Monday, September 12, 2011

Not High Heel Friendly

Good Morning Darlings,

I am the worst ever, I am so sorry for the ridiculous pause between my last post and this one. I attribute it to a month of shoddy internet, a hurricane, a trip home, and relocating. Specifically the latter. Moving is seriously the pits. We have to find jobs, a home, move all of our (okay, my) stuff, and then the snow will be here! 

The job search has not been going as horribly as expected. I have had a few interviews, a few people interested in my ridiculous skill sets, and it seems positive. But the thing is that no one in Portland wears high heels. In fact, hardly anyone in Portland wears anything that would be considered grown up clothing. This is something that I am going to have to get used to. I mean I'm talking like serious crunchy granola* business. And I have realized that while I REFUSE to give up things that are so meaningful to me (like high heels), I might be able to assimilate a little bit up here if I try really hard. So in this post, I am going to find a few of my favourite things Maine counterparts. 

I will preface this by saying that I absolutely love Portland, and though I am very excited to move here, I am less than excited about the fashion. And, well, fashion just happens to be one of my very favourite things. So I hope that you all can understand that while I am being snarky, it is just because I am bitter about having nowhere to wear my sequined pumps, tutus, and baby top hats. 
Kate Spade Kelly

Dansko Maryjane

First and foremost, the idea of finding a reason/night without snow to wear any kind of patent leather pump has become more or less a thing of the past. Everyone here wears sensible shoes like danskos. And, I will be perfectly honest, I have a pair of danskos clogs and I wear them when I am working in a kitchen or when I am completely hungover and need to walk somewhere. But my personal belief is that a dansko is a shoe for a job (a doctor, a chef) and that there is really no need to wear them anywhere else. They serve a purpose like Uggs and they should be seen by the public as little as possible. But here's the thing. In Portland, it is not enough to have a pair of clogs, they have to be even uglier. They have to be like Mary Jane clogs. I have a really hard time understanding why anyone would buy this monstrosity of a shoe. I feel like you should not wear this shoe until you have hit late middle age in order to avoid a knee replacement. Girls, heels may not be great for you, but once you learn how to walk in them they give you a sense of being and much better posture than Danskos could ever offer. Take my word now: I will never buy Dansko Maryjanes. So do yourselves a favour: watch the following video and buy a pair of fabulous, expensive shoes. Go outside and show the world what you are made of.  

Speaking of footwear, it looks like I might have to 
trade in my motorcycle boots for a pair of actual snow boots this year. For years, I have gotten away with wearing my Fryes as snow boots. Sure, I fell often, but who cares? So did everyone else! The only person I know who owns real snow boots in the city is my dear mother. And she only owns them because anything under Sixty degrees to her is equivalent to the Arctic. But alas, this year, this snow will be falling on a fairly regular basis and everything will stay open because unlike in Philadelphia,  snow is not an emergency here. It is a way of life. And as I grow up, I realize that although I LOATHE TO SAY IT, sometimes you just have to be practical. As Hubby and I traipsed around the city this afternoon, I started to visualize the snow and the ice on all of the hills of the city. So I'm going to have to get myself a serious pair of heavy duty, waterproof, supergrip, super-ugly snow boots. And although I may be wearing argyle tights, a tutu, and a sequined bolero on the aesthetic will be marred by these dreadful boots. You can bet your behind that I will be purchasing a super cute winter tote to carry my real shoes in, so that the absolute ONLY time I have to wear these is outside, and then I will wear huge sunnies so that noone knows who I am.  


Although you may not realize it, there is a world of difference between a little black dress and a little brown dress. The little black dress is a classic piece that exudes sophistication all on it's own. The little black dress is easily malleable and can be made even more elegant with pearls or old costume rhinestones or can be slutted up with the right pair of heels and a great smoky eye. It says to the world that you know who you are and you don't need to follow trends to fit in. LBDs come in all shapes and sizes. To the right is my perfect LBD, but I can assure you that every single city girl that you know has a favourite. Once you find the right one, you never want to give it up. You never want it to fade or wrinkle or age. You want it to stay, like you, young forever. With a LBD, we wear Chanel No. 5. There really is no other option. 

On the other hand, we have the little brown dress.You might be asking yourself what the difference is between a little black dress and a little brown dress. Actually if you are reading this blog, you should know and you probably already know that there is a whole hell of a lot of difference between the two. A little brown dress comes in one shape: sack. It is most often  embroidered. It is also most often worn with Dansko maryjanes of a neutral colour, like dusty maroon or faded celadon. While the LBD is worn with pearls, the little brown dress is usually worn with shells or stones that have some sort of mystical meaning behind them dependent on their colour. The little brown dress looses because of it's ability to multitask here in Portland. It seems that you could wear it to the beach during the day with birkenstocks and then change into your maryjanes, throw some patchouli oil on and run to a wedding on Saturday night. The thought of which makes me cringe. Perhaps the women up here are just out of touch with their femininity, although I'm sure that they would argue quite the contrary. Ladies, you can be a feminist and shave your armpits. Although, a clean look might not quite *go* as well with your little brown dress. But again, I love Portland and am very excited to move here. In fact, who knows, I may be able to change the entire fashion landscape of Portland. A swipe of lipstick here, a sharp stiletto there, and voila! 

And of course, last but not least...Lips. 

I don't have much to say....




As always darlings, it's been fun. Watch out for updates on new house, new job, and new dansko wearing, patchouli rocking me!! JUST KIDDING! Like I said to Hubby today in the car (yes, it's a Subaru) "you can take the girl out of the big city, but you can never take the big city out of the girl." And with a spray of Gucci Flore, I knew that there were never truer words spoken.



Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Steak for a Grill

Good Morning Darlings,

I just thought that in my writers block, I might start sharing some of my recipes with you. It is my ultimate dream to one day write cookbooks and host a television show that is a mix of Martha Stewart and Chelsea Handler. So I hope you enjoy my recipes.

I thought fairly apropos for today, a beautiful August day, was a great steak marinade that I use often when cooking a decent, but not overly decadent piece of a hanger, skirt or flank. Or if my dad was going to use this recipe, he would use a London broil, which is also perfectly fine and much more economical than any of the other above choices. My only plea is that you marinate this steak dependent on the amount of fat on the steak. I am not huge on recipe that are DEFINITE. When I teach cooking classes, I teach technique and then suggest flavors. You know, I like things like literature, fashion and history, things that are easily malleable depending on your own personal ideals. And honestly, serving size? I can't be bothered. I know that you are going to eat more than 4 oz of steak as your meal. So this recipe is based on 3 lbs of steak, which easily feeds four semi hungry people along with a green, a starch, a few bottles of cheap red, and some ice cream to eat out of the carton before saying your goodbyes for the evening.

Summer Steak

3 lbs steak. You decide the variety.
1/2 cup soy sauce
1/4 cup toasted sesame oil
3 TBSP. red pepper flakes
2 tsp cumin
2 tsp coriander
2 tsp lemongrass powder (or if you have the real thing, even better!!)
3 tsp. chopped garlic (or if you are a member of the Fox family, you can triple this measurement)
1 tsp kosher salt
Juice of one lime (but make it a juicy one, folks)
1 G&T (all of this mixing is making you thirsty after all)

Mix all ingredients (save for the last) in a large bowl. Insert steak and commence salivation. Close your mouth (or better yet, put it around the straw of your sole remaining ingredient) and wrap bowl in plastic. Insert in refrigerator and let sit overnight or longer (seriously the longer the better). Pass out watching bad late night television. Wake up, go to brunch, go buy flowers for your dinner fiesta (I would say Stargazer lilies are perfect for this meal), pick up some fresh baguettes, some vino, and maybe some hand dipped ice cream. Come home, take post brunch nap, whip up a Gin Mary (Bloody with Gin, gin of choice being Bluecoat). Get your charcoal burning, get your corn shucking, get your music blasting. Welcome guests, commence debauchery, and breathe -- you are almost there. Take steak out of refrigerator for 25 minutes before grilling. After those painful 25 have passed, you have earned the right to char the sugar honey iced tea out of those steaks. Cook to your preference. I enjoy mine with extra carbon on the outside and bleeding on the inside, but again personal preference.

And you don't have to follow this recipe exactly -- it is just a suggested routine.



Friday, August 5, 2011

Never Overly Impressed

Good Afternoon Darlings,

Sitting here in my office on a absolutely dreary day filled with every shade of grey on the scale, I have made a realization. I have realized that nothing really impresses me, and sometimes I get annoyed when I am around people who do get impressed easily. You know those people who get excited when they meet a person who spends the weekends in the Hamptons and wants to know about the celebrities, or the person who sees a new singer songwriter perform and think that they are the next Tori Amos, even though they sound like every other twenty something with a guitar. It makes my skin crawl a little bit. I'm not sure if I am missing the gene that makes a person excited and impressed over something that other people do...but I just can't feel it like most people can.

Here's the thing, and you know there is always a thing, it's not that I don't appreciate and enjoy things. I love going to museums, I appreciate art and cooking and music and design...but I am never really impressed. I can never look at something and really say "wow I've never seen something like that before."

For instance, today I was trolling one of my favourite websites and they have a feature on weekend travel and the article is talking about escaping to the Hamptons for a weekend. Now, myself, I have never been to the Hamptons, and really have absolutely no desire to go. I think that just like any other place that has made it's name on people with too much money and not enough brain, it doesn't appeal to me. And it kind of makes me angry that other people like it for JUST THAT REASON. The article describes a newly redone hotel called the Capri and lauds it's design as being exciting and new. You know what, I blame part of this new revelation on my mother. I grew up in a home full of art and excitement and maybe that's why people are excited about things that I in fact, consider fairly civilian.

This is trying to say 70s beach house. I get that. What it really says is Faux Retro Pretentious Chic. You can picture the type of people who would stay in this room. They would take pictures of the room and go home and talk about how faaaabbbuuullooouuuus it was in the Hamptons --- except if it were really fabulous in the Hamptons - you would own a place. TOUCHE. So you really aren't fabulous, your hotel room is really not fabulous, and you should probably take your Gucci bag that you bought on credit and buy a place in Hollywood Beach, Florida. The apartments look like this, but better, because they actually haven't been redone since the 70s!
Anyway, growing up with my mother...we were never short on art or eccentricities. I think that this combination contributes greatly to my distaste of people who like things that people tell them to like. I have almost no time for people who constantly latch on to the taste of others, and have no understanding of why they like what they like. 

I know what you are all saying. You are asking yourselves how I can write a blog about fashion if I'm not impressed by it. Let me explain. I love fashion. I love dressing and sliding my feet into a new pair of shoes. I love lipstick and I love perfume. But I don't let other people's taste dictate my style. My fashion is mine. It's not Pippa Middleton's, and it's certainly not Kim Kardashian's. The media and the general public is always obsessed with someone, but there is never any real reason for the obsession. They all walk alike, talk alike, dress alike and live solely for the fact that they are being watched. One of the problems with our young girls today is that they are under the impression that they have to be like somebody. But really, they need to be like themselves. The age of the overexposed and endless parade of celebrity is just like this gilded facade of "beauty." People want to look like them, live like them, and often times the impersonations are even more lackluster than the celebrities themselves. I'm not saying that this is true for all women around the world, but what I'm trying to explain is how much it really bothers me.

I was sitting with three teenage girls yesterday, playing this silly "questions about yourself" kind of game, and one of the questions was "What ideal would you never give up?" and almost unanimously they answered that they would never compromise themselves for the sake of trying to be like someone else. I wanted to hug each one of them (I think I did) and applaud them for their forward thinking in this age of madness. I think that the only thing that really impresses me anymore is the person who is the leader of their life, not the follower of someone else's life.

Anyway, I applaud my mother for teaching me that in order to really love something, you have to dig for it. You have to find what it is that you really really love about it in order for the love to be real. Whatever it is has to have an energy to give to you, and to really love something, from a person who shares your bed to a purse, you have to work for it.



Wednesday, July 27, 2011

It's 99 degrees and Paul Simon is in my ear

Good Morning Darlings,

I'm so sorry for the lack of, well anything lately. My mind has been completely elsewhere and my work hours have blossomed to an average of twelve. Usually the last thing on my mind after said work hours is staring at a computer. But there are a few things I want to talk about today.
Please buy me this beauty, and send it to me at camp.
Did I mention that I collect vintage cookery and  etiquette books? I have even worked that fact into my resume, which could possibly be the reason nobody wants to hire me. Collections in general scream "CRAZY HOARDER"

A. Taschen is publishing a new book featuring Vintage menus. It is all about food and design, which are obviously my two favourite things in the entire world. This book has EIGHT HUNDRED old menus. I would give up all of my coffee table books for this one (well, okay maybe not ALL of them). One day, I was going through some of my fabulous grandmother's stuff and I stumbled upon menus from the cruises that her and my grandfather took in the late 1960s. There is a menu for every day, and people had to get dressed up for dinner. I'm talking JACKETS, men. There was none of this wearing denim for every occasion business. I mean seriously, we went to the orchestra on a Saturday night and the guy next to me was wearing stone washed denim and a matching jacket. Not only is this not 1996, but it's also plain inappropriate. The musicians are wearing bow ties and gowns, the least you can do is put a (non denim) jacket on. I don't care if your jeans cost $367 dollars and were picked out especially for you by your personal shopper at Neiman's or if they are from the clearance rack at WalMart. They have no place at the orchestra, the theatre, the ballet, nor at any restaurant with linens that are not red and white checkered.

In fact, I believe that every man should own a tuxedo once thirty rolls around. It wills an occasion for a tuxedo to come into your life. Now, I am not suggesting that any of the above venues are appropriate places to wear a tuxedo. I mean, if you are going to the Met Ball, sure...or some type of gala for the ballet in a large metropolitan city...

What I am saying is that there is a time and a place for various types of apparel and sometimes people are incredibly mistaken. I am all for personal style, but this has nothing to do with style, it has to do with manners and etiquette. You know how you wouldn't probably go to your buddy's house on Sunday to watch the Eagles game in a suit? Well, you probably shouldn't go anywhere with cocktail napkins in the same thing you would wear to watch the Eagles game at your buddy's house.

Ladies, don't think you are getting off the hook - this applies to you too. A dress from the Deb shop with Lucite heels does not an appropriate outfit make. In fact if your date is wearing a tuxedo, nothing on your body should be made of synthetic fabrics. You should be dressed like you mean it from top to bottom and inside out. If someone is coming up to your dinner table with a silver dome and presenting you your food, it is inappropriate to have granny panties on underneath, even if your dress cost more than your diamonds.
Appropriate underattire. 

A lady should always know her audience ("all life is a stage" once proclaimed some witty English gentleman) and a lady always has an audience. The art of dressing appropriately is very tough for a woman. While men have to accessorize, women have many more options which makes this task infinitely more challenging. Also, a man's dress code changes very little from the time he is a little man to when he becomes a full fledged adult. Boys clothes are essentially smaller men's clothing while this is not the case with girls, ladies, and women.

Every little detail counts with a woman. Her peers are her worst critics and she, theirs. Women are the worst to each other. I judge a woman if she is wearing sheer tights with open toed shoes.

This photo draws so much emotion. I am sick to my stomach, upset, angry and empathetic.  I can forgive after some serious therapy, but I can never ever forget this sin. 
Excuse me while I go empty my stomach via my mouth. There is no excuse for this. TAKE SOME PRIDE LADY! 

 I judge women based on the way they dress all of the time. It's not something that I can really help. It's a natural occurrence and while it is not something that I wish upon anyone else, I am proud of the way I think about it. If the world would let me, I would re-dress them, especially the women in sheer hose with open toed shoes. Sometimes I feel bad for judging, because I know that they are just ignorant and don't have the education that I do. If I could make-a-wish, I would wish for all the women in the world to be gifted an Emily Post book at birth. This includes how to dress, how to eat, how to entertain, and how to be a lady. It's a dying art. Who writes letters anymore? Learn how to make and eat a jello mold without getting any on your beautiful floral apron and then come talk to me.

Listen, I am not asking you to produce a dinner party every night, nor am I asking you to wear ballgowns to the supermarket. I work at a camp for crying out loud. I am in cotton just about all day every day. But I am constantly moving around and constantly changing. When I play tennis, I wear tennis apparel, at the gym, I wear workout gear. In the office, an appropriate summer look (always dependent on the weather) and at night, something casual and cool. All I am saying is be aware of your surroundings and understand that people do (fortunately or unfortunately) make first judgments based on aesthetics.They say to not judge a book by it's cover, but that cover at the top of this blog sure looks swell.


Friday, July 15, 2011

City Limits

Good Afternoon Darlings,

I've been in Maine for just about 45 days. And while I love being here more than I love being anywhere else, being a city girl, I really miss certain things about the city.

I miss a good meal. Being out here in the sticks, it is dining hall food or bust most nights. And while I'm not going to hate on the food that we are served, I am going to say that it has no nutritional OR taste value, which pretty much makes it guilt inducing without a choice. Now, it's not that I don't choose to eat guilt inducing food on the regular at home. We've discussed this. I like food. I love food. But let's be honest, a mushroom crusted strip steak with a gimlet (or 2) is not quite the same as macaroni and cheese with ritz crackers on top. I work with kids, and I'm sure that the kids love it and that their metabolism takes away the "guilt inducing" part of it. But it's not something I am completely in awe of. In fact when it comes to junk food, I would rather eat the real thing - KRAFT blue box mac and cheese. Pizza from the dodgy place around the corner, not with "mutigrain crust," and pasta - if I'm going to eat pasta, I want for nothing more than a steaming plate of capellini with really good olive oil, really good shaved parmesan, and really good anchovies.

I miss being able to walk 9 minutes to my local sushi place and paying $11 for good sushi. The same goes for Pho, Vietnamese, and hipsterchicbreakfast. I miss my Starbucks (but my bank account doesn't) and I miss happy hour (but remind me to tell you about my replacement for over the summer some time).

I can smell the beef tendon wafting, ever so slightly  mixing with the fresh scent of cilantro and jalapeno.
Oh how I salivate at the thought. 

You are probably wondering what they feed us up here. Well, here's the thing: it's free, so there is no use complaining about it, but I'm going to anyway, because I am a food snob and I like to complain about things. We have a salad bar, which is very large in size, but very small in quality. We have things like 3 different types of hot peppers to fill our salads with. Sometimes there is chocolate pudding on the salad bar, sometimes there are radishes and beets. But there is hardly ever any other protein than tuna, and while I love tuna - the prospect of getting Mercury poisoning while without health coverage seems quite daunting to this little lady. And I also don't want a doctor to have to write me a get of jail free card, like they had to do for J Pivs. It seems a little lame - like "Oh sorry I can't come to work today because I ate too much tuna." Isn't that sort of the same study in gluttony as "Oh sorry I can't come to work today because I drank too much red wine?" I mean no boss that I know would really be happy to excuse you from work because of alcohol consumption - so why would they excuse you for too much tuna? It seems silly -  but it may happen in the near future as my tuna consumption has hit an all time high. 

Sometimes on the salad bar, we are able to enjoy baby corn, which as we all know - serve more of  a comical value than any sort of nutritional one. Ohh I'm eating my baby corn for all of it's (fiber, sodium, carbs, and cals!). Not the case. I'm eating my baby corn so that I can pretend I am Tom Hanks in Big. If you have no idea what  I am talking about, please see below (but really you should be ashamed of yourself)

IMO Tom Hanks could have ended his screen career here and died a legend. This movie doesn't ever fail to entertain, and the sweet pad he buys in the city would still thrill any teenage boy today. Talk about a movie to last the ages. 

What other delicacies does the salad bar hold? Well usually beet root, which I can't complain about because I love beets. Also, sometimes canned pineapple rings and pears. OH REALLY? You want me to eat canned fruit? Why don't you just put a bowl of sugar out in front of me and I'll eat spoonfuls of that. IT"S THE SAME THING. Who decided that it was a good idea to eat canned fruit? What's the point of eating a pear (the food of the GODS) out of a can - you don't get the satisfaction of the first crunch, or the first dribble of pear juice down your chin and on to your too expensive for pear juice blouse (usually worth the price of dry cleaning). And canned pineapple? Only if you are going to make a centerpiece for a 60s themed party: 

Mad Men Party 2008: Pineapple and Maraschino Cherry Centerpiece (Thanks Aynsley!)
Canadian Club for the boys, Champagne Cocktails for the girls
Canned pineapple to do anything but make fun craft projects exploring our parents generation is an abomination to all good in this world. Pineapple is supposed to be sweet and tangy. Canned pineapple is just sweet. So sweet that it usually makes me gag when I eat it. There is no crunch. There is no tang. There is no closing your eyes and feeling like you are in paradise. There is, however, closing your eyes and fearing that your next course of toasted Spam may be burning in the room next door.

We eat more ground beef here than I ever have in my entire life. Meatballs for lunch? Meatloaf for dinner! It's like a call and respond. I could probably write a song about all that you can do with ground beef. Our official toilet plunger has been complaining all summer about the monstrosities that are the toilets here. No wonder. 

Anyway, I'll stop complaining so that I can go fill my brand new tumbler with some coffee. 



Saturday, July 2, 2011


Good Afternoon Darlings,

It seems that although I am living in the middle of nowhere right now, where a night on the town includes pizza, Dunkin coffee, and some ice cream, my fashion emotions are still entirely capable.

How do I know this?

Well after my lunch meeting today, I wandered back up to my office (stopping for a few wanderlust chats and perhaps a carton of milk and a cookie), re-opened and a banner ad popped up. Why was I on Well it just so happens that I do not make my living writing this blog (SHOCKED, I'm sure), so I needed to pump up my resume with words that are not "organization" and "skills." I can sell an ice cube to an Eskimo (I'll tell you about it another time), but fall flat on my face when I try to sell myself. In fact, my default cover letter reads like I am someone who wears pleated front Dockers and white on white sketchers all the time (obviously you should have learned how to read between the lines enough by now to know that bad highlights are also included in that statement).

Are you visualizing? Are you?

WELL SNAP OUT OF IT. I am not that person! You want to know why? Because I know that I am fabulous even in sweatpants and a mucousy cough. I will put cheetah print on my nails when I am not allowed to wear it anywhere else. I like razzle and I love dazzle and don't even get me started on the vajazzle. Haha, just kidding about the last one. I have yet to try it, which is a possible sin to all of humanity. I need to try these things before I can suggest them to the masses (all 7 of you). But for some reason, I can neither find the razzle, dazzle, or vajazzle about myself to put on a paper to send to a prospective employer.

But there's this job that I really really really want. And I really really really want them to see the Ra, Da, and Vajazzle LCF on paper. So anyway, that's why I was on Because I am not only someone who knows how to write, but I am also someone who knows how to access the internet, and that is a plus to some people these days (or so I hear).

Back to the point, there was a banner ad on And apparently I go on far too often because Saks banner ads follow me everywhere. And I have learned to not to follow most of them. But for some reason, I (against my better judgement) followed this one.

And this is what I found:

I almost fainted for it. 
This bag is LCF. If LCF came back as a bag, it would be this gem. It's so beautiful. It's so classic. It's so edgy. It is like if my mother and I were to build a bag together, it would be this one. It has enough of her hippie roots, but also enough of my classic aesthetics to make it a timeless piece. 

The way the photo of this bag made me feel restored my faith in myself. I can live in Maine, live in cotton, drive a Subaru, and enjoy sitting around a bonfire but still get butterflies in my stomach for a Gucci bag that costs three times my mothers mortgage. 


Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Oy Vey!

Good Morning Darlings,

As I am up here in Never Never Land, I feel like I am missing out on a lot of things in the real world. So I try to make a point of it to venture on to AND daily. I mean I like to know what's going on in the real world both importantly and not so importantly. You can decide which publication I find to be most important.

So obviously I am so excited about gay marriage in New York. I mean what's not to be excited about? A step in the right direction for humanity is alright with me. I hope that every couple (gay straight, whatever) who gets married in New York sends an invitation to Fred Phelps. Because his world must be crumbling to the ground right now and he may or may not need a few hot meals for survival sake  when all of his members realize what a piece of shit he is to himself, his members, and all of humanity in this country and beyond. I can't wait for people to stop using the entirely uncivilized descriptor of "civil partner" and can just be husband and husband or wife and wife.But selfishly, I am so excited because I can't wait to see pictures of Elton and David's wedding.   I can only hope that it is going to include camels, diamonds, and Stevie Wonder.
More Specifically, I hope that Elton and David ride in on this flamboyant tropical camel....

...Have Stevie sing "I believe" for their first dance, and then invite the guests to have a sing-a-long with Stevie Wonder (!!!!!!!) to old Elton John classics. Now there's a CD I would want, Stevie does Elton: The Hits.

And of course at the end of the seven day long affair, Elton and David would give out rough diamonds and the name and number of their favourite jeweler and invite you to go design yourself a nice piece of something that you love to commemorate the time they became husbands instead of civil partners.

But there are other things going on in the news as well. I have been informed that there are a few new trends out there for resort season. Please continue reading for my take on these trends.
Listen Stella, I know that your father just had to pay a rather large divorce settlement and may not be able to give you the time you need emotionally to drive your designs, but let me tell you something. This is horrendous. I am seriously feeling two things from this outfit. Number one is that Grandma Mimi has escaped from the Assisted living facility in Boca wearing her favourite fabulous but practical two piece, but forgot her purse so traded it to some hipster for a bagel and lox and maybe a cup of borscht. When Mort, her husband finally found her, she was happy in her long underwear at the deli eating her nosh and Mort was upset that she was lost, but happy that her priorities were straight. The hipster went on to add a pair of $1200 shoes to the situation and brag to her friends at drum and bass parties about where she procured her outfit, and no it wasn't from that great little thrift shop around the corner. My second thought is that this idiotic Manhattanite in her mid twenties decided to let the runway dictate her clothing choices and spent thousands of dollars on this awful outfit instead of spending that money on a trip to an island where she could have picked up one of these numbers for about 3 dollars on the beach somewhere.

Oh really? I wasn't aware that designer tevas and wetsuits were ever considered a trend. I'm pretty sure that there is no place for this "trend" outside of the islands of Hawaii and perhaps the runway. First of all, this woman gets paid to make clothes look good and although Michael Kors calls his creation "Snorkel Jackie O." I'm pretty sure that no one can make this monstrosity look good. I have been known to take fashion risks and I love a little sass in my life, but unless you are going to make the following your theme song, I have little tolerance for people walking down the street in wetsuits and I would more than likely laugh at them.


Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my rants this morning. Sorry for the sporadic posts...I am busy tending to the needs of two hundred teenagers..


Sunday, June 19, 2011

RIP Big Man

Good Morning Darlings,

Some days are not all diamonds and Sunglasses, and today has begun as one of those days. As you all probably have already heard (I don't wake up early enough for this to be a breaking news blog), Mr. Clarence Clemons, saxaphonist extraordinaire, has passed away at the stupidly young age of 69.

Of course I think that Clarence was one of those musical figures that come once in a lifetime, but also I have to tell you that his fashion was immense. Vests and nothing else. And he made it look great. And will continue to make it look great wherever he is.

This is a great clip. A young Bruce, Max, and Clarence. Just doing what they do. This happens to be my favourite BS&TESB song, so enjoy and watch at about 5:40 for a great introduction to one of the best musicians our generation will ever see.


Friday, June 17, 2011

(Crab)Apple Bottom Jeans and the (Hunter)Boots with the Welliewarmers or why Flo-Rida will never desire me

Good Afternoon Darlings,

I have to talk about something right now. After years and years and years of sacrificing my ears to the song "Low" by Flo-Rida (not to be confused with the place your grandparents retire to play raquet sports), I have realized that unfortunately I will never be the girl that this gentleman  with the strangely geographic name(and his friend T-Pain, which I can only imagine means Total Pain or Testicular Pain or Teflon Pan) desires.

It starts out well --- he calls his dream woman Shorty (or Shawty if you want to get Phonetic about it). I'm thinking this is great, he wants a short woman. I'm short and I don't mind being addressed according to my physical features. So far, it's looking like there is going to be a Fox/Rida Wedding. It's going to be great, because obviously he is going to be taller than me and the pictures will be great. He loves diamonds (which he refers to as bling), so he would obviously want me to have a lot of diamonds as well. So pretty much after the first word of the song, I am already planning the wedding...

...And then something bad happens...He doesn't just want a Shorty (me), he wants a Shorty with Apple Bottom Jeans and boots with fur? Way to be particular. First of all, I didn't know what an apple bottom jean was, so I had to look it up on urban dictionary which is my favourite website. Apparently they are jeans for women with large posteriors. And they are designed by Nelly who actually sings my favourite rap song:

I love this song because he talks (raps) about Street Sweepers, Smokin on dubs, Cocoa Puffs AND Donald Trump. AND he refers to rollin in a Range Rover and a beemer, which means the man has great taste. I only wonder if him and Donald sometimes roll  in a street sweeper while smokin on dubs and muchin on cocoa puffs. 

Apparently they are designed for all shapes and sizes of women. But I'm pretty sure that "all" is not inclusive of my sized booty. It is pretty small. In fact, I have a hard time fitting my booty into jeans for people without large posteriors from the likes of J.Crew and Madewell --- even Seven for All Mankind make my tush look like a drowning firefly.

And then we've got "the boots with the fur." Now, if you refer back to my post, you will see that I do love boots. I love Riding boots, I love motorcycle boots, and I love Uggs on cold nights when my toes are about to freeze off. The boots with the fur? I don't really love those so much, and thus I don't wear them. I don't understand the appeal of wearing what looks like a dead fluffy dog on your feet (although I hear you can get them in every colour of the rainbow - to match every pair of ABJs you have)...

At this point, I'm kind of waiting for Michael Buble to show up and start singing "Lyndsey got them Citizens of Humanity jeans and the tory burch flats..." Because that's how out of fashion I feel. I feel hurt that Flo wouldn't consider me a  good match because of my choice in denim and footwear. I feel like getting down and begging, "But Flo, we both love tattoos and diamonds, this has to work!"

But it's okay. we're only one line into the song, I still feel like some hope exists.

BUT THEN --- he starts talking about baggy sweatpants and reeboks with the strap? Baggy sweatpants? Reeboks? Listen to me, Flo. You have to make up your mind. First you want my butt to look as big as possible in my apple bottom jeans and now you want me to wear baggy sweatpants to accentuate my lack of assage even more? Well guess what? I am a liberated woman and I am not going to bow to your every whim. If I want to wear Lululemon yoga pants and the Nikes with the swoosh....well then that's what I'm going to wear. I'm not going to let you dictate my activewear. I only let the skinny blonde women at the gym do that to me. I hate that this is what you want from a woman, Flo. We could have been so happy with our diamonds and love of Jimmy Hendrix.

I am flexible, which is one of his next specifications -- but I don't think that I would use that talent in the way that he wants a woman to use it. I mean I got really excited when he was talking about birthday cakes, because as you all know I am a pretty good baker..but then I realized that most people do not talk about birthday cakes as a plural and he may be using that to illustrate a part of the female anatomy. I appreciate his creativity, and his taste in desserts...he could have said cinnabons, and then we really would have been over.

We've got another problem only a few words later. He wants me to drink X&O...which maybe he thinks that I really enjoy because I sign everything with X's and O's. But he doesn't really know me or else he would know that the only brown liquor I drink is Canadian Club, and I only drink it when I have a sore throat and because I love their ads.

I would probably never drink cognac...Although I do love those purple bags that Crowne Royale come in...We used to have them in the house all the time growing up. And even worse, I would hope that if Flo and I ever met, he would know to order me a bluecoat gimlet. But I fear that this is not the case. 

And right when Flo gets me back with "Patron on the rocks," he loses me again by likening food, drink, and automobile to sexual positions. And I feel for my friends who drive any type of Rover, because I will always feel like a 70s porn star when I ride in them from now on. And he never mentions a Subaru, Saab, or Volvo so he really doesn't know what he's missing.  

Flo, every time I listen to your song, I feel like a woman who will never be desired. Maybe you could learn to love me for who I am with my Citizens for All Humanity Jeans, Tory Burch Flats, Men's Oxford Shirt? Maybe you could even write a song about sexual positions that remind you of a subaru? I think it would be wonderful if you and Amy Ray and Emily Saliers could collaborate. I could totally see a songwriters circle happening. 

Maybe I read into your opening line too much. Maybe you shouldn't lead a girl on so much. Maybe instead of shorty, you could say "short girl who has a big booty and likes Reeboks." If you had said that, I wouldn't have gotten my hopes up. You're an asshole for leading me on. 

 Maybe I'm not your type, but would you mind sending me some diamonds anyway? 


Thursday, June 16, 2011

Rat Tails should be renamed RadTails.

Good Morning darlings,

Today I had a stroke of genius for which I am entirely grateful for. Rat Tails happen to be one of my most favoured fashion statements and while I understand tha that most people will disagree with me, I will stand my ground.

The rat tail is one of the time honoured American traditions. In case you have been living under a rock since the New Kids on the Block released this:

a rat tail is a "tail-like" element of hair growing from the nape of the neck down the back. Wikipedia is telling me that some people grow multiple tails, but I don't believe it. The tail is favoured by those who damn the man on a daily basis. It was hip in the 80s, and fell out of vogue in the mainstream but has garnered popularity in various fringe cultures over the years. The thing is, every time you see a rattail on someone, you get excited. It makes you smile. You kind of say to yourself, "Well, okay this guy (or girl) has balls (fallopian tubes of steel)."  So that in of itself makes it rad. My personal favourite is the braided rat tail. But rat tails come in all shapes and sizes. Here is a brief photo montage of rat tails:

He's not really into it. A ratail in it's infancy. If he decides to keep it, hopefully he will braid it or dread it. It's just boring now. 

This guy on the other hand is in it to win it. He knows that a rat tail has to be your number one priority at all times. You can't have a rat tail without it taking up at least 65% of your daily life. He might have a hard time attracting most women, but I would be attracted to his ability to commit. 

This is the elementary school rat tail. A lot of boys had them when I was in elementary school. The larger tuft of hair enables better styling value. You can add a bow or have more to pull on when you are anxious. It also offers nape protection from the harmful rays of the sun. His mom probably cut this into his hair. 
The Pageant Rat Tail. For those of you who don't know, I loathe the tendril situation.  And no, I never had an updo that involved tendrils so you can't blackmail me with that. Anyway, this combines my favourite and least favourite style. Do you think that this Beauty Queen knew about her RT? Or do you think her scorned stylist was playing a dirty joke on her? Either way, it makes me snicker. 

This is not a RT, but the tail of a headband on further inspection. Still, this makes me giggle. In fact, if you are not giggling while you are looking at this picture, you aren't human and a robot has hacked into your body. Sorry. 

DEVESTATION aka I got a job at IBM and they don't allow RTs. He wanted a job at Apple just so he could keep his rat tail.

This one. Girl-fro plus RT? Amazing. She also probably has lots of cats with rat tails. 

Baby RT: Gotta Start them young. It's like instilling a religious or spiritual  background.  These parents know where it's at. At some point, cool parents always give their baby a mohawk, mullet, or rattail just so they can laugh at the irony of it all.

I will be back in the next week with a legit update, but I hope this keeps your laughs loud and your eyesarolling for the time being.


Friday, June 10, 2011

Assimilating to life in Maine

Good Morning Darlings,

I just had to share this new discovery with all of you...

It's called LLBean Signature and it is like the anthropologie of LLBean. I would never kid you about something like this.

As many of you know, I love LL Bean and I have on occasion been known to get lost in the flagship store in Freeport for hours. I find every little thing that they sell in there pretty interesting -- except for the women's apparel, which leaves a lot to be desired for the woman who loves nature and shooting guns and kayaking (so much so that she has her own, pretty commonplace up here actually) but also wants to look amazing all of the time - so that she can head to cocktail hour straight from her romp in the mud. I love looking at all of the guns, and the books, and the ridiculously expensive outerwear that is necessary for the frigid winter months.

But here's the thing, the clothes are awful, so when I heard about the new LL Bean Signature, I was pretty thrilled. It kind of takes the old hunting aesthetic and brings it up to date (kind of like Barbour) but with a very reasonable price tag attached. In reality, I would love to buy the whole collection, but here are a few things that really excited me:

I'm living for this blue drop waist. Perfect for late summer into fall...I would wear it with brown riding boots and fab gold jewels or hot pink flats and a big pink lip. 

This watch is amazing. I really want to buy it right now. Someone should please buy it for me for a belated birthday early Hanukkah present. I'm so ready for it. 

I have an addmission to make: I am addicted to the way loafers look on men. There is nothing better to me than a man in loafers. And these are killing it. I love the dark upper and the natural sole. It really gives a hip vibe to an "outdated" shoe. You can wear these with a suit or jeans or if you really want to give them something to talk about ---bust out the old critter shorts, put on a linen shirt and let the haters hate. 

Beautiful. Perfect size for people who don't carry small animals in their bags like me. I wish I could enjoy this bag, so someone else buy it and let me love you for wearing it so well. How can you not love? Rope handle? Leather body? Gold accessories? I hope someone knows CPR in this place because I am short of breath just looking at it. A touch of that fine leather might put me over the edge...Or maybe I have just had too much coffee this morning... 

I would wear these every day if my legs were about 6 inches longer. I would wear them and listen to Buddy Holly and wear cuffed jeans and white tees and big swingy skirts. I would take hubby to a date to the soda fountain and then we would make out in the back seat of the car. It would be wonderful. But unfortch, I believe that this shoe craze has been made for those with long legs. And although my legs are long in comparison to the rest of my body -- We would never actually call my legs long. 

White. Sateen. Tuxedo. Blazer.
Please save me (my bank account) from myself. 

Do you remember those old Diet Coke commercials that had the topless construction men in them (if you don't, I have included it at the bottom for your enjoyment) ? Well I lived for those commercials when I was little --- until I noticed that their awful steel-toed boots that they were wearing. Whose wives would let them leave the house like that, little 8 year old LCF thought to herself. No husband of mine would ever leave the house like that I concluded.* So if maybe one day my husband needs to do some construction, these are the boots that he should wear under his snug 501s.

Please note the amazing perms, mu-mus and glasses that the women are all wearing...somehow as an 8 year old, I was much more concerned with the slight flash of steeltoe at the beginning of the shot.

*At 8 years old, I was also convinced that I would most likely marry John Travolta. My first choice was Danny Zuko (obvi) but I would have settled for JT as the dirty cab driver in Look Whos Talking. 


Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Vogue Italia celebrates the female form

Good Evening Darlings,

I bring you this special nighttime storm edition of FLF because I am feeling especially inspired and passionate about this. Vogue Italia has put three plus size models on the cover. Beautiful women who are not ashamed of their bodies because they don't look like Kate Moss or Blake Lively. Women who were blessed with bodies that made Botticelli famous.

Somehow this news came at just the right time for me personally. After seeing some unflattering photos of my problem area, I regressed and had a little breakdown. Now, obviously I know that I am never going to be a thin person. I never have been a thin person and really it's just not in the gene pool for me. And usually, I'm okay with that. I eat well, I work out often, and I am who I am. But for some reason this time I got really upset and had to depend on my husband to continually tell me how beautiful I am...which I love, but would like to be able to see it on my own without his rose coloured glasses.

So, no I won't wear a bikini. And I'm never going to be that petite girl. I am and have always been as strong as the boys for better or worse. And although my shoulders are broad and my calves are more muscular than lanky, I am still a woman and I still deserve to be treated with respect by people and by the industry. If the industry only knew how much money I spent on clothes each year, they would respect me. Please produce clothes that fit me as well as they fit my friends who wear size 2. It's not that difficult. A few changes to a pattern makes a world of difference. Maybe I should go back to my first career choice and just start designing fabulous clothes for women who will never be a size 2.

And the worst part is that sometimes I feel like people respect me less because I am not a size 2. Or that people don't want to be my friend because I don't look like a star on the CW. And I know you are reading this and saying to yourself "she's crazy." But the crazy thing is that this is true. There are days when all of us feel so bad about ourselves for one reason or another. And it's ridiculous. I know that this blog is about being fabulous and in love with you self (which you all should be), but there are days when we all are low. I want people to like me for who I am, sometimes I'm shallow, sometimes I eat Kraft Singles out of the fridge, and sometimes I cannot articulate how I am feeling in a way that you will understand. We all have our neurosis. But body image is a hard thing to shake when you are constantly surrounded by the media telling you how you should look and friends who also seem to have been granted the LnL (long and lean) gene.

But back to the point: This spread in Italian Vogue is amazing. The women are magnificent and glow with the knowledge that they are making women worldwide breathe a sigh of relief that there are women that look like them. And that they can be just as luminous as their LnL friends.


Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Maine, year 10, day 2, well I started writing on day 2...

Good Morning Darlings,

As many of you know, every summer of my adult life, I have spent the summer in the middle of nowhere in Maine hanging out with teens. I work at a summer camp for adolescents and through the years, I have done just about every job there is to do. I have obviously worked as a cabin counselor, hanging out with the ladies talking about everything from fashion to boys to AP history. I taught ballet, fashion illustration, cooking, powerwalking (don't laugh, it was one of the most popular classes in camp history if I am not mistaken). And you know eventually I earned my stripes and worked my way into an office job, first planning the evening social activities, then coordinating travel, and this summer I have probably reached the apex of jobs that I can do at camp and will be making sure that everything and everyone is where they need to be when they are supposed to be there. It sounds simple, but it is like an ever changing logic problem. There is no exact answer, well there are answers, but then something or someone changes and the answer must change as well.

I don;t know if you can picture this, but I walk around all day with a walkie talkie on my back pocket (it makes wearing dresses kind of a pain in the tush) and a clipboard in my hand (well sometimes I just do that to look important). And I sit in an office all day that overlooks the beautiful Lake Stanley:

Anyway what I wanted to talk about was the difference between winter clothes and summer clothes. Now I may be biased about this because for my entire adult life, I have only really worn summer clothes in the middle of nowhere Maine. This could be entirely different for someone who works in an (uggghh) real office during the summer!

So as you all know, during the winter I am a total Glamazon (see: Please refer back to my post ( You know, I get weekly manis, and bi-weekly waxes. I straighten my silky dark hair contour my cheekbones like Kevin Aucoin has risen from the dead (RIP you talented man you). I wear my blacks with my navys and accessorize with bangles that could be used as necklaces for very fashionable babies and rings that even Elton (John) would be jealous of. I apologize for ending that sentence with a preposition. I listen to Depeche Mode and Recovering the Satellites and Kanye's newest serves as a good conversation piece during the winter months when you can't just go jump in the ocean when you don't know what people are talking about.
This is the kind of fashionable baby that would wear my KJL tiger bracelet as a necklace. All of his/her (androgony is the next big thing and they ALREADY know that) friends would be jealous. Wondering what's blasting on the cans? I can assure you that it's either MIKA (don't even hate) or something amazing and indie like Rilo Kiley pre-2006. They are telling all of their friends what a great find this is and how they were going to say that they liked them way back before Jenny Lewis was Jenny Lewis. 

  I like to consider myself a Glamazon during the summer months as well, although I know that it is more questionable. However, I have developed quite the LCF look during the summer months. And yes, it does involve tie dye and birkenstocks (I've got two pairs bitches, matte silver and patent red) and buying used Subarus (oh you just wait for the new post/photo shoot when we get ours). It also involves highlights, air drying and feather extensions. I tend to keep myself fairly tan with a mix of fake and natural. My cheekbones are usually only as contoured as good old God has created them (really only as good as Scott and Patty could come up with, which is not as contoured as I would have liked, but I'm not going to complain too much). My eyelashes are only coated with one coat of mascara, and my toes are always pedicured with Malibu Barbie Pink. My apparel changes drastically as I prefer Bermuda shorts and denim cutoffs to leather leggings and lace trimmed tanks with seersucker blazers to expensive shirts that need to be drycleaned after each wear. I enjoy wearing handmade friendship bracelets around my usually unadorned ankles. I have yet to reach the toe ring phase of my life, which is one of my worst nightmares. Not as nightmarish as this:

And I listen to Jack Johnson and the other Counting Crows albums. I get dirty and don't care. I wear long maxi dresses with havianas and cowboy hats. I carry a Kleen Kanteen as an accessory. You can usually find a stick or leaf or piece of nature of some sort in my hair. I stop and look at the sunrise, the sunset, and the way the wind makes the lake ripple. I laugh more, love more, and think more. Summer is actually the season that makes me the happiest. The sweatier, the better. I live for a cold beer at the end of the day (although I'll never say no to a gimlet, no matter the season) and a good chat around the campfire.

I know some people think I turn into a dirty hippie during the summer, but it is indeed quite the opposite. My inner Glamazon comes out during the summer, so I don't have to work so hard on my outer Glamazon. In fact, I actually enjoy the gap between my teeth  and the freckles on my face during the summer. I embrace me during the summer. I hope you embrace yourself too.



PS. Next time, I will tell you about this one time I urinated on my RayBans while on the Appalachian Trail.

Sunday, May 29, 2011

She's Leaving Home

Good Morning Darlings,

Last night I had a drinks with a few local friends to bid adieu to my life as a Philadelphian (or a Philly Jawn* as any real Philly kid would say)  for a while.We met at the Continental Midtown on the rooftop deck, which was much more crowded than expected for Memorial Day weekend. In fact, it was packed! I got there early and was already surrounded by way too many bros and an already drunk bachelorette party (note to bridesmaids: buying your bride a pink bride tiara and sash from spencers without putting any individual twists on them makes you a bad bridesmaid. just saying) So obviously I was the first one to arrive...and as I sat at the bar by myself drinking what else, but a BlueCoat Gimlet, I made some observations.

For those of you who don't know (either you don't live in the tristate area or you live under a rock in the tristate area) Steven Starr is the big Philly restauranteur. He mades theme parks for adults and disguises them as restaurants. He's easy to hate on because he is about as corporate as Philly gets and Philly loves to damn the man. From my moderate point of view, he has given this job a ridiculous amount of fairly stable jobs and pretty much singlehandedly revived the diminishing restaurant scene. Anyway, it all started with The Continental (le original at 2nd and Market), a martini bar with a very mod feel to it. We used to go there in high school to drink champagne cocktails with tang on the rim (I believe they are called Buzz Aldrins) because they never carded us and we pretty much loved to use our disposable income pretending that we were sophisticated ladies who eat expensive Asian tapas and drink drinks with more sugar than Mondos (Although Mondo from Project Runway was pretty sickeningly sweet as well).
Mondo, the lovable Reality Show Fashion Designer
A Buzz Aldrin, yes that is Tang on the rim
What kind of parents would let their child drink this? I do like their Alliterative Flavour Name however

 Anyway, his empire grew in Philadelphia and beyond. Each restaurant has a shtick, but the food is always decent and no more expensive than any other restaurant in Philly. A bunch of years ago, Starr added a second Continental closer to my hood in a huge corner property. The space used to be a Casual Corner women's apparel shop and even as a child I remember looking into the windows and wondering what type of women wore the things they sold in that shop. I believe it was around that time (let's say somewhere between '89 and '92) that "unfortunate" became a part of my vocabulary. When you walk into the Continental, the first thing you think of is the Brady Bunch house. I mean, it's completely contrived, but it is an open space with two floors, hanging birdcage chairs, sunken tables, mirrored walls and retro light fixtures. The rooftop bar has a round table and keeps with the super mod theme. All of Starr's restaurants are like this, themed to the last detail. It's kind of hoaky, but he's a very rich genius for coming up with a formula and sticking to it.

Anyway, my first observation last night was that bros (see: like to point out the obvious in loud voices in hopes that the female version of a bro (what do we call that?) will hear it and it will work like a mating call. Last night, I am sitting trying to enjoy my gimlet, when a large hairy hand reaches over me to grab a menu. I hear 

" Bro, it looks like a f**king 60s like lounge up here. Bro, it's like f**king mad men or something."

I was hoping that the Bros would look like this, but alas.


I wanted to turn around and point out that "yes since they happen to be patronizing a 60s themed restaurant, it makes sense that they feel as though they might be hanging out with Draper and Sterls (who would have nothing to do with these boys IMHO) but could they please not announce their stupidity to the entire bar?" But I'm a lady, so I did not. These same Bros ordered a "vodka coke" which means

A. They are true bros and cannot be pressured into drinking decent liquor , and will order well vodka until they day they die (get married)

B. They still have the taste of children. Coke? COOOOOKE? With your vodka? Guhross. 

They also made a grand showing of taking the pink straws out of the drink and making fun of the pinkness. Okay. 

So that was the first bro observation of the night.

The next bro observation was the next pack of bros to huddle up next to me at the bar. One bro says:

Bro1: "I feel like in order to fit in here, I should order a Pimms Cup. It's totally appropriate"
Bro2: "What's in it?"
Bro1: "I don't know, but I bet Draper would drink it"
The Bros engage in a high five to congratulate themselves on replicating their favourite womanizing television character. Bro1 receives his Pimms Cup, takes a sip, and spits it out (warranting a chuckle from the female bartender who probably has a similar thought process to me when it comes to these things)
Bro1: I can't drink that s**t.
Bro2: CHUG IT.
Bro1 chugs it.
Bro1: (to bartender) I'll have a Miller light.

Excuse me, bros, but I'm fairly certain that Don Draper nor any other member of the SDCP family would drink a Pimms Cup (well maybe Lane, he is British after all), as while the drink was kind of popular in 1960s, it had it's heyday in the 50s. Not to mention that it is traditionally a daytime summer drink. Anyway boys, you might want to do your research next time. And let's be honest, you'll probably have better luck with the ladies that you are interested in if you stay home, shotgun some brewskis and text your 2am bootycall instead of lifting your pinky while drinking your cucumber garnished $12 cocktail.

Okay, enough hating. Maybe.

Well yea, another thing that bugged me about last night was the male bathroom attendant. Well really that there was a bathroom attendant at all. Now, I am happy to tip and I am a great tipper, but listen I can turn the water on and get my own paper towel. But since you just did that for me I should feel obligated to give you a dollar? No sorry. I'm upstairs paying $13 for 4oz of champagne, they can pay you more. And it's not like there is a basket of fun stuff like tampons and hairspray. Just a guy running in front of you so that he can turn the water on before you get there. Can you say wasted water? For heavens sake! And can you imagine how this poor guy must feel? Turning water on for drunk girls in tight dresses all night? Well actually now that I think of it, I guess it's not that bad of a job.

Anyway, it was an interesting evening full of champagne in cans, friends both old and new, and lots and lots of humidity, just ask these guys: