Brand Girl™

Quite a celebratory week and it’s only Thursday. Hilary Duff tries on Martha Stewart. Barry Bonds hits his 756th home run beating Hank Aaron’s legendary record. (And not to belittle Bond’s effort, but I have 540 odd-days logged in LA. Ok, not consecutively. But neither is that home run count.) A tornado blows through Brooklyn, and Brand Girl survives her first quake.

Yaaaaagh!

Okay, a baby one.
But I still need to celebrate my first.
Martini of course. And shaken, not stirred!

So it continues to surround me – the quest for improvement of face. Some are nestled in bed holding frozen peas on their swollen muzzles, popping Perocets by the poundful and others are in hat and sunglasses getting ushered immediately to the back of the restaurant so as not to scare any patrons away. And then yours truly, hoping that the anti-aging elements in my Ocean Potion are really anti-aging, or that the beauty that gyrates from deep within will blow out any brow lines, or that Botox will be available in tablet form — soon.

Hope is not a strategy.

I decided it was high-time this Brand Girl test-drove herself in front of a trained eye — a cosmetically-oriented artist of sorts — all for the sake of research and education, of course. I met with a favorite of Linda Evangelista, Dr. Karyn Grossman. (If good enough for Linda, good enough for BG.) I learned that botox would not serve me. (woo-hoo!) For a half-second I was relieved, and feeling a tad cocky about my habitual use of OP, until she continued and said, “eventually you will just need an eyebrow lift.” (shock) And then there was the shooting of the Cosmoderm under the eyes. (shock) And chin. (shock) And Thermage for my forehead and eyes to remove the tired look. (shock) (shock) And then the Faxel Laser treatment to remove sun damage. (shock) Need I go on? At the end of my session I was handed a $6,000 plus estimate (STICKER SHOCK) for things to fix in the interim until I decided to do the lift. It was like bringing the benz to the repair shop to inquire about some door dings and being told that what you really needed was a new hood. But till then, here’s some new wheels. And make sure you come back for air every four months. (yikes!)

I’m not doing anything — Yet. Yet, I have learned many things in life like, “never say never”, “to each his own”, and “if you snooze, you lose.” But I got to thinking. If you do start to play this game of shooting up, keep in mind that you will need a boat-load of dollars to maintain given most of the drugs used like Botox and Cosmoderm only last a few months. You can skip the coloring of your grays, the manicure for nails or Benz once in a while, but — (and I know I could probably say this more eloquently) — do you really want to walk around half-baked in the face? And if you’re doing anything involving bones — good lord — use the best. It’s like sushi. You want to pay as much as you possibly can because the consequences of bad fish are just too dire.

Do what’s right for you, and do it for you — just do it right.

Peas out! lol

To blend or not to blend? And we are not talking about Margaritas (always on the rocks, with salt, preferably by the pool, and we promise not to drop it if you give us a real glass instead of plastic – and Patron). Blending. So many do it in LA. Blonde is the first thing — there is a stat in the current Allure about the number of women who are naturally blonde and it is astoundingly in the low single-digits.

Boobs are another thing. They are, for the most part, large, storebought and impossible to ignore. So women are definitely paying, and paying large, to look like everyone else in their peer group. Funny. Because when I was younger, I remember wanting to fit in, — in that (ssh!) Staten Island kind of way. Seemed the more popular girls had BIG and curly hair. So, my long, stringy, straight black hair — already a source of torment for my mom — became a source of torment for me. Hello Lilt Home perms. The Lilt legacy repeated itself over the years, first administered by my mother, and later self-inflicted – the heavy fumes emanating from my own bathroom sink. It was an ongoing quest to fit in. I wanted so badly to be like everyone else! Now, all you want is to stand out, be yourself, *not* blend in like a gazelle into the underbrush.

So the LA stereotype reigns: blonde, boobs, sleeping their way to the top. Two final notes: the women I have met in LA have been largely honest, funny, enchantingly smart and real women, regardless of root color or cup size. And, attention: entertainment professionals: I may be hungry to sell my projects, but I am not a casting-couch, casting chaise, or casting desk kind of girl. But that doesn’t mean you can’t try. After all, I stand — and stand out — for a reason.

And these days, I also sit smugly in the salon chair for a trim while, all around me, those born with the Lilt-like locks pay thousands to have them cooked pin-straight.

So last week, I was an almighty scrubbed up diva holding court in NYC — fending off too much service, sushi and love. And today, an elder sister — holed up on the Outer Banks of North Carolina with an immediate family count that hoovers at 30 — and a woman forced to barter for essentials. It is indeed a lovely beach front home with many desired amenities (hello elevator), but a bedroom count that well… sleeps less. And with this group, neither the amount of Gucci or money you throw holds weight. Just like the open box of Devil Dogs or insane Nutty Bars on the kitchen counter — last person in, gets last picks — if any. So to the amusement of the group, I bunked with the youngest of the childfolk. And yes, I slept on a bunk. Plus side was that the six of us had our own Pacman arcade AND, in exchange for the use of my laptop (to support their Webkinz habit), this rock star aunt got the bathroom all to herself.

Once settled, the six of us made our way to the heart of the kitchen for the afore-mentioned snacks and nestled among the ungodly amounts of many childhood fat-filled carbs was Alli.

Yes, the first FDA approved fat blocker was in the house. I’ve seen the displays as I troll the aisles of Rite Aid in Los Angeles — the capital of ubber-thin folks (where pyschologically I can still feel that my years of eating too many Oreos as a child are still nicely embedded in my thighs). So seduced by the possibility of enjoying free-flowing handfuls of Dibs like my bunkmates, I immediately reclaimed my laptop.

Here’s the string and the skinny…

http://www.myalli.com/

http://www.palmbeachpost.com/accent/content/accent/epaper/2007/06/24/a7d_alli_drug_0624.html

http://www.skinnyondiets.com/Orlistat.html?b=8277&GCID=S15771x274&KEYWORD=orlistat&gclid=CJnh-e7h9YwCFRrJYAodnQQU_A

http://www.skinnyondiets.com/MiracleBurn.html?b=8277&GCID=S15771x274&KEYWORD=orlistat&gclid=CJnh-e7h9YwCFRrJYAodnQQU_A

Here’s where my dieting ends…

http://www.frenchwomendontgetfat.com/?cm_mmc=JandL-_-R20319-_-CPA-_-Cpa&keycode=R20319

… and where the fun begins as my laptop was again confiscated by the Webkinz loving crowd.

o OOo Paris. *sigh*

I think, that for today’s diet, a glass of Champagne would work nicely with one of those Dove covered strawberries on the counter. ;> Happy summer living folks!

Warning: This is unfiltered stream of unconsciousness brand girl rant….

So just like that… a mere five hour flight, a few Gucci pieces — and this girl is transformed from a LA fashionable writing bum to NYC brand diva, currently reporting live from room 1110 at the Maritime Hotel. Well first it was room 406, but of course there was the habitual room change to the higher floor because just like there can be too much Skybar filtering through your curtains at the Mondy, there can be too much Hiro streaming through the walls at the Maritime. Courtney Love performed last night, and as I move from being less Carrie to more Oprah – girl must distance herself from such ‘love.’ It’s all good though because the views from the higher floors are amazing. I’m also happy to report that the humidity in NYC has broken – and the breezes that are pouring in rival the cashmere inducing ones that I left behind in Santa Monica…

…just yesterday… as I was cadoodling with a young media hottie (art: insert green floating hearts here) over psychology, politics and yellowtail. But today, nestled in a cement garden with fellow media peeps and being quizzed about — a) biz, b) boys, c) when are you moving back? And — d) are you sure you’re not botoxing?

Good lord — where are the boundaries!!! Whether lunching with nyc pals, or discussing biz in Santa Monica with pr junkies — they all want more and they want deeper deets. So this morning as I’m pondering over this question of how much to expose (it’s like deciding between a padded bra or not), — on cue, as the universe continues to deliver material to both my doorstep and fingertips, an ex ex ex ex ex Mr. Sometimes, (think older, cashed out ad executive feigning screenwriter with clearly too much time on his hand) – emails me this. First let’s just say, it is crazy what he emails me. But what is crazier is what people are willing to expose of themselves. So as dark, twisty and raw as we can all go, I wonder, how does this affect the world at large? Everyone is ranting and revealing — and we are turning on each other to amuse and entertain. Yet, this marketing queen knows — as I know you do too — that we all tend to spin and blend — and polish it up. Hell, it is entertainment. Or is it? So the question is: how far am I willing to go? Hmm.

Thought bubble: Should I write more about my desire to devour the young media hottie (a.k.a. blonde surfer stud who’s stirring visions of sandy-coated green or blue-eyed babies at the beach) — as it is also stirring the cougar within? Do I write about yet – another LA Beverly Hill boy blowing smoke? One that was moving to slap a ring on a girls’ finger just to see her off the market? (For him, it would be the equivalent of a studio throwing money at a project to keep it in development hell so that no other buyers can sniff around –– while the studio buys time to decide whether they [he] wanted it [her] or not?) Do I go on about the gazillion of agents chasing me… lol. Ok, maybe not a gazillion – but you get my drift.

So yes, I can cut closer to the bone, but do I dare expose this in all its brilliance as I’m thinking out loud? And then should I be afraid that anyone of them (and they know who they are), could read this blog, misconstrue and get rattled? Or at some point this info, freely orbiting in the media universe at my own hand, could be used against me? Hell, let’s say one day I should decide to run for office? I mean someone has to give that girl a run for her money. lol

I don’t have the answers, but I’ll tell you what – I have more… embellished or not — but that’s as much as you will get until — I —- (halted by ringing treo)…
Now excuse me. There’s “someone” waiting for me downstairs. ;>

And hello – girl does not botox (yet)!!!
Must be those cool LA winds… xo

I’m at the Viceroy hoping to be taken seriously when I noticed that several of the lunching starlets are all poofed out. How on earth did I miss that? Within Treo seconds, my east coast comrade confirms that simultaneously, poofed women are trotting in-and-out of a Starbuck’s in Greenwich, Connecticut. The texts concur and conclude that each and every one of them looks six months pregnant, which can’t be. Why the waistline that begins at the bustline? Why do women do that? Can this cute-poofy-dress moment really last?

I immediately text up the boss, a.k.a. stylist extraordinaire, who fashionably texts me from an airport in Munich, and I quote her verbatim: “that while you* have an amazingly flat stomach and no hips to speak of, more that 60% of the women I dress have rolls around the waist in addition to thighs and butts…. And this is therefore a really cute/practical style for them. I actually like MODERATE poof, and recommend it as a cute, fresh change… With the right accessories (shoes, bag etc.) this would work for you as well. That’s my two cents (or rather euros from where I sit).”

Hmmm. Now MODERATEly fixated on the poof phenomena, I trot on over to Chaya Venice to round out the days musing with the boyz as happy hour was fast approaching. It didn’t take much nudging to discover the census of the sushi-harboring crowd. Apparently, the poof works for them. Spouting things like “ripe”, “accentuated breasts” and “the mystery of whether there is a bun in the oven.” “It’s all good.” Hmmm.

Ladies, do what works for you. But MODERATEly poofed or not, I, Brand Girl, personally feel no need to feed yet another’s man’s fantasy and conclude that the poof, unless with child or on a child, should vanish as quickly as the short-lived trend of pencil tight jeans.

And… I thank the lord Vera Wang is taking to educating the masses.
And so… we live to see another day.

note: you* = hello – she’s talking about yours truly here… give the girl a dollar! xo

I know, I know. I should be giving my limited blog time to something more deserving like the presidential debate… or good lord, what will become of our beloved Tony? But how could I resist posting what will likely be one of the most infamous photos of the decade?

Does Paris Hilton deserve jail time or not? I will hold my silence, but this morning, the almighty foursome of “The View” now powered with a D-lister, ruminated over the evil and good of Ms. Hilton. Interesting… Paris has chosen not to up her thread-sheet count, but instead takes a hard cell in a Los Angeles county jail. She does this with hopes that she will lessen the flood of hate mail and press from the world at large. Paris is allegedly upset and confused over the animosity that swirls around her. (Hmmm.) Who really knows the woes of a Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan or poor Britney for that matter. But one thing this Brand Girl has learned, is the only thing we can seemingly control, whether brand or girl –– is our behavior. Situations are situations, but the drama, high or low, is well… usually ours. It can be tough. In defense, I do now understand how difficult it can be to stay sane and real while running around in the vacuum of all things that are beautiful, entertaining and surreal in L.A. It’s crazy, but after awhile you can begin to believe your own exhaust. (Hello – LA LA land.) Maybe a little jail time for Paris will be the very thing she needs. (Look what a time-out did for Martha Stewart.) But as a very wise guru of mine says, “it’s okay to live in LA. Just don’t let LA live in you!”

So recently, I was fulfilling my fairy godmother duty by babysitting for my goddaugter back East, who lives in a house nestled in the woods about an hour from the city. And I trot down to the garage to properly provision the Audi for an outing, and I am practically jumped by a masked bandit. Of the raccoon kind. Needless to say, a girl about jumped right out of her Cosabellas. I immediately notified the parents, who Googled themselves a Wildlife Relocation Expert who promised to lure the raccoon out of their garage and take him elsewhere. I was back in my LA apartment only two days when I trotted down to my own garage to hop in my own piece of German engineering for an outing — and spotted another prowler sniffing around. This one, rather than masked, was wearing sunglasses – but he was also cute, a little scruffy, and — it turns out — also naughty. (eyebrow) He bills himself as a “relationship expert” and runs a website and newsletter on how to “catch a man and keep him.” Meanwhile, back in the woods, my Wildlife Relocator is trying to catch the coon and keep him — a delicate maneuver involving a “Have-a-Heart” trap and open cans of tuna.

So I’m thinking, maybe the coon guy and I should swap tactics. After all, wildlife is wildlife. The Wildlife Relocator should accept the raccoon for who he is, and not try to make him into another type of garbage-pillaging creature. I, in turn, could carry around an open can of tuna… which would explain why a girl bats a thousand every time she’s eating sushi at Chaya.

I’m just sayin’.

Whether there’s a germ of truth to the Olivia Palermo stories of sending unfiltered emails to some self-appointed society goddesses seeking love or not, leave it to the fuggers to find the “pretty” in her seemingly ugly PR:

“So what if the whole thing was a carefully choreographed PR gambit to earn her the kind of pity that turns into affection and a Phoenix-style rise from the social ashes. So what if it was just a misguided girl trying to get in with the In Crowd. Who cares if someone was out to get her and faked the whole thing. However you slice it, she’s going to win, because she isn’t burying her head in the sand, and stone-cold bitches like us are going to soften and say, “Well, you’ve gotta respect her moxie.”

… for the kids (and especially when there’s beach and wine involved).

Started by a handful of locals – the Malibu Wine Classic will please all despite the juggling of glasses, appetizers and suntan lotion. There promises to be a good showing of local restaurants (a la Hamptons of Four Season’s) and several California wineries like Arcadia, Rosenthal and a L’Aventure. But make sure you seek out Consilience and Brett Escalera, the winemaker, both personal favorites of mine – and no short pours.

I’m just sayin.