This is not a rant. I repeat. This is not a rant.

There is a rant about industry imposed body-image issues, consumerism and elitism here somewhere, but I'm not the one to write it. For starters,  I am a long time subscriber to Vogue but I swear, I only do it for the articles. You're buying that, right?  Well, I'm almost totally serious.
The clothes are often weird and always too expensive for my reality.  To tell you the whole truth, I can't think of a reality where I'd feel okay with paying five thousand dollars for a sheath dress no matter how well it's made though I don't care one whit if other people can and do.  Money is "game tokens" and how other people use theirs is none of my business though I do occasionally allow myself a derisive little snort at the absurdity. I fingered a silk sliver of a scarf the other day and wondered how much of the four hundred and seventy five dollars Mr. Choo wanted was scarf and how much was label, but that's another story.
So, yes, the articles.  Once I got over my need to be like these twiggy girls and have these lovely ( crazy ) clothes, I began to read the articles and found it's a pretty intelligent periodical.  This month it inspired me to buy a book, Lorraine Hansberry's autobiography and to finally send my daughter a leather lariat in imitation of my brilliant cousin and her equally brilliant daughter, Izzy.

Watch out Ms. Wintour...Izzy's on the way.