The Real Housewives Guide: How to Be the Absolute Worst

There are some things I would just rather not admit. Like that I have the bad habit of yawning without covering my mouth even though I preach about the supreme importance of good manners. Or that I’ve probably seen every episode of MTV’s Catfish. Or that I could do without Anna Kendrick. Or that I eat in bed. But I mean I pretty much eat only in bed. Like, almost nowhere else in my home do I eat. But anyway, nothing pains me more than to admit to another person for the first time that I am an avid watcher of The Real Housewives franchise. Though I keep some small amount of dignity for myself knowing that I only watch on demand rather than tune in each week, and have dropped down from multiple cities to just two (New York City & Beverly Hills), it’s still a difficult lump to swallow and an even more unfortunate truth to speak. In fact, when just this past week I casually dropped a Real Housewives reference into a conversation with a co-worker, she paused, looked hard at me and said, “You watch The Real Housewives? They’re so glamorous and you seem so… dark.” She wasn’t wrong. At first glance, I suppose I don’t exactly appear to fit the Housewives fan mold. (Then again, is there even such a thing?) Still, I’ve learned many a valuable lesson from these women, in terms of what not to do, how not to behave, how not to exist within the bounds of what we like to call human reality. And as I’m now deep in the trenches of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills season six, please allow me to share with you five vital truths I’ve learned from watching all of our favorite and/or least favorite TV wives. Take it as a How To: Be the Absolute Worst.

I. The Art of Admission. Somehow, in Real Housewives land, saying you did something to get a rise out of someone is real enough. All is forgotten the moment you admit you did something fucked up with the sole intention of letting plain old nastiness ensue. Once you admit it, you don’t have to reap the consequences of your original action or own up to the fact that you’re actually just a really shitty person. Recently, new RHOBH Housewife Kathryn told some Housewife that she told some other Housewife something unkind that Housewife had said about the other Housewife just to see how the Housewife who said it would react. I mean, that’s really the best way I can explain it. Just re-read it until it makes sense. (Really, it will never make sense.) But guess what?! It was like witchcraft or some shit. Admitting that she did what she did out of pure malice was her Get out of Jail Free card because almost instantly, all Housewives in dinner party attendance shut the fuck up as if they had never heard someone else come clean about doing something shitty for shitty reasons alone. There was no apology. There was no lesson leading to personal growth. The dinner party ended and all moved on. Abracadabra, baby!

II. Unfortunate Truths. Telling the truth doesn’t matter if you’re an asshole about it. Once upon a time, I was a fan of now defunct Housewife, Brandi Glanville. Not a popular opinion, I know, but I had to appreciate her unique way of “keeping it real.” She said everything — all of the things — she wanted, and the other wifeys did not want to let that shit fly. After accusing one wife of drug addiction, exposing the sham of a marriage of another wife, throwing a drink in yet another wife’s face for reasons unclear to just about everyone including Brandi herself, and threatening to harm and/or kill the majority of the wives among other offenses, this jig was up. Eventually, even I grew tired of my girl B, because it was clear to me that she was an absolute psychopath and it was no longer fun for any of us to watch or be a part of. The good lord Andy Cohen agreed and kicked her off of the show to what I can only imagine must have been Beverly Hills parades even more grand than Vanderpump’s much-promoted Gay Pride. Brandi G, you are gone but not forgotten. The truths you spoke stay with me still, even in spite of your absolute and indisputable insanity.

III. Brand AmbASSador. It’s okay to be a hypocrite if you are also a millionaire. RHONY’s Bethenny Frankel has opinions. Did you know that she has opinions? She does. She has opinions. Opinions about how people live their lives, who they date, how they run their businesses, what they say to other people, what they say about other people… the list goes on. But somehow, Bethenny does not want to hear opinions. She has neither the time nor the attention span for it. She is busy, goddammit! Ya know, running her brand???? How fucking rude are you? And if you tell her how to run her brand?! Forget about it! It’s on. Even though she’s openly critiqued other Housewives business ventures both behind their backs and straight to their faces. Within her own NYC crew last season, she absolutely shat on poor, defenseless Kristen Taekman’s nail color line, Pop of Color, as well as Sonja Morgan’s so-called “international fashion lifestyle brand,” Sonja Morgan New York. But that wasn’t enough for her. During the RHONY off-season, she took her talents to Beverly Hills for a visit. While there, she dared to disgrace the almighty Erika Jayne a.k.a. Erika Girardi a.k.a. ThePrettyMess after she shared a very intimate piece of pop performance art on her iPhone during dinner. Now granted, one of Erika Jayne’s songs includes the now-infamous catchphrase, “Pat the puss,” but how dare you, Bethenny Frankel?! She has eight #1 disco hits, you ingrate!

IV. Who Needs Dignity? Not Lisa Rinna. Lisa Rinna has big, fake lips — she said so! Lisa Rinna’s had the same hairstyle for decades — she said so! Lisa Rinna is wacky — she said so! Lisa Rinna will do anything for a buck — she said so. There’s just about nothing Lisa Rinna won’t cop to and it’s the main reason she’s almost impossible not to love. But it’s also the reason I think of Valerie Cherish pretty much every time she’s on screen. Equally ridiculous, Rinna knows she’s not as classy, intelligent, or sophisticated as some of the other Housewives (not that that’s saying much). Want her to endorse adult diapers? She’ll do it, and to the tune of an apparent $2 million. Want her to say or do something silly? Yeah, she’ll do it, but that shit’s for free. She’s just that kinda gal! She told you… she’s wacky! Rinna’s admitted time and time again that if it gets her money or keeps her relevant, she’s game, and as reasonable people, we can’t hate on that. In fact, maybe we should be taking a few pages from her book. Keep doin’ you, Lisa Rinna. You really are a dream come true.

V. Sane Ain’t the Way. If you’re sane or reasonable, you’re doing it wrong. Poor Eileen Davidson. I first met her as the seductive villainess, Kristen DiMera, on Days of our Lives when I was a child. I admired her both for her moxie and her off-the-charts insanity. When she showed up on the BH streets last season, I thought we were in for it. Unfortunately for all of us, Davidson was nothing like her fictitious counterpart. She was actually — get this — sane. I didn’t let that get to me, though. I was sure that, like many sane new Housewives additions before her, she would be sucked into the drama and that would be the end of that. The old Eileen would be gone forever. But it never happened. Back for her second season, she somehow seems almost more sane, level-headed and real. Too bad for Eileen, she’s not the kind of real these ladies are looking for. They don’t want to have adult conversations, Eileen! They don’t want to confront one another in a level-headed manner and tell the truth, Eileen! They don’t want to take good hard looks at themselves in the mirror, EILEEN! They want to pretend and ignore and divert and argue! That’s the goddamn Real Housewives way! I’ll always be rooting for you, Big E, but if you don’t want to get stomped all over, you’re going to need to change yourself completely for the sake of reality television, just like everybody else.

VI. Queen of the Housewives. Lisa Vanderpump is untouchable. She is unbreakable. She is indestructible. Lisa Vanderpump is the best Real Housewife of all time and she knows it. Consider this your bonus truth. If by some stroke of dreamlike luck, you ever encounter Pumpy, do not dare try to cross her. And if you ever reach the epic rock bottom of becoming a Real Housewife yourself, do not attempt to turn the others against her or slander her good name or reputation. Do not make the fatal error of underestimating her greatness. One by one, you will be defeated. Made into a social outcasts by her hand alone. Banished from the franchise, OR WORSE, denied service at SUR! It’s just the way it is. There has never before been and will never be a greater Housewife than she. And so it is done.

And there you have it, another fifteen minutes of life you’ll never get back. But at least now, you have some insight into the wonderland that is The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. I never promised it would be easy. Never really promised it’d be worth it, either. Quite frankly, it isn’t. Like, not even a little bit. Bottom line is, by the time you know you’re hooked, it’ll be too late. And soon enough, you’ll be posting your own blogs about this mindless trash, wondering where it all went wrong. Now go ponder what your Housewives tagline will be. Make it sassy, fierce, and be sure it makes absolutely no sense. Now, twirl!

Albums I Played Until There Was Almost No Meaning Left (Part III)

THE “WHAT MORE IS OUT THERE?” PHASE

There are only so many guys with guitars you can listen to before you start looking for something more. Guys with guitars are great. For so many reasons. But they’re not all there is. Once I realized that, I was opened up to a world of interesting characters, both with and without guitars and penises. The two ladies below are polarizing, captivating, strange and familiar. And they reminded me of a valuable lesson every woman should learn before it’s too late: Guys with guitars will never be enough. 

 2014: St. Vincent – St. Vincent. St. Vincent is an alien robot freak who was not made for this world. I had only learned of her days before I saw her live for the first time and I was way late to the party. So for the most part, I was going in blind and that somehow made for an even better experience because I couldn’t have known what was coming. Her show is a spectacle and had I known any more about her than I did at the time, I might’ve seen it coming. But I didn’t and that night, I fell in love with her and her music from the ground floor of Terminal 5. Yeah, she was so good she transformed Terminal 5 into a place I could tolerate, maybe even enjoy. This self-titled album plays like a love letter to anyone who feels a little bit weird. We know by now that weird is good but this album proves once and for all that weird is better. You will never experience a live show like St. Vincent’s and I’m thinking it’ll be tough for you to find another album as fully realized as this one is. It’s a fucking art project and if you’re looking for something that doesn’t sound like a lot of other things playing, here’s your ticket. Also worth noting that Annie Clark (a.k.a. St. Vincent) is a massive Bowie fan, but you’ll figure that out as soon as you check out a video. Best Track: Of all of the albums I’ve named up to this point, this is the hardest one to select the best from. I highly recommend you listen to it start to finish, but if you need an entry point, go Birth in Reverse. Best Live Song: Again, this is tricky so I have two must-sees: Rattlesnake and Bring Me Your Loves.

 2015: Honeymoon – Lana Del Rey. The Lana Del Rey album I really want to write about, I wrote about when it was released in 2014. I went on and on about it with much closer inspection than I’ve done with any of the albums mentioned here. I love Ultraviolence and even if Lana Del Rey goes on to make bigger and better albums in years to come, I have a sneaking suspicion it will always be my favorite for its darkness, its sweetness, its sadness, and its Auerbach-ness. Also because it was the first time a Lana fan like myself looked at her previous albums and thought, “Did those suck?” It wasn’t that they sucked; it was just that this one was different in a pretty epic way. But still, Honeymoon was a massive move for Lana Del Rey. It did well critically and with it, she was able to create her own world for more and more listeners to venture into. All of that started with a hotline that could be reached when calling the phone number on the album cover. It ended with some better-realized version of the Lana Del Rey “persona” everyone has been so fixated on invalidating for so long. She sounded better, almost unbelievably better. If possible, the songs were sadder but in a more actual way, like when you watch a movie that leaves you completely gutted even though you can’t totally relate to it and you know it’s not real. Perhaps the best thing about this album was that, for the most part, it’s greatness was undeniable. Unlike Born to Die and Paradise, these were all good songs from start to finish. Unlike Ultraviolence, you didn’t have to be sad or in a thunderstorm to value them. I think this is a really good album, fan or not. Favorite Track: For all intents and purposes, I’m going with Salvatore. There are a lot of other songs that I really love on this album, but I’ve played this one relentlessly. Hypnotizing and beautiful, it transports you somewhere else and the tone and depth of her voice could straight up knock you out. I’m not kidding, I once felt faint listening to it on full volume on my headphones, but I realize that probably won’t be everyone’s response. Best Live Song: TBD because to memory, I’ve only seen High by the Beach live.

And that concludes my roundup. Enjoy your weekend and remember… Only homicidal monsters don’t like music.

 

No Such Thing as Wedding Season

Back when the weather was colder and my heart was warmer, I accepted an invitation to be a part of a close friend’s wedding. A bridesmaid, this would make me. Immediately following my acceptance of this obligation — err, honor — I was promptly invited to 4 more weddings, which were to take place within the next 4 months. I love a good wedding, but my head had begun spinning. Did I not get the wedding season memo? How would I find the time and money for all of them? Would I make it out alive? As the weeks and months progressed, I had RSVP’d, “Yes,” to 3 of the 4 weddings, for 2 reasons: 1. I love my friends and want to be present to celebrate their hopeful futures in love and matrimony. 2. I make irresponsible decisions.

And while all of these unions have caused me some strife (see: bridal showers, bachelorette parties, fat envelopes), nothing could have prepared me for being a bridesmaid. I’ve done it twice before, but am only just now experiencing the high highs and low lows of playing sidekick to the bride, and it’s caused me to reflect. The first thing I’ve learned to accept in lieu of all of this, is that there’s no such thing as wedding season. It goes on forever, and as soon as one round ends, a new one will begin. (I’ve already seen 2 more friends get engaged since my RSVPs hit the mailbox.) The other things I’ve learned so far? Well they’re below. If you’re slowly stepping through a fun house of wedding mania, hoping something scary doesn’t shoot out in front of you, I nod my head in solidarity. If you’ve escaped the madness, save this for later. You’ll need it one day.

Socially-Acceptable Slavery. As Mindy Kaling pointed out in a late night interview not too long ago, as a bridesmaid, you are just that… a maid to the bride. And the Maid of Honor, for that matter. Let’s face it: It’s a hierarchy. And if you don the title “Bridesmaid,” you’re a bottom-feeder, baby. What this will mean for you, is that you must do what you’re told and make no outright complaints. Even if you feel the need to. Even if the requests are ridiculous. Even if you want to cause bodily harm to one of more of the bridesmaids around you. You shut your mouth and learn to accept it, because you are not the boss. If you don’t heed this advice, you will come to regret it. Ya gotta swallow your pride, ya gotta dig deep, and ya gotta smile while you’re doing it. Smiles, more than anything, are essential. I’ve been the bridesmaid walking down the aisle stone-faced and if you think wedding guests weren’t making comments hours later at the reception. you’re delusional. And that is when I found out another cool thing… I am also a slave to the wedding guests. And the bride and groom’s parents. And grandparents. And pretty much fucking everybody at that god-forsaken wedding hall with the god-forsaken chandeliers until I’m 5 vodkas in and they’re all dead to me.

Bridesmaids unite. You are a team. As I’ve explained, you will be tested. And that means you’ll be tested by everyone; bridesmaids included. What you need to know straight away, the moment you agree to be a part of this thing, is that bridesmaids must stick together. You’re going to have friends and family from different areas of the brides life. You’re not going to get along with all of them. You’re not going to relate to all of them. But none of that matters. You are stronger as a unit. And those times when you want to challenge the MOH’s decisions but you’ve been told (above) not to? You can do that as a team. Make these women your friends for a few months. Drop out of their lives later. For now, they are essential to your survival, and you to theirs. Lastly, if a bridesmaid goes astray in attempts to appease the higher-ups, you must make every reasonable effort to bring her back to the big white light. If she resists, watch her go and form stronger alliances with what remains. You’re only as strong as your weakest bridesmaid.

Whenever possible, ignore receipts/bank statements. Sure, it may not be the adult thing to do, but you will be spending a lot of money. Whether all at once on an overpriced bridesmaid dress, or all over the place on bachelorette party favors, your paycheck belongs in part to the bride and her posse. Once you can accept that, you can move on for the most part. If you want to stay sane, you have to pretend that it’s reasonable that people expect a 20-something-year-old person so have several spare hundreds to spend on a regular basis on anyone but themselves. You just have to. You gotta throw the cash to the wind like it was never yours to begin with. And most of all, never, ever, tally up what you’ve spent. It’s non-information now.

Say goodbye to your free time. I remember once, a long, long time ago, I had free time. I had time to go to work during the day, freelance at night, maintain a semi-regular blog, and drink/dance my cares away downtown with whatever time was left. In case you hadn’t noticed, at least one of those things has taken a hit. From the moment you say, “yes,” till you put on the dress, larger and larger potions of your time start getting eaten up with “wedding stuff.” Be it dress fittings, party planning, bridesmaids meetings, party shopping, or thinking about how you’ve procrastinated on one or all of these. It’s different for every wedding, of course, but something or other is always eating up your time, and that’s to be expected. You can’t really be too mad about it, but you need to be prepared for it. If only we could be paid for our hours of service. Oh well.

Remember there’s a party at the end. Once you quit your bitching and come to terms with the fact that all of your money is gone, your non-bridesmaid friendships have gone to shit, and you haven’t been able to keep up with your side projects (or, “hobbies,” as the MOH would likely refer to them), you get to come up for air and realize, there’s a party that’s going to happen! You get to drink and dance once more. You get to ugly-cry when you see your friend and her hubby’s first dance or hear her father’s speech. You get to remember why you wanted to be a part of this whole thing in the first place. And sure, it’s been a long and arduous road to this day, but goddamn, isn’t this worth it? This beautiful moment that you got to be a part of? As it’s happening, it’s hard to imagine anything more special than this. What a moment of bliss! What a truly spectacular achievement, to find love and lock it down. How very wonderful! And then the night ends. and you remember you’re in another wedding in September. Fuck.

  

IBTC-in’ Ya Soon

Summer has really picked up and I must admit, my inspiration to write about all things frivolous has not been too strong. However, I made a promise to myself and to my 2 or 3 readers that I would keep this thing going and I intend to do so. So I said to myself, “Dyana, what would be easiest for you to write about when the ideas ain’t a-comin’?” … “Something you already know about, dummy,” I replied. So last night, I slept on it and as I got dressed for work this morning and pulled out my A-cup bra, it dawned on me: “A” is a very small cup. And it was then when I was reminded that I am a lifelong member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee (IBTC).

Do not feel bad for me. I figured out a very long time ago that the front-humps I was promised as young girl would not be bestowed upon me. There would be no cleavage. Instead, I was left with a blank, bony in-between. There would be no point to a push-up bra.There wouldn’t be enough to push up. In fact, there wouldn’t be much reason for a bra at all. To remain socially acceptable, I decided, I would wear one but only when it seemed necessary. Yes, I have the chest of a young boy who hasn’t begun hitting the gym yet, but to be honest, I adore it.

For years, I have sidestepped my friends and enemies condemnations to this assumedly unfortunate circumstance. I have sworn up and down to no end that it is them, with their B-C-D-filling boobies, who are at the disadvantage. And the most remarkable part of all of this is that I’ve actually believed that and I continue to believe it. There are a very many perks to being flat-chested, I’ll have you know. From lack of athletic interference to absence of unnecessary aches and pains to endless options in terms of fashion, my boobless body has done little to prevent me from living freely and happily; in fact, it’s enhanced my quality of living. And if you’re worried, believe you me: For every boob man, there is a butt man and a leg man and a hair man and… you get the picture.

But I know how it works. You need proof. So that left me two choices: (1) I could post some nudies so you can get the picture, or (2) I could meet you where the grass meets the asphalt: celebrities. Well, since this isn’t that kind of site (at least not yet), I had to go with the celebrities. So below are a few of the finest, most notorious members of the IBTC and the reasons they keep me in good company.

Zoe Saldana
I don’t save the best for last; I lead with the best. While I’m not hip to the comings and goings of most of today’s popular celebrities, I’ve always kept a keen eye on Zoe Saldana for a few key reasons. For starters, she has killer style. Whether she’s calling the shots or the decisions fall upon the Rachel Zoes of the world, I haven’t seen any woman dress as well for their body type since the golden days of Hollywood, so long ago. Secondly, she cool. Like, cool as fuck.She has a mouth and she uses it as intended to say whatever she thinks, popular or not, which is why it helps that she’s smart. She is. Listen to an interview. The woman has shit to say. And finally, perhaps a culmination of these and other things, girl is strong. Zoe Saldana seems to effortlessly demand respect. So I guess what I’m saying is, if I don’t come back in my next life as Zoe, all my good deeds will have gone unrewarded.

Kate Hudson
Okay so who needs other body parts with a face like that? But let’s not be ridiculous. There is one thing and one thing only that makes Kate Hudson a swan among ugly ducklings and it isn’t her looks; it’s her charm. Is there any other woman in the world who could so adorably call her movie-boyfriend’s penis Princess Sophia? Is there anyone who could take the directionless, delusional Penny Lane and make her lovable, even admirable, instead? And who else could have us all love her for so long — the way our parents loved her mom, Goldie — without getting even the slightest bit bothered by her? It ain’t the face and it ain’t the waist and ain’t the boobies, baby. It’s that Kate Hudson charm.

Gwen Stefani
There are few living humans left who are more undeniably stellar than Gwen Stefani. I have searched my whole life and I haven’t found a single reason why any woman should be born so authentic, so free, so incontrovertibly individual. For an entire career, she has refused to play nice. As sweet as she seems, she has never taken to the unwritten rules of women in music, which explicitly state, “Stand there, look nice, sound pretty.” She took an unconventional idea and forced it into convention. Without the Gwen Stefanis, there would be much less fun for women in music; there would be much less freedom. She’s never had to open her mouth to say anything she’s believed in. Everything she’s about has been written all over her from day one and that’s what makes her great.

Now let me just emphasize: I haven’t given you the rundown of the good things I believe to be true about these women to make up for the fact that they’re members of the IBTC or to overshadow that fact. That would be delusional. You and I both know that the boobs do not make the woman. All I’ve done here is taken a fact — these chicks have small tits — and matched it with another fact — these chicks are awesome — to come to one final resolution: Boob size, body size, brain size matter very little. Just don’t be a dick.

Honorable IBTC Mention goes to Keri Russell, Eliza Coupe, and Alexa Chung. Google them.

May the Trench Be With You

Perhaps I’ve been a bit too obsessed with the change in season lately, but when the warm sun comes a-shining and the cool breeze comes a-blowing, there’s a lot to think about and a lot to be thankful for. New York, as I’ve mentioned before, is a frozen, dismal wasteland once January hits and the buzz of holiday cheer wears off. It stays that way until just about right this very moment. We’re not quite into shorts weather yet, but I do love a good transition and there is no one item that says “transition” quite like the trench coat.

Good golly, do I love a good trench. These days, when you ask the world, “What’s it like outside today?,” the world answers, “Wear a trench.” Much like the leather jacket, the trench coat says something about you as you strut down the city streets. Things like, “I’m a woman,” “I have an income,” and “I know what’s up.” But enough about things we’re saying and things the world is saying and things trench coats are saying; let’s take a stroll down memory lane instead.

I can indeed say it’s a fact that all great women have worn trench coats and looked damn good in them. Let’s see a few examples, shall we?

Exhibit A: Michelle Pfeiffer or Queen Michelle, as I refer to her. (We’ll revisit this at a later date.)

Admittedly, Michelle Pfeiffer as Melanie Parker in One Fine Day is one of my favorite rom-com ladies of the ‘90s. She’s bold, independent, beautiful, witty, intelligent, fashionable… need I go on? There’s something to be said about a woman who can spar with the likes of a young George Clooney (or an old George Clooney, for that matter). Melanie Parker had class and sophistication even though underneath she was a full pot of hot mess, ready to boil over. She was your everyday woman and that’s why I loved her. But throw that girl in a trench coat, and even the messiest of scenarios looks better. Running across town with her son’s class goldfish in tow. Almost losing her job after the model she had built for a make-or-break presentation is destroyed. Actually losing George Clooney’s fake-life daughter in the middle of Manhattan. All done in style. Even an adolescent eye roll (pictured below) looks good in that trench. Michelle Pfeiffer, I solute you not only for your portrayal of the indomitable Melanie Parker but even more so for the true effortlessness with which you made ‘90s fashion look good, damn good… with some help from the trench, of course.

Exhibit B: Meryl Streep as Miranda Priestly, “the Devil”

High on my bucket list is somehow rallying hard and often enough to someday make it possible for Meryl Streep to become President of the United States. In the case of a tragic accident leading to the demise of my own beloved mother, it is my full intention to write Meryl each and every day – Noah style – to see if she would fill the role. There is nothing Meryl Streep could conceivably do to make me not hold her in the highest regard. So as I watched her play the unapologetically evil Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada, I ooh’d and ahh’d and OMG’d. That woman was fierce! Quite obviously, there was a lot of intense fashion in this film. There was the black, the white, the pinstripes, the fur, the sunnies, the jewels… It was serious stuff. So it would not come as much of a surprise that the trench coat, shown in the shot below, flew under my radar. But GUUURRLLL, check out Streep in that trench! Even sitting next to the ever-stylish Stanley Tucci, she shines. And this just goes to show: you can find a trench coat in both high and low places. You done good, Meryl!

Exhibit C: Carmen Sandiego

It would certainly be remiss of me to talk about women in trench coats and not mention the woman in the trench coat. I spent a good portion of my youth asking about where in the world this woman was. I designate a good two weeks in October each year, still considering if maybe I should be her for Halloween. But I never will be because nobody can be Carmen. She is a woman of mystery and a woman of mystery is hot. The red hat, red coat, red lips, red hair. I have never been nor will I ever likely be a woman who matches or is a fan of matching but Carmen Sandiego take a customarily insane take on matching and makes it something else. She’s a cartoon; I get that. But if Jessica Rabbit can be considered hot, I won’t allow you to tell me the rule doesn’t apply here. We don’t know much about good ol’ Sandiego, but we know that ankle-length trench and that’s really all we need to know, isn’t it?

So, there you have it. A modern woman, a living deity, and an animation. Three points of perspective for ye’ old trench coat references. Each one wears it differently and each one wears it well. And let this be a lesson to you. Any woman, anywhere, can make the trench her own and every woman should, for that matter! Still, transition is just that – a period of change from one condition to another – so your time is running out and fast! Go grab that trench from the back of your closet or find one at a location nearest you (namely, the internet) before this moment passes you by! May the trench be with you.

(No idea why I went with the Star Wars reference. Just felt right.)

LOL Best Frendz!

There is no concept I detest more than that of the best friend. Perhaps it’s not the actual concept that gets to me, but instead the misinterpretation of the concept. I can’t say that I’ve ever had a proper best friend. I’ve had many close friends for whom I feel certifiable love, but never one to call my favorite. When I was much younger and under the impression that such a thing was necessary for survival, I had one. One. We started being friends at a very early age and we remained friends until a much later age, through separate schools, long distances, sickness, etc. She took my shit and I thanked her for being a better person than I knew how to be at the time. We’re still friends to this day, I should add. But what is this epidemic (and I do consider it an epidemic) where young women call more than one friend their best friend?

By definition, the word best means excelling all others; better than all others in quality or value. (Thanks, Merriam-Webster). So I’m very sorry, ladies, but Carly, Christine and Natalie can’t all be your best friend. (Hint: It’s probably Christine. She seems so low-maintenance and always listens to your problems without judgment.)

But okay really, aside from the fact that claiming to have more than one best friend is utter nonsense, if only literally speaking, I’ve never fancied the idea of a best friend to begin with. I’ll admit: It always seemed nice. Monica and Rachel. Carrie and Miranda. Kelly Kapowski and Lisa Turtle (sorry, Jessie). But I could never get myself to do it. I could never focus more intently on one specific friend over another; I needed to spread the love. And I have. I have several close friend with whom I share my deepest secrets and my relationship with each of them is unique from the others, but also, equal. Because of this, I’ve managed to keep friendships going for over a decade a piece and we really, truly love and support one another because guess what? We each have our own lives with our other close friends with whom we share other parts of ourselves that maybe we haven’t shared with each other. It’s a beautiful thing,

Meanwhile, I’ve watched the best friend sagas play out all around me. For my sane friends who have stuck to calling one person their best, they bicker and argue and gossip about and want to ring the neck of that person. Yes, they love each other through and through (and I do believe that wholeheartedly), but their relationship is chaotic, neurotic, and sometimes even spurious.They’ll remain friends for a lifetime repeating the same cycle and, I guess more power to them, but I can’t imagine maintaing a relationship like that. This is what I would call Best Friend A.

Then there is Best Friend B. This is the other type of best friending I’ve witnessed, where one person hops from best friend to best friend each year and that year is wonderful and right and wow are they great friends and then suddenly, they aren’t anymore. Either they’re sick of one another or there was some bigger, real reason for their friendship breakup, but they go their separate ways and choose a new best friend. And on and on it goes, until one day, Best Friend B is left to plan a wedding with no bridesmaids because she’s lost touch with every one of her one-time best friends.

So, it left me thinking, because everything always leaves me thinking, why are our friendships made out to be this way to begin with? Why are so many girls/women a party to these roller-coaster or moment–in-time friendships? I’ve come up with a couple conclusions.

First, we’re told at a very early age that it’s a normal thing to have a best friend. Or at least, it’s implied, whether it’s the book club book at school that comes with friendship bracelets for two, or the Saturday morning cartoon that tells the tales and adventures of two pals, we’re not able to withdraw ourselves from this reality. And that’s great, really. The idea that we can have a bunch of friends but then still have that one friend who is our person to go to no matter what is a great idea and a great feeling. But is it preparing us for the future, i.e. romantic relationships and marriage, or is it setting us up for failure?

Secondly, as we grow up and get a more grounded sense of reality, we’re still witnessing garbage female friendships. This is perhaps my most major problem with the media, television, film, etc. in regards to this specific topic. Why are we depicting these disgusting friendships between young girls and sometimes older women based in vapidity? The girls who all like the same color and are popular, so they’re friends, but they hate each other and talk about one another when the other one has left the room. Or conversely, the girls who are “uncool” and cast aside who take solace in each other’s shared misfortune. The women who so severely judge the choices their friends make when they are in absolutely no position to understand how or why they did what they did. This is not the way female friendships are or should be, but this is what we’re seeing and in turn this is what we’re creating. And until we’re not seeing this type of thing anymore, even if it’s only meant to be for entertainment value, we’re going to continue to live by example.

Now, that isn’t to say each of us doesn’t have our own brain, our own morals and ways of deciphering from our surroundings and what else we know to be true about the world that this is not what a friendship has to be. But young women — no, young people are impressionable, and not everyone can rise above all of the time. I feel like through my arguments, I’ve turned us into helpless victims somehow, and I haven’t meant to do that. But it is what it is: we are not all in so sound a place that we can remain unimpressionable. It’s an inconvenient truth.

So does any of this sound a signal for anyone? Are you guilty of these friendship crimes, or do you know someone else who is? Do you think this mess is bred in us or that it’s learned behavior? What can we do to break the cycle and promote the healthy reality of female friendships? Will you be my friend?!? Speak up!

Flats: Friends or Foes?

I’m a troublesome young lady. When it comes to making decisions, it either happens instantly or after an agonizing internal debate. Examples? When it comes to people, I can tell within 5 minutes of knowing you whether or not I like you. And it’s true. In 300 seconds, I know as a fact that next time I see you and every time thereafter, I’ll avoid you or will be holding your hand like an old pal. Conversely, when my father won me a stuffed animal at a fair in the country when I was a young girl, it took me so long to choose which one I wanted, my mother and sister left us alone to take their turn at the Tilt-A-Whirl, the Swinging Ship, AND the Himalaya. (I chose a giant stuffed grey mouse, by the way. Made for New York, even then.)

When it comes to fashion, it’s all the same. I love a trend, I hate a trend, I deny a trend only to change my mind at a later time or vice-versa. An instant love? Patterned pants. I saw printed pants and I felt I was born to wear them. And ever since, I’ve worn them proud. Instant hate must have been neon for all seasons. You cannot logically explain lime green in February to me so do not attempt to. Leopard was a trend I adored until, there we were, five years down the road, and it’s still on every last runway. We get it, leopard.

But there are some things that stump me. Some items, trends, emotions, people that I waver on so relentlessly, I may appear unstable if I’m pressed too frequently. Ballet flats fall into this category. As a woman of 5’9″, I fancy a flat to keep me level with the rest of society every now and again. Aside from the reason of vertical dominance, they’re comfy, man! And so teenage me praised them. I wore them with dresses and band tees and gaucho pants (because gaucho pants had a moment then). And then I reached my twenties and it’s like I woke up deciding my boyfriend of 5 years was no longer desirable to me. I didn’t have a boyfriend of 5 years and here, too, I blame my indecisiveness. Nevertheless, I loved flats no more. They were dead to me! DEAD.

And so I went on this way for some time more. I had every platform, every stiletto, wedge, peep-toe and sandal you could have but in that pile of foot fashion thrown about at the floor of my closet, not a single ballet flat, new or old, was to be found. I spoke out against flats. I said things. Mean things. Things now, I wish I could take back. But as it is, I can’t and I will spend the rest of my life making it up.

Because I’ve come around again! At 23, I decided I had banished my adorable little slip-ons long enough. I don’t know what made me do it; I can’t say. But now, it’s like no time has passed. I’m in the latter portion of my twenties now — years since I fell of the flat-free wagon– and we’re happy together, just as we were back then.

I’m not sure what more I can say. If anything, this change of heart has made me question my character. Am I inconsistent or is this normal? I’d like to believe we’re built this way. I’m inclined to believe society has brainwashed us to think that. But that’s another argument for another day on another blog. So tell! What are some trends you just can’t seem to make up your mind about?

Five Reasons Leggings Never Should Have Happened

I, as an able-minded young lady, am an active and vehement denier of the Leggings for Women campaign. That is, if such a campaign did exist. But campaign or none, this is a movement that needs to be stopped. You may be saying, “But why, girl?!” (because sassy women in leggings speak this way). So below, I’ve compiled a list of 5 valid reasons why you should help me help you say goodbye to your booty-grabbing, flaw-exhibiting, flesh-chilling counterparts.

1. You look like a six year old when you wear them.
I remember 1994 when I had on my jellies, rockin’ the side-ponytail wrapped tightly in a scrunchie, with a fluorescent off-the-shoulder t-shirt and there they were… leggings! Comfortable and adorable, they were then. I could run free from jungle gym to jungle gym without care. I could Skip-It and hopscotch the pants off of any other six-year-old in the place. They served purpose and they were great. By the time I hit ten, my smaller-sized self knew it was time to let the leggings go and put on some big-girl pants.

2. They’re an excuse to be lazy about your appearance.
Stay-At-Home Moms. College students. Athletes. What do these people have in common? All people who wear leggings and all people who’ve no need to care about their appearance. This isn’t to say that they don’t care, might I add, but the need is not constant. Do you, my little fashionistas, fit into one of these three categories? If not, ditch the spandex.

3. Camel toe.
Granted, I kind of made this reason up for lack of a more valid reason, but it’s true! Why burden yourself with the wonder of whether or not your third foot is showing? And if you’re not burdened enough to care, you’re offending everyone else. You need to keep that thing in your pants. Literally, though. Get some pants. Real ones.

4. That’s what tights are for!
Hi. Remember those legging-like contraptions that don’t bare your ankles unnecessarily? You can still find them, most likely right next to your footless fashion faux pas in just about any clothing store you go to. So when you’re faced with the choice of ankle nudity or none, keep it conservative, people. Ankle cleavage isn’t turning anyone on in this lifetime.

5. If you need a fifth reason, you’re far too gone for me to save you now.

Women, please respond quickly and willingly to my request. Toss the leggings. The thought that they were ever allowed to be produced in adult sizes terrifies me. That they were able to grace the pages of my favorite fashion magazines and web blogs upsets me. But that you, as strong-minded ladies, feel the need to perpetuate this madness actually drains my ankle-covered soul. Onward and upward, I say!

(If you do feel the need to justify the punishable offense of wearing leggings, feel free to do so. If you want to join me as I shout from every apartment building rooftop in my neighborhood, really feel free to do so.)