Tuesday May 8, 2007

Photos from last night's Vogue/Costume Institute party are up on nymag.com and style.com/vogue and oh my. 

Julianne Moore, I love the white tux idea, but this is not acceptable.  You look like a chubby Annie Hall, and given your normal untouchable style, I have no idea how you managed that.  Please step aside so Iman can demonstrate how to rock a lady-tux to the class.

Ashley Olson looks shockingly awesome.  More of this, and less of the homeless look, please.

Christina Ricci looks middle-aged and like Liza Minnelli in a bad way.  Also, full-on velvet should be reserved for the weeks between Thanksgiving and New Year's, and no further out.  No white after Labor Day?  Then no velvet after MLK day.

Renee Zelwegger should be imprisoned and force-fed triple cream brie.  Topped with butter.

Oh, Cameron.  You could've rocked the fuschia, had it not been for the attack of Pop-Beads to your neck and ears.  I don't care how much they cost, they're damn tacky.

Jessica Simpson looks like a highly plasticized hybrid of Elvira Princess of Darkness and a fiftysomething Vegas showgirl.  Now, I know that that describes Cavalli's target audience, but it doesn't make this dress right. 
Who's been reading The Fug Girls at work?  Pick me!
(aaaaand, the Beard Awards.  I'm shocked and disappointed that Tim didn't win, of course.  Whereas our sous chefs went the shocked-and-hungover route today.  However, woohoo for David Chang and the Ssam Bus- if stripper poles were actually involved on said bus, this only makes me want to eat at the Momofukus more.)

Ooh!  New shoes: 
because I am a sucker for coupons.  If Macy's mails me a 20% off coupon, you're damn right I'm going to shop their sale.
I also fell hard for these flats-
:  a direct knockoff of the Stuart Weitzmans (below) I saw in lipstick-red patent.  Other than the hardware color, I see no difference.  Yay, cheap designer copies!

Fortunately for my bank balance, they only had a size 6 left, so the patent leather was left behind.
When out with Tara on Friday night (Latin dancing at the Loring), I had planned on buying one round of drinks to start the evening off, and then letting men take care of the rest of the booze for the evening.  I even titted up for this purpose in a scandalously low-cut halter dress.  However, $50 out of my own wad o' bills later, not a single man had taken my hint ("thank you for the dance- but oh, I'm so thirsty!") and scampered to the bar to wet my whistle.
Then, to add to the insult to my womanliness/boozehoundiness, I received, um, attentions of a less-than-welcome sort.  I was dancing with a friend-of-a-friend, who had seemed like a chatty, affable dude earlier in the evening.  He was chatty, yes, but had crossed the line from "friendly" to "gropey" after a few rounds of booze. While bachaca-ing, he went from hands-on-waist to hands-on-hips-and-ass to jesus-christ-you're-going-for-my-clit.  Hands were very firmly removed to North of the Border, and I excused myself at that point.  But did I get a drink out of it?  Hell no.  Sir, if you're going to start feeling around the vag, at least counter-offer a dinner or something.  I'll turn you down and maybe even throw a drink at you if necessary, but at least to make a fair trade.

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