Hostess With the Mostess

Okay, considering that the holiday party season is in full-on swing, I’m here to help (as always). So I present to you…

The WildHearts Guide to Entertaining: How to Be the Host(ess) with the Most(ess)

  1. Stock up. A good host/hostess has enough of everything. And I mean everything–yes, Mr. or Mrs. Mostess should ensure everyone’s cocktail glasses remain filled and the h’orderves are a-plenty, but that’s not all a good host thinks of. Band-aids for the clumsy guest who manages to slice herself with the cheese knife. Vicodin for your friend with anxiety issues (or yourself–parties get stressful, and no one likes a snappy host). Extra toilet paper and tampons hidden discreetly in reachable tins in the bathroom–trust me, no one wants to ask for that accouterment, and they will root around in your stuff.
  2. Be flexible. Your best friend shows up with her gross, loud boyfriend? Greet him with grace. A snooty vegan refuses to eat the vegetarian options you thoughtfully prepared (see Rule 1)? Offer to run down to the corner store and grab that bitch some lettuce. Your power goes out? Why, a candlelit dinner would be ever so fun! No matter what catastrophes threaten to ruin your big night, you are the best host ever, damn it, and your feathers won’t ruffle.
  3. Look stunning. I don’t care if it’s a casual margarita night (although, come on, it’s Christmas or Chanukah or Kwanza–pizzazz your get-together up a little). No one wants to go to your house to find you still wearing the outfit you tossed on to clean the house–a good party should appear effortless. Your sweaty gym-bun and flour-dusted sweatpants are just a gross reminder of how much work you put into your fiesta, and then everyone feels guilty and weird and over-compliments your canapés.
  4. Make plans (but don’t be afraid to break them–see Rule 2). Now, most people are content with sitting around in your pretty house and drinking, but sometimes a little more effort is required. Maybe you’re having a weird mix of guests who don’t know each other well enough to dive right into dinner-and-drinks chitchat, or maybe your friends just suck. Either way, if you’re afraid your party is going to fall apart like a badly-baked souffle, you need some backup plans. We’re adults here–Twister is not an option. But nobody said you had to leave drinking games at college–card games are a classy means of getting your guests wasted, and no one will be bored.
  5. Outsource. If you want to do everything yourself, fine. There is nothing wrong with that. Make sure you get extra of everything, clean your house like a madman, and have a fabulous outfit hanging on the back of your closet to pop into. But if the host task seems a little daunting, well, that’s only because it is. And the bigger the party, the more stressful your Lone Ranger routine becomes. So outsource! Caterers are by far the most helpful resource–mmm, delicious food that you slide into homey-looking pans so it looks like you did all the work, et voila! But if you’re really lazy, a maid can come in handy, and you can even hire sous chefs or servers to make yourself look like Donald Trump (with better hair, let’s hope).

So, that’s it! Now you can host a great party in 5 not-so-simple steps! I could drone on about location and presentation and why trying to make everyone lobster solo is sure to be a tragic failure, but really, I have better things to do. And for those of you who aren’t having a bash this year: here’s how to be the perfect guest! Arrive a little late, look great, pretend you love everything even if you don’t, try not to incite any arguments, play your host’s childish game of Kings, and above all, look like you’re having fun.

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Crush That Girl

Everyone has a girl crush. Guys and gay girls, sure, but everyone else too–straight girls and gay guys and the people who fall somewhere in between. See, the reason is that a “girl crush” doesn’t have to be sexual, and usually isn’t, so EVERYONE has one. Girls are magical creatures, kind of like unicorns but with soft lips and shiny hair instead of a weird deformity in the middle of their head. Personally, I think it’s impossible not to have a crush on at least one.

Mine is my girl Candice, which I agree is probably narcissistic since I’ve been compared to her on more than one occasion. But far be it from me to make Girl Crush rules–if your girl crush happens to be the fox you see in the mirror every day, more power to you. But COME ON–look at Ms. Swanepoel. I don’t care who you are, she is gorge.

Now, I pretty much have a GC on Candy because she looks like a human Barbie and she has a really awesome accent that should be used to record soothing fall-asleep tapes. And girl has some serious yoga flex. But usually, people’s Girl Crushes are a little more complex. Take the most girl-crushed-upon girl of all time, the indie darling Zooey Deschanel.

Now, yes, people like Zooey for her looks. As with most (but not all) girl crushes, it’s all about appearance. Zooey is a normal-looking pretty girl with big boobs, so naturally a lot of people like her. But toss on the thick bangs, vintage dresses, and the occasional pair of quirky-cute glasses, and Zooey is the world’s Girl Crush extraordinaire. I’m not hating at all, I just don’t happen to have a GC on Zooey so that drooling, hearts-a-pitter-patter feeling Crushers have is absent in me. Which means I find it a little annoying when people squeal, “Ugh, I just love Zooey, she’s so unique!”

That brings us to…the dark side of Girl Crushes. When you have a total GC on someone, and your best friend says, “Oh, really? I don’t like her,” and you stare daggers into them because OBVIOUSLY THE PERSON YOU CRUSH ON IS PERFECT…yeah, that’s when it’s gone too far. Then you need to stop bidding on their used tissues on eBay, making a scrapbook of their tabloid appearances, and doodling their surname in your checkbook. A girl crush is just that–a crush. Obsession? Come on, now you’re just creepy!

Staples

I have loved clothes ever since I was a little girl. I like to think I was pretty fashionable even as a 5-year-old–trust, my oversized Nike tee and my vast collection of Ariel gear would be indie gold today–but it took me a long time to hit my shopping stride. Let me explain–I’ve never had problems shopping until I drop (mostly my jaw, when looking over my bank statement). But until a year or so ago, I wouldn’t say that I was shopping properly.

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See, there are three types of clothing shoppers. And if you ask me, these could apply to personalities as well, but some people don’t like to be defined by their ugly shoes, and that is their right. So, there’s…

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  1. Shopper Numero Uno. This person is the practicalist. They don’t like shopping for clothes. They get in (to boring stores with cheap clothes) and get out with the bare necessities. They probably wear running shoes as sneakers and own jeans that make their butt look flat.
  2. Shopper Numero Dos. This kind of shopper is also practical, but they have a modicum of personal style. They shop at plain stores and aren’t super into it, but they have enough sense not to wear Shoxx out to dinner.
  3. Shopper Numero Tres. The trend-whore. This shopper leafs through Lucky, runs to the store, and spends $600 on high-waisted baroque pants that make them look like a 15th-century whale.
  4. Shopper Numero Quatro. The classic shopper. They know that quality is worth more than quantity  and they buy clothes that flatter their body type. They don’t like to change it up–they know what works for them  and they stick to it. Forever.
  5. Shopper Numero Cinco. This is the best type of shopper. They’re a healthy mix of Dos, Tres, and Quatro. They shop smart, know what works for their shape and style, but still try new things.

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See, I just made that up right off the top of my head, but it seems pretty accurate. You can probably squish anybody into one of these categories (if you’re some kind of cruel freak who likes to label others–God, what kind of monster are you?!). And so for my whole life, I was a Tres-Quatro. I had my body-conscious, never-change-’em clothes (ancient jeans that I still wear–they hug my body even after 700 washes), but for everything else, I’d just run out and get whatever was in stores. If i liked it, I bought it. The end result was a tragically overstuffed closet filled with clothes that clashed more than two Kardashian sisters fighting over a basketball player. I couldn’t put together an outfit to save my life, unless it involved a stripy top and floral-patterned bottoms.

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But then, in a beautiful moment of clarity–or, you know, getting really sick of having a half-useless wardrobe–I realized: you have to shop for staples. The majority of your wardrobe should be well-fitting, nice, practical staples. Jeans. Black leggings. Black tank tops and tees. White tank tops and tees. Plain-colored cardigans and sweaters. And then, once you feel like you’re in a Uniqlo, you can finally get fun things, because hey, you know something you own will match them.

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In conclusion, I am now the most fashionable person in the world, and you can be too. Click this link to take my, “What kind of shopper are you?” quiz and then buy my styling book (Stop Dressing Like That, Fugly!) for the low cost of three installments of $19.99!

Good Gifts for Your Hairdresser & Manicurist

I picked up a copy of the December Allure last night, and it was a real treat, like all magazines. Magazines are like candy that you read. They’re so glossy and shiny and beautiful, and, just like candy, you enjoy them for a little while and then they’re gone (read: you threw them out because you got sick of the cover model’s face staring up at you from your coffee table).

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But one little segment in Allure caught my eye. It was a section–a whole section–on good holiday gifts for your service people. Specifically, your hairdresser and your manicurist  “Why, how marrrrrvelous!” I declared. “I was looking for a good gift for Mr. Fekkai!” Oh, wait, no I didn’t, because I don’t have a hairdresser or a manicurist  The suggestion was probably written by one, actually, since they suggested you buy them a wallet or a cashmere scarf.

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Now, I am all for gifting to the people that help make your day a little brighter. And I am sure that hairdressers and manicurists deserve a lot of cashmere scarves considering the insufferable people they have to make small talk to all day. But who the hell does Allure think is reading Allure?! I’m sure some richies do pick it up, but since it also sits next to the Reese’s Cups at the Wegman’s checkout, I’d say a lot more non-riches are regular readers. And who really needs advise on what to get their hairdresser? If you’re swank enough to have your own (which is now a personal dream of mine, after reading that article–it sounds pretty fab) and have the resources to buy them luxe presents, I think you–or your personal shopper–probably already have that on lock.

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That being said, I will do anyone’s nails for a cashmere sweater.

Aloha!

Aloha means hello and goodbye, so goodbye to my never-updating habits, and hello, long-lost readers! I’m trying to update more, given that I’m so fascinating and have so much to say, and coming back to all your lovely comments inspired me further. But be patient with me, since I’m slightly technologically crippled at the moment (updating from the laptop is much easier…RIP, pretty pink HP). See you soon, ciao!

Do You Remember Your Weekend?

Hello, darlings, it’s been a while! I’ve been tragically neglecting this blog because my laptop died (funeral services will be held today at 3:00 pm, BYOB) and using the man’s computer is a bit of a drag–it’s a Mac Mini hooked up to a TV and the screen is so far away from my weak eyes. First World Problems, ahoy!

Anyway, how areeeee you all? Still sexy, I presume. Or drowned in a river of spam (and I don’t mean the canned meat–I came back after my hiatus to find a bucketload of comments and was so excited only to find they were all spammity spam spam spam). How was your weekend?

Mine was like a fire in a circus–intense. Friday was a bestie’s birthday, and I drank two cranberry vodkas at my house (with twist of lime, of course), then we went out and I had a Bahama Mama and half of the two GIANT complimentary birthday margaritas that particular establishment offered (you’re  only supposed to get one but we’re very convincing), then at one thirty we stumbled on to the next place with intentions of a free Das Boot. We both hate beer so we were going to give it to our gentlemen escorts and friends, but as it turned out, this place ALSO gave away margaritas. So naturally I had a White Russian–fine end-of-the-night-drink–half a mint-chocolate shot (don’t ask why half), and most of that even-GIANTER margarita. It probably will surprise no one that I woke up in my slutty clothes, with my purse still on, the birthday girl asleep on my bathroom floor, and three boys sprawled out in the living room (one of them snuggling his head on my 10-lb weights). 

Yesterday, I slept until 3:00 pm to kill my massive hangover (milk thistle helped), went to the movies (Taken 2–I would literally get kidnapped just to fuck Liam Neeson), and was somehow still out until one-thirty. Hope your weekend was as smashing! I promise a real post about something other than my drunken adventures soon.

Celeb-brattys

All celebrities must kind of be assholes brats. I mean, unless you’re the bestfuckingpersonever, I don’t see how all the endless adoration doesn’t go to you head. (It wouldn’t go to mine, of course, since I’m so great, but I digress.) People dedicate hours to making fan pages for you, they cry if they meet you, they spend $10 to hang a poster of you over their bed. You are larger-than-life to the average person, and if that’s not enough to make you a raging narcissist, all your people–agents, friends, directors, show hosts, journalists–fall all over you to give in to your every need.

But probably the most brat-inducing thing about being a celebrity is that people. Fucking. Love. You. I don’t mean all the stuff written above–that they love seeing you, and your work, and blah blah blah. In addition to that, they love YOU. The human. They want to know every little thing about you–your favorite color, how much you weigh, what your childhood was like, what you eat for a midnight snack, what movies are your favorites. They love you so God damn much they want to crawl inside your skin and be you. And that’s a lot of power for someone like, say, Lindsay Lohan.

It’s also the thing that I think (besides the free clothes) would be the best about being a celebrity. You get to talk about yourself all the time and answer stupid questions–that’s fun! Why the hell else would everyone take an hour back in 2003 to fill out those 300-question surveys on MySpace? WE LOVE OURSELVES. So, that shit would be cray.

And so I’m gonna do it! You should too, my regular-ass readers, because let’s face it–we’re all pretty and talented and interesting enough to be famous, we just don’t have famous parents or a coke habit (I hope). So feel free to fill out the Celebratty Full-of-Yourself Questionnaire in the comments–I promise, it’s almost as fun as having the paparazzi stalk your every move.

  1. Place of birth. I’ll never tell. What?! I’m not the famous one here.
  2. Number of tattoos, and meanings. One–freedom, beauty, and love.
  3. Favorite food. Spicy tuna roll.
  4. Pets? One kitten.
  5. Worst thing about being famous. Free drugs.
  6. Best thing about being famous. Free drugs.
  7. Favorite designer. Bags, Balenciaga. Shoes, Louboutin. Dresses, Oscar de la Renta.
  8. Favorite childhood memory. The lake.
  9. Inspirational quote. “C’est la vie.”

This is dumb, now that I wrote it. I’m going to post it anyway. C’est la vie!

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