Every Day is Casual Friday

There was a time in my life when I wouldn't be caught dead leaving the house without makeup or in a tee shirt and sweats. Even in college when most of my sorority sisters were rocking the "Hungover/walk of shame/boxer shorts and sweatshirt" look, I still maintained a sense of dignity in my high waisted jeans and bedazzled top with shoulder pads (this was the peak of fashion in the late 1980s).

Today I have metamorphisized into some kind of "sweatpants and tube sock" monster. Most days (when I'm not working) a bra is only optional and drawstrings are my new best friend. Make up is minimal and usually involves nothing more than a swipe of under eye concealer or a dab of lipgloss - but only if I'm really working the 'sexpot' look. Seriously, it is only a matter of time before I go grocery shopping wearing nothing but a Snuggie and frog slippers. While I admit that I have become rather slovenly over the past few years, I've still thought of myself as having some sense of decorum. But that all went out the window a few days ago.

I was dressed to the nines in an old pair of ripped, period-stained Juicy Couture drawstring sweats, a long sleeve shirt that said "Kingston Jamaica" (surprisingly it did not include a giant marijuana leaf on it) and flip flops. I was perusing the aisles of Blockbuster video and as I reached for a copy of "Inglorious Bastards" I could feel a gas bubble making its way through my stomach. Had it been 5 years ago, during my "dignified days," I would have sucked in my cheeks and shuffled out of there until the coast was clear. But ever since I became Roseanne Barr's Doppelganger, I have lost all concept of appropriate behavior and went for it. Besides, I honestly thought that it would be nothing more than a quiet, harmless little fart. What should have been a silent little "puff" came out sounding like a Thunderclap of the Gods. And even though there wasn't anyone in the immediate area, I might as well have gone up to the front counter, pulled down my pants and let it rip into the loudspeaker. I was horrified. You've never seen anyone move so fast from the "I" section to the "Z" section in your life. And as I stood there, red cheeked, reading the back of "Zoolander" like it was the most fascinating reading since Star magazine came out, it dawned on me that maybe from now on I should clean up my act. Then again, maybe I'll just stay clear of Blockbuster for a few weeks.

Oh Diddy! You So Crazy

Today my stomach churned in disgust as I read that P. Diddy threw his son Justin Dior (yes that's his real name) a Million Dollar Sweet 16 Birthday party. And naturally, it will be aired on MTV's upcoming season of "Sweet Sixteen" (a.k.a. "Armageddon is Near") But here's the kicker: he also gave him a $350,000 Mercedes Maybach (with personal driver) and $10k cash.

I can only imagine if Parker or my parents had even spent a cool $2,000 on either of our parties. Insert a visual of us in 1986 at the Wildcat Cat House (on teen night) with a 4 foot Duran Duran ice sculpture, backlit in pink neon, dancing on the picnic tables while a DJ in a Hawaiian bow tie played "You Spin Me Round Round" by Dead or Alive. Parker would be wearing a Lily Reuben sequined $300 cocktail dress with ginormous shoulder pads (the bigger the shoulders the higher the status symbol... plus her mom worked there and got a discount). I would be rockin' one of my mom's Liz Clairborne black polyester dresses, Esprit silver belt, dripping with rhinestone jewelry and about 10 coats of Cover Girl Ocean Breeze Sparkle blue eye shadow.

Meanwhile, Justin Dior is most likely wearing a $4,000 Christian Dior custom tuxedo. Hmmmm, that Diddy kid isn't going to be too obnoxious when he gets older. I take that back; I'm pretty sure he already is obnoxious. I also found the picture above, of a very humble "Justin Dior" sitting in the rafters overlooking his party subjects on a red throne with a red and gold crown. He probably had a 30-karat diamond scepter as well.

Of course I joke about our parents because we were each showered with sparkly, hand-me-down rides when we turned 16: Parker got a kick-ass shit brown 1982 Chrysler K-Car (4 door), while I hot rodded in my grandmother's 1974 army-green, sporty 2-door Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. We were clearly, the "Justin Dior Combs/Diddys"of our generation.

Pick Up The Phone, Ringo

Like many people across the globe, I tuned into the "Hope for Haiti" telethon on Friday night. Of course its not like I had a choice, considering that it was on 500 channels and my only other option was getting dressed up and going out in the torrential California rain only to show up at my destination with carpet-head.

I know this is wrong of me to say, but was that not the most boring telethon of all time? Granted, I didn't catch all of it, but what I did catch was downright dismal. Halle Berry on a dark stage in leather pants reading off a cue card with about as much emotion as Napoleon Dynamite. Robert Pattinson couldn't be bothered with shaving his sparkly vampire beard and was as stiff as a cardboard box. What they said wasn't even heartfelt. It's like they were reading off a cue card all the while thinking, "I can't wait to hit up Koi after this and get me some California Rolls." Cold Play sang one of the longest and depressing songs of all time. I realize that Haiti is a horrifyingly sad event, but so is Muscular Dystrophy and somehow Jerry Lewis seems to put on a telethon that has a little gusto. And anyone who was alive in the eighties can tell you that there is nothing sadder than starving African children and Madonna still sang "Into the Groove" to raise money during Live Aid.

The most exciting part of the telethon was when the camera would occasionally pan to a room full of A-list celebrities answering telephones. I had planned to make a donation (again) but when I saw a room where Jack Nicholson sat side by side with the guy from The Office, just behind Julia Roberts? Well that just sealed the deal. After trying approx. 60 times (only because my daughter willingly hit the "redial" for me over and over) and getting a busy signal, I finally got a ring. And then I saw him on the telly: Ringo Starr. Sitting in the last row (which is just wrong I tell you!) and virtually the only celebrity not on the phone (aside from Chevy Chase). With each ring I chanted "Pick up the Phone Ringo" in an English accent, hoping to will fate into allowing me to have a conversation with an actual Beatle (although I would have also been happy with Leonardo DiCaprio or Meg Ryan). Unfortunately, some sweet lady named Pam (and no, it was NOT Pam Dawber of "Mork & Mindy" fame) took my donation with a cherry voice (much more cheery than Nicole Kidman's earlier speech on the black stage of doom).

Sure, I was disappointed that I didn't get to speak with Ringo. I would have told him that his hit song "You're 16, You're Beautiful and You're Mine" will always be a favorite of mine (despite its pedophile overtones). I may not have Ringo, but during my stint in the reservations department of a 5-star hotel, I have spoken on the phone with Bryan Adams (he jokingly told me to give him a bed with a mirror over it. Hilarious), and the lovely Kim Cattrell. At the time Kim was in Arizona filming a Lifetime movie of the week about aliens (seriously) with Rob Lowe. Apparently the film's budget didn't include a travel agent and Kim called in her own reservation. This was years before "Sex and The City", but of course I recognized her name and voice from the hit 1982 movie "Mannequin". Kim couldn't have been nicer and I remember feeling a pang of pity when she booked the least expensive room in the not-yet-renovated part of the hotel.

All kidding aside, I really don't mean to criticize this great and meaningful event. To be honest, they could have forgone the celebrities (even Ringo and Leo) and just shown pictures of those poor children, injured and parent-less with nowhere to live and I would have shelled out some dough. And it was all for a great cause, even without a tired, sweaty Jerry Lewis screaming for a drumroll or Madonna belting out "Get Into The Groove."

Thanks!

We've had a few really nice comments over the past several months and we just wanted to say "Thank You". Every so often we get discouraged and think "to hell with the blog" and then we get a nice comment and it encourages us to continue. So thank you to all our readers! More to come....

Anderson Cooper is Superman

Last night I turned on CNN right as the above clip was airing. (By the way you may need to click the "Close" button in the upper right hand corner to get rid of that annoying ad in order to see this hearbreaking clip). My first thought was "Why does that poor little boy have paint all over his head?" And then when Anderson Cooper swept in (without regard to his $200 Dolce and Gabana tee shirt) and carried him away, I realized it wasn't paint but was blood and I immediately began to cry. Some bastards where throwing concrete off a building and this poor kid was hit in the head - because he didn't have enough problems already. You have to give Anderson credit however for putting a person in need ahead of his job (and coming off looking like a hero to boot.) On the other end of the spectrum, a few days I saw one reporter shove a microphone into the face of a woman who had just been pulled from the rubble and he seriously would not let up. If I had been that woman I would have told that reporter to shove his 3 foot microphone where the sun don't shine and asked for a bottle of Aqua Fina.

Although Parker and I are bitchy, sarcastic gals who write about Pop Culture and weight gain after 40, we are both deeply affected by this tragedy. Sure, last Tuesday when the earthquake hit and we didn't realize the magnitude of it, our first thought was "I hope this news story doesn't preempt American Idol." One thing is for sure, when you see a 2-year old child being pulled alive from the rubble after 5 days, or a doctor telling a mother that her 5 year old daughter's leg will have to be amputated, it puts things into perspective. Suddenly the Bachelor rose ceremony or Snookie's Jersey Shore hot tub romance seem downright disgusting.

In the meantime, we have donated money to both the Red Cross and Jean Wyclef's charity. I am also gathering gently used shoes and bringing them to Sports Chalet who are going to distribute them to homeless people in Haiti next month. I even convinced Parker to send me a box full of old shoes - so if you happen to catch a Haitian lady in a food line wearing a pair of last season's Gucci stilettos, you'll know where they came from.

And while I know we don't have a ton of readers, our hope is that if you are able to give something at all to help out that you will. God bless the people of Haiti.