Sunday, March 3

Weekend Smorgasbord: 3/3



Holly jolly weekend, homies! I dipped a toe into the pool that is massage cupping yesterday afternoon, and my back looks like a 2-D version of Bowser's, only more threatening. The massage therapist kept asking me what I was doing later that night, which I thought was a hint that alcohol would be a poor idea, but it was only when I got home and my boyfriend freaked the fuck out that I realized he actually was trying to tell me "Don't bang anyone random, because they'll think you're a leper." My back looks like this, only more haphazard and borderline diseased. Relaxation! I'm a regular ol' Gwenny Paltrow.




Been desperately missing Paris. Desperately, for some reason, as though I'm the type of person who is capable of saying that and then jetting off to the city du fromage for a weekend jaunt. While I don't typically delve into the realm of feelings beyond Hannah Horvath's, I think it's because this week's been a weird one. Tax time has elevated my stress levels to shoulders-popping-out-of-sockets slouch-madness, this winter stacked atop permanent indoors lifestylin' has left me craving sunshine of any kind, and a new diet has left me hangry on more than one carb-free occasion. (More on that later, murder me in the meantime.) The idea of sitting by the water, diving teeth first into a baguette like a total americain with brie smeared across my face like a dairy moustache is the ultimate cure-all, mocked and repeated only by the endless Instagrams of beautiful, cool people eating wonderful, tasty things at Cafe de Flore while taking selfies (like Elin's above) of their sleek, business traveling Paris Fashion Week selves. OK, so the food at Cafe de Flore isn't even that good, but you see what I'm saying. Go to Le Comptoir du Relais. That's what I'm saying. And please let me find my way back there soon.

And in worky news, in the bag of Gushers that is life, some people are just the ooziest little candy hexagons. Ray Siegel is one of those blueberry-flavored yummies. Endlessly cool, effortlessly stylish, and hilarious in all the right ways, the chat we had for Of A Kind shows just that, only in dialogue-form.




Whenever I see those toddler towels in Bed Bath & Beyond that look like pandas or tigers with little terrycloth animal hoods, I always wish I could shrink-ray myself to a stunted size that would allow me to squeeze to fit inside one, or get one custom made for myself. Not sure if I can find a LES tailor to get the job done, but it looks Natalie Joos has the animal jacket situation on lock with her gooftastic fox vest. Jealous.

HOTTIE ALERT WEE-OO-WEE-OO. Somewhere in this city, there were cute men who are capable of growing beards who know how to make magical things out of food products dressed up, in the same room, thanks to this new Gant Rugger chef team-up. Best part? Those tiny lil' doodle cheeseburgers inside the fabrics. Think of it like a non-latex Batman uniform for a hot stomach rumble-lifesaver. Yum.

Not sure why no one has hired a skywriter yet to spread this across the city, but apparently Momofuku Ma Peche has introduced a new 10-course chef's tasting dinner, of which the chef will call you personally and ask your preferences on what you'll be served, down to the cocktails. Not sure how he'll respond to my tall order of "globs of sea urchin, a cookie sandwich, a lot of runny cheese and the most muddled minty-ginger drink you can concoct", but I'll let you know when I book this thing immediately and tell him know first-hand.

As I'm not a celebrity and therefore am never to be seen in a string bikini on the cover of In Touch, it really doesn't matter to anyone but my subconscious if I'm waif-like or not. But, if I've ever had a reason to keep crying sweat tears through my skin pores at Equinox's Barre Burn death chamber, it's to wear this nifty neon blue jumpsuit from Tommy Ton's latest Harper's Bazaar shoot. Not only is it the Wikipedia definition of unforgiving, it's the type of thing that only hangs on the rack at Barney's in size 0 and 2 and will turn you into a love handle-flavored human sausage. But, considering it's Diane Von Furstenburg, I might have a bone thrown my way and be able to make an ass out of myself at a friendly neighborhood Nordstrom's. Clothing equivalent of a sartorial carnival: you will be mine, contingent on losing multiple pants sizes by May.





Another memory to paste in the "Things That Only Happen To Me" photo album, packed full of unbelievable life-long treasures. I headed over to a boss' office on a sleepy Monday morning to do some work, which began with a day's worth of tasks and ended with this Israeli man yelling at us about how to use a doorknob. Why? Because I got locked on the outside, she got locked on the inside, and we both had keys. WE BOTH HAD KEYS. Having to call a locksmith, communicate through a metal door and eventually have the entire panel popped out so that we could enter or exit — despite having two sets of arms and enough brute force to nearly burst the door off — is one of those inexplicable moments that seem to plague my eye-rolly days. But hey, at least with all the new locks, I have enough keys clanging together on my keyring to look like I own multiple homes!




Aw, shucks. Those cool cats at IFB picked my NYFW ‘13: All of Your Wildest Most Terrible Dreams post for their Links a la Mode roundup! Ends up I'm not the only who thought New York Fashion Week was full of eye-catching terrors reminiscent of your childhood-through-teenage days. Just like last week, here's the whole post, fulla links fulla fashion blogs fulla other fine ladies who are sharing their list full of links:

Links à la Mode: The IFB Weekly Roundup For February 28th:

 
 

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