It’s 20 degrees out and you’ve forgotten your gloves again. So typical. Thank goodness your scarf works overtime. Or it would if you owned Wolf & Harrison’s knit scarf with pockets perfect for stuffing your nearly frost-bitten mitts in. Oh crap. Forgot your earmuffs too? No worries, this scarf is long enough to wrap around your ears too. You won’t freeze to death this winter after all.
Nineteen-year-old Scout Willis recently sat down with step-dad Ashton Kutcher to perform a song they wrote called “My Sober” for a YouTube vid. It’s a sweet little ditty and I like the simplicity of Scout’s voice over Ashton’s humble guitar strumming, but I’m sort of distracted by the fact that theirs is technically a parent/child relationship. I mean, he looks like he could be her boyfriend or older brother, especially decked out in that football jersey. It weirds me out. [PopEater
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Not to pull a #humblebrag, but I’ve been to my share of fashion shows. They’re pretty boring. I’ll go to more in the future, I’m sure, but only if work requires — with a few exceptions. Should I ever be sent an invitation to a Dior haute couture fashion show in Paris, I’d cancel my plans, sell all my furniture to afford the last minute plane ticket and book it to the nearest airport. Dior just presented their Spring/Summer 2011 haute couture collection and it was a straight-up spectacle of over-the-top, fantastical, but completely gorgeous clothes. I’m not usually blown away by models — I mean, human clothes hangers, right? — but these bitches worked it. How could they not? Keep clicking to see what I mean…
Sunday morning, at 2:30 a.m., I was jostled from my deep slumber by the obnoxious trill of my cellphone alerting me to a new text message. I knew it had to be one of two people. Anyone else who would text at such a late hour would be being rude, but a booty call is just playing by the rules.
I didn’t get the little rush I usually feel when I realize someone wants to come over to bang me in the middle of the night. I didn’t even really feel flattered. I glanced at my phone to double check — yep, Likely Candidate #1, the 28-year-old who was probably hoping for a good luck f**k on behalf of the Jets before that evening’s championship game. I clicked my phone to silent and got back underneath the covers. Not interested. This was kind of a big deal, as two weeks ago — before I began my sex/dating/drinking sabbatical — I would have texted him back in the affirmative and spent the 15 minutes before he arrived ensuring I didn’t have bad breath and that my armpits were shaved. Keep reading »