I saw this photo of Gwen leaving Church, shouldering what I assume is one of her kids’ Sunday School backpacks, and thought, “Okay, I could be on board, especially because she somehow matched her lens tint to her kid’s school supplies.”
But this is Gwen Stefani we’re talking about here, so we cannot assume a cheerful patterned shirt that might end up on the walls of someone’s downstairs quarter-bath is JUST a cheerful patterned shirt. We cannot judge the book by its cover. Because when that happens…
… what starts out as a piquant rom-com novel suddenly turns out to have intestine-supping nightwalkers in the middle, and six chapters on a malcontented sixty-five year old male were-otter who so clearly and bravely understands women better than they understand themselves and who uses the word “tits” a lot. In other words: nasty surprises lurk. LIKE LADY BIEBER DIAPERS. I am sure there will be people who accept this on Gwen because she is Gwen, and is great at red lipstick and sunglasses, but I am not one of them. There are no free passes here. THERE IS NO PARDONING THE PELVIC SACK.