"Making Scents of New York"

Whenever I'm in Sephora or the cosmetics area of a department store, the only thing I really enjoy perusing is the fragrance. Even though I'm religiously dependent on it, I don't consider make-up a particularly fun thing to shop for. When I started wearing make-up my mom bought it all for me, which meant it was all Bobbi Brown and it was all outrageously expensive. So to me, make-up is kind of like cable or a gym membership: I need it and it's fun to have and all, but it's a bitch to pay for. On top of that, I never feel good about myself when I have to physically scrutinize the one feature on my body that I can never change just to pick a foundation.

Fragrance, on the other hand, is such a joy for me to play with. I think perfumes are easy to sniff and assess based on your own personality, and thinking about when and where you'd wear a certain scent is always fun to imagine. I also tend to believe that every woman should sort of have a "signature scent," and searching for mine has been a never-ending endeavor. But I also keep some bottles on the side that I think accompany different outfits at different times, or different days and different moods.

Today I came across Bond No. 9 New York, which I had seen a billion times but never stopped to inspect. Mainly because Bond No. 9 is based at 9 Bond Street, one block over from where the most wretched woman who ever wretched lived, and seeing the bottles just brought up rancid memories. I, by the way, used to be a personal assistant for a NOTcelebrity who lived in Noho. But that's neither here nor there. Anyway, Bond is an exceptionally dynamic perfumery that bottles fragrances named after different neighborhoods and areas in NYC: ie, Chinatown, Central Park, Riverside Drive... So clever! I really, really love companies like Bond, who have a very clear vision for their brand, keep it clean, and remain totally loyal and committed to their agenda (Demeter, for example, is similarly true to their own aesthetic). Bond has gorgeously designed bottles and candles, and their logo is a sweet little homage and play on the vintage NYC Transit tokens.

Anyway, the lady at the counter sent me home with Andy Warhol Union Square (the original scent that caught my attention), Nuits de Noho, and the Scent of Peace. This week will be my trial phase and I will promptly make it known which little piece of candy I prefer (the samples are wrapped like taffy!). And then all of my friends can pool to buy me a really well-designed bottle, since only one would set an individual back $195. See, even the prices are true to New York!

Blinky recap numbero uno!

Let me just preface this by saying that in no way no how will I ever encapsulate the literary magic that Richard at Gawker seems to sprinkle over any recap. The man is a brilliant spectator of the reality show circus, with an ineffable power to narrate that I would never dare to copy.

Anyway. Regardless. This show just spews too much insanity into American homes for me to stay quiet. The third episode, to my surprise, was still set entirely in the Hamptons. I guess a whole lotta doody went down in West Egg, huh? We got to see Silex gloat over their own sickly pale arachnid bodies in a "sauna;" we got to see the Countess "indulge" her daughter and a few friends over an etiquette luncheon (oh that lucky girl); and we got to see Bethenny run around being the woman I wish I was, dancing dirty with rich gay men and pounding back tequila and looking like a pair of perfect boobs on perfect legs with perfect everything. Seriously, lucky girl.

Even though we haven't gotten back to the Island yet, the women are definitely falling back into their owb archetypes, which brings me such glee. Luann reminded us all that SHE MARRIED AN ARISTO HO HO HO ISN'T THAT RICH NOW WASH MY FEET WITH YOUR TEARS. Her daughter Victoria is shipping off to Count-let school in Bougey-burg Connecticut with a bunch of other girls that were named after queens. Kelly was true to her aloof quest in proving that she's not here to be a Housewife when she filmed more scenes of herself looking at the other women as if they were batshit crazy. Ramona, never one to disappoint, acted batshit crazy. She vehemently denied that she'd help Jill with an arthritis fundraiser until she - wait - remembered he daughter had arthritis. Then she laughed maniacally at Jill's hesitance to join a tennis game while her husband Mario drunkenly looked on and waited to get wasted enough to want to have sex with her. (I'm just hypothesizing how their marriage operates, that's all.)

Oh yeah, she also engaged Governor Patterson in a conversation over who was more blind. FOR REAL, RAMORON???!!! FOR REAL? Also, I feel it appropos to call any blinky with David Patterson in it a BLINKY. You know. Because his eyes are fucked up.

Bling

Ohmygodyouguys. This is how I spent my time at work today. Learning how to make blingees. Expect to see a lot more of THIS glory beautifying up my blog soon. My new resolution is to recap every RHONY episode with a distinct blingee, starting with last night's. Recap coming veeeeeery soon! In the meantime, let's get down with Gay Brad and Ramona at the Hampton's Tea Dance!

I don't think she really said that actually

But whatever.

Total knock out

My new favorite beauty product (which is rare for me to have because I rarely spring on cosmetics before I spring on alcohol/shoes/coffee) is KO's nail polish. This stuff is BUH-MAZING, guys. It's what they call "flatte," and what we call ultimate matte. It's really chalky and soft kind of how you'd expect house paint to dry on your nails. Sounds unattractive, but it actually stays well on the digits and (although it can chip easy) doesn't look any different than a good manicure. It only comes in black, white, and frosty pink. Which is all I wear. And since these babies are $22 a pop, I'm OK with that.

You're just jealous.

Two Housewives posts in a row? Why you ask? Because I have been waiting a GD month for this mess. Also, it takes a certain amount of gall for someone to slap recession-raped Americans in the face with a show about rich, flippant women who will pay no heed at all to the death of Wall Street. And for that I feel like I owe someone my attention.

First of all, and most of all, LOL at Alex and Simon. LOL all over their faces. Bethenny said it best when she noted that Alex and Simon probably showed up at the Social Life Hamptons party thinking the event was named for something they could win instead of the magazine actually throwing the soirée. These two are at a point where they totally know their own shtick and are playing it up to the point of unquestionable obnoxiousness. Sure Simon. Sure you're happy in that "Provençale" shack you're going to call a Hampton getaway where you have to crouch in an attic bedroom and pray your kids aren't going to learn how to turn on a 17-year-old TV/VCR unit. Oh God, then they might catch an episode of "Dora the Explorer" and learn Spanish.

Next item: Jill is obviously the star of this show now and for that I thank the Lord. And Cindy Adams of the New York Post.

Next item: Ummm... are these hos pulling a fast one on me? Just when I was signing out my praises for the NYC women's faithfulness to their own persona Ramona says something intelligent and LuAnn takes off her countess tiara if only long enough to be fair and impartial. WTF is going ON here? I hope this twisted turn into reality doesn't last long. Probably once the girls return to the Island, Ramona will go back to thinking she's Carrie Bradshaw and LuAnn will go back to thinking she's Queen Frostine.

Next item: Ugh. Someone please hit the snooze button on the new girl. Kelly's the only real socialite of the crowd, which means she isn't here for the free spa trips or bar hops or (as the old reality adage goes) to make friends. She's here because she's an editor at Elle and as soon as Nina Garcia turned into a psycho and "Project Runway" jumped ship from Bravo's collateral, the executives had to placate the magazine somehow. Kelly is a fan of being surrounded by men ("gay men, bisexual men, straight men..."), having people hang out by her pool in their riding boots, and staring with the same facial expression as someone who fell asleep under a heat lamp. Done. Next.

Whatever guys. The important thing is that I once again got a chance to judge these women I secretly want to be and Bethenny imparted more wisdom on us through her glassy drunky warbles. Cheers to this season.

At least it's not Celebreality

This weekend when I wasn't losing a battle with my kitchen trying to cook a three-course meal, I was doing what I normally do to forget about the fact that I'm broke: watching the nonstop loop of the same four programs on Bravo. Since it's ending tomorrow to make way for the most awesome series ever, the last few episodes of The Real Housewives of Orange County aired, and below are my final judgments. Because the reason reality TV was invented is for people like me to rehash it out on blogs that hold no lasting cultural relevance.

The OC girls, as I've said before, are entertaining merely because they're all outrageously insidious and self conscious. However, I think the reason they don't measure up to the NYC girls for me (aside from the fact that I live in New York myself and have an allergic reaction to Southern California) is because they tend to be a little inconsistent. If I liked these girls to begin with, they somehow ended up letting me down, and vice versa. On the other hand, I will ALWAYS love Jill Zarin, ALWAYS scoff at Alex McCord, and ALWAYS think Ramona Singer has lost it. And lo, the following are my comprehensive opinions about our West Coast compatriots.

Jeana Jeana is oozing with insecurity and it hurts my heart. It also makes her scenes extremely difficult to watch. Jeana is sweet on the outside and has the semblance of the most rational women in the OC with her docile manner and her sage wisdom. She only occasionally makes snarky comments, but more-than-occasionally makes very non-confrontational judgments. Her inability to stand up for herself is most evident - and most frustrating - in her interactions with her kids. The way she lets her rancid sons verbally rip her apart is just. fucking. appalling. I used to be really turned off by feminists, but it's women like this that remind me what we have to lose in a simple abusive relationship. Blech.

Tamra Someone at Bravo envisioned the profile of the perfectly lofty entitled Orange County wife, and Tamra Barney embodies it. She's really good at sabotaging people. With tequila. And using all the stupid shit they did when they were drunk against them in a court of blond judgmental women. Of all the OC housewives, she's the one who most resembles your best friend from seventh grade: she laughs with you, tells you how hot you are, and goes shopping for a dress to wear to the dance with you. But then she goes home to text the boy you have a crush on, send a blow to your self-esteem in a three-way calling attack, and write in her diary about how big your ass looked in that dress. In other words, I really like Tamra, but damn, bitch is straight outta Mean Girls.

Vicki I think Vicki is sort of the top dog of the OC housewives. Funny enough, Vicki also thinks Vicki is sort of the top dog of the OC housewives. Vicki's trademark is harping on about how hard and constantly she works, which really is a commendable feat considering how faithful she is to her responsibility of filming a reality show for Bravo - dutifully going to all the restaurants, spas, and nightclubs she needs to film her scenes. It disappoints me to see how poorly Vicki handles her relationship with her family, especially her husband Don. She excludes him from almost everything she does, and it's clear that Don just gets through it by downing another Corona and laughing about it. Drink up, Don, drink up.

Lynne Just as I do with all the other housewives, I have mixed feelings about Lynne. Because overall, this lady seems to have wandered into this whole mess in the midst of a hashish trip. She genuinely doesn't seem to have any ill feelings toward anyone, and has very rarely made a hurtful comment about anyone, behind their back or to their face. Her relationship with her husband is so adorably real and her Jessica Simpson inspired comments are silly at best. However. I think this woman lets her peyote habit get in the way of her consciousness that she's on national TV. Yeah, her kids are a little out of control - and they're very typical of a normal American situation - but Lynne sort of lets it slide. Like, lady, are you going to even TRY to discipline these girls? Because much as the fog of THC is clouding your vision, there are about a couple thousand women out there right now who are judging your face off. Including single, childless women. Like me. Put down the bong and take that girl's keys, because she just raided your liquor closet.

Gretchen I was really rooting for this lady from the start, which was tough in light of all the criticism she was getting, including from the all-knowing Bethenny Frankel (thegreatesthousewifeEVER). Like Lynn, Gretchen honestly seems benign (no cancer pun intended). You may call it Anna Nicole behavior, but to me Gretchen did seem honestly concerned for fiancé's leukemia and sincerely in love with him. I'm sure there were tons of days where the camera's didn't follow her into the hospital when she visited him, since the hospital doesn't have pinot grigio flowing and blond bitches fighting, but it's suspicious how often Gretchen managed to run off on little trips with the girls. As the season went on, it got a little tiring to hear her make that "I need to get away from stress of the hospital" excuse and you had to begin to wonder how quickly Jeff was whithering away in whiles. He ended up passing away in September, and the amount of promotional material that was quite obviously filmed afterward, in which Gretchen has a breezy smile on her face, is pretty fishy. Lauri Waring Peterson quit filming in the middle of the season to help fight her son's heroin addiction, and, you know... just sayin, Gretch.

I guess when all's said and done, I'm just really looking forward to trading in short and shiny minidresses against a sunset for some tasteful LBDs in high rises.