Click this link.  I promise, you will not be disappointed.

http://www.raincitystory.com/flash/screenclean.swf

Alexander Calder bracelet, circa 1948.

New Yorkers looking for a little culture this weekend might want to consider grabbing this last chance to check out the Calder Jewelry exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which closes March 1.   Although Calder is generally known for his mobiles and larger stabiles (including, for New Yorkers, his sculpture “Saurien,” which occupies the corner of 57th Street and Madison Avenue), he was apparently well known during his lifetime for his output of wearable art, a total of approximately 1800 pieces of jewelry in brass, silver, and gold.  Jewelry-obsessed as I am, I checked it out a few weeks ago, and it’s well worth a look.

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Yeah, it's a recession. I am all about good, cheap wine these days.

I recently had the opportunity to visit the Crystal Springs Resort in Vernon, New Jersey for business.  While the facilities were nice, the trip was uneventful on the whole until the last night when my companions and I were given a tour of the resort’s wine cellars.  Holy moly.  Who knew that freakin’ North New Jersey U.S.A. is home to one of the most extensive and expensive wine collections in the world?!  Dude, they should put this on the license plates…
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I’ve mentioned it before, and you’ll be hearing about it in the future, so I may as well be explicit: I have oily skin.  This affects almost everything in my beauty ritual – from the obvious skincare choices to shampoo/conditioner (there are products in rotation that are not allowed within an inch of my scalp), to even my eye makeup.

At the risk of my boyfriend (who occasionally reads this blog – sorry, honey!) never coming within a foot of my face again, I’ll say it: even my eyes seem to be oily.  Eyeliner disappears.  Shadow makes a run for it.  But the worst – the absolute worst – is mascara.  It pulls a vanishing act – until I look under my lower lids, where it’s smudged and settled.  The ultimate insult to the MIA mascara is that I actually have thick, gorgeous lashes … That are naturally very light blonde, so no one sees them unless they have an aesthetician’s license and/or happen to catch me within 5 minutes of mascara application.

Every girl has their own personal Beauty Holy Grail.  For AJ, it’s lipgloss.  For Kai, it’s the right skincare products.  For me, mascara. So as my personal supply of Haute Couture Mascara (name has been changed to protect the annoying product) dwindled, I was thrilled to receive a sample of Maybelline The Colossal Volum’ Express Mascara.

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Dear Readers, I have a confession:  I am a fraud. A sham.  A charlatan.  For the past 10 years, I have spent endless time and many, many Benjamins in my quest to maintain the ultimate scam.  You see, I have curly hair.

That’s right; I am a curly-haired girl. Like really curly. Like Barbara Streisand as Katie Morosky curl.  Like Nicole Kidman circa Days of Thunder curly. Like Keri Russell as Felicity curly. THAT curly.  Not that anyone I’ve met in the past 10 years would know.  Oh no.  After years of testing creams, serums and Japanese hair straightening, I have settled on a carefully maintained regimen of a ceramic dryer, a wet-to-dry iron and the one-two, budget-busting combo of Kerastase OLÉO-RELAX and my beloved Phytodefrisant.  It’s not a perfect solution, but it has maintained the pretense well enough for me to have been loyal to it for quite some time.

Well, no more.  I admit this next thought is beyond superficial, but this little, nondescript bottle has changed my life:

You complete me.

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After seeing far too many episodes of “What Not To Wear” and reading too many magazine articles about how most women are wearing the wrong bra size, this weekend I finally jumped on the bandwagon and made an appointment for a professional bra fitting.  Having heard rave reviews from friends, including our very own AJ, I called Intimacy on the Upper East Side to have my chest revolutionized.  Well, much as I hate to repeat what others have said, I have to admit that after yesterday I have come to the conclusion that I, and apparently many women, had no idea how a bra is really supposed to fit.

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Look, I know being you has to be tough right now.  You just ran one of the most poorly organized presidential campaigns this country has ever seen and sold your soul to do so.  The Pretty, Pretty Princess of Wasilla managed to both embarrass and upstage you at every turn, and now you have to listen to your party proclaim her the next best hope.  It’s hard out there for a pimp.  I get it.

But this was pretty lame, even by your vastly lowered standards:

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While reading the post-Oscar gossip round-up,   I came across this item in the Daily Mirror:

Paris Hilton gets claws into Robert Pattinson at Oscars party.

How dare she defile my sparkly, little dreamboat, underage (well, by Femme standards) Edward!   Err, I mean, Robert!

This news upsets my very core. You have crossed me for the last time, Hilton. THE LAST TIME. You have officially been served by the Femmeinistas! When you least expect it, EXPECT IT.

The full, wretched item is posted after the jump.

P.S. Hilton. Congrats on your Razzie win for “Worst Actress of the Year.”  Well deserved.

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Well, it’s happened.  The scale hit a number I have never seen before.

I'm locked in a battle with this thing

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Don't hate us because we're beautiful

Seriously, how hysterical were these two?

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