Message to the Red Carpet: Do as I Say, Not as I Do
What is UP with all the long, straight hair? It's pretty, but this is the OSCARS. A little glamour, please?
Oh, no. Nicole Kidman's dress is RIDICULOUS. The thing is wearing her, I swear. That bow looks like a little barf bucket on her shoulder.
Here's another one! Did they send out some freakin' "long straight hair" memo? Even the black women have long, straight hair!
Oh, Kate, Kate, Kate. Who let you wear that color? The style is beautiful, but you are so washed OUT in that! And your hair! Who let your hair wear that color?!
Jennifer Hudson, no you are NOT going to wear that suit of armor to the Oscars. The brown dress is fine, but lordhavemercy, take off the silver wings, girl! No, it's not wings, it's one of those freakin' neck cups they put on dogs after they have surgery, to keep them from biting at themselves. Are you at risk of BITING YOURSELF?! CHEEZ!
Ellen's makeup is really nice.
Thankthelord, Jennifer heard me and took off the silver armadillo-wear. What were you thinking?!
What sort of snarky, catty person would offer such commentary? That would be me. And by what authority do I say such things? What qualifies me as stylist, critic, fashion editor? Perhaps it's the fact that on Sunday evening, I'm wearing the same ensemble that I've had on since Friday night: mint green terry-cloth drawstring pajama pants and a moss green cotton shirt with snaps at the neckline. Not snapped, but there, just the same. And yes, it's been a good 48 hours since my body has graced a shower stall. On my feet are black fuzzy slippers with little ribbons on them. And because I cannot get warm, and I do not know which hamper my warm black robe with the leopard print collar is in, my whole ensemble is topped by my big-ass pimp coat. Yea, a pimp coat (i.e., tan faux shearling, ankle-length outerwear) in the house. Or perhaps it is the fact that I smell. Myself. Or perhaps it's my unique approach to accessorizing: at least once during the preceding 48 hours, I have eaten Cool Ranch Dorito crumbs plucked directly from my cleavage. I'm writing this during the boring parts of the awards. By the time you read this I will have showered and put on fresh jammies. Or will I . . .