Category: This is crap

She kept dropping her magazines and apologizing. As the plane took off, I realized that I was seated next to a highly intoxicated middle aged women. A bombed broad, if you will. I never got her name, but boy, did I get her story.

She lives in Palm Springs, sandwiched in between big homes with celebrities. The community where she resides is gated. Recently, she got divorced. Her ex is an asshole and she is so, so happy he isn’t in her life any more. But she’s worried that her super rich, beautiful sister is trying to sabotage her life. She is an heir to the family apple and cherry orchards. She doesn’t understand why they are not making wine out of the fruit. She interviewed in Paris to sell wine for Catherine Deneuve. Do I know who Catherine is?

“Yes,” I said as I shoveled chips and guacamole in my mouth. I offered her a chip. As she reached over to grab a snack from my bag I noticed beautiful rings on her fingers and I complemented her.

“I need another ring, ” She slurred.

“Me too,” I said.

She can’t stop talking.

“I’m just so glad that I bought my house, because if my sister has her way, I’ll be out on the street with nothing. Not even grocery money. SHE’S TRYING TO STEAL THE ORCHARD AND IT’S NOT HAPPENING. Let me tell you, I’ve lawyered up!

I’m just worried about my daughter. I think her boyfriend makes her sad. She’s not the same…it’s like she hit her head. Maybe he hit her head? Better not. She needs out.

I love my house. I like to decorate with themes in mind. Like an all Paris theme is cool. One time I was at my boyfriends house and I don’t know…maybe I had a premonition. I decided to leave and walk the dog. When I got inside my house, there was this guy standing in my kitchen and going through a wallet. Idiot, the wallet was empty! And you know what I did? (She raised her folded arms to her chest and started pushing the seat in front of her). I started to go after him like a football player and then he just womped me on the head and I passed out. He left. He didn’t get anything. Now I have alarms everywhere. I even hide my purse and sometimes I can’t find it.

Yeah, I’m a party girl. I dated a guy in the NFL. I want to be a model. Always wanted to be a model. I did stuff for REI and Eddie Bauer, but my Daddy said, ‘Models are SLUTS.’ Well, you know what I heard on the radio the other day? Older models are in demand! Oprah Winfrey is looking for older models and I’m gonna do it. I think that I need a haircut. Bangs are in, so cute. I’m going to get my haircut like Taylor Swift and become a model. And sell wine.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said and pressed the button to get a flight attendant the hell over to save my ass.

“I’ll take a beer,” I said.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, we can’t serve due to turbulence,” said the flight attendant.

“Wait, we can’t have drinks? Come on, set us up! Is this like, no way Jose?” asked the aspiring model.

“Sorry,” said the flight attendant.

The aspiring model opened her rattling purse, and extracted a big bottle of pills. She popped a handful of drugs into her mouth. “I need back surgery,” She said.

So, THAT’S her story, “Bummer,” I said.

No, I wasn’t high. So what if I bought a four foot long stuffed Marlin pillow? It really did look cool on the web site, but when I took it out of the box, well here’s what happened:

It was around 7:30 pm when the doorbell rang.

“Don’t answer the door, it’s probably Jehovah’s Witnesses,’ I yelled.

Greg shot me a look and walked over to the front door to get a package handed to him from the Fed Ex guy. This was the gift I’d been waiting for. Earlier in the week, I spent a day obsessing over throw pillows. I just love how they make a couch even more inviting. Now that I’m “freelance”, which translates to a professional couch potato, I’ve found it necessary to accessorize my throne. I was sick of seeing the same old pedestrian Pottery Barn pillow. My intent was to think not just outside the box, but outside everything. Why not find a fish pillow? That would score some creative points, right?

Soon, everyone was going to want a fish pillow. I was planning to be coy, and when asked “where on earth did I find such a cool pillow?” I would shrug my shoulders and say something like, “Oh, my Mom brought this back from some  little place in the Hamptons. Some artist made it.”

“Your fish is here,” Greg said.

I ran to him and ripped the package out of his hand. “Oh, my God, I’m so excited! This is going to be so great! OMG … and now that our house is going to be featured in the bungalo walk, this is going to make the place look even better.”

I tore open the package and pulled out this gigantic, horrific, dead fucking fish.  The nose, or beak, or whatever  sagged to the floor. Greg said, “Jesus christ, that looks like a  big black dick.”

“This is TERRIBLE!” I said. I felt like I was holding a dirty diaper.

The fins were like fairy wings. This fish didn’t look like it could swim. The worst part was the eyes. They were like real dead fish eyes. I think they were a photograph of some poor dead Marlin. They were looking at me creepy … creepy. The fish was thinking, “Lady, you just bought me and methinks you a fool!”

“What the Hell. This is so not what was on the web site. THIS IS CRAP, ” I said.

Greg couldn’t stop laughing, “How much did you pay for it?” He asked.

“Twelve dollars,” I said.

“Oh well, it was cheap. Use it as a white elephant gift,” Greg suggested.

Then it dawned on me, I could have fun with my fish. We could go for drives in the country. I could bring him to bars, parties, picnics and vacations. My friends with kids would like my pillow. Or, maybe I could leave him on a beach?

I wonder about some people’s fashion choices. The capital offense, Croc shoes. I’ve noticed that even celebraties embrace their right to parade around in the whimsical  clogs. Take top chef Mario Batali, a man who could have diamonds on the soles of his shoes. To my dismay, he favors sporting Crocs, the fruit colored foot gear. Maybe they remind him of pasta strainers?

I don’t understand why anyone in their right mind would wear Crocs; or why the Colorado based company isn’t bankrupt. Far from taking a financial stumble, Crocs grossed over $1 billion in 2011 and project to surpass that number this year. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but I think those wearing Crocs are leaving behind an ugly footprint.

For those not familiar with Crocs, I applaud you! Crocs are rubber shoes that make your feet stink. Really gross. Anyone wearing Crocs should throw them into the recycling bin! Or, gift them to a dog, as they would make great chew toys.

Please, don’t try to pass Crocs off as gardening slippers! With all those holes, how are your feet protected from getting dirty? And don’t use the alibi that they are comfortable. So are Jimmy Choos.

Do you want to know what’s worse? Seriously, the story gets better! So called, “designers” have expanded the Croc line and now they have boots, jelly flats, and even sandals. A little something for everyone with bad taste. This makes me so sad. They violate me. It just seems so, ugly American. I’m not mad at anyone … but disappointed. You fools wearing Crocs have let me down and I expect change! Quick, go to Nordstrom and redeem yourself with some shopping therapy.

I’m certain Croc lovers haven’t moved from the couch. Not only is Nordstrom not on the Croc lovers agenda, they’re probably windexing those rubber soles for a weekend date.

My only alternative is to contact Yoko Ono. Ono just launched her recent art project in support of Occupy Wall Street which involves volunteers who write their personal wishes for peace onto scraps of paper. These wishes are tied to trees in Zuccotti Park, located in lower Manhattan.

I read a few of those well wishers thoughts: “I wish for equality for all and an end to tyranny and poverty,” while another had a simpler message: “I wish everyday was swimming.” My wish Yoko, “Make love, not crocs!” Now stick that on a tree and let’s hope that Americans march out into the world wearing some snazzy shoes!

A tip to Mr. Batali, Dansko makes classic kitchen clogs that will always look chic. Just go there, for the love of Mike!

I was watching a scary movie alone on Saturday night when a real terrifying experience happened at home. No, the phone didn’t ring with some creep on the line saying,”Hey hottie, I’m watching you get drunk and scratch your butt.”

A zombie didn’t knock on my door and ask for sugar.

And I didn’t doze off and wake up with Gerard Depardieu peeing in my living room…this was sick.

I paused the movie when I realized that my glass of wine was empty. There wasn’t any in the kitchen so I had to go down into my boogie-man basement and get some vino out of the basement fridge. I fumbled for the light. The bulb was burnt out and a voice was telling me to run for my life—but I grabbed a pack of matches from Le Colonial, where I dined earlier—and made my way down the treacherous staircase by the dim light of a match. As I nimbly inched my way to the frige, I heard a dog going nuts barking. I felt chills and fever.  Finally, the glow of the frige light cast an angelic light on a beautiful bottle of Frei Brothers reserve chardonnay. It was worth the trip.

I lunged up the stairs, like I used to jump into my bed as a kid in an attempt to avoid the monsters that surely lurked and tried to grab me by the ankles. On TV screen was the image of some bludgeoned chick who’s eye was popped out. She was being pulled out of a swamp. I hit play to revive the movie and reached for the wine opener. As I pulled the arm of the opener. I heard a “boing”, and the sound of a small metal ball rolling. I watched as this ball rolled to someplace where all my missing socks must be. I looked down and realized the wine opener was in pieces!

Are you fucking kidding me?  Seriously, what the fuck? Stupid bullshit is what it is.

So, I had to go back down into the creepy basement where I felt many eyes were watching me. I looked all over for a spare wine opener. I even went through the camping gear. I thought about breaking the bottle, or screaming for help…but I just said, oh well, there’s always vodka (Cîroc, at that)!

So, the next day, my husband inquires about my bachlorette night and I told him that the wine opener is broken.

“How did you break a steel wine opener?” He asks (annoyed).

“I didn’t break it.  It just wore out,” I said.

“This is the second opener that you’ve broken in a year!”

“Babe, it’s like a car. It was time for the wine opener to die.”

“I don’t understand this at all. I mean you have little hands and you’re not that strong. How could you break two really expensive, steel wine openers in one year?!!??”

What am I on the stand? Obviously. Greg doesn’t get the whole “pick your battles” concept.

“Greg, I did not break the wine opener. It just broke. On it’s own,” I say.

“So, you weren’t opening a bottle of wine when it, ‘broke’?”

“Whatever. I managed a wine bar. I think I know how to open a bottle of wine, (buddy).”

“Well, I’ll fix  it. And I think you should let me open the wine in the future,” he says.

REALLY? What’s next? Opening a bottle of wine is one chore I don’t mind doing. And people wonder why I drink!  Straight to the moon with ya!

Gangs of  trixie bitches charged into Target stores with fangs out and oversized bags to bang on the heads, Ruth Buzzie style, of anyone that dare get in their way. The lucky whores who scored Missoni looked stoned, with frozen smile faces, sweaty brows, and a hyperventilated sense of success. Mobs of Botoxed brats who needed tummy tucks were about to find out that horizontal lines don’t look good on a meatball mommy. It was worse than the recent raid at the Qaddafi compound.

This week’s launch of the fresh Missoni line, tailored for Target, sold out instantly. I’d been looking forward to amping up my fall wardrobe with a few Missoni deals. But I didn’t stand a chance at plucking a zig zagged classic off the racks. Score one for the meatballs.

Scorned and feeling rejected—even on the web—I cursed Bullseye, who seemed to guard the overloaded site with a wrench in its paw. I swear, at one point that dog made eye contact with me, and  looking really sad he woofed, “Listen sucker, there’s no way in hell that you will score even a pair of socks.”

My husband suggested that I go to a Target located in a bad neighborhood. I laughed at his strategy, knowing that lots of broads put on their brass knuckles and headed to the ‘hoods to snatch up some Missoni. Plus, to be honest, I’ve lost interest. Watching women haggle over clothing is a little sad and I won’t go there.

I would describe Missoni as classic boho chic, but the new posse of fans could fit right in at a Bon Jovi concert. I imagine a chick wearing her new mini skirt paired with bandanas tied around her ankles. Sort of a buzz kill and kind of like the movie Show Girls, when the stripper tells everyone about her new Versace dress.

Ahh, but life’s a bitch and many of us would like to sit pretty in the poor house. I applaud the ladies who want to look like they shop on Michigan Ave, but simply can’t afford the lifestyle. I raise my glass of wine to these girlfriends who found something fun at Target. These are the ladies who respectfully  have an appreciation for tasteful style, but need to support more important needs …  like a bar tab. Unlike the shopping-hogs that came out in droves for the launch, these are the type of women who actually tried things on, and only bought if it felt right. And they didn’t put their shit up on eBay! (annoying)

Procter and Gamble announced this week that they are weeding out their middle class products, targeting to the poor and rich. This says a lot about the state of our economy, when your choice of soap may feel like it’s from the local jail or else a spa. Our options are limited. You get cat food or caviar. Or, in the words of NWA, “You’re thinking lobster, I’m thinking Burger King!” The overwhelming herd that stampeded on Target this week is telling of a weak economy, and a will for Americans to still keep up with the Joneses!

BTW, mom, if you are reading this and you bought me some Missoni stuff for a little giftie, DON’T RETURN IT!  I want it bad!! I just wasn’t fast enough!

 

At first I thought Vogue Italia was kidding…their cover must have been a joke.  I took a peak at the Avant-Garde September 2011 issue with cover model, Stella Tennant striking  an eerie cold pose. Tennant appears to be freakishly styled in an old pilgrims funeral outfit, decorated with savage body piercings and holding a pair of scissors.

Stella wore her strange costume with conviction but this didn’t overshadow her shockingly small waist line for a minute.Her core  looked sucked in and cartoonish, like, about the circumference of an orange. The supermodel should have skipped this shoot with Steven Miesel and gone to lunch instead. I wondered how long the assignment took? How many times did she faint? Was she on her way to her own funeral? I wanted to call her up and say, “Girlfriend, you gotta get off the baby food diet and eat a cheeseburger!”

It turns out that Tennant was playing out the impression of iconic, Ethel Granger, who was clearly avant guard, but in my opinion, not at all stylish.  Ethel claimed her fame by making it into the Guinness Book of World Records for her 33 cm waist. Early into Ethel’s marriage with her overbearing husband, William, he talked her into training her figure to look like a wasp. Her hour-glass frame was unnaturally achieved with a ritual of tightly tying her into corsets…day and night. William was a man with a fetish…and Ethal seemed to get a kink out of his attention.

…At the onset of the Grangers marriage, William lacked interest in his wife’s perfectly lovely, womanly figure. He eventually manipulated Ethel into into reducing her waist into a grotesque, circus freak torso. He was also into piercings and would place a finger into the large hooped ring nestled in her nose, pull her forward and give her a kiss. Her piercings seemed to be like a leash. He decorated his own body with self inflicted piercings. She seemed happy to comply with his pleasure…I speculate from mental illness.

I hardly think of this torturous way to treat the body as a fashion statement, or anything that a lady with all her faculties in place would consider. It’s been documented that Ethel chose to eat cat food in the later stages of her life. I can imagine her having a grand old lunch at Gray Gardens with Edie Beale. I would love to be a fly on the wall at that party!

It is true that the Grangers self mutilation practice wasn’t isolated to their estate. The popular magazine Londen Times, documents in letters and stories all sorts of wild tales involving corsets. No, the corset and piercing ritual wasn’t viewed as necessarily being wrong.  In a story that William Granger writes about his life with Ethal, he frequently cites conversations about people admiring the”wasp” figure. However, I believe back then, people were much more polite. Or just fuckin’ freaky.

I wonder if the editors of Vogue considered the negative effects of corsets and that fashionista’s will probably ignore warnings like:

A tight corset can also affect the internal organs if it’s worn consistently over a period of time. The stomach, liver and intestines can become misshapen, and the corset can have an adverse effect on digestion and also cause heartburn. If a corset is low-waisted, it can also put pressure on the bladder, causing bladder infections. The pressure on the intestines can result in constipation. In the 19th century, some women had trouble bearing children due to the compression of the organs.

It also makes it hard to breathe and I would imagine, rather gassy.

I get that this is Vogue’s Avant garde issue. But their statement seems insulting and archaic…nothing to celebrate! What’ll be next, a models dipped in latex? Next year, maybe the model should be eating a baby zombie and patting her belly in delight!