Well, I guess we know where Olivia Palermo will be working next season on The City:
Fug File: plaid
In case you were wondering what Jesse Metcalf looks like now:
The answer is: Lumberjack + douchebag + hat model.
When I found this image, the photographer’s caption said something like, “Taylor Momsen makes a surprise appearance” at whatever Sephora event this is. But it neglected to mention which PART of Taylor threatened to make the most surprising arrival of all.
On most people, that shirt would be used as a poncho rather than as the ENTIRE outfit. I don’t even care that her shoes are veering toward being a very fancy kind of orthopedic brace, because her shirtcho was freaking me out so badly during the 10 minutes in which I thought it was a dress. My unholy research has concluded, however, that I may detect in there somewhere the fringe from a pair of denim cutoffs, which unfortunately are SO
cut off that they’re basically denim
panties, and now my nethers are so upset that they’re threatening to go on strike unless I take a vacation.
Also, let me tell you, nothing feels ickier than feeling like it’s your job to stare at the XOXO of a teenager to try and figure out what, exactly, you’re seeing dangling there. I almost reported myself to the authorities.
Heather and I just admitted to each other that we were both literally unable to accept the fact that Rosamund Pike here is wearing….knickers.
We were like, “that’s totally a skirt, right? Like, an UGLY, UGLY skirt?” But, no. These are instead the ugliest harem pants ever created by human hands. In fact, I think they might have been created by INHUMAN hands. Yes, that’s right. I just floated the theory that Satan spends his spare time kicking back down in Hell, stitching wee pieces of picnic tablecloth to diaphanous white material, and cackling about the retina-searing, soul-inflaming, leg-havoc they will unleash on any weak mortal foolish enough to don them, and the accompanying horror that will wash over any innocent bystanders to said donning. AND APPARENTLY HE WAS RIGHT.
The rest of this is terrible too, but I can’t really see it all that well. SINCE I’M BLIND NOW.
So, I’ve got this theory. I firmly believe that everyone needs to have what I call their Get a Grip Friend. This is the person who loves you enough to grab you when you’ve gone off the rails – over a boy, or a work nemesis, or your raging cocaine habit — and shake and you and say, “HONEY. GET A GRIP.” Mischa Barton, I am beginning to suspect, does not have that friend in her life:
Look. I have residual love left for her if only for that one scene in The OC where she freaks out at Julie Cooper-Nichol and throws all their patio furniture in the pool. So I’ll do it, you guys. SOMEONE HAS TO. This girl needs a hand from a (semi) loving friend.
MISCHA. HONEY. GET A GRIP.