OSCARS recap

You know some people say the only thing people are interested in anymore, as far as the Oscars are concerned, are the clothes. How superficial. What's really important are the awards. Well, I say phooey on you. The awards aren't really very important either. What do I really care if a movie—which, sure, I liked well enough—wins an award? Wins a thousand awards? Basically, I don't know anyone affiliated with this movie from the director straight on down to the catering service, and whether or not this movie wins in no way affects my enjoyment of said film. These awards are basically a circle jerk for Hollywood power players who use their newfound status as "Academy Award winners" to get bigger paychecks and more caché. So why not fixate on fashion? It's at least as important as anything else that happens that night.

On another note, I've decided to do away with gender division. The people are clamoring for equality (it's actually more out of my own laziness, but whatev)! I'm just going to list everyone straight up "best dressed" and "worst dressed."

BEST DRESSED:

Will Smith looked superfine in his pinstripes and velvet vest. Points off for the double diamond studs (ditto for Ludacris and Jamie Foxx) which I think is, well, gay.



George Clooney also looked dreamy in his bespoke Armani tux. Love the tuxedo stripe on the pants, a tradition which seems long forgotten (but maybe I'm just not going to enough black tie events).



My two favorite ladies were Sandra Bullock, who wore a gorgeous navy blue Angel Sanchez frock with pockets (I love dresses with pockets—very 50's),



and Michelle Williams who wore a wonderful marigold-colored Vera Wang confection which looked fantastic with her red lipstick.



Heidi Klum also gets points for her lovely flowy ice blue dress. Heidi's fashion sense is always questionable, so it's nice to see her looking so classy.



WORST DRESSED:

Tim Burton. Not really shocking.

Graydon Carter, who wore an inexplicable pair of blue plaid pants with a tuxedo jacket. I'm sure he was just trying to be "different" but it's his party! He should look like the host, not the little kid who stayed up past his bedtime.



I have to call out Felicity Huffman in a Zac Posen dress, who looked great from the neck up and the waist down, but she is in her mid-40's and I just think side boob cleavage is reserved for those much younger (and even then I have my reservations). I mean, I get it—she was just in a movie about a man who wanted to be a woman and she is also the frumpiest of the housewives, but c'mon, lady, act your age.



Bahar Soomekh almost gets it right. The color of her Calvin Klein dress is great, but the drooping v-neck and lack of, erm, support, are not doing her figure any favors.



Ziyi Zhang is gorgeous and usually looks great, but I hate this Armani dress on her. She has the opposite problem of Huffman: she wants to grow up too fast. I call it Mena Suvari Syndrome (remember when she wore that matronly Escada gown to the Oscars?). Zhang should be wearing something fun and youthful and this dress is just too...old.



Lauren Hutton. I can't explain.



Regina King. It looks like she bought this dress three months ago and thought, "I'll lose weight to get into this thing" and then never did. As they say in the biz (the grocery store biz) "Trying to fit ten pounds of potatoes into an eight-pound sack."



BEST PLUS ONES:

Les Moonves' wife, TV personality Julie Chen, looks smokin' hot in this red number.



Rupert Murdoch's wife, Wendy Deng, also looks fantastic.



I love these stuffed penguins. Maybe a little hokey, but fun. If I were actually at the Oscars, I would have tried to steal one.



WORST PLUS ONES:

Easily Martin Landau's date, Gretchen Becker. Yikes! The embroidered dress is bad enough, but those boots!



I actually found the clothes this year rather pedestrian. It seems like the more outlandish outfits now happen at the Vanity Fair party.

PS-Why was Terrence Howard wearing a brooch? I can't think of a possible circumstance in which it is okay for a man to wear a brooch.

My Most Fabulous Day

You know how when you read those new year's horoscopes they will give you a list of days throughout the year that are supposed to be "fabulous" or "lucky in love" or "stay at home"? I decided to actually test that this year, so I wrote down all the fabulous days for my sign in my Palm Pilot. (I don't remember what magazine I got this information out of, but it is safe to say it probably had some über-skinny model on the cover with wind blown hair and something about having the best sex of my life on page 64.) The first day was February 20^th. Here's how it went:

• President's Day, so I didn't have to go to work: most fabulous
  
• Did my taxes and am getting back a decent return: most fabulous
  
• Went to Win-Depot (a restaurant supply store) and bought a pizza plate because I'm tired of cooking pizza on a cookie sheet: not really what I'd call fabulous but I do like new kitchen gadgets, so I'll call it very fine
  
• Worked on very belated art project: very fine
  
• Went for a ride in a friend's new car; more fabulous for him, but not so bad for me: fine
  
• Ate a crappy veggie burger and decent fries at a diner: I hate crappy food! This gets a not fabulous
  
• Watched a very good episode of "How I Met Your Mother"...freeze frame high-five...hi-lar-i-ous: very fine
  

Overall, because of the no-work and good tax return, I would say this day was on the low end of fabulous.

Next fabulous day: May 7^th

A Valentine's Day Love Story...

I'm sure Snowman would have some objections to me telling this story, but tell it I must.

He was talking to an ex-girlfriend a week ago (he thought her dad might be able to do some work for his company). He always tells me when he talks to one of them, which is rather infrequent. I asked—fool that I am—if he mentioned me. He—fool that he is—told me this: Ex asked if he or his brother were seeing anyone to which Snowman replied "Neither of us are married."

I'm not mad. And I'm not in any way insecure about his feelings or our relationship. But, seriously, what kind of answer is that?

Lactose Ad Intolerant

Much like the ubiquitous Absolut vodka ads, I think the "Got Milk?" ads have overstayed their welcome. How long until they go all Inside the Actor's Studio and get people like Bo Bice and Bruce Villanch to do spots?

But nevermind that. Is it just me or is the ad featuring the ladies from The View the scariest thing you've ever seen? It's obviously been PhotoShopped like mad because they look like demonic clowns. I know what you're thinking: I thought Joy Behar was a demonic clown. If that's what drinking milk makes you look like, I'll stick to my Cornflakes and chocolate syrup, thank you very much.

Longing for the days of Milk, It Does a Body Good.

Things You Can Do During a Blizzard...

• sleep in late
  
• fall down in the snow
  
• make snow angels on a basketball court
  
• have someone bark like a rabid dog while he chases you in the waist-deep drift
  
• go to a diner and eat warm comfort food
  
• have someone push you around the parking lot at Costco in an abandoned shopping cart
  
• think of ways to break into Socrates Sculpture Garden
  
• make s'mores over the gas stove
  
• play chicken by sliding towards each other and seeing who falls first
  
• offer to help people shovel their cars out of the snow
  
• write your name in the snow
  
• watch old episodes of Star Trek: Next Generation
  

The Open Mind (or Are You a Conservative Liberal?)

I think some people don't actually know what it means to be open-minded—and therefore are also foggy on the details of close-mindedness. Some people think because they have tattoos, listen to Franz Ferdinand, regularly employ various outré sexual positions, and have gay friends that they are open-minded. But should someone come along and question any of those things: Tattoos are immoral. Franz Ferdinand sucks. I only like it missionary. Homosexuality is a sin. this person, who believes he is open-minded, goes ballistic. Rants about crazy conservative Christians who can't accept anything outside the norm. Posts blogs about how fucked up middle America is and stay the fuck out of my life you strait-laced twat.

Now I ask you, is that an open-minded person? Because, technically, the dictionary definition of close-minded is intolerant of the beliefs and opinions of others and I have to think that definition is a two-way street. It goes for the Christians who don't believe in pre-marital sex and it goes for liberals who don't believe in waiting. Some people wave the banner of "Don't judge me and I won't judge you" but that's a heavy banner to carry, and what I suspect they really mean is "Don't judge me because I'm not 'normal' but you're a poser for walking down the middle of the road." Hey, some people like the middle of the road! That little yellow line down the highway is a convenient guide, you know.

You wear the t-shirts. You have a nose ring. You know a guy named Terry who is "fabulous." Is that all it takes to be open-minded? Don't judge me and I won't judge you. So you say. But do you really have the balls to stand behind that or are you too busy telling right-wingers to fuck off?

Q: How many times can Giada de Laurentiis say "gorgonzola balls" without it sounding dirty?

A: Once.

a public service announcement...

I kind of thought all New Yorkers knew the story with the clock in Union Square already. I heard about it years ago (certainly didn't have the wherewithal to figure it out for myself) and you know how when you know something you assume everyone knows it. But two people I was with today had no idea what the numbers meant, I realized there are probably loads of people just as clueless. So here's the deal:

Death of a Door-to-Door Energy Salesman

There are some adjustments to be made moving from a midtown high-rise doorman building to an eight-apartment walk-up in Queens:

• The apartments creak.
• The water temperature is never consistent.
• There are no right angles in my apartment (seriously, everything is like 92° or 88°...hanging blinds are a bitch!).
• Packages are now delivered to work since there is no one to sign for them.

Oh, sure, there are good things too, but that's another post.

What I hate the most about not having a doorman is that people will ring my buzzer all the time, even though I do not know who they are and will not let them in. This happened a few nights ago. We didn't let him in. But someone did.

He knocks on our door. We ignore him. He knocks again. If I were alone, I certainly wouldn't have answered, but Snowman was there. We asked who he was; he mumbled something incoherent about "energy" and "ConEd." This is of course the beginning of a story on the 6 o'clock news about some crazy murderer who poses as a ConEd worker and rapes old ladies. But we opened the door anyway.

It was an 18-year old kid selling energy. I'm not kidding. You know how you can change your energy provider? It doesn't have to be ConEd (if you don't know, go here). This kid is going door-to-door trying to sign people up to his company...Energy Plus or something. He asks to see our ConEd bill, which I can't find for like five minutes. He's giving his spiel, which I can't totally understand because he has a really strong accent, and at 18, I doubt he is highly knowledgeable about his product anyway. So Snowman says, "Okay, leave us your information and we'll look it over." Salesman says, "Oh no, you have to sign up right now." We say, "Sure...we'll give our personal information to a person we don't know working for a company we've never heard of. Wait, I have a better idea. Why don't we just give you all our credit cards? I'll write my social security number on a scrap of paper and I'll also give you my city of birth, because you know how they like to ask that as a 'security' question. You want a beer? I got some in the fridge."

He leaves and proceeds to knock on our neighbor's door. I kind of felt bad for him. That's gotta be a shitty job. Even if he's trying to scam us, that's still gotta be a shitty job.

The next day when I come home from work I hear an upstairs neighbor (I hardly ever see any neighbors) calling me out. He's about my age and he's got a charming Irish accent. He just wants to talk about the crazy energy salesman and wants to make sure I'm not letting random people into the building (which I assure him I am not). He's going on about it all and I'm thinking, "Wow, I have a cute neighbor."

I find the whole thing absurd. What happened to vacuum cleaners and encyclopedias? I don't even get freaking Girl Scouts on my street. But energy providers? Yeah, that I got.

Hanging at the Gallows

The Triumph of Death by Pieter Bruegel

I can't decide about the death penalty. I've thought about this for so many years, and I've switched from one side to the other so many times (ditto for abortion, the existence of God, wanting to have children, and peanut butter (how did I ever not love peanut butter?)) and I wonder if I'll ever actually make up my mind.

On the one hand, I believe in compassion. I whole heartedly believe in compassion. I think it is the single most important driving force in a life well lived. The Dalai Lama says compassion does not come from feeling sympathetic to your friends when they are in distress. That is attachment. Sure, it can be compassion too, but he was talking about compassion on a larger scale and so am I. I'm talking about compassion for strangers. Not just people you walk past on the street, not just the homeless man begging for change on the L Train. Compassion for people you will never see face to face. Compassion for the world in general, for all humanity, for all life.

I struggle with this, of course. I hate people! I hate the crowded subways; I hate the men that leer at me when I walk down the street; I hate the people who won't get the F out of my way when I'm walking on the sidewalk! I eat meat. I use too much paper. But every day I start with the greatest intentions of living life as a compassionate being. It's easier to be compassionate to people you know because there is some direct benefit in doing it: they may, in return, deal compassionately with you. It is harder to exert the effort with someone you do not think will have substantial effect on your life. This is something I will have to work on in this life and the next.

When I think about compassionate living, I think the death penalty is wrong. It does not deter crime any more than prison deters it. It may help keep the honest people honest, but anyone bent on doing evil, will do it regardless of consequence. I do not think it is within the jurisdiction of any human to take the life of another. I do not think it suitable retribution for any crime; killing the murderer doesn't bring back the victim. And on a metaphysical level, I think it is bad karma for a society to wantonly kill others.

But I also believe in justice. Not necessarily an eye for an eye. I feel that philosophy is immature. But I believe that everyone must own up to their actions, even if they're accidents (Rebecca Gayheart runs over a kid and serves no time; Martha Stewart sells her stock on an inside tip and goes to jail for six months...yeah, that seems fair). Does motive really count for anything or is it only the end result that matters? Hypothetically, if a man rapes and kills a girl, such an action not only affects that girl's life, but also the lives of those who knew the girl. The girl will never grow up, fall in love, have children, have a career, drive a car—anything. And her parents will never really overcome the loss of their daughter. It seems fitting that he should die for such a reprehensible offense. Not only as punishment, but as prevention. What if he is paroled or escapes and kills again? How many chances does someone get? Doesn't "life in prison" where you don't have to worry about food or shelter (hey, I'm not saying it's Club Med) seem like a rather picayune trade off for ending a girl's life?

A friend once said he believed in capital punishment because if a person is in a community pool and starts bullying the other swimmers, that guy loses his pool privileges. This makes sense to me. But do we just put him in a pool with other bad kids or do we never let him in another pool again?

I wish we all got exactly what we deserved. I often wonder, if I did get what I deserved, would my life be better or worse than it is today? I feel like it would actually be about what it is. I think I'm a good person most of the time, but I also feel like I am a long way from being the kind of person I would like to be.

I believe is compassion and justice equally and I'm not sure how to reconcile the two. When it comes to capital punishment, it seems like they are at opposite ends of the spectrum. How far does compassion go? Does it go on infinitely? Even when someone shows no remorse, no sense of wrong-doing, no desire to mend their ways? The Dalai Lama would say yes. Compassion should be infinite. And for that matter, Jesus says it as well: Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, "Lord, how many times shall I forgive my brother when he sins against me? Up to seven times?" Jesus answered, "I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times." (Mark 18:21-25) But we're cynical people; we don't want to be duped. When we forgive someone, when we give them a second chance, it is so they can prove to us they have learned a lesson. And if they don't learn it, if they only repeat their offenses, we will feel taken advantage of. We hate being taken advantage of. It seems like it's just easier to kill them, than to risk being humiliated.

At least I know how I feel about peanut butter.

SAG Awards

Real quick:

Best Dressed: Rachel Weisz in Rochas. Pregnant and beautiful.


Worst Dressed: I was going to say Teri Hatcher, but upon further inspection, I must give it to Frances Conroy. The frizzy uncombed hair is bad enough, but I cannot believe she would actually wear an unironed shawl to an awards show. So low brow!


Best Dressed Plus One: Josh Holloway's wife, Yessica Kumula. She's hot stuff, no?


Worst Dressed Plus One: Harold Perrineau's wife. She looks like a piñata.


Worst dressed male (I know, it goes against my rules, but it's too hideous to ignore): Terry O'Quinn. As if it's not bad enough we have to look at your man-boobs on Lost every week, now we have to see your gnarly toes as well. I mean, really? Flip flops? Maybe Perrineau is just a bad-clothes magnet.


Well, I guess I should do a Best Dressed Male too, shouldn't I? I'll just give it to Josh Holloway since I've already posted a picture of him and he looks nice.

This is post #200! Let's celebrate!

Clue #14 I'm Getting Old

Snowman bought me a pair of Heelys for Christmas. I'm actually surprised he bought them for be since he is hyper-protective of me doing anything with wheels—cycling, roller blading, tire swings. He said he didn't think they seemed that dangerous.

Boy was he wrong. These things are tricky! They're actually harder to master than roller skating because you have to have a much keener sense of balance. The first time I tried them on, I was kind of terrified. I calmed myself with thoughts of Well, if a ten-year-old can do it, then so can I. I was practicing in the kitchen for awhile, but I actually took them out yesterday and Heely-ed my way to the movie theater.

This was difficult for the following reasons:

1) Pavement in Queens is wildly uneven.
2) Pavement in Queens is covered in dog shit.

Heely-ing is a much easier affair inside, as I discovered at the movie theater, at the diner, at the Walgreens.

My legs are so sore today and I have to wonder if I don't look like an idiot trying to roll around the neighborhood. The truth is, there are a lot of things a ten-year-old can do that I can't. Like eat an entire pizza for dinner and neither gain weight nor feel sick afterwards. And wear sweatpants that have "HOTTIE" emblazoned on their asses.

My Heely career may be over before it's even started, but if you do see me gliding around the 'hood, do me a favor and don't laugh.

Happy Robert Burns Day!

As I'm sure most of you already know, yesterday was Robert Burns Day, which is well nigh the national holiday of Scotland. In honor of the poet, I ate some haggis. You can read about it here. If you'd like to learn more about the man, you can read about it here.

Also in honor of the poet, here is the modern English translation of his poem "Address to a Haggis." I must say, I like the poem a good sight more than the meal.

Fair is your honest happy face
Great chieftain of the pudding race
Above them all you take your place
Stomach, tripe or guts
Well are you worthy of a grace
As long as my arm

The groaning platter there you fill
Your buttocks like a distant hill
Your skewer would help to repair a mill
In time of need
While through your pores the juices emerge
Like amber beads

His knife having seen hard labour wipes
And cuts you up with great skill
Digging into your gushing insides bright
Like any ditch
And then oh what a glorious sight
Warm steaming, rich

Then spoon for spoon
They stretch and strive
Devil take the last man, on they drive
Until all their well swollen bellies
Are bent like drums
Then, the old gent most likely to rift (burp)
Be thanked, mumbles

Is there that over his French Ragout
Or olio that would sicken a pig
Or fricassee would make her vomit
With perfect disgust
Looks down with a sneering scornful opinion
On such a dinner

Poor devil, see him over his trash
As week as a withered rush (reed)
His spindle-shank a good whiplash
His clenched fist.the size of a nut.
Through a bloody flood and battle field to dash
Oh how unfit

But take note of the strong haggis fed Scot
The trembling earth resounds his tread
Clasped in his large fist a blade
He'll make it whistle
And legs and arms and heads he will cut off
Like the tops of thistles

You powers who make mankind your care
And dish them out their meals
Old Scotland wants no watery food
That splashes in dishes
But if you wish her grateful prayer
Give her a haggis!

Tales of a Four-Eyed Nothing

I have worn glasses for most of my life. I got my first pair when I was in second grade. They were the ugliest pair of glasses ever made. Be sure that I had no say in what kind I wanted; they were handed to me. I hated them. I instinctively knew that people who wore glasses were not pretty. I hid them in my desk as soon as I got to school. There was a black girl who would steal them and taunt me with not giving them back and whom I could only placate by giving her my crayons.

There was a boy in second grade named Ray who loved me. I didn't like Ray. He followed me around like a puppy dog. One day he came to school with one of those heart-shaped chocolate boxes. Instead of chocolates, he filled it with hairpins and jewels he had taken from his mother without her consent. He gave the box to me. I was embarrassed. His mother came to school during lunch demanding her things back. I was more embarrassed. She picked through the box and took what was most valuable, but let me have a few things. There were hairpins with little birds on the end with different colored wings and jeweled eyes. My mother still has those in a drawer somewhere.

The day I got glasses Ray stopped loving me. That is a hard lesson for a seven-year-old to learn.

I hated myself. I thought I was hideous. I pined fruitlessly for boys I couldn't even talk to because I was so sure they wouldn't even know who I was. I disappeared behind my glasses.

As I got older, things got worse. I got bifocals. Not the progressive ones; I had the ones with the visible separate lenses. I can only assume my parents secretly hoped I would join a convent.

I had always been clumsy and nerdy and whether I had glasses or not, I would still have been those things to some degree. It's not like if I didn't have glasses I would have been homecoming queen. But I could have been...somebody. I was nobody. Maybe that's not how the rest of the world saw me, but that's how I felt. And when that's how you feel, that's what you are. I thought if I could wear contacts, my life would change. I would emerge from my proverbial cocoon and spread my wings. I would have a boyfriend. I would kiss someone. I would be noticed. I couldn't get contacts. My ophthalmologist couldn't recommend it to a girl with astigmatism. And if the doctor would not give his okay, my mother considered the case closed.

I was under her thumb. It never occurred to me to rebel, to find a different doctor or a different answer. I felt defeated. At sixteen. If I had any self-confidence at all, it was tucked into some far recess of my brain where it could not easily be retrieved. I went to the Gap with my mother once and the cashier asked if I modeled. I looked at her like she was out of her mind. She told me I was really pretty (this may have been an attempt to flatter me into buying more socks). I didn't believe her.

When you are young you cannot see the end of anything. Any hardship seems interminable. This is the worst part of being young. I couldn't, at that, point, see the day when anyone—least of all myself—would ever look at me as something even remotely attractive.

I hated women who wore glasses but didn't need them. They wore them as a fashion accessory and I thought, If you knew what it was like, you would not be so careless.

I got contacts right before college. Turning 21, losing my virginity, leaving home—all these things pale in comparison to life before and after contacts. I saw things in myself that I had no clue were there. Good things! Things not even related to how I looked. Good humor, creativity, tenderness. All I ever saw for ten years was an ugly kid with glasses.

A friend came over to my parents' house once and saw an old picture of me in my glasses. He laughed at how I looked. I wanted to punch him. If you knew what it was like, you would not be so careless.

It's hard not to blame my parents for their recklessness with the fragile ego of a young girl. I was tortured over this and they never tried to save me.

I still wear glasses sometimes, but I don't mind now. They actually look good on me. I picked them out myself.

X is for X Ray

I love x-rays. I mean, I don't love getting them and I'm sure the radiation, low-dose though it may be, is not great for my insides, but I love having them. We've all seen skeletons and we all know the basics of our own bodies and how our bones protect and move us, but isn't there still that tiny bit of disconnect? "I know I have bones, but I've never seen them laid out on a table, so I just don't feel very attached to them, I have no emotional resonance with my own insides." But x-rays give you a connect. You get to see your very own bones and suddenly, you think of your arm or your spine or your neck in a new, more tender way.


So I got a neck x-ray the other day. Nothing serious; I wasn't in an accident or anything. But when he said "x-ray" (he also said "MRI" (again, nothing serious)...Yippee! A chance to connect with my brain!) I got excited. He showed me the x-ray and I'm thinking "Wow, that's a good looking neck. So very, very straight." I felt regal, like Eliza Doolittle at the embassy ball. Then he told me necks weren't really supposed to be that straight, they were supposed to curve. He also said that even though I was thin (I'm sure he actually meant short) I had a very long neck, and that it might have been longer. Huh? Longer? (Man, I'd always wanted to be taller!) He said, well, he couldn't be certain, but it appeared that my neck had suffered some trauma, much like if you fell on your head...or were dropped! (Cue sinister music.)


I recall no such accidents in my life, and if what he says is true, did someone drop me when I was a baby and never tell me? I suspect my sister...

Golden Globes

I was going to write a recap of The Golden Globes until I realized recapping awards shows is tremendously boring, thus I can only assume, it's even more tremendously boring to read about. But I can't resist the opportunity to go Fashion Police on everyone, so here it is [yes, it may be sexist, but I could give a toss what the men are wearing, thus, they will not be discussed].

First of all, I like to be fair. Pamela Anderson, bless her heart, is never going to best, say, Reese Witherspoon in the clothes depot, so I grade celebs based on their own history. Therefore, Pam, Mariah and even Nicolette (God, why is she so unattrative?) are not among my worst-dressed, because, for them, they actually look pretty good.

Who is on the WORST-DRESSED? First and foremost, Mary-Kate Olsen, whose fashion sense is hit or miss anyway. But this long Michael Kors dress coupled with the long pigtails have the effect of making her positively hobbit-esque. A half-starved, heroin-addled hobbit. She's followed closely by not one, but two Hiltons. Kathy is wearing what I am pretty sure is the ugliest coat ever. And Nicky is channeling Kelly Taylor from the "I almost got raped on Halloween" episode of Bev-9er. She's also channeling Donatella Versace with her scaly red sunburnt skin. Come on, ladies! You know you're in trouble when Paris is the best dressed Hilton woman!

Who else did I really hate? Heidi Klum. Her fashion sense is also all over the place, but this Costume National dress makes her look like her boobs are hovering around her navel, and supermodel or not, that ain't a good look!

I don't even know who the hell Dayna Devon is, but she looks like a Barbie Doll reject.

BEST-DRESSED? If I had to pick my absolute favorite, I suppose I'd go with Keira Knightley, who looks lovely most of the time, but particularly so in a strapless Valentino.

Also on the list is Maria Menounos, whom I'm used to seeing in much, much less. Yoon-jin Kim (Korean sisterhood, you know) looked sweet. Other well-dressed lassies include Mena Suvari (remember when she used to dress like this?), Rose McGowan, who looked so awesome in such a hard color to wear, and Kerry Washington. Melissa George gets points for spunk. I love the lace shirt and shorts look.


I'm also creating a new category for Plus-Ones (i.e. dates). Best dressed is Eric Bana's wife, Rebecca Gleeson. This is brocade done right (take a note, Kathy Hilton). Worst dressed is Jonathan Rhys-Meyers' gal pal, Reena Hammer. She looks like a lime. A naked, trashy lime. A naked, trashy lime who is sooo behind the times becuase, duh, Elizabeth Hurley corned the market on side-split evening wear long ago.

Butt(ered) Popcorn

I went to the movies today, and a women walked out of a stall with her popcorn in her hand. Is it just me, or is that groddy? I don't even like to bring my bottled water into public restrooms! I mean why don't you just lick the freaking toilet? Of course, I know someone who dropped his hot dog on the floor of the theater (oddly enough, while watching the same movie I went to see today...maybe Woody Allen just makes people want to eat dirty snack food) and picked it up and ate it.

Just Plain Weird

I'm sure there are all sorts of weird "rules" about being a female celebrity that us layfolk don't know about. Like getting collagen injections in your armpits on Oscar night so you don't sweat on your gown. Or wearing at least one outfit in your career in which your nipples either show through the fabric, or else just pop out completely. But why, why, why do they all wear shoes that are too big for them? Is it because they're free and Christian Louboutin just doesn't know what size you are? Are they more comfortable when they're big? Do you secretly not have toes?

Your Body Is a Wonderland...sort of

For the most part, the human body is rather remarkable. You can contract any variety of diseases—HIV, cancer, polio, malaria—and, if not recover, at least live in reasonable comfort for any number of years. You can lost your eyesight, hearing, ability to speak and still live on. You can lose the ability to move your legs or lose your legs entirely and even that won't kill you.

But you can't live without oxygen for even five minutes. You can live on a little oxygen for a long time, but you can't live on no oxygen for even a short time. I think this is our biggest design flaw. See, if I were designing, I would have some sort of spare oxygen chamber...in the appendix or our butt cheeks or something so that if we were ever deprived of oxygen we could...um...breathe through our butts, I guess. Okay, so it's not a great idea, but I'd rather be called "butt-breather" than "dead."

Design flaw #2: menstruation! Who's with me?

Magical Mystery Metrocard

I have no idea when my unlimited montly card expires. The last day was supposed to be the 9th, but I think because of the strike I got 3 extra days. This would have made the last day yesterday, but I tried to use it today and it still worked. This might be because of that strange holiday program they had that was, quite frankly, too hard for me to understand, and which also, might I add, was a waste of money. Whatever good PR was to be had from giving riders a few extra days was mightily offset by the transit strike, wherein said riders had to, well, walk.

Anyway, back to the Metrocard mystery. I'm starting to think I actually have a magical Metrocard that will never expire. Kind of like that Grimm fairy tale about the pot that cooked unlimited porridge. All you had to say was "Cook, little pot, cook." Every morning I wake up and whisper "Go, little Metrocard, go."

I have finally joined the world of civilised living...

...by buying this book.

explosive diarrhea

Isaac Mizrahi (yes, okay, I'm hooked on his show) says that no matter what, if you say "explosive diarrhea" people will laugh. And guess what...when he said that, I laughed.

I know I'm a girl and I'm 30 and I like to think of myself as cultured, but seriously, poop and farting are endlessly funny to me.

PS-I totally spelled diarrhea right! I mean, who would think it actually had two R's?

Fun Word Alert!

It's been too long, people! This one comes from Isaac Mizrahi.

Delightmare: so bad it's good (Lord of the Rings musical, anyone?)

symmetry

Kelly Clarkson picked "Never Is a Promise" by Fiona Apple as one of the songs on her iPod playlist. She said she likes to listen to it in the tub. I have always thought Tidal was a perfect tub CD. I have listened to it many, many times amidst a bevy of bubbles.

A,B,Cs

*cribbed from html goddess.

A is for Age: 30
B is for Booze: Jack and (diet) Coke
C is for Career: nothing yet of which to speak
D is for Dad’s name: James
E is for Essential Item to bring to a Party: food
F is for Favorite Songs at the Moment: theme song from Magnificent Seven
G is for Goof off thing to do: sleep
H is for Hometown: Orlando
I is for Instrument you play: flute
J is for Jam or Jelly you like: jalapeno marmalade from Mesa Grill
K is for Kids: Michellephant, Howler, Slushy, Snappy, Bronto, and Pippo(potamus)
L is for Living arrangement: 2BR in Queens with Snowman
M is for Mom’s name: Young
N is for Names of best friends: Snowman plus a few select others
O is for overnight hospital stays: not since birth
P is for Phobias: dying
Q is for Quote you like: "Man's reach should exceed his grasp/else what's a heaven for?" Robert Browning
S is for Siblings: Angry Dolphin, Wang Chung
T is for Texas, Ever been? San Antonio
U is for Unique trait: paper crafts
V if for Vegetable you love: the humble potato
W is for Worst traits: moody
X - is for XRays you’ve had: upper GI; hip xray; dental xray
Y is for Yummy food you make: oatmeal raisin cookies; tuna fish; birthday cake
Z is for Zodiac sign: Scorpio

No one cares about orphans anyway!

This transit strike aggravates me. Not because there IS a strike, but because everyone acts like it's the end of the world, when really, it's just a strike. Europe is in a perpetual state of strike. I've been walking to work. It's about 3.5 miles and takes around an hour. It's not awesome. It's cold and windy and I'm pretty tired before I even get to work. But it's not heinous either. It's good exercise and I just plug in my iPod and contemplate. But whenever I tell anyone (and it's always because they ask me, not because I'm eager to share my "war story") they look at me like I just said, "How do you like my coat made from the pelts of orphans? It's soooo soft."

It reminds me of when I was little and had no concept of distance. Ten blocks seemed like the Bataan Death March.

The best cracker ever!

Triscuits with rosemary and olive oil are unbelievably delicious. I mean, you have to like rosemary, which I certainly do. They are so salty and yummy. Now I want a triscuit cake for my birthday.

There's a place for us...

You know that sound the subway trains make when they leave the station? It's an oddly melodic three-note screech. Have you ever noticed? If you have noticed, have you further noticed it sounds like the first three notes of "Somewhere" from West Side Story? Next time you're listening to a train pulling out of the station, sing the words "There's a place for us..." in your head and you'll see what I mean. Who knew the MTA where Bernstein fans?

Saltiest food in the world...

It's gotta be corned beef hash.

Long Time No...

Haven't been posting much, but I have big plans to overhaul this whole page next year.

Saturday I got a Christmas card from some people and I have no idea who they are! I have only lived in my new apartment for like two weeks and it had my last name on the envelope (no first name). It was one of those photo cards with the whole family PhotoShopped onto a speed boat with a Christmas tree and presents and Santa hats (lawd, why would I want to know people who put together that kind of card anyway?). They live in Lindenhurst. Seriously, who are they?