That's an absolute lie. Rich girls want your money too, we just don't need it as much.
via
Monday, February 14, 2011
French fashion blogger-slash-freelance illustrator (now there's a mouthful for a profession that almost certainly yields no paycheck) Garance Dore took this photo of a baby... at Fashion Week. And posted it on her street style blog.
This poor (beautiful) child.
If the "help me escape" look in this poor bebe's eyes and the handwoven artisinal wizard hat weren't enough to scare the bejeezus out of you- look closer: her nails are motherfucking painted.
Kids in New York.
Hold up, here's another one:
I'd be impressed if every striving young "Gallerina" from Connecticut wasn't carrying that purse at Brinkley's Saturday night.
All I'm saying is, tell your stylist to up her game.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Wow.
Growing up with 3 sisters, Mayonnaise was a dirty word. It was unconscionable that the substance should end up on our refrigerator shelf and, by proxy, our asses. Mayo was, quite simply, a substance ugly people put on their sandwiches, paired with mystery ham and Kraft cheese.
That is, until I recently found myself on business in New Jersey. On business, and hungry in New Jersey. On Business, hungry, and with very limited options in a place that made even the shadiest New York deli look like Bouley. The options were limited, and apprehensive though I was, I opted for the Turkey wrap. Bracing myself for the worst, I took one bite: and it was heavenly.
It was the Mayo. That creamy substance that I've since learned could transform rat food into finger licking scrumptiousness. That gelatinous substance that quivers to life between two slabs of carbohydrates: my one true love, Mayo. I'd been waiting all this time for that special someone, and it dawned on me that that someone was something, and that thing was mayonnaise. Mayo was so goddamned good I want to marry it in a special ceremony and have Carrie Prejean speak out against us.
And then something else clicked for me. Something so monumental it made everything else before it meaningless:
This must be how heathens feel about eating Bacon.
That is, until I recently found myself on business in New Jersey. On business, and hungry in New Jersey. On Business, hungry, and with very limited options in a place that made even the shadiest New York deli look like Bouley. The options were limited, and apprehensive though I was, I opted for the Turkey wrap. Bracing myself for the worst, I took one bite: and it was heavenly.
It was the Mayo. That creamy substance that I've since learned could transform rat food into finger licking scrumptiousness. That gelatinous substance that quivers to life between two slabs of carbohydrates: my one true love, Mayo. I'd been waiting all this time for that special someone, and it dawned on me that that someone was something, and that thing was mayonnaise. Mayo was so goddamned good I want to marry it in a special ceremony and have Carrie Prejean speak out against us.
And then something else clicked for me. Something so monumental it made everything else before it meaningless:
This must be how heathens feel about eating Bacon.
Friday, May 8, 2009
The More Things Change the More they Stay the Same
"That's the thing about WASPs, they'll take you out on a proper date and call you the next day, but they'll just as readily fuck a hooker in the backseat of a towncar."- My Brother
(For the record, the lady in this photograph was one of the first "Playgirls", so I reckon that is somewhere in between.) Via the Life Archives
Monday, March 30, 2009
A preliminary Guide to: The Phase Out
I've never been a big fan of the phase-out myself, but when executed correctly I have been convinced as of late that it can be a beautiful thing.
Just so we're clear: the phase-out is that oft used dating mechanism to dispose of someone who you always suspected was rather worthless (but dated anyway because you are bored and require constant stimulation). Those little things they do that struck you at times as charming, become anything but.
Example 1: The gentleman in question lets you buy him a beer; at first it seems charming and Dutch-like. You're a modern woman, one who is gainfully employed and ballerific to the extreme, I mean, it's cute to return the favor sometimes. Then you offer a second time and he accepts. Before you know it you are in a truly nightmare scenario that requires you not only look the part of a trophy girlfriend (an expensive feat, I assure you) but contribute to all dates equally. Call me old fashioned, but this is grounds for immediate phase out-age.
Or consider example two: You decide to broach the topic of current affairs over dinner; he turns out to be not only conservative but dim as a 70's lightbulb (one might venture that these attributes go hand in hand, and really I wouldn't oppose you if you did). This is grounds for outright dumping but I find that the phase out is a more charitable approach.
Three: He goes commando and insists on lounging around on your couch- naked- and smoking a cigarette- post coitus. A girl's upholstery is precious and any man that doesn't recognize this is not worth his salt. Phase Out.
And so on and so forth.
The phase-out can be broken down into a relatively simple science.
For instance, one is encouraged to begin with excuses about work, as this is unanimously relatable. A simple "Sorry babe, so busy today/this week/ forever!" works wonders. When the gentleman in question offers to gallantly fight your boss for caging you in like a rabid monkey, it is upon the lady to escalate the phase-out. Cold and calculating, the move here is to cease response to all forms of communication. This will invariably beg messages of the below variety:
"Are you okay?"
"...."
"I JUST WANT TO KNOW YOU"RE ALIVE"
"You're a real bitch, you know that?"
"I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking, I'm just so worried about you."
Stay strong, ladies.
Even when he shows up outside your door with a guitar and a long stemmed red rose, with a song he composed for you titled "Your Love is a Disease" (worthy of another post but needless to say this DID happen), one must crack her door ever so slightly (leaving the chain ON) and re-iterate one's intention to phase the pursuer out.
Even if he cries and threatens suicide (and he will), don't relent.
And for all the pain and suffering that will be caused over the course of your Phasing Out careers, know this. 1 time out of every 10 this is performed, the gentleman in question will be trying to perform a phase out of his own on you. And there is nothing more satisfying than sharing a genuinely mutual contempt for the person you have been unenthusiastically boning for the last 2 months.
And this makes it all worth it in the end.
xoxo
Girl
Just so we're clear: the phase-out is that oft used dating mechanism to dispose of someone who you always suspected was rather worthless (but dated anyway because you are bored and require constant stimulation). Those little things they do that struck you at times as charming, become anything but.
Example 1: The gentleman in question lets you buy him a beer; at first it seems charming and Dutch-like. You're a modern woman, one who is gainfully employed and ballerific to the extreme, I mean, it's cute to return the favor sometimes. Then you offer a second time and he accepts. Before you know it you are in a truly nightmare scenario that requires you not only look the part of a trophy girlfriend (an expensive feat, I assure you) but contribute to all dates equally. Call me old fashioned, but this is grounds for immediate phase out-age.
Or consider example two: You decide to broach the topic of current affairs over dinner; he turns out to be not only conservative but dim as a 70's lightbulb (one might venture that these attributes go hand in hand, and really I wouldn't oppose you if you did). This is grounds for outright dumping but I find that the phase out is a more charitable approach.
Three: He goes commando and insists on lounging around on your couch- naked- and smoking a cigarette- post coitus. A girl's upholstery is precious and any man that doesn't recognize this is not worth his salt. Phase Out.
And so on and so forth.
The phase-out can be broken down into a relatively simple science.
For instance, one is encouraged to begin with excuses about work, as this is unanimously relatable. A simple "Sorry babe, so busy today/this week/ forever!" works wonders. When the gentleman in question offers to gallantly fight your boss for caging you in like a rabid monkey, it is upon the lady to escalate the phase-out. Cold and calculating, the move here is to cease response to all forms of communication. This will invariably beg messages of the below variety:
"Are you okay?"
"...."
"I JUST WANT TO KNOW YOU"RE ALIVE"
"You're a real bitch, you know that?"
"I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking, I'm just so worried about you."
Stay strong, ladies.
Even when he shows up outside your door with a guitar and a long stemmed red rose, with a song he composed for you titled "Your Love is a Disease" (worthy of another post but needless to say this DID happen), one must crack her door ever so slightly (leaving the chain ON) and re-iterate one's intention to phase the pursuer out.
Even if he cries and threatens suicide (and he will), don't relent.
And for all the pain and suffering that will be caused over the course of your Phasing Out careers, know this. 1 time out of every 10 this is performed, the gentleman in question will be trying to perform a phase out of his own on you. And there is nothing more satisfying than sharing a genuinely mutual contempt for the person you have been unenthusiastically boning for the last 2 months.
And this makes it all worth it in the end.
xoxo
Girl
Friday, January 30, 2009
Something Beautiful
A few summers ago I found myself in Amsterdam. It was one of those dreamlike days where there is the faintest breeze and slightest chill to the morning. My family and I took 3 tables at an outdoor cafe, facing the few cyclists who had emerged at that hour. We shared coffee and Dutch apple pancakes, criossant and eggs. Afterward we strolled down to the Van Gogh museum.
On arriving, we each dutifully fell into our own pace, some walking briskly through the galleries, others floating between the pieces. My sister turned right on entering a room, my father, to the left. We were stunned that the sunflowers were actually so small, and at the depth and rainbow of colors used to create each piece. As I entered the last room, something caught my eye and I cut straight to the middle. There were the Almond Blossoms; the most spectacular painting I had ever seen. The colors evoked that day so crisply, and the effect was one of overwhelming tranquility and beauty.
I stood before it for an hour before I was ushered on to leave. I could have stared at it for years.
Today, I saw a photograph that immediately harkened back to that perfect day.
Proof that there is continuity in beautiful things. That the memory of such simple and incredible days can carry us through dark and cold ones alike.
Have a lovely weekend,
Girl
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