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

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!

XO,
Bunny


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.

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.

XOXO,
Bunny

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.

 XO,
Bunny

photos and story: Wall Street Journal

and the case to vote Republican

There is a decorum to the United States Senate. It is, after all, the "upper chamber" and should be recognized as such. As a staffer, I was not allowed to wear jeans even in recess or wear my Jack Rogers (the horror). This isn't necessarily the case for everyone, but for my crazy office it was.

I heard the whispers that Will Smith was in the building yesterday afternoon for lunch at "the dump". The whispers didn't quite get the reaction they should have because Friday we were visited by the US men's Olympic basketball team. I had no idea who any of them were, but I can scream "USA!" with the best of them. And they didn't get the reaction they deserved, because other than Fresh Prince, I could give two shits about Will and his ragamuffin children. Then I see this picture Willow uploaded to the tweetsies and I am horrified. I want the name of the staffer that let this happen.

And in the Senate Foreign Relations hearing room? Have you no couth Willow Smith? You should be ashamed...you too John Kerry. Foreign Relations is an important committee, unlike something stupid like Rules and Administration. I guess I should be excited she wore a blazer...at least that was appropriate.

the wide world of Disney

Sometimes I really love the Huffington Post. They have completely made my day with this photo montage - "Politicians who look like Disney Characters". Yes, while sad, I will nerd rage because these are my people. Let's take a look at the best shall we?

Prince Eric from Little Mermaid and Rep. Paul Ryan (R - WI)

Having hosted Rep. Ryan this week in the office for a fundraiser, I will definitely agree on this one. The smile...the perfect coif of hair....the piercing blue eyes....the chin that could cut glass. Sigh. The man is a fucking dream boat. And he is a lot taller than he appears. Even though it's now de-funct, this tumblr about Paul is fantastic. Like the Baby Goose's Hey Girl, but better for policy nerds.



Mr. Smee from Capt. Hook and Rep. Barney Frank (D-MA)

HILARIOUS and so dead on. They even share black eyebrows and funky glasses. I bet Mr. Smee doesn't spit when he talks though. Or sounds like a muppet. Great story about BFrank: a co-worker lives down the street from him on the Hill. She is constantly behind him as he does his weekly dry cleaning run where he leaves a trail of ties and shirts as he walks. As he drops his tie, she runs up and picks it up and hands it back to him. He looked her dead in the face and told her it wasn't his tie. She laughed because OF COURSE it was his tie as there was no one in the vicinity with laundry. He didn't appear to be in good humor, ripped the tie away from her, and kept walking. I know this story is hard to believe because Barney and clean clothes is hard to believe.



The Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland and Sen. Bernie Sanders (I - VT)



This is funny because not only is the photo perfect, Bernie Sanders is more crazy than the Mad Hatter. This pic of Bernie is flattering - most of the time his hair is in a constant state of disarray and he looks like he would murder you. And then maybe eat you. Yeah...Fun guy. Great date for a dinner party.

Karl Rove and Blankie from Brave Little Toaster

Little known fact that my brother, the Great Hambino, who is not known for his love of anything fru-fru or girly LOVED Brave Little Toaster as a child and Blankie was his favorite. I think I remember him crying on several occasions that Blankie and the Toaster might not make it back to their family. Seeing this photo made me smile. Mostly for Blankie himself.

XO,
Bunny

little piggies

First, there was "toe cleavage". Now, it's "toe-besity". I swear I'm not even making this up. Good Morning America, whose ego on the ratings bump over the Today show has run amok and is now on 6 hours a day, covered the madness Thursday morning. 

I don't know what to write about this. Are we as a society so vain that we are now fixing our toe width? Isn't there something better you could do with your time? Like, I don't know, feed orphans or volunteer at a shelter? I was behind toe cleavage, but this is too much. It's just one more body image thing for me to freak out over.

XO,
Bunny

"I got paid $10 a day not to wear ruffles or eat Ruffles"

What do you get when you take a shit ton of left over Laura Ashley print, a pair of scissors and an over-zealous-with-frills designer? You get the Giambattista Valli fall couture collection of course. Holy goodness y'all. The ruffles on these dresses are Out. Of. Control. The problem is, I love almost all of it. Even with the obscene height of some of the shoulders. All are perfectly executed and designed. I also love the use of fair skinned models. I think I even caught some red heads in there! The Style.com paragraph on it says: "Giambattista Valli spun a bucolic back story for his Couture collection: nymphs, fairies, silvery reflections in woodland ponds. And the Master's Margarita, witchy and wanton in her dealings with the devil." That's cute and all, but I like my Laura Ashley reference better. What do you think?



Perfection.





I want this for my closet. Where I would wear it, who knows. But how stunning would this be with my hair??



This makes her look like her vagina is on fire.

Looks like G has been watching too many clips of the "jesus christ lizard"



So very Scarlett O'Hara 2012, am I right?



XO,
B

photos: style.com

"In fashion, the future is six months" - KL

OOOH - Karl made some pretties when I was lounging on the beach.  I love this 2012 Fall Couture collection. It's ethereal and business all mixed into one. It's a lot of boucle - which is what the house of Chanel is known for - and it's all beautiful. Fall looks to be classic and refined with shiny tights. The only "ehhh" of the collection is the weird pink puff ball dress. I think that Karl just gave up on that one. There is no other explanation for it...unless he was thinking you could wear it as a fancy night gown. It even comes with a matching night cap.

Sigh - the bows as sleeves on the grey dress murder me. LOVE. Check out the whole collection at Style.

XO,
Bunny

I need to find a job where I live on the beach full time

It was like my hair was the only thing to realize that it was back to reality. I woke up Monday morning after 10 beautiful days spent lounging on the North Carolina beaches. No straightening, no hair products - barely a brush before the side braid went in and the hair went in a messy bunch. Monday morning when I woke my hair was pin straight almost saying "see-I can do it myself. Please just let me have one more day of vacay".
My mother calls me her "beach bunny" because while at the beach that's all I want to do...lay on the beach. And thanks to my adorable little cabana that takes the patience of the dalai lama himself to set up, I can! 30 minutes out, 30 minutes in. It's beautiful. And perfect for this red head. So that's what I did. Wake up at 9, check emails, eat breakfast, head to the beach around 11, head in at 4, eat a snack, take a nap, eat dinner, start it all again. I really was meant for that life.
The trip really needed a camera crew. The time not spent on the beach was spent with my family on the screened in porch. The Kardashians have nothing on us. My soon to be 95 year old grandma's evening drink is a bourbon and water. After about 80 some years drinking this, you would think she'd have built up a tolerance or something. But no. No...not really. I think it's her second drink, the "nightcap", that does her in. Or maybe it's that she eats like a bird. Once we reach this stage, everything has to be repeated 3 times at a octave that dead people could hear....from space. Bless her heart, she's hilarious and so precious that you can't do anything but laugh at her.

My father too has taken to drinking bourbon but at a much higher price. No Virginia Gentlemen for him. He's more of a Knob Creek fan. I think he started this bourbon ritual to dull the pain of my grandma's drinking (aka talking incessantly). Unfortunately he is not so precious. You can be sitting 2 feet away from him and he can completely tune you out. I guess after 37 years of being married to my mother I would learn to tune out people as well.

Speaking of my mother, she actually was not as crazy as usual. She did give me one nugget - one morning she fixed mimosas (I heard the champagne pop around 8:30...like an alarm clock). When I went upstairs at 10am, I found her on the couch asleep. I told her it was time for the beach and she replied "I'm in a mimosa induced coma"...at 10am. She eventually did make it to the beach.

Then there is Filthy. After 6 reported shark sightings within a 2 month period, she refused to go in the water any father than her knees. This annoyed me to no end. I'm a swim past the pier kind of girl or at least go  deep enough that you need to tread water. I kept telling her there was nothing to worry about as there were people always father out than we were. Then we get home to see that poor guy at the Cape paddling for dear life with the shark closing in. Ok...maybe filthy was right on this one, but I kept thinking that maybe if he bit my thigh, I could get lipo on the other and drop a couple of pounds. Sounds like a win-win for both parties.

One hilarious tid-bit from the trip...it's July 4th, the island is packed with people, and as we are hanging out on the beach a group of F-16's fly overhead in formation. Everyone on the beach stands up and applauds -which was pretty amazing - but behind them was a giant plane flanked by 2 smaller ones. All of a sudden my father jumps up and starts telling anyone within ear shot (read: everyone because he is so fucking loud) that it is Air Force One. I immediately tell him he's wrong because 1. the plane in no way resembled AFone 2. it wasn't blue and 3. had a huge 80 on the side of it. 4. was no where near the size of AFone. I also mentioned that because it was July 4th, he was probably in DC at the White House getting ready for the fireworks. Pops was adamant that he was right and actually kind of giddy, though he despises Obama. So when the plane rolled by and it was some sort of old timey bomber, I laughed out loud. What an idiot.

And so I'm back. I'll try and do a better job at keeping up the blog - no promises though.

XO,
Beach Bunny