For a while I was undecided enough about this to make it a "Fug or Fab," but then the following happened: I got a huge headache, and a 5.8 earthquake hit southeast of me and lasted for a very long-feeling 30 seconds, knocking some stuff crooked on my walls. When I came back to my computer, I hated the dress. Perhaps this is the Earth's way of nudging me toward a conclusion.
From the neck up, America Ferrera is hot:
From the neck down, though, I've decided that I am clearly SUPPOSED to like it, and yet I will not give in to its chicanery. The fit around her boobs looks really off, like they're being squeezed into a tube; the black bar looks like an afterthought, as if Tim Gunn had just floated by the designer's station and said, "I'm worried. It's boring. Work very hard on adding some interest"; and the shoes -- gorgeous on their own -- are distracting here because they're too close-but-not-quite to the dress color. She should probably just go ahead and send those over to me.
And it's just so very swirly. And shiny. And SWIRLY. Which is not always bad, but somehow here it's got me both squinting and cursing that I was born with a propensity for seasickness -- although the fact that my floor was rocking back and forth may not have helped. With those same shoes in black and maybe a shrug of some kind, maybe the fabric might not have distracted me as much. I don't know. I need a drink. All my pictures are crooked on the wall. Maybe the quake dented my brain. This fug is brought to you by the letter AAAAAAAARGH, the glass of Bailey's I'm about to drink, and the hyperactive tectonic plates of Southern California. I guess America Ferrera can at least say that what she wore to the Hooray, Magic Pants: More Trouser Magic premiere made the Earth move.
From the neck up, America Ferrera is hot:
From the neck down, though, I've decided that I am clearly SUPPOSED to like it, and yet I will not give in to its chicanery. The fit around her boobs looks really off, like they're being squeezed into a tube; the black bar looks like an afterthought, as if Tim Gunn had just floated by the designer's station and said, "I'm worried. It's boring. Work very hard on adding some interest"; and the shoes -- gorgeous on their own -- are distracting here because they're too close-but-not-quite to the dress color. She should probably just go ahead and send those over to me.
And it's just so very swirly. And shiny. And SWIRLY. Which is not always bad, but somehow here it's got me both squinting and cursing that I was born with a propensity for seasickness -- although the fact that my floor was rocking back and forth may not have helped. With those same shoes in black and maybe a shrug of some kind, maybe the fabric might not have distracted me as much. I don't know. I need a drink. All my pictures are crooked on the wall. Maybe the quake dented my brain. This fug is brought to you by the letter AAAAAAAARGH, the glass of Bailey's I'm about to drink, and the hyperactive tectonic plates of Southern California. I guess America Ferrera can at least say that what she wore to the Hooray, Magic Pants: More Trouser Magic premiere made the Earth move.
