I Can’t, Vol. 27

I can’t…

sit at my desk like a damn robot and not make ANY facial expressions when I listen to music. People who can scare me. Sometimes, when I’m sure no one is looking, I’ll even do tiny dance moves that make me look like a T-Rex because it draws the least attention. The worst, though, is when you’re super pumped up over a song, and all you wanna do is get up and blast it while running around the office… but you can’t. Or can you?

I can’t…

with this fashion blogger’s husband. He’s not a man. He’s a robot wearing a mask… or someone mid-Ken Doll transformation surgery.

When I was shown his face for the first time last night, I was screaming so loud and trying to text so fast, I wasn’t making any sense.


I can’t…

hit any of Jessie Ware’s high notes, but God and my Kia know I try.

I can’t…

with cars in traffic that have tons of grandstanding bumper stickers all over their car (ex: “Abortion is NOT healthcare,” plugs for local Christian talk radio stations, etc.) but DRIVE LIKE ASS. IF YOU’RE GONNA BE A LOUD MOUTH WHO INSISTS ON LABELING YOURSELF AND PREACHING TO ME VIA YOUR CAR, YOU BETTER PICK UP THE PACE AND GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY.

I can’t…

that so many girls (women? No. Girls. Because they’re babies) live their lives so systematically. I’m sorry, but it truly upsets me to my core. Everyone’s entitled to play out their life how them deem most ideal, of course, but WHY does getting engaged, getting married, and having a baby exactly a year or so after marriage constitute the ideal? Do you guys really have nothing better to do as a couple? Are you already that bored and that ready to put tiny, weird humans in between the two of you? What about just enjoying being life partners for a little while, exploring and soaking in every childless minute? I don’t even know why I bother publicly writing about this topic, since it’s based solely on subjective opinion, but I can’t help but bitch sometimes. I CAN’T.

I can’t…

with GIRLS this season. It’s so good, and if you gave up on it last year, that’s okay. A lot of people did. But I am telling you, as a self-proclaimed Dunham critic, this season is heads above the rest. Breakups have happened, so many new characters have been introduced, Jessa is actually a terrible human being, and the other girls are, dare I say, maturing? Also, this line from Hannah paints a crystal clear picture of what goes on in my mind always (note: she has just been asked on a date by this Fran guy. Hadn’t even gone out with him yet):

“I just think maybe this is the reason Adam and I broke up in the first place — so that Fran and I could get married.”


I can’t…

press hard enough on you all to try this incredibly simple, but incredibly delicious side salad recipe with your next meal. Here’s what you do: take some arugula, chop it up or at least kitchen-scissor it to get more flavor out of it, mix together a little salt, a little pepper, a little crushed red pepper, and about a tablespoon of Pecorino Romano (it’s a special Italian cheese, duh). Sprinkle that mixture all over the arugula, then cut a lemon and squeeze as much juice as you deem fit. Finally, mix that shit up with tongs or two spoons or whatever makeshift mixers you can come up with. It’s DUH-LISH-US. If you’re Type A and can’t follow my lax instructions, here.

I can’t…

with Jenny Slate. I just love her. If you have yet to see Obvious Child,” that’s something you should probably figure out how to rent this weekend and watch a few times. And, if you don’t like it, DON’T EVER COME BACK TO MY BLOG. EVER.

I can’t…

partake in crawfish boils. I hate them. It’s gross. Yeah, I get that maybe it’s more so about the social aspect of gathering together to pretend to enjoy cracking open “mud bugs,” but even I can’t fake the joy in that. I’ll just be here, at home. Call me when y’all are done.

I can’t…

with the fashion bloggers who literally have zero discretion when it comes to paring down their photo selections for a new post. Ladies, please take your time reviewing your photographs and give us, like, 5. Maybe 6 if you just have to include that second close-up. But, for the most part, we get it. After a full body shot, one close-up, and maybe a cute action shot, we’re sold. Why you feel the need to include pretty much every single picture taken during the shoot is not only annoying, but confusing. Do you not trust our imaginations to know how this outfit will look for over there, and over here, and back over there, and while sitting, and while standing, and while putting one hand in your pocket? COME ON. The ugly truth is, the longer you make me scroll down to where I can actually BUY this shit, the less likely I am to do so. And, on that note, I will leave you with an example of all the above via my very own impromptu fashion blogger shoot from inside my cubicle space.


today's look!

Another angle of TODAY’S LOOK!

Another angle of today's look!

My earrings!

My earrings!

Another shot of my earrings, in case you just missed them.

My earrings, again. In case you couldn't see them.



Can’t go anywhere without LEOPARD! Here are my booties, posed three ways so you can really envision them at every angle



Being “funny”!


Extreme close-up of my accessories and hair arm!


Same exact picture, just farther away and with a thumbs up to mix it up!




There. See how painful that is? QUIT IT.



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Here Are The Reasons Why I Love Dallas

I didn’t grow up in Dallas. Well, sort of. See if you can follow me here — I did and I didn’t. 

Until the age of 10, I was a Connecticutian. Yes, it’s true. I was thisclose to a “Gilmore girls” type of lifestyle, minus the small, quaint, everyone-loves-everyone type of town and plus the snotty, unfriendly, and surprisingly melting pot culture (but that may have been the public school scene alone). It wasn’t until I had chopped all my hair off into a pixie cut in the 4th grade and was on the edge of a full mental breakdown from the incessant bullying that my family learned we were making the move to Dallas, Texas. It was the most out-of-the-box, foreign relocation I had ever heard of, but I was more than ready to pack my things (see: pogs, face glitter, and Limited Too outfits) and GTFO out of Stamford forever.

It took me a loooooong time to fall in love with Dallas. Partly because I grew up in the suburbs up north, which are very far removed from Dallas proper and full of money so new, it’s still covered in placenta. But also because something inside of me, call it my “Yankee” roots, just did not want to love it. I didn’t want to be a Texan. It sounded southern and rednecky and just, gross. When I left the south to head up the map to Kansas for college, I felt nothing leaving Texas behind. Of course, most school mates and inquiring strangers alike (i.e. nosey sales associates, family friends) could not figure out why the hell I was going to KU. When the majority of your graduating class remains within Texas or travels a safe distance to school in Oklahoma, taking it a step further to the literal middle of the USA in Lawrence, Kansas confuses the piss out of people. 

And, even when I had graduated college and moved back home, I still didn’t like Dallas or  plan to stay here long. I viewed returning to the town from whence you came to start “real life” was pathetic and a clear sign of failure. I came back to Dallas in August 2009 and have been moving to Chicago/New York/Denver/LA/Seattle ever since. I’m still here, though. Catch my drift?

photo c/o Dallas Wardrobe

photo c/o Dallas Wardrobe

It wasn’t until this past year, after I went through a tumultuous six months of unemployment, applying for jobs in all the aforementioned places and receiving absolutely zero feedback or bites that finally, finally, I woke up and realized “Hey. Being in Dallas isn’t half bad. Maybe I should stop trying so hard to leave it, and just embrace it for once.” And I have.

Dallas is way cooler than outsiders think. It’s like a super small Chicago in that it’s pretty damn clean for being a big city, and it’s easily navigated.

Dallas is also trying really hard to up its outdoorsy game. We may not have something as awesome as Austin’s Greenbelt, but we’re trying to make better on what we do have. It started by building a damn park over a massive highway, and followed that with tearing up one of its most beloved dog parks near White Rock Lake in order to totally revamp it (although, the fact that it won’t be ready until May kills me).

Dallas has a lot of bleach blonde, anorexic, pearl donning, aristocrat snobs populating its more higher-end streets, it’s true. But what makes this city so great is that, for every one of these “typical Dallas” girls you spot, you’re sure to spot a completely tatted up, chain-smoking, hipster right behind her. 

Dallas is an unexpected mashup of Stepford housewives in training and a constantly on-the-rise alternative scene, both within miles of each other. And I love that. 

Dallas’s food scene? I mean, C’MON. Almost weekly, I’m either sending or sent an article about a new restaurant opening near me. Grilled cheese sandwiches, cheap burgers and beer, restaurants decked out to remind you of your school days and give you anxiety with menus designed on scantrons? There is no shortage of creative culinary artists in these here parts, AND I LOVE IT.

Dallas is livable. You can find one-bedroom apartments under $1K that aren’t complete dumps, or you can pay more to live bigger. Sure, it’s still expensive to many peoples’ standards, but looking at the bigger picture wherein you pay the same price to SHARE an apartment with 3-4 other people in California or New York, it’s not so bad. Many living quarters here come equipped with yards, designated parking spots, personal washers and dryers and even pools. Getting all this and still being able to buy Chipotle for dinner at least once a week is what I consider a win.

Dallas loves fashion. We’ve been made fun of for only being able to turn to Neiman Marcus as our highest level of couture, but that’s bull crap. Have you been to Highland Park Village? More than that, the fashion blogger scene here has exploded. Lauren Scruggs (now Mrs. Jason Kennedy), Dallas Wardrobe, Brighton Keller, Fashion Jackson, Lo Murphy, TargetDoesItAgain/Ascot&Hart/JenLovesCove — there are WAY too many to list on here, but you get the picture. These talented women realized it works more favorably to be a bigger fish in a smaller pond. Not to mention the incredible help of Dallas’s own Amber Venz Box of rewardStyle and LIKETOKNOWIT rewarding their efforts monetarily via Instagram every single day. This place is a damn mecca for fashion, and I won’t hear otherwise.

Dallas understands balance. For every overpriced, designer boutique that could make even the most basic Dallas bitch feel like Vivian Ward there’s a totally original, one-off clothing store with reasonable prices and fabulous pieces for the everyday gal. Stores like RiffRaff, Milk&Honey, and The Gypsy Wagon keep the local Dallasite well-dressed and well-fed (you know, since we have that extra cash for Chipotle). And, in that same vein, for every over-priced Starbucks (but that Flat White, tho) , there’s an up and coming, local coffee shop. 

photo c/o You Plus Dallas

photo c/o You Plus Dallas

Dallas is all about music. Although not into the thick of the music scene myself, I’ve seen and heard enough to know Dallas takes its musical talents very seriously. We even have festivals and stuff. The amount of amazing local talent that has sprung up here is impressive. Plus, rarely is Dallas passed over when it comes to big bands or artists touring. 

Dallas keeps it exciting with weather. Yeah, it can be annoying living in such a bi-polar state, but I have to admit, it does keep me on my toes (whether they’re covered with booties one day and sitting on display in sandals the next). Although a winter-lover at heart, I’ve learned to enjoy every day between November-April being a tossup, weather-wise. I can sleep easy at night knowing my heaviest winter coat will get at least 10 good wears, but that I can also possibly get away with going tights-less on a Saturday night in December.  

Dallas does sports. Not that I care (like, at all), but a lot of people do. Our basketball and football teams are no joke, and fans love them more than their own mothers most of the time.

Dallas is easy to travel to and from. It’s like, take your pick of which airport and airline, and I’ll be there relatively quickly with probably zero issues to drop you off or retrieve you. Yes, I will be PICKING YOU UP from the airport. Dallas doesn’t lend itself to “just grabbing a cab into the city.” That’s not necessary here. Not really.

Basically, from food to fashion to entertainment, Dallas has it covered, and I’m relieved for myself that I’ve finally been able to admit that I not only love this city, but I’m proud to be from it. Yeah, the traffic gets worse every year, but I can no longer blame people for wanting to reproduce here and move here. I totally get the appeal. 

Love you, Big D. Mean it.



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A Literary Ride Inside The Mind Of A PMSing Girl

*Originally posted on Elite Daily, but reposted here because it’s my blog page and I’ll post if I want to, post if I want to, post if I want to. You would post too if you wrote this thing, ooohhh*

PMS is a bitch and can turn even the least bitchy girl you know into a bitch. It’s not a cop out, it’s science. I mean, how else do you expect us to feel when we shed blood from our very wombs for a solid week of every month?

Not to mention, having to deal with the rampant roller coaster of emotions we’re put through the week prior to the actual event.

When you break it down, the majority of women have about two really solid weeks a month with minor emotional or physical interruptions. The other two weeks are a crapshoot.

Sucks, right?

Some of the (very few) upsides to our natural, God-given dilemma are as follows: 1) At least we know everything’s, er, working(?), and 2) it’s always a plus when you “sync up” with a close girlfriend and get to bleed at the same time because at least you’re not alone in your misery.

Other than those two things, it’s a tough sell when it comes to highlighting positive elements about a period.

To give fellow PMSing lady friends and victims of those PMSing lady friends something to laugh about, we’ll now take a tour through the mind of a PMSing girl. This is a day-in-the-life situation, if you will.

7:30 am: I do not feel like getting up today. I hate work. I hate driving to work. I hate that I’m literally wasting my best years sitting in one spot, all day long. I hate everything. What’s the point?

7:31 am: OMG… am I depressed? Is this what clinical depression feels like? It does hurt everywhere. My boobs, my back, my – oh wait. PMS.

7:32 am: Thank the lord I have something to blame this near-crippling and completely uncharacteristic anxiety on!

7:45 am: Aw! I love random pimples! Especially in the middle of my forehead, just low enough to be uncoverable by a hat or hair accessory. Now the whole world will know what’s brewin’ neath the surface.

8 am: No amount of makeup could make me not look like a vampire or albino child. I’m not even bleeding yet. How can I possibly bethis washed out? I think I just used 1/4 of my entire blush stick.

8:05 am: Cool, I’m too fat for every piece of clothing I own and want to burn down my entire closet.

8:06 am: Maybe if I just layer my largest dress with my largest sweater…

8:08 am: Perfect. “Pale, homeless, acne-ridden she-man.” Exactly what I was going for.

8:15 am: All I want right now is an Egg McMuffin. Literally, if I don’t get one, I won’t stop thinking about it all day. This is a dilemma. No, I’ve got to stick to oatmeal.

8:20 am: Hi, yeah. One Egg McMuffin, please? And, could you throw some dignity in that bag? Oh, what’s that? You don’t have any because this is a McDonald’s? That’s fine. I can do without.


8:25 am: I hate myself for what just happened.

8:27 am: No, ya know what? I deserved that. I’ll just have a salad for lunch, NBD. Checks and balances, amirite?

8:45 am: Why haven’t I heard from my boyfriend yet this morning? He never texts me “good morning.”  He’s not romantic. He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t even like me. OMG, we’re falling apart. We have to break up before it gets worse. I’ll never find anyone else. How do I start over?

8:48 am: Aw! There he is. OMG, he’s so sweet and caring and thoughtful. I love him.

9:30 am: And, I’m ravenous again. How is this possible?

9:35 am: Sure, I’ll have a donut since you were kind enough to bring them in. Wouldn’t want to be rude.


9:37 am: One more couldn’t hurt, right? Damage is already done! Haha!

9:38 am: Andddddd, once again, I hate myself. Why. WHY do coworkers insist on feeding the PMS beast within?! Shouldn’t they have some sort of awareness of my cycles by now? I’ve been working here long enough.

10:01 am: Honestly, I think I’ve gained 10 pounds since this morning. I’m eating just lettuce with lemon juice for lunch.

10:58 am: I love my dog so much. What am I gonna do when she dies?

11:01 – 11:15am: (In the bathroom, having an uncontrollable, strangely involuntarily crying episode.)

11:20 am: LOLOLOL @ my best friends on Gchat. I can’t believe I was just heavily sobbing mere minutes ago! There’s nothing to be upset about. I’m insane.

11:32 am: Sometimes it just feels like everyone on Instagram hates me.

11:35 am: But whatever! I post what I want and if you don’t like it, then unfollow me!

11:36 am: JK, please don’t unfollow me. I need you to like this ultra-filtered selfie I just took of my washed out, homeless face so I can then rediscover my self-worth via social media and heavy, saturated colors.

12:00 pm: Time for my lettuce with lemon juice.


12:31 pm: Why is food so f*cking good? I don’t know if it’s PMS or what (it’s PMS), but I think I could honestly die stuffed on pizza and Chipotle and queso and I wouldn’t regret a damn thing.

12:45 pm: I’m a hoss. I’m a fat hoss and no one will ever love me.

1:07 pm: I kinda like when my boobs get all swollen like this the week before. I feel so… womanly.

1:10 pm: My tits are huge and make me feel enormous.

2:46 pm: I feel like picking a text fight with my boyfriend. He hasn’t even checked in on me today or asked if I want to hang out this week.

2:48 pm: NO, NO. I don’t care if you “Thought it was implied at this point.” I NEED ROMANCE. I NEED COURTSHIP.

2:52 pm: Yes, I’m serious. I’m so serious, as serious as Amanda Bynes’s mental breakdown. That serious.

2:53 – 3:15 pm: (Radio silence to make him sweat.)

3:16 pm: I’m sorry. It’s just that, I miss you. You make me so happy and I’m feeling down this week.

3:18 pm: No, it’s my fault. Ugh, I’m so sensitive lately. I’m so sorry, babe. I feel so weak and stupid.

3:19 pm – 3:30 pm: (In the bathroom, having an uncontrollable, strangely involuntarily crying episode.)

4:12 pm: All I want to do is go home, put on the biggest clothing I own, drink an entire bottle of wine and cry. God, I’m pathetically stereotypical.

4:15 pm: No. I’m gonna go to the gym. I’m going to battle my own PMS demons and say F*CK YOU and go sweat it out. I don’t have to succumb to the beast within. I’ve got the power!

4:16 pm – 5:05 pm: (Simultaneously looks up “total body fitness” workout moves and every Pinterest recipe involving pasta, ever.)

5:30 – 6 pm: I hate traffic. I hate it so much. This is awful. I’m literally never getting home. Or to the gym. This sucks. I’m just going to give up, right here. Just stop my car in the middle of this debacle and sit and fester until I’m found and fed and told I’m pretty.


6:02 pm: I just want my dog. The gym doesn’t have my dog. Screw the gym. I can be fat for one more day.

6:30 pm – 10 pm: I deserved this wine. Isn’t one glass a day good for you, anyway? So, like, four glasses a day has to be amazing for you! God, what if I amount to nothing in my life? Look at me. Look how easily my own reproductive system victimizes me. I’ve allowed my hormones to dwindle me down to this pathetic, sweatpants-wearing, wine binge-drinking, pizza-ordering, overly emotional mess.

Why are the Gilmore girls so wonderful? I want to live in Stars Hollow; Lorelai and Rory would make everything okay. They always do. I hope my boyfriend still likes me. But, if he does, why? I’m insane.

But I’m also awesome. I mean, when I’m not being insane. Which I only am for one week a month. It’s like that Marilyn Monroe quote, you know, the one about having me at my worst? Or accepting me at my best? Or something. I don’t know. I’m f*cking starving again.

10:05 pm: Hi, boyfriend. I know we don’t normally spend weeknights together because life is terrible and work is hell, but I really need you to come over and hold me tonight. Please?

10:06 pm: (Serious threat of uncontrollable crying fit diffused.)

10:15 pm: Yaaaay, boyfriend!

10:20 pm: Sorry, I’m just not in the mood at all. I feel disgusting. Please stop trying, it’s not going to happen, okay?

10:30 pm: Hey. Are you still awake? I’m in the mood now.

10:45 pm: Goodnight, world. See you tomorrow.

10:45 pm – 11:00 pm: (tossing and turning)

11:01 pm: F*CK, I’M HUNGRY.

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PANDA WATCH 2015 (My Review of the Oscars)

Ever since I can remember, award show season has been a huge part of my annual life. I don’t know when it started (probably before I could form words), but making a huge deal out of the Golden Globes and Academy Awards is a tradition I look forward to most each year. 

I got rid of cable over a year ago, and I have to say — the only time I feel it, like really feel it, is January and February. Any other month of the year, I am completely content streaming movies and television shows of the past through my Apple TV; re-watching episodes of beloved series I’ve seen at least 10-20 times (see: Gilmore girls and Seinfeld). But when it’s time for the celebrities to crash the red carpets and give us something(s) to judge and talk about, not being able to send out the most basic bitch gmail invites to my friends re: an Oscar watch party, makes me so sad. 

Ok. Pity party over. Luckily, I’m dating a guy who does  have cable (for #sports and watching “Predator” or “Bourne Identity” for the 37th time), so I was able to essentially takeover his TV last night, shoving popcorn and wine into my pie hole while my phone was receiving 22 texts a minute from my mom, sister, and best friends. So many outfits to judge, so many comments to make about celebrities we’ll never meet or measure up to. Here are the outfits/moments that stuck with me the most from last night’s charade of glamour.

Patricia Arquette’s acceptance speech.

Guys, sorry. But :-| I in no way found her words inspiring or empowering. In fact, I found them misplaced and inappropriate. I get that a lot of winners like to use the stage and the microphone as a 60-second soapbox (more on that later), but for messages and issues that make sense. A Hollywood actress who’s paid millions and worth millions standing up to yell about equal pay rights is bull crap. And, one of the highest paid (maybe the highest paid?) actresses getting super pumped up about it and cheering her on (I’m talking about Meryl Streep, obviously) is just as messed up. YOU PEOPLE MAKE MILLIONS. WHAT ARE YOU COMPLAINING ABOUT? To be fair, I understand acting is a profession just like any other wherein there are politics and injustices, but I guess it comes down to me not needing a celebrity figure who is well-off representing my struggle as a woman to earn what I deserve. I need someone in the real world doing that. End rant.

If you came within two feet of ScarJo last night, you now have Poison Ivy.

Yeah, her body is ridiculous. I mean, it always is, but considering she just pushed a baby out of her, she looks good. However, that doesn’t excuse her choice of look last night. I just can’t.

87th Annual Academy Awards - Arrivals

J.Lo in general.

I said it in my Golden Globes post and I’ll type it again — YES, J.LO. WE KNOW YOU’RE 40 AND LOOK THE WAY YOU DO. WE GET IT. NOW PUT YOUR TITS AWAY AND RETIRE YOUR GLENDA THE GOOD WITCH GOWN. Also, WTF re: her red eye shadow??? Next time, do us all a favor and cut to the chase by walking down the red carpet naked. We all know you want to anyway.

J.Lo being at the Oscars/seated next to Meryl Streep.

WHAT WAS THIS. Why was Jenny from the block even at the Oscars? What did she do this year to be there AND be seated next to Meryl MOTHERFUCKING Streep? Oh. Star in a “thriller” in which she “sleeps with” an “underage” teenager she ends up “teaching” at “school”? THAT’S NOT OSCAR INVITEE MATERIAL. THAT’S THE TOP STORY ON THE 8PM NEWS EVERY NIGHT ON CABLE TV.

One last J.Lo thing, sorry.

Robert Duvall’s wife, who probably out-ages J.Lo by 20 years, won last night’s version of “Who Wore It Better?”


Rosamund Pike was a nightmare dressed like a daydream.

Of course, I only use that line because of her character in “Gone Girl.” I’m sure she’s nothing close to a nightmare in real life. Last night, she was the walking example of a “lady in red.” Just amazing, and doesn’t look even a little capable of slitting someone’s throat mid-sex.


JK Simmons had a wonderful message.

Call your girlfriend. I mean, your parents. JK obviously feels very strongly about texting and emailing not being enough when it comes to communicating with your parents, and he’s right. But sometimes phone calls are just soooooo draining and sooooo unnecessary. Still, his speech made me feel guilty, and I asked my mom if I could call her. She said “Not now. I’m eating.”

Neil Patrick Harris should’ve done a few shots before the show.

Man, was he rigid. I never got into HIMYM, but from what I hear, he’s pretty funny on it. The opening of the Academy Awards last night was fantastic, but once NPH was on his own, the rest of it fell flatter than Kate Hudson pre-boob job. That is, until…

Lady Gaga saved the show and her horrific red carpet look with the performance of a lifetime.

The hills are alive with the sound of Gaga. Sometimes (most of the time), Lady Gaga is so weird, we forget how talented she actually is or how she’s capable of landing fiancés that look like Taylor Kinney. She showed up to the Oscars last night in one of the ugliest dresses the carpet has ever had grace its presence. The Internet had a fucking heyday over it. 


BUT THEN. But. Then. Halfway through a lagging night of Hollywood, Gaga comes out, looking way more normal, and nails a “Sound of Music” medley harder than anyone’s ever nailed a medley before. Good job, Gaga. Proud of you, girl.

“Everything Is Awesome” was not awesome.

It was confusing. And scary. And why Tegan and Sara? I will say, though, seeing The Lonely Island up on the Oscars stage made me feel like a proud mom. At the risk of sounding like “that” girl, I was watching The Lonely Island’s hilariously pointless online videos back in 2004/2005. When their troupe was signed to SNL, I felt validated for my interest in such off-beat comedy. Last night made it even better.

Graham Moore’s acceptance speech was EVERYTHING.

Now THIS is how you use your 60-seconds up on that Oscar stage. What a powerful, inspiring message. And so raw, too. Not rehearsed, just completely genuine and so inspiringly real. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, here:

Anne Hathaway wasn’t there.

Which was a win for everyone last night, as far as I’m concerned.

What about Joan Rivers not being included in the “In Memoriam” tribute?

This is the Academy’s official response: “Joan Rivers is among the many worthy artists and filmmakers we were unfortunately unable to feature in the In Memoriam segment of this year’s Oscar show. She is, however, included in our In Memoriam gallery on Oscar.com.” Sorry, what? That’s not a reason. You weren’t able to feature her? Why not? It’s one more slide. What — because she wasn’t technically in the movie industry, she wasn’t worthy enough to be remembered? Screw that. SHE MADE ALL YOU CELEBRITY FUCKS WORTH WATCHING VIA THE RED CARPET AND FASHION POLICE.

And, lastly, Zoe Saldana.

VA-VA-FUGGIN-VOOM. OKAY, ZOE. A new mama TO TWINS, a bit more curve, and all-around sexual glamor. I loved everything about her face, her dress, and her attitude. I gasped when I saw her. This is a prime example of someone who knows how to dress for her body. 

Zoe Saldana

That’s all I got, y’all. How’d like that?



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