I’m not proud to admit I’ve already clocked more hours on my wedding-gown search than I did choosing a college.
From afar, it seemed like a fun task to find a gorgeous vintage dress to get married in. On the other hand, it only has to be the most knock-’em-dead dress of a lifetime, to be photographed more than any other outfit I will ever wear.
The upside of going vintage is that nearly every gown is one of a kind. This is also the downside. When you find a real beaut, there’s always at least one thing wrong: color, condition, price, it’s already sold (second most common problem), or the most common and aggravating issue of all, size. Keep reading »
I’ve been growing my hair out for 10 years, ever since I got a totally tragic close-crop days before graduation from high school. I had kind of low self-esteem and I was majorly obsessed with Gwyneth Paltrow’s new short cut (you know the one — it closely resembled then boyfriend Brad Pitt’s hair too) — I came to the conclusion that if I cut off all my hair just like hers, I, too, would be pretty. Fat chance. The haircut, for starters, was poorly executed. Additionally, my hair was still in that post-puberty stage of frizzy horribleness — and I did not yet understand that flat irons and blow dryers could be my friend. The haircut was a disaster and I have spent the last 10 years growing it out, associating prettiness and femininity with length.
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A couple of years ago, when I was a freelance writer, I got Botox. I was working on a story for a women’s magazine in the U.K. about “ageorexia” — women in their 20′s and early 30′s who were getting anti-aging treatments and surgeries as a preventative measure rather than as maintenance. While I interviewed a number of women about the subject, I also thought it was a good opportunity to do a little Gonzo-style journalism and get a cosmetic procedure myself. Keep reading »
Hold onto your mouse pads, I have a revelation for you (drum roll please): online friends are not the same as their “real world” equivalents.
I know, duh. You rarely, if ever, actually see the people you meet online. They don’t go with you to the grocery store or to check out the cute guy at Starbucks and are unlikely to ever ask to borrow your Marc Jacobs handbag (meaning you never have to humiliate them by saying no). If you’re going through a bad time, they might be there with some emailed sympathy and advice but call them in tears at 4 AM and you’re crossing over into stalker territory.
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On a last night’s episode of “The Hills,” Spencer was being his usual d-bag self, but I couldn’t believe he was so rude to Heidi’s mother that she later cried on camera. This to me is the most unthinkable sin for a boyfriend or husband to commit. I’ve never understood how a woman can date a man that doesn’t get along with her family, especially if she has a close or at least workable relationship with them.
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Recently, my friend became a naturist. I re-read her email twice to make sure she hadn’t said “naturalist”. But no: there it was in 12 point Verdana, as clear as the shock on my face: “I’ve joined a naturism society”.
I couldn’t be more shocked had she joined a satanic cult. Not only is she English to an almost stereotypical degree (reserved to the point of inhibition – or so I thought – and sporting milk-pale skin prone to burning) but she lives for Doris Day musicals and her politics make Sarah Palin look liberal.
And yet her new hobby is meeting up with people she doesn’t know… and taking off all her clothes. Keep reading »