gratitude-a-thon day 2098: the sea

Yesterday was rainy and it took me back to a day in February when Daisy and I were walking on the Strand in Manhattan Beach, the waves rushing in looked like they’d used six boxes of Crest White Strips. We were being pelted by rain, but the two of us couldn’t have been happier.

For me the ocean is like an expensive, over-the-top spa Jenifer Aniston must go to routinely (cuz how else could she look that good). It’s like that old Preparation H tagine–“Shrinks Swelling–” the swelling of stress that can take me over, of the overwhelm this cuckoo clock world brings, of the worry that likes to tag along with me like an annoying little sibling your mom says you have to take care of even though you have plans with your friends. Maybe it goes back to my childhood, days filled with salty happiness, seaside barbecues, swimming and jetty walks, or maybe it’s just genetic because, for my mother, it was the place she most liked to be. Whatever it is, it feels like it would show up in my DNA test –“We’ve never seen this before, Bill, it’s, it’s, why I think it’s seawater.”

I love a city, take me to Europe, an intimate, historical town, but the true way to make me breathe with ease of a meditation class, to click my neurological system into cruise control, to incite my best self is to take me to the sea.

The rhythm of the waves is nature’s white noise. It can lull me to sleep, or just make my heart runneth over with hope and an overdose of “all is well.” Sand in my toes is my preferred state. Give me the seagulls swooping and squawking, the unmistakable and iconic aroma of Coppertone.

California has a lotta beach. I watched a lot of surfers dot the water with grace and guts while Daisy and I galavanted around on our daily walks. As I watched them skim across the water’s swells, Cirque de Soleil style, I would catch a quick glimpse of a grin. The same kind of grin I always have being oceanside–one made of pure, unadulterated gratitude.

gratitude-a-thon day 2097: book ’em, dano

Trump has been arrested. And I hear he’s being tried as an adult (I stole that from someone much wittier than I am on the internet). I have feelings. You can find me singing the Hallelujah chorus all over the place. I’m all, like Laura Linney in Love Actually, (If haven’t seen this movie, sweet baby JESUS, watch immediately), when she brings home her totally hunky co-worker Karl, who she’s had a crush on for “precisely two years, seven months, three days, and an hour and thirty minutes” and finally kisses him, and does a little dance.


Republicans say it’s politically motivated. Isn’t it actually the oldest law in the book–WHEN YOU GET CAUGHT BREAKING THE LAW IN THIS COUNTRY, YOU GET ARRESTED, AND TRIED IN A COURT OF LAW. I mean, am I missing something? I mean, if those same people are going to continue to hold tight to the Second Amendment right to bear arms, which means you can carry around an AR-15 and shoot up little kids in a school, then they are mighty law-abiding folks, right? And if they can also support a Supreme Court that has its head up our daughter’s vaginas, ruling on what kinda decor they can have in there, then surely they should support someone who has broken the law being arrested, right? I mean, AMIRIGHT?

I am looking forward to the perp walk, and all the other shenanigans that will follow, including the three other cases, which will hopefully be brought against him–the Georgia voting scandal and January 6 Insurrection among them. This guy has broken the law more than I have broken my promise to buy no more jewelry.

Yes, I do realize this may further divide our country and cause insurrection-ish violence. But are we supposed to ignore that Trump has broken the law? Are we supposed to handle it like The Mob–“Don’t arrest Big Joey, or he’ll kill your family.” NO, YOU DO SOMETHING ILLEGAL AND YOU GET ARRESTED.

Anyway, don’t bother me on Tuesday, I’ll be watching what I’ve been waiting for for years. I am grateful we still arrest people who do wrong. If there were a police department who arrested the morally and ethically bankrupt –Trump would already be serving a life sentence.

gratitude-a-thon day 2096: Again

I used to go pick up my kids at school. And I loved that minute I saw them, before they saw me, when I could marvel at the fact that they were people-ish enough to go and have their own day without me there to wipe their noses. I loved covertly spying on the tiny signs of independence they showed–carrying their oversized backpacks on their little shoulder, or giggling with a friend. We’d connect eyes and there was a silent and comforting joy in our pupils that screamed, “I am so happy to see you, you are my home.”

This is what I think about when something like yesterday happens for the 1,890,324th time. When the school shooting alerts started to appear on my phone. I started to feel sick, then sad, then balls to the wall angry. And all the while I was imagining myself going to my kid’s school during the mass chaos of a shooting and finding out that their lives had ended because we are a country that is following a constitutional law that was created when we had bayonets and militias, not AR-15s we can carry around like cell phones and buy as easily as a latte at Starbucks.

I don’t know that I could make it through such an unspeakably horrific event. I don’t know if I could……

And yet, we, as a country, we allow parents to go through this kind of eighth ring of hell all the time. We let them send their children to what used to be the safest place on earth to be slaughtered in a more traumatic way than soldiers in combat. We expect those who weren’t in the way of the bullets to go back to live their lives as usual, even though nothing about their lives will ever be usual again.

We don’t talk about it in polite society because it’s not polite, but every parent breathes a day-long sigh of relief when they learn their child is safe after they hear the words “school shooting.” We thank God, or whoever it is we think is in charge of this three-ring circus for being spared this time. Of course we don’t really know if it will be our child, or our neighbor’s child, or our sister’s child next time. The plain truth is that we have decided as the US of A that guns are acceptable, and so it could be anybody, anywhere, any time. ANYBODY. ANYWHERE. ANY TIME.

I have tried to imagine a solution. I have wondered, if those so vehemently against gun control, ever lost a child in a shooting, if they would still believe in protecting our 2nd amendment right to bear arms. What if every senator and congressperson who votes against any kind of gun control lost a child in a mass shooting? Would it change their thinking? I don’t know the answer. And I don’t hope to find out, but my mind goes all kinds of cuckoo just trying to imagine what would have to happen to make us all unanimous about the fact that guns are killing us. Our kids, our souls, our humanity.

Am I grateful this wasn’t a thing when I went to school? Am I down on my knees my kids were safe during those pickups from grammar school? Of course, I am. But I’d be more grateful if nobody ever had to live through this madness, this horror, this nightmare that has become the way we now live in the most progressive country in the world.

Live from The Oscars Champagne Carpet: It’s ME (on the couch)

I’m sorry, why did we change the red carpet to “Champagne?” Has anybody seen Joan Rivers, because she likely rose from the dead to protest this one. It’s the RED CARPET, Hollywood. But, I digress, welcome back to the flannel pajama follies, from my couch, back East, where we are expecting a winter storm and I am longing for the warm California sun. But don’t get me started on the weather–no, really, don’t. It’s judgment day. so let’s get into it.

Were there bad dresses? Is Hailey dissing our beloved Selena? That’s a an eighteen wheeler sized YES. And here they are.


The Carpet Doesn’t Match the Drapes.

Need I elaborate? There’s no debate. It’s not Grandma Gilda’s condo in Boca, It’s THE RED CARPET.

Elizabeth Banks on a Dress Nobody Could Pull Off, but Somebody Should Have.

She musta partied with Cocaine Bear to maneuver this multi-layered monstrosity. This is like one of those kid’s games that comes with 1,000 pieces to keep them busy. She’s probably going to have to wear this next year too because nobody can figure out how to get it off.


How many exploded Peeps were blown to smithereens to create this look, Heidi? You should be ashamed of yourself. Easter Bunny: take note.

Melissa McCarthy Made me see Red (and way too much of it).

This isn’t about Melissa not being stick thin. It’s about her not being Hollywood savvy. This dress is just too damn much fabric. Is there a small Italian village living under her skirt? There’s certainly enough room for one. Or two. Or three.

SURPRISE: Dianne Warren Wears a Black Suit!!!!!!!!!

Listen, I’m all about finding your signature style. Like me and my flannel pajamas, for instance. But if I see Dianne in one more black pants suit, I’m going to sing one or all of her songs. And believe me, NOBODY WANTS THAT (Let’s just say I have the kind of voice where even my shower head asks me not to sing when I’m in there……)

Zanna Roberts Rassi: When the Fashion Commentator Becomes the Fashion Victim

Well, the best thing that could have happened here would have been for those wings to have flown this schemata off of Ms. Rassi before she walked out the door. When you’re the one rating the looks, at least make sure you’re not wearing something even you’d have to put on the worst dressed list.

Harvey Guillen Fucks with a Classic Tux

I love me some Christian Siriano. He’s all about diversity in fashion–all sizes, shapes and colors. But this, from his new Plus-Size Menswear line, was just too much: too much brocade, too much fabric, too much ugly.

Jennifer Connelly and Louis Vuitton Make a Bad Pair.

Is Jennifer Connelly so jaded she had to wear a bejeweled bib?

Zoe Saldana forgets to go to the fitting.

Give me a minute here–I loved this dress. But nobody paid attention to the fit of the boobs. When she was being interviewed, the top of this pretty little frock was drooping, and not kidding, flapping in the wind. Put some balloons in there, who’s got an extra pair of socks for Zoe’s bra? Anyone, Anyone, Bueller? If you can’t fill it out, don’t wear it out.

EVA Too LONG and Ugly ORIA

It’s like that lace tablecloth your grandmother always tells you she’s going to leave you in her will married a disco ball. It feels too big and overwhelms Eva’s tiny frame. Not buying it, and she shouldn’t have either.

Tems, in her View-Blocking, Wedding Dress.

The balls Tem needed to sit down and block the view of the people behind her must be the size of the fucking Grand Canyon. Also, after your wedding, shouldn’t you go your receptions and not the Academy Awards? This dress would have made the other list, but it lost by a head (piece). I think it’s incredibly beautiful from the shoulders down, but as it is, it and the wearer are on my fashion naughty list.

The Blah of Blanchette.

My husband said it best, “Is she wearing a tarp?” I think it is, granted it’s a dreamy fabric tarp, but a tarp nonetheless. Sooooooo underwhelming, not to mention matronly.

It’s White, no it’s Black, no it’s White, no It’s Black, no it’s Mindy Kaling.

There’s no debating that Mindy Kaling has stepped up her fashion game after her weight loss. (Can you say Ozempic?) I mean, she really looks fabulous. But what’s with this peek-a-boo-birdcage-ab-bearing-weird-wings hanging-from-her waist dress? I didn’t like it in white, but then it came out in black. And let’s face it, by that time in the show, you’re wondering if you’re tired, or did Mindy Kaling have someone color her white dress in with black magic marker during the break? I don’t get the whole thing but it’s black and white for me, I don’t like the dress in either color.

Jessie Buckley and her Game of Thrones dress

Sure, a cool juxtaposition between the hip hair and the Victorian-era-looking dress, but get rid of those stupid hot air balloon sleeves and then let’s talk.

Harry Shum: A Crazy Rich Asian?

When your Karate School has prom.

Salma Hayek: Curves Ahead, but no Magic.

Did they have to smother Salma in oil to get the top of this dress on? It was too tight for comfort–including the audience’s comfort. And the skirt is like a cheerleader’s pom pom for a stripper.

Florence Pe–ew.

Have I ever told you how much hate I have for a nose ring you wear between your nostrils? No matter how pretty, cute or adorable you are, a nose ring just never looks good. But that, of course, is the least of the problems here. This is a really beautiful dress, but as it’s worn, it just looks like high-end sheets are artistically wrapped around a shorts unitard you’d wear to yoga. At some point, the shorts and mile-high platforms were not visible and the dress looked like a dress, and I was fully onboard, but that wasn’t the idea for sassy Ms P. It’s a worst for me.

Enough of the bad, although honestly, there were MORE. Let’s go to the looks that made even the beige carpet look good.


The minute I saw this dress, I filed for divorce so I could marry it. This Valentino has it all–a sleek and impeccable fit, a simplicity that’s understated but stupendous, a color that stands out, even on this not red carpet. The hair is pitch perfect, the earrings are a amazing, and her makeup was flawless. I give her a 1,938, 332 out of 10.

Denai Gurira. This Dress Forever.

I’ll just say up front, I didn’t like her Leaning Tower of Pisa updo, but I do like why she wore it. She said about her hair, “This is my African self coming out here, you know, a tribute to the women who carry amazingly things on their heads with an astounding poise at all times.” But the dress, the dress is everything everywhere all at once. That raw hem at the neckline is stunning and the fit and cut are alarmingly good. I love the styling, keeping it all very simple. This is as good as it can possibly get in my fashion bible.

SANDRA OH no gets an OH yes.

I don’t think Sandra has ever worn anything that lives up to her talent on the red, I MEAN CHAMAPGNE carpet before, but last night, was a whole different story. Not normally a color I’d gravitate toward, but it felt lush and fresh at the same time. The draping was drop dead perfect. The fit was excellent. Even that ugly necklace worked. Way to go, Sandra Oh.

Nicole Kidman. The Woman Who Never Gets it Wrong.

Nicole is just one of those women who gets it right over and over again. And last night was no exception. I loved the loose hair and lack of major jewels. The fit here was just like it always is, just like Nicole always is–PERFECT.

Cara Delevinge has a leg up.

Some people are just born beautiful and Cara is one of them. This dress was a show stopper. The volume was attention-getting, but not overwhelming. The hair and makeup were ideal. This was a red hot winner.

Mala Yousafzai is smart and stylish.

If you ever wondered if you could wear modesty on the red (OH FUCK ME, CHAMPAGNE) carpet, Malala and Ralph Lauren showed you how to last night. Sophisticated and gorgeous. Blingy, but not bare. She may just be gunning for the Nobel Fashion Prize.

Jamie Lee Curtis Screams Ageless Beauty.

I don’t LOVE, like I’d sell my house to buy it, or I fainted when I saw it, this dress, but I do love that 64 year old Jamie Lee lets herself be a mature adult woman who wears her wrinkles and her rhinestones with a fucking boatload of confidence.

Michelle Yeoh, Yeah!

At 60 years old, Michelle looks like a fairy princess all grown up.

Halle Bailey, The Little Mermaid, I Mean Style Star.

I have never met a piece of tulle I didn’t love, so this dress was calling my name. And the fit was exceptional. Yeah, she’s the new Little Mermaid, but she looked like a Princess to me.

Rhianna Glows, without a rhinestone in sight.

Oh baby, Rhi Rhi just knows how to dress with or without a baby on board.

Stephanie Hsu, I love you.

The color of this dress made me gasp. Rich, yet simple, this gathered skirt was a very colorful slice of heaven. Is love too strong a word? Nope.

The Ageless Angela Bassett

Again, at 64, an adult, but spectacular look for the queen. She’s brought it all award season and last night she did it again.

Ana De Armas, wears a Little Mermaid dress.

I went back and forth on this dress, but ultimately, it’s beautiful and so is she. I wish there had been more contrast between her skin tone and the color of the dress, but her hair, which I wore in 8th grade, never looked so good.

Lady Gaga Not Dressed Up, Dressed Down.

Lady Gaga was all Red Carpet Red lipstick and dressed to kill, but when she came out to sing her song, Hold My Hand, she had scrubbed her face clean and changed into ripped jeans and a tee and she never looked more beautiful or stylish in her life. This was a bold move and one I really appreciated.

Ok, let’s hear it–what did you love, could have lived without? Let her rip!

Live from the red carpet, it’s ME.

Usually, I’m wearing my pajamas, the flannel ones, might be the polka dot blue and white, or the elephant print, or maybe the ones with the intricate pink flower design while I write my red carpet best and worst blogs. but this year, this year was a little different. A little fucking shut-the-front-door, this-is-bananas and you’ve-gotta-be-kidding-me different.

I’ve been in California for the month of February and was heading to meet my son and his friends at brunch in Santa Monica yesterday, when I told my husband the SAGS were on that night. He asked me where they were being held. I looked it up and it was, as usual, at the Shriner’s Auditorium, “You gotta go,” he said. “WHAT?” I answered. “YOU GOTTA GO!” he repeated. I hadn’t even thought of this, and I’m not at all sure why. He was on his way to a work thing in San Diego after the brunch, so he couldn’t go with me and I’m a little shy about driving around LA solo, plus I figured the crowds were already lining up, and I wouldn’t be able to see anything anyway. We dropped the subject. I mean, how ridiculous…

We ate brunch, including a share order of Squash Pancakes, which were green, and like all sorts of major delish. Note to self: throw some squash in the cakes next time.

When I was inside ordering, Peter had looked up directions to the show and found it was not at the Shrine, it was a short 10 minutes away at the Fairmont Hotel. So, knowing I’m obsessed with movies and tv, an award show junkie, and a celeb fashion slave, he convinced (FORCED) my son to take me. TO. THE. SAG. AWARDS. Yuh huh, I was one of the screaming fans, of which there were only a total of 12 and hardly any of them were screaming, except for three 13-year-old girls who were decked out in crop tops and sweats and had signs for Bobby Milly Brown.

And here I am, not exactly red carpet ready, since my foray to the Fairmont was totally unplanned, but I do have on Chloe flats, a Chanel bag, an All Saints jacket, a Vince shirt, and my Hudson wide-leg jeans that my husband says he doesn’t know why anybody would wear because they are totally shapeless. This from a guy who thinks Lululemon is formal wear.

Anyway, yeah, so I went to the SAG Awards! Ok, I went to the outside of where the celebs get dropped off at the SAG Awards, but still, RIGHT? Not in my pajamas, not on my couch in Boston, right there on the scene in Century City. All I needed was a mic, a better vantage point, a good dress and you’d have thought I was reporting for E!

Me, the thirteen-year-olds and the other few fans stood across the street from drop-off. While it was close to the action, we could only see the people who got out of the cars on the left-hand side. But was I complaining, was I bitter? Are you kidding, I was just a little bit out of my mind to be there at all, clicking something off my bucket list I thought I’d kick the bucket before doing. I mean, I was so wildly excited that I barely felt the cold. LA can get chilly in the winter, and while it wasn’t East Coast February weather, which you know how much I LOVE, it was in the shade and it was, well, let’s just say I thought my hands might be frostbitten at some point.

I did get pictures of the back of a bunch of celebs. And every time I predicted to my son, “That’s somebody,” he’d reply “Mom, everybody is somebody,” which really made me wonder if he’d truly come out of my womb. After all, I did have a c-section and they might have switched the babies…..BECAUSE C’MON, PLAY ALONG, YOU’RE AT THE SAG AWARDS.

I was clicking away at people I didn’t even recognize and will admit to thinking that the head Hotel guy was someone famous, when my son informed me he was just a Fairmont employee.

The high point? Up pulled one in a long line of black Escalades and out popped Jason Bateman and before i even knew what I was doing, I screamed, “Jason” at Jason Bateman like I was one of the 13 year old girls, and he turned around, looked right at me, and waved. TO ME, Toni of the pajamas-on-the-couch-blog and the frostbitten fingers. JASON BATEMAN, of Arrested Development, Juno and O-fucking-Zark fame, waved at me. He did. why the crowd of 12 did not call one of my favorite actor’s names defies logic. But no worries, I properly and embarrassingly fan-girled Jason and honestly, I had the distinct impression he was grateful was there.

And then he won, my Jason Bateman, who is now my close, personal friend, right after he saw me! Coincidence, I don’t think so. (This photo is from People Mag, not my iPhone.)
Here’s Gidget, The Flying Nun, Norma Rae’s back! Sally Fields, why you have to get out of the wrong side of the car?
And here’s Julia Garner’s back. I love her, but not her dress.
Hey, it’s Jim from the office, John Krasinkski, I mean. Emily Blunt
got out on the other side, dammit.
Laura Linney, another fave. That woman has the best hair.
Richie from The Bear’s Ebon-Moss Bachrach.
And here’s James Marsden, one of the cutest men on the planet wearing my prom date’s tux.

My phone’s battery finally died, and my son’s patience for the cold wore thin, so we hightailed it outta there, but lemme just say that going to the SAG Awards in my ugly jeans was one of those things I’ll never forget. I love stories, so of course, I love celebrities who make them into movies and shows and who’s personal stories are even much of the time as entertaining as their fictional character’s lives. No red carpet take downs today, no best and worst lists, just a happy camper who got to (almost) touch the stars yesterday. Grateful to my son for putting up with his mom. I know you did it for me, Jakey, and I know you’re unmistakably my boy, even if you didn’t want to shout at Jason Bateman with me.

gratitude-a-thon day 2094: who’s that girl

From the minute I heard Holiday, I was smitten. When Desperately Seeking Susan came out, I was all in–perming my straight hair and tying a scarf thing around it that stuck out of the top of my head like bunny ears. I boasted big earrings, leggings, and piles of bracelets. I fell for her big black sunglasses that were way too big and black for my face.

I sang Lucky Star, Borderline, Like a Virgin, Material Girl and Into the Groove in the shower, mouthing the words like she would. I danced through my house to her music, gyrating and shimmying, and yup, I could Vogue. I was enamored with her swag, her confidence, her carefree middle finger flipped up at the world, as she crooned her way to becoming the “Queen of Pop.” As people threw ugly comments about her voice my way, I’d disagree. When critics said she wasn’t really talented, just hype, I defended her. When her looks continually changed from hip to Marilyn, to pretty, to retro, to demure, to a badass BDSM chic, to Zen vibes, I followed, I sang, I fan girled. I had tickets in the 90s, but she canceled because she was sick. I had tickets seven years ago, and this time I was sick and had to give them away. Our paths never crossed, except in my head. She sang so much of the soundtrack of my life. Yeah, Madonna, I was Crazy for You.

BUT THEN, this. At the Grammy’s she showed up in a face that looked so much like a mask, I wondered if she might take it off and show us that she wasn’t done reinventing herself. No close-ups, but plenty of pictures and chatter, press and memes afterward to discuss what the actual fuck she’d done to herself.

I felt sad.

I get not wanting to look old. I am watching my face change, but honest to God, you can bet your Lucky Star that I would rather look wrinkled than like a marionette, like I had a face that was made of Silly Putty modeled by a three year old with zero artistic skills.

Aging isn’t that easy. It takes acceptance, continual reinvention, and more acceptance. Madonna has always pushed back, but this push back feels in the wrong direction. I mean Express Yourself, sure, but has Madonna given into the insecurity of aging? Instead of letting herself be, has her ego and self-assurance disappeared, manhandling her into a plastic surgeon’s office who takes Groupon discounts? Part of what I’ve loved about her all these decades has been her fearlessness and aplomb at being so comfortable with who she is. Isn’t bowing to the alter of youth culture the most un-Maddonna-ish thing ever?

On the one hand, I am pro doing whatever makes you feel good in the plastic surgery department. On the other hand, I think, why can’t we just accept the way our face changes as we age, and just try and look beautiful in it? Ha! If I had the answer to that, I’d be more famous than The Material Girl.

I guess I’m here to say I’d rather have the creases and crinkly skin, the bags and sags, than look like Frankenstein’s little sister. Don’t Cry for me Argentina, except for a little Botox in my 11s, I’m all natural for now. And if I should decide to go plastic, I won’t be using Madonna’s doctor. It’s not really the awful way she looks that bothers me the most, it’s the fact that she fell to the patriarchy, to the youth-obsessed panel of judges and societal norms that every woman faces once she’s past the age of 16. I thought Madonna was cooler than trying to hang on to what was and was going to determine her own future, like she always has. And somehow I don’t think looking like she looks now was part of that plan. Gratitude for all Madonna gave me in the past–the fun, the moves, the unadulterated joy of pretending I was her while I drove (so nobody could here me, because, well, my voice is about as bad as the way she looks right now), and of course for this reminder to me not to age in a way that makes people ask, Who’s That Girl.

gratitude-a-thon day 2093: you should be grateful

I love winter people (not really). They’re always boasting those rosy read cheeks, sporting a few layers of Polartec clothing, ready for some jaunty frigid action at any moment. They would ski jump off a roof, or ice skate the Charles. If you asked them if they’d like to snowshoe to the Berkshires, they’d be all like, “Let’s fucking go.” They are the bodies that thrive on BRRRRRR and never fear a broken limb, ski, or skull. They don’t know from chilly. They don’t cry when the thermometer drops. A meteorologist warning about a cold snap we’ve never experienced before excites them. The one thing they are not? ME.

I used to like winter. I used to love the intricate lovely flakes that canceled school and called for a full day of sledding. I was an avid ice skater, barely missing a weekend. I layered up and wasn’t bothered by my frostbitten hands or toes. I even learned to ski in high school and in my cute color-coordinated down overalls and matching jacket, the winter did not seem like The Worst Thing That Could Happen to Someone that it does now.

Now. Now and in the last decade, I have developed a deep hatred for Old Man Winter. I would like to hire a lawyer and sue whoever created temperatures below 55. Keep your fur boots and your trendy puffers. I’m just not into you.

Which is why, I am in LA for the month of February, enjoying a view of the ocean, a sky of sunshine, and temps in the 60’s and 70’s. I literally feel like I hit the Powerball of Luck. As both my neighbors watched their pipes freezing over the weekend. I was watching surfers kill half pipes. I wake up every morning to the view of waves and an upturned grin on my face.

Yeah, I’m still doing my work, but hell, my desk has a much better view.
When life gives you lemons, buy some forsythia to go with them.

You want to talk gratitude? I am grateful I wasn’t home for the outrageous, “generational” cold we had this past weekend. And everybody who knows me should be grateful too, because let’s face it nobody can whine about cold better, more consistently, or cloyingly than I can.

Even Daisy is appreciating the weather.

gratitude-a-thon day 2092: birthday resolutions

Today is my birthday and as a gift to myself, I will do everything the way I want to do it. I will eat my favorite foods, and take a little more time with my hair, and wear something that makes me feel good, and spend time somewhere doing something that makes me happy with people I love. Oh yeah, and at least 1,290,223 times today I will marvel at how the years are flying by and I cannot believe I find myself at this undisclosed age, which I will then promise will not diminish me, damn it!

Anyway, my point really is that wouldn’t it be nice if we treated ourselves like it was our birthday every day, instead of just once a year? Wouldn’t it be nice to do the little things that make you feel good on the daily? i don’t mean to devour a cake Monday through Sunday, I just mean to take the time to make choices that fill you up and respect you, rather than force you to slog on through, tripping on all the unenjoyable events of your day, instead of giving yourself the attention you deserve. Call the friend and talk to them, wear the shirt you’re always saving for special, watch the guilty pleasure tv, take a break during your work instead of working straight through, stretch your body, do a five minute meditation if that’s all your monkey mind (MY MONKEY MIND) can tolerate, exercise in the way that feels best to you. Smile at a stranger. And sweet baby Jesus, put on some lipstick, lip gloss, lip balm, whatever the fuck we’re calling it these days.

That’s my birthday resolution, do we have birthday resolutions? I don’t think we do, but I think we should. I am hereby going to be nicer to myself every day instead of once a year. I am going to be more thoughtful with myself. I am going to enjoy more and detest less. There. That’s the best gift I could possibly get, (oh and that surprise Chanel bag from my family was pretty good, too). Happy birthday to me. Grateful for another year.

critics-choice-a-thon day 2091: the red carpet

Award season is upon us, and we here at the gratitude-a-thon Department of Fashion (meaning me here at the gratitude-a-thon Department of Fashion) are here for it. Why? Because distraction is good. Say it with me, DISTRACTION IS. GOOD. It is. Pure and simple. So, giddy up, I’m getting on my critic-y horse and heading for the Hollywood hills.

Oh dear. Once again, the data for money and fame not being able to buy style are here and clear.

Devry Jacobs. The suit? The dress? The suit? The dress?

So, I get it. It’s a statement that we are all both. That we are all a little bit man, a little bit woman. Or that we might be male, and pretend we are female. Or that we are female in body, but male in mind. Or that we are male in spirit, but female in form. That we are not concerned with style, and we will go on a red carpet looking fucking ridiculous.

Anya Taylor-Joy teaches us the body parts.

On the runway it was called “The This is my Vagina Dress.” Pass the underpants.

Quinta Brunson. Don’t make me call your mother.

Damn, she looked so good at the Golden Globes and then she shows up wearing this absolute F-. The fit of the silver dress is lovely. Imagine if that black shit weren’t floating all around her, she’d be killing it. But as it is, she gets a failing grade. And a detention. And a suspension. And honestly, I am considering an expulsion, but this is pending the next award show.

Clair Foy, Ohboy.

She’s already so pale, did we really need that white band at the top? She looks a little like she just came off the beach in Waikiki and wrapped herself in a Hawaiian sarong. Not to mention, what’s with that caboose in the back?

Danielle Deadwyler gets into the kitchen supplies.

This is like that dream you have where you’re suddenly going to the Critics Choice Awards, and you realize you forgot to get a dress, so, out of your ever loving mind, you run into the kitchen where you get out the tin foil, which, fortunately for you, is the super big Reynolds Wrap version, and yay, you don’t have to go in your underwear, although it might have been a much better choice.

Sadie’s dress Sinks to the bottom of the pack.

It’s not really the worst, but……. Is that a Free People bandeau top or a beaded clutch bag under your sophisticated LBD?

Marcia NAY Harden

Giving her everything for her very shapely 63-year-old legs, but the length just looks off trend, and what’s with the bride of Frankenstein veil?

And the good ones.

Sheryl Lee Ralph. Tin foil done right.

I know, she might have gone to the same stylist as Danielle Deadwyler–the one who likes to use Reynold’s Wrap, but this whole look is a showstopper. The fit, the hair, the makeup. She gets an A++++ from where I’m sitting in the classroom.

Niecy Nash You Betts she is no rookie.

It is not easy to dress big boobs. And dress ’em in a strapless number–practically impossible. So, this dress on these boobs is not only a smash hit look, but a gravity-defying feat. I love the color, the soft hair, the whole dang thing is perfection.

Kerry Washington’s Flower Power.

If you know me at all, you know I love a daisy. I have daisy jewelry, daisy clothes and recently I even named my dog Daisy. So, this dress is a big yes for me. I don’t like how flat her hair is, and I wish she had on just a little more makeup, but God, this dress–I wish it were part of my decades-long daisy collection.

Amanda Seyfried goes gold.

This liquid fabric is dreamy. I love the way it falls. Pretty hair and a pop of red on the lip and she is not going to jail for this one.

Elle Fanning is the (Mc)Queen.

I absolutely adore the layers and layers and layers of this dress. It’s formal, yet that pretend rip gives it a super cool vibe. And she gets the perfect hair award for pairing it with that loose do.

Jennifer Coolidge. The Black Lotus.

Jennifer Coolidge has THE stylist to the stars. This black number hugs her in all the right places and her soft hair is much better than The Globes. Yes, I do love a black dress almost always, but this is just made for her body.

Ok, so wadja like? Wadja hate? Spill the tea.