17 blocks from barneys

The next challenge for Project Runway: design an outfit that I can always go to sleep in, so when I’m awoken at 7am because my apartment building is on fire and have to evacuate via the fire escape, I won’t look like a crazy person when Channel 7 interviews me on camera. (All materials should be flame-retardant, please.)

Ready? Go.

Black Bear, of course! Especially in this adorable ring from Gerard Tully.

If anyone out there is wondering what to buy me, any of the above will do.

[ Watches from Michael Kors here and here. ]

The DVD is here! Why are you reading this?

I’ve noticed that people get very protective about Sex and the City. VERY protective. The last time I told the story I am about to relate to you, one of the girls listening shot back, “well, I look like Carrie more than you!” She also sang songs from the Lion King while we ate dinner.

As you may remember, scenes from the last two episodes of the TV version were filmed in Paris. I used to live there. Somehow I caught wind of the filming location and time, grabbed one of my roommates, and watched as Carrie walked past a restaurant and spotted her NYC friend’s French equivalents. Then, they moved shooting into Dior. Of course, we followed.

We watched as they filmed a scene where Carrie tries to communicate that she lost her necklace in the store, whispering back and forth to each other our thoughts. A man turned around and asked if we were American. It was the show’s main writer and producer, Michael Patrick King. He talked to us for at least an hour, asking what we liked about the show, Carrie’s hair, if we thought she should end up with Alexandr Petrovsky. I was pretty sure my life would end as we left. I mean, could it possibly get any better after that?

See that little link on your left? The one that says “My Fashion Resume?” Click it, then scroll down to the image of the SATC DVDs. Take note of the instructions. In his commentary, MPK talks about meeting two American girls who were just so excited about the show and couldn’t get enough.

No, I don’t care that you look more like Carrie than me.

Mystery: solved.

Sadly, Austin and Quinn, he doesn’t resemble a sloth.

[ Photo: Delphine Chanet ]

This guy knows what’s up. 1001 Rules for my Unborn Son. If his future offspring, or anyone for that matter, follows these words of wisdom, the world will be a better place.

Highlights:

Know her dress size. Don’t ask.

Have a signature dish, even if it’s your only one.

If you are tempted to wear a cowboy hat, resist.

Be nice to your sister. You are her confidante, cheerleader, and bodyguard.

Try a hairstyle that you’ll one day regret. I’ll get over it.

tanorexia (n.) to be completely, and perhaps obnoxiously, obsessed with bronzed skin. To be “tanlicious.”

Friends, I did indeed bring you something back from my glorious trip to Turkey and a few Greek islands, but you’re going to have to invite me for a cocktail to receive/view your gift. You see, I brought you back a wicked sweet tan.

For the first time in my life, I actually listened to the admonishing words of my traveling companion, a dermatologist, and put on sunscreen. (Flashback! 2007. Scene: Venezuela. Burn victim: my forehead. Result: swelling enough to transform me into a Klingon.)

I finally came to terms with the ozone and realized that no, I can’t sit out unprotected in the sun for hours and not end up a lobster. This is after about 155 attempts and 2 gallons of aloe vera burn relief. Stupid global warming.

Why have I put myself through such torture? Why not hide like a red-headed, Irish-blooded ghost in the shade? Because being tanned is awesome. It’s like wearing a hot, full-body suit all the time. Legs look slimmer and more toned, your face gives off a warm, healthy glow, and if you wear anything white, it looks so crisp and perfect it shouldn’t even be obtainable. (Flashforward! 2028. Scene: the dermatologist’s office. Skin victim: my face, back, arms, and shoulders. Result: holes and sutures everywhere.)

What was once made popular by the style set and Coco Chanel is now becoming an endangered ritual and pretty much as bad for you as chain smoking. Luckily, the self-tanner industry has been making strides, not streaks, towards oompaloompa-less products. But, as many of my brown-stained clothing items and the remarks of onlookers will attest, they aren’t perfect yet.

Nonetheless, I’m not letting the tanning fantasy fade. If they can tattoo on make-up, maybe one day we’ll be able to permanently dye our bodies.

Until then, I’m showing off my bronzed bod. Give me a call and you, too, can bask in my glow.