Mute Monday: C Stands For . . .

Que onda guera?

We're All Stars Now in the Dope Show

It's a ding dang good thing I'll be spending the next three days working 24 hours around the clock, fueled by caffeine, imaginary nicotine, and just enough low grade panic to melt a couple extra pounds off my happy ass or I would have something pretty darn deep and tragic to say about the Demochromatic National Convention. But if I play my cards right, I can la, la, la, la, la myself right on through without having to listen to all that blah, blah, blah. Well, except I will peek to see what Michelle La Belle is wearing.

I do so hope her handlers put her in something Oscar de la Renta-ey.

And I think she could totally pull off this Marni get up, too.

Aw, heck, while I'm hallucinating, let's go all out and imagine her in some Alexander McQueen.

See now, Hillary? That's a pantsuit.

The only thing preventing me from indulging in my own form of retail therapy is that I'm not allowed to leave the house until 9:00 a.m. Friday morning. But when I do, I think I'll have to make these mine, all mine. I know. I swore I'd never, never, never, never, never do the bootie thing. But, look, I figure if I smack myself silly beforehand and blame it all on my stress induced twilight zone, I'll be okay.

When the Going Gets Tough . . .

. . . Some folks do drugs or drink. Over eat. Have inappropriate sex with strangers in Eastern European train stations.

Moi? I help out the economy.

Two recent purchases.

Numero Uno:

Normally, I am not a sweater. In fact, so little do I sweat regardless of exertion level or outside temperature, I'm sure I would be considered a genetic freak by any number of scientists who study these things. But it's been one hell of a rainy summer, with moisture hanging thick as snot in the air, and so I now schwitz copiously whenever I venture outside. Run a few miles or hit a bucket of balls, the result is the same. Yew. So I figure, this will keep the sweat out of my eyes for my race this weekend. And, I think it looks kinda über cool.

Two:

Remember how everyone in the universe thinks one of our fifty is missing? Well, the advantage to THAT is that I got away Scot Free in the Duty Free, scoring both some deeply discounted Clinique SPF 15 gloss and one of my fave perfumes of all time. I love, love, love, this cherry pie meets Bulgarian rose meets vanilla and musk perfume. It's deeeeeeeelightful, but, alas, MIA in this part o' the country.

"Gracias, Señorita" is what the sales girl said after handing me my shiny new purchases. Oh, no. Thank you. And your obvious lack of geographical savvy.

Shoes For Thought

Remember these?

Some of you loved them. Some of you hated them. Most of you doubted I would ever wear them. Well, I'm happy to report that, in the sixty five thousand seconds since I first Dillard's carded and couponed their happy asses into my closet, I've worn them exactly SEVEN times. Yes, indeedy. That comes out to, let's see, uh, divide by seven, carry the five, and then, uh, $3.50 per wearing!

And I'm about to do it again. Because tomorrow is a holiday and we all know what holidays mean to me. Yes, yes, a sanctioned opportunity to stuff myself silly and not go for a run, but also: BLING. Holidays are when the shiny shit comes out of the closet, Party People. And what could be blingier than our Glorious Nation's Birthday?

Most importantly, however, another wearing means that my total price-to-wearings ratio is now at . . . uh . . . um. . . Never mind. I think one mathematical calculation is enough for one day. Let's just say, the more I wear these, the lower that ratio number will go until, ta da! Sometime next year I'll be wearing these babies for next to nothing.

So what will you be wearing to celebrate the Fourth?

And please, do not tell me one of these:

Party hearty. Party safe. But do NOT party fugly.

No Boys Allowed

(Unless you're into this kind of thing.)

SHOES TO END THE WEEK:
(Or, who says there's no good porn for women?)

Oscar, you can do no wrong. A flirty skirt shoe for sure. And in the fall, with tights and slacks. See, how practical I am? Always thinking ahead to future outfits. And, as always with high heels, you get in a jam, you just take them off, flip them over, and they become quite an effective weapon.

* * *

Ah, these. I love them simply because they exist. And because they come from the Church of Christian Louboutin, never mind what was most likely in the Kool-Aide that day at the design table. Plus, I bet SHE could really get her Icelandic Warrior on wearing these. If she keeps off the ice.

* * *

Hello, Central?

Is there any better way in which to channel your inner Rosalind Russell
than with a retro suede t-strap?

I don't think so.

* * *

Finally, the most gorgeous blue suede shoes in the universe.
I want to marry them and make beautiful blue suede shoe babies.

Meme Memoir

The fabulous Meghan tagged me for The Six-Words Meme, which was originally started by Smith Magazine. The history is thus:

Legend has it that Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. His response? “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Last year, SMITH Magazine re-ignited the recountre by asking our readers for their own six-word memoirs. They sent in short life stories in droves, from the bittersweet (“Cursed with cancer, blessed with friends”) and poignant (“I still make coffee for two”) to the inspirational (“Business school? Bah! Pop music? Hurrah”) and hilarious (“I like big butts, can’t lie”).

Moi's six-word memoir:

Yay, the artisan's impulse! Stuff good.

I’m going to tag:
Wicked, Doris Rose, Anonymous Boxer, Troll, Aunty, Thursday Next, and Pirate (and SHE!).

Here are the rules:
1) Write your own six word memoir.
2) Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like.
3) Link to the person that tagged you in your post, and to the original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere.
4) Tag at least five more blogs with links.
5) Don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play.
6) Have fun.

And I just had to add:

Good gah, are these shoes not muy fabuloso or whatso? Le sigh.

Rehabbed and Ready for 15 Minutes of Shame

In an effort to curb what I am beginning to regard within myself as a dangerous tendency towards rampant materialism, I have decided to use this, the first day of April, to define for myself a new identity. One that has less to do with gobbling up shiny objects and more to do with letting go of those objects via eBay and communing instead only with those things that have real meaning and purpose.

Which, of course, means a redefined approach to my wardrobe as well. After all, one needs a certain kind of outfit to go with one's new found minimalist philosophy of down-to-earthedness. So, no more lusting after the new Burberry Prorsum Ankle Wrap Sandals and Oscar de la Renta party dresses. Instead, something less blingy and more, uh, crunchy is in order here:





to go with:

When They Kick Out Your Front Door, How You Gonna Come?

In a recent post, The Troll said:

The United State's Supreme Court is poised to make their most important ruling on Second Amendment issues in several decades. The basic issue is whether the Second Amendment will be considered an individual right or a collective right granted to the States to maintain militias.

Huh. Well. I for one find it incredibly difficult to believe that the framers of our government would have placed the right to bear arms second only to the right to religion, free speech, a free press, peaceable assembly, and petition of the government for a redress of grievances if they didn't in fact believe it an individual right.

But some of us don't think so. Some of us think guns are dangerous. Some of us think only those who know "best" should control them. Because if they don't, then our society will quickly devolve into a bunch of mullet-headed morons gleefully toting guns into every shopping mall, school yard, and barroom.

Well, let me assure you: Those of us who believe the Second Amendment is indeed about the right to bear arms as an individual also believe it is NOT a sanction of vigilantism.

No, really. I, and millions of gun owners just like myself, are perfectly happy to concede to our local, state, and federal government their right to establish a police force, system of courts, and military to ensure our safety from the criminal actions of both our fellow citizens and from attack and invasion from foreign entities. It is one of the very few justifiable reasons, IMHO, for the existence of government, and I will gladly pay my taxes to support this system.

The Second Amendment is not about that kind of defense.

What the Second Amendment is about, is the right of each of us as individual citizens to protect ourselves against abuse by the government itself. That militia it talks about? That's you and Moi. Each and every one of us is a member of this militia because we the people are ultimately the only ones who can guarantee our freedoms. Therefore I believe it is the duty of each and every adult in this country to own a firearm as a symbolic warning to governments with tyranny on their minds: YOU cannot forcefully and without justification take away my right to my life, my liberty, and my pursuit of happiness.

Mute Monday: Diversity

Mute Monday: Collection

Finally, the car that Ivan ate. Sigh.

Happy Heart

Look at the fabulous CD cover the fabulously talented She made Moi for Christmas! I'm posting it up here because it just tickles Moi pink, it's so brilliant.

It will also serve as the place marker for my last post for a few days. But if all goes well, if Southwest Airlines arrives in New Orleans in a relatively timely manner, if Baby Jesus blesses us with an up and running Daiquiri Shack, and if we can likewise grab 'n' go us a couple oyster po' boys, in exactly 50 hours, ten minutes, and some odd seconds, I should be feeling groovy enough to send you my next post from the wilds of the South Louisiana suburbs. Louisiana, Party People. It does a Moi's heart (and stomach) good.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Blessed Solstice to you all!

* * *

P.S.: The Pirate just tagged Moi. And I feel a strange compulsion to obey. Perhaps it's because she gets up at 5:00 every morning to swim and I don't (in fact, I'm coming up with some pretty darn good excuses why I don't even want to go running on this gloriously sunshiny, snow-dappled day.)

So, to procrastinate further:

Five Interesting Things Involving the Number Five. About Moi:

1. Five is the number of the age I wish I could revert back to for one day each week. Because at five, you're not required to have a job – heck, you're not even required to be in school – and you're certainly not required to juggle any kind of grown up stuff like politics and hassles with plumbers. And Christmas is so lovely when you're five. It's just you and the presents. Nothing more, nothing less. Unless your parents forget to buy batteries for your new Malibu Barbie Sports Car. That kinda sucks, at five.

2. Five is the number of husbands Moi is afraid she's going to have to limit herself to, with S.B. being primary, of course. Because the list is simply getting too ungainly. As much as I'd like to include up and comers like Daniel Craig and Pablo Nutini, I'm afeared it's going to have to work thusly, for the sanity of all involved:

1. S.B.
2. Johnny Depp
3. Ewan McGregor
4. Jack White
5. Bruce Willis

3. Five is the number of shoes - excluding athletic footwear – I would like to limit myself to in the New Year, in an effort to take a more Zen approach to material goods: One pair of heeled brown boots. One pair of heeled black boots. One pair of low heeled, English riding-style boots. One pair of black patent leather peep toe pumps. One pair of brown leather flat sandals. One pair of espadrille-style sling back . . . Oh, hell, who am I kidding. Never mind.

4. On the other hand, five is the exact number of winter running pants folded neatly in Moi's closet. Not because I hate to do laundry (there's your Zen right there, Party People), but because do you KNOW how many winter running pants styles there are out there and if I just keep trying, ONE of them will make Moi's ass look just right.

5. Five is the number of movies I currently am chomping at the bit to go see in the theaters:

1. Sweeney Todd
2. The Golden Compass
3. Charlie Wilson's War (although it looks to Moi like Julia Roberts has been horribly miscast)
4. I Am Legend (Will Smith was hard in the running for husband #5, believe Moi)
5. Into the Wild (even though I simply cannot tolerate Sean Penn, but the soundtrack sounds marvelous and "Hard Sun" has been running on the iPod for ages)

(But not: Atonement. Christ on a Cracker am I the only person who hated that book?)

Oh, and I tag Meghan, because most likely all she has to do is take five fabulous photos.

'Tis Better to Give than to . . . Get Knocked Up?

(Goodness. What a morning. There I was, putting the finishing touches on Moi’s Christmas post, when the Today Show bombarded the airwaves with yet another shock and awe pronouncement: Britney Spear’s sixteen-year-old-sister, Jamie Lynn, has managed to get herself knocked up. Sweet Jeebus in Heaven, these girls are old enough to drop the equivalent of Peru’s GNP on Bottega Veneta bags and oversized Dolce and Gabbana eye wear, but they don’t know from birth control?

It’s taking a great amount of will for Moi to refrain from completely revamping this morning’s post. But because we’re in the middle of Advent here, Party People, a holy, holy time, I will place my commentary on said incident reluctantly on the back burner and save it for a later date [sloppy ass 'ho.])

* * *

The closer I get to the holidays, the more I start thinking about stress. The stress of extra work. Or not enough work because everyone has decided to adopt a cavalier attitude about deadlines (what, suddenly, we’re all European?). The stress of trying, when you have a fractured and far-flung family, to fit in days with the in-laws and days with the parents and days with the niece and days with friends.

Then there’s the stress that builds around gift giving. I know people who find this custom so meaningless, so mired in useless commercial excess, they don’t even stick around for the holidays but instead steal themselves away to some tropical beach or small overseas town where Christmas is more about praising Baby Jesus and stuffing one's face, and not so much about desperate, last minute purchases.

But you can’t escape Christmas. It’s like death and taxes, only sparklier and with more booze.

So I try hard, real hard, to turn the frown upside down and to view the holiday as a time of giving and gratefulness. As a time to honor one’s family, even crazy uncle Charlie with the grubby fingers and the weird politics. To call a long lost friend, even though the last time you spoke, they made fun of your shoes. To spend an afternoon – stone cold sober, mind you – letting a child run wild through Toys ‘R’ Us even if it ultimately means they choose one of those abhorrent Hannah Montana dolls over your suggested gift of an ant farm. And I try to spend even more time in the great outdoors, not just because exercise melts stress, but also to wonder all over again at the magic of creation that constructed itself just fine without concrete and glass. And to marvel at the concrete and glass, too, because they're also beautiful and also part of our world.

I also refuse to pass judgment on any gift I receive. Whether given out of obligation or irony or love, I will honor the fact that someone took the time to think of me, dip into their pocketbooks, and come up with something they think I’ll enjoy. Even if it’s a plastic Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer who poops root beer flavored jellybeans. Even if, for some bizarre reason, something about Moi says Birkenstock rather than Blahnik.

And you know what else I won’t do? I won’t re-gift. Now that's a crass practice, right there. It’s one thing to say, “Hey, I got this laser-powered-toe-nail-clipper-blender-drink-maker-nylon-life-preserver-
sweater last year and you know, I just can’t use it. Would you like it?” And of course, it’s perfectly okay to just give the thing away to a local thrift shop in the hopes that it will become some else’s love at first sight. At a mere $1.99.

But it’s another thing entirely to package the thing up, re-wrap in brightly colored paper, stick a big fat red bow on it and pass it off to someone as something you picked out all by your lonesome. Talk about sin, Party People.

Don’t do it.

Life's a Bitch . . .

. . . now so am I.

I'm sorry. I cannot contain myself any longer. In 1.5 weeks, S.B. and I will be attending our first Halloween party in a coon's age. And, we're actually dressing up. Not dressing up as in nice shoes and shirt dressing up, but dressing up as in for true, purchased-over-the-Internet, Halloween costume dressing up. Because that's what the invitation says we should do. And I, for once, am just going to go with it.

So can you guess who I'm going as?

I did think about:


(The only comic book hero to ever garner a Ms. Magazine cover, complete with essay by Gloria Steinem. So, you know. She's steeped in feminist cred.)

I also considered:


'Cause she's dark and conflicted and also has the requisite on-again, off-again love affair with a super duper hero dude (yes, I am a comic book nerd – deal with it).

But then I realized that both costumes are likely to be a wee bit too chilly for a late October evening.

So I decided on Cat Woman. The Michelle Pfeiffer version, though, not the Halle Berry one. Because:

A. I do not have the ta-tas to fill out Halle's costume.

and

B. Halle's Cat Woman sucks ass. Pfeiffer's is, was, and always will be, the über coolest of them all.

Danger, Will Robinson!

Okay, so last night, sated on the five bazillion crap celebrity magazines kindly sent my way by Doris Rose, hung over from hours and hours and hours of Fashion Television's coverage of New York Fashion Week (and, no, I still will NOT be wearing bubble skirts for spring!), and totally over the fact that the season premier of Prison Break seems to be more same ol', same ol' only somewhere in South 'merica, I finally decided to grow the heck up for one night and watch some "serious" television.

Which turned out to be a huge mistake. When I set out to watch some serious television, Party People, I am seeking edification. The kind of information I can drolly trot out at parties with the sole purpose of stunning friends and relatives with the realization that yes, I simply have waaaaay too much time on my hands. What I do not seek, however, is to have the sweet beejeebus scared out of Moi.

So, like, I've been keeping up with my reading in quantum physics and all, but holy heck, still somehow managed to miss this little nugget of info:

Apparently, scientists have known for years that black holes, far from being rare anomalies in the space/time continuum, are, in fact, as common as Crocs on the feet of the masses at Wal-Mart. And that black holes exist, get this, at the center of every galaxy in the known universe, including our very own home turf, the Milky Way.

And, Party People, these black holes are hungry.

Granted, some are hungry like this:


But others are hungry like THIS:


In other words, ALL black holes have appetites and are munching down on their galaxies.

Question isn't if we'll be consumed. Question is WHEN:


So what am I doing in the meantime?

La, la, la, la, la, la, la.

This is Not My Idea of a Good Time

What in the feckin' hell was Vogue editor, Anna Wintour, thinking? The only way I'm going to get this puppy on a plane is to book a separate seat for it.

Coming in at a whopping 1-3/4 inches and a bazillion and one pages – the vast majority of which feature ads for clothing that 99.975 percent of the global population cannot afford – the September issue of the world's most popular fashion magazine is a daunting and downright grim tome, indeed.

Now, no one loves fashion more than I do. But that's because it's supposed to be fun (unless you show up to a funeral in flip flops, in which case you should be beat silly about the head with an Hermes scarf) . Yet to take it THIS seriously that you have to create what amounts to a virtual King James Bible out of a few ads for some Tod's sweaters and an article on making friends with brooches (I shit you not, but that's Plum Sykes for ya – that airhead I want to beat about her entire body with a sledgehammer).

I won't bother to comment further because the witty folks over at www.glossedover.com have performed a brilliant, nearly page-by-page deconstruction of the entire mess. I will only reiterate just a couple observations:

1. The Groucho Marx Eyebrow trend for fall sucks the big one;

and

2. Enough already with Sienna Miller. I'm sure she is a very nice person, but fashion icon? Puleeze.


No one should be caught dead out in public in this outfit. I mean that. If your HOUSE were burning down and this was what you were wearing and you couldn't put on a robe or coat to hide it, you should just give up on life and burn, baby burn.