Glorious sandal by Lambertson Truex
$375 at plaza too, 914-937-6110
30 April 2007
Not since I took a nasty spill at mile 23 of my first marathon while stealing a glance - okay fine, a series of glances - of myself in reflective glass have I come across a situation thicker with laugh-out-loud irony as I did on Saturday night when I came across this Magnum XL condom wrapper atop a Holy Bible in my bedside drawer at the OKC Sheraton.
In between not parenting and prancing around Sunset Boulevard in cowboy hooker-wear, Britney Spears is apparently in the throes of writing a book.
Not sketching with glittered stencils, not sticker booking, not having her manny read to her a Betty & Veronica Double Digest, but actually penning what I assume will be a 200+ page book filled with chapters, a table of contents and a glossary to help guide readers through terms like hickabilliest, luuved'imlots, and mmmyeah-like.
I realize this is a tell-all, not a critical deconstruction of Umberto Eco's Name of the Rose, but still, knowing that a woman - a mother - who walks around in broad daylight looking half like Michael Jackson from the "Billie Jean" video and half like Brandee from MSNBC's "Hollywood Vice" documentary, can land a multimillion dollar book deal strikes this hard-working writer and analyst as just plumb nawwfair.
An unnamed "close source" to the Spears clan (i.e. Us Weekly intern) claims a large portion of the book will be a scathing assessment of the chanteuse's relationship with egomaniacal ex-boyfriend Justin Timberlake who apparently, "called her fat and told her she'd need to lose weight before he would have sex with her."
Given where her body is now, Brit should spit out that wad of Big League Chew, get on her knees, press together her acrylics and pray her next temporary man-skank only requests she shed a few pounds before doing the 2-5 minute, foreplay-free deed. Five years, two babies and two wonky thighs after Justin dumped her cheating ass, I wouldn't deign to judge any man who instructed her to undergo a series of aggressive microdermabrasions, implemented a strict "no talking" rule, and disallowed all artificial cheese snack chips/rinds/curls in the bedroom.
Can't wait for the pre-order!
29 April 2007
28 April 2007
I may just stay here.
The prices are low, the people are kind (a take-you-by-the-arm-and-insist-on-helping-you-find-those-Nature-Valley-granola-bars-at-the-Super-Walmart brand of kind) and aside from the year-round concern that your house might be funnel-clouded from Lawton all the way to Norman, the weather is pretty darn wonderful, too.
And the honeysuckle. Oh the honeysuckle!
But in the end, I don't think Oklahoma City is for me. Partly because Monte would refuse to come, partly because the nearest Sephora is in Texas (when I need more Stila concealer in shade C, I need it now, not in 3-5 business days), but primarily because I don't think the market demand for Chinese linguists could bear more than sweet Zhao Shanmei and her elderly husband, both of whom have been here so long they've unconsciously adopted the local "y'all" and have even plastered both windows of Lucky Jade Palace with Sooner football decals.
Several of you sent me e-mails yesterday asking me to comment on the style scene down here, and by "comment" I assume you mean "denigrate," and while I'm usually up to the task, after a most pleasant evening of palavering with the locals last night over lump crab penne primavera and a frisbee-sized snickerdoodle cookie at Nonna's, I decided not go down the path of poking fun at their bedazzled pantsuits, brassy bouffants and visor-to-sneakers Sooner pride uniforms.
The thing is, I don't really think I could, because even though I don't share their affinity for all things matchy-matchy and bedecked with flair, there's no getting around the fact that these women are seriously put together. In the 24 hours I've been here, I've yet to see a single just-'cause-it's-comfortable kind of woman. Granted, Okie ladies may not be wearing high-waisted trouser jeans, halter-neck tuxedo blouses or ballet flats; they may not be able to answer the question, "Did you prefer Katie Holmes' style pre-Tom or post-Tom?"; and yes, they may have names we Northerners like to associate with teenage pregnancy like Crystal-Anne, Tammy and Tricia-Jo, but even so, these women, unlike so many I see in NW DC, have taken the time and care to develop a style all their own. They actually know what they like and dislike. They actually get what fits and doesn't fit their frame. In short, they care about presentation.
And that right there, to me, is style.
And now I'm off to get that $9 manicure, which, yes, does include tax and tip.
27 April 2007
26 April 2007
As well-intentioned as my self-imposed break started out, I've realized in our first 10 hours of ripped-apart separation just how incomplete I am without you. I love you. I really really love you. And we could be together, we could, if we just worked hard enough at it. If we just looked at the good, just celebrated the effortless every-level chemistry, if we just took a time-out and focused on...on the love. The love.
So yeah, in addition to all that, I also felt selfish for not sharing with y'all (see, it's already coming back...) clips of the best training montage and kick-ass fights from a time not so long ago -- a time when action movies really mattered. A time before Seagal went all bloated earth-shaman on us, a time before we realized Swayze was a primordial dwarf, and a time before films in this genre suddenly became beholden to the same highbrow standards - i.e. logical plotlines, plausible hero-to-enemy kill ratios and scores not built around synthesizer solos - as dramas and foreign comedies.
Yes, I'm talking about the '80s, a decade when Rocky IV, Bloodsport, and Commando may not have been as critically acclaimed as Terms of Endearment, The Accidental Tourist, or Sophie's Choice, but at least they were mindless fun, at least they were motivating before big sports events, and at least they gave us great scenes like these below.
Enjoy. I already did - all three in their entirety plus Cobra - on my couch in head-to-toe sweats.
Rocky IV -- the training montage that set the standard:
Bloodsport -- the Chong Li fight:
Commando -- the infamous island mowdown:
DC women, I just don't know what to do with you.
Walking the little princeling after work yesterday on ConnAve between K and Dupont Circle, I saw enough bejeweled, sequined, spangly, sparkly, straps-winding-up-the-calves "special occasion" sandals to put Sheesha Lounge on a Saturday night to shame.
Problem is, these women were wearing suits, not stretch pants and tube tops; this was a weekday in the most professional of all professional DC corridors, not a rowdy Saturday night in Adams Morgan; and the offenders were predominatly women in their late-30s/early-40s, not 23 year old super seniors.
Even after I wrote a post about this very problem back in January, I never thought I'd hit a point where I actually wanted to pull these ladies aside, one by one, and offer to escort them to the New Balance store to purchase a nice new pair of cool grey 992s.
Yes, that's right, if the choice is between these and these, always choose the latter. No question.
There's a reason why "Dress for your audience" is my number 2 rule. 'Tis much less offensive to place function over fashion than it is to be a DC professional from the ankles up and a cage dancer from the ankles down.
So please, let go of your "the strappier the better" mantra when it comes to picking out a work shoe and slip your feet into a nice pair of understatedly sexy pumps like these 'Giselle' peeptoes from Kate Spade ($275 at katespade.com).
25 April 2007
This doesn't usually happen, but for some reason, a spell of OCD has come over me and I feel compelled - no, obligated - to reestablish equilibrium in my small corner of the blogosphere by posting something about Jessica Simpson's current flame John "the poor man's Peter Cetera" Mayer.
Since I don't really "do" men's fashion and he doesn't really live a gossipy existence other than having a reputation for enjoying "really dirty sex" (triple yawn), I've decided to share with you "I'm Gonna Find Another You," otherwise known as the only reason to consider buying the mop-topped crooner's latest album, Continuum.
Whenever I listen to this song, I can't help but envision John, broken-hearted, singing these lines one day in the post-Jessica future. I wonder if he'll amend the "If I'm forced to find another/I hope she looks like you" lyric to something slightly more along the lines of "If I'm forced to find another/I hope she offers intellectual challenge" or "If I'm forced to find another/I hope she doesn't ask so many questions during Coen Brothers' films." Just a thought.
So here below is the Fugs half of Fugs-n-Jugs singing the most honest moving-on-'cause-I-ain't-got-no-choice song I've heard since Eamon's romantic 2004 ballad, "Fuck it (I don't want you back)."
"I'm Gonna Find Another You" by John Mayer:
24 April 2007
I swear, Kate Bosworth's publicist must have a sense of humor of the blackest sort.
How else can you explain this and now this series of pictures of the young actress looking admittedly better than in past outings but still skinnier than a roll of Rolos posing at, of all places, the Food Bank of New York City’s annual Can-Do awards gala with a stripe of caution-tape flailing in the wind?
Thankfully, Ms. Bosworth and her stylist chose for her a lovely seafoam green tea-length Chloé dress with high, ruffled-neck and pleated skirt that completely covers both her washboard chest and so-sinewy-you-have-to-look-away thighs. Unfortunately, the back of the dress is wide-open, but being the kind soul I sometimes am and it being so close to dinner-time, I chose not to post those pictures.
Can't say I'm crazy about her painted face, though the contrast of the deep crimson lips against her dewy sunkissed skin is quite striking.
At the rate Kate's gaining weight, she should be back in fighting form (i.e. her Blue Crush weight) in about...yeah, it's never gonna happen.
(Liv Tyler + Kate Bosworth) ÷ 2 = killing two birds with one stone
I won't sugarcoat it -- this is a no-win situation. Either you go stiletto and put forth some effort, or you go chunky and look like, well, the kind of girl who'd wear a chunky heel.
As my own skinny 4-inchers sank into the soil this morning when I scampered across wood chips, flowerbeds and condom wrappers to collect that which the preciousness at right "left behind" (click for full precious effect), I was reminded even before I received your e-mail just how impractical a high heel can be when treading on less than solid terrain.
That being said, in this and in every situation, I will always advise you as I would advise myself: set practicality aside and do what you have to do to look your best. If that means putting more weight on the balls of your feet for hours on end to avoid turning your stilettos into golf-tees, then so be it. Stay on hard surfaces as often as you can and instead of complaining when the pain becomes too much to bear, make like a socialite and toss out an airy, "Oh goodness, the crazy things we do for fashion!" to those women with their overweening smirks who, despite their dearth of male suitors and jealous up-and-down female glances, are still under the impression their sturdy square-toes were the proper choice. And finally, when you're on the verge of kicking those heels off, try to remember and revel in the fantastic posture those 3+ inch heels afford you.
I know many of you will disagree with me on the just-deal-with-the-pain front, but in my opinion, the reward of feeling like the best-dressed minx in the crowd is worth all the pain and effort I've just described.
It is the Gold Cup, after all.
Even though I don't have the specifics on your Kay Unger dress (love her designs, by the way), I do have the most important information, which is that you already know you want a nude, fairly delicate, sundress-complementing pump or sandal. You didn't mention a the specific price-point you were looking for, but assuming you and I are in similar financial situations, I took the liberty of only looking for pairs under $200.
1. Esen by Miss Sixty ($173.95 at zappos.com)
2. Tammy by Tahari ($105 at piperlime.com)*
3. Gabay by Anne Klein ($75 at piperlime.com)
4. Maylie pump by Enzo Angiolini ($56 at lorisdesignershoes.com)
5. 3468 by Vic Matie ($188 at lorisdesignershoes.com)
6. Chance encounter pump by Seychelles ($79.95 at endless.com)
7. Faith sandal by Martinez Valero ($128.95 at nordstrom.com)
8. Drama slingback by Via Spiga ($189 at nordstrom.com)
9. Carina open pump by Nina ($89.95 at ninashoes.com)
10. Palermo by Dolce Vita ($132 at pinkmascara.com)**
*your editrix's top pick (shown below)
**your editrix's second pick (if your dress is a neutral shade)
1.5 to 2-inch heel: 2 points
5. Data Analysis:
Still in the works...this is the crux of the study, obviously, and I will be counting on the regression mastery of C to help me achieve the most accurate, error-free analytic product possible.
23 April 2007
In the 20 or so minutes it took me to slurp down my Robek's Vitabek-enriched Strawbanana protein smoothie, I noticed a distinct and at first blush, alarmingly robust correlation between the heels on a woman's shoes and her marital status.
22 April 2007
I didn't think it was possible for me to crush any harder on Scarlett after I caught wind of her in-elevator hookup with Benicio del Toro at a post-Oscars party in the Chateau Marmont in 2004 (she was barely 19, he was almost 38), but after witnessing her ability to transform from the Rubenesque sex kitten we all know and lust after into the most delicious piece of "why can't I get this dress to show off my junk?" B&T trash you see below, I have fallen ever more deeply under her spell.
A woman with a killer body and a beautiful face is a rare one, indeed, but one with a killer body, a beautiful face and Jane-Curtin-like comedic timing -- now she's a keeper.
Scarlett, in all her ghetto-fabulousness on last night's "Saturday Night Live":
But before I make the tough decision between the brown triangle halter and the emerald bandeau and head out to meet C, the nice man in the membership office of the Ritz Carlton's Sports Club/LA who thinks I'm activating my one-week guest pass today for legitimate, I'm-thinking-about-joining purposes, I thought I'd put together a collection of wrinkle-protection-in-a-bottle options to keep your skin looking as fresh, tan and not-like-this as it did all those summer days up at the lake when you did nothing else but jump off the dock, dive for clams and erect towel forts.
Unlike some of the other recommendations I've put forth, this group below is tested-and-approved by yours truly. No hearsay, no secondary sources, no beauty-editors-at-Allure-said-it-worked-so-it-must-be-good.
And though I'm all about investing when it comes to my skin, my experience has been that the best sunscreens for your body are drugstore sunscreens, not department store makeup counter sunscreens.
Ladies, your sun protection arsenal:
1. All Day Waterproof 15-plus by Hawaiian Tropic ($7.99 at drugstores everywhere)*
2. SPF 15 Sunscreen Lotion by Coppertone ($7.59 at drugstores everywhere)
3. Sport Sunblock Spray SPF 15 by Coppertone ($8.39 at drugstores everywhere)
4. Age Shield SPF 30 by Neutrogena ($9.99 at drugstores everywhere)
5. Orange Gelée by Ban de Soleil ($8.99 at drugstore.com)*
6. Sport Sunblock Lotion SPF 15 by Banana Boat ($7.73 at drugstore.com)