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Posts Tagged ‘Obsessions’

Not Quite Done with that Subject

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 8:36 AM
Wednesday, January 9, 2013

I was going to title this blog “I Could Never Be Chinese” but then I thought, why pick on the Chinese? I could never be almost any other nationality other than a large white woman or a large black woman (fyi for those who haven’t met me, I’m the former), with these giant feet of mine.

MY GIANT FEET, HELLO?! DID’T YOU READ YESTERDAY’S BLOG?

Ahem.

Big feet-ed ladies  have feelings too.

Feelings, for example, of rage and jealousy, over how many cool shoes they make in Europe that go up to size – oh whoop dee do! – 42. And by the way, for Europeans? Size 42 is ENORMOUS. Like for elephants.

European shoe retailers never used to believe I was bigger than a 42. They’d be all, in their French accents or whatever, “Size 10? Yes, we have zat. ‘Ere.”

And they’d hand me a 42, and like that idiot fish in the sock-dangling sea, again I allow that dreamy daze to cloud my brain with hope as I snap up the shoes, thinking,

No way! Usually size 42 shoes never fit me but THIS guy says ‘size 10’ IS size 42, and that THESE amazing on-sale, one-of-a-kind, better-than-Manolos shoes are going to fit me like Cinderella’s slipper! – so he MUST be right! Right…??!!!

And then, as my big toe crushes into the end of the shoe and my heel develops an insta-blister, reality slams down on my dreams and crushes them.

Okay… yes… true… This size 42 does fit me like Cinderella’s glass slipper.

ONLY I’M NOT M-F-ING CINDERELLA! More like her step sister. At least in the foot department.

Sigh.

At least it’s better now, stateside, where most American retailers finally figured out there are more than 10 giants living in the United States with feet sizes larger than 8.5, and most stores here stock about two pairs of their cool styles in size 10, which still means they are always sold out by the time I get to the store, but at least I can be happy for some big-feet-ed GrownupGirl out there who can strut her Jimmy Choo stuff in style.

Back when I was a teenager hoping to wear something other than my ‘cool-but-made-my-feet-look-bigger-than-Magic-Johnsons’-Doc Martins’, it was basically impossible to find anything remotely feminine and cool/European that fit.

So at minimum, the pickins have gotten a bit less slim.

Maybe by the time I’m a grandma there will be a perfect storm of more larger shoes made generally around the world for the new crop of not-starving savvy teenager consumers, and my feet will have shrunk to a 9.5 or something tiny like that, and then ALL the cool styles in ANY country will carry my size.

A girl can always dream.

c/xo,

 

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

How does it feel to have the shoe on the other foot, bee-ach? Specifically, my size 10 shoes on Cindarella's dainty glass slipper feet? What? Prince Charming called to cancel your date last minute? Whatever could have prompted it!?

Fifty Shades of Ridiculousness

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 8:46 AM
Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Dear readers – I know I dropped a bomb on you yesterday, but I’ve no time at present to talk about all the pros (bigger boobs) and cons (doctors wanting to brainwash me with scary genetically problematic statistics) of having another baby at age blorty.

Because at present, we must talk about the world-wide phenomenon that is:

Fifty Shades.

Of Ridiculousness.

Because, readers, I mean, COME ON.

Yes, I am a human female, I did get sucked into the books’ crack-like romantic premise and promise. It’s heroin-esque depiction of a more perfect world, where a rich-but-totally-messed-up-boy-meets-poor-but fiesty-virgin-girl-who-rocks-his-world-and-turns-it-upside-down-just-as-he-does-to-her-world — via a story in which there just happens to be an overabundance of S&M pornographic sex scenes (oh great, here come the digital blog looking for the word ‘sex’ spammers; comments section- look out!!), but who really cares about those uncomfortable and downright ridiculous porno/spanking/handcuff/”silver ball”/etc. scenes when meanwhile there is a bad boy who is just secretly aching to be tamed, trained, married and made into an honest man & perfect husband & father?

No one. That’s who cares.

I, like most of my girlfriends who read the books, did not sleep for more than a few hours here and there as I sucked down the cotton candy that was the substance of these stories. As much as I was utterly annoyed with the writing and the stupid sex scenes (scenes, I might add, that somehow inspired friends of mine to go crazy with their husbands – okay, ladies, whatever floats your previously uninspired boats!) – I was, I admit, completely unable to put the things down until I was done devouring them.

I mean come on… Fifty!? (the main guy character; his real name, of course, is Christian Grey, what else COULD it be??) Of COURSE he is a self-made billionaire international businessman, aged 28, with his hooded, sexy eyes, tousled auburn hair (come on, what the F-ck does that mean!?) and sexy, ripped jeans.

And of COURSE Ana (short for – duh! – Anastasia) would be a perfectly innocent yet utterly wise beyond her years virgin who of course trips and falls, literally, into Fifty’s arms the very first time they meet? (Again, DUH! doesn’t every girl take mental lessons from our beloved Sandra Bullock as she trips her way through romantic comedy after romantic comedy? Brilliant!)

Okay, the Cirque-du-Soleil porno sex scenes I really could have done without.

But everything else? Perfection.

Perfectly, romantically, deliciously, happy-endingly…

Ridiculousness.

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

This picture tells you all you really need to know about the book. Decipher my handwriting at your own risk!

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Flashback Friday! (Show Fun)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 9:49 AM
Friday, July 27, 2012

Every Friday, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – It’s Show Fun – the BLOG

Remember how I said I only like movies with Happy Endings? (My blog, last week. It’s okay, I’ll wait – go ahead, read it. Seriously. It’s short, just do it. Ok great, back?) Anway, I should have been more specific. I do hate movies that don’t have happy endings. However, just because a movie has a happy ending, doesn’t mean I’ll like it.

Case in point: While You Were Sleeping. This movie had all the elements of a GrownupGirl Fave: Sandra Bullock. By-the-numbers romantic comedy. Sandra Bullock.

But I didn’t get swept away – maybe it’s the fact that I’ve never found Bill Pullman or Peter Gallagher even slightly sexy.

So when I talked to my childhood friend on the phone and told him I didn’t like the movie, I was surprised when he retorted, “Sheva, that movie made 43 million at the box office last weekend.”

Wait – did I mention he was also the movie’s producer?

“I don’t care if the movie made 20 billion,” I continued. “It sucked.”

His furious reply: “It’s not called Show Fun, Sheva. It’s called Show Business.”

Ooooohhhhhh…. He got me there!

Ever heard of the term “failing upwards?” In showbiz, this is when a person produces a terrible movie, then gets promoted. Like, for example, my friend – who had impressed his bosses as an intern by producing an unwatchable comedy feature which lost money, and then promptly got promoted to junior executive status, with an assistant and all.

Maybe there is a good long term reason for allowing someone to fail upwards – in fairness, my friend has gone on to produces MANY amazing & awesome movies, as well as more crappy ones, each of which I’m sure made at least 43 million each weekend at the box office…

Still, it all kind of depresses me. I’m an artist: A writer. A singer. A Capricorn moon. Which all means I’d prefer things to be FAIR.

Of course the entertainment industry doesn’t care what I’d prefer. It exists to be a source of money, an outlet for talent & ambition, and a place for creative suckers like me to get stomped on by those with more connections and less fear.

Still, a girl can always dream, can’t she?

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

...where all your dreams come true! (That is, if your dreams are about people making shitty movies and then making craploads of money off those shitty movies.)

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My New Crush

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:06 AM
Wednesday, June 6, 2012

I have a confession to make. I’m cheating on you, Grey’s Anatomy. You too, House. Lie to Me, you left before I could say goodbye.

It’s just… House, you stretched to its breaking point my patience for falling in love with new interns only to see them kicked to the curb – and then Cutty left.  I’m not going to lie and say my personal issues with abandonment may have blocked my ability to enjoy or even watch your final season (I still don’t know who the “everybody” is who died in the finale episode entitled Everybody Dies)…

…But then again, as you yourself know all too well, everybody lies.

And Shonda, I tried to go with you to the new territory of Scandal. Sure, Grey’s Anatomy has become maddeningly incestuous, with each episode’s ‘medical mystery’ almost exclusively having to do with one of the main cast members.

I mean, come on, a PLANE CRASH? REALLY?

But Scandal was worse, with its almost-but-not-quite Aaron Sorkiian dialogue and didactic, sappy politically correct point of view that was soooooooooooo in my face with every scene that even this dedicated Ivy Leaguer-Democrat-Super Politically Correct gal just couldn’t bear to jump onboard that bandwagon.

But lest you desolate readers think these recent desertions of my small screened loyalties left me ONLY in the throws of the occasional Daily Show or Colbert Report… think again.

Because there’s a new girl in town. And her name is…

The New Girl.

Or, more accurately, Jess Day. Or, MORE accurately… Zooey Deschanel.

My new crush.

I’m not just crushing on HER, though she admittedly is flawless. I’m crushing on the whole show. I mean, come on, SCHMIDT???

SCHMIDT!!???!!!

All of you must immediately go out and buy a HULU subscription and watch all episodes of The New Girl, if for nothing else, the character of Schmidt. Who is brilliant.

PARKOUR!

By the way, if you have never seen the show, I must warn you that you won’t like the pilot much, and then you’ll be confused and maybe a little angry that the black guy in the pilot gets replaced by a similar but slightly funnier & better looking black guy from episode 2, onwards. It’ll take you about 3 episodes to get over it, and then another one or two to fall in love.

But you’ll get over it, I promise. Don’t give up on it. Her. Them.

And BTW, when you’re trying to figure out what to watch with the rest of your Hulu subscription time, might I suggest The B in Apt 23? It’s also a new gem, one of those incredibly rare shows that makes me happy and sometimes even laugh out loud.

Touch, on the other hand? I admit, I’m addicted… but it’s completely against my will.

Don’t get me started….

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

If I had a nickel for every freakin time Keifer says, "Hey, buddy, hey Jake? Come back here, buddy!"... Come to think of it, that would make an awesome drinking game. Anyone?

Suck it Down

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:25 AM
Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Ew – when I wrote the title for this piece, I immediately flashed on a boy in high school who was renowned for forcing girls’ heads down there just seconds after they would start to kiss.

Gross.

Sorry for sharing that – but my theory (as a blogger) is – if I have to think about it, then by extension, you now have to think about it.

Hee hee.

Like, por ejemplo… the actual subject of the blog. Creamy drinks.

Normal drinks, you perv! Get your head out of the gutter.

Seriously – I was sucking down a smoothie the other day – blueberry/mango/banana/soy milk, if you must know – and I just couldn’t stop. I couldn’t put the durn thing down for more than a couple of seconds without picking it up again, and then I continued sucking until I drained the entire thing dry.

I’m the same way with creamy cafe lattes (my favorite coffee drink, natch – they’re so creamy). My husband, along with many coffee drinkers, sip their coffees slowly, not caring how ice-cold the beverage becomes after a matter of minutes. Not me… if it’s sweet and creamy, I literally suck it down in a matter of minutes.

I can’t help myself!

What’s odd is that this doesn’t apply to food at all – I am a notoriously slow eater. My best friend in junior high school used to openly mock me for chewing my food so thoroughly, once asking me to count how many chews it took before I could swallow one bite of sandwich. It took her thirteen chews. It took me sixty.

So, I was sucking down my smoothie, shivering with cold from all the internal ice melting in my stomach, when it hit me.

Nursing.

I’ve seen the way my babies nursed. Their little mouths latched onto my boobs like the way a super glued construction man’s hat holds to on a steel beam high in the air. (TV addicts of the 1970’s, that one was for you.)

So, the way babies latch & nurse? THAT is the way I suck down my creamy drinks. Which has nothing to do with my eating food slowly.

Aren’t you glad we figured that out?

Hmmm… something tells me that if I didn’t manage to gross you out at the beginning of this blog…

c/xo,

 

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Yum! Baby hungry! (still grossin' you out? sorry...)

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Potty-Mouthed Mommy

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:39 PM
Monday, April 2, 2012

On the Subject of potty mouths, or more specifically, my potty mouth, when I write my blogs… I have a question to ask you guys. When I speak – especially in earshot of children – I’m clean as a whistle.

Not so much, when I write.

Not every blog, as you know, but MANY blogs, are clearly not even the slightest bit appropriate for children to read. I’ve even, on occasion, forbid my father to read one of my blogs.

The trouble is, whereas my father will happily oblige, following my instructions & skip any particular blog I ask him to – will my son/children do so too, as they grow older?

Bwhahahahaha!

Who am I kidding? The Fantastics – the song, “They Did it Cause We Said No” – I think song was written with my future children in mind.

What I’m saying is that I’m more than nervous when I imagine my son or daughter reading my blogs. And I have 100% no idea how/whether to prepare them for what they will read and/or how/whether to talk to them about it once they’ve read them.

Hey, you!

Yeah, you! (if you are a parent of kids older than mine, preferably kids who turned out spectacularly)

….WHAT SHOULD I DO?

I’m not going to stop writing.

And while I may tone down my language, I also may not. Tonight it hit me. As I write this, it’s 10:15pm on a Saturday night, my husband is out seeing a movie with a friend and all three of our kids are soundly asleep. And what do I do? What sneaky, rebellious, grownupgirl actions do I decide to take in my free, “Me Time”?

I ate some old stale chocolate cake. It was disgusting. So, I washed it down with Nutella spread onto dry challah bread. I don’t like Nutella. Oh – and as I fixed myself a coffee with Truvia and cream and got ready to check out what we’ve got saved on the ole DVR (ooooh, caffeine after 10pm?! NOW WE’RE TALKING! What other naughtiness do you have planned, Sheva, skipping the floss and going straight to the tooth-to-the-paste?)

Yeah, when all that bad-to-the-bonedness was taking place, it hit me:

WRITING, OCCASSIONALLY, ABOUT BARELY-NAUGHTY SUBJECTS, USING, OCCASIONALLY, SORT OF-NAUGHTY LANGUAGE IS ALL THE EDGE I’VE GOT LEFT.

In college, and for about 6-7 years after college, I was a full metal Party Girl.

Now? I’m a loving mom, a dutiful wife, an ardent student of Kabbalah (I even eat Kosher & keep Shabbat, for Christ’s sake!), and…

;)

A (sometimes) potty-mouthed Grownup Girl.

c/xo,
Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

THIS is my idea of a major rager. Can you blame me for wanting to drop the occasional f-bomb in a blog? It's all the rebelliousness I've got left.

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We are Beautiful, No Matter What They Say

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:53 PM
Monday, February 27, 2012

I’m as bad as anyone.

I dislike the oddly proportioned faces of some of my older women friends who have had plastic surgery. To me, their tight cheeks and poofy smiles that curve at the ends look more than a little like The Joker from Batman. It is jarring to look at.

But then again… I saw Sheryl Crow on TV not long ago, and I found myself fixated on a patch of skin on her face, above her lip. It looked… a little loose. The whole episode, that’s all I could look at: poor Sheryl Crow’s loose upper lip skin. Sheryl Crow, who has the rockin teenage body of a precocious 12 year old. Sheryl Crow, who courageously fought and won her battle with breast cancer. Sheryl Crow, whose rock & roll goddess status puts my 2 year attempt at being a singer/songwriter to shame.

I’m growing older. Soon, my upper lip will loosen a bit from its original place.  Or my neck will – isn’t that what I hear most older women groaning about, the dead give-away of their bodies, their necks?

I reaaaalllly don’t want surgery. I don’t like the way it looks on other women and I am terrified of the process, the pain, the recovery. I don’t want Botox either. I gave birth naturally just so I wouldn’t have to deal with drugs. How can I justify injecting myself for cosmetic purposes with some crazy Bovine hormone?

It’s a good thing my husband loves my boobs just the way they are. A less supportive husband might have helped me turn an insecure moment into a date with Doctor Boob Job. It seems cool to have bigger, sexier boobs. But I’m not convinced fake is sexier, when it comes right down to it. And I can’t fathom the process – surgery, pain, recovery… In my last job as editor-in-chief of an online magazine (yes, I quit recently, & no I don’t feel like writing about it, and YES I am looking for a new gig so put the word out there, readers!) – I edited a lot of first-person blogs written by models, young and old. Two of older, ex-models wrote personal stories about how they were traumatized by botched boob jobs.

Horrific.

Conclusion? Without judging other people’s choices (I 100% don’t judge the choice, but I usually don’t see the beauty in the post-surgical faces/bodies either), & if I am real with myself, I know that – deep down – I want 3 things.

  1. 1. To believe I’m beautiful.
  2. 2. For others to think I’m beautiful.
  3. 3.  To feel this way no matter what my age.

Sheryl Crow, you are beautiful! I blame it on the lighting guy.

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

She is beautiful, no matter what they say. And they say a lot. No, not her boobs, other people. Okay, true, her boobs say a lot too.

Flashback Friday! (Facebook Junky – a dramatic narration)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:14 PM
Friday, February 10, 2012

Every Friday, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – Facebook Junky – the BLOG

LIGHTS UP

ON SHEVI (my new name, Christened by a well-intentioned friend who thinks BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) is way too complicated, never mind, when pronounced, my “new name” sounds like my parent’s old station wagon…)

SHEVI IS PALE-FACED AND POUNDING AWAY AT HER KEYBOARD.

It’s a little like cocaine.

You start. It feels a little dirty, a little exciting, a little like something everyone else except you has tried.

You go a little, then you stop, thinking ‘this isn’t for you, how do people get into this, the only people who like this must have no life, if anyone has time to really get into this for hours, they must REALLY have no life or else a pathetic one…’

Then-

It happens. You get hooked. (Or, you get outraged that your husband just started a week ago & already has more Friends than you do.) You start Friending everyone and their mother (literally) and you can’t stop and now it’s past 2 in the morning & your kids get up at 6am or whatever but you don’t care because now you’re looking at someone’s photos and you see MORE people you haven’t seen or thought about in decades and now you are Friending them too even though you never said one red word to them back in the day when you had a crush on them in high school and you realize you are Friending more guys than girls but you can’t help it and now HOLY FUCK is that a picture of that disgusting guitar-playing asshole who gave you a nasty disease when you were in college – TURN BACK! – but you can’t, and you realize how disgusting you are and how in the hell did this all get started and why can’t you stop and Jesus what will all these people think of you tomorrow when they see your ‘invitation’ for them to Friend you and how embarrassing that your best friend from high school has Friends you guys used to hang out with together, but she won’t accept your invitation what the FUCK did you ever do to her anyway, that bitch, and now you should be asleep but you’re wide awake and you’re going to get more Friends than these other people if you have to stay here all night and-

How in the world does my best friend from French Woods Camp when I was 14 years old, know my friend from Yale? And how weird is that that I knew that friend from Yale back when I was 10 years old, at a different camp, Camp Seafarer?

And how did that hot guy I used to crush on get so fat?

And do these people accepting my Friend requests even know who I am?

And who are these creepy random people asking me to be their Friends?

And – whoa – Tudor is DEAD? When did he die? I haven’t seen him since the last time I got drunk at Renees Bar in Santa Monica, back in the nineties… God, that’s right, that whole crew of us used to go there every Thursday night, let me see if they’re on Facebook too…

BLACKOUT

Good God this photo of Renee's Courtyard Cafe brings back memories (of blackouts, among other things). Used to go there every Thursday night...

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Grey’s Anatomy is Crack. And Crack Sucks.

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:45 PM
Monday, January 30, 2012

I’ve written before about how I’m obsessed with Grey’s Anatomy, how I’m addicted to Grey’s Anatomy, and how my addiction with Grey’s Anatomy grew so large and so deep that its stars actually started stalking ME. How, in a word, Grey’s Anatomy is like crack.

Well, readers, I’m here to tell you: Crack Sucks.

You know how at the beginning, crack is all awesome and fun-producing and high-making and people bonding?

SO IS GREY’S ANATOMY.

But then you know how after a while, crack takes over your life, becomes your obsession, and causes you to miss out on life’s important events because your slavish devotion to it trumps all else?

SO DOES GREY’S ANATOMY.

And finally, you remember how in the end, crack doesn’t even work anymore but you still can’t seem to put it down; it doesn’t fulfill its initial promise of total perfection and happiness, and ultimately, destroys lives, but you JUST CAN’T STOP without intervention?

YOU GET WHERE I’M GOING WITH THIS.

At this point, I hate Grey’s Anatomy.

Wait – I’m sorry, Grey’s Anatomy! Don’t leave me! Please!!  I didn’t mean that!!!!!

It’s tough, people. Isaiah Washington, T.R. Knight, and Katherine Heigl are gone. (No I still don’t care what the actors’ names are – I Googled them if you must know. O, but how I loved their characters.) Meanwhile, the ones who are still around are getting a bum deal. Miranda Bailey keeps getting paired with hot men she has no chemistry with. McSteamy is getting old, McDreamy is getting annoying, little Grey is a pill, and Sandra Oh’s character’s journey off the deep end was 100% not believable, nor is her chemistry with the hot red haired guy.

SO WHY CAN’T I JUST LET IT GO??

The new episodes sit on my Tivo like so many old chocolate truffles in the cabinet – beckoning even as you know they are BAD BAD BAD. I know I may get a temporary high when I eat them – or watch it – just as surely as I’ll know I will get that feeling afterwards… you know, like I just wasted my calories/time. And perhaps even caused a little diarrhea.

Time for rehab…

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Some of the only GA cast members I actually still enjoy watching. Et tu, Shonda Rhimes?

Ball Gowns

posted by Sheva 11:51 AM
Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Now, I’m not blaming The Wedding Dress for my continued obsession with dress up clothes throughout the rest of my life. I mean, The Wedding Dress is long gone. Who knows how many years ago it was finally thrown out?

But I am curious to know just exactly what overpowering mystical force of not-quite-nature I was hypnotized by recently, when I convinced myself that I MUST buy a French Connection gown – it can only be called such – beaded, floor-length, silky and gorgeous – that I, in all honesty, would never have the occasion to wear.

I hung my new gown next to my red, floor-length, stunning Calvin Klein gown I bought last year, after that the same hypnotic force field tricked me into buying last year..

Okay, I admit, I’ve always dreamed and fantasized about making it big someday as a writer, or actor, or singer. And I may have possibly had visions of myself walking the red carpet in those gowns as I fingered them, pondering whether or not I should complete the purchase. (Yes, “The” Red Carpet. Shut up.)

On the other hand, I may have simply fallen victim to a flashback, a trip, a hallucination, triggered by the original childish psychedelic, The Wedding Dress.

Whatever the cause, I decided my new French Connection gown wouldn’t wind up with the same fate as my stunning red Calvin (ie, the dress whose only floor it graces is the closet’s), so I wore it out to a wedding the other night.

No, the wedding was not black tie.

But in my defense, I was out of town during the last black tie wedding I was invited to, & the next one I’m invited to (my sister’s), I have to wear the requisite bridesmaid dress… so I HAD to wear the dress to this non-black tie wedding!

Okay, perhaps that does not exactly constitute a “defense.”

Still, in my mind, it was reason enough to take her for a spin… never mind the rest of the wedding party wore mostly black cocktail dresses and pantsuits.

Sigh.

What else am I supposed to do until Hollywood comes knocking? (And by Hollywood, I mean, of course, the awards shows and galas. Duh.)

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

PS – Look! It’s a picture of me in my FC ballgown, next to none other than HUGO SCHWYZER! Co-author of the soon-to-be bestselling book “Beauty, Disrupted” with Carre Otis! (Shameless plug to lure more of Hugo’s fan base to my blog? I’ll never tell!)

Me n Hugo and FC Gown, not necessarily in that order.

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