Monday, November 26, 2012

post - thanksgiving turkey

One of my bosses has been out of the office for paternity leave of his first child. It's great in so many ways - first, the baby is adorable but, more importantly, he's out of the office and leaves me alone. However, he has learned to work his new iphone and now knows how to text. So when he's home laying on the couch he texts me piddly little "the guy on channel 4 looks like a guy you'd like" or "did you watch Marco Rubio on cspan tonight" or tries to get caught up on the goldman/ispy saga. But in the middle of the mindless back and forth he mentioned a show he'd come across that he couldn't stop watching. I held my breath for a minute, kind-of sort-of hoping he would be talking about the new show I was obsessed with but couldn't talk/admit to anyone I was watching because it is that bad. And guess was. He very stupidly asked..."do you know this show 'made in chelsea'?" Um...hell yeah I do! If you are not watching you are missing out. Let me run down the deets before I hit you with the good stuff....Monday nights (yay!), 2 one-hour episodes, style network, 8-10pm ET. It's a poor mans version of The Hills set in England. Tonight will be episodes 5 and 6. Don't worry can get caught up pretty easily.

The cast of characters:

She is basically the English Lauren Conrad. The show loosely revolves around her and her friends who she might have said 'hi' to a time or two and now does a whole show with them. She is a makeup artist or something, she is the one person you have to have at a party, she sings, she has a raspy voice, and is totally in love with...

Ladies, I do not get it. Spencer gets some major tail in this show and I think he's a total douche bag. Update: when researching Spence, I came across that he is the heir to the Eden Rock Hotel. Now I get it. And now I want him too.

Spencer and Caggie have known each other FOREVER - since they were 18 (which for those counting at home is like 3 years ago) - and there has always been this attraction, but the other one is always tied down when one becomes available. So they have suffered in strife for YEARS. But even though Spencer is shacking with someone and has a happy life, Caggie just feels the need to bat her eyes at him. Thing is...he feels the same. You know who doesn't feel the same and who constantly calls out Caggie? Spencer's live in girlfriend...FUNDA. She is some sort of model/dancer and carries around a small, ugly dog. She's super boring and will not be getting her picture posted. Which leads us to Spencer's best friend...

WHEW LORD. Hugo is where it's at. I know the picture isn't giving you much, but watch the show for 10 minutes and try to tell me he isn't the best person on the show. We love Hugo because 1. He calls Spencer out on his shit and for being a dick to Caggie and Funda. 2. He tries to hook Caggie up with other guys to get her mind off Spencer. 3. He's really cute. Like really cute. Currently, at this present episode, he is dating...

I approve of this relationship between Hugo and Millie because they are cute together, they have crazy sexual tension, and her real name is Camilla. Millie is besties with Caggie. They hang around all day with each other because no one has real jobs on this show. They drink bloodies and gossip all the live long day. I want to go to there. Millie is having a show down with her friend who also likes Hugo....

Rosie is a sweet girl and does have a job. It's not really her fault that Hugo throws eyes at her. Who could resist him? Rosie looks really good in the picture. On the show though, not so much. She's very pale with super red lips. She has a dog who she takes to a pet shrink who asks "when was she last mounted?". True story. She doesn't offer much except for this 3way. She is friends with....

Short for Francheska. She runs a blog or writes for a magazine or something. She reminds me of a young Camilla Parker Bowles. I'm normally distracted by her roots and her raspy voice. She doesn't offer much either, except that she is friends with....

Ya'll. This bitch's name is Binky. B-I-N-K-Y. I can't even begin to tell you how jealous I am that my name isn't Binky. I have half a mind to go get knocked up and name my first born Elizabeth and call her/him Binky. It is so major.

Binks is a free spirit. She and Cheska just hang out, shop, and travel on the fly to Chamonix to hang in onesies and drink champagne. We LOVE her. Which leads us to her best friend....

Obviously, I saved the best for last. Oh...Ollie. What's to say about good ole Ols? Well, when we first meet the first 5 minutes of episode 1...he is standing outside of a club with a clip board. He is in the tightest jeans known to man and he's flipping his girl hair all over the place. After awhile, we meet his girlfriend, Gabriella. Yeah...I said girlfriend. Not like heyyyy girlfriend, but like going to pound town girlfriend. She is hopelessly in love with him and wants to do nothing but cuddle and profess love all day long. He looks like he's in pain every time she opens her mouth (which, side note: what's with her bite? It's like her jaw doesn't close right.) It takes 4 episodes (FOUR) for him to SPOILER ALERT: come out. Listen. If you didn't figure that out in the first 5 minutes, there is something wrong with you. Just wait till the Chamonix episode and his ski outfit.  

There are about 45 other people in this show including Francis the polo-playing entrepreneur, Fredrik the model who wears nothing but spandex and rows, and Francis' ridiculously good looking Sweedish intern who throws herself at him but he resists to pick up ugly girls at an art gallery. I would write about them, but this post has already spanned into 3 hours.

Hope you all will watch tonight and be ready to discuss tomorrow!


Tuesday, November 20, 2012

day 2: spit polish

You know what's better than having Tom Ford under your tree? Tom Ford nail polish. And who doesn't need 16 new bottles of polish? And at $480, this is a steal. What's that you say? You can buy a million L'oreal for that price...yeah. But then you don't get this great little case. For you math wizards, that's $30 a bottle.

Song of the day: In keeping with ridiculous, I give you Britney Spears singing a holiday song.


Friday, November 16, 2012

day 1: I want a hippopatmus for christmas

I've decided in the 2 minutes since I wrote the last post that not only am I going to give you great gift ideas, but I'm also going to give you a great christmas song of the day.

I'm going to blow your mind, but a perfect present for those people that have everything - the Being Bobby Brown dvd-set. Don't give me that face. The show was priceless and how many times could you watch this clip over-and-over? Hell, I've watched it 14 times already this morning.

Sigh...she had such a great voice.

And your music video for the day....the name of this post. "Mom says the hippo would eat me up, but then teacher says a hippo is a vegetarian."


g-rated, usa-network-type scandal

I love a scandal. Everyone knows that.  Black, white, fat, thin, man, doesn't matter. I think my love is in large part because I live in DC where there is a scandal on some level every day. The people here are held to a higher degree than most...senators, congressmen, generals, ambassadors. But with power comes corruptness.

So basically what we have here is really a PG rated scandal with some Covert Affairs thrown in. I don't think this even rates to Homeland. No, its more a USA show. And I've been thinking all week how I could recap this nightmare while making it funny at the same time, but I think it's beyond all hope now. I'm so confused at who was emailing who, who was threatening who, and who the random Fibbie was sending who topless photos. I'm just sad that I don't get sent male FBI topless photos. The whole thing is just so sad on another level. The basic things we can learn from this disaster is 1. if you are having an affair, DELETE YOUR EMAILS. 2. Make sure that you have a friend that is an PRICE - Public Relations In Case of Emergency....meaning you have one friend that if shit gets real and your photo is all over tv, this is the person who knows what 5 photos of you are acceptable for cable news. None of this mardi gras bead wearing, head tilting, trash wearing photos. This is also the person who should have a delete key on all of your electronic emails/facebook/twitter accounts.  And 3. I think we can all agree that the term "tampa socialite" is an oxymoron.

Happier news, Christmas is coming. No movie countdown this year. This year I'm doing presents! Everyone always tells me that I'm so hard to shop for, to which I respond "whaaa" because nothing could be further from the truth. Just you wait and see.


Monday, November 12, 2012

uncle jessie where are you?

I just took a quick glance at this photo and thought that Bob Saget was attacking a muppet.
No worries though. It's just MKOlson and her french boyfriend/dad Olivier Sarkozy at a basketball game making out.

I don't even want to know whats going on here. But is it just me or does his face look like he's been stung by 100 bees? Ugh...I need a bottle of purell for my brain after seeing these pics.

Monday, November 5, 2012

This is it. Don't get scared now.

Election Day. Aren't you all glad it's almost over? Just 24 more hours...maybe more in some places. As someone who has worked through a couple of election days, I thought I would offer up some helpful suggestions on how to power through.

1. GO VOTE. Don't feed me any bullshit line about how your vote doesn't count. The last election I was in the candidate lost by 7000 votes. Seems like a lot but then you realize you've been voted out of a job and you find yourself with a lot of free time to track down all of those fools that could have helped you win. Don't be a fool on Election Day. (This also means I don't want to hear it was raining, the lines were too long, it was cold outside, you didn't have anything to wear. Excuses are like assholes. Everyone has one and they all stink.)

2. After you do #1, which is very important, do this which is also important: grab a bottle, hunker down, and pray for daylight. Stop posting all over the facebook about how your guy did this and my guy said that. Just stop. We'll all be alive in the morning. And so your guy didn't win....yeah it's depressing and it sucks, but just like grandma says, "this too shall pass". And it will. But if the bottle of Veuve is close by, it helps a lot. Make sure it's chilled!

3. That's it. 2 simple rules. Well those and don't be a dick and do something you will totally regret...or have the FBI investigate.

Good luck and Godspeed,

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

It's baaaaaackkkkk

2012 Neiman Marcus Christmas Book arrived via email this afternoon. I did what any normal red blooded woman would do...screamed with excitement, pushed my work off my desk, and devoured every damn page. Obviously, Mr. Neiman and Mr. Marcus paid attention to my posts from last year, because as soon as you open it they hit you with fantasticness.
Pink and red British themed clutch from Alexander McQueen complete with rhinestoned skull? Uh yeah. I'm going to need that.  Page 8 and 9 are filled with scarves by Missoni and barware from Waterford (did NM get a hold of my diary?) that are all beautiful. Some cute Cole Haan riding boots are previewed on page 10 and make me curse my shock-putter-esque calves. Seriously, I hate them. Because if I didn't have them, these Stuart Weismann button up boots would be on my person. I LOVE these boots. And compared to other boots this season like them, they are relatively cheap. I mean, they are still $700, but it could be worse.
But no one really cares about the "small ticket" items. The fantasy gifts are where it's at...
First up -  the French chicken coop. I'm not making that up. Who the hell would want that? For a good laugh though, read the description on the website. It actually makes it sound delightful. And take a look at the pictures. I'm sure my cocks would want china hanging on the wall. Thank god I don't eat eggs.

The jet pack reminds me of that Arrested Development episode with the "moles".  Sigh...I love that show. This is actually a pretty good gift. You can go up to 80 miles on one tank of gas at 32 mph. Do you think that I could fly the 6 miles from my house to work? Would I invade some sort of Capitol airspace? I really need to look into this. And with my $100k purchase, the thoughtful people at Neiman's will donate $2500 to the Boys and Girls Club. If they were really thoughtful, they should just donate one of these packs to them. They could charge $2500 a ride and make bank.

Years ago, NM sponsored a Mercedes G-Wagon that was tricked out in black and chrome. I sweated that truck like it was my goddamn job. Keeping with that same theme, this year it's the McLaren spider in "Volcano Red". While it's beautiful and you get a free trip to London to meet the CEO of McLaren, I just want a G-Wagon in volcano red.          
The his and her's Van Cleef Parsian themed watches are pretty amazing.  I actually really like them. Like really (hint, hint). And you get a free trip to Paris and Geneva. However, I just realized that the price was A MILLION DOLLARS and not $19,000 like I originally thought. I obviously missed a couple zeros. I'd rather just have some Van Cleef alhambra earrings and perhaps a necklace.
But the gift I covet this year, is this bananas tailgate trailer. Of course I would need an old school Woody to match...and would need to dress in nothing but Ralph Lauren country wear. And it comes with a year's supply of bourbon. JACKPOT. I wonder, though, if this means they give me a giant case or if I tell them how many bottles I will need in a year. Cause obviously they haven't seen grandma pound back her nightly bottle of Virginia Gentlemen. That's like $150k a year right there. The tailgait would pay for itself very quickly.

photos: neiman marcus

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

chanel - o

I was sitting around yesterday after viewing the Chanel show praying that someone would highlight the amazeball accessories so I could do a post. And last night my prayers were answered. Fashionista posted close up pics of all the deliciousness and while I'm not sure that Karl created these or if his accessories department did, I'm giving him all the credit. Shall we see what I'll be jonesing for come February?

I'm going to hit you first thing first with my FAVORITE piece. One, j'adore the color. Two, lego inspired? Yes please! Karl, you fucking genius you, this has me written all over it. Is that a button in the middle to open it? Like a secret treasure?

Next up, the crazy hula-hoop bag. I know what you are thinking, but haters gonna hate. Redirect your hate towards something else. This is innovative, adorable, and totally made me dead. I want the large version for my beach bag and the red one for everyday. TGD - this is calling your name!

Karl was obsessed with pearls this time around. I was with him until he started pulling out the jean dress  with pearls glued across the top. Yuck was the only word I conjured up. The third necklace down is straight up murder.

And finally, the 80s throw back to Rubik cube inspired quilted bag. Very United Colors of Benetton.

I love them all Karl...almost as much as I love you.


photos: Fashionista, Chanel

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

reading rainbow

I love to read...I really do. The latest thriller, congressional reports, blogs, magazines, Basel III for dummies. You name it, I'll read it. I guess I'm from the old school where reading is knowledge and everyone knows from GI Joe that knowledge is power. So inside the knowledge that the October issues of Elle and Vogue provide, both had things I felt like I needed to mention.

First up, Vogue had a huge spread on Congresswoman Debbie Wasserman Schultz. I could only make it through about half of it, mostly turned off at the very beginning showing what a great mom she is by having 2 of her 3 children running around her congressional office while she gave the interview. It reads like most congress interviews - she's super special and super smart and she's the best person for the job. I have to wonder if her opponent in the 20th district of Florida will get the same fan fare from Vogue? Isn't that a rule somewhere? Actually, I don't really care about any of that because I mostly wanted to highlight what one might look like before the Vogue stylist gets to you....
And then after....
I really couldn't believe the pictures when I read it. I think I stared at her pic for a good 5 minutes before declaring that the american people should pay for her blow outs every damn day. She looks fantastic. I'm totally going to ignore the fact that she states that she hated herself when she was a size 8 and had no energy and that, praise be, she is a size 2 now. 
Another thing that will make you VOL - vomit out loud (totally copywritting my genius), this Dear E. Jean letter. I think E. Jean is a hack who sits around and writes these ricidulous "dear abby" type of situations that would never occur in a million years. Like, dear E. Jean, my boyfriend has no job, no car, and no money. He's been living off of me for a year. I totally love him tho. What to do?" - signed I'm a frittata in everywhere, usa. And then E. Jean will give her some stupid fake advice, like, it's totally okay. Just let him sit his fat ass on your couch watching Regis and Kelly and eventually he will wise up. RIGHT. subject. Read here and see if you can contain your emotions till the end....

Dear E. Jean: I’m a 34-year-old Internet entrepreneur and angel investor. Can you help me find a woman? What I’m looking for is a life partner— not the "mother of my children." Anyone who aspires to be a housewife is automatically eliminated. The women I fall for typically intimidate men. I suppose the easiest way to summarize is to say that I’m seeking a smarter, hotter, younger, female version of myself (smile). I’m cognizant of the fact that ultimately I’ll fall in love with the woman and not the checklist. So without further ado, here’s the perfect girl for me:

•Out-of-this-world intelligent and passionate

•Ambitious and extremely independent with eclectic and diverse interests

•Not needy, high-maintenance, jealous, or requiring constant attention (I suppose it goes with “extremely independent,” but it’s worth mentioning)

•Very adventurous—loves to backpack around China, for example

•Supersexual and sexually adventurous, multiorgasmic through vaginal sex

•On the Pill


•Very thin (but not because she’s starving herself or has food issues—I want someone who will be thin her entire life)

•Small breasts (usually come with "very thin")

•Gorgeous (symmetrical face and features)

•Loves big dogs (but not small dogs or cats)

•Atheist, agnostic, or not religious




•Does not want kids in the next five years
•Is in her twenties
•Plays tennis very well, helicopter skis, and is dying to learn how to kiteboard
•Speaks French perfectly
•Plays video games (maybe I am asking for a bit much here :) )
Historically, the women who’ve been the best girlfriends for me have been entrepreneurs, lawyers, consultants, doctors, bankers, writers, university professors. That’s not to say there aren’t extremely smart, passionate, ambitious girls who are models, work in marketing or PR, or teach K–12, but it’s just less likely. From a looks perspective, I’m pretty agnostic when it comes to hair color, eye color, etc., but I do have very specific tastes: They run to Kate Beckinsale, Diane Kruger, Izabel Goulart, Eva Green, Joanna Krupa, and Odette Annable. I’m also including the pics of my most serious exes so you get a sense of what the girls I really liked look like. Where can I find her? —The Great Gatsby
E. Jean’s note to readers: When I mentioned the "multiorgasmic vaginal sex" requirement to a friend, she said, "Ha, ha, what an asshole."

"But he’s one of the richest men in New York!" I said. “He has too high an opinion of himself,” she said. "Naw," I replied. "The man’s simply saying what most men are thinking but are too politically correct to admit."

Anyway, I’ve met this fellow. After a wild midnight dinner at Cipriani with a half-dozen tech-start-up guys, I vaguely recall asking him what he was "looking for" and promising to "set him up." Three weeks later he pinged me his list. And now…my answer:
Gatsby, You Handsome Idiot: You made your first million two years out of Harvard. Run the search for your "life partner" the way you run your business. Hire a researcher, a PR director, and a COO, and put them to work recruiting. By Thanksgiving you’ll be kiteboarding off Fiji with a flat-chested tennis player. Now, shall we break it down?

The Researcher registers on Match, JDate, eHarmony, OkCupid, and the like, slogs through the thousands of profiles, and selects promising candidates. (This process is so tedious I suggest you hire two interns at $25 an hour each to assist.) The researcher also scouts prospects by dropping by the ladies’ lounge in Bergdorf’s; attending parties at the Harvard Club; and making appearances at gallery openings, polo matches, Stanford charity runs, croquet competitions, fashion shows, and political fundraisers; and creates a master list of 24-year-old Parisian nymphomaniacs who run corporations. (As this list of candidates will amount to only five women, the researcher will "broaden the base.")
The PR Director gets you invited to posh parties, arranges for flattering stories about you to appear in The New York Times, and puts out the word that you’re giving an Aston Martin to the person who keeps the most women away from you. (This counterintuitive move will inspire the imaginations of ladies around the world.)
The Chief Operating Officer, aka your matchmaker, vets the top 40 women nominated by the researcher and PR person, adds three or four selections of her own, and arranges the introductions. When choosing a matchmaker, go with the best: Amber Kelleher-Andrews at Kelleher International or Amy Andersen at Linx Dating. They handle high-profile humans whose lists of demands make yours look like Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s. If you want a younger, cooler matchmaker, try my little
P.S. About those photos of your extomatoes: I was braced for inhuman beauty. After a glimpse, I can say I'll eat this four-pound September ELLE if you don’t find a woman with whom you can be happy. The ladies in these pictures are lovely, but it's clear you prize intellectual and sexual chemistry above appearance. I like you the better for it! Give me your hand. Good luck!

So basically this douche wants a supermodel that doesn't speak (unless it's french!), eat, hates God, barely breathes, and can jump out of a helicopter on demand. Ladies - if ya'll know anyone that fits this description, give a holler to E. Jean.

And I'm out on this dreary Tuesday,
photo: vogue

Monday, October 1, 2012

a case of the mondays

Goodness gracious. Mondays are the worst. All you want to do is leisurely break into the day, maybe hit up lunch early...stay longer than usual, hit the afternoon meetings and then head the hell home. But noooo. This Monday meant it. Maybe it was to get back at me complaining about not working for the past 6 weeks. Whatever it was, I'm over it.

Lots to talk about. LOTS. First, this is the best time of the year - apple cider, leaves turning, and the tv shows are back (though Honey Boo Boo is over. Sad face like for reals)! Second, Anne Hathaway got married this weekend. Third, Lindsey Lohan was choked. While I shouldn't joke about that, it is so justifiable that I don't think anyone will hate on me.

So many new tv shows last night to count, but on Thursday Scandal was back. I have to admit, even though it is flawed, I really was looking forward to the premier. First, ABC needs to realize that no one cares about the Quinn story line. She is the worst actress in all of the actresses in all of the entire world. The pits. Miserable. Trash. Think of a couple more adjectives for awful and you will get the picture. Making up for her miserable excuse as a human being, is President Tony Goldwyn. Man, he is so good looking I can barely follow what is being said when he is on screen. Olivia keeps running around doing her weird walking, the cameraman is still having a stroke, and the FLOTUS is preggers and wants to paint the nursery in blood red. Congratulations, I think you might raise a serial killer. Paint it green or yellow. Hell, I'd even do an orange before red.

The Good Wife also premiered. Nothing really new to report...Alicia is still cold, Kalinda is still a weirdo bi-sexual wearing skirts, boots and leather moto jackets (CBS, I beg of you. PLEASE change her outfit. XO - the whole wide world), and Will is looking botoxed to hell, but adorable.

HOMELAND. Ya'll, I can't even tell you how excited I was for this premier. I don't want to spoil it for people who don't have the tv watching stamina I posses, so I'll keep it short and simple. We're back after, what 6 months? I couldn't figure out the timeline. Brody is now a congressman (lord, can you imagine the nut job of a boss he would be?), Saul is in Beirut, and Carrie is living with her sister and trying to get back on her feet after being booted from the CIA. She's called back to help with an asset and as such she needs to dye her hair brown. I got to tell you, this was the most disturbing thing of the episode. Claire is so a summer. This was mostly a catch up episode so not much happened, though I did have one "oooohhhh shittttt" moment. Speaking of shits - that daughter of Brody's needs to be disciplined. And hard. If I had spoken to my mother the way she speaks to hers, I would have had my throat ripped out through the skin. You think I'm kidding, but I couldn't more serious. Heart attack serious.

Now...onto Anne Hathaway. Ya'll know I hate her right? Like irrationally hate her. I think it's because of her lips. Or maybe it's her nose. Or maybe it's because she's the most annoying person on the face of the earth. (ok...maybe second behind my sister) My tanned, yacht owning, South of France sailing, friend Valentino let it slip a couple weeks ago that he designed the dress. I wonder if he's taking responsibility for that awful head gear?

I think poor Anne is going to look back and wish she had gotten some extensions for her awful hair. Or at least have waited another 6 months to let it grow in more. And is it me, or is that dress have a pink hue to it? I mean, we all know she isn't a virgin, but damn A, you don't have to parade it around. Personally, I want my dress tinted blue. Very light so that after I walk by you squinch your nose up and say "is that dress blue or white?" Always leave them guessing... 
So now I'm guessing that Valentino has finally succumbed to sun poisoning and it's seeped into his brain. That's the only thing that can account for this monstrosity of a dress. I gotta say, it just makes me dislike her more.

Happy monday!

Monday, September 24, 2012

fyi...I hate Lena Dunham

After a late summer beach trip, I just can't get into the bitchy mcsnotty this Monday, even after the Emmys.But I feel I need to share my thoughts, so here are a couple.  First, I loved all the bright dress colors. Second, I think we all can agree Heidi Klum is bananas beautiful and the aqua color looked flawless on her. Even after the whole Angelina Jolie-slit debacle she chose to pull off a risky slit and it worked.

Third, the big talk of the night was the red heads taking charge! And by "all the talk", I mean talking to myself in my living room. Louis CK, Damian Lewis, Julianne Moore doing work.

God, how much do we love this red headed terrorist?!?
PS. Homeland starts next weekend! Sqeelsoexcited!
Thoughts on JM's dress? I thought it was murder.death.kill but mostly because
 I wouldn't/couldn't be caught dead in yellow.
It makes me look a little heppy B.
Christina Hendrick's boobs were out of control, I thought Ashley Judd looked ridiculous, I loved Portia deRossi's pantsuit, and I am slowly starting to hate Julianna Margulies. But all that is sound and fury signifying nothing after you see this...


Tuesday, September 18, 2012


I apologize for not keeping you up to date with the latest styles from NY Fashion Week and now from London, but other than the Burberry show, I really haven't seen anything that's blown me away. Let's talk later in Milan where I'm sure there will be something good.

Keeping on the theme of nothing to see in London, look at what we have here. My least favorite tennis player and my favorite editior-in-chief. Does Roger Federer know about this? I feel like she's cheating on Rog...and not even on the sly. She did it right on the front row! At Burberry! Have you no shame Anna Wintour? And have you no taste? Andy Murray? Ugh.
I hope AW is telling him how much she loves Fed and his no-sweat-ever hair.

Andy looks almost decent here....almost cute. eek!

Andy's girlfriend is precious looking, but here we are yet again with someone in September. She's British, so I'll let it pass....and she's sleeping with Andy Murray so she needs all the passes she can get. Bless her heart.


Monday, September 10, 2012

straight out of cape cod

How does that saying go? We came, we saw, we conquered? Yeah...well that's what basically happened at the Cape, except we came, we saw, and we destroyed that shit like the F5 tornadoes we are. We whirled into town on Thursday and by 2pm we were on our second bloody mary. And that's how the weekend pretty much went - we lived on bloodies and cold cuts and it was awesome.

those volleyball players were on their staff retreat at the Chatham Bars Inn.
the company? Bain Capital.
The bride was gorgeous; the setting amazing. And the dancing...well they played September by Earth, Wind, and Fire right off the bat. It set the scene for the night and I rocked my jam like never before. I was probably a hot mess.
Chatham Bars Inn...other wise known as heaven.
Next time I go back, I want it to be October with a crisp chill in the air. I will wear a large gray cable knit sweater, jeans, will sit on one of the adirondack chairs, sip apple cider (or a "donkeychino") and be happier than I've ever been. Until then Chatham...


PS - the night before I left, I had my first official conversation with my gym boyfriend. It was about 5 minutes long, it was informative and it was glorious and to know that he, too, loves tennis made the weekend even better. SIGH.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

where my WASPS at?

Leaving for Cape Cod in the morning with New Girl for a friend's wedding and I couldn't be more excited. I have packed my preppiest outfits and have stuck to my guns not to bring the white jeans. I just can't do it...not after labor day...even on the Cape.

In honor of Gail and Scott's upcoming nuptials, I give you my favorite youtube video, countless times I will scream "straight out of cape cod we're keeping it real" or "where my wasps at" gangsta like, massive bottles of champ drunk, cheers-ing "la hymen" at least once, and I will try to refrain from asking the dj to play "September" and "Cha Cha Slide" on repeat. I'm not making a lot of promises though on the last one. (oh ps - cupid shuffle doesn't count). Love you both. xo


Tuesday, September 4, 2012

end of summer blues

Is it me or is everyone overly hateful and aggressive today? It's more than the end of a three-day weekend (which was 4 days for me! One of the only great perks of the job)'s the end of summer and thus the end of slacking off for 3 months straight.  Congress is only in session for 8 days in September. read that correctly...EIGHT. Don't you want to have their job? So this means that while we might work hard, it's only going to be for 8 days. And with my two day work week this week and my beach trip at the end of the month, I feel that I can find the strength to make it. I know you all are jealous.

Speaking of jealously, the fashion house of Lanvin and adorable pocket designer, Alber Elbaz have teamed up with Laduree to create a limited edition box of macarons (all bubblegum flavored). They hit Paris stores September 25th. I would ask if anyone is over seas to pick me up a box, but bubblegum? I think I'll pass.
I want to put Alber in my pocket and carry him around all day. He's perfection with his little bow ties and ascots. In a recent article in the WSJ Magazine, he was quoted as saying, "Sometimes you don't really need armor to feel protected. Sometimes maybe you need just a chiffon dress to hug you. And if you feel that the dress hugs you and the dress loves you, you feel strong and protected." What a great sentiment.


Thursday, August 30, 2012

second verse, same as the first

Day two of the republican convention and it was pretty much just like the first night. Boresville: population 50. The Nader people were still fuming about something (I missed why they were upset - perhaps something about his eyebags?), the freak shows were still there wearing their cowboy hats, and I was bored to tears a hour in.

I got the impression it was trying to be ladies night with Gov. Martinez, Condolezza Rice...and Mike Huckabee, but then Paul Ryan and his devilish good looks ruined the whole evening. I'm going to put it out there - Susana Martinez might be my new favorite person. She was adorable talking her taco-talk and telling us about how she carried a gun. Man, us R's really do love their guns. I thought Condi did a great job though I feel like a lot of people were too fixated on the lipstick on her teeth. I would have been too had I been paying more attention. I would love to see Con kicked back, drinking beer, cursing - just letting herself go just a bit. She's so stiff and boring.

Now onto Paul Ryan. Oh Paul. What was with your wife and her weird mouth movements? She seemed to have a weird tick that involved moving her mouth back and forth. His mom and kids were cute ... the daughter with her sparkly hair bow made me smile (and think to myself I need a new fascinator). Speaking of cute, Paul looked fantastic. The pale blue tie was a good choice bringing out the blue in his eyes. What his speech was about was lost on me though...Casablanca was on and for the good of the resistance, I turned the channel to watch Bogie, Ingrid and Sam. Sorry I'm not sorry.

Mitt is on center stage tonight. So is South Carolina Gamecock football. Tough decision, but I think everyone knows I love any opportunity to scream "GO COCKS".


Wednesday, August 29, 2012

must see tv?

Day one of the republican convention and well...what can be said? I'm going to chalk it up to the hurricane, but damn it was the saddest, pitiful little thing I have ever seen. And these are my people. Well not those Ron Paul freaks or those assholes who love Santorum. I'm also not really a Romney girl...however his boys are seriously good looking. Well except that one who looks like he doesn't belong. You know the one I'm talking about.

When you work behind the scenes of these events it looks so much more overwhelming and imposing, but those poor people wearing their sad little cowboy hats and the weirdos who dressed up in their state colors were just depressing. How about that Artur Davis though? Ain't no way he is going back to the Dem party. He was throwing total shade at Obama. He was really a great speaker...we should use him more.

I switched between the convention and the us open. With Rafa out, Novak is my heart that is. Don't think I jumped off the nadal train...I'm still the president, but I have always loved Novak too. And the fact that my Goldman crush bares more than a slight resemblance to him doesn't hurt either. Speaking of - GS crush waved at me last week. It was the highlight of my year day.


Wednesday, August 22, 2012

why isn't it more in focus?

I know that everyone is gawking and gasping at the pictures that have surfaced of Prince Harry showing his beautiful red headed body in Vegas this weekend. Trust me - I'm gawking and gasping too, but I feel really sorry for him. The kid has come a long way in his twenties (remember the Hitler pictures?) and he did an amazing job traveling the globe touting his grammy's jubilee. Such a good job that most everyone was pleasantly surprised how grown up and mature he appeared to be. With all the focus on Will and Kate this was really his time to shine.

But then...strip billiards? Really? That's how you ruin your image? I just wish the photo wasn't so grainy. He's pretty tan for a red head.

Photo: TMZ (as if you couldn't tell with the huge water mark across the photo hindering my future husband's amazingly flat stomach)

Thursday, August 9, 2012

"I like to get in the mud cause I like to get dirty like a pig"

Oh man. I'm not even sure how to explain what my eyes have witnessed. I swear that TLC will give anyone a reality show...and they have. Former Toddlers and Tiara's star, Honey Boo Boo Child, got her own reality show made up of the most ridiculous cast of characters you have ever seen.  Take a watch on the link. Mama June, aka the "coupon queen", might be the best, though she is followed closely by the rest of the family. The father is named "Sugar Bear", one of the sisters "Chubette", another "Pumpkin". Oh and lets not forget the 17 year old pregnant one. Of course there is a pregnant one. Alana - the child herself - is actually the least entertaining of the group.

There is so much wrong with this show that in the first 10 minutes you can literally feel bugs crawling all over you. I needed a handy wipe for my brain. After posting about how amazing southern women are, this show seems to put us back to 1960. Good luck getting this out of your head.


Friday, August 3, 2012

from the VA to the LA coast

The amazing marvel that is Ryan Lochte turned 28 today. Not too shabby to win a couple of medals to celebrate. Me, I normally just have a cupcake or two...(okay definitely two).

Lochte's sweet mom is trying to clear up her mis-quoted quote"one night stand" comment from a couple of days ago. She did mean dates and not that her precious son was just handing out fucks, but I think most people realized that. That's what moms do - they try to be cool, but just come off looking ridiculous and precious.

Keeping this post Olympic themed, can we talk about the micro machine Gabby Douglas? HELL YEAH VIRGINIA BEACH. Beat those Russians! Now normally I don't claim the beach as part of the VA, but last night I was cheering and crying from my couch screaming "you go viriginia beach!". I was waiting for her Sherri Shepard mom to jump up screaming "THATS MY BAAAAABY", but alas that did not happen. Maybe Sherri can play her mom in her Lifetime movie. But I will tell you, that Bart Connor is the most irritating commentator in the entire world. He ruins gymnastics meets for me and he makes me violent. I want someone to walk up to him in London and punch him in the throat (Jamie, I'm hollering at you).

Speaking of crying, am I the only one who weeps uncontrolably at the P&G commercials? Every. Single. Time. They are making me tear up as I post...and now you can cry too. Best commercials of the games.

Still on my USA! rant,

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

america. F yeah.

I hope each of you has banked hours of Olympic view time. If not, there is something wrong with you and the state department will be by anytime now to revoke your citizenship. There really is something so satisfying about beating other countries to prove that we are the greatest. I mean, how awesome was it to watch those Russian girls cry last night after losing the gold to the USA gymnastics team?!

I was starting to become a touch over saturated with Michael Phelps and Ryan Lochte, until yesterday when Ryan described what his perfect girl would wear...white jeans. LOVE HIM. And his sweet little mother cannot keep her mouth shut saying he doesn't date because he's too busy, but he's been on plenty of "one night stands" as she calls them (I think she means first dates). If I ever made it to the Olympics, keeping my "chatty Kathy" quiet would be a gold medal event to be sure. Watch the link above if you need more Ryan in your life or just want to know more about that awful grill.

Also - can we talk about the horrible NBC promos for their new shows? I love Matthew Perry - seriously j'adore him - but these commercials will be on longer than the actual show. And that little monkey show? When the previews aren't remotely funny, the show definitely won't be.

AND last and a day early, my bestie Karl is in hot water again for talking shit about Pippa Middleton. Everything he says is true, but yet people are up in arms over him. "Kate Middleton has a nice silhouette and she is the right girl for that boy,” he said to The Sun. “I like that kind of woman, I like romantic beauties. On the other hand, her sister struggles. I don't like the sister's face. She should only show her back." I hear you Karl.

Back to watching swimming - USA! USA! USA!

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

chow down at chick-fil-a

Okay. Enough already with the Chick-Fil-A backlash. I'm over it. You don't want to eat delicious a chicken sandwich with the essential two pickles - FINE.  Boston, you don't want one in your city? GREAT. I'm not sure why you yankee trash were getting one in the first place.

I understand that everyone is angry because the best fast food restaurant doesn't support gay marriage. Until a hot second ago, the government and the american public didn't either. I don't condone what political monies the Chick dishes out or their policies. I go for the important reason. Waffle fries. And I think that people are forgetting that. If these "ladies" can poke fun (that's what he said), I think we all can. And if you still don't like it, okay - that's your prerogative. But please move aside while I order my #1 with provolone and sweet tea. XO, B

Friday, July 20, 2012

southern women

I read this article from the August/September 2011 issues of Garden and Gun while I was lounging on the beach earlier this month and it stuck with me. For those who are southern women, I think you will really enjoy this. For those who aren't, it's just a little insight into to us and what makes us so damn great. Happy Friday!


Southern Women by Allison Glock

It is not posturing, or hyperbole, or marketing. (See: all those song lyrics about California girls and their undeniable cuteness.) Southern women, unlike women from Boston or Des Moines or Albuquerque, are leashed to history. For better or worse, we are forever entangled in and infused by a miasma of mercy and cruelty, order and chaos, cornpone and cornball, a potent mix that leaves us wise, morbid, good-humored, God-fearing, outspoken and immutable. Like the Irish, with better teeth.

To be born a Southern woman is to be made aware of your distinctiveness. And with it, the rules. The expectations. These vary some, but all follow the same basic template, which is, fundamentally, no matter what the circumstance, Southern women make the effort. Which is why even the girls in the trailer parks paint their nails. And why overstressed working moms still bake three dozen homemade cookies for the school fund-raiser. And why you will never see Reese Witherspoon wearing sweatpants. Or Oprah take a nap.

For my mother, being Southern means handwritten thank-you notes, using a rhino horn’s worth of salt in every recipe, and spending a minimum of twenty minutes a day in front of her makeup mirror so she can examine her beauty in “office,” “outdoor,” and “evening” illumination. It also means never leaving the house with wet hair. Not even in the case of fire. Because wet hair is low-rent. It shows you don’t care, and not caring is not something Southern women do, at least when it comes to our hair.

This is less about vanity than self-respect, a crucial distinction often lost on non-Southerners. When a Southern woman fusses over her appearance, it does not reflect insecurity, narcissism, or some arrested form of antifeminism that holds back the sisterhood. Southern women are postfeminism. The whole issue is a nonstarter, seeing as Southern women are smart enough to recognize what works—Spanx, Aqua Net—and wise to the allocation of effort. Why pretend the world is something it isn’t? Better to focus on what you can control (drying your hair) and make the best of what you have. Side note: Southern women do not capitalize on their looks to snag men, though that often results. The reason we Southern women take care of ourselves is because, simply, Southern women are caretakers.

An example: I have lived in the North off and on for fifteen years. In all that time, only once did another woman prepare me a home-cooked meal (and she was from Florida). I recently visited Tennessee for one week and was fed by no fewer than three women, one of whom baked homemade cupcakes in two different flavors because she remembered I loved them.

Southern women are willing to give, be it time, hugs, or advice about that layabout down the road. Southern women listen and we talk and we laugh without apology. We are seldom shocked. Not really. Sex in the City may have been revolutionary for the rest of America, but not for Southern women. Of course we bond and adore each other, and talk about all topics savory and otherwise. That’s what being a woman means.

In Terms of Endearment, a dying Debra Winger visits a friend in New York and is immediately bewildered by the alternately indifferent and aggressive way the women relate to each other.

“Why do they act like that?” Winger asks a friend, genuinely confused. Why indeed.

Southern women see no point in the hard way. Life is hard enough. So we add a little sugar to the sour. Which is not to suggest Southern women are disingenuous cream puffs. Quite the opposite. When you are born into a history as loaded as the South’s, when you carry in your bones the incontrovertible knowledge of man’s violence and limitations, daring to stay sweet is about the most radical thing you can do.

Southern women are also a proud lot. In any setting, at home or abroad, Southern women declare themselves. Leading with geography is not something that other ladies do. You do not hear “That’s just how we roll in Napa.” Or “Well, you know what they say about us Wyoming girls…” You may hear “I’m from Jersey,” but that’s more of a threat than a howdy.

There are other defining attributes, some more quantifiable than others. Southern women know how to bake a funeral casserole and why you should. Southern women know how to make other women feel pretty. Southern women like men and allow them to stay men. Southern women are not afraid to dance. Southern women know you can’t outrun your past, that manners count, and that your mother deserves a phone call every Sunday. Southern women can say more with a cut of their eyes than a whole debate club’s worth of speeches. Southern women know the value of a stiff drink, among other things.

Which brings us to what can only be called: the Baby Thing.

Southern women love babies. We love them so much we grab their chubby thighs and pretend to eat them alive. This is not the case in the North or the West or the middle bit.

I grew up, like all Southern girls, babysitting as soon as I was old enough to tie my own shoes. I was raised to understand that taking care of children was as natural and inevitable as sneezing, that when we were infants, somebody looked after us, and thus we should clutch hands and complete the circle without any fuss. I was also taught that your children are not supposed to be your best friends. Southern women do not spend a lick of time worrying about whether or not their kids are mad at them. They are too busy telling them “No” and “Because I said so,” which might explain why there are rarely any Southern kids acting a fool and running wild around the Cracker Barrel.

I have two daughters, Dixie and Matilda, and when we go down South, they are surrounded with love from the moment we cross the Mason-Dixon. Elderly men tip their hats. Cashiers tell them they are beautiful. To be a girl these days is more fraught than ever. But growing up among Southern women sure makes it easier.

Which is why we are moving back home. I want my children to know they belong to something bigger than themselves. That they are unique, but they are not alone. That there is continuity where they come from. Comfort too. That there are rules worth following and expectations worth trying to meet, even if you fail. If nothing else, I want them to know how to make biscuits. And to not feel bad about eating a whole heaping plate of them.

Because before I know it, my girls will be grown. And they will be Southern women too. And that, I believe, will have made all the difference.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

I want to smell like gone with the wind

And in further news, if you didn't know it before, Karl and I are soul mates. Yes, it's been awhile since I posted something for Lagerfeld Thursday, but when I heard that Karl was making a new perfume I held out until Thursday to release the news.

My homeboy and BFF is creating a perfume that smells like books. Crazy you say. But to those who know me, one of the main reasons I didn't want to purchase a kindle was because I love how a book smell. Well that and the love of dog earring pages.

"Beautiful paper is for me the top of luxury," ... "I am a paper freak. It's a physical passion. I cannot live without paper. Touching perfect paper has something sensuous about it." - KL

In other Karl news, the brilliant folks at Fashionista give you this - My Little Karl.


just kill me now

I haven't felt myself in a couple of days. Even a 30 minute bike ride with my adorable Goldman crush beside me last night at the gym didn't help. For some reason I'm very sad and depressed. I thought today might be the day I pull out of it, but last night my friend in Afghanistan sent me an early edition of the WSJ, highlighting this article from the Style and Travel section. Contain your retching please until finished.

Proud Desire: Author's Romance With Hermès      By CHRISTINA BINKLEY·        

Author Barbara Taylor Bradford says her collection of Hermès bags tells the story of her marriage."We went to Paris on a wintry day," begins Barbara Taylor Bradford. This is not a story about one of her romantic heroines but about a love of her own: her first Hermès bag. Some people collect stamps, rocks, fountain pens or antique cars. Mrs. Bradford, a bestselling novelist, has 24 Hermès handbags in her closet. All bought by her husband of 48 years, the bags represent significant events and intimate celebrations. Her oldest is a black leather Kelly dating from her 1964 honeymoon in Paris. The most recent is an orange Kelly purchased for Christmas 2010 in New York by that same husband, film producer Bob Bradford. "All of my handbags tell the story of my marriage," she says. If there is just one sour note in the tale, it is the fact that there is one Hermès bag that the Bradfords haven't managed to obtain: a Birkin. Novelist Barbara Taylor Bradford says her 24 Hermes bags tell the story of her marriage. Each one represents a chapter, such as the completion of a book (Evelyne bag) or a birthday (green crocodile Kelly bag). For many collectors, the difficulties of obtaining some Hermès bags have only added to their mystique. Hermès bags are a particularly feminine obsession, but purchasing one offers the sense of achievement and excellence sought by many other connoisseurs.

A simple Kelly bag in fine broad-grain leather can cost $8,300, and prices can easily rise to five or even six figures, depending on the design, size and materials. Kelly and Birkin bags, produced in limited quantities by artisans in France, have their own mythology. The Kelly is the most complex Hermès bag to make, and one can take several days to produce, the company says. Shoppers can't get Birkins just by walking into a store. The company says a shopper might get a Birkin by requesting it, giving contact information, and waiting until one is available. (There is not a formal waiting list, as is popularly believed.) Some people, however, spend years waiting, while others seem to get Birkins quickly. The company is aware that it has many "passionate" clients, says spokesman Peter Malachi. Hermès doesn't track its collectors, though individual Hermès boutiques may offer good clients an inside track on the latest bag or another item. The company's scarves, made in Lyons, France, in constantly renewed patterns, may be one of fashion's most collected products. Scarves, which start at around $325, are more affordable than bags (Bunny's note: LIARS).  But Hermès says it doesn't manufacture products specifically for collectors. Mrs. Bradford's collection began because she loved actress Grace Kelly, who carried a bag that was designed by Hermès in the 1930s and became known as the Kelly bag in the 1950s. "I always thought Grace Kelly was so beautiful and so elegant," says Mrs. Bradford, who carries her bags with an Hermès scarf tied on the handle, "the French way." Her husband bought each bag (often with her collaboration) to celebrate something, such as the completion of a novel (an Evelyne) or a birthday (a green crocodile bag purchased in Cannes).

"She's a very classy dame," Mr. Bradford says. "I love her to be elegant." But Mrs. Bradford's collection stands out because she has been acquiring them for so long. Collections dating from before the 1980s "are few and far between," says Tina Craig, co-founder of the BagSnob blog. Mrs. Bradford's closet is just off her mauve-and-pale-blue bedroom, whose walls are covered in silk. On the bed, a pillow wishes, "Sweet Dreams" under a sweep of silk drapery. Her 16-year-old Bichon Frisé, Chammi, pads around the bedroom. Mrs. Bradford has four honorary doctorates, and in 2007 was appointed to the Order of the British Empire. That earned her an audience with Queen Elizabeth as well as her own family crest, which is displayed in her robin-egg-blue sitting room. Her 27 books have sold more than 85 million copies globally. But none of that helped when she hoped to celebrate submitting her 2009 novel "Breaking the Rules" with a Birkin. An Hermès salesperson said she would have to put her name on a waiting list, says Mr. Bradford, who was upset about it. "After all these years?" he asks. The Bradfords failed to snare a Birkin again last year in Paris, when they spied a blue one in the window of the Ave. Georges Cinq store. "The woman came back and said it's not for sale," says Mrs. Bradford.

Her husband bought her a scarf and bracelet instead (Bunny's note: How fucking tragic.). Hermès says that the bag was part of a window decoration made with items that were never for sale. Mrs. Bradford's first Hermès bag, purchased in Paris in 1964 on her honeymoon. Mrs. Bradford doesn't want to put down her name for a bag. "That's so shallow to put yourself on a list for a bag," she says, adding that it isn't in her character to become so obsessed with a handbag. She does own a fake Birkin, given to her by a friend. "I never use it, but I can't get rid of it because she's in my house all the time," she says. "I feel like it's stealing intellectual property." It isn't clear what Mrs. Bradford would need to do to obtain a Birkin. Michael Tonello, whose memoir "Bringing Home the Birkin" detailed his methods for buying and reselling the bags, says Hermès doles out Birkins based on how much people spend in their stores. "There's plenty of bags in the back room," he says. 

Hermès says the bag shortage is real, adding that it can't make enough to meet the demand. "I'm aware that you've read that book," Mr. Malachi said when asked. Last month, Mrs. Bradford submitted the manuscript for her 28th novel, "Secrets From the Past." The book will be published early next year, but she says that for now, she has lost interest in getting a Birkin.Her husband agrees. "I'm not going to go on that list. I'm too good a customer," he says. - WSJ

Well if anything would further my depression it would be that Barbara Taylor Bradford doesn't have a Birkin. I don't even know how she sleeps at night. Ugh. I hate her. I hate everything about her. I hate her stupid books. I hate her stupid apartment and all of her orange boxes. But I swear to god, that orange Kelly would make me give up my first born.


photos and story: Wall Street Journal