Death DOES become her

Typically, I like to have some kind of a pick-me-up message after I brutally excoriate whatever unsuspecting celebrity about her ugly nose or poorly chosen shoes or excessive surgery.
But today, I just wanted to point out that this picture of Courtney Love looks so amazingly like Goldie Hawn in Death Becomes Her, it's scary.

Berry these!

Halle Berry is what most people call an "attractive" person, yes?
She's even what some folks might refer to as a goddess.
Now, as an objective outsider I do find her pleasant to look at, but due to her horrific "acting" abilities and monotone/reedy/shrill voice, I usually avoid her work.
The point is, if Halle freaking Berry looks like a dumpy, upside-down triangle in her Gladiator-like flat sandals, imagine how they will look on YOUR fat ass.
Throw them out.
ps: I realize that's a heinously unflattering smock she's wearing, but it seems she's sprouting one breast from her solar plexus, and the other from her navel. Thoughts?

Ex SNL man-child betrothed to star-fucking, chick-flick producer

I guess I should be happy that my ex-boyfriend Jimmy Fallon is now engaged and happy. But must I send pre-nuptial gifts and congratulations when the *girl* in question is a forty year old, Barrymore-wannabe hag?
I can't totally fault Nancy Juvonen for meeting Drew back on the set of Mad Love, forcing a creepy friendship, and demanding they form a production company together -I mean, the duo did produce the masterpiece Duplex, so SOMEthing must have sparked between them. But I'm pretty sure Nancy dyes her hair brown every time Drew does and buys the S A M E exact pair of hippy sandals that Drew does and stops plucking her eyebrows every time Drew thinks that's pretty and becomes a vegan, then just a vegetarian and then a full-blown carnivore as Drew does weekly.
Nancy =Heddy Carlson
Drew=Allison Jones
That's a Single White Female reference in case you were raised in Guam or by wolves. And either way, you should be mortified at your lack of pop-culture awareness, and hightail it to your nearest Blockbuster to re-familiarize yourself with the finest film genre of all time:
The nineties thriller.
Might I suggest The Hand that Rocks the Cradle, Malice, Consenting Adults and Sleeping With the Enemy just to get you started...
PS: Please revisit the photo and inspect Nancy's midriff area. I'm not sure if it's the cut of that heinous, Dress Barn frock showcasing her middle-aged gut, or if she's in a family way. I'M guessing preggers--which would help to make some sense of this whole tragedy.
PPS: Maybe I don't even care about Jimmy loving another woman--look at his freakishly tiny hands compared with hers. Or maybe she just has man-hands. I just don't know anymore.

Gwyn-fingahhhh!

Something is fishy when no less than three perfectly heterosexual men send me links to the recent W cover featuring an uber-golden, black-browed, cream-lipped Gwyneth Paltrow.
Firstly, Gwynnie isn't a particularly known entity in the heterosexual world. I'm not hearing her name being thrown around when anyone announces their celebrity-fuck-list.
For example, here's a sentence you won't hear:
GodDAMN, I'd love to tap me some of that Paltrow ass!
It just doesn't happen.
Well, I guess it's happened at least twice with Coldplay frontman, Chris Martin. But frankly even HE looks kind of bored now. I think he's done with the yoga and the macrobiotic eating and the cupping and the sprout toast every morning.
The point is, she's just not a name that comes up when discussing general beauty and attractiveness. Frankly her jaw line is almost a right angle, she has a gigantic hook nose, and, let's be honest, all these years of faking various british accents has morphed her own speaking voice into this mealy-mouthed, nasal affair which makes listening to her deliver even the simplest of lines an ear-splitting chore. She's not even one of those 'beauties" men reference when they rhapsodize about classic, swoon-worthy actresses--your Sophia Lorens, your Grace Kellys, even your Catherine Zeta Jones's.

So, even though she's a statuesque blond with .8 percent body fat, no one really cares about her.
She's just not sexy.

Oh.
And normally, she has poor eyebrows.

But what's this?!
A parting of the storm clouds?
Can you even prepare yourself for it?
Well DO, because it's happening:

I. Freaking. Love. This. Cover.

I love that Merle Ginsberg and the whole art department at W had some big goddess viewpoint and went all GOLDFINGER on G. Pal's bony ass.
That silvery hair against the matte, bronzed skin--masterful!
Those fiercely deep brows contrasting the palest of lips--prodigious!
The blindingly white teeth emerging from her dark, cave like mouth--a revelation!

Because the world is never ready for change, I'm seeing mixed reviews, and the oftentimes right-on-the-money FUG GIRLS have thrown their opinion into the mix with the ever-nuanced statement:
"She looks like a dude."
And while, sweet Jessica and Heather, I understand that a strong brow can be somewhat masculine, how pedestrian and boring to make the leap to "dude" when it's clear that what we have here is an exercise in juxtaposing light and dark! Pale and rich! White and black!

Any fool off the street can see that.
And they did. In the form of straight guys.

Oh, and Gwyn-trow? Don't listen to the haters. Naming your one and only daughter after a piece of fruit is totally awesome.

Book 'em, Dina

The truth is, I could really care less about Lindsay. I mean, I'm psyched that she's famous for actually having a "job" but other than that, I'm totally disinterested in her personal life and times.
Jennifer Garner?
Fascinated.
Lindsay Lohan?
Not fascinated.
I just wanted to make sure you still understand that I obsess unhealthily about the private lives of people I've never met.
But, to be fair, when it comes to La Lindz, I'm afraid the poor, pale, speckled waif never really had a chance. I was recently informed by someone near and dear to her that quite often, THIS WOMAN is her coke partner-in-crime.
Yes.
It's her cracked-out, straw-haired, spotlight-hogging mother.
And they do coke together.
Now, Dina Lohan has her own IMDB page with far too much personal information about herself. Please actually click on the IMDB link so that I can make the following joke:

(For for those of you who are too lazy to simply click on a link, I will give you the setup:
Dina Lohan's self-proclaimed nickname on her page:
The White Oprah)

Now, Dina. You are indeed a great many things in this world. For example:
A terrible, desperate mother who does drugs with her recovering alcoholic daughter?
Yes.
A wannabe starlet who seeks attention through her own child's success?
Of course.
A hooker-haired, bloom-is-off-the-rose, middle-aged non-entity who, when people ask, calls herself Lindsay's "assistant" claiming she doesn't like always identifying herself as a mother?
Naturally.

But Dina. Are you the WHITE OPRAH?
No. No, you're not.
In fact, I'm not entirely sure you're even white anymore. Frankly, that 45 year old, shake'n'bake, Carrot-Top, skin you're sporting is not really a color found in nature.

Yum-NO.

You're assuming I'm going to make fun of Rachael's tremendously beefy thighs which clearly have no business being in a magazine, let alone a magazine which men jerk off to.
But I'm not.
I was just watching her heinously clunky food network show, and she prepared "a meal you could even serve to your boss!"
Now, obviously Rachael's life resembles ZERO of what her life was like before she was hand-picked by Oprah to be the next shrieky, fat media-mogul for middle-america to worship. But now that Ra-Ray's life includes first-class flights, Dunkin Donuts shoots, and speculations over her dead marriage in The National Enquirer (btw: it totally is), someone should alert her to the fact that no one actually "has" their boss over for dinner. I think Ashton Kutcher may have done it in some frightful film with Tara "Don't look directly at my pelvis or boobs or you'll go permanently blind" Reid, but that's it. It doesn't happen in real life. I feel like if she's going to tout her self as an 'everyday gal' she should have a handler who describes what 'everyday' is like.

Look, don't try and call me on watching her show even though I hate her.
Appreciate the fact that I research that which I excoriate.

9021-OH!

While I watched re-runs of Beverly Hills, 90210 today as I do every day between 12 and 2, I thought a sad and terrifying thought: Not NEARLY enough of today's news and literature is devoting itself to discussing the physical failures and shortcomings of the three actresses who played the shows' favorite bitches. I have decided to remedy this egregious error at this time. Please read on.

Walsh

1. Sweet, sweet Brenda. I'm so proud of you for getting over your obvious deformity-- your scarily asymmetrical eyes that seem to get strangely worse when you looked in mirrors--and getting on with your acting career. But why, when it's clear that you have eyes with a 2 inch vertical difference, would Aaron Spelling and Darren Star and (fill in a bunch of names of people who ACTUALLY made those kinds of decisions here) DEMAND that your scenes be shot while you stared in front of mirrors a minimum of 3 times per episode? Was this their clever punishment for you being such a heinous bitch on set? No matter, in high school I cut a blunt bang and wore pinkish-orangeish eyeshadow just like you, Bren-Bren! For your total, 1993 Brenda bonanza try Mac's Firespot shadow and Slimshine lipstick in Ultra-Elegant. Whatever you do, don't emmulate Shan-Do now. Why? Because she's a hot, fucking mess. But let's all appalud her for cultivating such amazingly scary crow's feet so people would stop staring at her bizarre lack of facial symmetry, and concentrate more on her stunning case of Progeria.

Malone

2. I think everyone would agree that Tiffany-Amber Theisson is a genius. Her Valerie Malone eased our pain of losing Brenda Walsh and, in time, allowed us to almost completely forget about Dylan's first, bitch-fest of a girlfriend. But I do have two major problems here. Firstly, the fact that her name (s) encompasses the two white-trashiest sounds ever uttered in the English language. Apparently Tiff's two grandmothers each had their hearts set on their granddaughter becoming either a stripper or a hooker and T. Amb's mother just couldn't decide which would be a better fit for her little baby girl and decided to go with both! We all know Tiffani decided as like, a THIRTY year old that merely ONE of the most I-sport-curled-under-bangs-and-wear-blue-eyeliner-in-the-inner-rim-and-looooove-my- clear-platform-shoes moniker might just be all the American public could stomach. So thanks Tiffani Theisson. You're Tiffrific. And while I'm on the subject of forgiveness, I'm really trying to dig deep to understand why a raven-haired beauty such as yourself would actively want to look like a cheap, dishwater blond. And don't give me some bullshit about it being for a "role". Everyone and your grandmother knows you haven't had an acting gig since like, 2001. For other fake blondes trying to get back to their natural color (hint, hint Theiss) try Herbal Essences Color--when you're going dark, don't waste your $200 on a professional. You can get a glinting highlights and high shine with a do-it-yourself kit.

PS: I'm feeling priteeee, priteeee, priteee, priteee priteee proud of myself and not going for the cheap chipmunk-cheek jokes. See? Growth.

Kincaid

3. Even though only 18 people watched this round of B. Hills-- post-Brenda, post-Valerie, post-Hilary Swank--that's not going to stop me from spewing unnecessary hatred and bile towards people who don't deserve it and have never done anything to me. Take a peek at Vanessa Marcil. She once bounced around as mean, mega-bulemic Gina on 90210 and now stars in some show called Vegas that again, no one watches. In my estimation, her biggest claim to fame thus far is sporting a mouth that looks like a horizontal vagina.
Sidebar: Hilary was shit-canned from that show and totally deserved it. She couldn't have been more boring as Steve's girlfriend, Carly. Oh, wait. Yes she could have. It was called Maggie in Million Dollar Baby.
Additional Sidebar: To get your very own puffed-out, plump-up kissers, combine some Lip Venom and Trish McEvoy's Flawless Lip lip liner in Natural Plum.

The REAL American Idol

I mean, her lie about tripping over her dog and breaking her (already misshapen) nose even though the entire free world knows she cracked that honker during a glass-throwing rant was admittedly delicious, but audio tapes featuring famous people acting totally insane trumps anything.
Duh.
Vapid voyeurs click HERE.
ps: Even though her makeup artist lines P. Abs' lips into her filtrum and on particularly carb-faced days, into the base of her nostrils, I'm always loving the gloss color choices. I recommend mixing Mac's Viva Glam V and clear lipglass for a super-glossy, mirror-shine mouth.

Studio Shitty

I love you Cherry Jones.
Even if you are a big fat lesbian with Sarah Paulson (above).
Please don't misunderstand--it's not the lesbian part that bothers me, it's the unfunny, unpretty, crazy-eyed Sarah Paulson part that gives me pause.
Could Harriet Hayes bore me any harder?
Also, could you have any less of an idea who these woman are?
Ps: For my loyal lesbians and other makeup loathers, please try this instead of going bare-faced: just a slight smear of Clinique's Moisture Sheer Tint on the skin--it'll smooth everything out and not look like anything at all.

English Muffin

I hate people who worship British people.
I had this one friend who:
A. Talked about how everything great was BRILLIANT.
B. Totally said 'roundabouts' and 'alumINium'.
C. Pronounced it SHEDJHOOL.
And all that would be perfectly fine if she was English.
But she's not.
She from freaking Maine.
The point is, I hate that anglophile bitch.
Wait no.
The point is I love Nigella Lawson. In addition to speaking about cooking in the most engaging, amusing, thoughtful ways, she is also, clearly, a doe-eyed, pillow-lipped godDESS. She employs the slightly darkened brow a la Audrey Hepburn and is a walking advert for the perfect, pale lip. If you, too are a brown-haired, brown-eyed beauty, try the retro-siren look like Nigey, and fetch some Stila Lip Glaze in Pina Colada and their Smudge Pot in Brown. You'll be BRILLIANT in no time...

Eat your heart out, Tammy

I'm going to admit a somewhat bizarre addiction. Well...obsession. Ok--problem! It's a problem, all right? And I'm going to tell you what it is:

I, Audie Metcalf, senselessly, painfully, obsessively rip out my eyelashes. Apparently this is called Trichotillomania.

It's super fun!

Actually, it's really not fun and I need to seek medical attention. But golly do I feel better having confessed. Now, in the intermediate stage between now and my no-doubt stay at some kind of "facility" or institute" there's no reason why all of you shouldn't benefit from my failing mental health.

This beauty news flash isn't just for the rest of you trichotillomaniacs. It just happens to be the origin of why I need the following ridiculously-impossible-to-believe, cynics-eat-your-heart-out, you're-gonna-belly-laugh when I tell you, product. My friends, you have to suspend disbelief and just trust me when I tell you--this stuff not only grows lashes that aren't there (you know, the hairless patches from, um, "habits"), it also makes longer the ones you already have. I know. Insane. The company is called Talika and the product is Lipocils.

This fancy French doc Danielle Roches invented an anti-bacterial cream back in the forties, and hair growth, she discovered, was a secondary benefit! This miraculous gel sort of looks like clear mascara and you apply it the same way--concentrating on the roots of the lash. Now, the packaging will tell you to swipe on your lashes, then follow up with regular mascara. But I find this makes your poor cilia look a little atrophied. My recommendation is to coat the heck out of them on mornings you don't wear mascara, and then at night when you take off your regular mascara (which is sooooo easy with Wonder Cloth! You remember my inanimate lover wondercloth, right? If not, read all posts). Anyway, I had been covering up my little bald sections with smudgy eyeliner for a while when I happened upon my NEW inanimate lover, Lipocils, and nary a patch remains. My lashes are now luscious! I've been using it for only a week and--are you sitting down for this?--my boyfriend noticed the change. BOYFRIEND! Are you hearing me? I think I could ask my friend to pinch-hit in bed for me a couple of nights and he wouldn't notice, and after using Lipocils he saw that my lashes were fuller?! I know I've convinced you now! Of course, maybe I just have really lousy taste in men. Perhaps another topic for therapy.
In any case...
Stumpy lashes? Straight Asian lashes? Sparse lashes. Get your Lipocils, heaaahhh!
Well, not actually here. But please go straight to your nearest Nordstrom or Sephora and get your very own. Or be utterly slothful as I was and order it online from www.skinterra.com (a fabulous site for other products, too, btw) and they'll ship it to you in under two days.
So here are your instructions:
After a week or two of using, gasp in front of the mirror often, then do a double coat of the ubiquitously beloved Great Lash on those new (improved) bad boys, and bat bat bat your way to the corner office, a rich husband or just the knowledge you've turned Tammy Faye green with envy. But please--no crying.

No-Botox tricks for Pillowy Lips

This is not to endorse some stereotypical image or idea of beauty. You know--big eyes, full lips, pert nose. But, well, puffy bee-stung kissers are sexy stuff. And why not? Maybe in a hundred years I'll be telling you how to thin them out, but for now, fat's where it's at.
So. We have options.
I mean, look, if you're beyond all this homespun crap and want to have the product of a life-threatening disease pumped into your face (that's botox, gals) or suck out your ass-fat and redirect it into your mouth, or try and see if collagen agrees with you, be my intrepid guest. And hey. Restylane seems like the best of the worst. But if that scene freaks the bejesus out of you, try these quite pedestrian but totally miraculous options.
1. Everyone always suggests the old foundation-before-lipstick routine. But in my experience this poses a serious threat to the quality of your lip color. Now, I'm a huge fan of the pale lip, but if you're sporting a berry hue this season, a coat of beigey foundation could be hazardous to its tone. SO. Ix-nay the oundation-fay and try this: Just the slightest sweep, NAY, dusting of a ridiculously light-colored powder right before you proceed with the lip color. A dry powder will sort of set the scene for the lipstick or gloss to hang on tight, and because it's a light shade, it will only enhance the color of your product. Promise.
2. Let's talk lipliner, my darlings. Oh, sweet lipliner. Lipliner really is both the angel of possibility and the angel of death, all wrapped up in one, unassuming little stick. Now, lipliner should never, EVER, be "noticed" or "seen" or "perceived by the human eye". This is non-negotiable. Actually, that's not true. If you make your living by giving dances in clubs (lap or pole) you can skip this part because for you, visible lipliner is not only ok, but in fact a requisite. But for the rest of us, there are easy ways to avoid the VLL. One way is to line your lips AFTER you apply your lipstick or gloss. This is counterintuitive, I know. But just by changing up the order, the liner now blends easily and seamlessly into the lip color. Give it a shot. Oh! Please, whatever you do, don't "line and pencil in your entire lips" just to make everything last longer. I hear this tip being thrown around in all the glossy mags and beauty books. But take it from me—it's no good. Try it. You'll see. Your whole mouth will look like a muddy donut. Not cute. Ok—so we've covered what NOT to do. Here's another easy tip to remember. Let's say you're doing the conventional lipstick thing. So we dust (DUST!) with powder, then comes liner. Get a color PALER than your lipstick (that's right, you read correctly!) and line around your whole mouth. You can even line a little outside of the natural lip contour (it's ok! it's paler!) and then—here's the tip—you smudge the mother out of it with your finger. Smudge it so much that there becomes no "line" to speak of, but merely a shadow of color. Now dip a lipbrush into your lipstick and apply. Blot with a tissue. Then smear more lipstick. Longevity, naturalness, loveliness. Total perfection. Now let's say you're a gloss girl like me. My trick is to dust, line, smudge like a mother, apply a tacky gloss with color, THEN, (that's right, there are 5 whole steps. Accept it! Pamela Anderson will be jealous!) apply MAC clear lipglass over the whole shebang. The clear gloss sort of blurs the edges of your lip a little, there's no VLL because you've brilliantly smudged, and you now have these pillow-lips that will make Bridget Bardot foam at the mouth. She's still with us, right? Or is she dead? Either way, she's pissed.
3. This is my fave. This is totally wild. Are you sitting down? Dust, line, put a clear swipe of gloss on, then, with your lipbrush, put the lipstick OVER the gloss. Have you ever heard of anything so bold, so daring? I should be clipped by the make-up mafia or have a fashion-fatwa on my head. You see, the in-the-know crowd doesn't want any laymen knowing our tricks. Otherwise, how would you brew all your insecurities, drag yourself to the scary makeup counters to buy yourself a little happy, and end up plunking down your hard-earned cash for a bunch of crap you don't need or know how to use! Our economy would sink! Forgive me if commerce is affected; we'll all know the origin. And if this is the last time you hear from me, just know that I've been rubbed out. Or hopefully I'm in some beauty-prison languishing in a well-appointed cell, drinking Evian and doing ok. Live on in my memory by committing to no VLL! It's as easy as 1, 2,3. (ok, 4,5,6, in some cases.)

The Dreaded Ablutions

Now, we've all done the walk of shame back home in the wee hours, underwear in purse, raccoon-eyed, guilty. When we walk through the door, the last thing we wanna do is go through our whole routine in the loo. Ugh. Brushing, splashing, cleaning, and for god's sake—dealing with mascara? Ughhhh. BUT. Does our desire to collapse override the terrifying knowledge that some ugly little pore, some weak oil glad, will enlarge, engorge and become a big red hot spot on our face the next day? A rudolph-ian blemish that will prevent a truly good self-esteem day for at least a week if we don't scrape off our war paint that very moment? We know that when we don't deal with our face the night before, the day after presents a whole new world of pain. Spiky, hard lashes and black smears on the pillow! Fresh, proud, painful pimples!
Good morning!!
So what is it to be? A delicious drop into our beckoning bed with a complexion that pays the next day? OR?
Or what you might ask?
Prepare yourselves. Here it is. It's genius. It's one step away from a robot who follows you around with a wet washcloth and a vat of cold cream to remove the now slip-sliding face that you so painstakingly created hours ago. So here it is. It's...............
Wonder Cloth!
Oh. My. God. This thing is my new boyfriend. In fact, who cares if I do have pimples? I'm dating Wonder Cloth! It's soothing, calming, it listens to me, and gets the job done with almost no work. Men? Who needs 'em?
Wet this incredible item--it looks remarkably like any other washcloth--swipe across lashes, lips, whatever, and the makeup comes flowing off. Then run the thing under the faucet, and it all washes away! No cleansers, no q-tips, no eye-makeup remover with all its oily residue. Just a beautiful, simple little cloth that is, dare I say, MAGIC.
So drive, don't walk, to your nearest Linens 'n' Things, and snatch one of these lifesavers up for you and all your friends! They're at the checkout counter. You know where I mean, don't you? Allow me to paint the picture. You have your cart all full of the crap you don't need but have decided you must have. Now you're in line having talked yourself (and your signif oth.) into a cobalt-colored bathmat, a cupcake-scented Yankee candle, and a ridiculously tiny lamp with a gaudy, jeweled shade that probably takes like a maximum of 12 watts. You're feeling that buying-high. Everyone needs their house to smell like baked goods, right? Your whole concept of need and want shifts once you see all these new essential items at the register. I mean, I'm not quite sure how I've lived this long without my own personal dermabrasion kit, or, for that matter, a round, lit mirror with an 880 magnification. How could anyone? Anyway, the point is, the Wonder Cloth is in this section. And it is, in fact, the one thing you'll be amazed you ever lived without.

Regular washcloths are so....parochial.

Wonder Cloth? Will you marry me?

A New Nude

I feel as though I came out of the womb searching for the perfect nude lipcolor. Yes, it’s true. Even as an infant, my magenta-baby lips were simply too berry for my complexion. I wanted to focus more on eyes. Somehow it made more sense with my onesie and pacifier.
Great news! After an exhausting thirty year search, I’ve done it. Leave it to my beloved Stila to create the perfect nude lip. It has addressed and solved the two, classic nude dilemmas—the Nude-lemmas, if you will:

1. Normally, the color is too opaque and thus becomes sort of chalky, resulting in the washed-out corpse look.
2. The colors themselves tend to be either too mauvy, pale or orange rendering the overall face to appear clownish—appearing as if you may have mistook some eye colors for lipcolors.

Stila will be having none of this. Their product is called Clear Color moisturizing lip tint. The genius is in the word “tint”. While it’s enough color to give a true hue, it still has the look and feel of a sheer. This SPF 8 is a lovely plus, as well. I've used it on a couple of shoots, and it seems to be ideal with every complexion, fair to dark.
Plus, good ol’ Jeanine Lobell (creator of Stila, of course) doesn’t mess around with any cutsie names. The color is called, appropriately, “Nude”.

Blue Moon

Remember when the producers of Moonlighting started to think Cybill was getting a little long in the tooth during her years at the Blue Moon Detective agency? This is back in the day, kids. Haven’t seen it? Rent it! Finally out on DVD! Plus you can develop an all-consuming crush on Bruce Willis, as I did, and be crestfallen that you can’t invent a time machine to swiftly bring you back to 1986, where he had much more hair, but interestingly, still not very much. Nonetheless, he’s never been more appealing.
Enough lust.
On to makeup.
They gave Cybill this soft focus or maybe a certain lighting-gel that just smooooooooothed everything out. She sort of always looked candle-lit and gauzy. It got a little extreme toward the end, but she worked that blur like nobody’s business in season 2 and 3.
Why am I talking TV you ask? Well, my possums, I’m here to tell you that you can get the Cybil blur—in real life! No gaffer required!
There are many products in this ilk, but one stands alone.
Clarins Instant Smooth: Perfecting touch. Smear under eyes, lines and pores--for real! Mine are usually big enough to store my off-season wardrobe, but no more! It really creates a softened, fuzzy, near-perfect look. My favorite way to apply is:

1. Moisturize normally
2. Apply where you need—sorry—want it.
3. Go about your other business i.e.; dry the hair, choose the outfit, etc.
4. Come back to put foundation on after 10 minutes or so—-the perplexing but miraculous micro-pearls have filled in any and all crows and pocks.
5. Look stunning.

PS: Click HERE to see Cybill as the most ravishing woman on the planet
PPS: And click HERE to see her looking slightly less ravishing.

Dark Roots

She was born in Texas as Vickie Lynn Hogan and died yesterday in Florida as Anna Nicole Smith.
Vickie Lynn grew up a poor girl who was married at seventeen, a mother at eighteen and supported herself by serving Jim's Fried Chicken and taking her clothes off for patrons of a Houston strip club. Anna Nicole was the quintessential pin-up girl who rocketed to international fame, and supported herself by marrying a billionaire, and taking her clothes off--this time for Hugh Hefner.
Anna Nicole is, in part, why we love blondes, why we love breasts, and in a way, why we love beauty. Really the only thing she gave to the world was a big, neon-lit package of almost unattainable gorgeousness. But being that gorgeous proved difficult, even for her. Her slurring, overweight grumblings on her cringe-worthy reality show were both highly watchable and desperately sad. Her sweet, breathless cooing to her little dog Sugar Pie was almost tear-inducing. And her solid but dejected son always looked adoringly at his child-like mother--however emotionally abandoned he seemed to have been. I think we expected a lot from Anna Nicole. We expected her to live our dreams for us. To be beautiful for us. To show us what larger than life can mean. Humble beginnings, a suspicious marriage, a dead son, a motherless baby daughter, and now her death at 39 years old--Anna Nicole Smith's iconic status is finally secured. I think maybe, in another life, she instead could have been our Eliza Doolittle--had she only met her Henry Higgins.
With every streak of blond we put in our hair, and every plumper we swipe on our lips--whether we know it or not--is, in a funny way, our own, strange search to look like that bedroom-eyed bombshell on the cover of Playboy in 1993.