Monday, January 31, 2011

Knight and Gay

The Internet has been buzzing with news that Jonathan Knight, also known as the New Kid On The Block Most Likely To Wear Striped Vests Or Jams In Promotional Photographs, is gay.

Some women who spent the better part of the late eighties and early nineties wearing out their tape players with "Hangin' Tough" and "Step By Step," or forcing their Barbies to have sex with their Donnie Wahlberg dolls, might find this news shocking. For me, it makes total sense.

You see, I was born with a faulty gaydar. I suspect my mother ate too much fruit during my time in utero, and as a result I was destined to fall in love with the least heterosexual member of any given boy band.




Or... maybe I just liked guys who posed on the right side of large groups, wore Dwayne Wayne glasses, or resembled Tilda Swinton with a Jheri-Curl.

Anyway, no boy band could compete with NKOTB for my affections, and yes, inexplicably, Jonathan was my favorite.

Admittedly, photographs like this render gaydar all but useless.
Jonathan had exactly one solo track, as I recall, and it was a happy birthday song titled, ever so simply and artistically, "Happy Birthday." It went like so:

Happy Birthday to you
This is your day
On this day for you
We're gonna love you in every way
This is your day (Yo-ooour Da-aaay!)
Haaaaaappy Birthday to you (To You)

Happy Birthday to you
You´re still young
Age is just a number
Don´t you stop having fun
This is your day (Yo-ooour Da-aaay!)
Haaaaappy Birthday to you (To You)
To you (To You)
To (sung in falsetto) Yoooooooo-ooooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuu!

I would play this in my room, swooning, imagining Jonathan--resplendent in his cross necklace and loafers--singing to me. Only later would I realize that this song was written for Jordan and Jonathan's mother (the "we" should have tipped me off, not to mention that the "age is just a number" line doesn't really apply to many twelve year-olds).

The fact that Jonathan could only be trusted with singing an asexual birthday ode to his mom, instead of something more manly like Joey's heartfelt, helium balloon rendition of "Please Don't Go Girl" or a tough, one-shoulder overall number like "You Got It (The Right Stuff)," should have been a red flag. But I continued in my adoration. He just seemed so... nice. Non-threatening. Probably good at teaching girls how to blow-dry their hair.

Incidentally, I went on to pin my prom hopes on a then-closeted classmate, cock-block myself for two years of college with a gay boyfriend, and marry a man who, in jest, likes to occasionally announce that he is gay (most notably right after our wedding ceremony).

I totally called Clay Aiken, though. So there's that.
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Saturday, January 29, 2011

Curmudgeon of the Month: Katie of No Missed Opportunities

So, as you've probably noticed, I've fallen down on the job of posting a Curmudgeon of the Week. I should have known that I set the bar far too high, by which I mean, necessitating that I create actual questionnaires and engage in email correspondence and cut and paste things and write witty intros instead of, say, rambling incoherently or just making shit up, which is, really, my comfort zone. To those of you who have been waiting months to be featured, I'm sorry I'm so lazy, and I promise your turn will come eventually, hopefully before this blog collapses under the weight of its own irrelevance, or the Mayan calendar ends and the world explodes--whichever comes first.

Katie here got my attention by taking to her blog, No Missed Opportunities, to write me--ME!--an open letter. And you all know how much I love open letters (right, Jessica, you unrepentant whore?)--I even have one to Uma Thurman, aka The Bitch Who Ruined My Name, coming this week. So below, please find Katie's painful inner struggle over whether she deserves the COTW COTM title, as well as a gentle (and delicious) bribe.
____

I have been wanting to nominate myself as your curmudgeon of the week for ages. However, I refrain from doing it because I don't feel as though I can ever meet the standards of some of the other true curmudgeons you have published.

You see, I am only half curmudgeonly. [Ed note: Like an emotional centaur!!]

The surly side of me:

  • Hates when people decorate their cars for Christmas. Don't put a wreath on your grill, or I will put my fist in your face.
  • Is irate when people don't acknowledge me when I hold a door open for them. I never realized so many people were raised by wolves. Totally classless.
  • Cannot STAND Christmas music before December. Actually I firmly believe Christmas music was made only for Christmas day. Maybe Christmas Eve if I am feeling especially generous. Which I am NOT this year.
  • Is furious when people tell me to "smile" because "Jesus loves me." (Not that I have a problem with smiling or Jesus. I just don't like people telling me what to do.) Nope. Now I'm gonna frown more out of spite.
  • Unfriends people on FB that make inspirational quotes their status updates. I do not need to hear uplifting words from the stoner that ate staples on a dare and dropped out of school in 10th grade. Or from anyone for that matter.
  • Can hold a grudge FO-EH-VAH. (Rachel Brenna gave me head lice when she made me try on her ugly brown headband in 1st grade which was 25 years ago. Oh my God. 25 years ago?!? She better hope we don't ever meet up in a dark alley. Also, screw her for making me realize that 1st grade was a quarter of a century ago.)
See? Curmudgeonly, no? [Ed note: Yes! Golf clap!]

Except.

The other half could be described as a...

...as a...

Happy-go-lucky sponge. [Ed note: Oh. Oh, no. Not...]


[Ed note: ...SpongeBob SquareButt! My irrational fear is overpowering. Why does he have teeth? Why God, why? Anyway, no judgment.]

That half of me:
  • Has a revolting need to be liked by everyone. It kills me when I find out someone doesn't like me.This is a crappy situation because then I become recklessly nice, which just makes that person dislike me even more.
  • Says things like "Alrighty then, buh bye now." when I end phone conversations.
  • Strives for the approval of my mother in law at any cost. EVEN spending whole days with her without her son around to mediate our conversations. A dangerous situation for both her well being and mine. I do it though, because God forbid she doesn't think I piss glitter.
  • Follows most rules placed by society no matter how inane they are and gets mad at people who don't do the same. The scoundrels.
  • Still actively listens to the Spice Girls, Hanson, and Vanilla Ice. On purpose.
  • Gives people wildly inappropriate and often embarrassing nicknames such as: Poodle, Pudding, Meow Meow, Lambie Pie, Picklebottom and worse... [Ed note: It's okay, Jeff calls me Poo Butt.]
I could go on and on here with the annoying stuff that nice Katie does, but I believe you get the point.

Just when it looks as if one side is about to win out over the other, the opposite side steps in and does something rash like:

Curmudgeon Katie: Collecting every cheese wrapper that my husband can't manage to throw away--even though the garbage can is about 6 inches from where he left the wrapper--and stuffing them all into his pillow case and under the sheets on his side of the bed.

Winsome Katie: Baking cookies or bringing in the mail for the next door neighbor (whom I hate with a passion) after her flavor of the week boyfriend breaks up with her.

As you can see, I am torn. Both these personality traits are there just bumping into each other and keeping me from being more one than the other. It's obnoxious, really.

I would very much like to be considered for your Curmudgeon of the week spotlight, even though I am not all curmudgeon. All the time.

Not that I have the audacity to ask you to make a special exception for me, but if Idid have the audacity, I would probably come up with some categories that youcould place me in if you were so inclined:

Curmudgeon Lite
Good Girls Gone Bad-ish
Wholesome Midwesterner/Semi Badass
Princess Beyotch

I'm just saying, is all.

Let me know what you think, ok Poopsiedoodlekins**?

Alrighty then. Buh bye now.

A fanatic,
Katie

**If this heartfelt letter doesn't convince you to let me be your COTW, and you would rather go the bribery route, I would be willing to send you...


Chocolate-covered potato chips.
Whatever. I'm not too proud.

[Ed note: You'll never know if she sent me the chips, will you?]
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Friday, January 28, 2011

TGI...WTF? When The Cat's Away...

Reader Royann sent me a link to something called Palm Meow, which is--wait for it--a cat retirement home in Southern Florida.

Let your cat live in the lap of luxury (and/or old office supply boxes)!
Admittedly, I am not really a cat person (although I did once write a stoned note to my mom from her dead cat Fifi, and I'm fairly fond of her current Super-Sized, eleven-toed feline Dinah, even though a cab ran over my foot when I was bringing her home), but still this strikes me as kind of ridiculous.

I mean, dogs are dependent and usually fairly dumb; they run on human affection. But cats? Cats are survivors. If you were to die, that would be the best day of your cat's life. Retirement home? Fuck it, they'd take over your house, redecorating as they saw fit, marking their inherited territory, finally realizing a life-long dream and using your frightening Roomba as a litter box.

(Before she died, Fifi used to habitually sit, hidden, on the second step of a steep staircase leading down to my mom's foyer. Mom said she was just "resting," but I know she was trying to trip and kill us all.)
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Thursday, January 27, 2011

Dispatch From the Sickcouch

Greetings, friends. I'm writing to you from inside my Slanket. It's only three weeks old and already it looks like something you might find left behind in the Rock of Love bus, covered in weave hairs and questionable stains. Jeff and I are both sick. Again. I think my immune system ran off on me, only I haven't found the "Dear John" letter yet because it's stashed in my bone marrow.

Spousus Patheticus
Does this ever happen to you: Every time you get sick, your spouse gets sick--only more sick than you? It's inconvenient to say the least. All I want in this world is to watch my Gossip Girl in bed in my sports bra (the one the elastic has all but quit on, giving it the approximate texture and fetching appearance of a loose plastic bag) while eating my way through a tower of pudding snacks, but NO, someone needs juice, or Kleenex, or a ride to the hospital.

Jesus.

In all seriousness, I do try to take care of my boo (even though, seeing as Jeff and I wrote our own vows,  there was no "in sickness and in health" clause involved. I'll have you know I'm not contractually bound to take care of him. It's pro bono. He's in the other room sleeping right now, otherwise I'm sure he'd have a good bono joke at the ready.) I stock the pantry with soup and Saltines and fill the fridge with the aforementioned pudding snacks, but he insists that his virus can only be felled by pork fried rice, potato chips, and historical documentaries about Bikini Atoll.

Jeff is a much better caretaker than I am. He dotes on me, letting me watch what he calls "my stories," and complimenting me regularly on my recovery outfit, which invariably involves granny panties, bunny slippers, and a sweatshirt I may or may not have bought in the little boys' department because it was $20 cheaper. (No space for boobs, but hot damn, was that a steal!)

I'm rambling, and it's getting hot up in this Slank, so I'll sign off for now.

Oh, but if you see my immune system eating sushi of of naked models in Vegas or passed out on the beach in Puerto Plata surrounded by empty bottles of Brugal, tell it not to bother coming back because A) I've totally moved on; and B) good luck getting a flight into JFK in all this effing snow, dumbass. Me and Mucinex have a good thing going and we don't need you anymore.

[Sniffle.]
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Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Sexts, Guns, and Exorcism (and a Sausage Fest)

I hope I piqued your interest with that title, because this is a disguised link dump from a very tired person who needed to get her day-old Bachelor on. (I work late on Tuesdays, and stayed up Monday night writing these things, so forgive me this filler post.)

Anyway, I played critic for The Observer again this week with MTV's Skins, The Mechanic, and The Rite. Mostly I am mean about them, as is my wont. ("Do you like anything?" asked my awesome production manager, who talks like Eeyore from Winnie The Pooh might if he hailed from Arkansas.)

And also! This is the last week to win a $100 Visa gift card from Jimmy Dean D-Lights... the offer ends 1/30. Hence the sausage fest.Wah, wah waaaaah.
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Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Advertising Trends I'm Over: Face Product Bukkake

Hey guys! Who wants a faceload of... "cleansing milk"?

Not okay, Sephora.
Aaaaaand now my keyword searches are going to get so much more interesting.

P.S. DO NOT GOOGLE BUKKAKE IF YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS. It is graphic and sexual.
P.P.S. I apologize to any bukkake enthusiasts who've stumbled on this blog by mistake. Do you by any chance also like Bollywood videos about golden showers?
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Monday, January 24, 2011

Wherefore Art Thou, Jeggings?

First, it was the harem pants.

Then, it was the romper.

Now, I own jeggings.

(Well, actually, they're not really jeggings. They're imitation jeggings. Which is probably worse. They don't have pockets or a faux fly; they're just ill-fitting denim leggings. I think they're ill-fitting because whoever designed them neglected to decide which was the ass and which was the front, so as a result there is no room for ass on either side, which must be especially troubling for those blessed with FUPAs.)

Anyway.

Jeff made me get them. We were using our his-and-hers DSW gift cards from Santa (black ballet flats for me, brown dress shoes for him--I know you care) and were waiting in line at the checkout when Jeff spotted the jeggings. "You must buy these," he said, thrusting them into my bag. I acquiesced only because I had another $15 on my gift card, and was feeling daring.

They did not look good. (If you're thinking, "Photo or it didn't happen!" then I will claim it did not happen.) I wasn't surprised. Jeggings are just leggings pretending to be pants. Anyone who does not look good in leggings will not look good in jeggings.

The scary thing is that jeggings are everywhere. They can cost more than $100. Which got me thinking, when and where will we draw the line?

Since I was recently gifted with a Project Runway fashion sketch pad, I decided to try to visualize the coming Japocalypse:


My friend Margaret pointed out that it will probably come full circle eventually with Jjeans. Let's just hope I'm dead by then.

P.S. If you look awesome in jeggings, more power to you. Buy 700 pairs and wear them all day long! I don't hate the player (jeggings), I just hate the game (skin-tight pants of any kind). And I only hate them because they don't look good on me.
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Friday, January 21, 2011

Notes To My Future Children: Part Three

Deep squats in shiny shorts: do not recommend.

(Need a refresher? See parts one and two.)

21. You should drink alcohol before turning 21. Not a lot, just some, at special occasions, so that you can build up the tolerance you will need for your inaugural college ice luge. It is not, however, advisable to drink Zima and peach schnapps in a hammock during your prom's after-party, nor is it advisable to spend your high school graduation in the emergency room after spending the better part of the evening pouring a handle of rum into a can of Coke in Riverside Park.

22. Dances you should master: basic waltz, basic salsa and merengue, the running man, the Roger Rabbit, the robot, the hammer dance, the electric slide, Single Ladies. If you really want to impress me, learn to do that thing where you jump through your own arms.

23. (If someone in your dorm asks you to be in an interpretive dance piece, though, make sure to find out if there's any possibility that you'll be required to wear a ball gown and cut the heads off of teddy bears before you say yes.)

24. Resist the siren song of the label-maker. Trust me, you have fewer things to label than you think you do.

25. The best way to make hospital corners is not to make them at all, because your bedroom is not a hospital, it is a den of iniquity and midnight snacking and crosswords in which bedsheets cannot be contained by society's Puritanical laws. (Also, if you actually are in a hospital, the nurses make them for you.)

26. Due to your genetic legacy, you will not look good in jean shorts. Do not even try.

27. Here are some great alternate lyrics to the chorus of Elton John's "Tiny Dancer," courtesy of your father:

Hold me closer, Tony Danza
Get a hand-job on the highway
Dress me up in pants of leather
Don't tell my mom I'm gay

28. Do not ever refer to sunglasses as "sunnies." Ditto "champers" for Champagne or "Yusuf Islam" for Cat Stevens.

29. You can't guess a man's penis size based on his feet. But you can estimate his fiber intake based on the number of days it takes him to change the toilet paper roll.

30. There is no "I" in team. There is also no "you" in organized sports.
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Thursday, January 20, 2011

BlackBerry Singing In The Dead of Night

For the past few months, my BlackBerry Pearl has been in and out of comas. It all started when I accidentally dropped her in the toilet at a friend's housewarming party. One second she was snug in my back jeans pocket, and the next thing I knew she was drowning as I stood helpless, naked from the waist down.

CPR consisted of total dismemberment and frantic blowing.

I thought she was gone, and planned to go to T-Mobile for a replacement, but the next day as I was shoving quarters into the washing machine at the laundromat, she buzzed to life. The clock indicated that she had no memory of any events post-splash--probably for the best. I thought she was good as new, just maybe with a touch of PTSD. But she soon started having fainting spells. Nothing could revive her, not even SIM card massages or, as a last resort, repeated banging against the coffee table. No, she would simply fall asleep and wake up a few days later, her message light blinking as if to say, "How did I get here?"

I'm sorry to say, friends, that on Monday morning, while I was waiting for my turkey bacon sandwich* to be warmed to life at my local Starbucks, Pearl fell into another coma... one that would prove to be her last.

Who knows why she decided to pass on. Maybe she was sick of singing Barry White every time Jeff called. Maybe she flew into a jealous rage over what she assumed was my torrid affair with "Mr. Wonton," whom I have on speed dial. Maybe it was that fateful toilet bath.

All I know is that, until tomorrow when I finally get around to going to T-Mobile for a replacement, my life will never be the same.

*Speaking of breakfast sandwiches, there are still 10 days left to win a $100 Visa gift card from Jimmy Dean D-Lights**

**I'm sorry, Pearl, that was tacky, tacking that on to your eulogy. I'll make it up to you:

I-I-I-I-I-I-I can't get enough of your love babe
Girl, I don't know, I don't know why
Can't get enough of your love babe

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Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Why Sister Zoe Can't Have A Blog: "I love burritos at 4 a.m., parties that never end, pills that kill cats... and, and twins."


Disclaimer: Family, proceed with caution. If you decide to read this, and ever mention some of things I am going to write, I will pretend I have no idea what you’re talking about. Also, everyone, I guess I have to tell you not to let your 7 year old read this, that seems pretty obvious, but some people get all up in a tizzy about their kids accidentally reading x-rated blog posts.

I am often asked at family gatherings why I don’t have a blog. I say that I don’t feel like I have important enough things to blog about blah blah, or I wouldn’t know what to say blah blah…

I am not great at translating my everyday life into blog form. I am 24. Do you remember 24? Are you 24? It isn't interesting. It is mind numbing and awful. I'm sure its great for some people- people who are abroad, teaching English or building houses or some shit, if you like that sort of thing. Or maybe for Brooklyn hipsters who are throwing shows in basements, and writing zines and all that shit (By the way, I do not like to even say zines. I am emphasizing the doucheyness of these 20-somethings. You refer to yourself as a zinester? Consensus: sorry, you are a tool-bag).

The rest of us are unemployed or working at jobs we hate. See? We’re also quite self-pitying. Even writing this is starting to depress me. I start to feel like an angsty 14-year-old girl listening to Evanescence while writing on her Xanga journal. Christ. I’ve tried to start my own blogs before. I have tried a few times. I don’t want to spin my common everyday life into a witty and cynical already been done "secret diary of a insert something clever”-type blog. I am perhaps TOO curmudgeonly to have a blog.

Sigh.

OK, those are some of the reasons…but they’re bad excuses. I have spent hours reading the most boring and mundane shit about people’s lives; it’s entertaining even if they are so-so writers. I DO want to read about your fight with the cashier at Petco, or even if I don’t, I’ll probably still read it. Just like how I looked through your Facebook album of 178 photos from your 2006 trip to Japan (I’m talking to you, co-worker of my cousin who I met once at a BBQ in 2003).

*I would like to warn you now, that this post is going to be excessively long.

I’ve already had 3 diet cokes today, and I ate a handful of gummy vitamins for breakfast. Perhaps this is why I am prone to tangents. Aspartame is a food group, right?

The truth is that 24, while painful, is amusingly so at times, and doesn’t make for bad writing material. Here is the MAIN reason why I am a failure blogger:

Other than my possible caffeine induced ADHD, it is important to me to be honest and genuine. I like talking about all the nitty gritty stuff, but I also like to be on speaking terms with my family and friends. I am not saying that Una’s blog and similar (but obviously inferior) blogs aren’t honest and genuine. I know for a fact that Una’s blog is the real deal, guys. She really did fall into a depression over Billy and Alison’s break-up. Also she wants to eat black people.

But at this period in my life, also referred to as hellish limbo, honesty would require me to have an alias. I would have to. In addition to exposing the intimate secrets of the people I love, I would also at times come across like a pill popping, whiskey loving, hooker with heaps of emotional baggage and no job. But then again, who hasn’t done a line of coke off a stripper’s ass for twenty bucks? Am I right?

*Omg, I’m totally kidding. I spend most of my time crying and watching reruns of Dawson’s Creek.

But anyway, here are some examples of the tamer things I would write about that I wouldn’t want my family to read:

  • How I am afraid to get a kitten because I am constantly dropping various prescription medications on the floor (Seriously. Sometimes I look for loose Xanax in my floorboards).
  • How my breasts have grown 3 times their size over the past year. I am obsessed with this. It is inexplicable. I tried to make a guest video blog for Una while she was in Italy, but I was drunk and I just talked about my boobs the whole time. I still think she should post it. Ok, I wasn't even that drunk at all. I just can't stop looking at them.
  • How I'm pretty sure the last guy I slept with was a serial killer. To go any further into the reasoning behind this theory would require me to have an alias (Sorry guys, I know you were psyched to hear about my creepy sexual escapades).
  • The dangers of fucking on a bar pool table without first checking for surveillance cameras (Oh yes, I said it. I’m talking to you miss anonymous blog reader.)
  • The dangers of twins. Just in general. That’s all I’m gonna say on that.
  • How you shouldn't sleep with anyone before asking them what they do for a living. "Straightboysjerkoff.com" is not something you want to hear on the first morning of a new year (Dad, if you are unfortunately reading this, I want to clarify that that was not THIS year. I didn’t bring a porn-star to your apartment. To the best of my knowledge).

Ack, that last one was tough to admit.

My dad’s e-mails end with a link that says "Check out my daughter Una's blog!” I don't think he would want to link people to accounts of my night with Patrick Bateman.

In reality I do not lead a very wild life. I just like to talk about those things more than the activities that take up the majority of my days, like for example eating 7 bowls of cereal while reading celebrity baby blogs. If you want to hear about the time I hooked up with Gordon’s son Miles (from Sesame Street, jealous? WOOP WOOP) you’ll have to come up with an alias for me.

For now I'm going to go take a Xanax and watch Law and Order SVU while reading about Matilda Ledger’s birthday party.

P.S.- I also hooked up with a character from “Hey Arnold”- maybe I’ll marry Dora the Explorer’s backpack. I think that’s actually a woman though. Hit me up, Yo Gabba Gabba cast, you guys seem like you’d be up for some freaky shit.
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Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Natalie's Delicate Flower And Other Golden Globes Fashion Conundrums

Okay, let's talk about this first. It's all anybody wanted to see anyway:

Behold, budding (sequined!) life.
Before I say what I need to say, let me state for the record that I think Natalie Portman is probably the most empirically beautiful human being alive. I'm not great at math, but I'm pretty sure the angles of the planes of her face add up to infinity, riding on an endless rainbow, making love to Pi while googols explode in its wake. It's revolting; looking at her face is like looking directly at the sun--you have to turn away and throw up. So, yeah I think she's pretty. And I'm happy that she's pregnant and engaged to a beautiful ballet dancer.

But this dress is not my favorite.

It's a nice shape, and fits well. The empire waist is perfect for showing off her delicate condition. The color is flattering. It's the rose appliqué that trips me up. It's jarring. It's like Ed Hardy shot a tee-shirt cannon at Grace Kelly.

Just... wrong.

I can't decide what would make it better, so I'm just going to conclude that infinity simply tires of humping Pi from time to time.

Okay, now for the rest. Let's start with some pretty things.

YAY.

Olivia Wilde was the first one on the red carpet, violating the Law of Gutt, which dictates that only D-list has-beens show up two hours early . And behold! She looked lovely in a sort of ombre homage to the solar system.


Silk--or velvet, or whatever that is--can go oh so wrong, but the deep neckline, retro ruffled sleeves, and elegant hue prevent Tina Fey's look from being a lemon.


Even though this Vera Wang is distractingly crinkly, Sofia Vergara rocks it--the silhouette is perfect on her. But my favorite thing about this picture is the background women dressed like wildlife. If only David Attenborough could narrate the red carpet...

"The Colombian bombshell stops in her tracks, her bosoms heaving beneath the constrictive armor of Spanx. Her eyes go wild. She senses an ill-fitting leopard-print jumpsuit in the brush nearby..."

NAY.

Oh, Michelle. If only life were as simple as gunny sacks and daisies.


And Julianne! WTF? Why did you feel the need to desecrate a perfectly nice gown with a single Members Only jacket sleeve? If you had just listened to the right side of your body, everything would have been fine. See?

The twin Doris Roberts doppelgangers approve!
And now, we move on to The Batshit Battalion.


Hey, look, it's circa-1989 Elaine Benes, wearing something from the J. Peterman catalogue:
The good doctor got onto his bicycle after ingesting what he estimated to be a threshold dose of LSD. He would have driven, but the use of motor vehicles was prohibited due to of wartime restrictions, so he started to pedal home, through fields of sun-dappled bluebonnets that seemed to swell and hum as he passed.

It got bad as he rounded a bend near the riverbed, and when his spinster neighbor came into view, offering desiccated heels of bread to a blind pigeon, he shrieked and fell off of his Schwinn, believing her to be a malevolent witch.

“Your shoes are two different colors!” he cried as he began to lick a patch of yellow grass. “Your bosom is lined with crow’s feathers!”

The sheriff was called and the doctor was escorted the rest of the way home, where he was fed a supper of broth laced with strong sedatives. But before his wife could wrangle him into his pajamas, he snatched a notebook from his desk and locked himself in the pantry.

When he emerged six weeks later, he brought the urine-stained pages to the local dressmaker and filed a letter of resignation with the hospital.

The Blind Pigeon silk and tulle gown (No. 2894).

Women’s sizes: 2 through 18.

And look, here's Tilda Swinton, looking like a Creamsicle wrapped in an enigma sprinkled with some albino Carolina Herrera.


And she's winking! How whimsical! Perhaps she's communicating with the mother ship.

ALMOST.

Green was a big trend this year, but unfortunately so was static cling-like crotchal bunching.

The boobs truly are the curtains to the soul.
OY. 
Bigger is not always better, ladies.
Speaking of which, you know what I'm over? Giant shoulder goiters, that's what. Are you hiding an absorbed twin under there? And what would Tyra say about your neck? (Obviously, Christina Hendricks looks bangin' from the rack down and from the chin up. So close!) 
And Miss Lea Michele has some cramps that only Pepto Bismol can cure. 
(Here I should admit that I'm kind of over Lea Michele. She's just so on all the time. Rumor has it she's a bit of a diva. Which, okay, fine, she's talented. But I'm annoyed by her need for attention, and for grandeur. What I'm trying to say is, that's a whole lot of dress for a little person, Norma Desmond.)  
YOWZA. 
Some actresses need to wear their sex appeal on their sleeve... or, rather, in their cleave
Betty Draper goes for subtle in a plunging Versace that points straight to her V.
Hey, Halle--we get it. You're hot. Still, the red carpet demands more than just a bustier and a glute shroud. 
BEIGE. 
One of my least favorite fashion trends is white women dressing in colors that might best be described as "Band-Aid," "Sunlit Tan," or "Week-Old Dishwater." 
Julie Bowen proves my point: without going into the shredded toilet paper situation, this color does nothing for her. Embrace Roy G. Biv, ladies. Grab his butt and bite the bullet.
This peachy hue is more flattering (and clearly Scarlett has chosen a much better dress). But the question remains: Did she use the same Flowbee as Annette bening? What is going on with that hair? Did she get it at Mullets by Dali? 
Oh, who am I kidding? I can't hate on Helen Mirren. She always looks fab. But she would look even better in a less flan-like shade, right? I rest my case.
BRIDES. 
There are always a few actresses who take an awards show as a chance to play Pretend Wedding. And it is, in some ways, a wedding--a wedding of narcissism and unrelenting media coverage, with Giuliana Rancic serving as the hungry, manic Matron of Honor, Ryan Seacrest polishing his teeth and dusting off his platform lifts in the role of Best Man, and Ricky Gervais presiding over the proceedings with an acid tongue and a hidden keg.
Still, it's no excuse to break out the Jessica McClintock, J-Lo-Hew. 
(In related news, I'm not a fan of the "fruit bowl" bodice, which renders a purse completely superfluous. Just toss your keys in there, woman! What else is that shelf for if not storage?) And I don't know quite what to say about J-Lo's invisible shawl. Remind me again how see-through netting is classy? 
YOU KNOW WHAT YOU DID, ANNE HATHAWAY.  
Okay, so this has been a long time coming. In addition to Lea Michele, one of my celebrity anti-crushes is Anne "Princess Amelia Mignonette Grimaldi Thermopolis Renaldo" Hathaway. But I don't hate on Anne just because she's beautiful and successful and probably doesn't habitually lick yogurt off of her cell phone. No, I hate her because she hit on my boyfriend. 
 
The year: 2001. The place: Vassar College. My then-boyfriend (not Jeff) was part of Wesleyan's all-male a cappella group (shut up, it seemed hot at the time), and was visiting Vassar to perform with Vassar's all-female a cappella group, of which Anne was a member. They harmonized to some Tori Amos or whatever, and then drank to excess in celebration. It was at this point that Anne told my boyfriend, in explicit terms, that she would like to a his cappella. I have never forgiven her. My ex-boyfriend once pointed out that I should take his rejection of a movie star in favor of me as a compliment, but that is cold comfort now that I have to see her all over the place--that bitch just doesn't quit. 
Also, C-3PO called, and he wants his Slanket back*. 
(That's not all she steals, 3PO. Hide R2-D2.) 
*I know she looks great, just let me have this one.  
YAWN/YIKES. 
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: when did Claire Danes turn into Joan Allen? 
But what happened to Emma Stone is even more disturbing, and sherbet-y. 
She's like an Oompa-Loompa drag queen dressed as Lindsay Lohan pre-rehab. What hath Hollywood wrought? 
Sigh. To cleanse the palate and end this ridiculously lengthy post, I give you Ryan Gosling in a velveteen tux: 
If only this blog was Scratch N' Sniff...
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Monday, January 17, 2011

Imagined Conversations From The Golden Globes Red Carpet


Colin Firth's wife: "HEYYYYYYYY YOOOOOOOOOUUUUUU GUUUUUUUUUUYYYYYYYSSSS!!!! I'm married to COLIN FUCKING FIRTH. Yeah, Mr. Darcy--in your face, universe. He's also nominated for The King's Speech. DID I STUTTER, LADIES???"
Colin Firth: "Um, I think they heard you, crumpet. Let's take our seats... and a Valium, shall we?"


Seal: Shit, bitch, you lookin' fine.
Heidi: Thanks! It's the winning look from a never-aired episode of Project Runway sponsored by Coldstone Creamery. It's Casanova's take on neopolitan.
Seal: Mmmhmmm, I see his signature: it's somehow both whorish and dowdy.
Heidi: Aw, I could say the same about your shiny suit. Does Forever21 have a new menswear line?
Seal: I especially like the rumpled pashmina you're using as a belt. Rrrrowr.
Heidi: Well, hats of to your pretend spats, Gummibärchen. Baby shit brown is a hard color to match, but I think we pull it off.
Seal: Totally. 


Annette: Warren, I'm worried. You said Black Swan was going to be all the rage this year, but I'm afraid I just look like I'm molting.
Warren: Yeah, but I look great.
Annette: Well, sure, for a...erm... distinguished man of a... certain age.
Warren: Hey, my hairline's not receding. My forehead is just more awesome.
Annette: Sure it is. Anyway, are you sure I don't look like Madison from Splash at a funeral?
Warren: Oh, relax. No one's looking at you, Four Eyes McFlowbee. You might want to keep an eye on me, though. Halle Berry's been giving me eyes all night.
Annette: Sigh. How many times do I have to tell you, breasts are not eyes.
Warren: Au contraire, mon frère. They are the eyes to the soul.
Annette: I think you're mixing your metaphors.
Warren: Well, whatever they are, those kids are all right.


Brangelina: Mmmmmm.
Brangelina: Mmmmmm.
Brangelina: I'm glad we decided not to show teeth. We're much more aloof this way.
Brangelina: Exactly. We've got to keep them guessing. Are we real, or are we having the last laugh back at Madame Tussaud's while our waxen counterparts entertain the mortals?
Brangelina: Hm hm hm hm. That was a laugh, by the way. I can't open my mouth.
Brangelina: Hm hm hm hm. I know, pet. I know.


Jon: Well, hello. What was that?
Jennifer: I just goosed you, Draper. Bitches better recognize.
Jon: Sweetheart, I'm not a piece of meat, last name notwithstanding.
Jennifer: Fine. Then can we talk about this navy situation? I know Justin Bieber is wearing sneakers and Helena Bonham Carter is dressed like one of the Hoarders ladies, but this is still a black tie event.
Jon: But... I am wearing a black tie!
Jennifer: With a blue suit! You're not Thomas Jane, honey. Jesus. I look like a goddess, and you look like my prom date from 1989.
Jon: Um, excuse me, Jessica Stein, I bet a lot of women would line up for a piece of this action.
Jennifer: Like who?
Jon: Like my onscreen wife, Betty Draper. Look, honey--she's actually made an arrow to her vagina using her boobs! Come on, that's impressive. And it looks like there's a special crotch curtain for easy access, or at least halftime shows.


Jennifer: Touché, Super Grover. Let's find the bar.
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Chocolate Lust

A story for MLK Day
By Una LaMarche

When I was a little girl, I loved chocolate. There are countless photos of me with it all over my face. I didn’t just love the taste of chocolate; I loved its deep, rich color, too, and as a result I loved all black people. I was, I am told, beside myself that I was so pasty and white.

One day, my mother and I were on the bus and I was seated next to a young African-American boy with very dark brown skin. I stared at him reverently, as he, I imagine, shifted slowly away from the crazy-eyed white girl. And then, unable to contain myself, I spoke.

“I love chocolate.”

I pretty much realized Dr. King’s dream right there on the M4.

P.S. Yes, I know this is a repost from 2007; I'm not trying to put one over on you. It's just that I worked for seven hours straight live-blogging the Golden Globes last night and I'm spent. I know, I know, cry you a river. I'll do a fashion post tomorrow, promise.
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Friday, January 14, 2011

TGI...WTF? Hoop Dreams

Well, I'm kicking myself now, because "Hoop! (There It Is)" is actually a way better title than "Troop! (There It Is)", which I used yesterday. To paraphrase Kenny Fisher from Can't Hardly Wait, why I gotta waste my own flava? Damn!

I also desperately wanted to make a clever Tomei pun, but, sadly, "Tomei-to, Tomato" makes no sense.

It especially makes no sense to you since I haven't told you what I'm talking about yet.

Well, it's this:

(Oh, yeah--she blends.)

The Maris Tomei Hoop Body system? Whaaaaaaaaaat? As my dear friend Beth, who sent me the link, commented, "Did we know about this???"

Um, no.

This is so random. I mean, you see Suzanne Somers, you think, Thighmaster! You see Carmen Electra you think, Baywatch! And then you think, Oh, yeah, also she made those softcore striptease workouts that made me dress up like an asshole for two weeks in 2004:

Or, at least, that's what I think.

But Oscar winner Marisa Tomei hawking weighted hula hoops that look like they were haphazardly constructed from police tape and old insulation pipes? This opens a Pandora's Box of celebrity fitness endorsement possibilities. A few I'd like to see:
  • Paris Hilton's TRAMP-oline Training
  • Shaquille O'Neal's Shake-Weight and Shot-Put Showdown
  • Jack Nicholson's Partially-Deflated Ball-fest
  • Marky Mark's Good Vibrations™ Vibrating Belt Blast
  • Jim Jarmusch's Jogging in Jeggings
Actually, that last one would be amazing. Please, universe?
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