By Tim Sanders

[NOTE: Last week I wrote an emotionally charged column about a man who attempted suicide by shooting 12 two-inch nails into his skull with a nail gun. That column appeared in the paper with the unlikely title "At least he didn’t have to worry about his tongue blowing off." I apologize for that title, which should have read "At least he didn’t have to worry about his toupee blowing off." Nails in head, toupee not blowing off, get it? There is a perfectly good explanation about how "toupee" became "tongue" in that title, but you probably wouldn’t buy it. Again, I apologize, and if you were to reread that column picturing toupees flapping in the breeze rather than tongues, I’m sure it would all make perfectly good sense to you.]

This week’s column deals with the fashion world. When it comes to men’s fashion, I know all I need to know. My usual childhood attire was a pair of tennis shoes, Levis, a Hopalong Cassidy belt, and a white T-shirt. Now that I am much older, much more sophisticated and urbane, my everyday wardrobe has broadened to include a pair of tennis shoes, Levis, a Hopalong Cassidy belt, and white, blue, or green T-shirts. Unless a man is a rodeo clown or a mortician, that is all the wardrobe he needs.

On the other hand, as far as women’s fashion goes, I haven’t a clue. Early in our marriage, before I knew any better, I made the mistake of buying my wife a dress. I thought it was a nice dress, but she was horrified when she saw it. Despite the fact that my mother had one with a flower pattern that was quite similar, Marilyn didn’t care for the style. I believe her comment was, "It looks like something your mother would wear." One of the other things she objected to was the size. The dress I bought for her was a size 12. I bought a 12 because she was a small young lady, about the size of your average 12-year-old. I explained that to her, but she told me that she wore a size 6. That seemed unreasonable to me, since she was certainly larger than most 6-year-olds, but she said dress sizes had nothing to do with a woman’s age. She was very unclear as to what those sizes actually represented, but she did explain that no, a 12 was not twice as big as a 6. My suggestion that if she kept it, perhaps she’d grow into it, didn’t help either. At least when it comes to men’s sizes, there is some logic involved. A pair of pants with a 56" waist is exactly twice the size of a pair with a 28" waist.

One of the few things I do know about women’s fashion is that those prissy fashion designers never come up with anything your normal woman would wear. I’ve seen the horsey fashion models on TV, the ones with their upper lips curled as though they smelled something nasty, galloping up and down those silly runways like so many aggressive, ill-tempered giraffes, wearing what could best be described as Star Wars outfits from Hell. Guys like me wouldn’t design those kinds of clothes for women. We’d design two basic styles–one style for young, slim women, and another for older, more full-figured ladies. The style for the younger women would require very little material–as little as three or four square inches where beachwear was concerned. As women aged, and their figures matured, the amount of material would of course increase. Ladies who’d achieved pachyderm status would get an attractive tarpaulin swimsuit with a hole on top to stick their heads through. As to texture and patterns, those things would be matters of complete indifference to us.

I recently ran across an article about a Salt Lake City fashion designer named Jared Gold. Mr. Gold designs clothing and accessories, mainly for women. He is obviously held in high regard by people who design the kinds of things that attract a lot of attention on runways, but which your average American woman wouldn’t wear on a bet. The Gold article caught my eye because he’d apparently given women’s jewelry a lot of serious thought, held several committee meetings with his fashion buddies, called the weather bureau to determine wind velocity and humidity, sipped some very trendy Starbucks latte, taken a healthy hit on his designer Tiffany bong, and decided that what American women really needed to breathe life into their new Spring ensemble was an insect. That’s right, a live bug crawling across their fancy gowns. And not just any bug, but the kind of bug that has inspired poets and painters for centuries–a cockroach. An exceptionally large cockroach. One that hisses. Yeah, that’s the ticket, a three-inch long Madagascar hissing cockroach decorated with little crystals and anchored to a pin by a tasteful chain. "Fabulous idea, Lars. It will be divine!"

In her April 15 LA Times article, Debbie Hummel said the following about Jared Gold’s hissing cockroach brooches:

The "roach brooches" are free to crawl around on a blouse, or jacket, attached to a limiting lead. They hiss when upset and, unless the wearer is careful about the roach’s feeding schedule, they can soil your couture clothing.

There is a very sensitive and politically correct disclaimer on Jared Gold’s website, explaining that none of the cockroaches used in these brooches are actually harmed. This website is careful to point out that all of the hissing roach brooches are males, which I suppose will reassure the geniuses at PETA that no little roach offspring will be lost, thus further depleting the endangered roach population. (And of course, the lucky lady who has that attractive roach brooch won’t have to worry about her brooch dropping roach eggs all over her blouse.) The website, which refers to the huge cockroaches as "our little friends," also gives hints on the care and feeding of the roach brooches:

The life span of these animals is approximately one year if housed and fed properly ... Roaches love fresh bananas and must have access to water at all times; a very damp paper towel or cotton ball will do the trick. Dehydration is the main cause of death. Keep him in a little terrarium in the dark and he will love you and be very responsive to your touch.

But if you plan to purchase an $80 hissing, pooping roach brooch for Mom this Mother’s Day, you may want to warn Dad first. If he were to spy the poor woman, hands full of ripe bananas and soggy cotton balls, with a roach the size of a Volkswagen bus navigating its way across her upper torso, trying to make off with her rhinestones, he might not understand. In fact, he might just snatch that bejeweled bug from Mom’s jacket, toss it to the floor, and personally send it to roach heaven with a good, healthy stomp.

And then, being a normal, non-fashion-wise guy, he’d probably march off to Wal-Mart in search of a large can of Raid and the biggest roach motel he could find.