I made a typo

Yes, I did make a typo.

I tend to be a much worse writer and proof reader of my own writing than I am of others. I'll blast anyone, then I am tasked to write something myself, and it's riddled with errors, and sometimes makes no sense. Case in point, this blog.

So, yes, I just sent out our holiday cards, and I know I missed some people, so you need to give me until January to get them all out since I did the first batch from memory of people's addresses.
Well, I intended to write the phrase "point to point" and instead I wrote point to pint. Bah. The humanity. So, yes, even I, the great one, makes mistakes.

So now it's time for your lashing. Today's grammar lesson includes possession as posed by the elusive apostrophe. For those of you who sent a Christmas card to us from your family (which means more people than you) pay attention. I'm going to teach you the difference between This pluralization and possession.

If I were to say: "I'm going to the Walter's house for dinner tonight," the apostrophe in this case denotes that we own the house in question. Possession.

However, if I were to say: "Happy Holidays, Love, The Walters," I DO NOT use an apostrophe. There is no ownership. There is only a pluralization. I'm telling you this card is from all of us--The Walters, not just me, the Walter.

So, why, and girls I'm calling you out because I notice many more girls do this than guys, are you saying: "Happy Holidays, Love, The Walter's"

?

Please remedy this in time for next year's cards, and enjoy the last typo you'll see from me in print for a long time.

Am I Funny?

I've never been a big fan of my looks. I have a big, wide, bulbous nose, small eyes, crappy skin, and fine hair. I know the mirror doesn't lie, but at least sometimes I think, tonight, I don't look half bad.

I have always blamed the camera not liking me, and being completely unphotogenic when I see countless pictures of me looking bad. However after recently seeing a lot of pictures taken of me, I've thought to myself, no Jen, you really look like this. The camera doesn't lie either. When I see myself in pictures I think, this is an ugly person. Not, I don't look good, or unattractive, I look flat out ugly. And with my much talked about (by me) weight gain, I look even worse. I took a picture of myself today with my big ass belly looking like jolly old Saint Nick. I thought I had distorted the angle, but it was just my fat stomach in the way.

I say all this because I have just returned from a trip to the Dominican Republic for our friends Jay and Jocelyn's wedding, where I was about to tell the story of my hair getting butchered. I wanted to take shots of the style in question, and I couldn't even get past my face in the pictures to concentrate on how bad the hair is. Does everyone feel this way? Is it like your voice on a recording? You think you sound so weird and different, but everyone says that's exactly how you really sound? Or am I really the ugly person who appears in all of these photos?

The pics I am about to put up here also show me with my dirty looking tan, with white eye areas. I can't even tan properly. I'm beginning to think I'm being punished for all the bad things I've done in my life, and people's clothes I've made fun of in last ten years when I became jaded to the world around me (coincided with my move to L.A.). I wish I had the brains to say that it doesn't matter because I'm so smart, but honestly I'm only of average intelligence, and as I get older I know less and less, remember less and less, and have no ability to learn new things. I'm like the guy from Memento who can't make new memories (if you haven't seen it, don't even talk to me, because you now mean nothing to me). So, I ask you...am I funny? This may have to be a claim to fame for me. Everyone has one, and so shall I. I'm already working on material for my next dinner with friends.

Well, anyway, please excuse my horrific face, and try to focus instead on the haircut when you see the pics below.

Before leaving for the DR, I bought scissors to trim my bangs. I then left them in the car ten minutes after buying them. Typical Jen.

I have a hair appt. this weekend, but instead of waiting, I just had to make an appt. to get them trimmed. Now, based on me having at least five major catastrophes with hair in the past (peach colored hair, white hair, black hair, Edward Scissorhands chop job, etc.), that I would learn to trust no one with this hair.

As I was walking to get it cut, I thought, I should probably just wait.

Instead the following events occurred in this order:

1. Walk into humid salon.
2.Notice hair stylist is the same girl who gave me a massage in the morning. Are these two jobs interchangeable?
3. Notice the rusty curling irons, dated hair books, and am forced to pick out a picture for her to go by, and the photos all look like this:So, if anyone has seen me lately, they would know that my hair doesn't fit into any of these inverted bob, Aniston fever, or spike punk styles. Although three years ago, I may have had the blond's 'do.
5. Plead with Bella (the stylist, and I use that term loosely) in English to only cut my bangs. I am snipping with my fingers in front of my hair, then saying, "Just a little trim," with my thumb and forefinger in the universal little bit or a pinch position.
6. She assures me in Spanish of nothing I can understand, but we're both nodding, so I think we're good. I should have brought the handy Spanish phrasebook that was in our goody bag to the shop, but my memory failed me again.
7. Moments later, the scissors are cutting the back of my hair without warning. I immediately start with my, no no no's, but she keeps nodding like she's telling me everything is fine, and she knows what she's doing. I have no choice but to let her proceed.
8. I am sweating, and can't believe what I've gotten myself into. The lady waiting for her kid to get braids done is smiling nervously at me in the mirror. And by smiling, I mean sympathetically mind reading my every thought about the horror that is ensuing in the chair.
9. I continue throughout to tell her, "All one length, " and "No layers." To no avail. When the dull scissors are done tearing through my hair, it's a geometric mess. Oh, and the bangs I asked her to snip just a little bit, are not even to my eyebrows. I love the short bang, just not on me. I've tried it many times, and many times it hasn't worked.
10. I beg her not to blow it dry, because I can only guess what it will look like. She insists again.
What I looked like after that can only be compared to this photo at right. In fact, I think I saw this shot in the book as a wedding ceremony option. Interstingly enough, this woman has no top on.
11. I wanted to run to the room, and wet it down, but I had no key. So, I had to go all the way to the beach to find Trent.
12. When I arrived, I was so embarressed that I looked like this, that I started crying. Yes, crying. It was more that I couldn't believe that I had done it again, and it was officially short again than I was upset about it being cut. It took me three years to fully grow out my hair since I got derailed by it falling out for four months (Thanks TrailRX for getting it all back), and it was finally growing, and now this! Cool your jets, I only sobbed for like 10 seconds, but it was very very bad. Imagine me at the pool with tons of beautiful women and men around me in their thongs, and me in my dork sundress with hair looking like this chick. If I only had that pretty lace necklace to divert attention.
13. I took three showers at the pool shower to keep it wet all day, so it wouldn't dry all tweaked out. I entertained the idea of going slick and wet to the wedding, but the wet-haired model is just not a look I can pull of either.
14. It took me 1.5 hours to style it that night. It was long in the back, short on the sides, and every other length everywhere else. When I finally got it straight and somewhat under control, I walked out of the room, and the humidity hit it, and it poofed right back out again. I think I may have ruined all of the beautiful couple's wedding pictures. My hair took up most of the shots.
These pics don't really show just how bad it is, but here I am today at my desk, ugly, fat, and now with bad hair. No wonder the women at Lyla's school ignore me. I think I scare them.

Only in grammar can you be more than perfect

I know I have been lagging in my posts, so, for anyone looking for a quick fix, please keep the following in mind:

1. The word is recurring, not reoccurring. Man, this bothers me so much.
2. The characters Bert and Ernie on Sesame Street were named after Bert the cop and Ernie the taxi driver in Frank Capra's "Its A Wonderful Life." A nice holiday reference for all of you. By the way, not only are all of my xmas lights up, but my tree is also up. Sorry jacko neighbors, the Walters have won this year. Snap!
3. A snail can sleep for 3 years. My nightly average is about four to five.
4. Married men revealed that they change their underwear twice as often as single men. I'm not even going to go into the reasons why this may be true.
5. The "save" icon on Microsoft Word shows a floppy disk, with the shutter on backwards. This is obviously why I switched to Mac. Geez.

At some point I'll forget when the dream began

For those of you in the inner circle of our personal triumphs and failures, which are very few lately, since I have been so swamped with work, that I haven't talked to any of you, are familiar with the issues we've been going through with Lyla sleeping. With the heaviness of work at day job, and the massive amount of work I have had for Fold between events and custom orders, I have already been coming home late, then working until 1:30 or 2:00 a.m. to keep up. So, Lyla not going to sleep has not been easy. Especially since we never really went through the not sleeping phase with her. She always slept. Now, I feel like we have a newborn. Either she's up until 11, or she's up a million times in the night. All scenarios end with her not staying in her room/bed.

For those that don't know the events as they occurred, let me briefly take you through it:
1. Lyla was born two years and three months ago, and from the tender age of three weeks, she slept through the night until two months ago.
2. To days before vacation, she woke up with what seemed like a bad dream. Scared, clutching us, we took her out of her crib, and held her for a few minutes, then put her peacefully back into her crib.
3. Vacation-Sleeps like the wee angel she (was). No issues, nothing but a few routine wake-ups, she's a jem.
4. Day one home from vacation, and she screams bloody murder in the crib when we try to put her down. She also started school at this time which wasn't easy for her, so I thought maybe it's all related. So many new things, new kids, new peeps. I would be pissed too.
5. Next two weeks continue, and we start troubleshooting every solution under the sun to figure out why she suddenly won't go down. Enter night lights, stuffed animals, singing, lights on, door open, fall asleep in our room first then to crib, turtle milky way light, new songs, new books, vaporizer, blow-up mattress on floor, Dora sheets (which were at least well received), big girl bed, sitting with her until she fell asleep...

Sitting with her until she fell asleep became the new norm, since I refused to let her a. sleep in our bed, b. fall asleep elsewhere in the house c.scream for five hours, which is what she did when we let her "cry it out" in her crib.
Well, at first it wasn't bad. We'd wait in there for a few mins, and then slip out. Then, the time in there got longer and longer, and her ability to sense us leaving got greater. She would be dead asleep, and I would sneak out, but if a bone cracked in my ankle, or a floor board would creak, she would wake up and call for me/us. So, we would have to wait until she was so out of it that the noise of leaving (which is not loud!) wouldn't wake her up. The funny thing is, she takes a nap for our nanny every day without issue. She also slept at my parent's house in her own bed without issue. Of course, it's only with us that this occurs.

Well, after a month and a half of almost an hour and a half each night in her room, and about 500 games of Word Mole on my Blackberry to keep me entertained in there on the chair (high score of 2001 suckas), we realized it was no longer fear but manipulation on her part.

So, two weeks ago we decided to do boot camp. I figured it would take four to five days max to shake this. Well, two weeks later, we're no closer to her staying in her bed. She is up until 10:30 or 11 each night, once she was up until midnight chatting it up with us downstairs and yelling, "Go Ravens" during Monday Night Football. (Did I mention Lyla knows almost all the starters' names for the Ravens?)

The little thing puts on this voice, and says things like, "Hey Mommy, can you sing the mountain song or a lullaby, " "Can you hold my hand," "Can you sit in the chair," etc. She's super cute, and it's so hard to resist her, and over the past two weeks we have caved, and patted her on the back, or stayed in a few minutes for her to go down. She's like Edward. I know he wants to suck my blood, and potentially kill me, but I give in to him anyway. Lyla is the same. She is so charming (and pale for that matter). However, doing that hasn't helped the departure each night. So, twice, I have done the full blown Super Nanny approach. I put her back in the bed the first few times and console her. (side note is we had a gate in her doorway and the stairs of which she scaled both, so we have since taken both away, and she can just climb in and out of her bed now). Then, I just don't talk to her, and I simply put her back in the bed. Of course, as soon as I put her in, she climbs right out. Then the pleading and little voicing ensues. She usually will sit in her doorway or the hallway and calm down, but she never goes back into her bed. Monday night she started singing jingle bells (btw, the kid has perfect pitch), last night it was Mary Had a Little Lamb, last week it was a full story about a pink dinosaur. Last night, I kept a tally, and I put her back in 21 times. I finally let her be in the doorway, and she proceeded to put her blankie down on the floor, lay on it, and fall asleep. This is the second boot camp night she's done this. She absolutely refuses to stay in her bed, but will sleep on the floor in the doorway without issue.

So, I thought I would share this sight with all of you.

For all of the screaming, crying, late nights, no down time for us, frustration, and of course concern you feel when going through this, you have to stop and grin at how precious she can be when she finally throws in the towel. And look at those legs! They go on for miles.

Have You Ever Worn the Grapes of Wrath?

The Grapes of Wrath by Steinbeck, is a tale of a poor family that seeks the promise land in CA (a familiar story to me as well), after their farm is taken by drought and the future of their family is at stake. Upn reaching CA, they find not gratification and a slew of acting jobs, but an over-saturated landscape of Hollywood wannabes all fighting for the same jobs and wearing the same trends as them. People are being mistreated, resorting to one-night stands and commercial work just to survive. Unions start forming, and the writers go on strike to demand rights for themselves. After all, a six figure salary is hardly enough for a lead writer on Everyone Loves Raymond. One strike turns violent, and Tom Joad, the protagonist, kills someone (else). He's already a fugitive, so this makes things even worse. So, he's forced to flee in a high speed chase on the 405.

That's the jist of it at least.

Is Ralph Lauren the first thing you think of when you hear sharecropper? No, I didn't say shareholder. Well, his newest runway show, and many other designer's shows featured the return of the overall. He said he was inspired by the Grapes of Wrath, and it definitely shows in the collection. I don't know how runway-worthy the looks are since his runway stuff is usually higher end (see RL Black Label), but I was digging several of the looks. So, yes, cowgirls they're back. I resisted the genie pants and leggings, but can I resist the overall? Don't think so. And I'm pretty certain J. Crew will be selling a stylin' pair with my name on it within three months for $128.

Through the years I've had a few pairs.

My first pair was purchased in the local UDELCO in my town, a second hand shop carrying mostly army pants, surplus stuff, and of course good old overalls. They always smelled like wolf pee when I wore them, and I couldn't get rid of the stink, so after maybe 8-10 wears, I finally tossed them. Then I bought a pair later in college. My boyfriend Rob's roommate's girlfriend had a pair that fit so well. They were definitely more tailored in the waist, which made it look like jeans on the bottom with the traditional apron top. They fit her so well, I decided to go on a hunt for them. I would have asked her where she got them, but she was a real psycho, and I was afraid if I talked to her she'd kill me. She lied a lot, and stole things, and took or dealt drugs. Turned out she tried to sleep with Rob about a million times, and if I recall correctly even asked for a threesome with us. Once, she was sitting in the dark in his room in her underwear when he got home from class. Crazytown. In the end, I got a Calvin Klein pair, since, at that time, CK was the only designer brand of jeans, so I felt super cool buying and wearing them. They were definitely my best pair.

I've always wanted a pair that look like jeans, and have suspenders connected at the belt line. You heard it here first, this look will be in style this winter.

So, here are some of my faves from the RL show. I did buy a caddy hat a few weeks ago that I think I've since lost (along with a gorge gold multi-strand necklace--both from J. Crew), but could rock a winter version of some of these looks. Too bad none of these clothes will ever look like this on me. I tried rocking the boyfriend jeans today with a white tee, jacket, and cool pearlish necklace, but the jeans only made me look like a character from an 80s movie about to paint her apartment. Oh well, a girl can dream can't she?

Halloween 2009

Click here to view these pictures larger

Halloween

Well, it was an eventful year. Lyla got to dress up twice. Once for school as a bumble bee, and once as Foofa from Yo Gabba Gabba. The lead-up to this day entailed Trent wearng the glasses and hat of his DJ Lance Rock costume on a regular basis, and Lyla wearing a combo of wings, pink hat and occasionally some antennae.

As usual, Lyla didn't nap, so as the parade at the end of our block ensued, Lyla started getting crabby. The revelers were merry, and Lyla was repeating how much she didn't want the pumpkin man giving out candy and playing a drum to come near us. Lyla is definitely not good in a crowd, and this place was like Filene's before a wedding gown sale. Packed to the gills with kids and parents. Luckily the mood broke when Lyla hit the slides, and she was pretty happy for the rest of the night after that.

We were afraid she'd be scared to go up to the houses, but she went right up and said Trick or Treat and Happy Halloween to each and every house. It was too cute, and too funny. She enjoyed getting the candy, but was definitely more interested in the decorations and pumpkins at the houses. One house had a ghost that danced when you clapped your hands. We were there for quite a while. The lady that lived there said she's had it since her daughter (who's out of the house now) was three. She said she loved it so much, that when she put it away in November, her daughter cried that she was putting her brother in the closet, and sobbed all day. Seriously, I feel like this ghost had the same impact on Lyla. Man, she loved that ghost.

I'm Gonna Eat You Up I Love You So

There are moments in life where you feel small and insignificant. Friday night for me, was one of them. Trent and I went to see Ray Lamontagne, the folksy, sandpaper-voiced singer-songwriter who can break your heart, renew your love for your lover, and lift you off your seat within a few bars of any song. His three albums are enough to put a big lump in your throat, and seeing him live is as chilling. It makes you want to be good, if not great at something. This man sings for all the right reasons. Not to make money, not to gain fame, in fact he's practically a recluse, and says nothing but thank you during an entire set. He writes and sings from the inside out, he sings because he is meant to, and projects that through the emotion with which he uses his voice.

I already get soft going to the symphony, wishing I had taken up the violin at a young age, pursued music, and made something of myself. When I was in high school, my tenth grade history teacher told me I should become a DA, because no one could argue against me, and I was the best bullshitter he knew. So, I decided I'd stop screwing around in school, and become a lawyer. That's what I planned to do when I applied to college. Something went askew when I got rejected from my dream school, scored remarkably low on my AP exam in history (that I not only didn't study for, but decided on the day of the exam to take it), and ended up majoring in journalism that changed the course of all my childhood dreams. Damn you MARS class scheduling system at UMCP!

So, seeing Ray with the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra was a dose of both enjoyment and woe. I enjoy the show, but I start regretting that I don't see the BSO more often, or that Lyla doesn't listen to anything but Countdown Kids, Dora songs, and Poker Face.
I start feeling guilty before Lyla is even of the age to be cultured, that she's not cultured enough. I close my eyes and breathe deep with the satisfaction that Mozart, Brahms, Bach, and Handel bring to my ears, and the dissatisfaction I feel in myself for pursuing nothing important in life. I know how to do very little, I study nothing, I have little passion for anything I do, and I speak with no expertise on any subject.

All of the arts do this to me. I start thinking how we need to become more involved in the art community, support the symphony, go to the ballet, or sit on a board of something that supports something good. I also decide Lyla should become an artist, a musician, and a dancer respectively.

The Olympics has the same effect on me. Every sport I watch, I think, "Should we put Lyla in that starting at 3, so she can become passionate, and eventually be in the Olympics?" Then I think of those gross parents that have their two year olds in pageants and crap like that wearing lipstick singing Dixie Chicks songs, and I wake up. There are even a few people who have already talked about holding their sons back in kindergarten so they can be older to play football in high school. I won't be that parent.

Anyway...

This is all somewhat relevant, because Ray Lamontagne squashed his desire for music at a young age because of the passion his abusive father had for it. He only escaped his fate as a shoe factory worker when he heard the Stephen Stills song, "Treetop Flyer" wake him up for work one morning. He decided at that moment, to start his career as a singer, and worked as a carpenter on the side to earn money. The man knew what he was meant to do, and he dropped everything to do it. Now, he is not only making incredible music, he is touring the country and giving back much of the proceeds to The National Children’s Cancer Society. What a story.

I've really never taken a chance on anything [but love] in my whole life. Which, I guess paid off, because Trent and I really shouldn't have ended up together, since I was fighting against anything that resembled a boyfriend when Trent walked into my life. I moved to L.A., had nowhere to live, no job, got mugged, broke up with my sometimes boyfriend, and was falling asleep in my car and at my desk from the sleeping pills I was taking to treat these weird fevers I was getting fevers I got. Let's just say I needed to work on getting good old Jen pieced together, so I was a tad resistant to embarking on a long distance relationship with a guy who just broke up with a girl I knew, and knew everyone else we knew. Well, he told me in a letter to take a chance on "us" and I did, and well, after 10 years, you can see where taking chances more in life could help me. So, if I run away to join the circus this year, you read it here first.

I seriously digressed from the subject at hand here, which was the concert, but like I said, it's nights like that that make me wonder what we are all meant to do.

In the mean time, I should probably just continue with my shallow exploitation of celebrities, fashion, and the countless reality shows I TIVO each and every day.

Enjoy five of my favorite Ray Lamontagne songs won't you:
1. Trouble
2. Hold You in My Arms
3. Three More Days
4. Till the Sun Turns Black
5. You Are the Best Thing

As a bonus, I have embedded Ray's cover of Crazy, the pop hit by Gnarls Barkley.

Liam's Got a Clothing Line!

You have to give props to someone who is so confident he can walk with a dominating swagger, use the F word in every sentence, and punch someone on an airplane, and still be an International phenomenon. This man is Liam Gallagher, lead singer of one the greatest bands that ever was--Oasis. And yes, you stUUpid Americans (said in the Celine Dion accent), they do still make music. If you stopped clogging your head with the likes of Lady Ga Ga, Pink, and The Black Eyed Peas, you'd realize that there is still real band music that doesn't drone like The Fray, or suck like the newly popular, but always lame Kings of Leon. That's not alternative, it's spoon-fed garbage noise.

Since Oasis has apparently broken up for the thousandth time, Liam has focused on the launch of his clothing line 'Pretty Green' which is really just basics, but somehow, when he wears them, they seem so chic. Maybe it's the curled up upper sideburn and chop haircut, his ability to pull of a silk scarf (which maybe him and only Jude Law, Logan from Project Runway, or the Heath Ledger as the Joker can pull off), or his stamped British pop star face, or just the way he always manages to make a non-collar work. Not sure that the pieces will be sold stateside, but there is definitely a black sweater with Trent's name on it. Maybe Santa will find one, and ship it to the U. S. of A.


Anyway, check out the site, and perhaps find your own holiday find for the fashionable man in your life.

Rent Don't Buy

My newest obsession is Bag Borrow or Steal. This is the rental site which offers high-end handbags, jewelry, and accessories for rent by the week, month, or season.

I started with a Gucci handbag, moved on to a vintage Kenneth Jay Lane coral necklace, and am now carrying an LV tote, and sporting a vintage Dior cuff with my sweatpants, that's how much I love this bracelet.

Since, I can't justify paying $1800-4,000 for a purse, I've been renting some mid-range bags just for the H of it. Now, a girl truly can dream.

The bad thing is, my necklace (shown here) has received so many compliments since I started wearing/renting, it makes me want to by it very badly, and start my vintage jewelry collection.
So far, I have no pieces. A slow start yes, but I've always wanted to collect something, and since my vintage trophy idea isn't panning out very well, I might as well collect great pieces for myslef, and for Lyla to wear when she's older.
NOTE: This is also the reason I use to justify buying designer shoes and clothes. I keep saying I'll put them in my archives like the celebs do. Too bad my basement is already piled floor to ceiling with exersaucers, and other plastic monstrosities that will surely last beyond the apocalypse. There are also about 50 gallons of used/unused paint, a bunch of those dark brown soup crocks, games like Pictionary and Scattergories I also vow will be played, an exercise bike I begged Trent to buy me while I was pregnant that I've used five times because it hurts my butt, and about 50-60 bags and bins of baby clothes and linens down there. So, I don't know where my archive should be. Maybe I'll start to put it all up on the third floor with my extra antique chair purchases and the bathing suit bins I swear I will pull from when I lose 30 pounds. Hmm. More on that later.

So the coral necklace is available for purchase for $750. More than I've ever paid for any piece of jewelry by about $500. I just don't have any really nice jewelry (that I've bought myself). I would easily spend this in two visits to Target, BabyGap, or a local boutique, but for some reason, the whole amount seems higher than anything in the world. Why is that?

The Dior bracelet pictured here is not available for sale, THANK GOD. I am so in love with it. It looks great with everything, and makes me feel like old Hollywood. I feel like I should be wearing it in my navy blue and white dressing room with white leather chaises and mirror tables. That's how awesome this thing is.

I really like Louis Vuitton signature bags. Even though they've been copied, and every cheesy B celeb has one, and girls with fake french manicured nails sometimes also have them, I still love the clean look. So, whatevs, I rented it. I love a bag with a lot of room without my stuff getting lost in it. This bag is big, with two big outside pockets that don't swallow my phone or sunglasses.

The Gucci bag I rented (because this one was on a wait list) wasn't comfy on my arm, and everything got lost in it. The LV allows easy access to everything, and slips gracefully on and off my shoulders. I can also store Lyla stuff in there, which allows one less bag on outings.
The weird thing is, Fil who I work with said he didn't see me carrying a bag like that. Which struck me, considering he never knows what I'm talking about when I prance around the office in something new, he inevitably asks me how much it was, and I say something like, "I had to buy these Prada/Christian Louboutin/Jimmy Choo shoes, they were on sale for $400!" Not sure why I didn't probe him about why he doesn't see me with the bag. Maybe it's because he's seen girls wearing the LV bag and a Ravens jersey at the same time? That would be tragic, but so fitting here in Baltimore. They don't call it Charm City for nothing.
Then, I went to my cousin's baby shower last weekend, and my sister told my Mom she couldn't see me having that bag either (she didn't hear the Fil story either). Interesting. Maybe it's because I'm usually carrying some canvas recycling bag, and playing it off like it's a purse. Or, I'm carrying my Mom's sewing bag from the 70s made from two wood spools wrapped in brown and green printed fabric.
Whatever the reasons may be, people find this purse unsuitable for me.
Another great reason to rent I say. If no one likes it, I just send it back.

Maybe one day I will find the right purse for me, or I will invest in my first vintage jewel. For now, as the Stereophonics would say, "I'm just looking, I'm not buyin'"

Danger Laptop

Dell just announced the relase of their new Adamo XPS, which is half the width of the MacBook Air, and all the talk right now. Just when you think you're so slim-enter the Bergdorf Goodman addition. it adds twice the width to the laptop, and frankly look to me more like a weapon than a computer. It's all jagged chain link and snakey.
What were they thinking? Not only is it completely clunky, it's ugly. Right?

And is this the guy using it? He looks more like the guy that is trying to dress cool, but really lives in a smelly from old shoes walk-up and keeps his beater matrix in his parents driveway.

Actually, I think it might be David Caruso's promo shot from CSI: West Hollywood.

Do I Need This?

I have no idea why my comments are all caps. I checked the formatting and the HTML, and it is normal. I think it may have to do with the mark-up language I pasted in screwing with Blogger. POS application!

So, you will have to deal with me yelling the next two paragraphs.

Anyway, this is an excerpt from Calorie Lab.com, a site I use to calculate Weight Watchers points. I said to myself just the other night, that I'd give up almost anything to be thin (except food of course because I love it so much). When I found this article, I thought about whether I could endure it. After all, I've done the Stanley Burroughs Master Cleanse countless times, the heart surgery diet, the all fruit diet, Atkins, South Beach, and have been flirting with Blueprint.

The problem is, and this is the same with all of these diets, or gimmicks, you gain the weight right back. After I cleanse, I've lost 7-10 pounds, but the week after I return to solids, I'm back at my heavyweight status. Although, 30 pounds, could keep me thin long enough to try to develop better eating habits. Who's with me?

Tongue Patch: The hurts-too-much-to-eat weight-loss program

Notice to those supervising the Worst Weight-Loss Concept of the 21st Century competition: we may already have a winner.

We thought that our recent post satirizing commercial diet gimmicks took the concept to its extreme with Rubber Dining Utensils, the Hannibal Lecter Dining Mask, and so forth. But we failed to reckon with reality, in the form of the Chugay Tongue Patch, which is a piece of mesh about the size of a first-class stamp that is surgically attached to the patient’s tongue, thereby making eating not just awkward but downright painful.

Even worse, it probably hurts just to complain about it.

The Tongue Patch is the creation of Dr. Nikolas Chugay, the director of a cosmetic surgery clinic, who claims that patients affixed with Patches have lost up to 30 pounds in just one month. This may not be such a far-fetched claim, given that the Patch, which the patient wears for the entire month, essentially limits the Patchee to a liquid diet that is heavy on the “vitamins and nutrients” and presumably light on the calories.

The Patch has acquired a noticeable following in — surprise — the greater Los Angeles area, where no idea is too crackpot to gain at least some traction.

Naturally, Dr. Chugay’s device has its critics, who note that using physical discomfort to effect long-term behavior modification is ethically questionable, and sewing something onto someone’s tongue downright Medieval. Not to mention that after 30 days, the patient is back on solid food, and probably half mad with hunger. Lots of luck.

No Sleep Till Brooklyn

For any of you Beastie fans out there, a shout out to ya.

I was watching one of my many guilty pleasures Gossip Girl last night, and I luckily I Tivoed it, so I could rewind three times to make sure what I heard was correct.

One of the main characters Serena played by the lovely but not talented Blake Lively, said a line where she was referring to a girl named Georgina who said her name was Sara, from "Brookland"
I immediately rewound, asking myself, did she just say Brookland? She did. You can distinctly hear the D at the end. Is it possible that no one heard this but me? No editors, directors, actors?

Now, there was an episode last year where Gossip Girl narrated this: "And as for Blair Waldorf, say uncle. We here she kept in the Bass Family on New Years, but rumor has it Chuck spent some time in Brookland, metaphorically speaking of course. "

This alludes to the one-night stand Chuck Bass had with Vanessa, who is from Brooklyn. How is it possible that Brooklyn and Brookland have been mixed up twice on a NYC-based show?

I need answers, and my research isn't getting them to me fast enough. Is there anyone in the world that heard this? Rewind tonight, and let me know.

Lyla Takes up the Harmonica

In my quest to pass the time on our long journey home from the Outer Banks, I bought myself (and Lyla) a harmonica at the Cracker Barrel in Williamsburg, VA. Trent was less than enthused when he saw it on the checkout counter since we already have one at home. I bought the last one on our way home from Myrtle Beach, SC about eight or so years ago. Trent had to listen to me for at least two to three hours while I taught myself how to play When the Saints Go Marching In, and Piano Man. I can play by ear, but I can't remember what I played so well, so it never really stuck, but it did pass the time for me! If there was a time for Trent to dump me because of me being completely annoying, that was the night.

Possibly on purpose, Trent put our bag full of Cracker Barrel loot in the trunk, so I never did get to play in the car, and neither did Lyla.

However, the harmonica was found, and provided to my already musical daughter the Sunday after we returned. The first video here is her very first effort with the instrument. I think she did pretty well.



By the second video, she was walking and blowing, and perhaps losing her balance. She did manage to take a bow though.



By the third video, taken last Thursday, she's become a real pro, and even rocks to the rhythm.



I have to say, this may be her calling. After all, there are many songs with famous harmonica solos:

1. Love Me Do- The Beatles
2. What I Like About You- The Ramones
3. Isn't She Lovely- Stevie Wonder
4. Run Around - Blues Traveler (I only list it because it's famous. I'd pather poke my eye out than listen to this horrible jam band)
5. I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues — Elton John (Stevie plays the harmonica on it though)

Who the H is Chan Luu?

Sorry for the lapse in lively mockery of myself. I was on vacation for a week, and the week back has left me severely exhausted. I won't go into the details of why I am sore, lacking sleep, hungry, thirsty, and ugly. It's usually all the same reasons any way.

So, to make myself feel better, I went to Elizabeth Arden yesterday for an eyebrow wax and a collagen treatment. Of course, I didn't plan on getting the collagen, but like every other place I go, I got roped into it by the fast talking, smooth-skinned esthetician. It was relaxing though, and was just what the doctor (Walter) ordered. I got to wear a sarong, and lay under a warm blankie, with mittens on my weary hands. And, aside from virtually gluing my eyes shut with a wet wrap full of cucumber cream, and me feeling a bit panicky about my eyes being forced shut for 15 minutes (see A Clockwork Orange as a watery reference), it was quite a refreshing drink for my bumpy, dry, and mysterious skin (as she put it).

After the lovely treatments, I decided to grab lunch at one of my favorite cafes in Baltimore in the same shopping center. While I waited, I headed over to a place called the Jean Pool that carries jeans, great tees, and a few other trinkets. The Project Vintage tees were on sale for 50 percent off, so I was all over them, since they fit and wash really well. Meanwhile, I get engrossed in conversation with the owner Scott about his Cartier "Love" bracelet (he told me sadly no one has the key, and that he bought it for himself. That is so me!), and the new jeans he has in that are of course only in tiny girl sizes. We finally find one pair of AG jeans (my absolute favorite jean brand that were featured on Oprah for making your butt look smaller) that will fit me, so I'm excited. I try on one size smaller than I normally wear, since that was the biggest size he had in all his inventory, and basically it's sausage in its casing from hip to toe. Lord...why? After a few squats, and Scott assuring me they'll stretch, but at the same time not answering my rapid fire questions about how they look on me in the outside of fitting room mirror--What about my thighs? Are they rubbing? Are my saddle bags sticking out? Is my butt too old to wear these? I decide to get them. All the while he was likely texting his dinner date while I talked myself into buying them (as I do with most purchases). I don't even need a sales person, I do all the selling myself. I tell myself I can only get thinner from here, or they will stretch, or I can always return them (which there you cannot, and I never return anything anyway).

As this argument with myself continues, I roam the store for other finds. There is a display of using an unused paint roller atop a pile of jeans with about eight wrap bracelets tied to it. Very cool, leather with beads. I've seen these types in a few mags lately, and was digging them. I try one on my wrist, and around my neck, and we both decide it is a confirmed purchase. Now, he keeps telling me, "Yeah, they're the new Chan Luu bracelets." I hear him, but nothing is computing because I have no idea who that is. A few minutes later at the front counter, I see some black leather bracelets with similar beads and leather ties. They are $12 each, or three for $35. I decide they too must be mine as well. He tells me a local Baltimore artist makes them. So, I say, "Oh, is this the same person that does the bracelet from the paint roller?" He looks at me the way all gay male fashionistas do when you don't get it, and says again, "No sweetie, those are the Chan Luu bracelets." I'm thinking how I know a lot of brands, but I can't keep up with the thousands of designer jean and trendy jewelry designers, and that this is just another small designer I don't know. I have inserted a pic of the bracelet at hand for reference--cuz it gets pretty nutty from here (the one on the right is the crazy one, the left pic is the cheap one).

When it's all said and done, and he rings me up, the total is way, way more than I thought. I'm quickly calculating the half off tees, and jeans which were pricey, but still not nearly as much as the total he came up with. Due to the parties that may be reading this post, I will not disclose the full purchase amount. Sorry honey. :)
While I'm pulling a John Nash, trying to see the quantities and numbers in my head, he is pointing to the receipt telling me that the local chick's jewelry rings up separately and by hand, so it's not on the itemized list, and all this business about the $35 for those. Meanwhile, I'm thinking of how this all transpired. In typical Jen fashion, I'm too flustered and confused to say anything, so I decide I'll check it out in the car, then go back if needed.

I end up talking to my Mom the whole drive to work, so I forget to check the receipt again. Well, when I get to work, I get distracted until two hours after the purchase. I went into my wallet to get my CC out to pay for lunch, when I saw the bracelet, and decided to put it on. It still had the little hang tag on it with the price. When I saw it, blood flowed into every extremity, and I felt a mix of total shock and embarrassment at my stupidity for not looking at the price; kind of like the time I made a surprise poopy in my pants in third grade because I was yelling so loud to get this boy Matthew Pizarazz's attention (whom I liked btw), that I busted a vessel back there, and it all slipped out. I was wearing an off white matching sweat suit too.

The bracelet that pretty much matched my $12 bracelet was $189.
To my credit, as you can see here, the price tag was minuscule, and he had it with the "BG 1494" side up on the display, so there were smoke and mirrors involved in the merchandising of it. They lured me in. It's sitting on a paint roller for crying out loud, and all the other bracelets are between $12-24. Why would I ever think it was $189?

I immediately looked up Chan Luu online, and sure enough he/she is this celeb fave jewelry designer, all over every mag, and on everyone's wrists . I told the guys at work, and of course, they all laughed at me, and we all told stories of how this has happened to us, where we thought something was cheaper, and at the register it ends up being so much. Although, all of their stories ended with them putting the item back. Mine ended with me wearing it all day, and living with the guilt of it. I think it's mostly because it's not worth the money at all. It will probably be out of style next week, and I'll be wearing a feather dangling toe ring instead.

At least me, Madonna, Reese, Katie, Rhianna, Jen, Nicole, Halle, and Drew have all been saddled with the hefty price tag of this luxury item. I wonder if they 're feeling the same way about the blow of this $189 on their bank accounts?

Why is Forever 21 so Wrong and Yet So Right?

Sorry guys, this one isn't for you.

I am a fan of Forever 21, and their lower-end, but still somewhat trendy band of web sites. I order countless hair accessories from them for mere pennies. I have also been buying their underwear as of late, and even though it's "juniors" sizing, it actually fits me better than any other underwear. I've bought dresses for under $20, and shoes for even less.

My beef with them is their hero shots. This is the image in each section that showcases their line. Every time I go to their site, I admire the images and styling they've been doing. I actually want the stuff. The thing is, they almost never carry what's in the shots. I have been considering sending a frosty letter to the management about this issue. I often threaten to do this (re: Joann fabric, Anthropologie, Paris Hotel in Las Vegas). How can a girl get her cheap clothing fix, when the cheap clothing isn't available? Take the hot pink skirt (inset right) here. Yes, I want it. No, I can't get it. Paired with black tights, a simple white tee, and Christian Louboutin booties it would be the genius behind my winter party look. Because I do party so often. And I will dismiss the fact that my huge legs and ass might never even fit into it. That's besides the fact. The fact here is that the skirt is nowhere to be found.

Now, take a look at this breezy, sexy under garment photo. Again, I want to be in these. Not one item in this shot is available. At least two of the above three were. But I don't really want the navy zebra dress. I might be able to rock that jacket in a different color though.
I did see the tiered off-white tulle skirt/tu tu in the window at the mall the other day, which was promising. I am doubtful that I can pull that skirt off. I want to, but I simply cannot. I haven't completely lost my mind. I want to, but I simply cannot. Also, for fellow F21 (my nickname for the chain) shoppers...am I the only one that didn't know that XXII FOREVER is the same thing? Online and in the old stores the name was Forever 21, and in the logo in a totally different font. The store in the mall is all Roman font, with the roman numerals. How confusing. The web site also has the logo the old way. What gives?

By the way, the store in the mall here is massive, and so delicious. I want everything in there. However, I have only been in once. Every other shopper is shopping with her mom, or was given $40 by her mom to shop there. I am too embarrassed and old to be there. Hell, I won't even go into Hollister or A&F, much less this place. What? I like the tank tops for under stuff. Don't judge me. Therefore, I exclusively order online. I can't even imagine walking into a fitting room there. I do Delia's the same way--online. They also have a huge store in my local mall. Bah humbug.

The last time I went to H&M, which I thought I was still young enough to shop in, was awful. Nothing fit me (all too small of course), and one pair of jeans that I loved, were too small too. When I asked the girl for a bigger size, she said that was the largest they came in, and gave me the look that I've dreaded for the last few years. The, you are too old and too heavy to shop here look. Sob. I bought them anyway, and they did stretch, and fit now. The sale person in Via C in Nordstrom was all over me about them. I was proud to say they were purchased at H&M.

On the brighter side, I have identified the model in the web site images as the girl from The City (The Hills spin-off). I watch it for the clothes! Wink wink. See the big-eyed, small-mouthed anorexic above and below.

Car Ride From the Beach

We do what we can to pass time on the nearly three hour trip(s) home from Ocean City to see Lyla's ZuZu, otherwise known as Trent's Mom, Judy. If at all possible, I have been trying to avoid putting Dora on in our recently purchased DVD player. The thing is terrible anyway, and Lyla is always accidentally kicking it off, and asking where the sound went. This leaves us singing and talking about pirates. I thought I'd share what a typical ride with Lyla is like. She definitely provides the comic relief.


Another thing she's been starting to do is insert her own lyrics to songs she's learned. In the first video above, she actually does sing the correct words to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, but you will see in the next vid, she improvs. The word should be (as she was taught): Mommy and Daddy sittin' in the tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Lyla in the baby carriage. I'm going to try to get her remix of ABCs/Bah Bah Blacksheep/Old McDonald on tape, that one is hilarious.

Lyla's Birthday

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We had a small gathering of family and Lyla's close buds this weekend at the house. We were originally just going to Build a Bear workshop, and having a cake, but on Tuesday the whole thing turned "Jen" on me. I was suddenly ordering Andy Nelson's BBQ, renting chairs and tablecloths, and hiring a face painter. All in all, I think it went just fine, but I was stressing because I had a work site going live, and was juggling checking emails on my Blackberry with keeping the day's events on schedule. Luckily, Lyla went down for a nap, which I never thought would happen, but that did result in us having to push the party 30 minutes, as well as us having to wake her from a deep sleep to rush her over there. I swear, any time there is any gathering of my family, Lyla either has not had a nap, or we've woken her up from one and she is cranky. The poor kid. She is so good, and yet, every time we get everyone together, she's Les Mis.

In the hour she slept, I ran to Party City to pick up the four dozen balloons needed to fill the backyard. I won't go too in-depth about the kind of derelicts that work at PC, but let's just say they don't go out of their way or maybe even know how to problem solve how to fit 48 loose balloons into someone's car without the manager present (for the record the manager saved everything and even helped me at the car). The one girl who didn't even know what I was talking about when I asked her if they could be tied together, was also talking about getting a full scholarship to some private college in Maryland. Her sentence went like this, "I is going there if I want to, cuz they is givin' me a full scholarship." I thought to myself, she must have had to undergo some type of interview to be awarded a full scholarship, and one would think that grammar of some sort would be a requisite for getting the type of grades that would warrant a scholarship right? I don't think she was going on an athletic scholarship either. Well, maybe she was, but she didn't look like an athlete of any kind. She looked like she'd been smoking Marlboro Reds since she was 12, and dying her hair bleach blond since even earlier, because her bangs were burned away, and the rest was sprayed up in a flower shape in the front. Her accent was half Dundalk, half fly girl. So, she had me all intrigued with what her story was, and how she came to get this mysterious free ride. I may need to investigate that further and report back.

Back to the balloons...I pictured the same set-up as the scene in the Sex and the City movie where Miranda and Carrie get in the fight about Miranda telling Big they were crazy to get married. The only stitch to this is that our backyard is covered only by a pergola, and I didn't take into account the balloons ability to fly away from under it. So, instead we had to tie them all to it, which resulted in it looking like every other kid's birthday party. Bah to me.

I then, frantically cut hydrangeas from all of our Gilligan's Island-sized bushes (remember that episode where they grew that crazy radioactive fruit that was huge, and allowed them read minds?). I filled glasses and vases with them as centerpieces which I was pretty happy with since I had no plan for the tables. Needless to say, they were completely wilted by the time we returned to the house. Hydrangeas may be the worst flowers (aside from gardenias) to stand up to the sun and heat. Nice job again Jenny.

I also re-pinned the letters I made from drawing paper on our fence that spelled Lyla. I wanted the kids to be able to write all over it. I did it the night before at 11:30 p.m., but when we woke, all the letters were down but the A. Push pins aren't so easy to put into the fence, so I was leaning with all my might to get each one into the boards. So far, not so good, but I'm getting things done.

After sweating to the oldies profusely in the 90+ degree sun, it was time to dress Miss Lyla, and whisk her off to the mall. The dress she wore was just lovely, I have to say. See inset of it in better view. If anyone questions the price of J. Crew's crew cuts line for kids, don't. It's worth every penny!

So, Lyla was in a surprisingly pleasant mood the whole way. I was happy and calm.

The moment we got to Build a Bear at 4:00 on the dot (we were the last ones there of course), she was not feelin' it.

The girl running the show was as loud as she could possibly be. I understand she needs to be heard, but there were only six kids, everyone was right there, and there was virtually no one else in the place. Lyla just hates loud. She really does. Except when she is being loud, then she's super ok with it. Well, the yeller starts wailing about what her name is, and tried to stick a sticker on her. Lyla wanted nothing to do with it. Why would any kid take a sticker from someone who is clearly yelling at him or her?

More intros ensue, and some hopping and such. Lyla takes to it, and does it. It's only when the yeller puts her on the spot does she start cranking. So, she's hot and cold about the whole thing, and really wants nothing to do with the staying together part. She finally meanders back over, and they have to do all this stuff with the hearts to put inside the bear. Kiss it, rub it all over, and then rub it on the person next to you's head. She gets to rub hers on Finnegan, which was great, and there is a picture above of them doing it which is precious. If these two end up falling in love, I'm so fine with it. What beautiful babies will result.

Anyway, she gets a dog and some dress, and a purse which I think cost like $1,000 or something. Everyone else gets their bears with their outfits, hair pieces, sunglasses, whatev, and we're donezo. The whole thing takes about 45 minutes, and I'm pretty happy when it's wrapped because I feel much better knowing Lyla will be good at home, which she was. I know I'm a Mom and all that crap, and I should expect crankiness and some "No's" in public, but I get very stressed when Lyla is cranky in any way shape or form in public. I just want to flee. I'm a flighter, not a fighter. I won't mention her laying down in the parking lot on the way to the car. Luckily, Leslie saved the day by proposing Lyla hold Finn's hand on the way to the car. Again, my solutions for things never work. Once, we took her to Nordtrom at bed time, when she was going through a two-week tantrum stage, and boy did she unleash. She was screaming bloody murder everywhere and every single person was staring at us. It was simply awful. Then, she calmed down, and was absolutely fine asking to try on hats. Go figure.

We got back to the house, and the rest of the day goes pretty well. The kids hung out most of the time in our 200 degree basement with rotating adults down there. I was feeding them BBQ, M&Ms, and limeade at a rapid rate to keep them occupied. Sprinkled some glow sticks, the face painter, and pin the tail on the donkey in, and we were good.

Although, the kids all yelled at each other during Pin the Tail on the Donkey. No one really wanted to lose, and I was bargaining with them all. I paid most of them off in cash to settle the disputes. Money really does solve everything.

Lastly, we tie dyed, which every adult thought I was crazy for doing, but turned out to be one of the favorite things the kids did. My niece showed me all about it, and how to twist the t-shirts. It was awesome. After 20 minutes of pre-washing, 15 minutes of twisting, 15 minutes of dyeing, 6-8 hours of setting, a 40 minute hot wash to set the dye, and a 60 minute dry they were done! Voila, everyone had a shirt. I should post a pic, because they really did come out great. I highly recommend it. I got the kit for $6.99 at Michael's and just bought every kid a tee at Target.

So, a cool $1,000 later, our smaller than last year's 2nd birthday party for Lyla turned out to be a cinch, and just great.

Is American Apparel Selling Sex?

I was on their site looking for kids t-shirts the other day, and one of the feature images on the site was the one shown here.

Now, I'm all about "Summer Style" but my typical warm weather garb doesn't usually include me open legged in a leotard about to get f-ed on a glass table in the Valley.

Is this supposed to be edgy?

The girl actually looks scared.

I can picture 1 of 4 scenarios taking place here:
1. Photographer says, "Yeah, just open your legs...just like that...that's it. Now a bit more. A little more..."
2. She was posing normally, when an intruder with a knife came in, and told her to open her legs wide before he stabbed everyone on set. She then had to comply to save everyone's lives.
3. She decided to lose her virginity on that very table, and for a wad of extra cash (and perhaps a wad of something else) she agreed to let the photographer shoot it. The fear of her first time, coupled with her crossed morals for doing such a thing were all at play when this very shot was shot.
4. She got this job mixed up with her Nair commercial, and thought she had to show how well the hair removal worked even in something smaller than short shorts.

Mad Men

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Mad Woman

One of my favorite shows is Mad Men on AMC. If you don't watch, you are missing the best show the television people have ever put on. I won't run through the synopsis of the series, if you're smart, you'll find out on your own (that is, if you don't already watch, which you should).

Trent informs me about two weeks ago that they are do a "Casting Call" where the winner gets a walk-on role on the show. I immediately pounce.

As an aside, I should not even have thought of entering since I have terrible stage fright, and can't even imagine how embarrassed I would be if I actually had to go on the set with these people. It actually makes me sick to my stomach to even think about it. However, I'm always up for stuff.

The requirement is to go to a Banana Republic store and get a code to input on the AMC web site as part of entry. BR is doing some kind of Mad Men-inspired line of clothing for the fall. I checked it out, and it's about as miserable as everything else they've put out for the last ten seasons. Can we take a moment to reflect back on how great Banana used to be? Back in L.A., I used to visit the flagship store in Santa Monica, and pine away for the clothes as if it were art in a museum. They always had what I wanted. They designed the best basics with that edge. Now, they design for the homely office worker. Straight leg cotton/poly blend slacks may have been the rage in '98-99, but are they cutting it now? And how many slim fit, wide lapelled white shirts can we have in our closet? Didn't they get the memo that wearing your lapels outside and on top of your jacket collar was never, and will never be cool. Cc Brenda Freese on this fact please...someone.

Anyway, we got the codes from the store, and we were set to enter.
I was in Los Angeles for work for a week, so this was throwing our timeline in getting this thing off the ground. Plus, people on the site vote to say who looks cool, and the winners are chosen from the leaders, so entering late hurts. Oh, I forgot to mention, the picture has to show you in your best Mad Men-esque depiction.


I had many ideas like: aloof mom (which was already done by someone else), prim worker, drunk mistress, sexy seductress, and finally worked over girl.

Last night was the deadline, and we were feeling uneasy about making the deadline. Trent went to the grocery store, and when he got home I had teased my hair, put on my Jackie O outfit, and made myself up.

Trent shot about 20 blurry shots of me upstairs on the third floor in various poses. I am completely unphotogenic, so all of the posing and lip pursing I learned from America's Next Top Model was obsolete for someone like me who not only isn't that great looking, but also photographs poorly. I also look a lot like a drag queen with make-up, but I had to put some on. In the black and whites you can't tell, but in the colors I'm totally dolled up. I added those too just for reference.

Ok, so we get all the shots, and I choose one to upload, and I am ready to go at 10:30 p.m. on the night of the cutoff. I get on the computer, and enter all the info. The first time, I accidentally uploaded a file that was too large. The junker AMC site however, doesn't deal with the error correctly, and I get a generic "we cannot save your info at this time..." So, I upload the correct size, and it tells me the email is already used. Oh great. The programmer that created this page, really knows nothing. The account was created in the database, even without the image, or the completion of the form. This is 101 of web dev by the way. After about a million attempts of creating new emails, and using both codes, I could not get it to work. I tried everything. I was so mad. Here I was, gussied up, garters, and everything, and no go on the entry. Damn them.

So, the pics are above. They run the spectrum of sweet, to beat up with mascara runs, and puffy eyes.

Some other poor slob will win, not me, and I will resort to watching them instead of myself in the limelight. I guess my big break will just have to wait for Survivor, The Amazing Race, Jeopardy, or Rock of Love. Love ya Bret.

AF's Cheeky Cousin

I'm a big fan of the t-shirts at Ruehl, the slightly higher end brand of Abercrombie and Fitch. The sizes run bigger, the jeans actually fit my butt, and they only pipe half as much cologne through the air conditioning vents. So, on average, I only throw up twice while walking through the shop. I was sad to hear that Ruehl will no longer exist, so we paid it one last visit while I was visiting my friend Rhonda in L.A. last week.

This news is not about Ruehl though, it's about Gilly Hicks, A&F's newest creation. This company is truly the Britney Spears of the retail business. They continue to invent new stores to attract the young teen, and I fall for it every time. I'm in the center of the ring just like a circus.

They play like they're from Sydney, and when you walk in the front door they say, "Welcome to Gilly Hicks, the cheeky cousin of A&F." As annoying as the 16-year old "cousins" are that work there, and as skimpy as their uniforms are (they make the girls wear navy and white combos of outfits that are as close to underwear as their underwear is), I have fallen hard for them.

The decor is amazing. It does resemble Ruehl in that it is very dimmly lit, with only spotlight lighting over the displays. Everything is dark wood in the likness of a British colonial manor house (part of their ficticious story), with incredible cabinet work, and wallpaper tiles that brighten up specialty rooms. The whole store is set-up in vignettes, much like Victoria's Secret was before they went main stream, switched to laquer displays, and started knocking off the
already offensive Juicy suit.

Most of the bras are the molded, padded ones, that are not really my thing. However, in one little spot they have what they call lingerie. The other sections all hold underwear. This is how they try to get away with selling underpinnings of this nature to tweens, who probably all have bigger boobs than I do anyway since they've been eating hormone milk, overfed chickens, and Beefaroni since birth.

The lingerie area is impressive. It's the fanciest part of the store, and the items are really beautiful. I have only paid for really nice underwear a few times, and garments equal that of La Perla and Agent Provacateur. All lace, with gorgeous hardware that is easy to slide on perfect cottony straps. I bought two bras, and two pairs of knickers. The bra and underwear set I bought lovely ties in front and in back, and make me feel like I could pose for Jacques Magazine (minus 40 pounds, with a nose job, and better hair of course). Unfortunately, the lingerie isn't terribly cheap, but it isn't terribly expensive either. The bras are about $38, and bottoms about $14-16. The underwear section is less expensive, but you need to pad it up if you buy in that area.

This place was actually so vast, (and dark), that I lost Rhonda. She has a similar condition to me, in that she is averse to cologney stores, so she was dashing through the middle perfume section to get away from it (at a rather high speed I should add), and I was busy getting glamoured by the place, and we split. I searched for about 20 minutes for her, and had all the school girls in the place helping me. I finally left hoping she went outside, and sure enough she was out there leaving me a message. It really put a spell on me.

As a side note, the perfume at this place is different than its woodsy cousin. I can't say I enjoy it any more though. It is very feminine, but it reminds me of the smell I have when I feel like I might stink, and decide to put deoderant on. Or, when someone else smells, and they try to mask it with perfume. If you enjoy the scent of slightly smelly pits, covered by honeysuckle, this is the fragrance for you.

There are not too many of the stores, but they do sell online, so you can buy there, and I do recommend the lingerie section of the site where the fancies are (ladies, your men will thank you).