In which I liveblog the discovery of an ‘InStyle’ magazine (part one)

One of the fun things about moving is the slow and steady trickle of the former tenant’s mail that you get to receive for a few months (or, if you’re super fortunate, years). When I moved into this house, I suddenly became the recipient of fashion catalogs from stores I literally had never even heard of, all of which were peddling stretchy, layery black things for exorbitant amounts of money.

My house’s previous occupant was somewhat of a fashion maven, from what I can tell. I was initially tipped off by the literally dozens of fancy dry-cleaning coat hangers she left behind (very kind of her, no sarcasm), but my suspicions were confirmed when cards and flyers in the mail from upscale boutiques kept landing in my mailbox every day.

Today, though, I scored my greatest previous-tenant mail pull yet: The February InStyle magazine. HOLY CRAP, THIS THING IS WORTH LIKE $18, RIGHT?

I don’t read fashion magazines, or women’s magazines, or many magazines at all for that matter. Most recently I had been riding on a 2008 Christmas subscription to Print, gifted by my parents, but it ran out and I’m too cheap to renew it. And I used to take Smithsonian (another longstanding parental Christmas gift tradition). And in college I was guilty of subscribing to Rolling Stone for maybe a year. I love love love The Week and took it for free when I paid for a Salon.com subscription (note to self: I should really think about re-subscribing to The Week … not Salon).

I had a torrid love affair with YM (which I was allowed to take as a 14-year-old only because my mother thought it was still the quaint Young Miss magazine she remembered) and Seventeen when I was in middle and high school. I can probably trace every neurosis about my body and relationships back to those glossy tomes, which I would read and re-read until I could recite the articles and tell you what page the cover spread fell on. Oh boy, I gobbled that mess up.

I graduated to Cosmo in high school because I was having a lot of fun thinking of myself as this mature sexual being (please) but really I just liked to read the silly sex tips and wonder if people actually did all that shit (they don’t).

I fell off the women’s magazine wagon during college, when my feminist theory classes taught me the priceless art of decoding. Once I had decoded the everloving fuck out of everything, I realized that there were no magazines directed toward my demographic (young, female) that I could really get on board with. Except maybe Bitch (Bust was a wolf in feminist sheep’s clothing) and Ms. (I subscribe to neither now.)

I’m getting off track, as is my way.

So here I sit, a February 2010 InStyle magazine in front of me. I just smelled it. It smells amazing. Bleached paper and locked ink and somewhere, possibly, a perfume sample.

I’m about to crack this baby open and go through it, cover to cover. And I am going to write down every idiotic thing that flits across the absurd stage that is my brain. (My apologies to Glossed Over, which everyone should be reading because it is fantastic.)

We start with a cover (rest of the entry is after the jump because it got SO DAMN LONG)

OH GOD WHY IS THIS WOMAN SMILING LIKE THAT AT ME?

Okay, it’s just Heidi Klum, a friendly Aryan robot from the future sent to show us what true outer beauty looks like. This woman is roughly sixty years old and has had fifteen baby Seals but her skin is apparently tighter and more radiant than Jesus’ ass cheek. Shameful. Behind Heidi, because she is a robot and cannot be contained by your silly two dimensions, is the InStyle banner, featuring a neat little Photoshop gradient that goes from lilac to baby blue back to lilac. LIKE LIFE. Isn’t this fun? The rest of the page screams random things in allcaps and italics: LOVE YOUR SHAPE! LOOK BETTER NAKED! SHOES! BAGS! JEWELRY! You know, the usual.

It’s time to turn the page. I am so fucking scared.

JESUS CHRIST THIS IS COMPLICATED. Right off the bat Michael Kors is messing with my mind by giving me an out-of-focus photo on page two that folds out into a spread of a blonde lady with a big bag and her generically handsome companion. They are wearing jersey-knit shirts. Is Michael Kors a famous designer of sportswear? Good to know.

I need a shortcut that indicates when I’ve turned the page. How about “>>>” ? Yeah, I like it.

Ahem.

>>> Gucci, not to be outdone by Michael Kors, is offering its own skinny blonde lady with big bag and generically handsome companion. Only Gucci’s duo is clothed in black stretchy outfits with big silver clasps, contorting into unnatural shapes by a big swimming pool. They are sitting in a glass recliner and they look fucking miserable. This says so much about the plight of poor people that I am nearly brought to tears by its beauty.

>>> Clinique is yelling at me in Helvetica. I will allow it.

>>> Chanel. Blonde lady. Generically handsome man. No giant handbag. PROGRESS!

>>> Lancôme exists. I spend ten seconds trying to figure out how to make a “ô” on my computer.

>>> There is a dead Kate Moss or a dead Kate Moss lookalike in the woods with a giant Louis Vuitton handbag next to her. Far as I can tell, it does not contain anything useful for the hassle that disposing of a dead body in the woods. That’s too bad, as we were really making progress earlier. Sigh.

CONTENTS! There is Aryan robot Heidi Klum again with that dead-eyed smile to remind us that we did not make a mistake in purchasing this magazine, despite its odd focus on giant handbags, skeletal blondes, and generically handsome men, all of which are unusually off-putting in this context. The contents page is basically a verbatim reprint of the exclamation point-littered nonsense that was on the cover. That’s right. Someone wrote that horrible shit and they decided to print it TWICE.

>>> Tiffany & Co. either offers jewelry featuring diamond-encrusted keys or they are boldly forging a new path in locksmithery.

>>> Acura has an ad that asked me to do something and I did it. When’s the last time you let a piece of paper boss you around? /shame

>>> CONTENTS CONTINUED because I had already forgotten that the magazine was trying to tell me what’s in it. Because I just don’t fucking care.

I wonder if Emporio Armani knows that a model had a seizure at the exact same time the photog hit the shutter? Seems mean.

>>> So L’oréal has got Kate from Lost hawking for them now, huh? I wonder if she knows that they have airbrushed every freckle off her face. Seems like a risky move when she is known by a lot of people as “Freckles,” right?

>>> MORE CONTENTS! THERE IS CLEARLY SO MUCH SHIT IN THIS MAGAZINE THAT IT HAS TAKEN 20 PAGES TO TELL ME ABOUT IT!!!

Holy shit, Cate Blanchett is staring at me like she knows that secret I’ve not really told anyone and it’s really turning her on. Um. Uh. Yeah, so SK-II. That’s, like, mind-reading cream, right?

>>> We have an actual content sighting! It’s an editor’s note! How quaint! And short. Oh, thank god, because it’s incredibly stupid. “It’s February — let’s talk figure flattery! Seems like a cruel joke, no? Who in their right mind would bring up a topic that involves focusing on what you don’t like about your body in a month that’s known for being so depressing?” HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Ahhh.

Faith Hill has a perfume, except she calls it a “parfums,” which, well … she’s from Nashville. Cut her some slack.

>>> The behind-the-cover-shoot page. Fun! We learn that Heidibot requested to hear Seal on the set of the photoshoot, and that she was originally programmed to assassinate Kennedy but a careless makeup artist short-circuited her by getting a little too much waterproof mascara in her eye ports.

Flawless brunette is looking at me suspiciously and I have no idea why, unless the word “Dior” is French for “I ACCUSE YOU!!!”

>>> A figure-flattery poll — purely scientific — of 2,000 readers. Fun findings: A majority polled identify with Rachel Bilson’s figure (Beyoncé comes in a close second) and 32 percent of women polled would, if they gained a few pounds and had trouble fitting into their clothes, “drop out of sight as much as possible until [they] could shed the excess.” That’s right, you disgusting fatties. Get back in the hole and wear that fucking muumuu until I say it’s okay to come out.

Target has an ad for dinnerware that I can’t quibble with because it features pasta, and we all know how I feel about pasta. (Call me?)

>>> GIADA DE LAURENTIIS IS GOING TO EAT ME oh wait, okay, you can come out, she is eating some noodles. Sheesus, that was close. This is still that same Target ad. God, Target. Play with my emotions much?

>>> Maybelline wants your lips to be pink. Really pink. Neon pink. You know, like your vulva?

>>> The list of contributors. This magazine is 198 pages and there are four. Four.

RoC purple skin stuff. TLDR.

>>> Reader feedback. There are four letters. Four.

Sexay Calvin Klein ad featuring some bitchin’ purple sheets I am going to have to own. Because I bet my cats’ hair will look great in contrast. *sob*

>>> Jesus Christ, it’s Freckles again. Sans freckles but with a kicky new hair color. Good for her. She can be Photoshopped so many different ways!

>>> The page where InStyle is kind enough to track down the stars’ fashions for you, in case you’re feeling froggy enough to spring for $234 earrings worn once by January Jones, you horrible wasteful bitch.

SK-II must have forgotten that they had Cate Blanchette selling their shit several pages back, because here they are again with a sexy closeup of … a bottle of their cream. I am so offended that I’m going to point out that they are using what appears to be Times New Roman in their ads. Which is just insulting to people with eyes, honestly.

>>> I still really don’t *get* Ellen selling makeup but okay, it happened and here it is right in front of me and I’m okay with it.

InStyle house ad + companion to Ellen makeup ad. Seems like a good time to get a drink, right?

>>> OH GOD, WE’RE JUST TO THE MASTHEAD? KILL ME PLEASE.

I have to quote this because I have no idea what it is: “Hong Kong collection by OPI.” So I have no idea if the ad is for something called Hong Kong or for something called OPI, but either way, I think it’s racist.

>>> An ad for couples counseling or something that purports to be somewhat similar.

KY Intense. I’ve read about this stuff. I’ve heard it’s like super-compounded yeast infection burning. Can anyone corroborate?

>>> MORE MASTHEAD. It takes three thousand people to put out a magazine that is mostly ads. This makes me weep.

Aveda something-or-other. They get a pass because I kind of irrationally love them. Shut up.

>>> Jimmy Choo. Pictures of women in high heels. I feel like I’m looking at a slideshow they’d show in “Getting to Know Your Back Pain: The Seminar.”

Something about Michael Kors. Not sure if this is an ad or part of the magazine content but let’s be honest — there is no real distinction, only the cutesy pretend one. Kors: “Boys love a sexy girl in an evening gown who can also be a little bit of a tomboy. The Very Hollywood woman is the best of both worlds.” Michael Kors, the spokesman of idealistic little boys everywhere, ladies and gentlemen!

>>> I just hit page 50. I am exhausted. This is way more tedious than I ever imagined it would be. And I’m not even really reading anything. But I can’t wait until I get to some of the actual content of the magazine. There is content, right? Or is this one of those special editions that’s all credits and ads? Hmmmm. Anyway. Check back with me for the next installment of this pointless thing that is bound to make me irrationally angry. AKA WEDNESDAY.