This is the Pepper Skirt by Leyendecker, $297. It managed to stump the Shopbop copywriter, who can usually rise to the occasion. She may be having some sort of mental breakdown, and who can blame her with shit like this “skirt”?
I’m going to have a go at it: Rock this tragic skirt with a Hawaiian lei and leave your skinnies at home!
Oh fuck it, I can’t do it either.
Psychiatrists have defined a new subgroup of what is known as ‘adjustment disorders.’ Somewhat similar to post traumatic stress disorder, post traumatic embitterment disorder is triggered by a negative life event which “is experienced as a violation of basic beliefs and values.”
The predominant emotion in PTED is embitterment. PTED patients also complain about feelings of injustice and rage. A recent German study used a PTED self-rating scale to determine the prevalence of the disorder. The scale is described as a reliable and valid measure for embitterment.
Having spent nearly two hours reading about this new diagnosis and searching for the PTED scale online, I was extremely bitter in my defeat. I WANT TO TAKE THE TEST, GODAMMIT!
I love psychological tests. The one for OCD starts with questions about germs and counting and then casually asks if you ever have thoughts about poisoning your dinner guests. Once you start laughing, it ruins the decorum of the test, but I recommend taking it.
Bitterness seems like something that’s hard to quantify. How bitter is too bitter? How long do you get to feel bitter before it is considered pathological? Maybe such enduring bitterness is the only sane response to some events. Who gets to decide?
I know a woman whose husband had an affair 30 years ago. They are still together, but she talks about his infidelity as though it happened yesterday. That seems pathological.
Then there is artist Hugues de Montalembert who was blinded by muggers who threw paint thinner in his face. An interview I once came across referred to the artist as “still bitter.” Now that sounds pretty accusatory, doesn’t it? Is he supposed to get to a point where he feels, Oh what the hell, shit happens!
If tragedy doesn’t beget embitterment, what kind of culture have we become? When you see funerals outside the US and western Europe, there is wailing and all kinds of openly emotional displays of grief. It always seems more human and sane than the understated mourning that is so prevalent here.
If bitterness is pathologized, one journalist has suggested, then what about extreme racism? That seems far more delusional and crippling, to me, anyway.
Personally, I like being bitter. I like to hold a grudge, and it’s a point of honor with me. People who give up their grudges strike me as shallow. A good grudge should last a lifetime. It can be invigorating, or even comforting. Ma Haine Dure!
Of course it is good and healthy to forgive, if the thing is forgivable. Some things aren’t. If anyone can find me the PTED self-rating scale, I would be glad to post my results (if the scale goes high enough, that is.)
Don’t you hate the word ‘smackdown?’ I heard my self say it the other day, without irony, when speaking of Cheney and Obama. So now I’m using it to punish myself. Never again, though.
So, Forbes has deemed Angelina the “most powerful celebrity” in the world. They explain how they compute power, but it’s too boring to go into here. Madge’s rating is #3.
How do you think Madge is taking this? The tabloids have reported a feud between the two women, based on their baby collecting. Madge thinks the United Nations work is just stupid, and Angie thinks Madge is a big copy cat with the African Baby Hoarding.
Oh, those silly tabloids. I like to think that Madge and Angie hate each other MUCH more than that, at a much deeper level. I can’t prove it, but I know it’s true.
Let’s enjoy this photo of Madge at a polo match the other day. I call this one “Madge Looking For Her Dick.” God, what the hell is wrong with this woman? She should wear a fucking burka and spare us the horror.
Now, I love Angie as much as Brad does, but this picture kind of threw me.
I already knew about the nose-job, but where is her top lip?? I want those lips to be real, and I even argue about them with my sister, who insists they are augmented. My best argument is, Who would get such unnaturally big lips on purpose? You’d go, Don’t make them look too fake, right? Now I’m confused.
But in any case, my rule of thumb is, if it’s bad for Madonna, it’s good for me.
Hahaha! What the hell are they talking about? “Three kinds of surprising animal skin types for the variety of animal.”
God, you can’t ask for more in a shoe website, can you? This new shoe store is on Melrose Avenue in L.A. Its shoes are supposed to be comfortable enough to run in! Me not go there, how you feel?
Everybody knows that Pam Hogg was mean to our Susie B, and now she’ll regret it, but she’s still a cunt. Maybe she’s mad because she’s old. She also looks like she needs something to eat.
As far as I’m concerned, Pam Hogg is Nobody. She’s certainly Nobody in the US. She needs to either reconcile herself to her unimportance or just wear an estrogen patch.
Ladies, here’s the deal. When you’re around 50, your estrogen level starts getting messed up. Soon, it will go straight to hell. You’ll feel irritable. You will experience fatigue and hot flashes. You might even flip out at fashion bloggers.
In fact, Sister Wolf Herself has been known to harbor bad feelings toward certain fashion bloggers! If they post endless photos of themselves looking wistful or seductive, if they use the word fierce or smitten or they’re just stupid exhibitionists, I feel something like a hot flash, only it’s more like a seething sense of Why on Earth Do You Even Exist.
To sum up: Pam Hogg is a cunt, and that’s that. Some women need either food or estrogen or both. Some fashion bloggers are not to be encouraged with comments of “Oh wow you are so cute and awesome and amazing lol blah blah blah.” I think one is duty bound to leave comments like “Please just kill yourself.”
Miss Bubble doesn’t need help from me or WendyB, but we are still going to complain if some cunt is out of line.
Sharon Osbourne is known to be a voracious shopper capable of dropping $65,000 on a single excursion. I don’t know much else about her.
My friend Jane invited me to come with her to a private sale of Sharon Osbourne’s unwanted clothes, with a portion of the proceeds going to charity. Since Jane doesn’t give a shit about fashion, it was really nice of her to think of me and do all the driving. Thanks, Jane!
Here’s what I can tell you: That woman can shop like a motherfucker. Sharon, not Jane. She loves black. I mean she really totally loves it. She can’t get enough black. Just the black coats and jackets took up a couple of racks. Also, she loves white. You can see her loving white in the photo above, taken in a store called Intermix in L.A.
The white shirt selection was astounding. Some bitch who made sure everyone knew she was a celebrity stylist worked her way through the white shirts while blabbing on her phone about pirate costumes. When I touched one of the shirts, she snapped “All of these are mine.”
There were quite a few Chanel items with the tags still on. A $5,000 Chanel thing was marked $2,000. Most of it was black. All the major designers were represented, don’t make me name them all, okay? Jane bought some great Hermes shoes for $135. I admired a crazy long coat by Commes de Garcon made out of white cotton eyelet for $500.
In the end, I bought a coat by Sharon Wauchob because 1) I like long coats, and 2) I’ve heard of this designer, whose shit is on the Reborn website.
Now, my only problem is that I can’t figure out how the coat works. It has a hook thing and a snap thing. If you do them both, the coat is all fucked up. It has 2 long chiffon ribbons hanging on the inside, for what purpose I have no clue. The back is great, like a proper mourning jacket, with another two chiffon ribbons. The sleeves are cinched in the middle and have big cuffs.
The collar makes no sense, I can’t figure out what it wants to do. Maybe it is a wide portrait collar? It has pads in the wrong place. Or maybe it wants to be turned up like a vampire cloak? Who the fuck knows. It’s a size 38 and made in France, with a nice lining.
Notice the lack of styling in these photos. I was lucky to get them, if you know what I mean, mothers of teenagers!
Anyway, if anyone needs this very special coat, I will sell it for $150, unless Sharon (either one of the Sharons, actually) calls me to explain the complications.
Do you want to consider whether your use of the Internet is an addiction? Me neither! Then don’t go here to find out.
Do you think it would be tragic to use a website called Closet Viewer to catalog your clothes and then “track the dates and frequency of items worn?” Then don’t go here.
Are you able to resist the chance to be followed around by a creepy eyeball on a website full of Crypto-hipster weirdobilia? Good, then you won’t be going here.
And finally, here is a great (seriously) online shopping site where I managed to find something heartbreakingly* awful:
Can you believe these are real jeans?! The joke is on someone, somewhere, I guess.
* ‘heartbreakingly’ is my favorite word, from now until further notice.
Just when I’m trying to finish writing a story I’ve been struggling with, I have to go and orchestrate another MySpace debacle. Can someone please keep track of these for me? I’m losing count. This one was triggered by some guy’s stated regard for an obscure book I love. In retrospect, I’m sure he just Googled it, but that is now beside the point. Things went from zero to sixty: WHAM! Furious messages back and forth, by midnight I had downloaded Skype, the only way he knew how to IM.
OMFG! What a great guy! Let’s call him “Bald Guy”. A witty, literate, sensitive musician with a morose outlook on like and an appreciation for my flair with the word “cunt.” And what a great voice! A deep, scratchy voice that sounded like a Beatle or some other Northerner, crossed with Eeyore. Well, you know the story, it’s always the same on MySpace, except for the details. It was a perfect affinity! We were soul mates! Hours and hours of chat logged in. No cybersex, don’t even think about it. In fact, most charmingly, he divulged a squeamishness for “anal”, whatever that may mean. As in, “Yanks seem obsessed with anal!” Since I had never mentioned “anal” in the first place, perhaps it was some sort of warning? From now on, IT’S ONLY ANAL FOR ME, just FYI.
Anyway, back to the story: Look! He put me in his Top 8! Wow, this is even better than junior high, isn’t it?! The other 7 were music contacts. I feel like the winner on American Idol, even though I still haven’t seen a single episode. But then, things start to get weird. What could be the matter? Aren’t we still having fun with this?!? What about our plan to meet in New York? And what’s with the creepy Norwegian girl who’s been posting messages to him with cute little faces at the end?
Finally: Long confusing disputes about disputes about disputes. My feelings are hurt! No, he insists that his feelings are hurt, not mine. When I resign from whole thing, he needs me back. He loves me! Well, duh, so I sign up again.
After a long night of back and forth Skyping, we make up, it’s all good (i.e., completely nuts). But he has replaced me in his Top 8 with the Creepy girl, whose profile states so poignantly “I am a young girl, not yet a woman” even though she is 29. She should probably get a move on it, but that’s not my problem.
I ask him to get rid of her. He can’t! “She loves his music!” Well, the rest is too gruesome. My hallowed place is now filled by a creepy chick with a questionable eye who looks like a poor man’s Paris Hilton, and they are busy exchanging wacky jpg.s of ladybugs, grapes, etc. Today she has posted on his comments a huge suggestive photo of two greasy snails locked in embrace. Is this supposed to be preferable to anal?
I don’t know. Obviously, I have blocked this Bald Guy, and feel somehow violated yet again by an idiotic MySpace interaction. All of my 157 devoted friends send me pictures of butt plugs as comments. Can someone tell me what I’ve learned from this? Would anyone like to see this girl’s profile? The one good eye is the color of an icy fjord, or so he has written. Is there anyone out there who is willing to stage an Intervention for me, next time?
Even though I’m so happy with my little woolfie necklace from Her Amagingness Wendy Brandes there’s no such thing as enough jewelry (or anything else.)
This wolf pendent above, by dead ponies, is carrying his tail for some reason, and he’s saying “Hey, buy me and you’ll be on your way to collecting wolf-themed jewelry!”
This “godless” necklace by brookadelphia is acrylic, not as nice as gold but much more affordable. I hear it saying “Buy me you idiot, I’m only $48!”
Look at these adorably sinister zodiac babies from Anomaly Jewelry. The conjoined twins is Gemini, the mermaid is Capricorn. The whole collection is great. Even when I factor in the Crypto-hipster aspect, I find it irresistible. I hear it calling out, “Hey, admit how much you love retro-looking baby things!”
Are you hearing “BUY!” or are you hearing “Admit you are powerless over shopping, and your life has become unmanageable?”
Oh Roomy
I saw you speak
for the first time
Somehow perfect
Valley Girl diction, monotone
inappropriate laughter
Almost Asian
but not enough
Big mistake
rocking that teased hair.
~
dedicated to alittlelux, who sent me here.
