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It doesn't even matter that she's a zombie because she's looks freaking amazing.

Oh, what I would do for that hair.

Right after she hooked up with that midget weirdo, there were reports of her spending hours at Barneys trying on shoes and clothes and dropping 10 large in one multi-hour shopping spree. Love that. Spend his money - fast.

Sure she has to dope up like a stoned robot to listen to his constant bullshit about Xenu and how he's reached Operating Thetan level, but I could totally listen to that ALL DAY LONG if I was strolling around in my Henry Cuir boots and my Cathy Waterman jewelry and my totally thermal-reconditioned-perfectly-strait-Anna-Wintour-suck-this hair. Hell yeah.

Alkemie, fresh young blog.

Check out this blog and her wild collection of fabulous re-upholstered chairs.

My EBAY obsession knows no bounds...

I used to think it a bit poseur-y to wear Hermes unless you were a horsy-loving French woman or Connecticut heiress... until I saw this killer cuff.

Oh Ebay... you used to be just for vintage ribbon or French bottle drying racks... until I discovered I could find ANYTHING on your site. Sigh.

Here are some of my latest obsessions:

I kind of want a Louis Vuitton Keepall 55 (I hear it's the largest size that will fit in the overhead bin on a plane), so I lurk around ebay looking for a nicely-aged version... you know, the light-honey leather straps have turned tan because some Gordon Gekko used it 11 times and is now selling it off. But THEN, while lounging in bed all day on Saturday (something I never do and discovered I REALLY LIKE, especially since I realized I could pick up the phone on the nightstand and call my man's cell phone downstairs and giggle dumb requests like, '"Um, can you bring me a Fresca? And my laptop," which was seriously the most fun ever. It's like having a hot concierege for the day. Fabulous...) ...anyway, I want that LV duffel, but I was watching for the first time a marathon of The Real Housewives of Orange County and two of those plastic women had them. So, I am holding off for now. That's a bad omen.

Nevertheless, my latest Ebay crazy is vintage Trifari costume jewelry. My mother had some bitchin' chunky gold pendant necklaces when she was early 30s and now I have a craving for some crazy necklaces that have (shamed to say) that retro Tory Burch-y vibe, except that I think you need to wear them with confident modern clothes, not puky-brown Mrs. Brady styles that Ms. Burch has been fond of the last few seasons. Trifari seems to be where it's at, although Monet is worth an Ebay search, too. I also spied a gold-toned bamboo bracelet that seemed pretty fucking fetching.

I search for Ted Muehling jewelry occasionally, too. These earrings are pretty fab, but I am not sure I am ready to spring for these, although at $110, it's a bargain way to bring a little Muehling into your life (if you have the New York Interiors book from Taschen, you have in your home a beautiful few pages showcasing his lovely home and studio, BTW).

Of course, I often search for "Louboutin 37" and recently found the perfect pair of low-heeled, steel-y-platinum pumps and they have forever solved my "weekend shoe" problem - - a heel, but not so high that I can't wear them all day long running around and shopping. They were in perfect condition and practically amounted to theft at $125. You can't beat that.

I am also often searching for a YSL Mombasa bag, the one with the horn handle. It's a classic. And I don't usually like small bags, and it's a great version of a small bag. Kind of ostentatious enough for me (I mean, I have a handbag reputation to keep up here...) but practical enough for soccer games (I got a few weird stares carrying my shaggy Serpui Marie "Tina Turner" at the last game... I may need to tone it down. Just not TOO much.)

All of this sort of classic-accessory obsession must come from the fact that at 31, I am finally getting excited about aging. I never had the body for the Shopbop-y t-shirt dressing phenomenon and I never liked the flimsiness of the look, anyway. I am really looking forward to having closets of bitchy shoes and kooky handbags and fur stoles (vintage only!) and loud gold cuffs and big statement-y earrings paired with simple clothes. You know this look, this sort of "I am holding on to my youth" hair and tan and un-tended skin? To hell with it.

I am going to shoot for a Rose-Lee-Goldberg kind of vibe instead:

And my friend Ebay, with its thrill-is-in-the-hunt playfulness will lead me to all the things that will keep me looking fetching in my 30s and 40s and beyond... all the Trifari and Hermes and Ted Muehling and YSL Mombasas a girl could want.

Viva vintage!

Things That Are Wrong: The Wedding Edition

1. Jordan almonds. One the trend spectrum (or circle, really since things just keep going away and coming back in like some virtuous circle), jordan almonds are so bad and so tacky that they are almost back. ALMOST. But not. And really, not ever. I just paid probably $100 or more for your gift. All I expect is a timely thank-you on nice stationery, and frankly, even if you forget, I won't hold it against you. If I came to your wedding, it's because I love you and I am thrilled for you. Save the $5 per guest that you invested in your silly little boxes and ribbon and forget the little candy you placed inside. I would rather have a bar of Scharffen Burger chocolate than the stale nuts or waxy chocolate, so do everyone the favor of bypassing the awkward little going-away gift. No jordan almonds, please. No M&Ms with your initials. Just a nice plate of beef or fish, please, and some good wine. That's all your guests need.

2. The accidental invitation. You know the one you get from the colleague with whom you are friendly and currently working on a short-term project? Just because we have hit it off, and because I ask about your nuptials (how can I not ask? You probably already mentioned it 9 times) please don't feel that you need to send me a belated invitation. I hardly know you. And now it's awkward for both people. I have to free up a Saturday, find a gift... you have to explain to your friends who the hell I am... it's awkward. Invite people you have known for more than 3 years and with whom you socialize outside of work. Anything less is just weird. You don't want a bunch of people in your wedding photos whom you won't know in another 3 years.

3. Tiaras. I am not even going to explain why.

4. Familial or social atonement. Have a big rift with poppa and think a wedding invitation is just the thing to mend the two of you? Wrong. Old bitchy friend you had a falling out with, and you think inviting her is the best olive branch you can extend? Forget it. Weddings are bad places to mend those fences, and a tacky thing, too. Mend privately before or after, and spare everyone the Dr. Phil-ness of it all.

5. Thinking it's going to be the most amazing wedding ever. It won't be. I guarantee it. So pack your humility and sweetness and aim for a fun party and don't think that custom-stenciled aisle thingy is so grand and that we'll all notice. We won't. I mean, come on... we're a culture that's watched behind-the-scenes-Colin-Cowie-fest footage of Oprah parties... we all know what grand (or vulgar, depending on your take) is. Most of us can't afford it. So don't try to stretch the dollar too far. Cut your guest list and make it great for fewer people. No one will be impressed with dry chicken served to 250 in the same way that they will adore you for renting out a restaurant for 50 and throwing the dinner party of a lifetime.

6. Too many attendants. I actually think the correct number is very close to zero, but that's me. Too many (esp the older the couple is) and it's just weird.

7. Planning a weekend-long wedding full of attendance-expected events. Look, people it's YOUR day. And just because it's massively special for you, this is one of MANY we will have to attend, so ease up. You get ONE day. You do not get the brunch the day before, and the clam-dig the afternoon before, or the cocktails-on-the-boat event the day after. You get one day, and you need to feed us and give us liquor and you need to show us a good time, but we are not at summer camp and we are not going to go to 5 different events the weekend of your wedding. I, frankly, have shit to do. Shit that has nothing to do with you.

8. Ghetto locations. Or predictable ones. There is a fun space in Seattle called Lake Union cafe. Inside it's good for a party... outside, it's next to a run-down old palm reader's shack. In 2 years, this street will be charming... but for now, it's rude, I think, to make people walk past squalor to get to your event space. Plus, I have a thing against places designed just to hold events. Call me crazy, but they are the worst. I would rather walk past squalor (and the palm reader, even) and go somewhere odd like a dim sum place, than go somewhere where everyone has their weddings. It's too factory-like. Impersonal.

9. Your big gross wedding registry when you're over 28 years old. Please add to this, any sort of "We have everything we need, so give cash please... or pitch in on our online vacation registry (which is just another way to save give cash, please). I will not, thank you very much.

I will have more to add to the list soon, I am sure. In the meantime, what are your wedding pet peeves?

Killing time while the brine cools.

I am SOOOOOO tired. I want to sleep. But I can't because my t-day preparations must go on and currently I am waiting for my brine to cool in the basement so I can hurl my turkey into a big plastic bag and pour cold brine all over it and then let the things stew. Holy shit, I can't believe I signed up for this.

In the meantime, I have been enjoying the Best of Craigslist posts... something I don't do nearly enough, and here are two that were so funny I almost pissed myself.


Fuck you, cleaning the fridge. How the hell do you get so dirty? I don't eat in there, I simply store food. What the fuck is that stain on the bottom shelf? Do gnomes have parties in here when I'm at work or something? Nasty little gnomes. And, for some reason, I feel really, really vulnerable when I'm bent over, scrubbing your gross shelves. Don't know why. So thank you for keeping my beer cold, but fuck you for making a mess of it.

Fuck you, paying bills. Every fucking month? Are you kidding me? I barely even watched TV this month, I still gotta shell out all that cash? And, while I'm at it, fuck your pathetic little late fees. They're small enough for me to easily ignore them but they add up over time. So thank you for the electricity, water and internet, but fuck you for your constant demands.

Fuck you, deleting old files from my computer. What man can make this decision? It's like choosing which of my kids to leave behind on the sinking ship. Fuck, this is killing me. I hate my old ass computer.

Fuck you, changing light bulbs. It's 2006, right? I was pissed when I wasn't issued a jetpack in 2000 (where's my fucking raygun?!?), but I figured by now technology would've at least advanced to the point where I don't have to stand on my wobbly chair and deal with this crap. Two bonus fuck yous: for scaring the crap out of me when I walk into a darkened room, innocently flick the switch and get momentarily blinded by that huge flash and terrifying pop! Also, for somehow convincing your lightbulb brethren to join you, causing a chain reaction that means I'm filled with fear whenever I turn on a light. Pop! Pop! Pop! What, did you all join in a suicide pact while I was asleep?

Fuck you, washing dishes. Yes, I know, you smell funny, and I know the longer I wait, the more weird slime stuff is just gonna accumulate on you. That's why I've pretty much switched to just using paper plates (fuck you, environment) and eating with my hands. I'm a caveman in an apartment.

Finally, fuck you, writing this rant.


I am an IDIOT--But thank you for your concern.

Hello Everyone-
I posted about finding a very pregnant cat the other day. I received numerous e-mails of concern and suggestions. Thank you to all who responded.

I spent most of last night rubbing her belly and feeling the babies move and telling her it was okay that she was a slut. My mother came over and we decided that she must have 4 or 5 babies cooking in there. When she stood up, her hoo-ha looked swollen so we decided that she was almost ready to blow. I put up flyers and patiently waited and hoped that someone would claim their precious little girl. Hmmm Precious is a good name. Yes, I shall call her Precious.

I dedided that she should go to the vet as she looks kind of beat up--wow I am such a good person. I feel awfully good about myself for taking in this poor creature.
So as it turns out--according to the incredible people at Timonium Animal Hospital, she has a split eyelid, a broken tooth, fleas, a puncture hole in her tail, and her tail is broken. Poor baby! Now here is the best part, I excitedly ask about her babies and when they think she might give birth.

This is when the vet begins to laugh, then the tech begins to laugh. The vet turns the cat around and pushes something out. Well me oh my, it was a penis sans testicles. My pregnant girl, that I was so upset that someone would put out, is just a really fat boy.

So I apologize to everyone who responded and hoped for a kitten. There will be none. Also, I have adopted HIM and put him on a diet, flea control, and antibiotics.

HE is on the mend. I am currently taking suggestions for names though as PRECIOUS is not quite fitting and TUBBY BASTARD might give him a complex.

Thanks again,
I am an idiot.

Diamond in the Rough

I cannot tell you how much I want this ring. Bergdorf carries. You can also see their collection here.

Magical Portland, Oregon.


Emergency trip to Portland tomorrow. What's the emergency, you say? The emergency is the desire to skip work and hang out with my man, that's what.

I am going to eat oyster shooters a Le Bistro Montage where you get bad/good hipster service and eat in a warehouse-turned-restaurant at massive long communal tables and they wrap up your leftovers in foil that might look like a penis. Or a swan.
And I am going to go to Powell's, the world's largest new and used bookstore (one entire city block - - 3 FLOORS) and buy cheap books and beautiful design books and poetry books and books my friends have published recently (Cristine Dahl and AJ Rathbun and Michael Robins to name a few). And I am going to go drinking at the weird flatiron-like triangle bar that looks like the tiniest slice of pie because it's located on a corner where streets bisect at a dangerously thin angle, and once you've had your 2nd vodka tonic you look at the oncoming traffic and think IT'S COMING RIGHT AT YOU.

Luckily it's not, because I need to stay alive to eat a magnificent meal at any of the hundreds of amazing places to eat in this city where the rent is cheap, the produce and dairy and meat is annointed by God and the chefs come to forage for truffles and then the sigh with love and stay forever because it's just so freaking easy to make a life here and to eat well for not much, so they decide to feed the grateful citizenry, who, because they haven't been abused by a world of $40 entrees actually eat out a whole lot and their patronage feeds the whole great virtuous circle.

Deep breath.... ok, here we go again....

And then I am going to eat the biggest plate of pancakes with bananas at Besaw's in NY Portland, this tiny corner where hipness just got tired of marching on over all the neighborhoods, and hipness decided to just wear a hoodie to breakfast and take it easy and just hang out. That's what Besaw's is like. You get the young hungover marketing account manager with her very nice parents in town having brunch, and the hipster who doesn't need his scene, just a good omlette, and the patrician old woman who still owns a Victorian in northwest Portland. It's a good crowd. A nice wholesome mix of city people.

Plus the food is really stinkin' good.

And then I am going to go to Urbino Home and buyer verbena soap by the truckload and give them away as gifts this Christmas.

Oh shit. The list just goes on and on. Portland is such a good town.

Do you Baggu?

You may have read about these cute reusable totes. They are light as a feather and fold up into a tiny pouch so that you can easily carry an extra bag wherever you go. Made of superstrong rip-stop nylon, they even hold more weight than your average flimsy plastic grocery sack. Treat yourself to the 6-pack (or the 3-pack... Amazon sells both) and maybe even give a few to your friends.

Today I actually got to say "No thanks!" to shop clerk who wanted to offer me a plastic bag because I was carrying my new friend, Baggu.

Al Gore finally got to me, and I am going to try to green up my act.

I had to have them.

Things That Are Wrong, Part 3

I woke up with a slight cough and a grumpy attitude and I could feel it coming on... coming on strong... yes, it's time for another installment of Things That Are Wrong...

1. Ribbed turtlenecks. I hate the texture. And I am not convinced they flatter anyone. They don't skim your bumps, they just get roly poly on you and make you look like you're 42 and running the PTA. I know I will take some flack for this because everyone and her dog owns one... but I think it's time we all reevaluated this life choice.

2. Ribbed turtlenecks with people wearing a necklace on the outside of said turtleneck. It's very "church-y girl-runs-the-student-council."

3. Attaching your claw hair clip to the strap of your bag. You know who you are, and you probably wear a Juicy track suit (which was banned on the original TTAW list...)

4. Attaching a scarf to your handbag, like in the Coach ads. Handbags are accessories... they don't needaccessories.

5. Wearing brown for the sake of it. I see people who show up wearing their "brown" outfit. I am not talking about denim with brown slouchy boots and a knit top... I mean an intentionally brown "I-bought-this-to-break-up-all-the-black-i-wear" brown... moderate brown office shoes, brown trousers, maybe a polite creme top. Just stop. It's too hard to manage black and brown in your wardrobe. Just give up brown. It never really looks good, not in its Macy's incarnation, so office ladies of the world - - just stop.

6. Wearing small floral prints. Not even Kate Moss can change my mind on this one. Again, people who wear busy prints are just trying to break up the monotony of their wardrobe. And they break it up with LOOKING EVEN WORSE. Stop with the little poly-blend prints.

Ok... have to go get ready for all means, please leave me ideas for more Things That Are Wrong and I will post and link to your blog today.

Badass bridge players take on the president.

They would be my superheros if only they hadn't apologized. Nevertheless, these are my kind of broads.

“Freedom to express dissent against our leaders has traditionally been a core American value,” she wrote by e-mail. “Unfortunately, the Bush brand of patriotism, where criticizing Bush means you are a traitor, seems to have penetrated a significant minority of U.S. bridge players.”

I didn't vote for Bush, either. His first term was my first experience fully appreciating the idea of term limits.

Erin Featherston for Target? Who's next??

Next up: Gareth Pugh for Target


Seriously, I live in a city, proper, which means I don't have a Target near me. So, I don't get to Target often enough... maybe every 3 months. So when I do go, I am still shocked that there's always someone new designing for them. It's like a rash now.. it won't stop and it keeps coming.

I went to the big T two weekends ago to stock up on things I probably didn't intend to buy at all (ended up with gum, candles that smell like Donna Karan Cashmere Mist - guilty pleasure... sue me...- magazines, fake Antica Farmacista reed diffusers, and god knows what else...) And they had Holly Dunlap of Hollywould making bags for them. And shoes I think. Oy. Enough. Enough, enough, enough.

And now Erin Featherston.Most people don't even know who she is. I didn't even know until the self-promoting seamstress started showing up in shelter mags showing off her gorgous and hip Parisian flat.

Let's agree that Erin looks like a more jaundiced version of Claudia Schiffer...

Libertine was fine. And Rafe was cute for spring/summer. But can we be done now? Who is next? Rick Owens? Gareth Pugh? Goth up middle America, Target. I dare you.

"You're less than a size zero? That's Maaaaaaay-juh!"

I don't know who the skinny bitch is, but her superior thinness is pissing Posh off. I can feel it.

I like Victoria. We could be friends. I mean, if she needed a size-12 Jeanine-Garafolo kind of friend.

Nicole Kidman... Botoxed, pulled, and peeled.

Dear Nicole. Please stop.

Unoriginal post... Domino reader rooms.

Here are some of the ones I like.

I want to be Anna Dello Russo of Uomo Vogue

Photos from The Sartorialist.

From NYTimes:
"A woman in her 40s who maintains the figure of an 18-year-old through disciplines a sadhu could admire (that is, if he had a subscription to Purple, the relentlessly hip fashion journal in whose latest issue Manuela Pavesi has photographed Ms. Della Russo in all her sinewy glory, and very few clothes). Regardless of what the clock says, Ms. Della Russo dresses as if it were always time to head out for the clubs. She changes clothes many times in a 24-hour span and that perhaps is why she is among an elite group here that is famous in Japan.

Welcome facial plastic surgery fans!

I have had an unusual amount of traffic today from the good people reading and posting on:

It's the blissfully unaware smile that I really love about this photo.

I really thought the whole train-wreckiness of it all would have subsided by now.

Lucky for me, it hasn't. This is kinda fun to watch.

Can I add: what is up with Lance and Ashley? Are you kidding me? Was he interviewing her to babysit his one nut? Because that's how YOUNG she is, for god's sake. I am glad he didn't marry Sheryl, though. She's falling apart.

PS - Who is Jennie Garth? (That's rhetorical... I am about as famous as her, and *I* would like to be on the cover of US, thank you. I certainly deserve the attention as little as she does, for the record.)

Ok, gotta go now to sew me up a pink catsuit with a mesh section that conveniently shows off my ample rolls of belly fat. Check y'all later.

Is this just a symptom of social anxiety?

**IMPORTAND UPDATE** - I do believe this post received my first ever Best Comment Award, awarded to Forever Chic. Please click on the comments section to read her snarky and brilliant response, which features, among other beautiful things, deft use of my favorite phrase "Batshit Crazy."

This woman (center in photo) gets paid about $5k a month to tell people (mostly men) what to wear, where to get their hair cut, what gifts to give, where to live, and who they should become friends with.

Social director. Personal manager. Call it what you will.

I am oddly facinated by this. Very interesting. Also very, very weird.

One of the pleasures in my life is that I always totally think I know the best places and I like to discover new things on my own and I am just soooo (annoyingly, I am sure) certain of my big fat opinions that I can't imagine being the person who hires Julie the Cruise Director to fashion my life.

What does everyone think?

From the article:

On a warm autumn afternoon, Allison Storr was giving Brad Peik, a San Francisco real estate investor, a crash course on the Chelsea art world. “The gallery scene can be a little intimidating,” Ms. Storr said as she took him on a tour of galleries that was intended as a primer for cocktail party chatter, not collecting.

Later that night, Ms. Storr planned to give a dinner party at her downtown penthouse to introduce Mr. Peik, 39, and his girlfriend, Sarah Kehoe, to New Yorkers they might want to socialize with while they figure out whether to make the city a part-time home.

A week earlier, the couple had moved into a TriBeCa rental that Ms. Storr had found and temporarily furnished, filling it with flowers and groceries. She wrote up a city guide, a combination of her favorite spots and trendy places she thought they should know about, like the Waverly Inn.

“Allison is covering all the bases for me,” said Mr. Peik, who spends winters in Lake Tahoe in California and feels more comfortable navigating ski slopes than society. “I didn’t want to waste my short time here setting up an apartment and figuring out what we would do here.”

His girlfriend, a photographer, was grateful that she didn’t have to deal with the move. “If I had no job and nothing going on, it would seem reasonable for me to do these things,” said Ms. Kehoe, who was wearing a boho pink dress from Matta, a downtown boutique, that Ms. Storr’s staff stylist, Chloé Garcia Ponce, had helped choose.

Looking for someone to curate your life? Need a personal concierge whose expertise is not picking up dry-cleaning but helping chose your wardrobe, your tastes, your friends? Ms. Storr calls herself a personal manager, but her duties go far beyond that. Her clients, all of them men, pay monthly fees of $4,000 to $10,000 to have her be their personal decider in nearly all things lifestyle-related.

Calling on assistants including a stylist and a caterer, Ms. Storr helps people figure out their tastes. If they are single, she enhances their social profile (though she insists she is not a matchmaker). She currently works with eight men, she says. (She has had only one female client, who needed help relocating after a divorce.)

Most of Ms. Storr’s clients are single and too preoccupied with work to organize their personal lives, she says. They are either moving to Manhattan or live in the city part-time and covet her contacts, which she uses to link them with interior designers, contractors, art dealers or potential social acquaintances....

My dog.

He's like the best, huh?

Oh, Paris.

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