Say cheese!

So there's this website that made the rounds a while back - you've probably been emailed the link. My Heritage.com. It purports to use a photo of you to tell you which famous people you resemble. Since I hate photos of myself, finding one where my face was front and centre was tough. But I was bored and I figured hey - it'll amuse the cats. Oh - and fyi, it doesn't work on pictures of cats.

I scanned three photos. Didn't get any repeat matches, despite the fact that the photos were taken within a 3 day time span. I guess I changed a lot.

The first pic in particular proved to be a winner - I look one percent more like renowned Russian wordsmith Leo Tolstoy than I do like renowned British poofster Cliff Richard.

Next photo. I was deemed 64% Michelle Rodriguez. I was torn; happy that I was a girl, but hated her on "Lost". I was also, horrifyingly, 59 % Paris Hilton. Which is ironic, since Paris Hilton is actually 59% semen. Emma Watson, Hermione from the Harry Potter films, came in at 55%. Encouraging -she's cute. Mary Kate Olsen (but not Ashley. Aren't they twins? Ergo...) and Christie Brinkley were also in the mix. Figures - good news, I'm 53% 70s supermodel; bad news, I once slept with Billy Joel. Oddly, the best results came from the photo in which I'd been downing wine since 11 am. Apparently, even websites find me more attractive when I'm drinking...

But the best, the absolute pinnacle, had to be the photo where not one woman showed up in the results. I was a man, baby. Or, more accurately, men. In addition to several Asian gentlemen (um, what?) I'd never heard of, I scored what might be either the funniest or the saddest result ever:

I'm 59% Rick James, bitch! Super freaky, indeed.

I wore what?

I came of age in the 80s. That should give you a small clue as to some of the closet catastrophes for which I was responsible.

I'm going to skip over the childhood ponchos, the Dorothy Hamill haircut, the sweater from the Sears catalogue that had leg o'mutton sleeves. If there is blame to be placed, I blame my mother.

One particularly shining moment happened in late grade 8 / early grade 9. Knickers were big. As were ruffle sleeved shirts. I'm sure my friends and I looked like a cut rate touring company of "The Pirates of Penzance."

My first really big fashion decision was what to wear to my grade 9 prom. Granted, it was only the junior prom, but still - I wanted to look nice. I ended up looking like the youngest member of the secretarial pool. It was this sort of shirtdress with stripes and a tie at the neck. I guess my mom didn't want the boys to get the wrong idea. They didn't.

Some would put my interpretation of the Madonna look on this list. Say what you will about Madonna, but her whole Holiday/ Desperately Seeking Susan look was young, fun and pretty accessible. The fingerless gloves, the leggings, the pile of black rubber bracelets. Parents may have hated it, but at least I wasn't whining because all my friends had a real Louis Vuitton bag and $250 jeans and so why couldn't I? I think the total bill for that trend was about $25, not $1250. And really, would you rather have your teenager wearing layers of cut up t-shirts and leggings like then, or a halter and jeans with the 2-inch gyno-rise like now?

Save for a few pairs of socks and maybe a belt or a bracelet, I didn’t jump on the neon bandwagon. One of my closest friends, however, not so discerning. Here, in her own words, is her story:

One lasting picture comes to mind. I had just finished shopping with my mom at Yorkdale mall. It was the year neon was big. And the picture that was captured at Mrs. A's (my mom's friend who lived just outside of Toronto) always causes a cringe. I was in her kitchen. I had a white sweatshirt on with a random florescent letter - the sweatshirt was
tucked into my jeans! I had florescent yellow suspenders on over the
sweatshirt. The socks I wore were green florescent ankle socks with lace trim, and there were big florescent objects dangling from my ears. The outfit was topped off with a string of florescent orange plastic pearls. I had braces and my hair was cut short on one side, longer on the other side. It was like the Flock of Seagulls vomited on me.

I didn’t know her then. Thank God. The fashion crimes for which we could have been held responsible would rival the The Nuremberg Trials.

My senior prom. My mom would only pay for the dress if I agreed not to wear black. I had wanted something fairly sleek, until I saw The Dress in a magazine advertisement. I didn't do drugs as a teenager, so I have no excuse for looking like the love child of Scarlett O'Hara and Little Bo Peep. I was an antibellum vision in pale blue. Rosettes and lace overlays and a sweetheart neckline, oh my! There was also baby's breath in my hair - a fashion faux pas de deux, if you will.

The late 80s/early 90s were a write off. Trying to pick the worst outfit would be like a sartorial Sophie's Choice - how could I choose just one? Though there was one particular ensemble during the grunge era that I adored at the time. Now, thoughts of it make me cringe. A long velvet dress with a black background and a large, though muted, all over floral pattern. I think they were cabbage roses. I paired this with either cowboy boots or purple Docs. There was also a chapeau. Bottle green velvet ( I had more velvet on me than an Edwardian settee). Front part of the brim turned up and adorned with three velvet flowers (one purple, one saffron, one deep red). Looking back, I must've looked like Laura Ingalls on her way to the rodeo, after a quick stop to roll Paddington Bear for his hat.


I'd like to think that I've managed to avoid too many out and out disasters in the last decade or so. For the most part. A few notable exceptions - stretch denim capris. I'm 5'3". Capri anything ain't good. A purple faux fur vest. I love it, but I look like Barney's wet dream.

However, fashion maturation has a downside. So does fashion masturbation, quite frankly. The downside is this: when you commit a fashion crime, there's a very good chance you have no one to blame but yourself. And possibly the salesgirl.

et tu, ovaries?

I have been betrayed. No, not in a reality television, semi-scripted, my friend hooked up with my fake ex sort of way. No, this betrayal was much more Shakespearian than Hills-ian. It's my ovaries. Those bitches have sold me out.

Apparently, my eggs have passed their best before date. While I was establishing a career, taking trips to Europe, crushing on men of varying degrees of appropriateness, and generally living the life of a fairly responsible single girl, my ovaries got tired of being unappreciated and decided to retire on the Freedom 41 plan. They didn't even give me any notice. You'd think there'd be an alarm, maybe a little sticker, something. Nope. Just poof - gone.

Well, not really gone, exactly, but they have stopped returning my calls. Now that I have the time, and the house with the spare room, and the desire to put them to work, my doctor tells me it's too late. I have old eggs. I was shocked. I only went for the tests because I was turning 41. I've never failed a test before. So I took it again. Big old F.

I wasn't expecting this. I mean, I don't look anywhere near 41 on the outside. Does Retin A not do anything for the fine lines on my reproductive system? I always thought when I was emotionally ready to have a kid, my body would step up, not back away. And now I'm left with an empty room (and an empty womb) where a kid was supposed to be.

I can't really say I should have done it sooner. I wasn't ready. There was Paris to see. And it's not like the stellar cast of My So Called Dating Life ('sup, Jordan Catalano?) deserved to go dutch on a chromosome split. I'm just used to being the one making the decisions. And to not have that option sucks.