When you’re in the dark, the black, the blinding nothingness, it’s important to see where the light comes from.
Because even when it’s overcast, there are glimmers, tiny moments, small breaks when you can see horizon. Look toward those rays, those beams, those tinkerbell miliseconds. Look closely at those people who hold flashlights, candles, twinkly white lights for you to see your way. And get down on your knees and commit them to memory. They are the people who hold your future.
What Lady Edith should say to Lady Mary if she does not get her happy ending tomorrow night:
“Look bitch, yes we are unfortunately sisters, but who cares? Just means we share parents, and right now I’m kind of done with them, since they failed to teach you anything about manners, or good form. You’re nothing but a bully, a selfish, Kanye-esque narcissist. Sure you got the guy, but you know what? I give you about a year before Henry figures you out, and you have to go through a Kim Basinger/Alec Baldwin divorce. And if the magistrate is smart, they’ll give Master George to Barrows to raise. We are done, Lady Mary, although I hesitate to call you that, since you are not at all a lady. I am moving to America and leaving all this British crap behind. (That is, if Donald Trump is not the candidate.) Even Mr. Carson thinks I’m right. Remember, karma’s a bitch, just like you. Sayonnara, sister.”
Whole Foods just got a whole lot of shit for this. I pay their prices, so I feel entitled to make fun of them.
If looking good is the best revenge, Megyn Kelly got hers last night. She is really some kind of beautiful (not to mention very smart). The rest of the debacle, however, was ugly Betty. I could only watch two minutes, in which I saw at least eight of Trump’s pre-school faces, and had to turn away for fear of projectile vomiting on my new rug.
Mitt may have never secured the nomination, but he had his best political moment yesterday, with that anti-Donald (duck) speech.
I dream in four inch Jimmy Choo’s. My alter-ego wears heels to the gym, high, high heels. But for my real life, the one I’m currently living in, and the feet I got at the bottoms of my legs, well, a one inch heel is about as high as I can go. And I frequently go lower.
So, all hail Victoria “Posh” “The higher the heel, the closer to Anna Wintour” Beckham. She has sworn off heels, in favor of sneakers. YES, SNEAKERS. Let’s give this former stilletto-wearing babe a standing O. Let’s face it, heels make any woman’s legs look sexier, but what they do to your feet could buy a podiatrist a second and third home.
I inherited bunions, thankyousomuchmom. (And I’ve seen Victoria’s feet, and she has bunions, too, which I imagine is why she is opting to make sneakers fashion forward now). I never wore particularly high heels when I was younger, so I didn’t really deserve them in the same way women who jam their feet into too tight shoes, or super high heels do, but there you have it. As I grew, and my bunion grew, I actually grew out of being able to wear any kind of heel because of the pressure on my bunion. And pretty soon, as I have well-documented on this blog, I had that bunion beheaded. And it’s brought me back to being able to wear many more shoes, but it’s not like me and Manola are going to be walking anywhere together anytime soon.
So, you know, for a girl with feet like mine, who kind of loves fashion, it’s a particularly sweet kind of music to my ears, and my toes, that David’s wife is making $80 Stan Smith’s trendy. I already ordered a pair. Happy, happy spring (in my step).
My husband and I are Democrats. We’ve struggled with the decision to support a candidate we love, who resonates with us in the deepest way, and one we know will be able to do the job, but for which we feel no real passion. In the end, we will support Hillary, because the idea of Trump being our president is just too off-the-charts TERRIFYING
But this morning, my husband said something interesting, while reading all the headlines about Trump trampling the competition on Super Tuesday, headlines like, The Daily News‘
“Make America Migrate,” and The Huffpost’s “The Wreckoning,”or the Daily Beasts‘, “It’s all over, but the crying.” He said, “Imagine if you were a real Republican, what you’d feel like right now.”
And that’s something to consider. Because while my mom toted me along to work on Democratic political campaigns in my town, and I was brought up to believe fully, and wholeheartedly in the Donkey party, I knew that Republicans were not bad people, that the beliefs were just different than what we believed. But the Republican party has become a three ring circus married to Burning Man. It’s so fractured, splintered, and all out identity-less, it’s difficult to recognize what the hell its core beliefs even are anymore.
Imagine if you were a real Republian. Grateful not to have to do that. But, really, imagine if you were.
Why, hello March. IT’S MARCH. You know what that means? It means we made it through the winter without any major snowstorms, and only one real cold snap (in which we lost our heat, but still). Last year at this time, we still had approximately 104 inches of snow on the ground, and some seriously bad attitudes.
GRATITUDE. HUGE, big, gratitude right here. I may even put the sleeping bag coat away today. #takethatwinter.