I'm heading over to tape Fox News' Lips & Ears today for the first time in two weeks (due a rather large number of rehearsals for the Fox Business network last week) ... can't wait to see my favorite reporter-hostess (dear god, I stopped myself JUST BARELY from saying "with-the-mostess" - barf), Courtney Friel!
Here we are at the Nannette Lepore show during Fashion Week at the beginning of September. I'm wearing Couture de H&M, and I sort of like my hair in a bun. I should try that more often. Also, standing on the other side in the picture for once. Old photo habits die very, very hard.
It's like hanging out with Reporter Barbie!! But she's so sweet.
Before Neil Cavuto's show yesterday, I ran into Flat Tax himself, who happened to be a college classmate of my Dad's. (Judge Napolitano was as well). I wasn't quite sure what to say to good old Steve-o - like, should I go brutal? "Hey, I've been on your yacht! It's really ... plaid. Um. You know, you can redecorate boats, right? They're not fixed in 1983 for all eternity. Just thinking out loud here!" Instead I smiled and babbled about Britney and stars making comebacks, and then asked him what he was going on to talk about. "A friend of mine, who just died." Oh. And the insensitive asshole award goes to ... ME!
Betsey Johnson's Spring 2008 show, held in the Tents at Bryant Park (on September 11th) was my absolute favorite of ALL the collections I saw the entire week. Hello, the theme was PROM, for chrissake!!! It's almost impossible for me to describe without using egregious exclamation marks and lots of incredulous, positive expletives, so let's just put it this way: I squealed throughout the entire thing. SQUEALED. Which totally humiliated my friend and fashion week companion, the designer Mary Rambin. She appreciated the theatrics, but not so much the crinoline. As for me, petticoats and giant bows with poofs and flounces worn at a giant pink sparkle covered dance is my idea - literally - of heaven. Check out Betsey's collection below:
Thanks to the extraordinary talents of the ever capable, always patient Eric Lodwick for making all of my Star Magazine Fashion Week videos possible.
Dear God, I love the prom. I would go to prom every year for the rest of my life, if I could. Twice a year, even.
From tonight's Marc Bouwer show, which was achingly gorgeous - both the sharp black & whites and the stunningly bright rainbow hued dresses. Absolutely my favorite collection of the week, better even than L.A.M.B.
I sat in the front row next to Courtney Friel, here in Robert Rodriguez with Louboutin heels. I'm wearing Chanel and Manolos. We both felt very fabulous indeed.
You may have noticed I haven't posted many photos lately (which is, um, cough, cough, VERY unlike me) ... I just don't have time! Here's a few from tonight to tide you over until Fashion Week concludes on Tuesday.
with the smart, funny, and yeah, gorgeous FoxNews entertainment reporter Courtney Friel, who came with me to Nicholai (toting her best accessory - husband Carter, a reporter for Channel 9!)
with the hysterical and (obviously) fashionable Greg Littlely at the Unruly Heir show
Um, yeah. I picked out this model to be the father of my children. I don't know his name, but honestly, is that really relevant? No, it is not. LOOK AT HIM. Are you still breathing? In heaven, all men will look like this. Also, they will be brilliant and enjoy discussing categorical imperatives, wearing polo shirts and pastel pants, and dressing up small dogs in outfits. Except in heaven, they won't be gay.
No bikini shots here! Because I'm classy now. Also, someone's gained a little weight, which I think could perhaps stem from a diet mainly consisting of french fries and Milky Ways, while continuing to live in the deep denial that confuses "paying for a gym membership while remaining more or less unclear as to said gym's location" as "exercise." (No, seriously. Once I actually tried to go there - 2nd time since LAST AUGUST, and after walking around for a while, I couldn't find it, so I gave up and got a mid-afternoon sugar snack at Whole Foods instead). Other activities rounding out my daily physical fitness routine: "trudging to corner deli for the purpose of purchasing very large, very moist, very chocolate chip cookies" and "getting out of bed." Sigh.
At Rendezvous, another St. Lucian resort, although one I wouldn't recommend, due to their incredibly offensive and backward stance on gay couples (they won't let them stay there). Bizarre.
There are probably about four people alive who can fully comprehend the enormity of this for me, but I'll attempt an explanation. Ana - back when she wrote DC's political blog Wonkette - was the very first person to ever make fun of me online (an impressive distinction, really). She called me out when I was a baby sex columnist at Georgetown, after the then-Washington Post gossip reporter Lloyd Grove busted me for seeing ex-Rep Harold Ford. Lloyd is now a friend of mine (Harold, not so much), but although I kept hearing about Ana through the media grapevine, attended some of the same parties - and even re-enacted conversations involving her - I never managed to actually get a face-to-face ... until last night, when she sat down TWO SEATS FROM ME. Ahh!
It blows my mind that it could take five years for us to actually meet, but I have to say - totally worth the wait. I've always respected Ana's writing; she's fucking smart, and the most hysterical political writer since Chris Buckley. Like many women writers (okay, women in general), she's incredibly self-deprecating with regard to her work, albeit unnecessarily so. She gets far less credit than Maureen Dowd, while consistently being a better writer and thinker. Also, she's much hotter. Which is neither here nor there, of course, but it's something I really can't help but add, namely because I'm a shallow bitch who's always secretly wanted to be a redhead, damnit.
In the interim, because I know you can't possibly wait ONE MORE SECOND, here are a few of my favorite photos from the event and subsequent afterparties. Despite the decidedly weak comic performance of poor Mr. Little, it was, frankly, a fucking incredible time.
with my good friend from college, Alexander Marquardt,
now an unbelievably talented anchor on Channel One.
Philippe Reines, Hillary Clinton's Press Secretary,
and a truly phenomenal seat-sharer, right behind a certain belligerent Karl Rove.
Along with thousands of other similarly suburban-raised white girls, I can rap 100% of the lyrics to "Baby Got Back."
Indeed, I know several rap songs, including but not limited to "Paul Revere," any by Wyclef, and those involving Hos and disparate phone prefixes. In fact, I have fond memories being 16, rollin' in my sea green Ford Contour in the northern Chicago 'burbs, screaming "Regulators, MOUNT UP!" I did not know what a Regulator was, but if Warren G & Nate Dogg said they should Mount Up, they should, damnit.
[I've obviously mellowed in my old age, because Pocahontas' "Colors of the Wind" is playing right now on my iTunes. Of course, the previous song was "Promiscuous Girl," but it's on shuffle so I take absolutely no credit for the irony.]
In any case, despite my practically encyclopedic knowledge of pop rap, I have - until last Friday - avoided using the term "Gatt" in conversation or, yes, flashing fake gang signs while posing for photos.
I italicize this because A) I'm shocked. It seems like the kind of totally-obnoxious-cheesy thing I would do. and B) My fellow really-really white girls seem to have taken a different direction. Many ladies feel that, if in photographic doubt, GANG SIGNS = REALLY COOL.
In fact, this video really sums it up:
In homage to this, the ridiculously adorable, bring-her-home-to-mom, so-white-she's-clear media reporter Rachel Sklar and I decided to flash our own unique gang signs at Arianna Huffington's book party last Friday.
As I think you'll quickly deduce, they give us an ineffable aura of "badass." Also, confusion.
Below, photos from last Wednesday's Vogue party in honor of Versace's new collection ... or something. I wasn't really paying attention, but instead thinking about how marvelous it felt to wear something other than H&M for once. In a shocking show of good faith, Dolce & Gabbana lent me the dress below.
My conclusion? Let's put it this way: I could get used to a relentless cycle of going out in gorgeous dresses which cost 3.5 times my rent (just an estimate - b/c despite my best efforts to be gauche, I couldn't find a price tag). But then again, who couldn't? yawn.
Back in the real world, I'm currently wearing couture de Gap flannel tartan PJs (on sale!) and an old Georgetown tee. Because that is how I roll. High/low, baby! Er ... High/Low/Low/Low. Baby.
In my grandmother's coat from the 50s, which she gave me when I was 16. Nothing like vintage you actually found in an attic. Not from your stylist.
St. Patrick's Day: Where some see opportunities for binge drinking, I see opportunities for green costume-and-hat wearing and/or foisting of shamrock bandanas upon small white dogs.
Lilly, working it. Owning it. Showing it love.
With the poop-joke loving Bill Schultz (and clown puppet, to my left. because that's normal), after FoxNews' Redeye taping last night. Apparently not everyone got the "wear green for St. Patrick's Day memo" ...
With the indefatigable Greg Gutfeld, who actually ate a green bagel on air last night. Probably a first. Maybe not the most impressive first - but a first nonetheless.
I have absolutely no idea what was funny. But surely something must have been. And I guarantee if that was the case, it wasn't a joke of mine.
Happy St. Patrick's Day, blah, etc. May you vomit green!
I have a fairly strict rule on dogs: if they're over 12 pounds and not a shih-tzu, they're not really my type. But this one, which I found at Barney's in Beverly Hills, I just sorta liked. Maybe it was his "fuck you, I don't care if I need braces, I'm badass" attitude ... or maybe it was his drool. But either way, I really, really wanted to take him home with me. Or at least on a photo shoot.
A few supportive fan photos taken from Miami, in honor of Superbowl Sunday.
As the Bears tragically don't have cheerleaders of their own, I struggled to come up with an approximation of what their uniform might look like ... You can't see the orange hair ribbon I'm wearing, but I assure you, it made the outfit.
The cars are just an appropriately hued spirit bonus.
I'm loathe to admit that I like fast cars (because it's shallow and shouldn't we all be taking the subway and global warming is bad, etc.) but, well, I do. There are few things hotter than a guy driving stick shift in a tiny, impractical vehicle that doesn't do particularly well with potholes or child-seats or, you know, luggage.
So when my date last night picked me up in a Lotus Elise, I tried to act as if it were your average Ford Taurus (after all, it does have a 2ZZ-GE Toyota engine). That lasted fifty-three seconds. Then I squealed uncontrollably and begged him to let me take photos sitting on it. Yes, yes, I know, I have no shame, etc, and here are the results:
Apparently the chic people of Cape Town are too cool for New Years' hats (see entry below) and I didn't think to bring my own, so it was a bare-headed - but elegant - New Years. Also, they forgot the countdown (no raucous Americans to start it) so I had to yell "10, 9, 8" quietly to myself. Nothing like starting out a new year with "shut the fuck up" looks from fellow guests. Makes me feel like I'm home in New York. Aww.
This year I'll be in Cape Town, which is fantastic, obviously, except for the ratio of days shoved into an economy seat to days in actual location (like 18:1). But that's what you get for not having friends with private jets. I'll be gone until January 4th (I know, you're devastated), so until then enjoy last year's dating resolutions.
Obviously I would NEVER pose in such a cheesy ... oh, crap.
Actually, I hate the above photo, not just because it's a totally obnoxious, ginormous cliche but because the shocking truth is, I don't actually look like that when I write. For one, I use both hands. Also, I never lay on my stomach. Finally, I'm usually naked. Okay, okay - wearing granny panties. Sorry, it's true. Ask The (Ex) Boyfriend.
Anyway, my web guy refuses to return emails or phone calls, so I can't get the damn photo removed until I convince some nice techy to help me. HELP!!!!
I plan to replace it with the candid below of my shih-tzu Lilly blogging. Or thinking about blogging (she's a procrastinator).
Lilly was reluctant to take this photo, but I told her that the Puppy-With-Laptop pose hasn't yet been played out. Yet.
How To Determine If Your Boyfriend's Really Whipped Dedicated
Just tell him he has to wear a matching pink tie to the wedding of HIS cousin, where all HIS male family members will question his masculinity while you make him take photo after photo because you're "soooo cute with the little matching *pink* outfits!!!"
As if he doesn't have enough to put up with dating me.
Michael Wilbon, God of Sports, a Subject I Do Not Understand
This lovely photo was taken in Washington DC after dinner last week (April 27th). As you can see, I was getting all the preppiness out of my system in anticipation of my return to the Wear-Black-Or-Get-Mistaken-For-A-Tourist-And-Shoved-In-Front-of-Taxi Capitol of the world. (Hello, do you SEE the baby blue Lacoste polo? The matching sweater tied around my neck? The pearl earrings? The - did I mention Lacoste polo? Wearing outfits like this is the reason why - the ONLY reason why - I love DC.)
None of which has anything to do with The Great Michael Wilbon, however, who has taught me everything I know about sports, which is to say, nothing at all. I know that he understands sports, and that's enough for me.