Thursday, September 30, 2010

Not The Flashing Type?

Hey guys! As I madly Tweeted about yesterday, last night I was on Abiola Abrams' web talk show, LSD: Love, Sex, and Dating (because I am obviously a sex expert; I lost my virginity at 20 and met Jeff at 23, so I have three whole years of WILD DEBAUCHERY under my belt. I bet I've even had sex with more people than Christine O'Donnell. Probably not Chris O'Donnell, though--I bet he knows the scents of many women, if you know what I'm saying. Hoo-ah!)

Anyway. We didn't actually talk much about sex, but Abiola did give me a little pair of glow-in-the-dark glasses with a penis nose, which I put on at one point to ensure that I can never run for office.

There's no video up on the site yet, but rest assured I'll be posting a link as soon as it is. In the meantime, enjoy this screen grab, courtesy of Alex:

"Note the comments in the sidebar," he says.

[Whatever, Hannibal, I am totally the flashing type. Plus I'm clearly about to grasp my left boob.]

Semi-update: Here's a video (oops) of me, Abiola, producer Kristal, and the fabulous Leah King and Tracy Renee Jones trying to pose for a photo.


Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Lost Cosby? A Pop Culture Proposal

I'm a little bit obsessed with 80s TV parents. I admit it. But with Sister Act being made into a Broadway musical (I shit you not) and the new 90210 slutting it up all over the CW like it's trying to slip America some U4EA to make us forget about the CLEARLY SUPERIOR ORIGINAL, I'm starting to feel like nothing is sacred. So I go to my happy place, which happens to be the Huxtable residence.

Seriously, this is my vision of heaven:

In heaven I will look good in all hats.  

I know Bill Cosby is a sad sexual deviant now and Phylicia Rashad's last long-term TV gig was Touched by an Angel, but I am convinced that humanity will be saved if we can just get them back on prime time together. I know I already pitched my amazing documentary series/reality competition, My Twelve Dads, but here's my no-fail, ratings-bating sitcom idea:

Imagine, if you will, a retirement community in Florida. A cul-de-sac of bungalows. Who lives there? Well.

Heathcliff and Clair Huxtable, condo landlords, who spend their time bickering and scheming to get their youngest daughter, Rudy, to marry childhood BFF Kenny, aka "Bud," now a successful Internet entrepreneur.

Stephen and Elyse Keaton, who make and sell organic baked goods, and operate a "medical" marijuana business on the sly out of their garage.

Jason and Maggie Seaver, all milquetoast banter and buoyant hair, who've recently found Jesus thanks to their son Mike.

Dan and Roseanne Connor, who retired off of the profits from The Lanford Lunchbox and now collect and sell vintage bikes.

Tony Micelli and Angela Bauer, who own a local nightclub, Mona's, that caters to Boca's elderly cougar population. 

Balki Bartokomous and Larry Appleton, who provide comic relief when they constantly get mistaken for lovers. (Balki runs a local aerobics studio, "Dance of Joy," while Larry takes Anne Geddes-like portraits of cats.)

...and Donna and Troy Garland, who struggle to hide Troy's alien status from the government so that they can collect Social Security... and struggle with their sex life after years of Troy not having an actual penis (watch for a close encounter between Donna and Cousin Larry during Sweeps Week!)

Hollywood -- call me!


Tuesday, September 28, 2010

If Wishes Were Horses Testicular Atrophy (or, Like Father, Like Daughter)

This weekend, my dad says, he went to the New Museum on the Bowery. Apparently there was an exhibit by a Brazilian artist named Rivane Neuenschwander called “I Wish Your Wish.” Hundreds of colorful ribbons emblazoned with one-sentence wishes--ranging from the tongue-in-cheek to the heartbreakingly sincere--hung from the walls.

Dad picked, "I wish I could perform with an African-American church choir."

(He seriously does. He had to live vicariously through me in college, when I was a member of the Ebony Singers. Yes, really. Stop laughing! Why y'all gotta waste my flava? Damn.)

Anyway, once you took a wish, you were supposed to write one on a piece of paper and place it back in the hole.

My dad, a lifelong civil rights and social justice advocate, wrote: "I wish Newt Gingrich's balls would fall off."

See? It's not my fault I'm like this.

P.S. Dad has been writing a mini-memoir on his blog this month. Go read it or your balls will might fall off*.

*I say might, Newt, because I don't know how powerful the juju of those ribbons is.**

**But Neuenschwander apparently means "new land cleared of forest," which sure sounds like a euphemism for castration--or, at least, a bikini wax--to me.

Monday, September 27, 2010

The Pursuit of Hapenis

Jeff was napping last night when I asked him what I should write about for today.

"I don't know," he said, rolling over. But a few seconds later, he shouted, "Penises!"

It's Monday morning, though. Too soon for cock jokes, that's what my mom always says.

Kidding! My mom didn't say that.

I think it was the Dalai Lama.

Anyway, since I can't in good conscience follow Jeff's advice, what can I blog about?

Maybe artistic shadows cast by a bridge as the daylight hours wane...

Or delicious gummi candy in unique architectural shapes...

Or the world as seen simply, through a child's eyes...

Or maybe something educational on invertebrates (God knows this blog could use some IQ points)...

I should get double points for this one because it says "bone" in the title. 

Happy Monday, guys. And remember, as my blog buddy and crafty momma Robin says,

(Check out Robin's Etsy store, where you can buy the above card and many, many others that will amaze your friends and horrify your conservative relatives.)

Oh, and Jeffy? You're welcome.

Most images grabbed from the aptly-named blog We Have Bananas.


Saturday, September 25, 2010

Curmudgeon of the Week: Margaret, The World's Angriest Librarian

I mean, how could I not pick her? I love superlatives and interesting jobs. If you tell me you're the world's horniest acrobat or world's meanest chiropractor, you're totally in. But read on, as Margaret holds her own beyond her impressive title...

Name: Margaret

Age: 30

Provenance: Somewhere in the wilds of the Southwest

Occupation: World’s angriest librarian (in a city with a population of 100,000 or less)

When did you first self-identify as a curmudgeon? I would have to say that I first self-identified as someone who is crusty and ill-tempered probably around the same time I encountered people.

Who’s the curmudgeon (living or dead, historical or contemporary) you most identify with and why? Ambrose Bierce. Read the Devil’s Dictionary, it’s a bitter hoot*. (The librarian in me says, it’s available for free at Project Gutenberg!) I have always identified with his cynical, twisted view of the world. While I am probably not as angry/bitter as he was (and I certainly have no plans to vanish into Mexico), I do enjoy his rage.

*Ed note: This was Jeff's pick, too! 

What do you hate that other people inexplicably love? Can I jump on the bandwagon and say anything related to New Jersey? (Except, of course, my family from New Jersey-they have never expressed an interest in either tanning or the gym, although I’m sure they do laundry) I’m also not a fan of anything that can be described as “feel-good”.

You are Dante. What, in order from least to most excruciating, are your nine circles of hell?

1. Tech Support trying to explain how a Kindle/Nook/Sony E-Reader works to an 80 year old woman without a computer or any understanding of technology whose daughter bought her one for Christmas – This one is for all the technophiles who swan around with the latest and greatest, abandoning one for another as soon as it’s released, giving Steve Jobs more power than he deserves and shaking their heads sadly when they realize that my cell phone ONLY MAKES PHONE CALLS.

2. Cashier at a discount store having a super sale the day after Thanksgiving – This is for people who are complete assholes at stores- yelling at staff, trying to use expired coupons, taking more than 15 items into the express line and not even feeling bad about it, who have to run and get “just one more thing”, etc.

3. Stuck in an airplane filled with screaming toddlers – This is for people who piss me off at airports. You know who you are, guy with $20 in small change in his pockets, complicated shoes and no ID.

4. Driving with a cell phone stuck up your butt. (Tweeting would be difficult and involve muscles seldom used) –People who talk on the phone when driving-especially those who dither at lights and cut in front of me.

5. Tech help in a public computer lab when the internet is down – People who abuse staff when, clearly, staff has no control over something. Also, homeless people who complain about the speed of our wireless connection.

6. Timid voice of reason at a Tea Party rally – people who spend all their time yelling over others with their opinions and who refuse to listen.

7. Thanksgiving dinner at Laurence Fishburne’s (I can only imagine that this will be awkward and possibly involve some sort of ninja fight)- Reality TV stars

8. Nothing wrong with Dante’s 8th Circle (some of my favorites: flatterers steeped in excrement, thieves bitten by snakes) – Thieves, politicians, sowers of discord, etc.

9. Being a Lohan. (shudder) –Lohans and assorted reality TV “stars” and fame whores.

If you had the power to sign into law an amendment prohibiting a specific human behavior (i.e. using a Bluetooth or singing karaoke), what would you outlaw?
Excess breeding of children, a la the Duggars. (What is this, The Oregon Trail? Are they banking a few in case there’s an outbreak of dysentery?) Also, I think prospective parents should have to pass a test and get licensed.

Let's lighten up. What makes you all warm and fuzzy inside? (Your heart can’t be COMPLETELY charred.)
Kittens. Kittens make me all googly. And, okay, I’ll admit it: my 15-month old niece. Sure, she’s a poop factory and she has a love of chomping down on your hand like you’re made out of ham, but she’s just so darn cute when she does it.

What's your favorite curse word/phrase?
Muffalatta! Okay, not technically a curse word, however I work in a library and my niece is starting to repeat the things I say, so I’ve been working on not sounding like a merchant marine. When I’m home alone, however, “holy shit fuck damn!” is generally my multi-use phrase.

Essay Question: Please write a 100 word open letter to an object, person, or other entity that has recently incurred your wrath.

Dear Library Masturbator,

Thank you for bringing your laptop and sparing our computer lab users the experience of seeing you en flagrante solo. However, I have a suggestion to help you have a safe and relaxing public masturbatory experience:

Don't look furtive. If I'm walking past and you've got boobies on your screen, tilting the screen inward and hunching down makes you look guilty. Sit up and, if I happen to walk past, look horrified at what's on the screen and grumble about porn pop-ups that appear while you're doing research on Jesus. I'll know you're lying, but that's how the game is played.


Margaret does not blog (presumably because she's too busy busting library masturbators or sending anonymous packages of condoms to Michelle Duggar), but you can (and should) follow her on Twitter.

You should also watch this, because A) it's awesome and B) Robert Preston is basically a Ken doll crossed with an Oompa Loompa and I kind of want to lick his hair because it looks like molasses. Happy weekend!

Do you want to be a Curmudgeon of the Week? Email me! Do you not want to be Curmudgeon of the Week but want a new set of questions because these ones are getting fucking old? Email me ideas, because I totally agree.

Friday, September 24, 2010

TGI...WTF? Mad About the Man

You know that feeling when you're watching one of your favorite critically-acclaimed TV shows and all of a sudden, the guy you were obsessed with in high school wanders onscreen to make eyes at Peggy Olson?

No? Well, let me tell you, you haven't lived.

The one in the above screen shot (without the poof) is Charlie, who grew up in my neighborhood. He was always an actor. He was in the movie version of Lassie in 1994, which at the time made him super badass even though he played one of the hick villains and his voice hadn't changed yet. I remember watching in the darkened theater as his name appeared in the opening credits, quietly swooning over my popcorn.

Our younger sisters were best friends, which meant our families had dinner occasionally, and sometimes he stopped by to pick up Ruth from our house. I used to sequester myself in my room until what I felt was the right moment, selecting the perfect Troll doll earrings and oversize sweatshirt to wear when I made my dramatic descent down the staircase, looking, I'm sure, like a demented cross between Norma Desmond and Blossom Russo.

I took to my diary to pen the kind of romantic yet chaste odes a blue-balled Jane Austen character might have written. "I don't know if I can bear it. I'm in love." and "He saw my Beatles tape. He said he loved the Beatles. I could have kissed him." (My virginity might have been taken care of had he said he loved Melrose Place.)

I did kiss him eventually. It was pretty much the only exciting thing to happen to me until I went to college and discovered vodka, Lauryn Hill, and the combination thereof.

In all seriousness, though, I'm glad Charlie is doing so well. And if he is reading this, I want him to know that we must never speak of this again.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Momma C's Roman Holiday

Two weeks from now I will be arriving in Rome to join my mother, who is on a seven-week sabbatical. Jeff very sadly can't come, but I am determined to get over my separation anxiety and excited to spend some quality time just me and my momma.

In addition to being a boffo Jewish mother despite our muddy bloodlines, Momma C. is an honorary Italian. She won a Fulbright scholarship to Florence to study art in her early twenties and ever since she set foot there she's treated Italy like her adopted homeland. (Yes, she is the lady in the Italian restaurant who pronounces everything with the proper accent and gusto, much in the same way that you can tell Alex Trebek just lives for those Spanish rolled "r"s in Jeopardy clues.)

I have been lucky enough to go to Italy three times now: once when I was two, once when I was sixteen, and once for our honeymoon in 2007 (I posted diary-like dispatches of the latter here, here, and here if you have a lot of patience). Naturally, I was the cutest on my first trip.

Here I am rubbing the nose of the boar sculpture in Florence's Mercato Nuovo...

"I wish... for at least 20 hours of my adult life to be wasted watching The Rachel Zoe Project!"

And here I am stealing someone's Vespa! Scampy!

(We won't discuss the 16 year-old me. Suffice to say she had Goth-black hair, acne, and a bad attitude.)

Anyway, my mom has been gone for a week and recently sent me an e-mail describing some of her first days living as an American in Roma. It paints such a warm and lovely picture of her day-to-day life that I thought I'd share it with you. (I've highlighted the sentences that remind me how much I am my mother's daughter).
Roma: The first few days...... the first week.....
In the cab from the airport I was almost in tears. I couldn’t believe I had actually pulled off this trip and yet here I was....speaking Italian with the taxi driver. When we entered Rome proper and I saw the familiar buildings and all the things that signify Italy to me I was again overcome with a sense of awe. 
Joaquim from Roma Rentals was there to meet me at the apartment and to get me oriented on arrival. An hour or so later my friend Marina arrived to welcome me to Rome. I can’t overstate how wonderful it was to have someone here looking forward to my arrival! We wandered out to Piazza San Calisto for a coffee and then I went off in search of a few basics to hold me over until Monday. By midday on Sunday I realized that I hadn’t had any protein since Friday lunch in Brooklyn since I chose to sleep rather than eat on my late Alitalia flight. So I took myself out to a local place on the Piazza Renzi for a real meal and probably a bit too much vino.  
I’ve now settled into my apartment which is in the heart of Trastevere very close to Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere and close to both the Ponte Sisto and the Ponte Garibaldi. Both take me into the Campo dei Fiori and Ghetto area where I find myself daily doing some form of shopping. It’s also lovely to take in the sights in my travels through the Piazza Farnese and Piazza Navona. Everything is within walking distance and it’s fun to be mistaken for a Roman housewife on her daily rounds.
Last night I met my friend Lillo and we went to the theater together. Lillo is an actor and theater technician, now retired. We saw a small bit of something very experimental and not very interesting. Lillo has a car that I haven’t seen in 38 years.....a Cinque Cento...which has to be the smallest car ever a clown car....and one I remember well from my time in Firenze. Off we went.....without seatbelts of course.....through the Rome traffic which is a sight to behold. While insane, the traffic has a kind of elasticity and no one seems to get rattled. No road rage that I can see and the women in spike heels on Vespas and Motorcycles are inspiring. I am always amazed at how fluid everything is here. No matter where you go you share the street with cars and motorcycles which seem to go around you without accidents. No one yells or indicates any impatience and car horns are rarely employed.
What else to tell you.......
I have a TV which does get BBC World News but no CNN so I have no idea of what’s happening on the home front. Other programming here is, with a few exceptions like the odd nature program or a documentary on Italian immigration to Iceland, really awful. They show very very old American movies and TV shows like Walker Texas Ranger and NYPD Blue all dubbed in Italian which is how things are done here. I did manage to catch Leverage the other night but the voices were so weird I couldn’t watch it. The only program improved by dubbing is CSI Miami where David Caruso seems less creepy with a good Italian basso voce. 
The weather has been perfect.....warm sunny days but not terrible and cool nights so that closing the windows is fine. It’s started to rain as I am writing--the first since I arrived. Luckily I had already been out for my daily shopping but I had planned to go to a local bar/cafe with wifi and send this out to you today. My Blackberry is fantastic in that I get all my emails immediately and can respond without delay. However in the interests of saving my thumbs from tendonitis I need to be mindful of how much I write.
I’m not sure I will do much more writing of this length. Thank goodness, you say! Soon visitors will begin to arrive and life will have less time for musings. I have had a few moments of “what the hell was I thinking” but very few. For the most part I feel at home here and have been enjoying just living life and having time to enjoy the details of the everyday interspersed with the glories of Rome. I am sure there will be much more to tell once I am home but for now I say Ciao! Vi mando baci ed abbracci!


Wednesday, September 22, 2010


Way back in 2006, I wrote:
I never check the weather forecast. Every time I get stuck in a downpour, I tend to shrug my shoulders and wonder how everyone around me knew to carry umbrellas. I am always the girl wearing scarves when it’s 70 degrees and sunny and shivering in skimpy tank tops on uncommonly cold days. When people say, “Oh, it’s going to rain this weekend,” I am awestruck by their bravado. The weather seems to me as though it should be a surprise.
Fast-forward four years later, to an 80-degree day. Let's call it September 22. I am wearing a sweater dress. With a turtleneck.


At least I'm consistent.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Frankie Says Relax

I know this will come as a shock, but I am not, generally, a relaxed type of person.

I mean, I have my moments. Like when I'm sleeping. Only even then I can't relax too much because one time--ALLEGEDLY--I farted in my sleep and Jeff has never let me live it down. So I have trained myself to clench even while unconscious.

But when I'm not dreaming/toning my glutes I'm usually pretty stressy. I pound caffeine. I make lists. I compulsively check email. I walk fast, I talk fast, I eat fast. Every once in awhile I'll make a conscious effort to slow down. I'll take deep breaths, which make me instantly high because my lungs are used to surviving off of Diet Coke fumes and the brief inhalations required in order to sigh wearily. Or I'll take a yoga class and spend the deep relaxation time mentally shopping online for cute fall flats. Or I'll get a massage and then ruin it by going someplace like Soho or Herald Square, parts of the city that are so teeming with tourists that it takes ten minutes to walk a single block (when I can't walk quickly my shoulders try to overcompensate by rising up to earlobe level, as if I have go-go-Gadget wings that simply refuse to deploy).

Again, the lone benefit is muscle tone. "You have a sexy back," Jeff told me yesterday, and before I could even start singing the Justin Timberlake chorus at an inappropriately loud volume he added, "It must be all the stress."

The thing is, I'm over being so tightly wound. I'll take some back flab if it means I don't wake up every morning filled with anxiety. I just need to make some changes that'll stick. Obviously, I'm going to start by wearing an oversized tee-shirt round the clock that says "TOO BLESSED TO BE STRESSED*." And farting in it, in my sleep. But what else? Suggestions welcome, as long as they don't involve cutting out sugar or alcohol or my iTunes season pass to The Jersey Shore.

*When people wear this tee-shirt, I want to kick them right in the ass. I think I might be too stressed to be blessed, you guys.

Monday, September 20, 2010

The Slanket's Sloppy Seconds

Over the weekend, my sister alerted me to the existence of The Snazzy Napper, which she described as a "sleep burka/apron for your face."

And seriously, what the ad doesn't show you is each and every one of the above people being strip-searched by various transit authorities five seconds after those photos were taken.

P.S. Bonus points for the car lady's husband leaving her alone in there (notice: no hands on the wheel!) while he goes and gets loaded enough to continue driving with a passenger who appears to be wearing a dental X-ray shield equipped with a glory hole/nostril slit and adorned with near-sighted sheep.

Friday, September 17, 2010

TGI...WTF: A Tree Falls In Brooklyn

Jeff called me last night as I was waiting for the L.A.M.B. fashion show to start, which sounds super glamorous but which actually consisted of me looking decidedly un-modely in a cardigan and flats, trying to cover a truly massive zit from the blown-out, clear-skinned, well-heeled fashionistas around me by pretending I had a really bad itch on my right temple. I probably ended up looking like I had facial psoriasis, or bedbugs. Good times.

Anyway, Jeff called, and I was all, Hi baby! I'm at a fashion show, and thank God you called because now I can hide my zit with my phone.

And he was all, Did you hear the news?

And I was all, What news? I'm in a small enclosed space with Debbie Harry and Gavin Rossdale! I hope they seal this shit in like The Truman Show.

And Jeff was like, Um, a tornado touched down in Brooklyn.

And I said, in all seriousness, Is our house still there?

And he said, joking, Probably not.

But the joke was on us, because that shit came within a block of our apartment building.

In Brooklyn, though, "Auntie Em! Auntie Em!" doesn't really sound right. Maybe, "Uncle Sauly, Uncle Sauly--it's a twista!"

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Jeff's Beef With Lady GaGa

When I saw Lady Gaga on the cover of Vogue Hommes Japan—and then at the VMAs—wearing head-to-toe looks made of raw meat, my first thought was not “Ew!” or “What a waste of a good prime rib!” or “Shit! Now ‘beef drapes’ will never leave the lexicon.”

My first thought was, “Jeff will be so jealous.”

You see, my husband went through a meat phase.

Not eating it—he does plenty of that, to the point where he actually got gout at the age of 21, and is known to chew on whole salamis as if they were Fudgsicles. No, Jeff just got really interested in photographing it.
 Turns out uncooked bacon looks better than my real hair.

Like, remember that glass head he bought me for the first birthday we spent together?

One day I came home to find it wearing a wig and filled with ground beef.

I know what you’re thinking: Una! Get out of the house!! It puts the lotion in the basket!!!!

But Jeff is not a serial killer. That I know of. He just spent a few months in his youth ordering cow eyeballs over the Internet, and really, haven’t we all had quarter-life crises?

(He hung them on our Christmas tree, after we’d stripped off the lights and ornaments. Then he put them back in their formaldehyde container in the office closet and forgot about them for a few years until it smelled like we were living in a funeral home.)

That's not the only way in which Jeff has beaten Lady Gaga to the punch, of course, but I he doesn't want me to put up any photos of his red lace veil or hair bow phases, so that will be a post for another day.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

New York Gurls, or An Open (And Misspelled) Letter in Verse to Katy Perry (And, For That Matter, All Surviving Members of the Beach Boys)

I don't know about you, but I think California girls--or "gurls," in Katy Perry's most recent chart-topper, which I've had stuck in my head for weeks--are overrated. I mean, I've grow up in the noise and smoke and shadows of New York City my whole life, and apart from a tendency to startle at direct eye contact there's nothing wrong with me. OK, so I'm not blonde, or toned, or tan, and I don't wear Daisy Dukes because of thigh-rubbing issues, but how come there are no songs about New York girls that aren't A) about hookers or B) written by Joey McIntyre from NKOTB?

I guess I'll have to take it upon myself with another ill-advised song parody. Ahem...


I know a place
Where the Hudson’s really brownish
Cool, dark, and cramped
There must be somethin' in the sewers
Sippin' Chardonnay,
Layin' on goose shit in Central Park (Oh no!)
The boys
Break their necks
Try'na beat you to a subway seat (Fuckers)

You could travel the world
But nothing’s as gritty
as New York City
Come and party with us
(We’ll be taking the bus)
Oooooh oh oooooh

New York gurls walk fast
No, we won’t talk to you
Chuck Taylors
Pajamas on top
See-through skin
So cold
We'll freeze your Popsicle
Oooooh oh oooooh

New York gurls are hip
Go read our Tumblr blogs
Snarky wit
We got it on lock
East Coast represent
Now swipe that MetroCard
Oooooh oh oooooh

Hop in a cab
We don't mind dirt on our Manolos
We freak
On Wall Street
Ed Kochy Koch on the taxi entertainment network (Oh oh)

You could travel the world
But nothing’s as gritty
as New York City
Come and party with us
(We’ll be taking the bus)
Oooooh oh oooooh

[Repeat chorus]

[And yes, I am available for bat mitzvahs.]

The Lion-O, the Manwich, and the Matrimony

It's 3:30 am and my thoughts are coming out like the narration to a children's picture book. So be it.

Over Labor Day weekend, we went to a wedding. Jeff took pictures for three days straight, while I drank wine and caught up with old friends.

The bride was beautiful.

The groom was handsome.

They looked good from all angles.

The sun came out from behind the clouds right when they kissed. It was like a lighting cue from the heavens.

Their recessional was "Crazy in Love."

At the reception there was a surprise musical performance for the bride. It didn't stay a surprise for long; now it's on Perez Hilton.

There was dancing on stage with Gilberto Santa Rosa and Rubén Blades.

There were Thunder Cats cake toppers.

I was the filling of a manwich! (Bonus points: my husband took this picture.)

The DJ may or may not have played Thriller. Okay, fine, he totally did. And it was awesome. I had a tequila shot and couldn't remember the steps. But these guys remembered:

And then, finally, for a minute, my husband put down his camera and danced with me like a total fool.

(Plus my back looks really ripped in that picture.)

I guess it was a pretty good weekend.

Obligatory Jeff-promotion: If you or anyone you know needs wedding photos, contact Jeff through his website (he'll travel within reason -- certainly anywhere in the Northeast, or farther if you pay his way). And if anyone needs exercise tips for maximum deltoid-whaling, well, you've come to the wrong place. But I'll do some tricep dips with you if you get me some wine.

Sunday, September 12, 2010

Curmudgeon of the Week: Emma

A young reader wrote me an email so epic that instead of having her fill out the standard questionnaire, I decided to just post it in full. Get ready to meet Emma, an early teen curmudgeon in training who's already obviously a talented writer, deep thinker, and Edward Cullen realist. Just whatever you do, don't call her a band geek.

Click to enlarge; a translation appears at the bottom of the post.

Dear Sassy Curmudgeon Una,

Well, you asked us to email you if we wanted to be the curmudgeon of the week, so I did. Deal with it. Please note that I'm only in my early teenage years. Like really early teenage years. And I think I may be a curmudgeon.

I looked up "curmudgeon" on one day and came up with this:

curmudgeon: a bad-tempered, difficult, cantankerous person.

And I thought, hey! I'm bad tempered and cantankerous! I can do this! But then my curmudgeonly side kicked in and I decided not to get my hopes up, but still email you this for kicks. For an example of how very curmudgeonly and teen-angsty I can be, I will make a list of the top ten things that bother me.

1. My little sister. I know I should love her, and I really do, but she's SO VERY DIFFICULT. She has no respect for anyone or anything, and I'm fairly certain she's out to get me. The girl wants blood! She drinks coffee! And she's only a third grader!!!

2. Most of the other children at school. And when I say most, I mean all but about ten. They are all spoiled brats, disrespectful, mean, and have no regard for the feelings of others. They will do just about anything to get their way, and they don't care who they step on. Kids these days...

3. Anyone who lies, or presents themself as someone they're not for something stupid like popularity. I'm not popular, and I'm fine with it. I think it's because I'm just brutally honest about my opinions. And not all of them are widely accepted. But because of that quality of mine, I know that the friends I do have are real.

4. Eh, I'm too lazy to write anything meaningful for number four.

5. People who judge others based solely on their appearance. Oh, don't get me wrong, I love judging others, but only their character, not their looks. But if they have a crappy attitude AND appearance, they'd better look out.

6. Twilight. Those obsessed fan-girls that are EVERYWHERE. The Sparkly vampires. The teams. All of it. GET OVER IT, GIRLIES, IT'S NOT REAL, AND EVEN THOUGH IT'S BEEN SAID BEFORE, I MUST REPEAT IT: EDWARD CULLEN IS A FAIRY. (He lives in a forest, moves quickly and sparkles. Coincidence?)

7. Uggs. I don't care how many celebrities wore them, or how everyone has them, they are despicable, evil, and bent on turning all our minds to mush! Honestly, with fashions like this, it's a wonder we aren't all wearing burlap potato sacks.

8. Anybody who calls me a band geek, a nerd, or accuses me of cutting myself. Okay, yes, I play the cello. But that's the ORCHESTRA not the BAND. So I'm not a band geek. Yes, I went to an early-college math camp for a week this summer, but while there, I met lots of new friends who actually have brains, (AND a cute guy who's smart and nice, AND who texts me cute little texts just to say good morning, so HA! You're jealous now, aren't you, popular girls from school?) And yes, I do wear dark clothing, probably excessive eyeliner, and I don't talk too much. But that doesn't make me self-destructive or emo!! It only means I like how the clothes and makeup look, and that I just don't have anything to say to them! I have plenty to say to my friends, but not them.

9. All my teachers who see me in the hallway and say, "Smile! It's Friday!" or whatever. I will smile when I feel like it, dammit! Excuse my french, I don't personally curse that much but come on! You can't force anyone to smile! How do you know that my dog didn't die that morning, or that I haven't just been diagnosed with some horrible disease? Do you still want me to smile? Really...

10. And finally my last pet peeve: Ponies. I have a summer volunteer job at a children's zoo. One of my duties is to lead ponies around a track while little kids ride on their backs. THOSE. PONIES. ARE. EVIL. They kick me, they step on my feet and won't get off, and finally they just always have to turn and look at me every freaking time they sneeze! They just get their horse snot all over me, and it's gross!! It just irks me, y'know?

And those are all the things that bother me. But, I'm not always bothered. There are things I like, such as my friends, my dog, playing the cello, Tim Burton movies, and drawing. Drawing is my most favorite thing to do EVER.

PRETTY PRETTY PLEEEEAAAASSSEE pick me to be Curmudgeon of the Week! Or don't. You don't want to make a sorta young little girl cry, do you?! Because if you don't pick me, I'll cry!! Or not. All I'm saying is that I'm a young, nerdy-looking, socially awkward and above all, very curmudgeonly teen, so I think I fit the bill.

k bye.

Your curmudgeony, teen-angsty reader,

P.S. Emma blogs here and here.

About the pic, in Emma's words: In it, I'm saying "AW, yeah! Who achieved something something through hate and teen angst? That's right. It's not you losers. It's me. Scary, goth girl, Emma. In your face, society!" And the arrow pointing to my sad attempt at a cello says "This should be a cello. EPIC FAIL." And that's a guitar in my hand. And finally because I can't even read it, my shirt's supposed to say GOTH. I'm sorry, my scanner is not nice to my drawings, it looks like I've been cut in half. And yes my hair is that color, I dyed it bright red three days ago. It turned out a dull red-brown.

Want to be a Curmudgeon of the Week? Email me!

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Change I Can Believe In

This week I have been singing The Coinstar Song, meaning I'm so poor I have to put my loose change into one of those Penny Arcade things at the bank that make ordinary adults feel like A) idiots and B) crackheads.

Have you ever used one of those things? The makers designed them as a toy for kids, assuming, I guess, that grown men and women never deplete their checking accounts to the point where they are lifting up couch cushions to see if any quarters spilled from their husband's (or, um, wife's) pants pockets when s/he fall asleep during the Babies documentary you forced him/her to watch.

Since it is for children there's a little cartoon girl named Penny (YOU SO CLEVER, TD BANK! HOW DO YOU EVEN DEAL??!!) who narrates the whole experience. (Not Penny from The Rescuers, sadly--I guess since she's an orphan who got kidnapped to look for blood diamonds that would be depressing.)

"HI, I'M PENNY!" she basically yells from the screen, so that all of the responsible adults at the bank who are not carrying tube socks full of nickels on their person look at you pityingly. "ARE YOU READY TO COUNT SOME COINS TODAY?!"

This is the point when you stop looking like an idiot and start looking like a crackhead, because you cannot push the "OK" button fast or hard enough to skip through Penny's interminably long and enthusiastic monologue.


[Pounding button] Yes, bitch! Shut up and count my change!


[Blindly tossing coins into slot] No, dammit, I already know the prize for guessing the total is a Men's XXL t-shirt that has basically no street value. 


Bitch, I been pushing that shit for days! I need my fix!

Then, once you get your receipt for some embarrassing sum like $6.12, you have to wait in line for the teller, who counts out the bills into your sweaty, shaking palm, taking in your empty sock and shifty eyes and looking  around hopefully for the prop child that you probably should have thought to bring with you as a decoy and for moral support.

Children are so much less judgy.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Wedding Flash Mob

This weekend I got to go to one of the most gorgeous, joyous, and creative weddings I've ever been to. I also got to participate in a surprise wedding flash mob for the bride... that ended up in the NY Times today. Whaaaaaaaaaaaaat?

(I have a very small part near the end in the group choreography; I'm the one in the red dress. And Jeffy's the bearded one with the camera at the very, very end.)

Congratulations, Lin and Vanessa! (And no, this does not count as your wedding blog post. I just want to jump on the L'Chaim bandwagon before this shit goes viral.)

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

The Importance of Being Fierce

Today in The Observer, I profile (well, sort of) diminutive diva Christian Siriano. Basically I sat in on his model casting and cackled when he said that people mistake him for an Asian lesbian.

Photo by hubby Jeff

Me and celebrity interviews: always good times.


Monday, September 6, 2010

A Happy Medium, or How to Succeed in Delusions of Grandeur Without Really Trying

I was away all weekend at an amazing wedding (more on that later) and have returned to a shitload of work (not to mention the start of Fashion Week, which I'll be blogging once again for The Huffington Post).

So for the next few days I may be posting some golden oldies to give you something to read while I pop Xanax and rock back and forth. For those of you who were reading the blog back in May 2006, sorry for the repeat. (And also thank you for siring/giving birth to me, because the only person who read this blog in May 2006 were my parents. Snap!)

Anyway, without further ado, from the illustrious archives of a blog that can be Googled by typing "parking lot for cock,"  here's...

A Happy Medium

I have never lost the hope that I will someday be discovered and propelled to international fame and fortune. Notice I say ‘discovered’ – I have always wanted to be famous but have never wanted to try for it, stuck as I am in an ever-vacillating battle between fear and laziness.

I actually think I have a shot, even though I’m a little old for an ingénue. Take a look at my name: Una LaMarche. I have what is surely meant to be a famous name. It’s a good marquee name: distinctive, elegant, easy to make splashy titles out of. I also have an impressive performance resume. To date:

I am featured on the cover of Women’s Wear Daily as part of a feature on sweaters.

No, I was not a child model; I just learned early on how to coordinate my outfits in an attractive manner.

Premiere of Emmanuel Midtown Pre-school Winter Play, in which I am credited as “Sheep/Triangle”. That’s not a typo, my friends. I played the triangle at three years old.

I am the lead-in to a Washington Post Article (June 21, 1983, B4) about the ACLU: “Children's rights, according to Una LaMarche, age 3, of New York City, include the right to skitter up a marble wall, put your toes in the bronze grill, vault up to the window ledge and -- jump. But her guardians, Gara LaMarche and Ellen Chuse, in defense of parents' rights to keep her from killing herself, soon deprived her of jumping rights.”

Oh, and it was in the STYLE section. Perhaps my reputation as a WWD style icon had preceded me?

I am featured in the opening credits of a John Ritter TV movie. This, I admit, was total luck. Maddeningly, I am not credited; my acting debut goes largely unnoticed by the cognoscenti.

At the Waldorf school in Austin, TX, I am the only girl to cross hetero-normative lines on Halloween, and am very fetching as Peter Pan. This groundbreaking event foreshadows some of my riskier future roles, in college, as a lesbian, a small boy, and Eddie from “A View From the Bridge”, respectively.

I appear in a children’s community production of “A Wrinkle In Time” as The Happy Medium. My bright orange turban and flair for improvisation are crowd-pleasers, but my performance fails to garner notices of any import.

In the morality play “It’s All The Fault of Adam” at Public School 282, I am the only African washerwoman not to be given lines. This marks a low point in my career.

1989 – 1993
Adolescence – and an increasingly troubling complexion -- keeps me from the stage.

I headline as Marty in the Park Slope Dance Studio’s production of “Bye Bye Birdie”. I am by far the oldest member of the cast, and so am easily able to command attention, as I am able to deliver my lines without crying.

I am cast, in another breakthrough role, as a Puerto Rican hanger-on in Hunter College High School’s production of “West Side Story”. Despite an unfortunate costume of latex Capri leggings with horizontal stripes, I am able to successfully tap into some Latin flavor.

1999 – 2002
Easily the high point of a distinguished career, I enjoy a three-year period of theater, film, and dance work. Alas, my quasi-celebrity extends only to the city limits of Middletown, Connecticut.

2002 – 2006
Tired of the stage, I turn my attention to “my music”. My rendition of “Flashdance (What A Feeling)” is well-received at Sing Sing karaoke. Looking for a challenge, I take on the Whitney Houston canon in late 2005.

Granted, I haven’t had a really meaty role since, well, let’s be honest, since Sheep/Triangle, but I think I can make a comeback. Surely my daring fashion efforts will be noticed by a WWD stylist again – they can’t have forgotten me! Surely my dramatic exit from the supermarket will grab the eye of a talent scout – they’ll think, “Why, that young woman looks so convincingly angry, look how her arms strain to hold the weight of twelve bags of groceries! And she doesn’t have a car … how tragic! I can almost … why, yes! I can almost see her wearing a schmatta in the desert, carrying pails of water to her quaint and dusty village! Yes, yes, she’ll be perfect. I must call Ridley Scott immediately.”

As a writer, of course, the only thing I can really focus on is my Oscar speech. I know the journey is the point and all that, blah blah blah, but until then since I’m just sitting around waiting to get discovered, I figure I might as well get the ending all worked out. I will definitely start with a few seconds of charming startledness – that will get everyone thinking I’m really cute and unprepared, and will totally win them over. I think I’ll even buckle a little bit under the weight of the statuette and then laugh self-consciously. Then I’ll say something like, “Thank you all so much. I … I really can’t believe I won!” I won’t say that the other nominees all deserved to win, because you really only have to say that if you worried about coming off like a total dick, and since I’ll already have won people’s hearts with my little buckling routine, they won’t care that I’m not gracious to the losers. I’ll thank my Dad, for taking me to see inappropriate R-rated movies that gave me a leg-up over my peers, none of whom had seen Dirty Rotten Scoundrels by the second grade. I’ll thank my Mom and her whole family, for giving me the raw, emotional, and vibrant personality of a true Method actor (Incidentally, my Oscar-winning role will be based on an inconsolable evening in 1992 when I dropped a tray of Christmas cookies).

Then I’ll make a joke or two, and thank my co-stars, and then I think I’ll throw in an a cappella version of “Amazing Grace”. I’ll say that it’s in honor of some marginalized group, but really I’ll be spotlighting my vocal talent for any record execs that might be watching. I’m pretty sure that I won’t get cut off by the orchestra, because cutting off “Amazing Grace” – especially when it’s for disabled children – is in really bad taste. And just as I reach my haunting crescendo, the camera will cut to Jack Nicholson, and he’ll be crying. I mean, he’s Jack Nicholson, so he’ll be subtle, he won’t be bawling like a baby, but still, there he’ll be, Jack, a tear rolling slowly down his leathery cheek. It might have to be Clint Eastwood, I haven’t really decided. But then, you can’t really plan these things. You have to let the magic happen.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Curmudgeon of the Week: Christeene Fraser

Reader Christeene sent me an email telling me that I rock her jellies. Which is an awesome compliment, because I'm assuming she means jelly shoes, which I covet even though A) they always feel like you've bound your feet in plastic six-pack rings and B) I'm 30, and all of a sudden jellies put me dangerously close to Whatever Happened to Baby Jane territory.

So thanks, Christeene. She totally rocks my jams, for reasons you'll read below. And yes, I mean the hideous 80s shorts (and also the short-lived bubble gum shaped like JAMS, on which I subsisted almost entirely during a 1985 camping trip).

Damn, girl! I love a good boudoir shot that includes a typewriter!

Name: Christeene Fraser (who blogs at La Literati)

Age: 26-going-on-80

Provenance: Aye-tee-el, also known as Atlanta, y’all.

Occupation: Grad student/office pee-on/emerging writer of staggering genius.
When did you first self-identify as a curmudgeon? I was awakened to my curmudgeonism right around puberty—back then Lolita-esque knee high socks and plaid school girl skirts were en vogue, and I had hateful, stumpy Hawaiian sausage legs. Being a curmudgeon became a Darwinian mode of survival.

Who’s the curmudgeon (living or dead, historical or contemporary) you most identify with and why? John Stewart. You have to have a certain level of base knowledge to really enjoy Stewart’s commentary, and I respect that. Not to mention he’s hot. Nothing gets me all hot and bothered quite like a sexy silver fox shaming political pundits.

What do you hate that other people inexplicably love? Pregnancy. Greeting cards. Talking on the phone. Cupcakes. Summer (again, see above for stumpy Hawaiian sausage legs).

You are Dante. What, in order from least to most excruciating, are your nine circles of hell?

Circle 1: Realm of the Lustful (of course this is the least painful, because, that’s where I’m most likely to get placed).

Circle 2: Gluttony (this is the 2nd least painful, because I may possibly be placed here as well. Now please pass the Mint Chocolate Chip).

Circle 3: Wrath and sullenness (who doesn’t like a good pity party?)

Circles 4-9: [Insert all the other sins I forgot about since taking World Literature].

If you had the power to sign into law an amendment prohibiting a specific human behavior (i.e. using a Bluetooth or singing karaoke), what would you outlaw?
Switching lanes without a blinker. Use of mayonnaise. People who advertise their kitschy personalities via bumper sticker (‘My dachshund is smarter than your honor roll student’ Oh really, douche? Doubtful). Using the terms ‘green’ or ‘organic’ to pimp an otherwise bland product or store (Thanks Walmart, your new earth-friendly totes are TOTALLY going to make me forget about child-labor).

Let's lighten up. What makes you all warm and fuzzy inside? (Your heart can’t be COMPLETELY charred.)
The smell of my daughter’s freshly washed hair. A vase full of hydrangeas. Reading a great poem. Tim Gunn. Fried Spam (the canned variety, not emailed variety).

What's your favorite curse word/phrase? Sarah Palin.

Essay Question: Please write a 100 word open letter to an object, person, or other entity that has recently incurred your wrath.
Dear female judge on ‘The Last Comic Standing’: Your incessant cackling makes me want to smother babies in vats of boiling gravy. Seriously, every time you part that lipstick’d cake hole to chortle, a small piece of me dies. You contribute absolutely nothing to the overall commentary of the show. Aren’t the judges on ‘The Last Comic Standing’ supposed to be comedians? Your presence is merely to provide a pair of breasts to punctuate a table of penises. Keep up the good job of reaffirming the stereotype that women can’t be as equally as funny as men.

Want to be a Curmudgeon of the Week? Email me!

(P.S. To all of you who have sent in "applications"--that sounds so important, like I'm some kind of clown college dean doing somersaults and reading your essays while wearing a Groucho Marx nose/glasses--I'm way behind on replying to email (like, three weeks behind), so please know I will be in touch soon!)


Thursday, September 2, 2010

Embarrassing Memory in Honor of 9/02/10

Duh-nun-duh-nun, duh-nun-duh-nun--TAP TAP!

Do you know what day it is?

It's 9/02/10. Oh, YES. It is the greatest day of our time, a day to celebrate and reflect upon the greatest show of, um, sometime.

I very sadly don't have time to devote to chronicling my long love affair with 90210, so instead I offer up the following entry from the classified files of Una's Secret Shames (see also: Look in Butt, 1st tampon usage):

In 1991 and 1992--the height of 90210 mania--my friend Adri and I would to go to the deli about once a month, buy BOP and 16 and Tiger Beat, come home, tear out all of the softcore, acid-wash porn posters, and lay them on the floor side by side until we had a carpet made of hairless, preteen lust. Adri was in love with Brian Austin Green and so had dibs on anything with him in it.

I somehow ended up with a giant blow-up photo of Shannen Dougherty.

On a Shetland pony.

Which I hung prominently.

In my bedroom.

In my defense, I was still figuring out my sexuality, okay?

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Belated Emmy Fashion Throwdown

I was so not prepared for awards season to start, you guys. I've been mostly off the grid since Friday, and so I didn't even learn until this morning that over the weekend PARIS HILTON TRIED TO HIDE A BAG OF COCAINE IN HER VAGINA. It's like I don't even know me anymore.

Anyway, for this year's installment of the Fashion Throwdown I don't have a historical poem parody ready and, as much as I am loving the brain-meltingly bad second season of Jersey Shore (will Sammi and Ron-Ron smush off into the sunset? Will Pauly D. ever stop looking like he's caught in a wind-tunnel full of nitrous oxide and Dippity Do?) I'm not quite prepared to beat up the beat.

So what I'm saying is that our walk down the rocky road of red carpet fashion today is going to be little vanilla*.

*See what I did there? Rocky Road? Vanilla? I am making ICE CREAM PUNS. Is it drinking time yet?

Okay, first of all, can we talk about Sally Draper (aka Kiernan Shipka?) She looks pretty and lovely and age-appropriate, like a Madame Alexander doll. Which is refreshing given that the 3 year-old Guidice girl on RHONJ could already be mistaken for a Cher impersonator.

But there's something so "COME PLAY WITH US, DANNY!" about her character that she scares me every time I see her. At least she's not with that creepy kid from the show who looks like an even more miniature Peter Lorre. Shudder. Moving on.

Going through the photos from the red carpet (all ganked from Jezebel, by the way) I noticed that most people stuck to a few categories:


They say you're not supposed to do short and sleeveless and tight all at once, but does Heidi give a shit? Nein, motherfuckers. She's been kissed by a rose on the grave (or, maybe, gray, although that makes less sense--enunciate, Seal!)... and the boobs.

Mindy Kaling from The Office does Mad Men-style retro glam. The dress dwarfs her a little, but I dig the Pebbles Flintstone 'do.

Anna Paquin's McQueen is striking and severe. While I'm not generally a fan of singling out the breasts as pieces of flair, the gold is my favorite part of this. The black part is underwhelming and not very flattering.

Oh, Lorelai. Your Sad Panda costume is on wrong.


(And I'm not using the word nurple just because of Joan's luscious jugs.)

When I first saw my BFF Christina Hendricks on E!'s red carpet special, I blogged that she was wearing a dress "possibly made out of Grimace from McDonaldland." I see now I was wrong -- it's actually Mokey, from Fraggle Rock. But actually, even with the fringe I like this. It's different and sexy. And her amazing body takes center stage.

It is actually this dress for which Grimace died. Sure, he was just a butt plug-shaped simpleton sidekick to Ronald McDonald, but according to his Wikipedia entry, Grimace was also a ham radio enthusiast who once made a homemade transmitter from a colander. What a waste, Emily Deschanel. What a waste.

Jane Lynch looked downright regal in eggplant, although I would have loved to see her rock a black tie track suit in honor of Sue Sylvester.

Loyal readers know that Ms. Blunt here is on my shit list for marrying John Krasinski and thus cementing the fact that Pam and Jim cannot be together in real life (I have kind of a... problem with becoming emotionally involved with fictional characters. I should probably tell you now that "Jeff" is actually a Japanese body pillow.) Anyway, I'm predisposed not to like what she's wearing, and guess what? I don't. The color is gorgeous, but I don't get the cascade of broken plate shards.

Just one shade and a few smile lines away from the Purple Nurples were...


Julia Ormond looks kind of sloppy, like maybe she slept in her gown in a van by the river the night before. BUT. She is so pretty, and the fact that she's aging naturally and beautifully is inspiring (especially to someone who once got into a bar without ID based on her crow's feet.)

Kyra looks like a million bucks, she's married to KevBac, and I want to go fall sleep in the soft cocoons of her skirt. She wins at life.


Last year I hated on Jan-Jo's albino Wonder Woman dress a little bit. But this year I think she looks fierce. I like that she's so risky with her fashion. It almost makes up for the fact that she plays Betty Draper with the personality and warmth of a piece of plywood.

The Glee girls also looked fab in navy:

Jayma Mays is so cute, and I like saying her name: "Jayyyyyyyyyy-ma." If you say it enough times it sounds like you're a Southern toddler asking for fruit preserves.

My favorite kind of Ruffles are deep-fried and salted, but Lea Michele makes a case for the fabric kind in this diva-esque Oscar de la Renta.


Claire Danes looks great and all, but when exactly did she morph into Joan Allen?

Connie Britton is gittin 'er done in this totally un-boring navy column. She does look like she's holding something--snacks, maybe--between her butt cheeks, but beauty is pain, dahhhhlings!

Heather Morris (aka Brittany) is my favorite Glee character ("Did you know that dolphins are just gay sharks?"), so it's nice to see her looking so fabulous. This much shine can be overwhelming, but the black band reins it in and makes it classy.

Not looking so classy was Rita Wilson:

She looks like one of those fake white Christmas trees purchased by the kinds of people who don't allow red wine in their house (read: my enemies). According to the Internet, this is Prada. According to my eyes, this is the product of a Project Runway lighting design store challenge that Lifetime left on the cutting-room floor. The only acceptable explanation for this is that Rita is en route to a costume party dressed as Ms. Chanda Lear.


Tina!You look so hot! But I can't read your dress hieroglyphics. I'm all for statement gowns, but the statement probably shouldn't be written in Wingdings.

Kristin is gorgeous and the dress itself isn't even that bad from the clavicle down. But those loofahs on her shoulders are bizarre, and I feel like they throw the proportions off. It looks like she's swimming in that thing.


In my liveblog I wrote that Elisabeth Moss' gown had a giant skin tag. I was wrong; it has two giant skin tags--the train and the shoulder poof. Then again, this dress looks to be made out of those sheets that feel like soft, worn-in tee-shirts, so I must give it a pass.

Woah! Toni Collette is standing in a field against a gray-blue sky. But! She is also on the red carpet at the Emmys! How is that possible? Is she some kind of time-traveling demon spawn? Is she wrapped in a Constable panting? I think the smug look on the sparkly lady in the background says it all: "Damn! I look better than Toni Collette!"

Phew! I forgot how time-consuming this is. Thank God I have five months or so until the Globes to get back in shape--all this cutting and pasting is whaling on my, um, finger muscles. Anyway, I know I couldn't cover everyone, so sound off in the comments!
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