Archive for the ‘Culture Junkie’ Category

My, my, have I set the bar high for myself: Not only am I up at the crack of dawn blogging away, coffee at hand, but – so as to not taint or influence myself in any way – I categorically refuse to read any other DA recaps before I write my own. (Please wait until I wrap it all up before bursting into applause.)

I promised a brief synopsis of Season 1 before diving into Season 2, and here goes:

There is an impossibly well-mannered English clan, the Crawleys-slash-Granthams (the name thing is a tad confusing, just run with it as I bounce back and forth between Crawley and Grantham), living in a house in the Brit equivalent of the sticks. Flawlessly manicured, but the sticks nonetheless. This house, Downton Abbey, is roughly the size of Texas.

The spectacular estate has been in the husband’s family for generations. But as Lord Grantham is house-rich and cash-poor, he and the three Crawley daughters have been utterly reliant on the wealthy American mama’s inheritance to stay afloat. And since there are no lads in the familial lineup, something called an “entail” is now being invoked against the property. In short, it means that either one of the three girls (Lady Mary, Horrible Lady Edith or Lady Sybil) must marry someone rich enough to handle the expenses of Downton Abbey, or the house is duly handed over to Distant Cousin Matthew, The One With The Piercing Blue Eyes.

It’s beyond-important to me that I refer to him, at least on first reference, as Distant Cousin Matthew. Why? Because the Crawleys are determined to marry Lady Mary off to him. And here in the States, cousin-marrying is very much frowned upon. But now that I’ve gotten that out of the way, I will say this: Matthew is lovely, and Mary should have said yes to his proposal. But she didn’t. And that refusal, plus a few other tidbits I’ll weave in as I go along, is by far the most important plot point of Season 1. Selfish but glamorous Mary has put the family’s entire future in jeopardy. This is not good.

Damn you, Mary.

Season 2, Episode 1

Two years have elapsed since we last set eyes on the Crawleys, and England is embroiled in World War 1. Matthew has been pressed into service, at a very high rank, which means he is pretty much bossing all the soldiers around. But he can’t escape doing time in the trenches, and it’s safe to say that the whole thing completely flips him out.

And why wouldn’t it? He’s an attorney by trade, and is about to inherit a drop-dead gorgeous estate that is, as I’ve already noted, rawther large.

It seems Matthew has not spent much time lamenting the fact that Mary wouldn’t marry him. Instead, he has gotten himself engaged to a pretty little thing named Lavinia. She seems pleasant enough, and the fact that she is so smitten with Matthew bodes well. Someone needs to be smitten with Matthew; he’s very smite-worthy. Still, Lavinia has a sinister backstory, which was hinted at via a tense encounter with a new dude Mary has set her sights on.

The new dude, Sir Richard, owns a bunch of tacky tabloid rags that the Crawleys would never deign to read. But he has money. And for that reason alone, Mary’s aunt – the very one who convinced her not to marry Matthew – is pushing hard for a Mary-Sir Richard alliance.

I haven’t yet formed an opinion about Sir Richard. On the one hand, he’s a little handsome. And I like how straightforward he is about why he wants to get hitched to Mary. Together, he says, they would be a power couple the likes of which Britain has never known. Tempting, n’est ce pas?

But on the other hand, there was that tense encounter with Lavinia. I suspect we’ll soon learn that Sir Richard is a colossal creep. Plus, I don’t know how much I’m digging his matchy-matchy suits.

Although Mary confides in Anna (poor Anna! more on her in a moment) that she will indeed accept Sir Richard’s power-proposal, she is awash in mixed feelings. Lo and behold, fickle Mary has decided she made a massive mistake in refusing Matthew, and spends the entire two-hour episode screwing up the courage to tell him she loves him.

But she never quite ekes it out, and off he goes, returning to his bombed-out bunker with some stupid “good luck” stuffed animal she manages to slip him. WTH, exactly, was that? A rat? A rabbit? All I know is, it’s no substitute for telling him she made the biggest mistake of her life in not becoming Mrs. Distant Cousin Matthew. Grrr….

I will conclude this initial recap with what is, to me, the most compelling sub-story of this series: The ill-fated love affair between two servants – Anna and Bates. She is young and beautiful, he chubby and, I think it’s fair to say, un-beautiful. (Ratcheting up the sympathy factor: He limps.) But Bates is the very definition of a stand-up guy, and he has spent decades trying to shed an albatross of a positively gruesome wife.

(Btw, do any of you fellow TV junkies recognize Bates’s evil broad from The Tudors? She was one of Henry VIII’s many starter wives, until he tossed her aside for that hottie Anne Boleyn.)

In Season 1 we learned Bates went to prison for this bitch. And now in Season 2, upon learning Bates has come into a small inheritance because his mom kicked the bucket, the gruesome wife has come back to claim him. She blackmails him into leaving Downton Abbey by saying that if he doesn’t, she will reveal a whopper of a secret about Lady Mary. It’s a doozy, and one that will effectively bring great shame upon the Crawleys-slash-Granthams if the cat slips out of the proverbial bag.

I’ll tell you about the shameful secret in the next recap.

But for now, please join me in saying: Damn you, Mary.

An admitted pop culture fanatic, my tastes swing wildly between high (all things PBS; many things HBO, Showtime and AMC) and low (Jersey Shore).

Hubby, who is my partner in a lot of TV-watching crime – our latest on-demand fave is the heart-thumping Homeland, with Claire Danes and the crazy-good Damian Lewis – would prefer to stay in the upper stratosphere. At least that’s what he says; on many occasions I’ve busted him watching RHOBH over my shoulder.

I guess Beverly Hills is kinda-sorta okay by his lights, because those broads are genuinely cashed-up. It’s the fake cashed-up gals, like the Teresa Giudice-types, that he truly can’t stomach.

Still, for some reason I’ve yet to fathom, I can’t really get my betrothed super-psyched for the costume dramas I so adore. Like Downton Abbey, which I’ve loved from the get-go, and is returning to my telly tomorrow night.

I’m just gonna go out on a limb here and posit that the reason Hubby doesn’t particularly dig a Downton Abbey-esque show is the same reason he never reads the works of my favorite author, Edith Wharton. (I’m sorry, but in my humble opinion, House of Mirth is the best book of all time): On the surface, not much happens of a dynamic nature. A good chunk of the time, it’s just a bunch of old bitties sitting around fancy drawing rooms gossiping and ringing the bell occasionally for the butler to bring in a spot of tea.

But that’s precisely what I love – that endless chatter, that talking-things-to-death business. Oh, and the frocks. The frocks are so key.

To me, it’s fascinating to peek into an era, or eras, in which women had to conduct themselves in an utterly different manner just to survive. And by “survive,” I mean to marry well. Marrying well was everything in those days.

If you didn’t catch Season One of Downton Abbey, which is also very much centered around the marrying-well theme, don’t despair. There were only four episodes. And because I’ve decided to get into the recapping game here on Momover.net, I’ll give you a synopsis of everything that down when I recap Episode One of Season Two.

You can also read tons about it here.

I hope you’ll join me in my telly obsession du jour. Let the costumed drama begin.

I watch oodles of television.

I also read tons of books, and towering stacks of magazines and newspapers. And I see heaps of movies – at the multiplex, with popcorn. I don’t go to the theater nearly as much as I should. (I don’t know why, exactly, that’s a should. But when you live in proximity to Broadway, it definitely feels like a should.) I belong to the Met, which is – without question – my very, very, very favorite place in New York City. And I still buy CDs, because I’m a Luddite, and spend an inordinate amount of time on YouTube hunting down videos of Luna, Tindersticks and Bryan Ferry. (I totally love you, Person Who Invented YouTube.)

My point is that, given all my other pop-culture and artsy interests, it’s a little amazing that I manage to see quite as much telly as I do.

But there’s just soooooo much good stuff on these days. So many great shows. And according to a story in today’s Wall Street Journal, many mamas feel exactly the same way. It claims we’re basically up all night glued to our tellies, and cites research compiled by a scary-sounding entity called The Mom Complex that claims the top four shows among mothers from 18 to 49 are: 2 Broke Girls, The Voice, Dancing With the Stars and New Girl.

Oops, I’m two for four – barely. I think 2 Broke Girls is very cute, and New Girl is adorable. But they aren’t “appointment television” for me. Though in fairness, the only show I can say is unequivocally appointment is Mad Men. Oh my. That Don Draper. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore.

I have to go fetch the Wee Lass at hip hop class, so I won’t make this blog post too War & Peace-y in length. Rather, I will get right to my new – and oldish – faves of a television nature:

1. Suburgatory: Who knew Jeremy Sisto could do cuddly? Not me – or anyone else unfortunate enough to remember that icky incest story arc on Six Feet Under lo so many years ago. But let’s move on, shall we? Mr. Sisto certainly has, now playing the hunky single dad in a ‘hood full of ravenous housewives. Cheryl Hines is fab. And the girl who plays Tessa? Luminous.

2. Revenge: Set in the Hamptons (or a left coast facsimile thereof), this one is stylish and twisty. Maybe a little too twisty; every week, at least one pivotal person “gets dead,” as the Wee Lass puts it. At the rate they’re going, the entire cast will be pushing up daisies within a month. But until then, I’ll be tuning in to watch those cute other-side-of-the-tracks bartenders never get the girls.

3. Luther: Full disclosure: I would watch Idris Elba recite the telephone book. But happily, this BBC America import – about a London-based cop who is a lot smart and a little nuts – is way more compelling. I’m new to this series, and may have to track the first season down on DVD. But the few episodes I’ve watched are among the scariest, most disturbing slices of TV I’ve ever seen. A keeper.

4. Boardwalk Empire: I was a baseball widow until quite recently (Hubby is from St. Louis and is a massive Cardinals fan), so my betrothed and I are now overdosing on the entire second season of this fantastic show. Everyone is so good, your head kind of explodes. Love Michael Pitt. Huge props to Steve Buscemi. The women are terrific too, particularly Gretchen Mol and kooky krazy Paz de la Huerta. Until Mad Men – and the impossibly swoony Downton Abbey – resurface in 2012, Boardwalk is my tippity top pick from the bygone-era pile.

Ooooh, so happy the ladies are back. After New York (painful) and Jersey (why, why do I still watch?), the RH of Beverly Hills are like a breath of carcinogen-filled LA air.

Who knew Camille could be so lovable? Not me. I’m actually feeling for her for losing some of her amazing pads. Her home in Beaver Creek is stunning. That stonework is straight outta Arch Digest, and I could so picture her and her troops celebrating Turkey Day there. Grrr times a million trillion.

Oh, and speaking of Beaver Creek, I 1000 percent loved what Kyle was saying to Taylor in the hot tub. Who hasn’t tried to get a gal pal to read the boy-writing on the wall, to see her own value, to not fear the future, and to get the hell out while the getting’s good? That was genuinely good advice. It felt real.

Here’s what else is real this season: RHOBH eyebrows.

A bushier, Shields-ian brow is one of the biggest beauty trends for fall, a fact I’m sure these hyper-groomed creatures are well aware of. Still, though, I kinda feel they march to their own tricked-out drum, and aren’t exactly memorizing The Row f/w 2011 catwalk look-for-look. (A primo example of the season’s power brow.)

But what if, for various reasons, your own brows are less than lush? Because of hypothyroidism, and waaaay too much professional plucking, I’ve had these weird “skips” (aka bald patches) in my own brow.

For a temporary fix, I swear by my Tarte Brow Mousse, which is still exclusive to QVC. It lets you fill in the gaps, and really stays put.

For a longer-term solution, my beauty junkie pal Nancy has been pestering me to try neuveauBrow. She even gave me one to try, but it’s buried in the cavernous recesses of my Beauty Armoire.

I’m on deadline now, so I can’t take the time to sift through all my little bins and baskets and unearth it. But I will later today. And in a few weeks (months?), I’ll report back.

Actually, it’s supposed to work in 30 days. So let’s chat about it in a month. In the meantime, vive les Beverly Hills!

Damn it. I have things to do. Chores to knock out, recipes to track down (I want to make salmon for the Wee Lass’s dinner, with a yummy mustard sauce, and I’ve misplaced my dog-eared, 10 year-old copy of Martha Stewart Everyday Food), and a bit of “hoovering” to do, as the Brits say.

How cute is that expression? Hoovering. Although it also reminds me of cocaine, which is not cute in the slightest…

But perhaps drugs are the perfect segueway to today’s blog post: A loving look at the extremely troubled O’Neal père et fille.

I just got completely sucked into the vortex of the last few episodes of their show on OWN, which I watched on demand. (I’m beginning to think this 24/7 access isn’t good for Momover Lady, who is obsessed with pop culture and really needs to be sleuthing out salmon recipes rather than keeping up to speed on reality telly.)

You never know when the lives of perfect strangers are going to get under your skin. But, without question, Ryan and Tatum are under mine right now. I genuinely feel for these two – both of them, but never at the same time – and for what it’s worth, I’m trying to beam crunchy unicorn and rainbows positive energy to them out in L.A. Lord knows they could use it.

I made poor Hubby sit through a few early episodes, and his stance was unequivocal: Ryan is the bad guy. Why else would his kids be so heroin-y, and jail-y and car crash-y? You don’t get that way without the help of a really shitty, narcissistic, Hollywood heartthrob father, right?

I can see Hubby’s point. Especially if Mr. Love Story was quick with his fists, an allegation Ryan (mostly?) denies.

This isn’t TMZ, so I won’t get into specifics here, but I have to say my heart broke a little when I heard about Redmond’s latest woe. He’s only in this show a teensy bit, but I just feel crazy, crazy bad for him. Please, did you see him a few years ago at Farrah’s deathbed clad in his prison uniform? OMG times a million.

But still, even though I mostly sided with Tatum throughout the series, there were times when I wanted to reach through the screen, shake her and say, “Can’t you see how hard Pops is trying? How can anyone who can be so devoted to a rescue mutt who pees on expensive carpets be that bad? He has leukemia! Remember the leukemia???”

I think she heard me. And if she didn’t, I’ll fire off a heartfelt email. Just as soon as I make the salmon and do the Hoovering.

If I’ve ever doubted my husband’s intelligence (and Hubby, if you’re reading this, I never ever have), the fact that he CAN. NOT. STAND. to go to Target with me and the Wee Lass should be ample proof that he’s one of the smartest dudes around. Because while he just wants to dash in, grab the 12-pack of Bounty and the 20-pound bag of Iam’s Hairball Control kitty food and get on with his life, she and I could happily spend hours there.

And one day earlier this week, we did precisely that. I didn’t clock it or anything, but trust me, we were there a verrry long time.

Ostensibly, the purpose of the trek was to get the tot-lette a “get well” present, because I’d kept her out of camp for the day due to a slight fever she’d had the night before. But very quickly, I got side-tracked by the ever-growing $1 department and these cute little plastic totes I couldn’t resist. “I need one for my knitting,” I said, tossing a gray one in the cart. “And these hot pink and teal numbers for your room and playspace.”

Next it was off to women’s clothing (a navy Mossimo Boyfriend Pocket Tee had my name written all over it, especially for a miniscule 5 smackers), then lingerie, where I scored several of my new favorite bras (the super-comfy Warner’s Simply Perfect and stretchy Hanes for working out).

Then I had a mini panic attack when I saw approximately 8 million really great-looking pleather bags in the accessories department. Since I avoid leather, I’m always on the hunt for purses crafted from nylon and other synthetic materials. And for fall, Target has a truly kick-ass collection.

Especially impressive: the new Linea Pelle styles in pebbled pleather that are genuinely chic and rich-looking. I had such a hard time picking just one (and I’m sure I’ll be sneaking back for more), but finally settled on this roomy tote with nailhead trim. Love me some nailhead trim. In fact, our living room furniture is plush burgundy velvet with nailhead trim. Okay, getting off-topic now…

At this point, the Wee Lass was getting her tiny knickers in a twist. “I thought this trip was for me,” she said. “But it seems like it’s all about you.”

So off we went to the toys, where she procured yet another Barbie to add to her massive collection. This one is like Animal Rescuer Barbie, so given how much time I’d just lavished on the cruelty-free handbags, there was a certain lovely symmetry to her choice.

Along with several other utilitarian items I won’t tax your weary mama-brain with (new lunch box, thermos, etc.), I was drawn like a moth to a flame to the SATC boxed set in the DVD section. “Momover Lady,” it cooed from the shelf, where it was encased in scary wire because it’s a bit on the pricey side. “You know you want me.”

After working my way through a short internal debate (“It’s a lot o’ dough. I can watch most of the episodes for free on HBO Go. I’m not even working right now.”), I remembered the 48-hour rule. You know – that old saw about giving yourself two full days to really consider a purchase before diving in and cracking open the ol’ wallet.

Well, I’d been wanting that collection for years. 48 hours times a million.

So into the cart it went. “Wee Lass,” I said. “Dad’s gonna kill me.”

About six weeks ago, while I was furiously packing for Road Trip 2011 and had the entire contents of my walk-in closet strewn all over my adjacent home office, the Wee Lass wandered in to “help” me.

And of course immediately, that “help” morphed into her putting her grubby little mitts all over everything I was trying to jam into my matchy-matchy set of Sonia Kashuk lightweight luggage. (Which performed fabulously, btw…)

“What’s this?” she asked, holding up a wrapped tampon and eyeballing it. “A finger trap?”

“It’s a long story,” I replied, politely prying it from her five-year-old fingers. “Literally. It’s like never-ending.”

But of course we all know that the Tale of the Tampon is, in fact, not never-ending. It ends alright, taking a massive chunk of our sanity, our sense of well-being – and according to one bubble-headed Real Housewife - our beauty right along with it.

Okay mamas: Raise your manicured paw if you watched in horror, as I did, while Ramona Singer told the entire freaking universe that she was having her period on the RHONY reunion show last week.

For those of you who have better things to do with your time than watch RHONY (and I’m not one of you, because even though Beverly Hills pretty much ruined me for all the other franchises, I’ve still seen this entire season), allow me to catch you up:

1. Ramona is 54.

2. Ramona thinks the secret to her surprisingly youthful 54-year-old skin is the fact that she still gets her period.

3. Ramona’s lovely 16-year-old daughter Avery also thinks that the secret to Ramona’s surprisingly youthful 54-year-old skin is the fact that Mommy still gets her period.

4. Ramona, who is 54, recently thought she was preggers because the aforementioned period, which she gets “like clockwork,” was late.

5. Ramona is 54. I already said that? My bad. Just wanted to be clear on that fact.

The whole thing was so, so, sooooooooo sad. Why? Because shortly, like tomorrow, Ramona’s alleged fountain of youth – the so-called secret to her defiantly wrinkle-free skin – is gonna shuffle off to Buffalo. And then what? She instantly turns into a wizened old hag? Talk about setting yourself up.

If this is the latest weapon in the “I’m prettier than you are” wars, count me out. Well maybe not just yet. After all, I’m 48 and I still get my period. Nyah nyah!

Semi-leisurely Sunday morning. Ran. Took the Wee Lass to the park. (She’s obsessed with swinging.) And now I’m trying to squeeze in a little knitting, blogging and Vogue-ing before we head to the town pool for the afternoon.

On the knitting front, permit me to brag for a moment: Last night, while I was catching up on the season premiere of Curb Your Enthusiasm via the (impossibly awesome) HBO On Demand, I finished that Texas-sized purple scarf I started on Road Trip 2011. So I’m embarking on a mini version for a certain small blue-eyed blonde in my life.

I know, I know; I’m a genius. Please hold your applause until the end of this post.

And while I’m generally opposed to multi-tasking, I also took five minutes to flip through the new issue of Vogue. You know, the one that’s themed around age. My entire mental landscape is themed around age at the moment, so I might as well read big, important fashion mags devoted to the topic, right?

Anyway, there are definitely a few pieces I want to read in the issue, so I’m bringing it with me to pool. One of which is the cover story on Sarah Jessica Parker, and how she somehow manages to be an icon of utter lifestyle perfection.

(I’m not mocking; I love her. In fact, if Hubby doesn’t get me that super-expensive boxed set of Sex And The City for Xmas this year, I may never speak to him again. I’ve only been coveting it for, um, five years…)

I was particularly struck by the multiple images of her jaw-dropping pad positively strewn with kid-crapola. She’s got twin girls and a boy now, and all the god-forsaken gear that goes with it. I recognized a lot of the girly stuff in the pics, of course, and it completely shored up my resolve to get the Wee Lass to toss a lot of the stuff she’s outgrown.

If you’ve read the new Mama Guru already, you’ll know that my lovely expert – pro organizer Barbara Reich – strongly urges us to involve our tots in the toy-purging process, and not just pull a sneak attack, Hefty bag in hand.

Guess what? I struck gold, and got the Wee Lass to bid adieu to several big items, including one of those adorable Rody hoppy-things. Since the nanny procured that for her, I never really knew what it was – a dinosaur? a seal with ears? – but now, creating this link, I see it was a horse.

Hmm….I’m from Oklahoma, and it doesn’t look like any horse I’ve ever laid eyes on.

But it’s all good. A little knitting, purging and pooling. And we’re off.

So in case you missed it, there was a rawther scandalous piece in yesterday’s New York Post about the latest trend: preggos who are so concerned about their weight that they’re exercising hard all throughout their pregnancy, and working their asses (and everything else) off as soon as they deliver.

There was even an anecdote about some (alleged) wack job who wanted to have a C-section at 8 months just so she wouldn’t have to go through those hellish last few weeks of pregnancy, during which you blow up like a Goodyear blimp and are forced to wear the same elastic-waist farmer jeans every day. (Oooops, how did we start talking about me all of sudden? Grrr…)

Here’s my beef with this story: While I think it’s crazy-horrible that some of these – again, alleged – women are so fearful of losing their hubbies along with their figures that they forgo breastfeeding so they can make it to their daily SoulCycle class, I take issue with the assumptions about the celebrities.

Victoria Beckham, for instance. This piece posits that just because she’s due in July, and hasn’t ballooned to epic proportions, she simply must be starving herself, right? Wrong. We have no idea what’s going on with her. Maybe she’s perfectly healthy and over the moon about this upcoming tot-let, her fourth with her dashing David.

(Personally, I have my fingers crossed for a girl. She deserves to partake in the deliciousness and pure fairy-dust sprinkled magic of a female offspring. Not that I’m biased or anything…)

So here’s my official stance on mommyrexia before I march off in a huff to watch a DVRd episode of Game of Thrones with Hubby (lordy, I love the bloody gory insanity of that show, and even geekily ordered the boxed set of books they’re based on from Amazon this morning): No woman should starve herself before, during or after a pregnancy – especially if she’s neglecting her newborn just to scamper onto an Elliptical at her local Equinox.

But no writer should play a guessing game about another woman’s pregnancy, be it Victoria Beckham, my beloved Rachy Rach, Nicole Richie or any other Hollywood hottie they think hasn’t packed on enough pounds.

Butt out, please, and mind your own damn beeswax.

We’ve reached that time of year when I start acting like a multi-gazillion dollar body-parts model.

Seriously.

Instead of going about my business in my typical manner – careening here and there with nary a care about whether I smack into the pointy edge of the coffee table – I mince around very, very preciously.

And super s-l-o-w-l-y, as if I’d just swallowed a handful of ‘ludes. (Oooh – fun Eighties reference!)

Why do I behave in this bizarre fashion? Because my fair, mostly-Celtic (with a dash of Native American + German) skin bruises like nobody’s business. Really. Just look at me funny and I turn blue.

Right now, however, I’d like to discuss all the other people in my life who share this same painful problem. Well, “in my life” is a bit of a stretch. I’ve never actually met any of them. But I have encountered them. And for me, that’s enough to weigh-in on their beauty woes as if they were my very best gal pals.

First up: Sonja Morgan. Oh. Em. Gee. Trainwreck. Though I watched the episode of RHONY in which she conveniently “forgot” the bottom half of her Marie Antoinette costume, it wasn’t until I read the New York mag recap (and flicked my fingers on my iPad so I could blow-up the chunk of tush in question) that I saw that black and blue whopper on her ass.

My, my, my. That was not pretty. It’s bad enough girlfriend was baring her 40-something behind on national telly; at least make sure there isn’t a bruise the size of Oahu residing there.

Next, we move on to a random stranger I saw in Chelsea on the way to my appointment with Anthony Gianzero, my so-cute-you-could-just-squish-him colorist. Cute girl, I’m guessing in her 20s, coming at me on the street wearing microscopic hot pants. That’s cool; figure-wise and age-wise, she could definitely pull them off.

But then she stops at her apartment building and starts jamming her keys in the lock. It was then that I saw a gigantic bruise on her leg, south of the hemline of those short-shorts. Such a head-scratcher for me. If you know you have this unsightly sitch going on, why put it on display?

Finally, we move on to the hostess at the restaurant Hubby and I dined at last night. Another pretty 20-something. Tall, thin as a matchstick, sporting an Ace-bandage-tight mini dress with nude stockings. Yes, you read that right: nude stockings. Perhaps it’s a dress-code thing? (But come to think of it, there was a co-hostess with tawny JLo-legs who wasn’t wearing them. Whatevs. I digress.)

Anyway, I’m sure you know where I’m going with this: When the teensy-weensy hostess stalked across the room to seat other diners, I spotted it – a ginormous bruise on her left thigh, again on full view for the whole wide world.

My conclusion: Maybe it’s time for me to pack away my Extreme Bruise Paranoia for Summer 2011. If all these other ladies are just fine with having everyone see their black and blues, perhaps I should be too. At least I could do away with the mincing around like a body-parts model bit. That isn’t easy, you know.

But you also gotta admit there’s something really nice about a bruise-free bod.