian skincare line B. Kamins (www.bkamins.com). A chemist developed this line, bringing together the physician’s office and the cosmetics counter. B. Kamins offers specialized products (such as extra dry and menopause) for both men and women.

DiorSkin Forever Extreme Wear Flawless Make-up. That’s a long name for liquid-to-powder heaven. Himes swears by this foundation, available at Sephora for $44.

“I use it in the morning for camera work, and it holds up under the lights, which is amazing,” he says. “That tells me it will hold up in the sunlight.”

Plus, it’s SPF 25. Which means no Two-Face complex.

Although if I can’t get my boyfriend to remember SPF lotion, there’s zero chance of him touching make-up. Maybe I’ll just get his windows tinted.

7/28/2006

It’s hopeless to look fashionable when you hate mornings as much as I do.

I’ve never woken up feeling rejuvenated or even remotely joyful. My mom used to joke that I have no internal alarm clock. Like some twisted Newton’s Law of Sleep: If I am at rest, I will stay at rest unless acted upon by some outside force. I know you won’t believe me, but I promise after New Year’s 2000, I slept until late Jan. 3.

I am a night-showerer. Back in the day of poufy bangs, I used to do my hair before bed and sleep in a night cap. Everything I do is to maximize the amount of time I can hit snooze in the morning.

And even then, while lying there despising every ounce of sunlight dripping through my blinds, I come up with brilliant ways to compress my morning routine: I can do my mascara in the car (even though most eye injuries are wand-related). Who needs breakfast? Ponytails are cute. My dog can hold it nine more hours while I’m at work; he already held it through the night. Heck, I can hold it, too.

As a little girl, I used to sleep in the clothes I wanted to wear the next day. And by “little girl,” I mean intermittently throughout college. And maybe on Tuesday.

My mom did uncover one magic way to crack my eyelids without receiving my fist to her jaw. She would peek through my bedroom door and remind me of my new jelly shoes or banana clip (we’re back in the day, here, folks), and I would feel a flicker of excitement.

These days, I think of Anna Uhls, Daily Camera Intern Extraordinaire. I’m pretty sure Anna has an entire room set aside to store her incredible necklaces.

There’s the peach-colored stone necklace that looks edible. A cluster of silver chains. Old pearls passed down from relatives. A colorful glass chunk her grandmother made in a class at the senior center. Some mornings, my curiosity to see Anna’s latest neck adornment is all that keeps me from getting fired.

Anna’s key: Most of her pieces are not only stunning, they also have sentimental value. So when she wears them, they bring out her character. They come from Israel or Africa or her recent volunteer work in some Third World country. They carry stories and significance, as well as style.

Even Anna’s necklaces from Nordstrom or Foley’s stand out because she is not timid with size or color. And I believe good style is all about defining your attitude and then rolling with it – going all out.

Like Saturday, I was at a turntablism competition at the Boulder Theater. I fell in love with this one girl’s outfit, not because it was anything I would wear, because God help me, I would look hilarious in baggy camo pants paired with a striped tank top and crooked ball cap. But she looked so in her element.

As I stood against the wall smiling and watching her breakdance, I, too, felt very in my element, wearing pearls, snakeskin pumps and jeans so holy they nearly qualified as a skirt. Or pajamas, as it were.

Need your own hunk of neck art to drag your bum out of bed?

Think of the mountains. Tarma Designs (www.tarmadesigns.com) celebrates the outdoors and adventure with $30 steel pendants of silhouettes climbing, running and hiking. Surprisingly sleek and subtle.

Think of a land far, far away, but with a Boulder tie. Adambha (www.adambha.com) jewelry is made in Nepal from silver and semi-precious stones, but sold by a University of Colorado student. My favorite necklace is the “tiger’s eye,” ($51.51), which features the brownish stones set in summery flower-shaped settings.

Think of joe. If the smell and taste of caffeinated beverages isn’t enough, try draping your body in the stuff. Java Jewels (www.javajewels.com) is jewelry made out of coffee beans. Order up a Raspberry Mocha (beans interspersed with pink stones) for $16.95 or the Kona Lei Pua for $24.95, made with all dark beans.

I’m opting for the Triple Shot for $16.95. Isn’t that about what grande Starbucks goes for these days?

7/21/2006

I need to break up with my handbag. We’ve been together way too long, and he’s starting to smother me.

(Yes, my handbag is a “he.” Everything I own is a “he,” as to ensure I am always the Ultimate Feminine.)

Said handbag is sexy and complimentary, both tan and black, so he matches everything I wear. He is tough, with silver studs and a chain strap that is deliciously chilly on my shoulder when I’m walking down the sweltering Pearl Street Mall.

I was initially attracted to his fun, urban attitude (made by Rocawear) – a slight gaudiness I find imperative for any worthy accessory this season.

But I have outgrown him. Literally. I can’t zip him anymore, so when I accidentally drop or knock him over, a tsunami of coins, lip glosses, receipts, earrings and iPod accessories rages forth.

I would have to give up a lot to make this relationship work. He is cramping my ways. Stifling me.

Plus, we’ve been monogamous for about two months, a record uncomfortably outside of my normal faithless ways. I’m an accessory-hopper. A new bag every week. Nay, every night. I am a fashion rolling stone, and I cannot be tethered.

No more. I’m ending this right now.

In light of my handbag oppression, it’s no wonder I am obsessed with Boulder’s newest gem of a boutique, JoyEngine.

JoyEngine, which opened in May at Spruce and 13th streets, is a design firm first, boutique second, and one of the most free, creative environments I’ve ever seen.

The walls are alive with colorful graffiti art, graphic-design murals and collector toys that you can buy. Beyond a glass wall in the back, a handful of local designers work on computers while listening to loud electronic music. This is Cypher13, the design firm behind the boutique.

In front, the shop sells unique T-shirts hand-picked from small-time Asian designers or (better yet) local artists. Most cost between $20 and $30 for both men and women.

JoyEngine’s clothes do what stores like Urban Outfitters try to do: Create a style revolving around fun funkiness, where you can add a patch or three randomly to your blazer or sew useless buttons around the collar. Just because.

Only JoyEngine (www.joyengine.com) is authentically creative. Most of the shirts never have visited the United States before, so you won’t bump into someone wearing your outfit at the bars. Or at Pasta Jay’s, around noon last Wednesday; wow, that was embarrassing. Why did the hostess have to seat her right next to my table?

Plus, you’re supporting local artists, the premise behind the business. Josh Greenberg, director of technology, says he wants to create a community of artists that will eventually stretch to the Web. And at the same time, Cypher13 (www.cypher13.com) can show clients its ability to create a brand.

“What we do for clients, we also do for ourselves,” he says.

Like it did with Crocs several years ago. Cypher13, previously Dogtail Design, designed Crocs’ initial brochure, logo, Web site, decals and packaging. I cannot discuss this further because I am morally opposed to plastic freak feet.

JoyEngine also sells jackets and hats. I kept dropping hints that they should use the creative juices that helped fuel those certain freak feet to design airbrushed kicks, one of my unexplainable fashion fancies.

It’s the urban thing – like my ex-purse. Why not sprinkle your outfits with fun (as long as it’s not plasticy, round and covered in hideous holes)? Even if it does mean carrying eight fewer tubes of lipstick.

Maybe we can make this work after all. The great purse break-up has only been a few minutes, and I’m already starting to miss that deliciously chilly silver chain.

6/15/2006

My dad doesn’t wear Armani.

He never has and never will wear leather pants or silk anything. He likely thinks chenille is a type of meat, like veal, but from France.

But my dad is fashionable in his own right. He wrote the book on IT style.

To people who interact with humans – like face-to-face and not through flashing Instant Messaging screens and virtual meetings – “IT style” is an oxymoron. But there are actually fairly developed standards on how to rock men’s high-tech geek chic.

My dad calls it “Post-50 High-Tech Crony” style, aka P50HTC. I have no idea what that means, but I figure that’s because I studied liberal arts.

Wardrobe basics include slip-on loafers, jeans and polo shirts, preferably from Sam’s Club, located between the 26 pounds of bacon and 8-gallon tub of horseradish sauce.

Want to wear tall white socks with your sandals? Go ahead. The rules of the street don’t apply.

Virtually anything’s a go in the maze of cubicles at an Agilent or Texas Instruments office. You’ll find everything from shaven heads to man ponytails, sunglasses to pop-bottle glasses. Cleanliness is optional.

“The operative concept is comfort, pure and simple,” my dad says.

He adds because human interaction is rare, “business casual” means “wear whatever you want and back up your egos by writing complex code, managing impossible projects and even more impossible workloads.”

He compiled the following questions to help you build an appropriate P50HTC outfit:

1.) Is it comfortable? (Answer must be yes.)

2.) Is it functional? (Ditto above.)

3.) Can you wear it multiple days in a row? (This is helpful on business trips.)

4.) Does it easily show dirt? (Desired answer here is no, but can be traded off for either above three answers.)

5.) Is it cheap? (Should be yes, but balanced by overpriced camping/outdoor clothing for the weekends.)

6.) Will people know what you do by looking at the way you are dressed? (Should answer no. You could be either a custodian or software engineer.)

Tattoos also are fine, despite the naggings from your sixth-grade teacher that “no one will ever hire you with a flaming poodle on your left shoulder.”

My dad has a tattoo on his arm (not a flaming poodle, although that’d be cool). My uber-conservative mom has one on each ankle. I have a hip/buttical region tat of a fleur-de-lis that matches my mom’s, aunt’s, sis-in-law’s and 70-something-year-old grandma’s.

More than a third of all 18-to-29 year-old Americans sports a tattoo, according to the Journal of the American Academy of Dermatology. Twenty-four percent of all 18-to-50 year-olds do. And that doesn’t even count 70-year-olds.

Out of nowhere last week I decided I wanted to get a tattoo of a cross on my left wrist. I thought it seemed unique. Until I looked online and found links to wrist tats on celebrities such as Christina Aguilera, Pink, Aaliyah and, worst of all, Lindsay Lohan.

Have I been subliminally influenced by pop culture? Am I unknowingly imitating celebrities? Because otherwise, I don’t know where my idea came from.

Unless – yes, that’s it. I think a data-warehouse manager at my dad’s office has a wrist tat. A flaming poodle or something.

I have been subliminally inspired by geek chic.

6/8/2006

Happy 60th birthday, bikini.

You’re
looking hot for your age. You’ve definitely lost some weight. This
summer, you’re all about strings. Minimalism. No excess fabric, like in
your younger days.

But what you’re
lacking in coverage, you’re making up for in busy patterns, like batik,
floral or my fave, camouflage. Victoria’s Secret has managed to create the
most impractically adorable suit of all, complete with ribbons, wood,
mirrors, metal and mother of pearl details (originally $130 just for the halter top).

Speaking of, why do you get more expensive the smaller you get?

Your costly ways have left me wearing the same tie-dyed bikini for the
past two years, which could only be less fitting to my anti-hippie
personality if I were tattooed head-to-toe in those ugly little cartoon
bears. What are they, Grateful Dead? Why bears? I don’t get it.

Dear bikini, I’m also sorry we are still making you in white, like the suit for sale at Billabong on Pearl Street for $73.99 (what a random price). It should take only one second in the pool, not 60 years of product development, to realize that white is see-through when wet. Why even wear a suit? Why not spend the $73.99 instead on products to pimp out your bod, like the CelluliteRx home kit.

CelluliteRx, available at Bath and Body Works ($150), is a three-step process that’s supposed to minimize the appearance of cellulite.

Stephen Hillcoat – the product’s brand advocate who has a delightful British accent – says the product has the
“most scientifically advanced cellulite treatment available.” He noted
its patented “QuSome delivery system” and more active ingredients than
any other comparable product.

Pretty much, I believe anything spoken with a British accent. But I’ve also tried cellulite creams, with and without the QuSome, and found them surprisingly effective.

Dear bikini, I have one last apology. It’s called your male counterpart, the Speedo.

Although
all skimpy male swimming briefs blatantly violate every dimension of
fashion reason, one is particularly criminal: Mr. Canadian Gold Thong.
My girlfriend Vanessa had an unfortunate run-in with this evildoer on
her recent Mexico vacation.

Vanessa,
looking fabulous in her asymmetrical camouflage one-piece suit, was
participating in a water game that involved beer, teams and Ping-Pong
balls, when she looked up and saw the most horrific sight looming near the edge of a pool. Not only was it a gold Speedo, thereby blending in with the middle-age man’s uber-tanned bod, but it was a g-string. As in backless and cheek-full.

The man proceeded, hand-on-hip and pelvis awkwardly thrusting forward, to demand Vanessa and her friends stop “horseplaying” at the pool because their “shenanigans” offended him.

Vanessa
said she’d stop playing as soon as he covered up his Speedo. Talk about
offended. Talk about an eye-watering aftertaste.

Solution:
Check out Billabong’s selection of baggy swim trunks. And avoid
ribbons, wood, mirrors, metal, pearl or shiny gold accents. Unless
you’re Canadian, I guess.

7/14/2006

I am writing this on Nasty Noodles Monday.

I like to label my days with themes. Mooshu Tuesday is movie and sushi Tuesday. Thug Thursday means I`ll be toting my Rocawear purse with its silver chain and rivets. Depending on my mood, weekends can range from Sloth Saturdays to Stiletto Sundays.

Nasty Noodles Monday is a bad thing. Not only does it lack alliterative flair, it indicates I slept in this morning and am wearing braids and a green cap (the “nasty”). Also, I will eat noodles for lunch.

In an attempt to negate today`s “nasty,” I`ve decided to make a list of things I`m loving this month. Then maybe I can reclaim today as Love-List and Linguini Monday.

Military style – You know when you see something fabulous in the store, but you don`t buy it, and then you think about it forever? That`s this dark green shirt dress I spotted in Topshop in London a few weeks ago. It had a military-esque structured fit, three-quarter-length sleeves, small chest pockets and fat buttons running down the front. The downside: It was 45 pounds (not a measurement of weight, for all you Yanks), and I only had about five to my name following a rough night clubbing.

I guess my ugly Army-green cap is as close as I`m getting today.

Patches – I want to sew them onto everything I own. Put a British-flag patch on the upper arm of an average white blouse. Or the Italian flag on the pocket of a cropped jacket, in honor of the recent World Cup domination. I found a Ugandan patch on eBay ($3.75, buy it now) that I want to affix to the back pocket of my jeans. The joy of patches is you can easily remove them if you change your mind. Now I only need to learn how to sew.

In case I never learn to sew (likely), I can fall back on Saver`s. My friend, Duncan, recently bought a great retro button-down there with a pink embroidered something on the left sleeve.

Lip Venom – This lip gloss from Urban Outfitters is supposedly infused with snake venom that will basically seep into your lips and make them swell, as if bitten by a snake. Creepy. Yet sexy. Not sure it really works, but the hot tingly feeling the gloss gives is worth the $16. Pucker up, python.

Hoop earrings – I own them in every size and color. The bigger, the better.

Sticky Boxes – Adorable carrying cases, starting at $25 each, that contain wet wipes, designed by Superior-based Sticky Mango Designs. They`re supposed to be for moms who want to be stylish while cleaning “their little one`s sticky buns,” according to the Web site stickymangodesigns.com. You can buy them online, or the designer, Tara Krams, also holds parties at people`s homes.

Although I have no sticky little ones, I think they`re also useful for obsessive-compulsive types (me) who like a good wash-down while sweating at the computer. Did I mention they come in multiple styles of camouflage?

Target – Yes, the good old department store. I stopped shopping here after I graduated college, but recently started popping in again after it seems every time I compliment a friend`s outfit, they say they got it there. A long, strapless black dress. A T-shirt featuring Tinkerbell and a British flag.

Hmm. I see a dangerous trend going on here. I`m going to need to get that in check before I start celebrating Flag Fridays and Military Mondays.

7/7/2006

I knew nothing when I went for my first interview at the Daily Camera three years ago, and climbed up the metal stairs – the pathway to All Things Boulder.

I had never slept in a tent, intentionally sweat or gone more than 24 hours without showering.

I had never smelled patchouli. I thought dreadlocks were an urban myth created to frighten young girls into combing their hair.

I had never laid eyes on Iron Men or adventure racers. And here, every Boulder body was perfectly toned and rippling underneath sweat-wick-away shirts and Spandex. Even the faces in the newsroom looked like they’d stepped off an infomercial for the Chuck Norris home gym.

I’d heard from a friend of a friend – someone who’d once journeyed beyond our impossibly average Fort Collins city limits – that such an alternate universe existed under the pointy nose of the Flatirons. I’d heard it called the “Boulder Bubble,” and I was about to learn why.

Until now, my reality had revolved around designer clothes and mascara. I never wore sweat pants – not even to bed – and I reserved jeans only to tone down overly embellished Guess corsets.

The newsroom was dim and yellowy, accented by pillars of fading newspapers and old school-board agendas.

Interesting, I thought, but I meant it in the same way the Pearl Street contortionist is interesting: eye-catching and talented, but honestly, a little gross.

And intimidating. A chiseled body rolled past me, pushing a bicycle with tires still warm from the pavement. An editor was hammering on his keyboard, but hadn’t had the time to change out of his sweat-drenched Nike shirt. A reporter wearing a Prana yoga outfit conducted an interview while balancing on a blue fit ball, like she was floating.

I recognized columnist Clay Evans. He wore running shorts but no shoes – not phased by the 1,000 years of grime coating the old building’s floors. I wondered if he had run the nearby trails barefoot, too, and concluded he likely had.

I looked down at my freshly pressed designer pantsuit and pointy Jimmy Choos and wondered why I’d even bothered.

I’d heard about health reporter Lisa Marshall. I’d seen her mug in the paper, too.

I’d been hired – either for entertainment value or to fulfill some sort of refined-sugar-eating, non-athlete quota – and several years later moved into the features department. Marshall’s territory.

One day, she stopped by my desk wearing tiny running shorts and a sleeveless top.

“Ai-mee,” she said, eyeing the bag of M&Ms and Diet Coke that represented my breakfast, lunch and dinner. “I’m heading up to Mount Sanitas. What’s your favorite trail up there?”

Blank. Completely and totally blank. Mount what? I stammered for a moment, before answering, “Uh, well, I like the long trail. You know, the hardest one.”

She stared at me and shifted between her perfectly chiseled legs. Then a nod and a smile. Apparently that was the right answer. Maybe I had a chance in this city, after all.

Inspired, I decided to get in a little exercise.

I needed another Diet Coke, and it was a good five-minute trek to the vending machine.

I straightened my black-and-white striped strapless top and set out on my matching stilettos, which I justified buying from an overpriced boutique in the Dominican Republic because their brand was “Aimee’s.”

As I turned the corner, I felt eyes on my outfit. It was Sue Deans, the Camera’s editor, known for her intense blue gaze and blond hair. I’d recently dyed my blond locks dark brown. Hair dye – in Boulder! So unnatural. What was I thinking?

Deans also was known for the rare ability to balance femininity, professionalism and Boulder-worthy healthiness. She wore a long-sleeved black cardigan that made my fully exposed shoulders feel wanton.

“Wow, don’t you look trendy?” she said.

She was smiling. I thought I felt a wave of acceptance.

But then, “Have you seen ‘The Devil Wears Prada?’ Meryl Streep is great, and her outfits are just fabulous in that movie. Very classy.”

That’s when I realized she probably meant I looked “trendy” in a childish, Forever 21 kind of way.

The natural-blond beauty continued talking over her (clothed) shoulder as she walked away.

“Well, you should really see it,” she said. “And Ai-mee, could you get me a Pellegrino while you’re in the break room? That’s all.”

6/30/2006

It was like a potentially explosive science experiment: Send a fashion columnist to a refugee camp in Uganda for 10 days.

I traveled to east Africa with a local, student-run group, Educate (www.educateafrica.org), that grants scholarships to orphans and refugee students.

Truth be told, I’m more wildery than I give myself credit for. Colorado native, raised on a farm. Mastered the art of climbing Russian olive trees in a petticoat and wrestling the tulle off of the thorns without tumbling to my demise. Age 9, I ate dog food on a dare and found it surprisingly tasty.

Good thing for that training. I coasted past the cholera-infested water without even a bellyache, much less death, and even ate soupy beans with my fingers. I scaled a mango tree and didn’t flinch at the thought of cobras and vipers sharing my wobbly branch.

But for heaven’s sake, I wasn’t prepared for my hair.

Ten days without washing my thick ‘fro is bad news. Africa is dusty. I’m talking red dust that coats your locks like another crust of the planet. At first, I went ponytail. Then pigtails. Then braids. Then sweatband. Then bandanna. Then baseball cap. Then all three at once, plus braids, no kidding.

On the flight home, I took my hair out and realized it had formed mini dreads. They were kind of cute (in the same way that dog food was kind of yum). But the woman sitting next to me didn’t think so. She changed seats.

“It’s not you, I swear,” she said.

But the desperate look she sent me indicated otherwise.

I waged war against that red dust. My futile artillery: wet wipes. Tan lines turned out to actually be grime lines. Blue jeans became red jeans. It mysteriously stained my bra. It formed a mustachey line around my lips, glued on to my lip gloss, which, yes, I packed – and used regularly. Until it fell out of my backpack and rolled into the dark abyss of the latrine. I briefly considered fishing it out, but instead murmured a small eulogy and walked away.

The biggest mystery of Uganda to me was the clothes. It was humbling; I was the nastiest looking person there.

The locals do not have running water. They live in mud huts with dirt floors and make 20 cents a day digging in the field. Yet they all looked immaculate. Their whites were from a Tide with bleach commercial. Many wore Air Jordans. Sean Jean and G-Unit T-shirts. I saw a guy wearing a Dolce & Gabbana button-down.

Either P-Diddy has a big heart for refugees, there was a mass explosion of an urban clothing production facility hidden in western Uganda or some rich and very hip nonprofit had recently stopped by.

I was too baffled – and busy with my wet wipes battle – to ask.

Another example of African beauty is Boulder-based BeadforLife (www.beadforlife.com), which sells handmade jewelry made in Uganda. It works with displaced tribes creating a living wage for more than 250 families.

The paper beads are gorgeous and come in bracelets, anklets, bags, necklaces, notecards, calendars and loose beads. My fave is the band bracelet ($15) in blue. Also a fan of the $20 choker necklace, pretty much because the Web site’s description calls it “sassy.”

Another example of the opposite of beauty followed me days after I’d left the country.

While heading to the airport, the driver tossed my backpack under the bus, where it had a bad encounter with a pool of rotting milk. The pack was soaked in dairy sludge, which further fermented in the back of a hot taxi and then two additional days of airplane travel.

Got it home, threw that stinky thang on the floor and left it to die.

Came back in the room later and found my dog gnawing on the straps, trying to pull the pack across the room to the rug where he likes to chew his bones.

And no, I didn’t try this doggie delight. Not even on a dare.