Glamour Puss. Coined in 1941 at the height of the Silver Screen era, this phrase epitomizes such notables as Joan Crawford, Gene Tierney and Bette Davis.

Unquestionably, their ranks included the drop-dead gorgeous. Yet, most were memorable for a look, a presence, a larger-than-life attitude that transcended beauty. Objective analysis often discloses a surprising lack of perfection of face or form. What made their characters fairly leap off the screen? Why do they linger so hauntingly in our memories?

Glamour, starring such elusive qualities as charm and allure. Illusion played a supporting role, incorporating make-up, hairstyle, costume, accoutrement. Forget letting it all hang out. These babes had it all carefully packed in. And what a package, replete with elegance and mystery. Erle Stanley Gardner of Perry Mason fame opined that a women should dress so as to inspire interest but not to satisfy curiosity.

Alas, you say. You lack a coterie of professionals to turn you out? Not to worry. We can become understudies by reviewing the scripts and reading between the lines.

Opening credits go to our hair.

Coif Up

Has the gilt on our crowning glory become tarnished? From bed head (deliberate tress mess) to dead head (dereliction of ’do), we seem to be running the gamut of lock shock.

Hair is a silent testimony to our self esteem. Unstyled, unruly, unkempt, and the most distressing “un” of all – unwashed, sour, lank locks shout, “I just don’t care.”

A classic example of the power of hair to steal the scene appears in Murder My Sweet. Claire Trevor morphed from doting-wife-with-sophisticated-updo to bad-girl-in-a-pageboy, exuding glamour in the process.

In Laura, Waldo Lydecker, played to perfection by Clifton Webb, became the self-proclaimed mentor of Laura Hunt, gorgeous Gene Tierney. Coupled with initiating her into the world of flattering wearing apparel, he boasted that he “selected a more attractive hair dress for her.” Under his tutelage, her brains and beauty were showcased, catapulting her career into overdrive.

Must we revive the weekly wash-and-set of the ’50s, the hive heads of the ’60s, or the “Gimme a head with hair” extravaganzas characterizing the ’70s? I’ll pass. A good haircut (no self-service here, please), color if vanity dictates or just for fun, cleansing/conditioning when needed (everyday laundering is overkill), and daily arranging will render the tresses a delight.
And no fling-and-swing maneuvers are required to generate publicity. Simply allow the coiffure to sit quietly, and you’ll garner top billing.

Next, a zoom lens on facial focus:  the mouth.

Biff, Bam, Pow, Zowie

Were you expecting the next words to be “Holy hyperbole, Batman?” Nope. These are expletives describing the one-two punch red lipstick delivers to your glamour quotient, in a matter of seconds. A mini-makeover in a tube. Witness the startling caterpillar-to-butterfly metamorphosis of Cher in Moonstruck, due in no small part to painting on a pretty pout.

No need to risk our lives to glamorize, as did the Ancient Egyptian inventors of lipstick, applying mercury-laden poisonous plant dye to their lips. Mattes or glosses, sticks or pencils, creams or stains, options are virtually limitless and hazard-free.

Red arouses feelings of vigor, vitality, strength, passion. Sliding on a silky red lipstick is one of the fastest esteem-boosting, glam-intensive grooming rituals a woman can perform.

So many lip-smacking shades to choose from:  crimson, raspberry, carmine, cerise, scarlet, cherry, ruby, brick, vermillion. Visualize cosmetic brainstorming rooms full of bright corporate-executive types flinging out such fetching epithets as Pepper Pot, Lady Danger, Glam, Rose Gourmand, Berrylicious, or the modest moniker, Rouge. Intriguingly, both discount store bargain bins and high-end boutiques offer red lipstick sporting such cryptic stage names as 312 and M-10.

After the boyish, bare-faced look dictated by fashion in the ’20s, lipstick grew redder during the ’30s. Despite the ebb and flow of Bright vs. Pale Pouts, red lipstick has never really gone out of style.

So pucker up, glide one on, and prepare for rave reviews.

Haute Couture

Apparel in classic movies was an art form. Note the skirt and dress length, the operative word being length, not shorth. Enter a beguiling hat, sometimes playfully angled over one eye (Ingrid Bergman, Casablanca). Pumps or peep toes and hose (not garden equipment, hosiery) completed the ensemble.

Noticeably lacking were sweat suits, baseball caps, sneakers and countless “I just threw something on” items of clothing. Adorning oneself in appealing apparel requires no greater outlay of time than donning rag-bag garb, and pays handsome royalties.

At home, sans man, leading ladies ensconced themselves in finery:  slithery penoirs, silky pajamas, velvety dressing gowns, lacy bed jackets, satiny slippers. They dressed to impress themselves. In Sorry, Wrong Number, Barbara Stanwyck’s alluring sickbed trousseau belied her unfortunate state of health. Ratty robes, scraggly sweats and tattered tees were grist for cleaning rags, not one’s closet. Have budget cuts hit the Wardrobe Department? Consignment shops and thrift stores house a surprising array of loungewear, often ignored, at bit part prices.

In Roberta, a fashion show featured revamped designs. An employee protested to designer Fred Astaire, “But those clothes are from two seasons ago.” His profound retort? “I don’t care. They’re pretty.” Amen.

Role Play

Note the body language, walk and speech of leading ladies. With hands on hips, thumbs were forward, pushing the bosom out, improving carriage while striking a pose. Movements were fluid rather than lumpen. Walks were glides, not clomps. Speech was genteel, avoiding boisterous shrieks and raucous laughter. Now that men have been admonished to explore their softer side, must we relinquish ours?

Loveliness in no way diminished substance, but was a preview of coming attractions. Leading men took them seriously — they’d better. In fact, curb appeal enhances value, beckoning beholders beyond the exterior. Need a script have a grotty cover to validate its worth?

Less than imitable characters still managed to exude femininity. Recall Mary Astor in The Maltese Falcon? Charming, disarming, even while being dragged off to the hoosegow. Mais oui, unabashedly glamorous.

Hose Down

You’re not being sent out to wash the car or water the lawn, but to purchase leg lingerie. After investing hard-earned cash in foundation garments to underpin our clothing, why neglect the expanse of square footage between toe and derrière?

Jet black, misty grey, taupe, sand, mocha, nude. Provocative makeup colors for glam gams. Despite the naked leg-look of recent years, hosiery is making a well-deserved comeback, and is hot. Pantyhose, stockings with garter belts, thigh-highs — avoiding those pubescents known as knee-highs. Can you imagine Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity, slinking down her curved stairway to flirt with Fred MacMurray in peep toes, ankle chain, and knee-highs?

Ginger Rogers’ hosiery was “borrowed” by fellow boardinghouse resident, Gail Patrick in Stage Door. An argument ensued. Snapped Ginger to Gail, “Get your own stockings or go bare-legged,” a threat of impending doom if forced to appear in public with “unhosed” legs.

A mere handful of steps are required to adorn your legs beautifully. Sit down, gather up the hosiery, slipping them slowly, gently, over varnished toenails and moisture-creamed legs. Don a pretty pair of pumps or peep toes. Your public awaits.

The time has arrived to slip into something smooth and slinky. Confiscate the remote. The “Ah, Men” (Bette Davis, All About Eve) will have to get over it. Pop a cork and fill a flute (from the Stemware Department, mon cher, not the orchestra pit). Insert a when-movies-were-really-movies DVD. Class is in session.

Deborah J. Rebolloso (aka Deb Reb) is a native Chicagoan, currently residing in Southern California with Luv, Snuggle Lee Butts, and Kali Ko (husband, cat, and cat, respectively).  Ever resourceful, she shrewdly decided to cash in on her “sassitude” and write humor and satire.  She can be reached at debreb@cox.net.  Her website is www.DebRebollosoHumorMe.com.   Check out her new children’s book, “Fou Fou’s New ‘Do (And A Tutu, Too)” at
www.lsspublishing.com/ChildrensBooks.html.

By Deb Rebolloso

I rotated my shoulders. I twitched my head. I stretched my neck. I yanked my collar.

What inspired these strange contortions? A New Wave exercise class? A dance contest for the upper torso? Nothing so exotic, sorry to say.

These gyrations, performed during a rush-hour freeway frolic, were provoked by a neck-gouging blouse label. Observing this jerk-and-flail marathon, fellow drivers undoubtedly assumed I was transporting a swarm of angry bees.

After 40 minutes of woeful writhing, my nuisance saturation point had been reached. Wrenching my hands from the steering wheel at 70 m.p.h. (Not a Closed Course. Do Not Attempt), I yanked the offending scrap of cloth out, leaving four telltale, you-yanked-your-label-out holes. Immediately my day, no, my life, took a turn for the better.

Speaking of scrap, wouldn’t you just love to scrap all feminine frippery that causes pinching, constricting, choking, itching, and the pièce de résistance, pain?

Admit it, Ladies. We’ve been enduring these afflictions since we donned our first bra. Who decreed that decorating the female of the species must involve suffering? And how did we become subjects of this Reign of Pain?

Men wouldn’t put up with such folderol, and they look good, so why do we allow it be foisted upon us?

Irritating embellishments include pinching earrings, choking chokers, binding waistbands, cramping shoes, itchy wool, constricting wigs, scratchy stitchery, and hiking underwear. Wishful thinking aside, it’s naïve to assume that attire will become “broken in.” We’ll be broken long before it will.
This is not a pitch for any form of feminist rebellion, refusal to groom, or license to corner the market on baggy sweats and flip flops.

Sweats generate sweat (thence the name). Flip flops are uncomfortable under the best of circumstances, with the toe-thongy thingy rubbing a blister, as thongs do wherever they happen to be placed.

It’s a call to choose ensembles both becoming and soothing, embracing the conviction that clothing ourselves need not be grievous, harrowing, or dangerous.

I’ve compiled a list of Top Ten Adornment Sooper Dooper Bloopers for your reading pleasure.
1.    Push-Over Bras

A little uplift is, well, uplifting, but those up-and-over-the-top derrick devices masquerading as lingerie strain credulity (and the bodice).

2.    Corsets

A cut above the Push-Over Bra, a corset not only hoists the bosom up, leaving spillage in its wake, but clamps everything from ribcage to hip in a vise-like grip. Perhaps Katie Scarlett O’Hara’s rancor in Gone with the Wind emanated not solely from unrequited love, but also her circulation-strangling corset.

“You leave me breathless” should not apply to our skivvies.

3.    The Tights That Bind

Leg lingerie is making a long-overdue comeback. Those out of the hosiery habit, however, may recollect the luxury of hose, while forgetting its ofttimes waist-to-toe chokehold. Binding legware runs a close second to a cramping corset for triggering “having a miserable day” potential.

4.    Thongs (aka Derrière Floss)

Anyone who’s worn one for more than 2.5 seconds needs no convincing.

5.    B&B Wax

Not Bed & Breakfast floor polish, but bikini and Brazilian waxes. Warm (read, HOT) wax is applied (Yee-ouch!) onto terrain that, if we haven’t taken full leave of our senses, is better left demurely concealed.

Inevitably, all waxing is followed by waning, inflicting further rounds of Yee-ouching while passing through the Catching-On-Your-Undies-Reforestation Phase.

Will the next money-grubbing craze feature hot tar and feathers? And will we, like salmon swimming against the tide, have the strength to resist?

6.    Chokers

The very name inspires visions of villainy.

7.    Wigs

At first glance, a wig may appear to be a Good Hair Idea on a Bad Hair Day.
However, along with inducing heat stroke (unless, of course, worn during Chicago’s six-month winters), and scalp itch (witness the telltale pencil-under-the-wig maneuver), what the uninitiated fail to consider is that the superfluous tresses must remain in place all day. Any attempt to remove the thatch before day end results in a fate worse than Hat Hair:  Mane Mash.

8.    Multitudinous Extraneous Anatomy Apertures

So few can boast that all the holes in their heads (or other regions of their topography) are blessedly God-given. Lip rings, nose bones, and other quirky piercings abound.

Each pelt puncture, like surgery, leaves an imprint on the body ranging from uncomfortable to agonizing. And like diamonds, minus the beauty, scars are forever. Choose wisely.

9.    Strappy Sandals

At the risk of inciting a loud cry of outrage, let me explain. If given a thumbs up from one’s hips, back, and equilibrium, stilettos and platforms elongate the leg, requiring as they do a ladylike (now there’s a quaint word) gait.
The rub arises when footwear boasts a mere one or two angel hair straps. Foot slippage and veerage ensues, pitching the unfortunate victim into klutzy footwork that’s anything but ladylike.

10.    A tie at #10 are skirts that ride up, tops that creep down, wrap dresses that unwrap, and any item of clothing passing itself off as “One Size Fits All” (all what?).

If an item of clothing doesn’t make you look forward to getting dressed in the morning, or cannot be stretched, loosened, hitched, or fixed, scrap it.
_________________________________

Please stay tuned for next month’s sequel, “Classy Lessons from Classic Movies,” for tips on glamorous adornment, minus vexation and overprice daunt.
Deborah Rebolloso is a native Chicagoan, currently residing in Southern California with LUV, Snuggle Lee Butts, and Kali Ko (husband, cat, and cat, respectively).  Aka Deb Reb, and ever resourceful, she shrewdly decided to cash in on her “sassitude” and write humor and satire.  She can be reached at www.debreb@cox.net.  Or you can visit her site at http://www.DebRebollosoHumorMe.com

They’re my friends, for pity’s sake, not the 60 Minutes Team. A modest service for six. Why should an event promising an evening of food, fun and frivolity involve an insanity clause?

When planning a dinner party, I invariably begin working myself into a state of emotional spontaneous combustion during the preceding week, resulting in a countdown to panic. Here’s how it works.

First, I spend days preparing food, cleaning behind furniture that hasn’t been moved in years, reorganizing drawers and closets, touch-up painting, as though trying to impress a new housekeeper with how little I need her. Never mind the fact that no guest will be analyzing the state of my laundry room. It must be organized!

Following the home-wide nit picking, Soirée Day arrives with the inevitable husband snit-picking. Luv just isn’t moving quickly enough for me. He’s slower than ketchup through a straw, albeit speedier than a glacier.

I leave a mere three, okay maybe four tops, tiny chores for him to do, such as vacuuming the entire house, rewiring a lamp, grocery shopping for last minute items, cleaning the patio and when does he dig in? Let’s see, what’s the group’s ETA? 7:00 p.m.? Ah, then, a 6:15 p.m. knuckle down seems more than generous. Luv does not do drugs. He has no need for counterfeit stimulation. His highs follow the adrenaline rush visited upon him from such adventures as:

1.nearly missing a connecting flight from Nice, France to Heathrow Airport. After the marathon cross-terminal sprint, throwing tips at anyone who could speak English and/or point, and my near coronary, Luv’s comment? “Wow, that was fun.”

2.repeatedly almost running out of gas on the freeway, miles from exits (did I say “almost?”).

3.exiting the house as guests are entering, arms laden with smelly trash, inviting them to “Make yourselves at home, be right with ya.”

Not I. Here’s my vision:  Table set, food on extra-low simmer, all chores completed an hour early, sipping champagne and lolling on my settee while browsing a glossy periodical.

“Take a pill,” or “Get some counseling,” are Luv’s admonitions when my breathing becomes shallow and my OCD’s running full tilt. “I’ll give you some counseling. How about a pill for “GET A MOVE ON?,” I shriek.

Here’s another of his bright ideas. “Have a couple of glasses of wine and calm down.” If I drank a couple of glasses of wine, I wouldn’t be calm, I’d be calmatose.

Paradoxically, when a Parisian friend unexpectedly appeared on our doorstep for an overnight stay, no reservations were needed. We hugged him, dragged him in, invited him to take a respite on the divan while feverishly running through the house with a spray bottle, spritzing surfaces, then handed him a stack of clean linen and a glass of wine. Total outlay of time:  10 minutes. Voilà. We were three happy campers.

Ahh, at long last it’s 6:58 p.m. Turn on the music, light the candles. We kiss and apologize, calmly, smilingly answer the bell, guests none the wiser.

DISCLAIMER:  NO HUSBANDS WERE HARMED IN THE  MAKING OF THIS COLUMN.

Deborah Rebolloso is a native Chicagoan, currently residing in Southern California with LUV, Snuggle Lee Butts, and Kali Ko (husband, cat, and cat, respectively).  A.k.a. Deb Reb, and ever resourceful, she shrewdly decided to cash in on her “sassitude” and write humor and satire.  She can be reached at debreb@cox.net   Or you can visit her site at http://www.DebRebollosoHumorMe.com

by Deborah Rebolloso

Age-related hype abounds, raking in $billion$ for the cosmetic surgery industry.  The scare tactics themselves are enough to accelerate aging.  “The Wrinkled Weebis and Other Dead Giveaways,” is a farcical romp into this wacky world, along with some clever, and less costly, alternatives.

“She walks in beauty, like the night,” gushed Lord Byron. Enter the loveliest of women:  svelte and youthful, adroit evader of, to the envy of all her friends, underarm dingle-dangle. Ahhh.

Now exit said glamour puss. Uh-oh. Get a loada that cubitus.

A largely forgotten body part betrays the passing of one’s young buckette stage:  the cubitus, known in polite circles as the elbow, and its surrounding skin, the weebis. For most women, however, elbow ennui ranks right up there with fear of pleated palms.

According to an Internet write-up on brachioplasty (upper arm tightening, taking elbow skin along for the ride), “the resulting scar is not always satisfactory.” I’d love to see one of those “satisfactory scars.”

So, before enriching yet another cosmetic surgeon by scheduling a weebisectomy, consider some whimsical, and less costly, options.

Elbow Gloves

Gloves cover a multitude of sins, from armpit to nail tip. Gloves are in, and elbow gloves shout retro glamour. Prom night. When the deep purple falls. Twilight time. You get the picture.

As of the date of this writing, an eBay search landed a whopping 317 pairs, many of them Buy It Now bargains. Pair them with a sleeveless dress if you’re underarm dingle-dangle-free. If not, a below-the-elbow dress and above-the-elbow glove combination has you covered.

Wristbands

Wristbands

Terrycloth wristbands are soft, stretchable and widely available. Instead of encircling the wrist, move them up to the crook of the arm, thus covering unsightly elbows while making a quirky fashion statement. Here are some colorful choices to accessorize your favorite outfits, at only $3.00 per pair:

Stool Pigeon Hands

Let’s say we keep problem elbows covered. Or alternatively, we never let anyone get behind us (a strategy learned early on by big city dwellers). We’re still not out of the age detection woods.

Think you can outwit an eagle-eyed cosmetician in the Guess My Age Game? Guess again. While you’re mentally botoxing your face into ten years younger submission, she’s shooting stink eyes at your hands.

Upper arms and elbows may be taut and toned and forearms a vision, but the hands dangling therefrom are dead giveaways if they resemble an East Coast road map.

Once again, it’s gloves to the rescue. Fingerless gloves highlight exquisite nails, while simultaneously camouflaging the path thereto. Armpit gloves, although difficult to explain unless you’re a debutante or a bride, are nevertheless a clever disguise. Wear them with head held high and inspire awe with your impeccable taste.

Hand hype aside, the neck may in actuality be the first observable area to crumple. Short of maintaining a perpetual under-bite jaw jut for neck-stretching purposes, what hope is there for an elephant knee look-alike neck?

Scarves

Scarves

Unlike French women, who would rather give up food and wine than scarves, American women often underestimate their value.

Here’s an ascot tie, guaranteed to camouflage the most blatant poultry neck with grace and style:

Turtlenecks

On days when you just can’t spare the time to tie, circumvent the problem with an all-encompassing turtleneck. A turtleneck will obscure everything from chin to waist. A long-sleeved turtleneck will conceal multiple problem areas:  turkey neck, flab arms and a wrinkled weebis. Don gloves and you’ll dazzle ’em.

Hats with Veils

Bee Keeper's Hat

If you happen to be a beekeeper, a good bee hat and veil will shield your tender neck from sun, wind, and pesky bee bites. Even if beekeeping doesn’t interest you, beekeeping accessories are available for sale to the general public.

Here’s a lovely model worn by a male, but you get the idea. No way will any jealous female get her prying, guess-your-age eyes past this baby.

If these solutions to your dead giveaways are just too daunting, perhaps you’d be wise to heed Oscar’s advice in The Odd Couple. When Felix was exhibiting self-absorbed, obnoxious, and debilitating behavior, Oscar snapped, “Leave yourself alone!”

Deborah Rebolloso is a native Chicagoan, currently residing in Southern California with LUV, Snuggle Lee Butts, and Kali Ko (husband, cat, and cat, respectively).  A.k.a. Deb Reb, ever resourceful, she shrewdly decided to cash in on her “sassitude” and write humor and satire.  She can be reached at debreb@cox.net

Or you can visit her site at http://www.DebRebollosoHumorMe.com