Posts Tagged ‘diane von furstenberg’
My good friend (and aesthetician) once told me that, in Jewish culture, some women believe when you take the underwear that a bride wore during her wedding and you wear them for 3 days in a row (without washing them), you will get married in less than a year. After hearing this myth I asked if this had worked for anyone she knew. To which she replied, “yes, as a matter of fact, 3 different girls wore my underwear after my wedding last year and 2 of them ended up getting married in less than 1 year.” One of these ladies happened to be her sister who was married just days before I earned of this Jewish magic trick. Of course, the inner cynic in me didn’t really believe that this was the key to getting married. But, I figured what the heck, it was worth a yeast infection to find out. Unfortunately for me, the waiting list for the recent brides underwear was long and her underwear was already taken (aw shucks!).
There’s also the universally practiced tradition of catching a bride’s bouquet. The bride gathers the single ladies at her wedding into a group for all to see. As everyone stands around waiting for the bride to toss her floral arrangement over the balcony, the mosh pit of single ladies prepare to dive for the promise of marriage. The myth surrounding this tradition is that the lucky gal who manages to catch the bouquet will be the next one to get married. Like the de-feathering of an innocent chicken, the bouquet catching ceremony is not a game. It’s destiny.
There’s also that one myth where a bride shouldn’t see the groom (her husband to be) on the day of her wedding, until the ceremony. It’s apparently bad luck and it’s supposed to be a surprise. A surprise? really? Even though the two of you have lived together for the last 5 years, dated 12 years (on and off) prior to that and have a 17 year old graduating from High School? Surprise!!! I’m wearing a white dress today!
I’m wondering if some of the myths and traditions around marriage aren’t somehow driving people away from it in this modern age. Weddings have become huge presentations that are all about the details. The smaller the wedding is, the more expensive the details seem to get. If you think about it, the full cycle of marriage really starts with the first date. From then on it’s a constant debate and overhaul of life goals, dreams, etc. Finally, the “marriage material” stamp gets applied invisibly to the forehead of your latest prospect and it’s kind of a waiting game from there on out. At least the Jewish myth gives you a time frame; the bouquet thing is kind of a toss up (no pun intended).
The Big RED Beauty Pageant…
Legend has it that… “Valentine was a priest who served during the third century in Rome. When Emperor Claudius II decided that single men made better soldiers than those with wives and families, he outlawed marriage for young men. Valentine, realizing the injustice of the decree, defied Claudius and continued to perform marriages for young lovers in secret. When Valentine’s actions were discovered, Claudius ordered that he be put to death.”
Everyone knows that Valentine’s Day is the biggest chocolate-teddy-bear-lingerie conspiracy on the planet (unless you’re actually in a relationship, in which case, IT ROCKS-HELLO!!!!!). SO, why do we set aside an entire day to celebrate the lost art of actually loving someone? Well…maybe…. it’s because in the land of LA power couples, celebrity 48-hour marriages, happy-ending massage parlors, match.com, baby momma drama, dead-beat dads and 5-minute speed dating, it’s kinda nice to take a day to acknowledge simple, true, romanticized, story-book, elusive, slash-your-tires-if-you-cheat-on me, psychotic ex-girlfriend, by-any-means-necessary, good old fashioned, LOVE.
Now, you may be asking yourself “How does one celebrate the Valentine’s Day in the city of Angels (and Desperate Hip-Hop Basketball Housewives)?” Well it’s simple…think of Valentine’s Day in Los Angeles like a BIG RED beauty Pageant. Women get to parade around town all dressed up in their bestest date-night dress, make dinner reservations and with significant other firmly in tote, say the world, “Yes world, I’m PRETTY and this man’s willingness to spend 3 times the usual cost on dinner tonight proves that.” Well, maybe not specifically, but you get the picture.
For starters let’s examine the wonderful phenomenon of women’s lingerie…while everyday is Valentine’s Day in Victoria’s Secret where the red and pink shopping bags inform everyone in my office that I am indeed intimate, it seems as though on V-Day, lingerie gets just a tad more provocative (if you can imagine). And let us not forget, the shower gel, lotion and glitter body spray usually reserved for only the classiest of pole dancers. Now that we’ve got the after-dinner fantasy romp covered, that is the end of the story because all these things ultimately lead up to the after dinner fantasy romp. So let us raise a toast and infuse our lives with one extra day of bikini waxes, Brazilian blowouts and beautification in honor of celebrating the thing we gals strive to attain; good old-fashioned, lovely, lovely, LOVE.
Drunken Hot Mess…
Public Service Announcement: Drunken hot mess stops being cute after age 25. Translation, after 25 it is no longer acceptable to hurl in public or show off your latest VS collection boy shorts via peep show. After age 25 you’re supposed to keep your composure and hug the porcelain Jesus in the privacy of your own home (like the ever-so-sophisticated 30 plus crowd does). However, as with everything else in life, there are outliers. Sometimes the wrong mix of cheap vodka and cream cheese French toast create the perfect storm during a Halloween party and you find yourself huddled in the bathtub of some strangers’ mansion slurring strange references to turkey patty melts from Mel’s Diner (but I digress).
In music videos everyone pops bottles all night long, dancing to hooks that often rhyme with Grey Goose, Patron, and Moet. Therefore, it’s entirely understandable for women (and their male counterparts) to completely lose their ish when they happen to be holding a shot and that one song comes on talking about “blame on it the alcohol.” Not that a song should ever be the catalyst for inebriated tomfoolery, but I do see the logic (and lack thereof). Having said that, below are some guidelines to help gauge when you may be approaching your potential for public embarrassment.
1. The bouncer starts looking cute: Yes he’s tall, buff and in a suit, however, chances are he’s worn that same suit every night to work for the last 7-10 days. He’s sweated in it, spilled after-hours club food on it, and ironed out the wrinkles from last night’s bus ride home. To be on the safe side, disregard anyone wearing all black until you get home.
2. The Guy whose advances you ignored for the last 2 hours starts looking cute: Yes, compliments are wonderful. BUT, when the guy who almost got slapped for landing a cheap feel on your lady lumps starts becoming charming to you, it’s clearly time for an intervention. His breath didn’t get any cleaner, he’s holding the same cup of 7up over ice that he had when you got there and he’s still wearing the fake Fila/Prada sneaks. IT’S TIME TO GO!
3. All of your sentences begin and end in slobber: Even though it is quite an impressive feat to sing the entire Destiny’s Child catalog entirely in spit while doing the Dougie backwards at 3am on a Sunday, some talents are better left unseen. Let the world peel back that layer upon request (please).
Remember! Friends don’t let friends drive drunk, drunk dial, or dance drunk in stilettos. Lastly, if your friend does not want to end the party (and we all have a friend that never wants to end the party), as a last resort, take them to a karaoke bar, where every drunk has their day and promptly passes out after a long-winded Celine Dion bender.
One Day it will all Make Sense…
Romantic epiphanies typically happen on the big screen. We’ve all seen the story, a girl sits on the couch eating a bowl of cereal, watching TV, pondering life, and then a commercial comes on. Suddenly she realizes that the man of her dreams has been delivering her mail for the last two years. How perfect, the man who has been consistent through rain, sleet, and snow is actually “The One.” What’s even better is that she never knew he felt the same way. Yeah, it totally happens like that in real life (NOT)!!! It has probably never, in the history of dating, happened like that. So maybe you don’t get the sign from above, the voice from within or the magical commercial on TV but one day something beyond the realm of basic understanding does click. One day you will realize that the cool, elusive, emotionally unavailable guy that you’ve planned your entire fantasy future with is NOT “The One.” All of a sudden your expectations shift and these characteristics are no longer attractive to you. The universe aligns and you understand why all the “nice guys” are MARRIED and all the A-holes are driving nice cars or trying desperately to buy one.
The moment you decide to start taking yourself seriously and begin placing real-time deadlines on the acquisition of the things you hold most dear (be it marriage, kids, or career) is the moment you begin to see what a time suck the wrong guy actually is. All the time and energy spent waiting for Mr. Wrong to morph into Mr. Perfect coupled with the “learning experience” of the imminent collapse of such relationships could be better spent on much more productive activities such as washing your hair, or stockpiling emergency earthquake items. What I’m saying is, time spent doing absolutely anything else would be more productive than dating the wrong guy. Luckily the universe doesn’t typically hold bad dating decisions against you. Luckily you can make oodles of noodle head dating decisions in your twenties so that once your thirties approach you already mean business, the business of serious inquiries only.
I know this concept seems like a bit of a ruse but trust and believe that your first instinct is 99.8% correct. If there’s a void of trust or in your understanding of how someone feels about you, be accountable for the fact that you’ve always known and somehow settled for this behavior (whether on purpose or by accident). Approach your future relationships as you would a business deal. Look at the presentation, read through the background and figure out if it’s best to move forward. Make a 2-5 year plan of where you see your life going romantically and revisit that plan often, after all it is YOUR plan. Don’t leave everything to chance and horoscopes. Be present and the rest will start to fall into place.
A Lady Never Tells: But a Groupie Just Might…
Once in while, LAG feels the need to make a public service announcement. So, today’s topic boys and girls is “The LA Groupie.” If the LA dating scene is known for nothing else, it should be known for its plethora of beautiful gold-diggers, also known as “groupies.” What people fail to realize about LA groupies is the magnitude to which they exist, so much so, that an entire subculture of young women groomed for groupiedom has emerged. There are TV shows, books, dating sites, and clothing stores that actually cater to the LA groupie. Heck, even entire families have publically embraced and exploited the groupie subculture, thus creating the very controversial “groupie nepotism.” You’ve seen them! They’re the ones dressed for the nightclub at basketball games, the ones standing in the front of every line at every club with a celebrity headliner, they seem to know everyone from the promoter to the bouncer to the bartender on a first name basis.
Now, Wikipedia defines the groupie as “A person who seeks emotional and sexual intimacy with some form of CELEBRITY. “Groupie” was derived from the word group, in reference to a musical group, given that the groupie phenomenon emerged from popular music groups of the 50’s and 60’s. However, the contemporary groupie is about seeking financial security and notoriety for her celebrity conquests. Today’s groupie isn’t about the mere rush and excitement of sleeping with a celeb, oh no, she means business. And, why not? Being a groupie is BIG BUSINESS!! We’ve all heard the tall tale of the video vixen turned millionaire for merely publishing the names and details of everyone she gave an “oral exam” to, industry wide. And, certainly you’re no stranger to the Celebrity-Wife reality shows where almost none of the women are actually “wives.” Don’t hate, they’re still getting a check, seemingly out of thin air at that. Granted, these women usually only get 5 minutes of fame (1/3 of the 15 minutes that real celebs get) but it does offer the smart ones a chance at some real opportunities for monetization. Sadly, few take advantage of such opportunities because few are actually smart enough to do so. You see, what drives a groupie isn’t her educated business savvy as much as her savvy for played out monogram bags and red bottom shoes that she only hears about and sees in music videos (I digress).
Now, given that LA is host to so many different types of celebrities, (movie stars, rock stars, rap stars, basketball players, football players, producers, directors, reality show stars, etc., etc.) you can only imagine the various strains of groupie that follow. Some of them may even be lurking amongst your own social circles, right under your nose. To that end, I’ve created an efficient and classifiable way to identify the LA groupie. NOTE: there are several hybrids of the categories outlined below but I felt it necessary to start with the basics, the canonical staples if you will, of the Groupie kingdom.
First off we have the “Veteran Groupie”: The Veteran groupie is the saddest groupie of them all, primarily because she is old and no one told her that her days were numbered 5 years prior. She’s at the club regularly, usually with a crew 7-10 years younger so that she can blend in appropriately. The veteran groupie has a fierce body. In fact, one only knows that she is of a more mature age when they get above her neckline. There you’ll find the over-compensated make-up that only a cougar or a clown could appreciate. However, the Veteran Groupie does pave the way for the Green Groupie (refer to the description below) also known as “Baby Groupies.” For what is a student without its teacher?
Next, we have the “Green Groupie”: Contrary to her title, the Green Groupie is not about world conservation and recycling. The Green Groupie is fertile ground, impressed by anyone on TV whether they’re in a commercial or a full feature film. The Green Groupie’s innocence is her biggest draw. Regular guys like her because they can introduce her to their friends. She technically still has girlfriend potential given that she is relatively undiscovered. Celebrity guys like her because their celebrity friends have yet to add her to their celebrity to-do list. Either way, she’s kinda doomed from the start.
Lastly, we have the “Groupie By Association”: The Groupie By Association hangs out with groupies from time to time but only long enough to be able to disengage from any rumors that could peg her as a groupie. Make no mistake! If it walks like a duck, puts on heels like a duck, and finds herself at Jamie Foxx’s house at 2am like a duck. It’s A DUCK!!! The Groupie by Association is my personal favorite because she’s clever enough to keep a day job and often vacillates between the average guy and the 2nd tier celebrity entourage guy. Either way she’s not winning, yet she presses on…
Honestly, I’m not clowning; I don’t knock anyone’s hustle. Seriously, we’ve all got a little groupie in us, gotten excited when our favorite singer or actor hit the stage. For example, one might say that I’m a Barack Obama groupie, a Cornell West groupie, or a Michael Eric Dyson groupie versus a Lil Wayne groupie, a Kanye West groupie or a Kobe Bryant groupie. Is there a distinction to be made? Maybe not, but I’ll leave it at that…
Friend Politics 101 – Rule No 2:
Sometimes One Monkey DOES Stop the Show…
Los Angeles socialites are big proponents of convenient nightlife. That is, we frequent venues that are within an assumed non-DUI driving distance where the doorman is familiar enough with your face so as not to have you waiting in line all night. However, once in a while (or once every 3-4 months) we decide to break from our local watering hole routines and follow a very specific migratory pattern (via road trip, or 1-hour plane ride on Southwest). For over the bridge and through the woods lies a magical kingdom, an enchanted forest of drinking, dancing, flirting and whatever else you can squeeze into a 48-hour window of time. Yes ladies, in case you haven’t figured it out I’m talking about VEGAS!!!! Ahhh the joys of Las Vegas… you either love it for its non-stop, high voltage, billboard party life, and cigarette smoke filled casinos or you hate it for its non-stop, high voltage, billboard party life, and cigarette smoke filled casinos.
Upon arrival it is customary to throw caution to the wind and go with the flow (especially if you’re with a group of 3 or more people). However, going with the flow also pertains to “cash flow.” Meaning, if you’re not financially in the right place to take a trip it’s probably better to stay at home, do some laundry, and figure out a game plan so as not to be left out of the next trip’s festivities. Now, this is not to say that a person of modest means can’t enjoy themselves, you don’t need to be a “Baller” to have the ultimate Vegas experience. Plenty of folks drive up to Vegas on the “Baller on a Budget” $300 dollar vacation fund ($100 for your portion of the hotel for 2 nights, $25 on the gas tank, $25 on the magnum bottle of Grey Goose for the room and the other $150 for food, entry fees, etc.). Now that we’ve covered some of the cost effective ways to “do” Vegas, can someone please explain to me how it is that one determines that they will not be paying the $20 entry fee to get into the club only after they’ve bypassed all boot camp style obstacles of the velvet rope? I mean, isn’t this an executive decision that one makes in their head well before stepping out?
For example, it’s Fourth of July Weekend in Vegas, you and your friends decide to party at Jet Nightclub in the Mirage hotel. After chopping it up with the promoter, who you met on Twitter, the seas part and all of your friends are escorted through a crowd of jealous girls saving you an hour and a half wait. You reach the front door of Jet with the understanding that everyone still has to pay the $20 cover because of the holiday weekend. Knowing this beforehand, everyone is in agreement that Jet is the spot for the evening. Fully decked in your most bedazzled Vegas mini dresses, you and your girls are ready to pay the $20 and have an awesome time and an awesome hangover.
Three of you whip out your clutch bags, $20 dollar bills wrapped tightly around your California ID’s. Faintly in the background, Queen Victoria (friend #4) starts complaining about having to pay and how she NEVER has to pay in LA and how she doesn’t even go out if she has to wait in line. Her complaining turns into pouting, her pouting turns to blatant refusal and there you are, faced with the prospect of having to leave one man out. Let the rationalizing begin! You don’t really know the girl, she’s a friend of a friend brought along only by default so as to cushion the costs of the Double Queen Suite you booked at the Hard Rock HRH Tower. Fully prepared to leave her to her own devices, you pretend not to notice the mini conference that she’s holding with the other two girls. As soon as you extend your cash and ID to the guard, your BFF taps you on the shoulder to inform you that friend no: 4 has no cash to get in. Your first instinct is to grab your BFF and head for the entry. Of course, the inevitable domino effect, she feels bad for friend #3 who will be stuck with friend #4 at the Golden Nugget Bar and Grill fending off local degenerate gamblers. A rain cloud of disappointment appears as you’ve come so far only to have to turn around and do the walk of shame back down the red carpet. You feel retarded, like the static rewind button on a VHS tape, because SOMEONE decided that it wasn’t “worth it” to spend the necessary entry fee to party like a wannabe rock star. Of course there are always other spots to go to in Vegas but everyone knows that the spot you didn’t get into is the spot that everyone will be talking about the next day…Womp…Womp!
In LA, every woman revels in the glorious victory of the FREE DRINK. The free drink is social-scene Darwinism at its finest, the ultimate badge of honor for “Survival of the Prettiest.” The free drink not only validates a woman’s efforts in hair, clothing, and make-up selection, it also sets her apart from the less fortunate souls who did not make it past the process of natural selection (mean girl smirk). While the ritual of the free drink may seem a bit trifling to some, unarguably no better feeling exists than that of the accomplishment derived from public displays of infatuation by a complete stranger. To put it plainly, the free drink makes you feel like the SH*&!!! As you mix it up with your pretend 5-minute boyfriend, for that brief moment in time, you are the bar Prom Queen. However, there are rules to this ish. The free drink does come with a healthy dose of fine print; a print so fine that it seemingly only exists in theory. It would be awesome if we could get SOME form of heads up like…”Tonight on Eyewitness News: We bring you the breaking story of the 1-drink Stalker on the loose. He’s been spotted in local LA bars and clubs hanging around dark corners with 2 free drink tickets and a GPS tracking device. Don’t be fooled by his generosity and harmless conversation! For once you’ve accepted the complimentary Grey Goose N Red Bull Martini, he will self magnetize to the bottom of your glass playing interference to all of your normal guy prospects for the rest of the evening.”
Of course, no such warning signs exist. Shortly after your two best girlfriends find male distractions and disappear into their respective conversations, the 1-Drink stalker is plotting his descent when you’re at the bar alone, at your most vulnerable. Just as you manage to get the waiters attention a mediocre looking man will approach and pay for your drink. Mildly impressed, you’ll entertain some conversation. Five minutes in and you’ll know you aren’t interested but you’ll extend the full courtesy 15 minutes before ditching him to do your final walk around in the bar. As you ease your way off the bar stool you’ll see him grab his drink off the bar in an attempt to escort you to your intended destination. You figure you’ll take the easy way out and hit the ladies room. Hopefully you’ll see one of your girlfriends so you can pretend to be in one of the deepest conversations of your life thus bypassing the 1-Drink stalker. To no avail, he’ll be standing right at the base of the ladies room exit (argggghhhh)!!!
What contemporary science has concluded is that there is no sure-fire way to politely extract one’s self from the clutches of the 1-Drink stalker (outside of leaving the venue all together). Fake numbers, one-word answers, the look of absolute disinterest simply won’t cut it. Thus, much like the Christian based slogan for abstinence, The Best Drink is No Drink if you want to avoid the lurking annoyances of the 1-Drink stalker.
Friend Politics 101
Traci is my wingman. We hang out all the time. But, lately I’d been keeping her out more nights than she typically tolerated. So, when I called her to let her know my boy was throwing a “private party” for Lebron James at the W Hotel in Westwood, Traci wasn’t having it. “Girl we went out Friday, Saturday and Tuesday, I’ve literally exhausted every rendition of my cutest outfits, and I haven’t worked out in like three days because it takes me two hours to blow dry, curl, and style my hair, give it rest mama!” Who me? Not a chance, not tonight! Didn’t she know that there were WINNERS at the W Hotel in Westwood? I mean, what do you think the W stands for? WINNERS of course!!
With Traci out of commission there were a few things to consider. Friend Politics 101: I am only as fly as my crew. There’s no sense in me getting cute and wasting my new YSL pumps if there’s a duck in my squad (yes a duck, quack…quack). What I mean is… if I show up to an exclusive event with two other girls and one of them happens to be…shall we say… “challenged” in certain areas, then I’m probably not getting in.
Now I know what you’re thinking, that’s some real shallow LA shit right? Right! Of course it’s shallow, but it’s also the truth ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to my world! I didn’t make the rules, don’t shoot the messenger. Los Angeles social scene etiquette dictates that if I walk into a line looking fantastic and I throw up my perfectly manicured fingers motioning that there are two us, right away the bouncer notices me, walks over and says “who you with?” If I’m with a girl that looks like a hot, steamy, Avatar-mess, I am most likely not getting into the damn event (or Berry’s Pizza Cafe for that matter). And guess what folks? I didn’t come out for all this! I did not get all dressed up only to have to walk the hall of shame and complain about it later at Mel’s Diner (where every tranny is welcome). So, I devised a plan of attack.
I realize you may be asking yourself, “What constitutes a fat girl? Am I a fat girl?” To which I answer, if you have to ask….
You see, one night, I walked into the SLS Hotel bar with my dear friend Natalie. Natalie is the flyest obese person you ever met. I mean, she is gorgeous, and if we lived in Nebraska she’d be the Belle of the ball. But we DON’T live in Nebraska. We live in LA, home of the size 2 and the super-model diet (only 1 finger required). Anyway, Natalie looked absolutely stunning in her knock-off DVF, Lane Bryant wrap dress circa 2009, yunno, the navy, exaggerated cheetah print. As we entered the bar we overheard two guys loudly whispering as we walked by, “Yo man, I can’t even front on Mrs. Piggy-Beyonce over there, I’d F – her all day long.” Paralyzed by my inability to calculate whether or not Natalie been complemented or insulted, I did what I do best and gave them my signature snub nose indicating that, while we did overhear the 12 year-old banter, it’s impossible to be insulted by anyone wearing Air-Force One’s to the SLS. I sure told them, or so I thought, until I glanced over at Nat who looked as though the wind had been knocked out of her.
I immediately ordered two Grey Goose and Seven-Up’s for the table given that the night had already gotten off to a rocky start. However, to no avail, Natalie wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Now all Natalie wanted to talk about was her thyroid problem. And, now Natalie didn’t want to hit up Industry for dancing later, like we’d originally planned, because she had to get to work early in the morning. I felt bad for Natalie, I really did, because one ridiculous comment ruined our entire evening and I could not make it better no matter how hard I tried.
I began to get angry with her but I didn’t let on to it. I couldn’t let her see me be frustrated with her weight problem (even though I truly was) because I couldn’t live with her feeling any worse than she already did. I wanted to tell her that if she didn’t like her reality she needed to change it. I wanted to tell her that her thyroid had nothing to do with the three cheeseburgers she religiously sipped down during her lunch hour every day. But, instead, I pretended to be interested in her latest shoe purchase and her pretend boyfriend who was always out of town and whom none of us had ever met because that’s what friends do.