You know, as much as I am not a fan of Gwyneth Paltrow — with the exception of GOOP, I don’t even think her weird snooty tendencies are entertaining; just tiresome — I am always relieved when she works. Because she would sooner die than be regular. And no, I don’t mean that in a digestive way. I am pretty confident she drinks active, intestine-regulating cultures drawn directly from a ram’s pelvis and injected into her morning acai juice pancakes.
So, as usual, Gwyn gives us much to ponder:
The shoes are a great edgy complement to the grainy gold fabric. Also, her eyeliner looks nice. Which is worth noting when sometimes, eye makeup is a person’s undoing (like, seriously, whoever does Jayma Mays’ makeup on Glee so that her eyes always look pink-rimmed and bloodshot should watch her appearances on other shows, because she is adorable). And I WANT to like the folds. Really, I do. Maybe they are artsy.
Or maybe not:
Somehow this makes all the gathers less cute and more… random, like somebody tried to pin it to make it fit, but did it in the front by accident and then forgot to do the sewing. It evokes how no matter what I do, I can’t get my fitted sheet to lie straight over my mattress and memory-foam pad. There is always a crease somewhere.
Also, as much as I love the metallic and the mini (and her legs, dammit), it’s not really very flattering to Gwynnie’s boobs, which is sad, because boobs are a treasure. Maybe she should GOOP about it. She could call it “GOOP: Droop.” Man, I love/hate that newsletter. I enjoy imagining that all Gwynnie’s exes, their current flames, the ladies who came before her in her exes’ lives, and Winona Ryder all flop down in bed with the laptop — not together, although THAT is even FUNNIER — and say, like, “$54 Himalayan salt? A licorice and green-mung cleanse drink? She couldn’t even make CHEERIOS.” And then Wino Forever would make that drink and dump it over every copy of Iron Man she could find at Target. Oh, it would be sweet.