Sole searching

What has the world of footsies come to? First, came the Havaianas, Brazilian rubber slippers that swept both the fashionable and the comfort-seeker on their feet. For someone who has seen the ridiculous beeline – all in the name of getting first pick privilege or simply snagging a pair – it was apparent what these imported flip-flops have done to the poor fashionista. It has possessed her, lured her out of her chic platforms and into what everyone else called "comfort zone". In limited stores were in-stock "metallics" or "highs" were bound to fly off the shelves swifter than a flick of Harry's wand, even the most sensible may morph into a demented shopaholic, unremorseful about jostling any competition in sight or, if called for, snatching a pair from someone else's manicured fingertips. I knew the flip-flop fever has escalated into insane retail proportions when Sun.Star travel editor and occasional shopping companion Kristin Lerin began placing long distance calls imploring me to hand-carry her Havaianas from the States back home. She lamented, in a manner only a deprived can, how it takes a James Bond to get hold of a pair of gold or silver high Havaianas anywhere else. Desperation led her to amazon.com. Dutiful friend that I am who incidentally has a good grasp on the clutches of obsession being someone who hordes objects of desire myself, I lugged her prized possessions, carefully tucking these, like fragile China, in between pairs of skinny jeans to ensure that, after running into a rough day at the airport, her Havaianas won't emerge out of my suitcase like some poor, badly-battered wife. But while the Brazilian slippers were the must-have all along in this side of fashion town; half-way around the globe, Ugg was the status piece. When I spotted the Aussie invention prevalently on the pedestrian streets of Los Angeles sometime last year, I prayed – for two compelling reasons – that it won't invade home in similar fashion the Havaianas have. First, furry boots are mortal faux pas in a tropical country where dry spells equate national calamity. Secondly, unless you're Sienna Miller, you can never get away with it. Instead, what I didn't see coming was the "attack" of the Crocs. At a glance, Crocs look frighteningly cumbersome, what with the predator-like side profile which incidentally inspired the name. And without a glimmer of doubt, unattractive. Yet despite its unwieldy looks, Croc fanatics swear by its comfort. Apparently, a pair feels as light as cotton candy that, advocates of this fashion cult promise, it feels walking barefoot. As opposed to "heels from hell", a pair of comfy Crocs may seem like the way to salvation for badly battered soles. But not everyone is born ready to wear Crocs. Would the likes of Victoria Beckham be spotted wearing a pair of wild cherry-colored Crocs someday? I doubt it. Did the former Spice Girl flinch when she had to undergo foot surgery from a platform-caused injury, and give up on heels all together? Not at all. Will this writer, a heel-obsessed strider, ever betray a pair of bondage-like stilettos to become another Croc convert? Until I get to slip these vagabond soles into a pair of bulky-looking, perforated Crocs, I'd probably never know. Yet masochist that I am, I'm pretty sure that – for the time being – I'd rather endure the pleasurable pain of walking in a pair of red pumps than be caught dead wearing what one online article referred to as "hideous comfort". But then again, this is an irrational girl speaking from a bunion-free perspective.

Skinny jeans in the time of Carbonara

A pair of denim jeans, since its debut on the racks of Levi Strauss, has seen far more makeovers than Michael Jackson’s surgically pieced-together body parts. First, after being labeled a male worker’s down-and-dirty uniform, denim jeans have found their way out of the miner’s cave and into a woman’s closet, defying clear-cut gender delineation in the then-conservative fashion world. No sooner could Paris Hilton bolt out of her prison cell, jeans were dyed – washed, stoned and turned acid. The hipline dipped, low enough to show pierced belly buttons and – to the chagrin of the uptight – way too revealing to clog poor daddy’s coronary veins. And then came about the worn-out look. This was one of those fleeting trends that ruffled by mom’s practical feathers. Not even a nuke threat could coax this stubborn, tightfisted woman from shelling out hard-earned hundreds for a pair of deliberately torn and distressed fresh-off-the-shelf jeans. “Why spend when you can get that look for free from your cousin’s three-year-old hand-me-downs?” But it’s not just the wash nor the premeditated de-stressing that makes denim jeans a chameleon. Designers have also been sharpening their tailoring scissors to reinvent the cut. The designer’s pick of the hour? The taper cut. Otherwise strutting by the glamorous name “skinny jeans”, these ankle-hugging, leg-clinging, butt-defining pants have stirred more points of arguments than the much publicized word war between Rosie O’Donell and Donald Trump. It isn’t clear to me who started the fad but I’ll bet our neighbor’s cat that Kate Moss, throwing a hissy fit over wide-legged trousers that refuse to stay put around her set of lanky legs, one day threw on a pair that would finally cling to her hamstring. And so the much raved-about skinny jeans were finally spotted. First by the paparazzi. And later, by the watching world. It’s easy to see how this trend has caught up like wildfire among the fashion-forward. Skinny jeans, when worn on a pair of long, lean and shapely legs (think Cameron Diaz), can work wonders. As stretchy meters of fabric delicately cling to every slope and curve, silhouettes are defined. With V-like tailoring that clearly puts emphasis on toned derriere, wearing a pair makes channeling one’s inner Jessica Alba effortless. But these jeans are named “skinny” for obvious reasons. Unlike the stretchy leggings, a pair is not your regular one-size-fit-all closet-filler. In fact, on some body types, skinny jeans can be unforgiving. The very same clingy fabric that shape curves is the very bane of bulges and swollen calves too. Since the arrival of skinny jeans, we’ve spotted all leg shapes and sizes. Some long and straight. Others, crescent and stout. A few misguided bloated calves have been seen unabashedly wandering around, looking like, any minute now, veins with blood unable to circulate from all the restriction beneath gripping fabric will unrestrainedly pop like kernels in the oven. It’s hardly a surprise that, along with the return of skinny jeans, diet has become the fad’s other pea in the pod. Why else would desperate fashion followers skip a plateful of pasta if not for the promise of finally fitting into a pair of leg-hugging jeans? But should Atkins be proven wrong and giving up carbo eventually fails, one may always take comfort in the fact that fashion is as fleeting and fickle-minded as the September storm, and that the wide-legged pants are about to make a comeback. Perhaps then, being able to wiggle with ease into a pair that dared not to cling to bulges like leech, a plateful of Carbonara would no longer taste as guilt-peppered as in the time of skinny jeans.

Toxic cup

First, there’s the wild palpitation. The heart, suddenly agitated and nervy, throbs to the beat of inaudibly deafening bass drums. Thud. Thud. Then, comes the involuntary convulsion of the sweat-drenched hands chased, not too long, by the spontaneous illogical rambling that would put even wasted Britney to shame.

As pathetic as it may sound in these days of Starbucks and Coffee Blends, when it comes to caffeine, I sadly have the threshold of a four-year-old on a lactose diet.

For someone conceived in a womb where dark liquids of espresso had long displaced the placenta, it baffles me to my wits why every inch of my body repulses the slightest hint of caffeine when my mom’s bottle of Pierre is a cup of Arabica blend.

Whether this was a genetic fluke or a matter of unique biological makeup, this 90-pound body is not built to survive a cup of dark espresso. Sure I could give it a shot to validate my contention, but my brother would probably have me write off my last will and testament before the first sip, certain of my forthcoming death by caffeine.

“Please leave me your Toshiba laptop before caffeine poisons you to the core,” would most likely be his ruthless joke.

In the gossip circles, I may go down as the only “diva” who orders a cup of steamed milk during coffee breaks, but this is not to ultimately say that I have never attempted to sip a cup of rich, freshly-brewed coffee at least once in my pitiable lifetime. I have, but each valiant attempt has left me with nothing more than a momentary case of cluttering – slurred speech, distorted syntax, erratic rhythm.

In medical-speak, this verbal mumbling and rambling may easily qualify as logorrhoea. In diva-terms, it’s simply Paris-Hilton-on-novocaine. Since then, I had better sense to steer clear from a cup of dripping, brewed coffee.

But drowning curiosity has not been easy, especially when everyone you know worships Starbucks like a religion.

Our illustrator, Janice, is one of the many. She could be in her death bed and her final wish would probably be triple shots of espresso intravenously fed into her.

It was she who introduced me to the world of French press, espresso doppio and café macchiato. At first, I was a reluctant companion who wasn’t at all contributing to the Starbucks cash register, but was unremorsefully swaggering her way to the free condiments corner with a free mini cup of unlimited supply of non-fat milk.

Soon though, Janice threw in her pitch for the coveted Starbucks planner. Still, I was unaffected, believing that a leather-bound planner would hardly be enough to make me a Starbucks convert. But her overzealous devotion to her daily gourmet coffee fix and tiny star stamp in exchange for a limited-edition planner was infectious.

To earn my Starbucks stamp, those regular Starbucks visits made me discover a different addiction – hot chocolate.

I still recall my first queue among caffeine-starved Starbucks regulars. I was literally attacked, like a witness in a court room, by a barrage of questions.

“What would you like for today, maam? Something hot or cold?” asked the perennially perky Starbucks barista.

“Something hot please,” I replied with the same amount of perkiness.

“Coffee, choco or tea?” he shot back.

“Chocolate would be nice,” I retorted.

“Classic or signature?”

A long pause ensued while weighing my options. “Signature, I guess,” I finally decided.

“And what size would that be? Short, medium or tall?”

I was ready to burst into tears and beg, “Please, I just want a nice cup of hot choco!”

Never mind that I may have accumulated an additional 167 calories each day I indulged myself at Starbucks. Who could complain when it was a sinfully delightful way to earn my first Starbucks planner?

But don’t be fooled. Though I may now be spotted at the coffee place with a sleeved cup on one hand, I remain decaffeinated. Coffee, for this caffeine-deprived soul, continues to be an unwelcome concoction in my discriminating system. It will still be this expensive “toxin” that momentarily short-circuits logic and leaves me more jittery than a slow-as-snail soccer mom driving on a freeway.

And yes, pardon me if I’m rambling again like an incoherent Britney. It’s the lousy three-in-one decaf kicking in.