Upon seeing Kate, I think I made the same face the now infamous Gracie did. Uh…well….hmm….
Hear me out. Kate has been touted to be the hip, modern, fun princess-to-be. It was rumored she was going to choose Alexander McQueen. ALEXANDER MCQUEEN. GTFO. Amazing. I was expecting to be blown away. And the dress….well….yes, it was beautiful. But…it was so…safe. Immediately every news station flashed a side by side of Grace Kelly from 1956.
Not exactly hip and modern. Pretty? Yes of course, but just not quite, Good Golly Miss Molly!!!
And then Pippa. Oh HEY fun and cool younger sister, Pip! Now THAT was a knock ‘em out dress. Throw a train on that, and Kate would have looked AH-MAZING.
But I get that she wanted to go more classic with the dress. Fine. Whatever. But the 2 inch barrel curling iron, half-up-half-down, middle school graduation hair and the I’m just going to go run errands make-up?! I can’t. YOU ARE GOING TO BE QUEEN! Let someone do your make-up. Let 10 people do your make-up. And the “neutral” manicure. You’re killing me Kate. KILLING ME.
So I’m just kind of left with, “Ya, she was pretty.” I didn’t need Carrie Bradshaw. But when Posh shows up to your wedding with art on her FOREHEAD, you better SHUT IT DOWN as the bride.
I told you it was unpopular. All in all, she was beautiful and there was a sense of magic in the world, but I could have used a little more Oomph.
And in closing, I just want to say I loved when Kate smirked when William recited, “For richer or poorer.” Let’s be honest. They should change those vows to "For richer or ROYAL." I’d smirk, too.
1. Going out to the bar for “one drink” on a Wednesday night is never a good idea. Especially when green tea martinis on the rocks in mason jars are present.
2. Hanging out with a group of fun Brits while heavily drinking the night BEFORE the royal wedding is an epic, epic failure.
3. Bruley doesn’t understand, “Walk yourself, Mommy has a hangover and needs every last minute of sleep before work.” We’ll work on that command.
4. Californians can’t calculate the time difference between here and the UK for the life of them. I’ve heard “official” news reports telling me to wake up at 1am, 2am, 3am, and 4am to catch the live feed.
5. If there is any chance in hell I’ll be able to be up at one of the aforementioned hours (still yet to be determined), I need to be in bed right about…now. It’s 12:47 pm. F me.
A “Glee”-Gaga collaboration seemed unbeatable until it wasn’t. And the episode’s failure is an equally bad sign for both of them. Here’s what it means for Gaga: her rise to hysterical, ubiquitous star status happened with incredible speed. Now, she’s plateauing — or maybe even slipping. (If “Glee” fans won’t tune in for her, who will?) Plus, the criticism long-hurled against the singer — that her fame comes from outfits and controversy, not musical innovation — is finally catching up with her. Case in point: she releases “Judas” during Easter week to roil up the Catholics. Meanwhile, the only thing anyone has to say about the actual music is “sounds like Madonna.” Failing to reel in a “Glee” audience should teach Gaga that she’s got to work as hard as any other artist to keep her fans — and the recording studio, not the person-sized-egg-factory, is where that work should take place. Then there’s “Glee” itself. We’ve already complained that the show is neglecting the characters that made it so lovable — and going in circles with storylines. Now, it’s eminently clear that stunts like the 90-minute Gaga episode aren’t going to keep the show afloat. Which means serious change had better be in store for season three — change that includes some paring down.
And finally, someone gets it. Rest of the article here.
“Ms. Lohan has always been a very good inmate while she is in custody. She is always extremely cooperative and we have had no problems with her.”—
Steve Whitmore, LA Sheriff’s Department
Filed under: Unintentionally hilarious. Please never let anyone have the ability to generalize how I might behave while incarcerated based on previous experience. I’m hoping they can’t even start a story, “This one time…”
Filed under: Things I didn’t think would happen before it happened to me.
Kristen, I used to watch you when you were a super bitch in high school. (Team LC forever.) I will say, you should have received an Emmy for your terminal bitchface and mean girl eye rolls. And let’s be honest, you had amazing hair for a high-schooler, but you are still a kid to me. You were in high school, like yesterday, right? Engaged! I can’t.
“When I was 18 years old, I took a semester off from college and was an intern at Late Night With Conan O’Brien. It was the most glamorous job I ever had, and I idolized the writers there. I remember lying in bed every night telling myself that if I ever got a job as a comedy writer, I would be so happy and all my dreams would have come true. Six years later I got that job, working on The Office. I felt incredibly happy and grateful for a about a week, and then a whole new set of complaints set in. This would’ve shocked and disgusted my 18-year-old self. It’s helpful to remember the younger version of me because it reminds me to feel grateful when I want to be snotty. Also a little scary because obviously, happiness for me does not come from career success alone.”—
There was time in my life when 420 meant a whole lot more than sittin at my desk counting down the hours til I can go home, hang out with my dog, pour myself a little PG (that’s Pinot Grigio kiddos) and catch up on Real Housewives episodes on my DVR. Maybe a lil American Idol for kicks. But that’s neither here nor there. I found myself wondering the origins of the “holiday.” Thanks to Wikipedia and Snopes, here goes:
The term was allegedly coined by a group of teenagers in San Rafael, California in 1971. Calling themselves the Waldos, because “their chosen hang-out spot was a wall outside the school,” the group first used the term in connection to a fall 1971 plan to search for an abandoned cannabis crop that they had learned about.The Waldos designated the Louis Pasteur statue on the grounds of San Rafael High School as their meeting place, and 4:20 p.m. as their meeting time.The Waldos referred to this plan with the phrase “4:20 Louis”. Multiple failed attempts to find the crop eventually shortened their phrase to simply “4:20”, which ultimately evolved into a codeword the teens used to mean pot-smoking in general.
I mean, that’s it? I grew up thinking it was the police code, or something to that effect. Not true either:
420 is the penal code section for marijuana use in California. Nope. Section 420 of the California penal code refers to obstructing entry on public land. The penal codes of other states list different entries for 420, but none of them matches anything having to do with marijuana. However, on 1 January 2004 the Governor of California signed that state’s Senate Bill 420, which regulates marijuana used for medical purposes. This bill comes years after the term ‘420’ was associated with marijuana and indeed its number likely was chosen because of the existing pop culture connection.
It’s the Los Angeles or New York police radio code for marijuana smoking in progress. It’s not the police radio code for anything, let alone that.
It’s the number of chemical compounds in marijuana. The number of chemical compounds in marijuana is 315, according to the folks at High Times magazine.
Check out Snopes for some other falsities and explanations.
So that’s it. Just some stoner kids back in the 70’s meeting up at 4:20, after school. Go forth and prosper my stoner friends. Enjoy it for the rest of us.
GET IT TOGETHER. As someone who is afraid to fly, I’d sincerely appreciate if you can possibly have a little pow-wow, talk it out, change up the coffee in the kitchen, do what you gotta do…just GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER.
Just now, an air traffic controller made an error that could have killed our first lady. Oh come the fuck on!
And then earlier today, a guy got caught watching a movie at his desk. And not even a good one! Okay fine, yes I’m watching Ellen at work right now, but Dude, I work in reality tv. I don’t control thousands of people’s lives while they are in alluminum cans 30,000 feet above the earth. Know what I’m sayin?
This is after seven, SEVEN (que Monica Gellar), SEVEN mother f’ers have been reported falling asleep on the job. SEVEN!
And the boss resigned, which is always good and bad in any profession.
GET IT TOGETHER.
You know who is looking mighty fine right about now? Amtrak.
No, but for reals, I had a dream last night that’s been throwing me off all day. In said dream, I moved back to New York. Just up and moved back. It was random, even in the dream. I remember thinking, “When did I decide this? I just moved in with Kara in LA.” I was sad I left LA and couldn’t fathom what my mother was thinking, but I was just so damn happy to be back. At the same time, it felt weird. Like I wasn’t supposed to be there. Dreams, oy!
It’s been throwing me because within the last year, I’ve started to make a home for myself in LA. I’ve been at my job for a year, now. I convinced my best friend in the world to uproot her life in Boston and be my roommate. I haven’t missed a birthday party or family function—all things that bothered me while living on the east coast. LA has become my home base, again. But in my dream, I was right back there, in it, loving it, feeling home. I grew up in New York. I spent ages 17—25 in the city. I met the most incredible 8 women who I now refer to as “the girls.” I got my first real job, where I met more amazing, life long friends. I met a boy who became my boyfriend of 6 years. I traipsed around that city like it was my very own amusement park, meant for me. I wined and dined. I whined. I laughed. I got drunk and bought a dog. I read Anthony Rapp’s memoir about RENT on my rooftop on the corner of 5th and 2nd Ave, knowing RENT got its start a block away. Uptown. Downtown. “Upstate,” meaning less than an hour north of Manhattan. Jersey. Brooklyn. You name it, I did it. And I loved every miserable, masochistic, delightful minute of it. I’ve never felt so alive, so part of something, so, “this is where I’m supposed to be.”
So why did I move? Well, for starters, I’m from the west coast. And knowing that my mom spent the better part of 8 years sobbing, made things difficult. And remember that aforementioned boyfriend? I moved to San Diego with him so he could attend law school. I thought I had had enough. It was the dead of winter when we moved, just around that time when most New Yorkers contemplate ending it all with a swan dive into the Hudson. I was out of work. My landlord was being a total dick. I thought, “What the hell!” And I look back on those last few months, and I now say the same thing. WHAT THE HELL. What was I thinking? How could I give it all up? New York is where I belong. New York is ME. Look what you’ve gone and done. Why did I do it? What did it get me? I don’t blame him. I’m a big girl. I didn’t have to move. But I did, and I don’t know if I’ll ever really swallow that.
Don’t get me wrong. I have A LOT going for me in Los Angeles. This summer is going to be great, I can feel it. I have my family, a great job, my best friend, amazing weather, and Bruley, of course. I just don’t know if I’ll ever get that feeling back. I want to, trust me I do. I want LA to feel like my city. And maybe it won’t ever. People tell me all the time, “Why don’t you just move back!” It’s not that simple. It’s never, just that simple. Maybe one day I’ll go back. Maybe I’ll fill that hole in my heart again. Maybe it won’t be LA or New York that will do it. Maybe there are so many adventures that are yet to come. And that’s exciting, too. So for now, I’m trying to shake that dream, and instead of focusing on what I had, I’m looking forward to what I don’t even know I’m missing, yet.
Guess who is going to have an awesome commute home?
If you’re not in LA right now, you’re normal programming has probably not been interrupted by breaking news of a murder suspect in the area near my office. Streets are shut down. Kiddos are locked in the classrooms. The FBI is en route.
I hope they catch this asshole. They are searching cars and telling people to keep their doors closed. I’m watching an areal view of my commute home. It ain’t looking good. Come on guy, give it up…at least by 5pm? Pretty please? You’re totally fucked as it is.
My parents are on Spring Break. Seriously. I’m sitting at work, and my parents jetted off to Me-hi-co for a little fun in the sun. I received this gem in my inbox:
We arrived safely. It is beautiful here, having a great time. The name of the hotel is [redacted], tiny boutique hotel. South of Cancun. I will write later. How is my bear? I tried to watch the movie on the plane with the French bulldog lookalike but could not. The dog looks a lot like Bruley but there was not enough of him and too much of silly dialogue. I tried.
Sent from my iPad
So many things wrong with this. First, my sister and I are hoping they run into 60,000 kids from the mid-west. They were so insistent they were NOT going near Spring Break territory, and all I kept saying is, it’s April and you’re going to Cancun. OHYESYOUARE. But serves them right if they hear echos of SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS, EVERYBODY! Also, Mom, you have a master’s degree, & I know typing is a relatively new technology and all, but can you try not to sound like my 8 year old nephew? The dog is fine, sorry you didn’t like that Robert Downey Jr. movie, and please bring me home some tequila. Sigh.
Spring Break….remember WHEN!! I had some pretty epic Spring Breaks in my time. (I even PLANNED it one year for my sorority.) Wah. I wanna go back. I’m missing Puerto Rico 2004, since that was pre-facebook & digi cameras, but I found Jamaica 2005:
I know what we can do to terrorists. Make them move. And by that I mean, make them pack up their childhood bedroom (which also served as storage for an eight year stint on the east coast) and move to a new apartment. On a limited budget. While working a full time job. Make them deal with Direct TV, Time Warner, and AT&T customer service. I swear, Osama would be pledging his allegiance to Obama in no time.
Okay, I feel better after that rant. I know I’ve been semi-MIA and lacking in original content, but I’ll be back sooner than later.
One of the problems I know I know a lot of renters face is the dreaded BEIGE. Beige walls. Beige carpets. (I never knew how good I had it in NYC when it came to flooring). Outdated beige cabinetry. Beige ceilings. BEIGE. BEIGE. BEIGE. I’m drowning it it. Contributing to the problem is my furniture. Anywhere else, it’s a beautiful warm wood. In my new apartment? A slightly darker shade of BEIGE. Bah! We’re painting in the living room—pictures, soon—but we’re opting to leave the bedrooms alone. I brought my bedding from my parents’ house which I purchased less than a year ago thinking it would add a pop of color. With my deep purple walls at home, it looked so funky and modern. In my apartment? It’s muted and off -white, making it a slightly lighter shade of beige. If Bruley didn’t have brown eyes, I might have already frantically called animal control looking for him. Old bedding:
So I did what any girl would do with really serious, life-changing problems. I bust out that whore of an Amex—seriously, she’s been all over down sliding in whatever slot she sees fit—and ordered new bedding from Crate and Barrel. What’s another few hundos when I’m broke as joke? It’s like jeans. You know you’ll wear them everyday so why not spend the big bucks? I’m gonna spend at least 8 hours a day in that bed, right? So ladies and gents, I present to you, my new bedding.