For those of you coming to my New Year’s blowout, here’s what we still need:
Brian & Karin are doing Brian’s famous pork. Karin is making her dessert-thing and we HAVE to promise to smile and nod even if it’s all messed up. You know how she gets.
Steph is bringing cookies. My guess is that the cookies I gave her will end up back here…but who cares – they’re Dean & DeLuca cookies and someone gave them to me anyway.
Karen is coming late due to a so-called booty call which may or may not happen and a babysitter who may or may not show up and no matter what, I promised her I woudn’t publish that sort of thing on my blog. So I won’t. Unless it’s really good.
AND…I’m completely annoyed about the whole illegal caviar situation. I thought those were ideal prices for beluga last year and I’m completely UP-set that I will not be drowning in the stuff this year. So, if you’re really rich and you don’t mind watching my teeth turn all black – you’re welcome to bring that.
Believe it or not, I am doing a ciabatta. Yes, I’m a baker. A joker and a toker. The poolish is fermenting as we speak. Fresh bread and warm butter at midnight. Yum yum. As good as kisses.
Dana is bringing the wigs and music and Marcy is bringing the asprin – because Lord knows she has a TON of it at home and Greer isn’t coming because who the hell knows where she is when she’s not working – it’s like she has some secret life or something. Jeeze. Jen WOULD be donating the bulk of the champagne, but seeing as she’s busy with that whole scuba-diving-in-Australia thing, we won’t count on her.
So – we still need: oodles of champagne (Blanc de Noir to win my heart), sparklers, party hats, the martini fountain, Campari, parchment paper, a drill, and someone needs to pick up Kiki from the airport.
See you tomorrow night. xx
It had been exactly 3 to 5 business days since I ordered my Japonesque Double-Sided Professional Lipstick Palette Kit and I was salivating. Now, it would make sense if the company was paying me to be this excited, to actually feature their product in the sacred space that is T-FAC, but no – my anticipation, the waiting by the door for the UPS guy, was pure illness on my part, plain and simple.
Here’s the deal – this thing holds ALL your lipstick! And I know I’m not the only one who thinks this is the greatest thing since thong underwear. This is pure wonderfulness – butter on a Ritz cracker.
So it finally comes on Wednesday night. I rip open the box and my glorious new palette. Like hope and promise itself – it gleamed before me. I already had my shoebox of lipsticks ready and waiting, some towels and a nail scissors. And I am a crafty girl in general so you can only imagine my excitement.
For nearly two hours I performed the transplants: “Russian Red” “Cha Cha Cha” “Goldmine” “Fetish” “Sugar Baby” “Cyber” “Diva” “O” – all sliced off at the base and lovingly pressed one by one into the waiting plastic pockets by my tender thumb. When I was done it was a sight to behold – my years of collecting, the glistening rainbow of my life, there together, like one magnificent family.
I am Jennifer Solow and I have a lipstick sickness.
And I am proud.
No, it’s not because it’s really great to lose your ability to buy bras unrecognized. It’s not because Heath Ledger calls you up to say he’s breaking up with that Michelle girl in order to date you, a woman twice his age. It’s not even because it’s great when you go to Nobu and the delightful gal at the front says, “Right this way, Ms. Solow.”
Here’s what it’s all about:
Today, just minutes ago actually, I got an email from a cute guy I knew in high school. He said, and I quote,
“Shit, Solow, you look good.”
There was a “shit,” a comma, my name, and a “good” at the end. The intent was there. The emotion was clear.
What more could a girl want?
Now if I wasn’t a very, very famous author, the world would just continue to go by and cute guys from high school like Josh Mooney wouldn’t think twice about me. Or, if they did think twice about me, I would never know it. What’s the point of that?
My advice – if you did not go to your high school prom, if you were not one of the cheerleaders, even if you did not have a pair of those really great furry après ski boots because they were too expensive and your mom thought they were silly: stop what you’re doing, star in a movie, have your photographs retouched, get on the cover of In Style, practice poses in front of the mirror, DO WHATEVER YOU CAN to be very, very famous.
Parties are like rollercoasters and Hellraiser movies; I used to have a greater tolerance, dare I say, an attraction to the gore of it all – now I’m just not sure they’re worth the extra eyeliner.
But when an invitation goes out for a Porn Star party, I just can’t help but find the personal motivation.
As was usual, I felt inspired by such a challenge to go for my personal best. This often includes a sense that I have out-wigged the competition, out-ruffled the cheerleaders, out-feathered even the drag queens. This is an expensive pursuit, requiring hours of online shopping and gobs of glue. Frankly, it tends to result in me alone in a corner – overdressed, forgoing a cocktail due to my sticky lipstick, but I stay the course nonetheless.
The Porn Star party was different.
I decided to go Rollergirl.
As the character, not only was I embraced by all (the world, as I now know, LOVES Rollergirl), but I was on wheels. San Francisco on roller skates added that special spice to an otherwise dull commute and a party in motion is better than a party standing still.
Thus the lesson.
So, my legal council advises me that I should caveat this entry with the sincere recommendation that you should not try this without a special license or whatever it is they give to people attempting to self-inflict bodily harm, but me – I’m going Rollergirl from here on in.
I’ll keep you posted.
I met Marshall Heyman from W Magazine on a blustery New York City morning a few days ago. One might assume that working at the hopelessly fashionable magazine might require a kind of vast closet – a trunk-full of bling, a drawer full of dark Chanel sunglasses. And worse yet, being a man who works at W! – a fey dandy with a bow tie, an Andre Leon Talley wanna-be.
Thankfully however, Marshall Heyman was none of those things.
He had just rolled out of bed at 8:00 am, thrown on whatever sweatshirt was closest to his feet and was still working out the kinks of his left contact lens as he walked through the door of the cafe on 6th.
“I just live upstairs,” he grumbled as he reached for his coffee and rubbed at his eye.
Now even a very famous author like myself should not presume that Marshall Heyman was all that interested in moi on an early, early Friday morning. And why should I, what with so much Mary Kate to think about? Instead I was privvy to the best gossip in New York, stories of the fabulous parties he was either dying to attend or plotting to avoid and, if I was so inclined, could get the Cliff-Note rundown of every movie playing in America. (Indeed he was off to see Munich on its opening day after breakfast and hinted lovingly at SJP’s Oscar potential for The Family Stone).
Now I don’t know if W Magazine or Marshall Heyman will ever utter a peep about THE BOOSTER or me in any sort of public fashion, but I happily paid for breakfast anyway (yes, Marshall, you tried and tried and tried to pay the bill yourself!). I was perfectly entertained, informed and satiated with an overload of buttery carbs and caffeine. Plus I made Marshall Heyman pinky swear that he’d take me out for a night of his infamous karaoke next time I was in town. I do a Patsy Cline like nobody’s business.
I’ll keep you posted.