Sheesh. Every time I think we’re FINALLY DONE with the Met Ball, another picture pops up that I forgot we didn’t already cover.
Fugger: Gwen Stefani
Gwen’s facial expression is all, “Don’t speak. I know just what you’re saying.” And so I’ll deep-six the little story I concocted about a moth-eaten wedding gown, an old bathing suit, and cobwebs from poor under-the-bed storage; I’m pretty sure she wants me not to tell her, because it hurts.
There is something endearing about the fact that Gwen Stefani has an item of clothing she loves so much, she keeps wearing it no matter how many years ago she first clutched it to her red-lipsticked bosom and begged it not to ruin the moment with a lot of talk.
Tragically, that item is this pair of white footless tights. They’re distracting me from this suit, which much of the Internet — if our Inbox is to be believed — found to be a crime against stripes, lapels, the baby clothes that are clutched to it, and the Coca-Cola name. Me, I find it oddly fun, as if she made it out of an old pair of Gavin’s pajamas, rolled it up, put it under her pillow with a photo of Joan Collins, and then woke up and found it was finally was done cooking. But maybe that’s just because I love pajamas and Joan Collins.
So, this post was going to have a dialogue — something about Gavin Rossdale showing Gwen a photo of herself that proves wearing a shirt with tails is ridiculous, especially when you pair it with athletic pants, as if your gym towel got stuck in the waistband. And then something about how her shoes look like she went to a foot-binding clinic, and it would all end in a tiny little testy moment in which it’s implied that Gwen is really pissy about the fact that Gavin didn’t just tell her this before they left the house. But you guys, it was NOT FUNNY. Like, at all. It just sat there like a dead fish on a cutting board, waiting for me to gut it, which would never happen because I hate both fish AND guts, so I’d be stuck with nasty rotting seafood stinking up my kitchen while I refused to confront my fear of anything icky. (Tangibly icky, that is — obviously, icky clothes in photographs are fine, mostly because my nostrils remain unmolested by them.) I think channeling Kanye sapped my first-person mojo for the day. Hopefully not forever.
So now I need something to talk about here. How are you? Did that thing you were doing end up okay? What about that trip you took to that place? Can we talk about how constantly cutting to Jennifer Hudson singing “One Shining Moment” during the basketball montage last night completely ruined it, because it made it about her and not about the tournament? Maybe we should discuss how I don’t mind that Lost is totally cracked-out and uneven this season, because I think it should die as it lived. Or how the word “nougat” makes me giggle. Or how Mercy is actually kind of great and it’s probably going to get cancelled, which sucks, because James Van Der Beek is hilarious on it, and so, surprisingly, is Michelle Trachtenberg. Maybe we can discuss how I can’t break my cycle of having a peanut-butter sandwich for lunch almost every day. At least THAT brings us back around to he giant black napkin swinging from Gwen’s buttocks, which makes me feel like all this typing was not for naught. Nougat. Hee.
The most distracting thing about this for me — aside from all the eyeliner, belts, and snort pants on display — is that I keep glancing at this too quickly and then having to do a double-take to determine that it’s not Madonna.
Not that, on many levels, there is anything wrong with being mistaken for a legendary Queen of Pop. But in general when I see Madonna, I lunge to protect all my major arteries to prevent them from being milked like an udder by her Olympic weightlifter arms, and Gwen might not want to foster any kind of relationship with that reaction.
Next up: Trying to determine if that’s a tiny wee skirt, or shorts. I THINK I have come down on the side of skirt, although there’s some polterwang-adjacent bunching that makes it hard to tell ANYTHING definitively except that if Darth Vader had a favorite hostess at the Death Star Hotel & Casino, she would be wearing this.
Taking all that into account: Does Gwen pull it off anyway?
It’s always tough to fug people’s winter wear, because when it’s freezing outside and there’s just been a snowpocalypse, I am of the mind that one should put on whatever one needs in order to live.