If there is one thing that every young radical who has the misfortune of reaching their late-twenties and discovering that non-profit work fails to pay the electricity bill will discover, it’s that her cooler friends will accuse her of selling out.  And in all likelihood, the accusation will be just, and the “victim” of said insinuation or outright accusation will find herself with only a shaky stiletto on which to stand.

To many people, it doesn’t matter how much I recycle, that I walk to work, or how much money I donate to Planned Parenthood and the Red Cross.  The fact that I listen to NPR only consolidates my place in the affluent white liberal ranks.  I am a meat-eater who feels guilt because I am too lazy to make it to the organic farmer’s market every weekend.  I have a Banksy coffee-table book.  I am friends with my housekeeper.  I yearn to be a roller derby girl but don’t have time and was rejected by Teach for America.  My best friend bought me a Kindle for Christmas.  I am an embarrassing living embodiment of Stuff White People Like.

And yet, last week, when my best friend from high school jokingly emailed me something about my job as a “corporate shill,” I about spluttered my Merlot all over my Netbook.  I am far from moneyed, after all!  My apartment doesn’t even have a dishwasher (and I will tell you, I never thought I would be practically 30 and living without basic mod-cons like central air).  I do have a classic dryer from the 1970s, and a television that, as best I can tell, was the finest model on offer in 1995.  I have a mouse for a roommate and a potentially murderous mold problem in my bathroom.

If I were a proper corporate shill, I would have a condo and a standing appointment for a weekly bikini wax.  I would fucking know how to ski.  I would not have a deep-discount wine habit and holes in the toes of all my socks.  Just because he’s living in one of the Carolinas and getting his PhD in Hippie Pot-Smoking does not mean that I suddenly know how to iron. (more…)


So, today was a big day for me.  I took some time out of work for a much-needed wardrobe replenish, and the logical place to go here in the UK for an office-appropriate, sartorial pick-me-up is the ever-tasteful Marks & Spencer.  After two hours of browsing and 20+ items in the dressing room, I walked out with a killer black, belted dress, a deep purple cardigan, and a fresh reminder of why, exactly, I hate shopping so very, very much.  It’s because I have to try on 20+ pieces of clothing to find two that even attempt to flatter me, and I generally walk out cursing my bizarre, awkward body and the fluorescent lighting that has highlighted its flaws in such loving detail.

But that wasn’t all.  I also arranged for an afternoon appointment in the lingerie section with one of those legendary Bra Whisperers.  You’ve heard tell of them, if you are a woman – you walk into an upscale lingerie store and, with the wink of a beady eye and a quick snap of a tape measure, they inform you that the bra-size you’ve called your own for the last ten years is, in fact, dreadfully mistaken and then, while you sputter protests, they conjure up a host of beautiful delicates in some combination you’ve never considered, and suddenly, magically, you are harnessed into the bra of your dreams.  Your tits are caressed by angels’ breath and the support is like flexible steel girders, and, “Ooh,” you breathe, “I never knew it could feel like this!”

So, yeah, my expectations were high.  After a lifetime of 34B (high B, low C!), I was ready to discover my true bra size.  I’ll admit, I was having fantasies that the Bra Whisperer would eye me up and proclaim me a 32C, although this was unlikely, as my 34Bs are normally straining at the last hook of the strap and runneth over my cups do not.  Still, while the grandmotherly Whisperer dispassionately assessed and measured me, I sent up my prayers.

My regular old Calvin Klein bra, with light padding - this is what I wear most days.


Rarely do my boyfriend’s passion for online chess and my own interests intersect; generally, the agreement is that I will read feminist news sites and pop culture blogs on my computer, and he will sit in his corner playing chess and reading BBC sports.  Everyone is comfortable with this.  His “corner” is in the bedroom whereas my station is in the living room, so we will even occasionally send emails back and forth of amusing video links, separated as we are by 20 feet and a door.  He is not supposed to talk to me if I am trying to write a blog post, and I am not allowed to distract him if he’s contemplating a move in any of the 20 games he is generally playing at a time.  This is our quiet time.

But naturally, he was compelled to send me a link to the new G-Star Raw adverts, featuring young Grandmaster Magnus Carlsen, and I was obliged to be terribly amused.  Magnus is a 19-year-old Norwegian chess prodigy and the third-youngest Grandmaster in history, achieving the ranking at just 13 years of age.  As per Wikipedia: (more…)

From: The Blemish


Seriously though, help a bitch out, what the fuck is this look?  Concrete dust and packing peanuts?  Are those pearls or pustules?  Did someone just unwrap her from cold storage?  Did she scrap with a giant geisha on her way in?  Suck on the biggest sugar donut in the world?  Even Cyndi Lauper back there knows her Max Headroom speed skating turbo dance tights are no match!  Someone hand me a rolled up twenty, stat!

*UPDATE: The other day I observed my girlfriends having a friendly debate over their love/hate of LGG and I found it interesting.  So I am genuinely curious about why you all either think she is a genius or a sad Marilyn Manson impersonator.



And just last week she had me so excited about the St. Louis Ram’s coif, damn you, Rihanna!  rams



I don’t know what to do with this “outfit” (besides give her an epic wedgie were I to be walking behind her).  It’s like she became entangled in Godzilla’s tampon string.  And nothing says memorably sexy like sparkly, glitter pubes!


Jools and Ladies

The London papers today are reporting on the death of Anjool “Jools” Malde, a 24-year-old stockbroker at Deutsche Bank who committed suicide on Sunday.  He was due to celebrate his 25th birthday tonight at a champagne bar in Soho.  Handsome and successful, Jools had allegedly purchased “a £300,000 penthouse in Mijas on the Costa del Sol.”

 The manner of his death, widely reported, is best summed up by his devastated parents:

 “Apparently he donned a Hugo Boss suit with matching designer accessories, treated himself to a glass of champagne at the much frequented, upmarket City restaurant Coq d’Argent, and jumped from an eighth-floor rooftop. Style meant everything to him and that’s how he chose his exit.” (more…)


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