Upgrading issues, vintage fur
Hi everyone,
Sorry for the long delay in posting. It’s upgrade time and I’m trying to work the bugs out at my main site before upgrading this one. I believe I’ll wait until Wordpress 2.1 gets all the kinks worked out before doing anything over here.
In any case, First Post Street Seen section features…(clutch the pearls)…FUR!
I can see Pamela Anderson’s boobs shaking in horror now. Frightening thought.
From the article:
You could argue that vintage fur is more ethically sound than the fake variety. After all it’s recycled, hasn’t used up any fresh resources, and the animal in question has long since gone to the hunting grounds of its fathers. That’s the line these girls are taking anyway, and jolly nice they look too.
Yep, some of them in the pictorial do. Others look like they’ve been humped by something. But, I sympathize with the “vintage fur” argument because, yes, I own a “vintage fur.”
(Insert scary organ music here. Clutch pearls tighter.)
Funny, I’d never used the term “vintage fur” until today. I’d just called what you see me in here “some old fluffy thing I picked up at a second hand shop.”
It was a sunny Saturday morning and the hub and I were on our way to Ikea. Yes, I shop at Ikea. Leave me alone. You know you do too. Next to the big blue and yellow monstrosity was a cute little shop called “Django’s Brockihaus (second hand).” We ducked in. After walking around for a few minutes I saw it: a sheepskin coat.
Now, even though I’m supposed to be smart, in truth, I can be a real dumb butt. 
For some reason, when I saw the coat, I thought “wool.” Not “skin,” not “skinned animal,” not “scalped,” but wool. Please don’t ask how my brain did that.
I put it on and fell in love with it in about 5 seconds flat. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made with a short, smallish, junk-in-her-trunk woman from Tennessee in mind. It was in pristine condition, an antique that Oma probably wore back in the 50s…one time. So imagine my horror when I bounced up to my husband and showed him my find. I said, “Look honey, isn’t it cool how they sewed the hairs in the fabric?”
Denial can be a dangerous thing.
He stared at me for a second, then ran his fingers through the “wool.” “Hon,” he said, “that’s skin. That’s Persianer.” I had no idea what Persianer meant, but in German, if there’s an “er” at the end of a word, it usually describes something that is, was or had been alive.
My face dropped.
“Huh?” I squeaked.
“That’s a lamb.”
I didn’t believe him. I turned to the check out woman and she said something that sounded like “Doh, doh, doh dee doh, doh, doh doh…Persianer.”
My heart sank. It sank even further when she offered it at the steal of CHF200. I had a choice. I could risk the ire of PETA or, even worse, some dreadheaded punk in combat boots wielding a red can of spray paint. Or, I could just say “screw it,” buy the coat and look damned good wearing it.
The clerk made a good argument for purchasing the coat: It was old, which meant that it wasn’t the 
product of a fur farm; usually back in the day, the fur was actually a by-product.
I bought the coat.
After having it for two years, I’ve only worn it twice. It’s not the guilt of wearing fur that has affected me, it’s the societal taboo that animal lovers have placed on anyone and everyone who dares to wear it. That makes me feel even more uncomfortable.
So, the “vintage fur” chicks have given me something to think about. Perhaps I may rock that lamb after all.
I’ll just make sure Pamela Anderson isn’t vacationing in Zuerich.
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One Response to “Upgrading issues, vintage fur”
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Don’t feel guilty. I wear Rabbit’s fur. I love it. Not because it’s trendy, but because I eat rabbit and I actually find warmth and comfort from my rabbit fur vest. Prior to the age of political correctness, husbandry was a lifestyle where the animals were reared for meat and clothing. Now, people are killing animals for sport and rocking their fur… so, in some respect PETA. However, if my uncle’s shot it, skin it and we eat it… then I’m wearing it on my back. I know that’s ever so Chicago style - country of me.. but I can’t help myself.