Okay, so this is a big weekend for me for two reasons: One, the Georgia Bulldogs are in the SEC Championship Game, and if they win they face Notre Dame for the national championship, and I don't care folks are saying, we have a chance at a win. As long as I wear my red-and-black-striped toe socks. Which I totally will.
The other big part of the weekend is that Saturday is December 1, which means I get to start decorating the house for Christmas. Which I will be doing every moment I'm not watching football, meaning that by sundown our house is going to look like it just got brutally attacked by one of those Christmas Villages that pop up in the retail spaces vacated by Spirit Halloween Store shortly after Halloween.
So that's two things that are good this weekend. But wait! There's more!
What's good (for the indeterminate period ending 11/30):
- Dame Judi Dench. I loved her in the new Bond movies, I love her in "As Time Goes By," and I love her even more knowing she embroiders charming little needlepoint pillows that say "You Are a Fucking Shit." She's on my list of women I want to have lunch with, along with Tilda Swinton, Viola Davis, Meryl Streep, Emma Thompson, and Jennifer Lawrence (just for variety).
- My imaginary lunch with Judi Dench, Tilda Swinton, Viola Davis, Meryl Streep, Emma Thompson, and Jennifer Lawrence
Friday, November 30, 2012
Monday, November 26, 2012
On Mashup Monday: Rollin' edition
Okay, so Britney Spears is my classic and ongoing thing. (No secret there.) Adele is my new musical girlcrush. (Haven't mentioned that one yet, but I'm sure it requires no explanation.) And now someone's gone and gotten chocolate in my peanut butter. Very exciting thing.
Britney Spears/Adele - Rolling Till The World Ends
Britney Spears/Adele - Rolling Till The World Ends
On fashion writers hitting back
Note: I don't do this often, but I'm about to go full-on, hardcore, vapid fashion chick here. If that's not your bag, you might want to skip this post; Mashup Monday is coming up next.
Okay, so I used to work for an industry-focused fashion publication (and have provided a few basic details about it). I've compared my former job to The Devil Wears Prada, although of course it wasn't nearly as dramatic (and I got to write); my boss wasn't actively abusive and rarely wore Prada. It was just a matter of long hours, big egos, other people's work, work that not just wasn't my own but wasn't even related to my job (planning a friend's birthday party? Really?), clothes I couldn't afford (but was still expected to wear), rampaging bulimia, and parades of skinny teenagers reminding me that I, at 25, was fat and over the hill.
One assignment that tickles me in retrospect (hey, assignment, get your hand off my retrospect!) involved 400 copies of our June regional issue, a Sharpie, an X-acto knife, and a very pissed-off advertiser. One article in the issue had included one sentence about the advertiser's competitor, and that was enough to get the issue banned from said advertiser's establishment--unless we removed the sentence. From all 400 of the already-printed issues. Using a Sharpie to cross the line out, or a knife to cut it out. This being a fairly serious situation--the establishment in question was a huge deal--we actually debated on whether to send a crew down with markers and knives to do the job. The final decision, though, was to leave the issue as it was and stare the advertiser down. He blinked first, and the the issues were placed in his establishment fully intact.
This is the Diet Coke version of what Jenna Sauers is writing about when she asks, "Why are fashion designers so ridiculously touchy about press?" She writes about the recent shitstorm as Yves Saint Laurent reorganizes and rebrands and handles it just about as poorly as one can, PR-wise. The brand name is going one way, the logo another, the accessories line the old way, the women's collection is taking the name of new creative director Hedi Slimane, and the headquarters are moving one ocean plus one continent away from Paris--and nobody really knows exactly why, and YSL(? Yves Saint Laurent? Saint Laurent Paris?) isn't telling.
Okay, so I used to work for an industry-focused fashion publication (and have provided a few basic details about it). I've compared my former job to The Devil Wears Prada, although of course it wasn't nearly as dramatic (and I got to write); my boss wasn't actively abusive and rarely wore Prada. It was just a matter of long hours, big egos, other people's work, work that not just wasn't my own but wasn't even related to my job (planning a friend's birthday party? Really?), clothes I couldn't afford (but was still expected to wear), rampaging bulimia, and parades of skinny teenagers reminding me that I, at 25, was fat and over the hill.
One assignment that tickles me in retrospect (hey, assignment, get your hand off my retrospect!) involved 400 copies of our June regional issue, a Sharpie, an X-acto knife, and a very pissed-off advertiser. One article in the issue had included one sentence about the advertiser's competitor, and that was enough to get the issue banned from said advertiser's establishment--unless we removed the sentence. From all 400 of the already-printed issues. Using a Sharpie to cross the line out, or a knife to cut it out. This being a fairly serious situation--the establishment in question was a huge deal--we actually debated on whether to send a crew down with markers and knives to do the job. The final decision, though, was to leave the issue as it was and stare the advertiser down. He blinked first, and the the issues were placed in his establishment fully intact.
This is the Diet Coke version of what Jenna Sauers is writing about when she asks, "Why are fashion designers so ridiculously touchy about press?" She writes about the recent shitstorm as Yves Saint Laurent reorganizes and rebrands and handles it just about as poorly as one can, PR-wise. The brand name is going one way, the logo another, the accessories line the old way, the women's collection is taking the name of new creative director Hedi Slimane, and the headquarters are moving one ocean plus one continent away from Paris--and nobody really knows exactly why, and YSL(? Yves Saint Laurent? Saint Laurent Paris?) isn't telling.
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