Sunday, February 24, 2013

Day 46 -- Brooke Burke-Boucle

When history looks back upon my life (it'll probably be a really slow news day), there's a chance that they will cite my affinity for late 90s/early 2K sweaters from the Limited. In multiples.  And, as I have shown time and time again (and there are more lurking...good Lord, will I ever be able to wear an individual style again?), nobody wins when I buy in bulk (unless it's a bulky non-itchy turtleneck in a cheerful color...why can't I find that great white whale?). Savvy readers will recognize this sweater (in turtleneck form) from an earlier survived, but will his rose-colored brethren smell as sweet?

So, in the immortal words of David Coverdale from Whitesnake (as if I could name anybody else from that seminal late 80s hair metal band), "Here I go Again..." While neither he nor Tawny Kitaen would ever be caught rolling on the hood of a Camaro wearing a semi-boucle sweater from the turn of the century (or slightly thereafter), surely they can empathize with my attraction to this lovely shade of pink.  Is this love that I'm feeling...possibly. We'll see after I give it a spin in the old muscle car today.

The recipe for this sweater was too complicated to transcribe--
 (wool, nylon, acrylic, eye of newt...)

Methinks this sweater is insecure about its stomach.

After giving this sweater a whirl (on the ice, of course), I deemed it fit and ready for the occasional wearing on my ragtag team of mutant sweaters.  I liked the color, it fit nicely, and there was nothing about the fiber content that caused me any undue stress.  All was running smoothly in my world until...

I kind of got roped into a last-minute gig/job/obligation as a chaperone for the park district's Daddy/Daughter Dance.  In a snowstorm.  My first thought, however, wasn't, "Do I really want to spend my Thursday night at a Daddy/Daughter Dance," or "But I'm three weeks behind on Project Runway...".  No, it was, "Had I known, I would have worn a cooler sweater." As I've stated before, the bylaws mandate that if a sweater is good enough to be kept, it must be worn for the entire day (unless, of course, you are in for the day, and then you are allowed to change into a sweatshirt). 

I considered bending the rules (since this was a last-minute engagement), but I decided that if I don't have my integrity on this blog, what have I got (besides a closet full of sweaters from The Limited that have yet to be put to the test).  And, once I paired this with a really cute skirt (from this year, thank you...I don't have the same issues with other articles of clothing) from Anthropologie, this sweater really didn't look too dated. And, besides, most of the "daughters" at this dance were from the 4-7 year old demographic (which means that they weren't even alive when this sweater was created), so I was fairly certain that their knowledge of knitwear trends was limited to the primary-colored turtlenecks on The Wiggles.

My rating: Tom Bergeron. Surprised?  While most people just accept Mr. Bergeron's existence the way they acknowledge the return of air-brushed t-shirts and the ongoing presence of Gary Busey on practically every reality show over the past few years (has anyone made the transition from Celebrity Fit Club to Celebrity Rehab so seamlessly? Come to think of it, Tawny Kitaen was also on Celebrity's that for synergy?), I maintain that he has more talent than he is ever given credit for.  I will ignore his work on the sound-effects laden America's Funniest Rigged Home Videos, and will focus my attention on his wry witticisms and subtle humor in the spray-tan fest that is Dancing with the Stars.  The fact that this sweater can go from day to evening says quite a bit, and Mr. Bergeron is no stranger to the special event hosting gig himself.  Between Tom Bergeron, Mario Lopez, Chris Harrison, there is no pageant or reality contest left unturned. Nobody would expect a ten year old multi-fiber sweater to be able to attend the "big dance," but Mr. Bergeron does so with an arched eyebrow here and there, a clarification of his co-host's jumbled statements, and, on occasion, a playful grab of Maksim Chmerkovskiy's nether regions (and who could blame him for that?).  While this sweater might not be your first choice when you look into the armoire in the morning, it is certainly no less deserving than some of the newcomers to the collection (Billy Bush...I'm looking squarely at your aw-shucks grin).  An under-appreciated host with, if not the most, than certainly with just the right amount.

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