Tarhearted.

THE UGLIEST PANTS.

Hailey looks so pleased with herself, doesn't she?

Looking past what a disgusting person Hailey Glassman is inside, and even ignoring that vile Ed Hardy shirt (makes her look like a carny at the county fair), the bandana (I wonder if her hair is attached to it), and loathsome Ugg boots (seriously, stop it with the Uggs) WHAT IN GOD'S GOOD NAME IS WRONG WITH WOMEN TODAY AND THESE GOD DAMN SWEAT PANTS?

Ladies of America, it is not okay for you to leave your house or gym in sweat pants unless you are going for a jog. Period. Not okay. And there is no such thing as a "designer" sweat suit. Somehow these new fangled swaet suits are even uglier than the teal ones my mother wore to clean out the roof gutters, mostly because they enable me to see your genitalia through them. Seriously, I can see your cha cha and your ass looks like a runny old egg. Is that why it says "juicy" across it? Because it's like a fried egg?

I'm exhausted. I don't want to live in a world with these pants anymore. I'm too sensitive. At least they ARE pants, unlike the tights that countless women walk around pretending are pants when they most certainly are NOT pants.

RAPUNZEL IS A HORROR STORY.

I have a genuine and well documented fear of or repulsion of super long hair. Ladies, don't get all upset or insecure. I mean really, really long hair. Past your butt long. Renaissance festival, Crystal Gale long.

I don't know why, but I feel really nervous when i see those flyaway hairs. It just looks unhealthy and weird and unclean to me. Do see them combing it is obscene and if I'm ever so unlucky that it touches me, I shudder. I have no idea where this comes from, but it's genuine and deeply embedded. (I also hate horse's tails, which seem similar, and touching any untreated wood. I never said I was rational or normal!)

That said, people will occasionally leave pictures like this on my Facebook or in my inbox:

And I think, "My friends are jerks!" and I laugh it off.

Then, today, The Boyfriend emails me a picture from his phone, subject, "Neigh!" I open it up and get this:

I'm glad it's braided and thus put away, sort of, but hurt that The Boyfriend hates me and is clearly not involved in this relationship.

AESTHETIC CANDY: SOMETHING PRETTY, SOMETHING PRACTICAL.

BOOTS, BITCH.

That would be my answer if you asked me, "What did you buy while you were out this weekend?"

A few years ago I was known as quite the snappy dresser. Then, without getting too personal, my financial life came crumbling down and I had to worry about stupid, ugly things like eating. Things are getting slightly better, so I decided to treat myself to a pair of much needed boots and got two pair instead.

Exhibit A. These cute Florsheim boots.

Exhibit B. These Frye-esque boots (I totally can't afford the real thing right now.)

Hooray for beautiful things!

That said, it's really hard to be a pinko socialist and root for the fall of capitalism and the redistibution of wealth when shopping for cute stuff is SO MUCH FUN. At least if the revolution comes I'll look adorable and have great boots for kicking in windows.

THE BITCH IS BACK.

Oh my god you guys, I am fagging out.

The BBC aired the first episode of... are you ready for this?... Joan Collins Does Glamour. I know, right? How was this not already a show? How is this not on 24 hours a day? Check it out:

I hope she slaps peopel and  pushes people into pools and stuff. God, I can't WAIT. If this isn't on BBC America when I get home, somebody will pay dearly. 

LIKE DELICATE LADIES.

It occurs to me that i may need to add a tag for "elegance" because sometimes the catch all "fashion" or "health and beauty" tags just won't suffice. Case in point: Allyson White, who even spells her name the elegant way.

I love waht she's wearing. Are thos epants or does she have a tie dyed blanket over her legs? Extra points for the cigarette, beer, and Cyndi Lauper in hard times hairdo. Anyway, Allyson (god, i'm crazy about that spelling) was definately NOT giving a beej when the driver of the car she was riding in crashed.

Quoth Allyson:

"I was not sucking his d*** - and it's pretty obvious that wasn't the case ... you only have to look at the mark on my chest," she said.

"Clearly I had my seatbelt on, so it's impossible that I'd be leaning over sucking his d*** unless he is hung like a donkey or I've got a f****** rubber neck."

"If it was true I'd just cop it sweet and think 'how embarrassing, I got caught sucking someone's d***' - but it is not true and that's what is p****** me off."

"I don't understand where that story has come from," she said.

"It may have looked bad when police first arrived as my girls were hanging out all over the place. I also had a $5 note wedged between my boobs so they probably just assumed I was a sex worker or something and he'd already paid me."

"But $5 is a bit cheap for a head job."

Too true, sister. too true.

Full story here.

GLORIOUS SCARVES.

My friend Zoe is more beautiful than your friend Zoe because she sends me things like this:

We should all be spending more time on things like this and less time on things like this.

JOHN HUGHES AND GINNY.

The passing on John Hughes yesterday hurt my heart more than I thought it would initially. His films were truly cathartic to misunderstood teens everywhere, even those of us watching them a generation or two later.

A lot of people would say that The Breakfast Club is the greatest teen movie off all time, and I'm inclined to agree. Still, Sixteen Candles is my favorite. It has the cutest love interest and includes my favorite denizen of Shermer, Illinois: one Ginny Baker (played brilliantly by Blanche Baker). Her glamour couldn't be stopped:

Firstly, I just love the aesthetic of anybody applying moisturizer to their elbow. I don't know why, but I do. I also love Ginny's soft voice and her ability to rock the soft hands like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune. Plus, she's got awesome lingerie, takes to many painkillers, and likes The Ronettes. Triple win!

Ginny: I really love Rudy. And he is totally enamored of me. I mean, I've had other men love me before, but not for six months in a row.

-------

[the bride arrives at the church, obviously out of it]
Brenda Baker: Her monthly bill came early. Well, she's fine, she just took a muscle relaxer.
Ginny: Try *four*.

--------

Ginny: Darling is something bothering you?
[pause]
Ginny: ...you're acting like... an asshole. And I think I know what it is.I think you're jealous that I'm getting married and that I'm getting all the attention.

----------

Ginny: No Sam, I think you're just acting selfish and immature.
Samantha: Oh yes that's it. That's exactly it.
Ginny: [to herself] I can't believe it. You make someone a bridesmaid and they shit all over you.

I wonder what Ginny would be up to now.

John, thank you for Ginny and everything else too. I really loved your movies and you will be missed.

WHY DON'T YOU?

Typepad, the service through which I publish my incisive, wise, and elegant blog, always posts a "question of the day" meant to inspire a blog entry. They're totally lame, but you know what? It totally worked today, because I've been meaning to write about this for a long time, but haven't gotten the chance.

Question of the Day:

If you were only allowed to own one book, what book would you choose?

I know what you're thinking. A book, Josh? But books are boring! But one book is not boring. One book is awesome. What book, you ask? Well, I'll tell you.

Obviously, the answer is Why Don't You..., suggestions by by Diana Vreeland, former editor of Harper's Bazaar and later of Vogue (until she was fired in 1971 by some cuntessa). Ms Vreeland died way back in 1989 because she was too beautiful for the 90's, but her wisdom lives on.

For 26 years she penned the column Why Don't You... which have now been compiled in this book alongside some truly gorgeous photography. Her column was simply a series of suggestions of things to do. Simple activities to help one overcome the boredom that is the human condition.

Why don't you...

tie black tulle bows on your wrists?

have a yellow satin bed entirely quilted in butterflies?

remember how delicious champagne cocktails are after tennis or golf? Indifferent champagne can be used for these.

upholster your car seat in fine camel's hair? Hermes of Paris will do this for you.

wash your blond baby's hair in dead champagne to keep its curl?

Why don't you, indeed? This is the activity book that parents ought to be giving their children on rainy days. Diana Vreeland had the life I want. No fair. Why, oh, why was I born Kentucky trailer trash instead of New York Society?

UPDATE: I just discovered that Vreeland invented the word "pizazz" and also "faction", which is a combination of "fact" and "fiction". SWOON.

 

(The gorgeous Diana Vreeland, 1903-1989.)

So what book would you own?

SMOKING IS GLAMOROUS.

I was a smoker from ages of 13 through 26. I smoked a pack of cigarettes a day all the way through middle school, high school, and college. I grew up in a house where everybody smoked, even indoors. People think I'm kidding when I say that I've seen my mother smoking on her exercise bike, as if the two activities might cancel each other out. In fact, she still smokes and you have to beg her, honestly beg, to get her to crack even one window in her hot boxed Subaru. She thinks it's a nuisance because the wind pulls her majestic Native American woman hair through the crack.

You have to forgive her. My family is from Kentucky, after all, where people smoke inside the grocery store whilst shopping for melons. In short, I felt like smoking was a part of me. Not a behavior, but a characteristic. It's actually why this blog is called Tarhearted.

I tried everything to quit. For me the patches worked as long as I was wearing them, but after the ten week program was over and I was patch free I would just pick up again. The gum was like burning acid. Then I took Chantix, a brand new drug that was supposedly the most effective method of smoke cessation. There were all sorts of stories about people killing themselves or somebody else while on Chantix, but I didn't really care that much. All I experienced was terrible gas, cotton mouth, irritability, and the ability to get blackout drunk on one glass of wine. The drug worked for me and I'm now smoke free and have been for two years (except for one debauched night in Paris.) I never looked back and have never wanted a cigarette since then.

Until now. I don't know why, but I've been craving a cigarette. Maybe it's because I've been watching so much Mad Men? I've been glamorizing it in my head a lot and I keep having dreams that I'm a smoker. I have to remind myself that smokers are less this:

 

And more this:

 

(Incidentally, this woman looks like a billion people I grew up with.)

Anyway, I have to stay strong. I don't want to end up like a sad old secretary condemed to the parking lot. Besides, smokes are ten bucks a pack in New York now.