Thursday, December 07, 2006

Bye Bye Beddy


I can't figure how people functioned before Craigslist. Clearly, I remember the days before its existence, but these weren't the days when I was looking for apartments, jobs, subletters, or missed connections. (Shush. You know you look, too.) If I had to find any of these things without CL's help I'm just not sure how I'd succeed. Flyers? Door to door inquiries? Telegrams? Without CL, I would never have sold my bed the way I just did. Here's how it went down.

I'm moving tomorrow and need my bed gone yesterday. I'm sort of sad to see it go since I definitely dig it, but convenience first, my friends. The thought of taking it apart, walking it down all my stairs, strapping it to the roof...on and on and on? Nope. So I posted on CL, naming an insane price if someone picked it up tomorrow. Immediately my inbox started to flood. But one especially caught my eye.

I'M IN LOVE WITH YOUR BED. I WANT IT. ASAP.

Now, I'd have been frightened by this if it weren't signed LOVE ANDREW AND JOEY and I didn't live in West Hollywood, a predominantly gay neighborhood. Call me crazy, but I was pretty sure these guys weren't coming over to jump me. I wrote back asking if they had some help and a truck.

YES. WE WILL COME OVER RIGHT NOW.

My roommate and I looked at the clock (1:05 am) and then at each other and shrugged. I wrote back and told him to head over.

OH MY GOD. WE'RE ON OUR WAY. THANK YOU SO SO MUCH. I LOVE YOU AMY.

This was gonna be good.

Two gay boys cruise into my garage, and immediately hand me their baby chihuahua. My roommate and I sit on the floor and start to take pictures of us playing with the puppy; we put him in our sweatshirts and under our blankets and let him bite our hands while we make frightening giggly squeals. All while our new friends (who paid me largely with quarters) stomp up and down our stairs with my dissembled bed. By the time they leave ("Lock your doors, ladies! If I weren't gay, I'd be in your pants"), it's 2 am; we know their gritty relationship details, we want a chihuahua, and I'm one step closer to SF.

I just don't think this would have gone down with a newspaper ad.

Monday, December 04, 2006

Headed for the Frisco Bay


Good morning, faithful readers.

It may appear that I've up and disappeared on you, but I'm simply on a blogging sabbatical while I wrap up my internship, search for a new job, drink eggnog and gingerbread lattes, drop my jaw at Britney's underwear-free antics, and pack up my room for my move to San Francisco. Yes, Blue Jean Amy LA Lady will no longer be come Friday. So speaking of which, I guess I need to change my name. Any suggestions? Something about...flowers in my hair? Heading for the Frisco Bay? Leaving my heart behind? I'm stumped. Please help. Thank you.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

He Do Voodoo




It's a shame my internship at the magazine is coming to an end; I am really gonna miss the spooky people I get to meet on a daily basis. For example:

Today, my editor invited me to her meeting with a fellow pedaling his magical oil wares. Son of a Voodoo priestess who "inherited the spiritual gifts" of his family, this guy has created a line of oils and sprays that correspond to the needs of your aura. I mean, finally!

In the beginning, I kept my hand over my mouth and my eyes down to stop laughing while he chanted and told me his soul didn't need a glass of water when I offered one. In the middle, when he was diagnosing my health problems ("You know what asthma really is, right? The symptom of an oppressed childhood" and "Your jaw's aura is sending out dangerous sparks") I wasn't smiling no more. And by the end, when he was watching my every move ("Oh oh see! You wanted to take a breath right there, but the affluvia wasn't letting you - so you cleared your throat instead") I wanted him dead.

Fortunately, he had a happy little mohawked, European sidekick who gave me a cute, overly priced tshirt "celebrating my skin color" ("peachy" apparently) to make amends. And free stuff, like a rock to scissors, trumps spooky any day.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

FedEX




She's free, people, she's free! Not from parking lot hypodermic needles in her bare foot or an addiction to fake cheese products or scrunchies and banana clips or a sister that's a wee bit cuter than she or two very tiny babies looking to her for normal booster seat usage, but from Kevin Federline, the world's most vom-inducing gold digger.

People often question my undying support for Brit, and some of it really can't be explained; it's just this unique chemistry we share. I can't articulate the reasons behind our love, in the same way I can't articulate my love for Ryan Seacrest, Jerry Orbach, or Donny Osmond.

And so her emancipation from The Fed has made today somewhat of a holiday for me. I urge you to grab a Frappucino and feel the love, too.

Monday, November 06, 2006

Your Waffle, Madame




There's something about room service meals that taste 10 to 15 times better than any food made by me (well, clearly) or even food from a get-there-yourself restaurant. It feels almost dirty to sit there in your bathrobe, surrounded by copious amounts of pillows, panning the menu, when you know you could be using this time to put on clothes and procure food like a normal human being, hunting or fishing or gathering or Carl's Jr-ing. But I just can't do it. If the menu's there, it's gonna get used.

My shame deepens when the room service dude arrives, The View
blaring in the background, and me tripping over my bathrobe strings to kick my stuff out of the way so he can place my tray down, theatrically removing the silver cover to reveal a waffle, a huge bowl of whipped cream, and orange juice in a delicate little glass. "Your waffle and orange juice, ma'am." Um. Please don't announce my food choices. I'd rather we just pretend this didn't happen. I'd rather not be reminded that I just spent $28 on a waffle and will soon leave my underwear on the ground for others to pick up while I drive away and read Nickle and Dimed during my lunch break. But wait - shhh - Rosie's making fun of Elisabeth and my whipped cream is losing those little peaks. Gotta jet.

Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Spoiler: Don't Read If You Haven't Read Harry Potter Numero 6



This isn't so much a full post - my computer is missing in action - as a quick question: What's the deal with Snape in #6?! I don't think this was what J.K. had in mind, but I was more upset with his backstabbing than Dumbledore's death.

So I'd appreciate any and all comments regarding this pressing, timely issue: Is Snape really bad? Thanks.

(You too, Anonymous. Golly, I almost forgot you!)

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Make It Work




Most people at the magazine wouldn't stoop to watch a PBS special let alone reality television, so I just need to get this out of my system:

Who's gonna win Project Runway tonight?

If you had asked me a few weeks ago, I would have said Michael all the way. His designs are fresh and bright and sassy and he knows how to fit clothes for curves. I also think he's got some serious star quality. There's that gold tooth (although now he has braces - wha?) and can pull off an all white outfit without looking ridiculous. I also like how he talks about his Mama. But. He started drinking some crazy juice right around the time he made that "sensual, sexy" purple dress and it's all been a world of no from there. I fear that all has been lost.

Uli has shown some promise in recent weeks but lawd, she bores me, and her fabric choices are no good. (Paisley? Tie dye? Stop.) I'm sure she's a lovely person, but I don't want her to win and I don't really want to hear her talk anymore.

Laura's craftsmanship is impeccable and I'd definitely wear some of her pieces (to a Cotillion) but she's gotta jazz it up or she'll lose me. Serious golf clap to her, though, for juggling 5 kids and one in the oven while pulling together a full line. I also applaud a good tattle tale.

Which leads us to...Jeffrey. Man, did I spend some serious time hating on him and his fugly, fugly neck tattoo. (Which I recently softened up on when I realized was his son's name. Still.) But suddenly he's gone from an evil goblin designing heinous outfits with leather straps and buckles and other nonsense to a friendly father making soft jersey halter dresses with colorful stripes? Wha happened? It might just be her hormones, but Laura definitely had just cause for accusing him of using extra help. His amazing line (sadly, my current favorite) just doesn't make any sense. I guarantee he won't get kicked off, though. That trailer showing him crying is just playing with our lil' fashionista hearts.

Okay. Whew. I feel better. Even if you don't usually watch this show, friends, I highly recommend tuning in tonight for the finale. Make it work, guys, make it work.

Monday, October 16, 2006

A Jack of All Trades




I fully admit to being the dangerous combination of theater nerd meets "Days of Our Lives" addict. Which made my Saturday night somewhat heavenly and delicious. When I told my brother about it over the phone, trying to sound nonchalant in front of my roommate, he said, "Excuse me...?! I don't understand why you're not laughing manically and couch jumping right now." Quickly escaping behind closed doors, I did just that.

Enough of the build-up. I realize this will only be exciting for my fellow "Days" fans (and I know you're out there), but Saturday night I went to see the show Urinetown (the musical for people who hate musicals but really it's for everyone, because who doesn't love songs about pee?) and the Narrator was played by...Jack Devereaux! As in Jennifer's husband, Patch's brother, Abby's father, almost-as-good-as-John-Black-at-making-a-furrowed-brow, Jack Devereaux! Wha-bam ka-chow! He would probably like for me to call him "Matthew Ashford" since that is his chosen, real-person name, but sorry friend - you'll always be JD to me.

So...seriously. Who knew this was the reason he keeps asking to be killed off? He's secretly doing regional theater, busting a gut dancing jazz squares and singing his lil' heart out before crawling back to Salem when the money runs out. I mean this guy seriously gave it his all - and he was pretty damn good. The whole thing reminded me of my break-out performance in kindergarten when I sang the "Sesame Street" theme song in front of the whole school, and I told my mom I wished I were a boy because I wanted to dress like Ernie, and she said I could wear a striped shirt even if I were a girl and I said...okay. Man, did I belt that number out.

Yup. It was just like that. Minus the fact that Bo Brady was not in the audience to cheer on his buddy, it was a pretty perfect night for me. Don't be jealous.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Solid Goldie



I've been in LA a couple months now and have yet to have a legit celebrity sighting. I used to think Britney was around every corner, ready to drop her Frappucino on my foot, but those days are gone. I still scan the crowd for a familiar face, but at this point it's just more of a casual habit. I thought I was doomed to seeing only D-list stars and I'd started to accept it.

That is, until Sunday night when my boyfriend and I were stuck in traffic, trying to get out of Hollywood. The streets were jammed because of a concert at the Hollywood Bowl; Pink Floyd was playing and people wanted in. As we sat amongst the stoners, bumper-to-bumper, my bf looked to his left, at the car facing opposite us. "Hello, Goldie," he said, kidding. I swung my head to the left and leaned over. He didn't realize it, but the blonde, lippy chick staring forward really was Goldie Hawn, and you know who was sitting next to her? Good ol' Captain Ron (or Kurt Russell, but he prefers I call him Cap'n), cute little horn-rimmed glasses and all. Before we could soak them in any longer, they drove away in their big, gold Mercedes, off to the dark side of the moon.

Sunday, October 08, 2006

Columbus Would Be Sad



I can't believe there's no such thing as Columbus Day out here. When I asked my work friends what they were planning for their day off, they gave me the same look I got when I first moved out here and asked where I could walk (no!) to get some good sushi or called the freeway "405" instead of "the 405." My work friends repeated "Columbus Day" a couple times, letting the crazy and foreign words play upon their tongues.

How can the otherwise sunny state of California drop this little raincloud over me? I've been planning my day off for the past month, hemming and hawing over whether I'll watch "Matlock" or "Magnum P.I." come 2:00, whether I'll eat a grilled cheese or a milkshake for lunch, whether I'll take a nap or do a little thrift store shopping in the late afternoon. But Abracadabra - the dream is gone and I'll be plugging away at my computer while you light-hearted East Coasters are watching The Hallmark Channel in my place. Next thing I know they'll be telling me I don't get Patriot's Day off.

Nah.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

Oreoh!




I've discovered a new food product that everyone needs to try: Oreo Thin Crisps. In the words of everyone's favorite television personality Rachael Ray: "Yum-o." (Has anyone seen her new show? Is she just shotgunning Cocaine to maintain that level of insanity?) Don't be put off by its somewhat oxymoronic name, my friends; what's inside is delicious.

I think the point behind the marketing of these packets is their "100 Calorie" goodness, but I couldn't care less about that. Although, I must admit I do enjoy anything that comes in cute little bags I can grab and run/drive with. I wish everything edible came in a grab bag: pizzas, hamburgers, spaghetti. Anywho. It's the little bites inside that really matter. At first glance, they look like crackers, and have sprinkes on top that look like salt but - gasp - the "crackers" are actually chocolatey cookies (kinda like Teddy Grahams, but lighter and crunchier) and the sprinkles are actually sugar. De-lish.

To reach maximum enjoyment, I recommend placing the sugary part on your tongue and letting it sit for a bit, before washing it all down with 1% milk. But maybe that's just me. I also eat Junior Mints by splitting each one apart vertically, before eating each half separately. So - proceed with caution. But either way, I think you'll dig 'em.

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

The Sophisticated Nose Knows



The last time I took the magazine up on an offer to do something "fun" outside the office it resulted in that horrid French/Indian/Hugging debacle with my roommate. I've been reluctant to accept anything since, but my boss had an invite to this product promotion at The Hotel Bel-Air and I figured why not? It'd be worth it if only to see where the Fresh Prince did his thing.

When we stumbled our way onto the (gorgeous) grounds, this crazy hotel manager chick found us and led us to the right room. Along the way, she would periodically stop, stare at us, and squeal: "Look at how much you love it here!" Excuse me? I was walking silently, looking at the flowers, and smiling a small, little Mona Lisa smile. But apparently, I was bouncing off the ceiling. Okey doke.

She finally let us go, and we walked into this (gorgeous) room leading out to a courtyard. There was a fire going and champagne on the table and bottles of perfume everywhere. Romantic? Creepy? I wasn't sure.

The two chicks who run the company were super chatty/perky, running around grabbing bottles and spouting iterations of the word "luxurious" at roughly 85 times per minute. Their luxury logic, though, tended to create contradictory statements. For example. First, they talked about vanilla and how usually it's a cheap, one-note fragrance, created for the untrained nose. But they solved all that by adding "hints" of magnolia blossom and citrus because the urbane nose appreciates a multi-toned scent. On the other hand, their lavender scent is "medicinal" and "pure", not "cluttered with any superfluous falsities" (I sort of made that up, but you get the idea). In other words, the educated sniffer turns up his nose (ha) at both simple and complex smells. Makes sense, makes sense (scents?).

I had to work hard to keep my eyebrows down, but was pleasantly surprised when - after promising them we'd feature their stuff in two of our issues - they gave us each a big bottle of our favorite scent (I picked Orange Blossom, one of those single-note things or complex ones or - whateva it's delicious) and a bag full of smaller bottles. I've already set them up in my apartment, letting the crazy reed sticks diffuse the Orange Blossom-ness into the air. And you know what? Whabam. My room suddenly smells, well, luxurious.

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

The Real Ladies of Layering




I've been feeling annoyed with Marc Jacobs these days. Taking all this credit for hip, "new" layering - dresses over pants, shorts over tights - that clearly was discovered long ago by some of the most important ladies in fashion: Punky Brewster and Clarissa Darling. That's right, my friends. These chicks had this technique down to a science long before it made the fashion runway.

Punky rocked vest over short tee-shirt over long tee-shirt over jeans (bandana around one leg, of course) while Clarissa sported overall shorts over patterned tights, some sort of shrug, and a pair of Doc Martens to finish it all off. They were fashion pioneers and I worshipped every belt, knee sock, and cardigan they somehow fit together. Can they please get a little credit? And, for that matter, can I?

The looks I fashioned together in 5th grade were nothing short of spectacular. Let me tell you about my favorite one. It started with a long tee-shirt - complete with Earth Day theme - worn on top of white shorts folded two times each side, worn over capri-style, royal blue tights with detailed lace around the ankles. I liked to finish it all off with black ballet flats (still rockin' 'em today) and a long necklace, made of little, clay Earths. Hot, right? Yesterday I wore a tank top over a tee-shirt and the day before that, a dress over jeans, but I'd like Marc to know this is nothing new. I will never give credit to any modern-day movement for these choices. And now, neither should you.

Monday, October 02, 2006

Up in the Air




Flying: I don't like it. I put up with it, because I'd never get anywhere and because I'd still be stuck in India if I didn't, but it's a legit phobia of mine. I immeditately fall into this state of intense awareness, where I notice every minute dip, every subtle noise; I honestly feel that if I notice something wrong happening then I'll be able to do something about it. I find it very difficult to believe they could handle the problem without me.

My dad - a mechanical engineer, mind you - once told me that flying kind of freaks him out, too, and really, there's no exact explanation for what keeps that huge thing off the ground. Oh, okay. So, that's now my mantra as we take off. "There's no reason this is staying in the air, there's no reason this is staying in the air..." etc. etc. I usually combine this with a montage of movie and tv scenes depicting plane crashes and I'm good to go.

It doesn't help that I'm always seated next to a ridiculous person. I've been flying quite a bit lately and I'm starting to think someone is playing a joke on me. Two weeks ago I sat next to a man who cried the whole time. Cried. He wasn't sobbing, exactly, but there was a steady stream of tears and lots of sniffling. Fun. Then, last night, my seating partners were a Chinese woman and her husband who did not speak English, but somehow, with a complicated dance of nods and finger wagging, assured the clueless flight attendant they could operate the emergency exit. I quickly added pushing them out of my way into my montage. As soon as the engines started, the woman covered her nose and mouth with both hands, and began to sing opera. Opera. I turned and faced her, fixing her with my best angry/judgmental/crazy woman stare, but she didn't budge. In fact, she just got louder. I eventually gave up and continued my vigilant watch until we landed.

I'm sure there's some sort of book or pill that could help me with this problem, so anyone who has any tips or prescriptions I would greatly welcome the donation. I've got a lot of places to go.

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Foxy, Roxy...Simpson?




Man. At moments like this, it really sucks that I can't teleport to wherever I want to go. Okay, that always sucks. But... Ashlee Simpson in a professional theatrical production? If I were in London (which damn, I just was), I'd hightail it to the West End and gawk at Chicago ASAP. How did this possibly come about? I know that last year there were rumors about Britney making an appearance in Sweet Charity, but that girl can dance if nothing else. Ashlee, on the other hand, has no redeeming performance qualities. I approve of her new nose, and am impressed by the Olympic stylistic team that reworked her into the hotter Simpson, but no matter what they do to the outer package, she will never, ever be a Broadway star.

I don't think.

Monday, September 25, 2006

Just Call Me PicassNo




I'm sitting here watching Miami Ink, that reality show on TLC about tattoo artists and their clients, and I simply cannot imagine what it takes to be able to do that. Not getting the tattoo - I won't do it, but can picture why you would - but drawing it.

I can't draw. I mean - really. My friend Caroline told me the same thing at our sophomore year art class, before she promptly whipped out her pencil, drew this perfect representation of her hand, looked at me, and said: "See? I told you I can't draw." Shut up.

This has happened many times since. People claim they can't draw, and okay, maybe they're no Picasso, but they can draw a horse and make it look like a horse. Me? I draw a horse and it looks like a hot dog. Actually, everything I draw sort of looks like a hot dog, and sometimes a peanut. Maybe I'm just hungry? When I was little, I used to ask my mom what I should draw and - I swear to God - she'd always answer: "A sailboat." I was infuriated, because I couldn't draw a sailboat, and why couldn't she ever come up with something else? I quickly realized, though, that the problem did not lie in her lack of brainstorming capabilities, but with me, myself, and I. People try to give me little tips, thinking they'll be the ones to crack the code, but nope; there's nothing to be done.

I've accepted this means certain professions are closed to me. Namely, anything that requires me to stand before people and try to get across a message pictorially. Art teacher, teacher in general, Win, Lose, or Draw contestant. I used to get kind of depressed about this, but I'm slowly geting used to it. Especially since tonight my meditation teacher (yes, I know, how very LA of me) told me I'm a spiritual healer. Hmm. I think that trumps art teacher?

Friday, September 22, 2006

Chips and a Cocaine With That?




Have you heard of this?

I was watching some primetime show or other a couple nights ago, when the news began its promos to lure me in. Their big tag for the night was "Would you drink Cocaine?" Um - wha? As previously blogged, I have this huge fear of all things sniffed up my nose/cocaine-related, so I was immediately suspect of this "legal alternative" to the stuff.

I tracked down their website and seriously - what a hilarious/disturbing concept. It's an energy drink with something like 3 or 4 times the amount of caffeine found in a cup of coffee, holds a warning for pregnant chicks, and features a numbing (?!) substance that coats the back of your throat to simulate the drug's effects. Okay - really? True, I was fascinated by those Cool Caplets that Tylenol sold (sells?) that created an "instant cooling sensation" down my throat. But - it wasn't trying to simulate the effects of an illegal substance and it wasn't trying to numb me for God's sake.

I also love how there's a link on the website to "Charities", listing AA etc. as if this product is really helping the cause. Get out of rehab and pick up a Cocaine; maybe rehabs will even distribute them upon discharge! Why not? The sad imitation probably won't leave you wanting the real stuff or anything.

Oh, and that letter newly posted on the site by the founder is something to behold. I realize that I, too, added to the "overloading of the server", but isn't there something ridiculous about posting a letter to clamoring fans of an energy drink? All that being said, will someone please try this and let me know how it goes? I don't do the whole numbing thing, but it sounds like lots of other people will...? Thanks.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Hugs and Milkshakes




You know those defining moments with a new friend when you know it's either thumbs up or all down hill from here? I had one of those with my new roommate last night when I invited her to a movie premiere event the magazine hooked me up with. It was for a documentary about this crazy Indian woman (okay, and saint) named Ammah, who hugs everyone. The movie was made by these French dudes who barely spoke English, but found it appropriate to stand before us all and give a big speech about the film. My roommate and I sat in stony silence. The movie began, and at first it was sort of interesting. Disturbing, but interesting. But after an hour and a half of the same fugging hugging scene, all I could think about was finding a bathroom, a cheeseburger, and my bed, in that order. She and I kept sneaking looks at each other to see what the other thought, but no one was giving it up. What if the other one was all about India (like I used to be), all about the hugs?

It wasn't until the very end, when we were forced to sit through 20 minutes of French credits in complete darkness, when we gripped each other's arms in shared despair, that we knew we were on the same page. When we started giggling it was all over; we couldn't stop. People stared, people judged, but the dam had been broken.

We finally escaped the whole affair and ran down Hollywood Boulevard to her car and our freedom. We agreed this had been a crucial test and we had both passed. The deal was further sealed when we shouted "Milkshake!" in almost perfect unison as we spotted McDonald's. Ah, bliss.

Monday, September 18, 2006

(Broken Down) Streetcar




I am not Blanche DuBois, and I do not like to depend on the kindness of strangers.

Last night in a parking garage, upon returning from San Francisco, I found my battery dead. This was clearly my fault, since I'd left the lights on for three straight days, but I still felt very sorry for myself. I was alone, it was late, I was on the open, abandoned roof of a garage, and my car was broken. And I really had to pee. Just as the lip started to quiver, I saw a car drive past me, and down the ramp towards the exit. Without thinking, I sprinted after it. (Sidenote. Me running = not a pretty sight.) Like that creepy dude from the one ghost story my mom knew, the one with the hook who stalks couples making out, I frantically rapped on the side of their car. After they recovered, they turned the car around and helped me jump the battery. It was nice of them and I was grateful, but being friendly and thankful at 11:30 p.m. is not my idea of a good time.

Then came this morning. I packed my little lunch, picked out my cute little outfit, and bounced down the street to my car. Some days I actually look forward to work, and today was one of them. Until I turned the key and nothing happened. Had I left the lights on again?! Nope. It was just dead and dead. Who'd I get to jump it this time? I jogged down to a group of construction workers (cuz who doesn't want to stop and chat with them, really?) and pouted my lip in a way I hoped was pitiful/alluring. My luck had run out. No, they didn't have the cables, no they couldn't help me. Ugh. Even worse than putting myself out there is putting myself out there and getting rejected. It was time to surrender; I shuffled back to my car and called Triple A.

After a couple fun rides there and back, jam packed with awkward small talk, riding high in the tow truck, I'm at home and my car is in the shop. It'd been nagging me with a couple of other problems too, so it's getting a full makeover. I won't get into the office today, but I'll try to get as much done as I can from here. Just as soon as Ellen is over...

Thursday, September 14, 2006

I Didn't Know About This Why?




How come nobody told me about this stuff before? I've spent my whole grocery-shopping adult life purchasing separate jars of peanut butter and jelly, while I could have had the one-stop experience of Goobers? My God, I'm in love. I'm currently enjoying the strawberry jelly combo, but rapidly burrowing my way through; soon it will be time to try the grape. I love that I don't have to work to get even parts pb to even parts jelly - I just dip in, scoop, and let my tongue enjoy the flavor dance. It's rare to find such a convenient convenience food.

I'm mourning all the years we've missed together, but I'll surely make up for them somehow. The only thing I've got left to try in the peanut butter aisle is that Milky Way concoction with the happy black and white stripes giving me that come-hither stare. I'll keep you posted.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

A Big Dose of Birth Control




Sometimes after a stressful day at the internship, where I've been writing beauty blurbs like a mad woman, or tripping down the street to catch the last post, or reviewing DVDs about people who speak to elephants, I think to myself: I want a baby. I know this is a ridiculous thought, and not really appropriate for my stage in life, but at times it seems like such a peaceful, little idea. I could ditch some products because of that whole glowing thing that happens, eat 4 turkey hotdogs instead of 2 (okay, 3), and hold my belly in that "I've got a secret you can't know" way. Maybe I'd suddenly like scrapbooking and stencilling and I'd fill my hours with both. Maybe I'd get into that nesting thing and actually clean my bathtub, or at least the sink. I'd pick out crazy names and little shoes and the world of crazy animal chanters would be far behind me.

But then days like today happen and I realize those cozy times are a ways off. My bosses (husband and wife) have a new baby boy who's cute as heck, and I love when he's around; I coo and gurgle and kiss his feet, greedy for a baby fix. Today the 'rents had an important meeting and they needed a last minute babysitter. I jumped at the chance, happy to smush those fat little cheeks against mine. The first half hour was great, everyone all "Look at Amy, she's a natural!" I nodded knowingly and continued the rounds. Then he started fidgeting and crying and fussing and the only thing that made him stop was holding him like a football, at a very specific angle, while walking very quickly up and down the hallway. This got old fast. And even though I was helping out the Big Bosses, my Little Bosses wanted me working and kept shooting me isn't-that-cute-but-not-really faces. I tried to sit and write, jiggling him on my knee while I typed with my left hand, but he wasn't having it. By the time his parents returned, very grateful, I was shot. I know I'll love being a mom one day, but I'm definitely not there yet. I handed the little booger back, very happy to ease back into my comfy chair cross-legged, turn on my Nano, and feel responsible for only myself.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Britney's Baby (One More Time)


Everyone's favorite train wreck delivered a baby boy early this morning. No one's reporting on a name yet, and I'm not letting myself get excited about the possiblities. Although she's lost her mind in most other ways, in terms of naming, Brit has remained true to her "country" roots and stuck to the basics. But maybe, we can only hope, she envies those A-listers with their Apples and Hazels and Suris and Shilohs and Moses(es?) and will choose something that puts a little bounce in my step. Frappucino? Scrunchie? Cheeto? The world is her oyster.

Sunday, September 10, 2006

Glazed Over




As I think I mentioned before, I dyed my hair dark brown last week. My hair - I think? - is naturally a medium brown color, but no one really knows anymore. Either way, this is a nice change from all the overgrown, overdone highlights I had before. I stalked the drugstore aisles and considered just doing the color myself, but stopped when I had visions of my eighth-grade self and the semi-permanent stains I left all over my hands, forehead, and bathtub. Nevermind.

I ended up finding a supercute place in Venice Beach (which I'm now realizing is a hike from the new digs) where my stylist chatted away to me about the East Coast and kept me in a constant supply of Cokes (not Diet). Here was someone who finally listened to me, looked at my picture (Maggie Gyllenhaal - swoon), and did what I wanted. She told me to come back in two months, handed me another Coke, and sent me on my way. As happy as I was, though, my cheapskate mind got to thinking. Two months? One of the reasons I went to an overall color was to avoid the constant touch-ups highlights demand.

Enter my new product find to the rescue: Luminous Color Glaze by John Frieda. Created for natural or colored brunettes (they've got a red and blonde version, too) this stuff kicks up the color you already have, while slowly depositing more. It's like the Natural Glow of hair care. You apply it in the shower after shampooing, and although it's a tad smelly and a little messy, it's a breeze compared to all those gloves and scary tubes from a box and a lot cheaper than the salon. You're supposed to use it every wash to maintain the color and shine, (and softness - your hair is like butta afterwards), but I'm still experimenting with that. For now, I'm just happy to have found a product that will keep my color looking fresh, carrying me to that four month mark before I have to return to Venice.

Saturday, September 09, 2006

I Want to Live at Ikea




I do. People tell me I just haven't visited enough to hate it, but I don't think that could ever happen. All those fake apartment layouts get me thinking like the kids in From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler - I want to hide from the yellow and blue people and sleep over.

Today I went to Ikea by myself for the first time and could finally go through at my own speed; it got me thinking about a couple potential improvements.

1) Ikea should really consider hiring people to pretend they live there. I'd like a mom baking at the counter, a kid playing NES on the couch, and maybe a teenage girl lying on her bed and talking on a rotary phone. It'd be like everyone's favorite Disney ride, "The Carousel of Progress," except I could stay and stare without being electronically pushed along.

2.) Expanding on this idea, I'd like to see snacks provided along the arrow-guided route, Costco style. The cooking moms could put their cupcakes or pigs-in-a-blanket on the kitchen table and we could hop in and grab a few before journeying on. I do like wrapping up my trip with some Swedish meatballs at the cafe, but I could use some sustenance along the way.

Ideas aside, I have a kick-ass platform bed coming my way tomorrow. I can soon pretend my room is inside the store and I've cracked the code of how to stay after hours.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Thin is Good




The first time I saw our model today I gasped. Not because of how attractive she was - yes, she was pretty - but because when she turned to the side she disappeared. She was literally a two-dimensional being. I tugged on the stylist's arm and whispered, "She's so thin." Before he could open his mouth to comment, the photographer interrupted. "Thin is good." Really.

Our magazine isn't supposed to shoot skeletal, heroin-chic models - it doesn't support the healthy, real-person image we want to project. Admittedly, I get frustrated sometimes with the homespun, earthy feel we have, but on this one point I agree. At the casting last week, I pointed out the model's toothpick legs, but no one wanted to listen. Fast forward to today - everyone alternately praising her bony collarbone and then trying to hide it so our Editor-in-Chief doesn't freak when she sees the photos. Mixed messages don't make me happy.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Baby Suri! She Lives! (?)


Dare I believe the blogger buzz? Does Baby Suri really exist and did Katie Couric actually show the pics on the night of her big CBS debut? If what I hear is true, great planning on her part; no better way to boost your potentially iffy approval ratings than by pimping out the TomKitten.

I hate (hate) to admit this, but Suri looks like both Tom and Katie (Holmes not Couric - but wouldn't that be fun?) and she does, in fact, have both "pretty blue eyes" and "beautiful black hair" like all those creepy, robot people told us she did. Is this what all my obsessing boils down to? A normal baby that photographs well? I refuse to believe this is the end!

And on a sidenote, was Katie Couric really allowed to do that? Vanity Fair is releasing its October issue tomorrow, with the promised Suri pics inside, and I can't imagine they wanted their story scooped by KC; I feel like she broke some sort of journalism code of honor. Not that I won't be plunking down my 5 bucks anyways come the break of dawn...but still.

Monday, September 04, 2006

Lessons Learned in London



Fashion: Skinny jeans are not a new finding over there. Pairs in LA are spanking new, sharply creased. In the UK, similar pairs have worn, fringed bottoms and holes in the knee; old news. Same with flat boots. I spent every day of last year searching for the perfect flat boot (picture Orlando Bloom in Lord of the Rings) because I knew they were it. But could I find them anywhere? No. Sad, ugly imitations? Yes. But nothing worthy of Middle Earth. Now, photos of what I envisioned are popping up all over the interweb and Harper's Bazaar. And everyone in London is wearing scuffed-up pairs they clearly purchased about the time I was scouting last fall. I'm furious.

Candy: Everyone knows British sweets are superior to ours (just look at their teeth) but did you know about their Cadbury bar filled with Turkish Delight? I didn't think so. Narnia in a wrapper.

Tabloids: They are exclusively about Prince Williams's girlfriend Kate, dubbed "HRH: Her Royal Hotness."

Beverages: Not once, but twice, did I make the mistake of ordering a lemonade this weekend. Few things in life are as delicious as a tangy, pulpy glass of juice made from lemons. FYI: In Britian, "lemonade" means "fake-sugar-sweetened-Sprite-knock-off." Do kids sell this stuff at stands?

Lines (ahem, queus) at Airports
: Brits will stand in any line they are told to without comment or complaint. Heathrow is a nightmare right now. Even though I showed up on time, brought no squishy lip gloss, and packed but one bag, I barely made my flight home. The only thing that got me there was my obnoxious Yankee entitlement; if there was a beginning of a line to get to, I got there - and loudly. By the time my fellow Americans and I sprinted to our gate, it was last call and we just made it on. At take off, less than half the seats were filled even though the plane was fully booked. I'm fairly certain the people who missed it were all English and are still waiting in security, politely inquiring for a spot of tea.

Thursday, August 31, 2006

To the Homeland




As the ultimate nod to Britney, in combination with my growing anti-establishment sentiments towards LA and all its blondeness, I dyed my hair dark brown yesterday. My new bad self is about to hop on a plane to London and my country of birth. I'll check back in a few days. Cheerio.

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Not In My Magazine



I spent today researching hair products for the October issue's beauty spread. I started out jazzed, but ended up a little disheartened. Why? As I've mentioned before, beauty items we feature have to be natural or organic or spiritual. (Yes, you read correctly - we recently received a collection of colored face masks, one for each chakra. No comment.) Luckily, my favorite brands are into all that, so I didn't have trouble pulling up some great options. Unbeknownst to me, though, we've already promised a couple companies we'll feature their fugly products. Because everything in magazines has to look pretty together on the page, sometimes the cool kids don't win.

Look at this crazy stuff I found, made by Lush. Granted, it sounds a little like a condiment, but a vegan conditioner? Our readers would - no pun intended - eat that stuff up.

Or what about this? Talk about aesthetics! Philosophy puts out the industry's best packaging. They could bottle rain, write a witty poem with lower case letters about earth's nectar, and I'd pay thirty bucks. But - aside from the spongey sunscreen anomaly - their stuff is also high quality.

Neither of these products made the cut, though, because they don't fit in with the (bleh) look of the other choices. I'm pulling my hair out over here. Pun intended.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Sniff Sniff




I don't know how I got talked into this, but I tried Zicam today. If you haven't heard, it's a gel you pump up your nose (yum!) and it "actually shortens the cold!" We shall see.

Putting things up my nose is actually my worst nightmare. I'm not exactly sure where the fear is rooted, but it started at an early age. Recently, we found a list I made in kindergarten: "Thgs Tht R Bd: Mnstrs + Drgs" (I didn't really dig the verb yet). At D.A.R.E. in 5th grade, while everyone else laughed themselves to tears at the fake drug videos, I'd ask to eat my snack in the other room so I wouldn't throw up.

Peeps at the magazine can't say enough about this stuff and I actually have a friend from high school who shot a Zicam testimonial commercial, so I figured I could give it a whirl. Apparently, it's just zinc in a creepy goo that gets absorbed into the nasal membranes. Or something. Either way, there isn't any snorting involved - just a little squeeze - so that's how I got myself to do it. But don't think I'm not freaking out right now, because I am. The inside of my nose feels tingly and those old movies are flashing before my eyes (especially the one where the kid dies at the dinner table after snorting coke). I think I need to lie down. Sniff.

Monday, August 28, 2006

Bid Now!




Go here.

Um. What?

And people made fun of Kathy Griffin for auctioning a weekend at her house. Please. I would totally sleep on her couch in the Hills and we'd do each other's hair and probably get a pizza from Domino's and maybe the new Brownie Bites and then laugh about Clay Gaykin and then maybe cry about her divorce.

But Britney's egg salad sandwich? KFed's corndog? I admit that I spent 65 of my hard-earned dollars on her perfume and I admit that I defend her mothering skills with a rabid passion, and I admit that I, too, walk barefoot at gas stations...but this has crossed the (very thin) line of Spederline sanity I adhere by.

Saturday, August 26, 2006

Kick It Up a Notch: DiorShow



When she's short on time, a girl needs but two beauty products to freshen up and look cute fast: a brush of lip gloss and a swipe of mascara. (I realize some folks would beg to differ, but I'm stayin' true to my New England roots.) This means you better find a stellar version of each to have at the ready.

For the past year, I've been addicted to DiorShow Mascara in black. It started when I noticed how kickin' my friend's eyelashes looked one night. She whipped the tube out and the rest is history. Once again found at Sephora, this stuff is awesome.

First off, the brush is thicker and fuller than most; this really makes a difference with how even and thorough the application is. Another bonus is the reduced need to move the brush back and forth to wipe off excess; just pulling it out takes care of it.

We all dread crazy, cakey, crusty spider eyes. Nightmare. This mascara makes it almost impossible for your lashes to turn clumpy; it applies a smooth, clean coat each and every time, vanishing the need to do those awkward finger touchups to remove any chunks.

I'm not sure what magic potion does this, but just one application (I never need more) and my lashes look incredibly long and lush. And if I curl them first, my eyes are seriously ready for fashion week.

A note of warning: DiorShow is not waterproof. Do not attend weddings and/or watch My Girl while wearing, unless you dig the whole dark clown look. I'm still on the lookout for a good waterproof mascara, so I'll keep you posted on that. But if you're looking to kick it up a notch while keeping it simple, this is the stuff for you.

Friday, August 25, 2006

The Supernatural



The combination of moving to LA and an impending 25th birthday in 6 short months - gulp - has created a new type of worry: scary football skin. I refuse to bake my face and then Botox it later, the popular choice out here, because I’m afraid of foreheads that can’t move. Since I communicate 87% by facial expressions, I’ve got to preserve what I have.

Here, the sun doesn’t go away even when you want it to. I will certainly miss those monsoon days in Boston when I could watch Made marathons and eat Nutella on toast guilt-free, but it's time for a new routine. I read a beauty column a few weeks ago that told me if I’m old enough to even think about wrinkles, then I should have started using anti-aging products yesterday. Oy.

And so, I began a search for the perfect sunscreen. I figure applying it will have to be like brushing my teeth or breathing, so I better enjoy the stuff.

My first attempt - found at Sephora, aka heaven - is made by Philosophy (a delicious company), comes in a satisfying little package called “The Supernatural”, and provides an SPF of 15. I’ve never experienced anything like it. A little squeeze produces a light peach puff, the color of that grainy toothpaste your dentist uses. It’s very soft and dry, and strangely springy, like liquid rubber; it's pretty much a Halloween mask in a tube. This effect, apparently, is due to a “high density silicone formula” that adds extra protection and covers up pores and fine lines. I always enjoy a two-for-one, and this little number can definitely be used as both foundation (the tint is flattering and subtle) and sunscreen.

An interesting product, but I’m not a convert just yet; the texture is a tad creepy and matte coverage (even though it’s very light) is not my first choice. I’ll finish the tube, but won't be sad to continue the hunt.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Yum No?




First of all, what is that picture? Why was it taken? To haunt me?

Whoever is in charge of handling Rachael Ray needs to be fired. Have they never heard of overexposure? Did they not see the trainwreck that was Ben Affleck's career? I don't know why, but I find myself discussing her more than a person probably should. For example, here's a conversation I had with my friend Matt today, when we should have been working:

Matt: "I hate Rachael Ray, but can't stop watching."

Me: "Oh, you can't stop once you start. Don't even try."

Matt: "She's just soooo...common."

Me: "Quite true."

Look at all the valuable time she's taking up in my life! But I still sort of love her? Her enthusiasm defies gravity and I can never quite figure out why she's wearing high-waisted black denim. It's like a little puzzle I try to solve each time I watch. I'm not sure if her giggle is infectious or noxious, but I most definitely lurve it when she says: "yum-OH!" It...can't be described. And you know what? She taught me how to make a mean porkchop, and my boyfriend thanks her for that.

Denied



US Weekly is reporting that at Sunday night's Teen Choices Awards, Jessica Simpson asked Britney Spears if she could kiss her pregnant belly. Britney's response? "Hell, no!" That's my girl.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Chocolate Sun: Part Deuce



I said I'd keep you posted on the fake tan so...here's what went down.

A super friendly gal greeted me at the little studio - "Amy!" (such enthusiasm when you're a potential promoter) - and after I signed a waiver (always reassuring) I was ushered to the back room.

The sprayer told me to keep my underwear on so I could see the results afterwards. So I had to get a tan line? Interesting. But I did have to strip off my bra, which was a little awk. Taking off my glasses helped somewhat. If I couldn't see myself, she couldn't either, right? Right.

Next, she turned on this crazy machine that looked/sounded like an industrial vacuum. She held the tiny bottle attached, filled with a brown - all organic! - solution and I began the strange little dance they teach. I put my hands over my head, or hung them like a scarecrow, or out like a zombie, and she methodically sprayed me. It was cold and sticky and smelled nothing like chocolate, but it moved pretty quickly. After she went twice over my bod (and face - ew) she "detailed" me, rubbing off the smudges and cleaning out my ears (double ew) with some wet papertowels and Qtips. Um.

Left alone for a final drying session, I couldn't help but sneak a glimpse at the new me. Yow. My eyes popped and my teeth were CHING! A tad much, but I wasn't worried; the color I saw was bronzer - the chemicals (or non-chemicals) that would dye my skin are clear and take about 10 hours to develop.

I wasn't sure how people would react, but apparently it looks realistic, because no one screamed and/or ran away and I actually got a couple compliments. Sitting in my office chair with the gummy bronzer sticking up my legs sucked, though, and I pretty much daydreamed about taking a shower all day. When the requisite 10 hours had passed, I gladly hopped in and scrubbed down. The whole thing was very Janet Leigh in Psycho, but I was just happy to get it off. I got out with my tan looking subtler, but still very much intact. Magic!

All in all, I'm pretty happy. I don't look like an Oompa Loompa, I got to try something new (and free) and I can't stop looking at my legs. If I ever get my hands on some disposable income, I just may swing by again.

Cruiseazy Dumped



After 14 years, Paramount Pictures has ended its relationship with Tom Cruise due, in part, to his "erratic behavior." Ha. Talk about a euphemism. That's like calling Scientology a "religion" or Suri a "baby".

Perhaps I've been a bit obsessed for the past year...and a half...with the goings-on of TomKat, but I honestly feel that all those hours of scouring anti-Scientology websites and creative plotting to free Katie have finally paid off. It's step one in the take down of Mr. Mapother.

Before Aaron Could Enjoy It...


Finally, friends. Brenda, Brandon, Dylan, Kelly, David, Donna, Steve and Andrea (how old was she?) all in one place, all back in my little TV screen where they belong. Sure, The Soap Network runs episodes, but I can't handle Passions commercials or Lisa Rinna promos; I don't want anything getting in the way of Luke Perry and me running down a beach in wet suits, hand in hand, away from Shannen Doherty.

You can bet today will be spent pre-ordering the first season of Beverly Hills, 90210 (it's not released till November 7 - argh) then kicking back, grabbing a lemonade at The Peach Pit, and dreaming of Dylan.

Monday, August 21, 2006

To Be or Not To Be: The Formal Short


While I was still living on the East Coast, the debate in my head over whether or not to purchase formal shorts was not a heated one. I'd think it over every couple days, changing my mind frequently depending on presented evidence. Jennifer Aniston on Letterman was definitely a point in favor of them, but then the girls at Go Fug Yourself would come up with some stellar example of poor usage (often involving Hilary Duff) and I'd be done again.

But now that I'm living in LA, I don't really feel like it's an option anymore; I feel like owning formal shorts is akin to owning underwear, and I'm a freak if I don't. But what if I run into the GFY girls while I'm out? I can't very well tell them I'm in lurve if I'm rocking a look they hate. That's like the mulleted, pleated-panter telling Stacy and Clinton, with a straight face, that he's their "biggest fan!" It just doesn't work. And what if when I finally buy them, the trend is suddenly over, and I'm left holding a pair of satin hot pants in sad confusion?

Please advise.

Sunday, August 20, 2006

Crack For My Soul



Most of my memories from fifth and sixth grade involve me sitting on the brown velveteen couch in the back room of my house, eating Nutter Butters, and playing Super Mario Brothers 3 with my little brother. My mom never really supported the video game thing - we were the family who had "no tv!" days and a ban on sugar cereals - but was pleased with how well the NES babysat us. Instead of fighting, my brother and I would join forces against the evils of Bowser, and kick some serious elementary school ass. Warm memories indeed.

In college, I tried to recapture old times by purchasing a used system on eBay, but it just wasn't the same. It would turn wonky after an hour or a roommate would tell me a way to beat the whole thing in five minutes ("without having to play any levels!") and I'd get sort of depressed. But then.

I saved up all the fake monies from my credit card rewards and bought myself a Nintendo DS Lite. It's like a Gameboy except more awesome. Two screens - one of which is touch activated - and the picture is kickin; super bright with really vibrant colors and crazy graphics. It's like your old NES on crack.

The best part so far? Super Mario Brothers. Ka-chow! I plug myself in and instantly teleport back to 1993 - platform jumping, the block busting I know and love, and that old school music that still haunts my dreams. But this game has some new tricks up its sleeve for sure. Example? The Mini Mushroom that turns Mario into a super tiny jumping dynamo, allowing him to sneak into hidden places and bounce off enemies. Loves it. Now - if only I could round up some Nutter Butters...

Saturday, August 19, 2006

Z List Celebrities Make My World Go 'Round


Last night, whilst waiting for our table at a hipster sushi joint in West Hollywood, who should walk past us, but Jason from Laguna Beach and The Hills "fame." And with him, a cloud of smoke and filth that would have made Pigpen proud.

I told the only other girl at dinner about my sighting - the dudes were clueless - and she laughed. "He was here the last time we came! Chain-smoking on the patio because he's too young to get a drink." Loves it.

I might also add he was with a busted chick, and looking pretty bummed about the whole situation. But are we surprised? It's all down hill (ha) after LC.

Friday, August 18, 2006

I'm a Pimp


Please read this, written by one of my favorite people and fellow pop-culture-nonsense-lover, Sharon Steel. I heart her. And she hearts Paris.

Chocolate Sun


Out of some unwarranted need to appear fearless, I volunteered myself to go under the spray of a fake tan company who wants our endorsement. They're called Chocolate Sun or something ludicrous like that, and apparently are completely organic. The chick who set up my appointment wrote me: "It's great. You will look wonderful. Really." What? But let's be honest here. As suspect as this all sounds, I'm really unable to say no to anything that's paid for not-by-me and comes along with the promise of a free lotion. If all goes well, I'll even get to write about my experience in the magazine. Unfortunately, because we don't ever put out negative reviews, if I turn into an Oompa Loompa I'll simply have to suffer in silence.

And so. Early next week I will arrive at a pre-determined location, strip down, and be assaulted with - all natural! - fumes. I'll keep you posted.

Thursday, August 17, 2006

She Keeps the Tabloids Alive


The first half of my cross-country, hour-long phone call with my brother was spent discussing Lindsay Lohan's rack. He didn't know about the tank top pictures from yesterday and I didn't know about the "incredible shrinking" pictures from a ways back. I made the point that those are actually making a case against her having fake ones, because the real problem is when you lose weight and they don't shrink. Clearly amateurs in this line of detective work. We swapped links and snarky remarks, until I came upon the pictures above. Is my job holding me back from finding these things earlier?

Forget Sean Preston being taken away by Social Services - why isn't Linsday in a foster home? Chatting with Mom whilst naked. Coke chillin' on the table. A really heinous bandana. I feel sad in my heart when I think about her delightful British accent in The Parent Trap or even her innocent(ish) "Jingle Bells" dance in Mean Girls. But. I admit that mostly I'm just looking forward to what she could possibly do next.

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

Old Navy for Me



My old job had me constructing emails with phrases like "yearly revenue" and "breakthrough transsexual memoir". I got away from the bad place, though, and now words like "supersoft cotton", intricate beading", and "green gauze with an underlayer of netting" make up my work correspondences. Blissful sigh.

I spent today researching pieces from the EDUN (nude spelled backwards!) clothing line. Created by Bono (is there anything he won't do?) and his wife, the company is all about socially conscious business practices and sustaining employment in third world countries. Impressive, but don't think it makes me forget that each piece costs a bajillion dollars. They're all insanely gorgeous, beautifully made, and make me look like an organic goddess, but I went broke just trying them all on. So. I'll be over here, sitting with my fingers crossed, hoping for any and all charitable donations from the magazine to me.

Two Princes

This photo really caught my eye.



It reminds me of what my Scottish friend Louise used to tell us in college, much to the disbelief of all listening: In the UK, Prince Harry is the McHottie of the family, and Prince William is seen as a wimp/dork/fruit. We just couldn't believe it. But now.

Look at the skill of that grab! Not Harry's first rodeo by any means. And even though she probably can't feel anything (liquor, silicone) and even though she sort of looks like she's protesting, I really just think she's asking the camera to bugger off so they can get down in private. And then. There's William in the background, not even aware of the boobs in the room, holding a martini like a chick, and making the fruitiest face I've ever seen. Comedy gold.

P.S. There's been an update. But the important facts remain the same. Carry on.

Monday, August 14, 2006

Fantasy. Or Nightmare.


My new internship requires a deep love and appreciation for beauty products. Um, check. But they sort of have to be natural, organic beauty products. Of course, these earn my love as well. But. I have to admit I'm really no taskmaster when it comes to what I will and will not obsess over and buy. For instance. My most favorite perfume is Fantasy, "created" (I'm dubious about her contributions to this masterpiece) by none other than the world's bestest mom, Britney Spears. I seriously adore this stuff. It smells - all at the same time - like cupcakes and watermelon and flowers and white chocolate and cotton candy and all things good in the world. I want to eat my wrist off it smells so good. Another bonus is that it lasts on your skin and clothes all day, but not in a trampy, overpowering way. And it never gives me a headache - a common complaint I have with most perfumes. My only worry is wearing this stuff around the office. I will for sure get a compliment on it and what do I say then? Do I dare utter the name of the woman that makes environmentalists and do-gooders everywhere shudder? Nah. I lurve you Brit, but not that much.

Saturday, August 12, 2006

Vitamin Water Don't Like No Fatties



As I quickly down my (second) Vitamin Water of the day, I try to envision what flavor our good friend, and American Idol Season One winner, Kelly Clarkson will promote. To start with, I'm not really sure how she got the endorsement. The only other celebrity who has sung my favorite beverage's praises was 50 Cent. His flavor was (I'm fairly certain it's not around anymore) called Formula 50 and pretty delicious. It was very grapey and gave you 50% of all sorts of things you didn't even know you needed. Admittedly, 50 Cent wasn't the first person that came to mind either when I thought about Vitamin Water, but apparently he really dug the stuff and asked for his own flavor. I don't think the peeps over at corporate VW wanted to worry about the repercussions of saying "no" to Fi'ty and thus, his Formula was born.

Kelly Clarkson though? What sort of power does she hold? She sings a mean Aretha, "Since You've Been Gone" was a pretty kickin' tune, and I enjoy her real girl image - but I'm just not convinced she has the power to sell product. Now, the sad thing about all this is the rumor that VW execs want her to drop some poundage before she is granted a flavor. I'm kind of torn on this. As I said, I appreciate the fact that she doesn't look like this, but I do agree that it probably wouldn't hurt her to take a yoga class or three. Either way, I'm highly anticipating the addition of Kelly Green Tea, or whatever it will be called, to my VW rotation.

Baby Suri?



Remember that incident surrounding Three Men and a Baby where everyone thought they could see the ghost of a boy who had died in the house the movie was filmed? And people would rewind and pause, rewind and pause, trying desperately to make it true? And then it turned out that the "ghost" was really just some foolish cardboard cutout of Ted Danson in a top hat? Okay. Well, I fear that there may be a similar thing going on here.



Above is one of the photos recently released, showing Katie peeking out the window, and a baby-like thing lying down on the bed. See the diaper? Ri-ight. People are all excited about this new development, but I'm pretty sure - quite positive actually - that "Katie" and "Suri" are simply made of cardboard, much like Mr. Danson in the aforementioned film, much like Michael Jordan in Home Alone. Don't get yourself all worked up over nothing, my celebrity obsessed friends. TomKat ain't gonna give it up that easy.