Missoni Impossible

Out of outrage, ideally I’d choose to have no comment regarding the Missoni for Target collection ordeal - but when I tried to keep my opinion to myself, steam literally shot out of my ears and my eyes nearly popped out of my head. Keeping my opinion to myself has never been my forte. Did you score any Missoni for Target swag? I didn’t. And I’m refusing to purchase any of it on eBay either out of defiance. With mark ups so crazy, I’ll wait until I have a boyfriend with a bank account to support real Missoni.  And besides, according to my mom, Missoni print resembles the afghan blanket my grandma knit for me. 

Ok so, honestly – I didn’t even try. I knew my efforts would be futile. Standing outside in the cold, amongst crazy Missoni hungry mommies, waiting for those red doors to open like its Black Friday is not really my idea of a fun morning. Surely I would have been trampled. I can see myself on YouTube now, being plowed over by crazy people, in one big signature Missoni zig zag patterned blur. Can you imagine? I die.

With absolutely nothing left on the shelves, it appears I’ve missed the Missoni boat. Not that I checked three different stores in an attempt to find something, anything that had been left behind, or anything like that. Because that would just be pathetic. So I guess I only have myself to blame. Next time a designer collection is released, I’ll have a game plan. I’m thinking I’ll need a team in order to cover more ground. Obviously we’ll have studied floor plans. And we’ll have whistles. And walkie talkies. And maybe helmets. Yeah, definitely helmets. Let me know if you’re interested. Fashion sense preferred, but not required.

But, had I been able to get my hands on the collection, this is what you’d find in my cart. How gorgeous, right? Paired with thick sweater tights and boots. It almost makes me wish it was Fall in Los Angeles. Almost.

True Love

If this music video had credits, at the very bottom behind kraft services, coffee girl and second assistant to the assistant production supervisor blah blah blah – it would read, assistant to the stylist, Samantha Wyman. No joke. It says it on the call sheet. And yes, I kept it. Obviously.

My friend Alex is pretty cool. He’s super modest too, so Alex – please don’t kill me for bragging on your behalf. Alex has a rad job. He produces music videos. Cool music videos. Like music videos that win VMA’s. Like this one, for example. Alex is also a super friend, and helps out the little people like yours truly and hooked me up big time. Biiig time. So thanks, Alex.

Alex worked on a project for these girls, sisters Destinee & Paris, who in my opinion are going to be huge. Maybe I’m biased because their first music video was also my first music video. Or maybe because the song will forever haunt my ear drums after listening to it 7823461034 times on set. But they’re opening for Britney Spears, so I doubt I’ll be wrong. And the song is super catchy. Like suuuper catchy. Helping me score a killer first job on my stylist resume, Alex introduced me to the talented Maya Krispin, who I was fortunate enough to follow like a shadow, hoping to absorb just an ounce of her brilliance.

So check out the close ups on the shoes. I painted that bow gold. Check out their toes while you’re at it. Someone was hired to paint them. Seriously. Pay attention to the accessories I placed ever so delicately on those tiny pop star fingers. And the gold chain belts I re-pinned after every take. Really. I still dream about those gold chains. And those killer shorts. I mean. I die.

I still can’t believe it really happened. So fortunate to be able to pursue something I love so much. And so grateful to have the friends to help me do it.

Karl Lagerfeld told me guilty feelings about clothes are totally unnecessary. A lot of people earn their living by making clothes, so you should never feel bad. So I don’t. Actually, he didn’t tell me personally, but he’s quoted saying that on the internet, so he probably said it at one point, or something like that. So if some people make a living making clothes, others wearing clothes, why can’t I make a living styling clothes? I mean, it’s working for Rachel Zoe.

So, my current revised list of dream jobs are as follows.

1.     Zac Efron’s Girlfriend

2.     Iron Chef America Judge

3.     Advice Columnist

4.     Stylist

I have pneumonia.

Please pardon my mood. I went to the doctor yesterday, something you’ll rarely hear ever coming out of my mouth, only to be told I have pneumonia. Fantastic. I’m really terrible at being sick. Like the sound of running water hurts my ears. And clothes hurt my skin. And light hurts my eyes. You can bet I’ll be milking this pneumonia for all it’s worth. So although, yes Mom – I’m grateful for my healing, I’m also still super irritated.

I’m irritated with the kid screaming bloody murder at the pool. Irritated with his mother who has so effortlessly tuned out his cries. And I’ll be irritated with you if you try and tell me that just because I have pneumonia I’m not allowed to read about Kim Kardashian’s wedding poolside. And yes, I’m irritated with her too. I’m irritated with the man in front of me at Coffee Bean who doesn’t know what an americano is. With the nanny ordering large mocha ice blendeds for the toddlers she’s watching. But most of all, I’m irritated with Kaiser, and my experience yesterday.

So I’ll say this. This is a hospital. You know how I’m doing. Please don’t ask. If I was fine I wouldn’t be here. If you give me an appointment time, ask me to check in 15 minutes prior, I arrive 10 minutes prior to that in an attempt to be seen earlier, and you still keep me waiting 40 minutes past my original appointment time, I’m going to contemplate fainting in the lobby. But if I wait patiently, as I did, and you put me in a room with blinding yellow lights for another 20 minutes before seeing a doctor, I will look through all the labeled cabinets before I decide to nap on the hospital bed. If you are sitting at the reception desk in the x-ray lab, I’m going to assume it is your job to receive me. Next time, it’d be easier if you simply told me where to go, instead of pointing to the ticket machine, having me take a number, sit down, and then immediately call my number only to tell me to check in down the hall. And lastly, while I enjoyed reliving Michael Jackson’s life through pictures, if your most current People Magazine is dated July 2009, you’ll have some seriously out of touch and misinformed people leaving your pharmacy. Never mind, I really liked the MJ tribute. It was ironically his birthday after all. And it might have been Kaiser’s saving grace. That, or the nurse who said no when I asked if I had to be weighed. Or my hot, unmarried doctor, who, when I told him I thought I was dying, said he hoped I’d pull through because he kinda liked having me around. Totally into me, right? Shut up. Whatever. Actually scratch that. He already knows way too much about me.

Okay. So. Sorry for the rant. I’m blaming it on the fever. Or the bacteria building up in my lungs. Or the fact I couldn't keep my chest x-rays to scan and show you. Any and all will do.

Happy Birthday, Grandpa.

Today is my baby sister’s twentysecond  birthday. She flew in yesterday, and I can hardly wait to tell you about all of the fun we’re having. But before I do, I need to tell you about my grandpa. Tuesday was his birthday. And my Grandpa Sam, my mother’s father and my namesake, is 79 years young.

My grandpa is truly an incredible man. Also an incredibly humble and modest man, he’d die if he even knew I was gushing about him for the whole world to see. But it was his birthday, and you know I love a birthday. So I’m doing it anyway. Because he really is fantastic.

So fantastic that he sends homemade birthday cards. In the mail. Always filled with pranks and jokes and signed by characters like your pal, Oprah I can always count on my grandpa’s cards to be display worthy. But what I really treasure are his letters. I’ve been receiving letters from my grandpa nearly weekly since I entered my first year of college in Santa Barbara, as did my mom when she began her freshman year at the University of Redlands. Keeping me afloat with juicy family gossip and town happenings, I am always in the loop. But not one for small talk, my grandpa’s letters - always written in black ink with red accents and always written on yellow lined note paper - always had an agenda. For example….

Dearest Samantha, your mom tells me you’ve been visiting friends in San Diego lately. Stay away. San Diego is very close to Mexico. Be careful.

In case you don’t have a grandpa who sends you letters, filled with the wisdom of someone who’s truly lived a full life, as I imagine not many do, I’d like to share with you some of the highlights.

Be kind. Always pay with cash. If you can’t pay with cash, you can’t afford it. Live simply. Live with compassion. Eat candy bars. Recycle. Deck shoes are always appropriate footwear. Speak slowly. Speak with intention. Repeat your phone number twice. Don’t say um. Take a pause instead. Don’t get tattoos. Don’t date losers. They’re not worth your time.  Stay away from drugs. Stay out of the sun. Cough in to your shoulder. Use hand sanitizer. Always carry tic tacs. Travel. Travel more. Read books. Read the newspaper. Write letters. They mean more than emails. Make cards. They’re more thoughtful than store bought. Take naps. Take pictures. Take candid pictures. You’ll hate them, until you realize how perfect they are. Plant tulips. Expand your vocabulary. Use words like circa. It means around. Watch the BBC. Value your education. Value your family. Nothing will mean more. Invest wisely, both your time and money. Take care of yourself. Take care of others. Treasure what matters, and toss what doesn’t. Literally. 

Here he is. Or actually, here we are. Sitting on the steps of his house at one of my family’s garage sale. Someone put a price tag around my neck, as if I were for sale. Parents are hilarious, right? This has to be one of my favorite pictures. Of all time. I’m guessing I’m around ten. Flash forward another ten years and here we are again. This time in front of my house, where my grandpa hasn’t aged a single day and I apparently drowned in a bottle of peroxide and got electrocuted. 

Happy Birthday, Grandpa.

Pinot Grigio, Please.

I don’t know much about wine. I know that red wine can be easily removed from a blouse if soaked in club soda, and I know that no one looks good with purple lips and stained teeth. Other than that, I must admit, I know nothing. And when selecting a bottle, most of my picks are based on one major factor – creativity of the label. In college, it was easy. Wine Wednesday consisted of a “3 Bottles for $10” deal at the local Keg & Bottle convenient store, and as you can imagine our selection was limited and the quality of wines I grew accustomed to was not that impressive. In an effort to educate ourselves, my friends and I took a wine appreciation course, where every Tuesday we listened to a man in inappropriately tight pants speak to us in an Italian accent about flavors of cherry and honey as he continued to fill our glasses with a heavy hand before we headed out to Taco Tuesday. My most meaningful contribution was likening dessert wine to peach rings. As you can see, I learned a lot.

Now that I’m so old and mature, antics like this are no longer appropriate. Enter the Santa Barbara Wine Festival. Escaping Carmageddon, in a last minute and entirely spontaneous decision – my favorite kind as of lately – my roommate and I traveled up the coast to Santa Barbara for the annual wine festival. Joining friends from school, it was funny pretending to be so cultured and sophisticated in a place that once hosted the beer garden for the All Sorority Volleyball Tournament while we attended UCSB. Who am I kidding? Even with my hair in a high bun, caged wedges and mismatching J. Crew patterns, I was fooling no one. And neither were my friends. Which was made apparent as we engraved our souvenir wine glasses with things like Diva and Sexy Mama and ran around demanding more pinot grigio. Too busy filling my glass with wines I pretended to know about, I missed the engraving booth, which was fine because I chipped my glass while cheers-ing, and later lost it all together. But what really blew my cover, and eliminated all possibility of scoring a dinner date with a handsome, wealthy, divorced wino in town for the festival, staying at his Montecito summer home - was the bird poop that bounced off of my hand and slid down my skirt. No joke. And yes, that was the kind of crowd I was hoping to find at such an event. Now you can try and tell be that being pooped on by a bird is good luck and blah blah blah, but I will tell you that you are full of shit. Pun intended. And you obviously have never been shat on before. The only lucky thing about the situation was that it didn’t land in my glass. Because that would have been a real tragedy. 

With hundreds of vendors, it was impossible to sample them all in the short four hours we were allotted. But we definitely did our best. The next day, the 405 opened earlier than expected and our drive back down south was a breeze. How cool would it have been if Aerosmith’s I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing came on the radio? You know, like in Armageddon? Way cool. And how cool would it have been if a bird didn’t poop me on? Even cooler. 

Sorry I don't have pictures. Obviously my hands were full. Maybe next year I'll invest in one of those wine glass holders that hang around your neck, leaving my hands free. Or maybe I won't. 

Book Club: Bringing Home the Birkin

Quite stubborn, I rarely listen when told what to do. In fact, the list of people who even stand a chance is quite short. Oprah Winfrey. Jennifer Aniston. Martha Stewart.  Carrie Bradshaw. And my mom – who may even agree with me when I say she often hangs by a thread. Anything I’ve ever done has been because of one of these five women.  And yes, I understand one is fictional. So what? Don’t act like you’ve never quoted The Notebook, or learned a lesson about family values from Full House. We all cried when Jesse’s grandpa died. So yes, I take my cues from mega wealthy superstars who may have a prison record, and may or may not be real. It seems to be working so far.

So obviously, when Oprah tells me to read – I run to Barnes and Nobel to pick up her latest book club selection, browse the aisles for hours, get distracted and end up walking out the door with something that would make Leo Tolstoy and William Faulkner roll over in their graves. Enter – Bringing Home the Birkin, by Michael Tonello. Like Bringing home the bacon, get it? Anyways.

The Hermes Birkin is arguably the world’s most sought after handbag. Available in a variety of sizes, and often made of such reptile skins as crocodile and lizard, the bag also carries a pricetag of upwards of $30,000 and a wait list of two years. An iconic brand, I remember my first Hermes experience like my grandpa can tell you where he was when man landed on the moon. I doubt my mom even remembers. If she did, she probably would have been more prepared to raise a daughter who can name the different patterns of Louis Vuitton like others can identify different country’s flags. Or maybe she does remember, and knowing this, conversely blocked it from her memory. Either way, I was very young. Playing dress up and riffling through my mom’s clothes, I discovered a souvenir from one of my grandparent’s European vacations – a simple cloth Hermes bag, perfectly suited to transport a silk scarf - that I would die over - overseas to it’s eager new owner, my momma. While the scarf was not present, had it been, it would have been tied around my neck in an instant, and would probably be tied to the strap of my purse at this very moment. True. Love. To quote the author, “to those who understand, no explanation is necessary. To those who don’t, none is possible.” So maybe I can blame all of my obsessions on my mom? Or better yet, my grandma who would surely indulge my vices.

So with a polka dotted towel in tow, I headed to the pool with my oversized sunnies and one of Tim Gunn’s favorites – Bringing Home the Birkin. “A beautiful twenty-something, lounging by the pool, smoking a cigarette, impatiently waiting until noon for her first martini.” No, that’s not me. I don’t smoke cigarettes. And when lounging by the pool, I’d much rather sip something tropical. That was the incredibly sarcastic Michael Tonello, envisioning one of his customers. Let me explain. Michael Tonello traveled the world as a makeup artist, building himself quite an impressive portfolio. Tired of living out of a suitcase, he relocated permanently to Barcelona where he accidentally fell in love, found happiness, and became an extremely successful online Hermes reseller.  Beating the system to bypass the two year waitlist, the hilarious novel chronicles Michael’s many ups and downs, both personally and professionally, on his quest for the most coveted bag.

Unable to put it down, and not wearing the best bikini as far as tan lines are concerned, I read this book at the pool in a matter of days. Now, with an unfortunate triangle top tan line, I’ve been inspired to expand my library and continue with a summer book list. If you’d like to join me, here are my other summer book club selections, as well as a bandeau top bikini in an effort to eliminate said terrible tan lines.

1.     Bringing Home the Birkin, for obvious reasons.

2.     The Help, in preparation of the movie.

3.     Water for Elephants, because I missed the movie.

4.     How to Be a Hepburn in a Hilton World, for educational purposes.

5.     Secret Life of Bees, so I can stop lying about actually reading it.

This has easily been the most enjoyable book report I have ever written. And maybe the only one I’ve ever completed without the use of Cliff Notes. 

Baby, you're a firework.

Oh hi. I’ve missed you. And I don’t mean I’ve missed you in the awkward way you say it to people you actually don’t miss at all, but feel obligated to say it to out of courtesy because maybe they’ve missed you. I don’t even mean it in the sarcastic way you say it to people you haven’t actually been apart from long enough to miss. Because, well, we’ve been apart for quite some time now, and I think you know me well enough to know I don’t say things out of courtesy to others. Seriously, I mean it. I’ve missed you. And I hope you’ve missed me. Or that you’d at least say you did out of courtesy.

How was your Fourth of July? Hopefully filled with ice chests of cheap beer, hotdogs, friends and fireworks – as any good, old fashioned, aaahmuuurican celebration should be.  The Fourth has always been really fun – slash – super embarrassing for me.

By now, what I am about to disclose should come as no surprise to you.  For the longest time, Fourth of July for me was synonymous with parade. Heading to either Cobb Mountain or Lake Tahoe with family and friends to don face paint and cardboard cutouts, I looked forward to it every year. Dressing up in swimsuits and sarongs toting giant postcards reading Greetings from Cobb-o or walking down the parade route shhhhh –ing patrons on sidewalks wearing cardboard trees with cutouts for our faces representing Whispering Pines, we were always a hit. As time passed, we opted out of the parades, giving other people a chance to shine, and I had no idea a person could have so much fun without a costume.  In high school, it was all about the third of July. If you are from Napa, you will understand completely. On the third, Silverado Country Club hosts an annual fireworks show on the golf course, which might as well double as a high school reunion. Or elementary school reunion. Or any type of reunion for that matter. Because, well, what else are you going to do in Napa on the July third? And who doesn’t love fireworks? Exactly. So if I may, allow me to embarrass myself and my family a little.

Dressed as sunflowers - I know, we go all out - obviously we were Too Bloomin' Cute, hence the sign. That's me on the far end. And standing in the forefront is the darling Becca Cadloni, who will probably murder me if she she's this. 

Naturally, my sister was too cool to join us in the flower bed, opting for a tinfoil sprinkler head, 

soaking the parade route with her water gun

Taking it even further back, you'll see me on the left, and Genelle Cadloni to my right. Probably selecting our own theme, I'm guessing we dubbed ourselves as Fourth of July Princesses, or something like that, that would obviously require us to sport paper crowns, swimsuits and kick ass jelly sandals. 

Now that I’ve moved out of Napa, I’ve found alternate ways to celebrate – not involving parades or country club parties on the golf course. But I guess beachside barbeques and rooftop dance parties with my closest friends isn’t such a terrible way to ring in our independence. Heading to Seal Beach, where my friends’ family throws an annual bash, I did just that. And luckily enough for us, the fourth was on a Monday this year.  Which meant three day weekend. With most people expected in the office on Tuesday, we celebrated a day early, drinking burglars – tequila, tonic and a splash of OJ, and playing jailbreak – a take on beach volleyball, allowing ourselves a day of rest on Monday. So obviously, I headed to Hermosa Beach for round two on the fourth, but not before a few games of beer pong with the stragglers and an impromptu bbq with all of the leftovers.

Heading to Hermosa Beach, we arrived just in time for fireworks. And honestly, I don’t know which were better, the planned show set off in the harbor, or the illegal explosions going off right next to me on the beach. The show is always too short, and the finale is always disappointing. But the illegal show going off at a bonfire were, well, illegal, and I caught myself ducking for cover on more than one occasion. So let’s say it was a toss up? Satisfied with the colorful display in the sky, I was content heading out. Until, that is, we found ourselves in the front row of the Fourth Annual Michael Jackson Musical Review. Yes, you read that correctly. Every year, for the past four years, a house on the strand in Hermosa performs a musical review, set to MJ on their balcony following the fireworks show. And let me tell you, it was unreal. Employing toddlers to imitate little Michael in the Jackson 5 years, duplicating the red Thriller jacket, donning the silver socks for Billie Jean and even dangling a plastic baby Blanket over the edge, the show was a success. Add to that, a Janet Jackson Rhythm Nation dance sequence, a Lady Gaga montage and ending with Katy Perry’s Firework, I was cheering as if it were Michael’s actual This Is It tour – rest in peace. And luckily enough, my friend Alex captured footage on video so I can relive the fourth any day of the week.
I wonder how much trouble I’ll be able to drum up next year when the holiday falls on a Wednesday.