"You went to my high school, right? Mmm your bod looks niiiiiiiiice now"
A direct quote from a class act, who attempted to pick up my friend in a bar last year. She is aging like a fine wine.
He is aging like an alcoholic... maybe because he is one?
29 October 2009
27 October 2009
OJ Did It
Do you hate on the Kardashians?
I do. I watch their show only when Brody Jenner is slotted in to babysit his crazy half-sibs.
But Perez posted something that made me love them.
And apparently, their vaginas. Proceed with Freudian caution!
I do. I watch their show only when Brody Jenner is slotted in to babysit his crazy half-sibs.
But Perez posted something that made me love them.
And apparently, their vaginas. Proceed with Freudian caution!
26 October 2009
Maybe the Fug Girls forgot...
That sometimes fashionably comfortable is amazing.
Case: Freida Pinto. Remember her, from that movie about India and the Millionaire?
Firstly, I couldn't even tell her top was thermal.
Secondly, WHO PAIRS THERMAL WITH VUITTON AND BOOTIES? AAAAnd pulls it off? Seriously. I love this in big ways.
You go girl, rocking the sexiest version of long johns I've ever seen.
Case: Freida Pinto. Remember her, from that movie about India and the Millionaire?
Firstly, I couldn't even tell her top was thermal.
Secondly, WHO PAIRS THERMAL WITH VUITTON AND BOOTIES? AAAAnd pulls it off? Seriously. I love this in big ways.
You go girl, rocking the sexiest version of long johns I've ever seen.
24 October 2009
The Economics of Pain
You heard it here second...Heels make us more successful, and in a tough market our heels just get tougher. Let the Fug Girls (or, Robert H. Frank, Cornell economics professor) explain:
If things get any crazier in the US, I think models will soon be on stilts.
He looks pretty excited about the whole thing. And yes, they do ship to Canada.
See also: McQueen Radicality, previously posted.
Taller people earn more, for example, and command greater attention in social settings. And hence the attraction of high heels.
If things get any crazier in the US, I think models will soon be on stilts.
He looks pretty excited about the whole thing. And yes, they do ship to Canada.
See also: McQueen Radicality, previously posted.
22 October 2009
Girl Crushing
It's ok to have a girl crush now and again, and Daria Werbowy is high on my list.
Case:
Here she struts, clad entirely in Balmain, in Paris last week. What I like is that she's homegrown Canadiana, and for a runway model has some serious thigh/bosom.
Praise Daria in all of her Paris glory.
Other fun things to note: Dior thinks this is a good outfit.
Also, Chloe thinks this in an outfit. To be fair, at least this can be worn by the average woman. However, this particular ensemble looks like the shawl Jewish men wear.
Chloe, get out of synagogue and onto the streets.
And finally, la piece de la resistance:
Alexander McQueen, I want to officially invite you to be in my life. Your RULE!! Pleasure is pain.
That's a wrap.
Thankfully, not a wrap dress.
Case:
Here she struts, clad entirely in Balmain, in Paris last week. What I like is that she's homegrown Canadiana, and for a runway model has some serious thigh/bosom.
Praise Daria in all of her Paris glory.
In other Paris-fashion-week-related news, JPG has finally created a collection of one-size-fits-all! My ass (that hasn't been to the gym since September) thanks him!
Other fun things to note: Dior thinks this is a good outfit.
Also, Chloe thinks this in an outfit. To be fair, at least this can be worn by the average woman. However, this particular ensemble looks like the shawl Jewish men wear.
Chloe, get out of synagogue and onto the streets.
And finally, la piece de la resistance:
Alexander McQueen, I want to officially invite you to be in my life. Your RULE!! Pleasure is pain.
That's a wrap.
Thankfully, not a wrap dress.
20 October 2009
Bringing Down the Babysitter, Part 4
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17 October 2009
Bringing Down the Babysitter, Part 3
Now, picture two hot ladies, out on the town after a decent meal.
We've already got our Spidey senses tingling, care of eye candy at dinner, and the men in the bar are sensing it. Especially in Jolene... she is one foxey lady.
And when men are sensing it, they are really big on buying the drinks.
Hours pass, and Jolene starts to forget about Hot Rod. She starts to think instead about the 5 rum and Cokes that some frat boy has bought her, and maybe a bit about the 2 he's also gotten for me.
Like I said, girl plays hard!
Around midnight, Jol is fully in the bag. I can tell she's going to have a rough morning. I'm thankfully less attractive, and thus less drunk, when the unthinkable happens:
Hot Rod is IN THE BUILDING.
And he's heading straight for us... a booth of frat boys and old ladies.
Jolene starts hollering at him from across the bar to come over; he's coming up behind me (more on this later... I am so witty) so I have very little chance to wipe the shocked look off my face when he gets to the table.
Hot Rod: "Hey, you guys were at Rod's (clearly, not the name of the eatery) earlier. I'm Rod, the owner."
Jolene: "Oh we remember! You are HOT! Come sit with us!!"
Hot Rod gets an expression of embarrassment... but also clearly knows he's not being lied to. And so he sits down, an obliging gentleman. Right across from me.
I pretend to be interested in Freshman Math or whatever is going on beside me, but I can feel his eyes on me. First on the face, and then on a trip back from the bar, over the bod too.
Thank goodness I Master Cleansed before I came home. I do look better than usual.
Under the table, I feel a tap on my knee. I look over, and Hot Rod is staring at me, green eyes sparkling.
"I know you from somewhere, I'm sure of it. Where are you from?"
"Here", I reply coyly. I really want to pretend that he's never been forced to play Barbie house with me and my brother's G. I. Joes.
"Where did you go to high school? Did you go to Michigan State?"
"No", I reply coyly. Technically, we did go to the same high school, but in different decades.
Now he's completely focused on me, which is good because Jolene is about to go home with someone SHE could have babysat. When she gets up to leave, Hot Rod parks himself beside me at the edge of the booth.
"I'm not letting you leave until you tell me" he whispers.
"Ok, I'll tell you, but you have to promise to still hang out for a bit. You can't leave me alone with the Sigma Chi Douchebag frat".
He nods in agreement.
I'm trying to play this as cool as possible... But what if my 7-to-9-year old dreams could come true? It's all too much to come up with a witty pun, and so I muster up this:
"I swam in your pool for 3 summers in a row when I was little"
He looks puzzled, like he's thinking I'm a friend of Jane's.
"With Jane?"
"No, she usually just watched us, me and my brother. Sometimes you did too"
Clearly he puts all the pieces together, because a minute later, he does this:
"Ohhhhhhhh my god. I can't believe I checked out the ass of Stella James! Man, you were a weird kid"
This is not the magical makeout lead-in I was hoping for. Clearly, it shows on my face.
"No, what I mean is, you seem to have grown up well." He smiles, and I have instantly forgiven him... but he offers to buy me a drink, anyway. I think that in this situation, more drinks is the only thing that's going to boost my confidence.
He goes over to the bar, orders drinks, and then motions for me to come over. At last! I am free from Frat Hell--somehow the guys at the table have managed to procure plastic cups and are deep into a game of Beer Pong.
We start talking at the bar, and I find out the critical details: he got a degree in business and English when he was at Michigan State; he was engaged a few years ago, but it didn't work out; he's currently single; he's no one's baby-daddy; and he lives at his parent's house because its close to the restaurant and they are away a lot.
I ask if it has anything to do with proximity to skinny-dipping, and he smiles.
We banter back and forth until last call. I look over at Frat Central--my boys have successfully met some sorority girls to challenge in Pong. I look back at Rod, green eyes a-blaze, shirt open an appropriate number of buttons to show a bit of chest hair, but also that he does his push-ups. As if on cue, Zack Morris style, he runs his hangs through his hair.
If my pants weren't so tight, they would be off.
Have I mentioned that Rod et al. live only one block from my parents' place? Handy, I know.
Hot Rod glances over to our Frat Friends, who are now starting to get yelled at by the bartender: "We should get out of here before things get crazy. I've seen Steve (the bartender?) get really physical with students". He smiles again, but this time it has undertones of absolute filth. Sexy, gratuitous, filthiness.
"Yeah, I'm thinking that going home is a good idea about now."
Hot Rod is already ahead of me, pulling me out by my hand.
WE'RE HOLDING HANDS!! my 7-year-old self shrieks.
HIGH FIVE! Yells back my 9-year-old self.
I must be smiling, because Hot Rod wants to know what the smirking is about. "Oh, this just would have been a big deal in my youth."
"The hand-holding?"
"Yeah, the hand holding is big for 7-year-olds"
Clearly he finds this endearing, because he is still holding my hand, and we are now about three blocks from the bar.
"You're cool to walk in those shoes? It's so nice out I can't bear to take a cab"
Oh, these 4-inch platforms? The ones that bring me almost to your eye level? Yeah, I'm keeping these puppies on.
But instead of giving him a shpiel about how I wear my heels all the time like Carrie Bradshaw, I just nod, smiling, like the 5th-grade me that is hooting and hollering in my head. It takes a minute for me to realize that we're going home together...
Read about it in Part 4! I swear, it's the last part.
We've already got our Spidey senses tingling, care of eye candy at dinner, and the men in the bar are sensing it. Especially in Jolene... she is one foxey lady.
And when men are sensing it, they are really big on buying the drinks.
Hours pass, and Jolene starts to forget about Hot Rod. She starts to think instead about the 5 rum and Cokes that some frat boy has bought her, and maybe a bit about the 2 he's also gotten for me.
Like I said, girl plays hard!
Around midnight, Jol is fully in the bag. I can tell she's going to have a rough morning. I'm thankfully less attractive, and thus less drunk, when the unthinkable happens:
Hot Rod is IN THE BUILDING.
And he's heading straight for us... a booth of frat boys and old ladies.
Jolene starts hollering at him from across the bar to come over; he's coming up behind me (more on this later... I am so witty) so I have very little chance to wipe the shocked look off my face when he gets to the table.
Hot Rod: "Hey, you guys were at Rod's (clearly, not the name of the eatery) earlier. I'm Rod, the owner."
Jolene: "Oh we remember! You are HOT! Come sit with us!!"
Hot Rod gets an expression of embarrassment... but also clearly knows he's not being lied to. And so he sits down, an obliging gentleman. Right across from me.
I pretend to be interested in Freshman Math or whatever is going on beside me, but I can feel his eyes on me. First on the face, and then on a trip back from the bar, over the bod too.
Thank goodness I Master Cleansed before I came home. I do look better than usual.
Under the table, I feel a tap on my knee. I look over, and Hot Rod is staring at me, green eyes sparkling.
"I know you from somewhere, I'm sure of it. Where are you from?"
"Here", I reply coyly. I really want to pretend that he's never been forced to play Barbie house with me and my brother's G. I. Joes.
"Where did you go to high school? Did you go to Michigan State?"
"No", I reply coyly. Technically, we did go to the same high school, but in different decades.
Now he's completely focused on me, which is good because Jolene is about to go home with someone SHE could have babysat. When she gets up to leave, Hot Rod parks himself beside me at the edge of the booth.
"I'm not letting you leave until you tell me" he whispers.
"Ok, I'll tell you, but you have to promise to still hang out for a bit. You can't leave me alone with the Sigma Chi Douchebag frat".
He nods in agreement.
I'm trying to play this as cool as possible... But what if my 7-to-9-year old dreams could come true? It's all too much to come up with a witty pun, and so I muster up this:
"I swam in your pool for 3 summers in a row when I was little"
He looks puzzled, like he's thinking I'm a friend of Jane's.
"With Jane?"
"No, she usually just watched us, me and my brother. Sometimes you did too"
Clearly he puts all the pieces together, because a minute later, he does this:
"Ohhhhhhhh my god. I can't believe I checked out the ass of Stella James! Man, you were a weird kid"
This is not the magical makeout lead-in I was hoping for. Clearly, it shows on my face.
"No, what I mean is, you seem to have grown up well." He smiles, and I have instantly forgiven him... but he offers to buy me a drink, anyway. I think that in this situation, more drinks is the only thing that's going to boost my confidence.
He goes over to the bar, orders drinks, and then motions for me to come over. At last! I am free from Frat Hell--somehow the guys at the table have managed to procure plastic cups and are deep into a game of Beer Pong.
We start talking at the bar, and I find out the critical details: he got a degree in business and English when he was at Michigan State; he was engaged a few years ago, but it didn't work out; he's currently single; he's no one's baby-daddy; and he lives at his parent's house because its close to the restaurant and they are away a lot.
I ask if it has anything to do with proximity to skinny-dipping, and he smiles.
We banter back and forth until last call. I look over at Frat Central--my boys have successfully met some sorority girls to challenge in Pong. I look back at Rod, green eyes a-blaze, shirt open an appropriate number of buttons to show a bit of chest hair, but also that he does his push-ups. As if on cue, Zack Morris style, he runs his hangs through his hair.
If my pants weren't so tight, they would be off.
Have I mentioned that Rod et al. live only one block from my parents' place? Handy, I know.
Hot Rod glances over to our Frat Friends, who are now starting to get yelled at by the bartender: "We should get out of here before things get crazy. I've seen Steve (the bartender?) get really physical with students". He smiles again, but this time it has undertones of absolute filth. Sexy, gratuitous, filthiness.
"Yeah, I'm thinking that going home is a good idea about now."
Hot Rod is already ahead of me, pulling me out by my hand.
WE'RE HOLDING HANDS!! my 7-year-old self shrieks.
HIGH FIVE! Yells back my 9-year-old self.
I must be smiling, because Hot Rod wants to know what the smirking is about. "Oh, this just would have been a big deal in my youth."
"The hand-holding?"
"Yeah, the hand holding is big for 7-year-olds"
Clearly he finds this endearing, because he is still holding my hand, and we are now about three blocks from the bar.
"You're cool to walk in those shoes? It's so nice out I can't bear to take a cab"
Oh, these 4-inch platforms? The ones that bring me almost to your eye level? Yeah, I'm keeping these puppies on.
But instead of giving him a shpiel about how I wear my heels all the time like Carrie Bradshaw, I just nod, smiling, like the 5th-grade me that is hooting and hollering in my head. It takes a minute for me to realize that we're going home together...
Read about it in Part 4! I swear, it's the last part.
15 October 2009
Bringing Down the Babysitter, Part 2
Where was I?
Right, the 90s.
Pretty much like every childhood friend, you lose touch easily. I still walked past Jane and Rod's parents' place every so often... and Jane had gotten my e-mail address and had let me know about her babies and life, etc. Never any mention of Rod, but that didn't seem to surprise me.
One day my dad sent me a clipping from our local paper. I guess Rod had done several things while we were apart: he went to college, became a successful entrepreneur (something to do with ice skates? I don't know... we're Canadian), and had recently moved back home and was starting a second venture.
But this venture was much more awesome: a restaurant.
Clearly, on my last visit home, I made a date with an old friend at said restaurant in hopes of catching a glimpse of my former faux-flame.
Let me just say this--the place was gorgeous, the food was pretty good.
But the highlight of the night was seeing perhaps the studliest man to ever come out of a grunge phase ever (not counting this piece of SMOKIN' work). He had obviously stopped partying on the daily, and maybe was hitting the gym thrice weekly.
He was wearing Brooks Brothers, with an open collar.
He looked maybe a few years older than me--not the 15 or so that separated us.
Even my friend Jolene commented on the heat of this dish.
I neglected to mention that he once wandered around my house aimlessly while I recited French verbs.
As proprietor of the operation, he came over to check on our meals at one point, at which point he gave me a good stare... Jolene was jealous. But she also wanted to get in his pants a bit, so when he asked how everything was, she mentioned that we were going to be at a bar a few doors down afterward, should he be interested in a drink.
Girl has crazy game, always has.
I probably should have mentioned my connection, but it didn't seem right. I also didn't think he could place where he knew me from (I'm so much hotter now, with the boobs and the legs, and the heels. And the puberty).
I guess Jolene was really starting to feel him, because she offered to pay and left a massive tip for our mediocre waiter.
Our waiter, ironically, was feeling Jolene, because he showed up at the bar later on.
But that's all in Part 3! Coming right up.
Right, the 90s.
Pretty much like every childhood friend, you lose touch easily. I still walked past Jane and Rod's parents' place every so often... and Jane had gotten my e-mail address and had let me know about her babies and life, etc. Never any mention of Rod, but that didn't seem to surprise me.
One day my dad sent me a clipping from our local paper. I guess Rod had done several things while we were apart: he went to college, became a successful entrepreneur (something to do with ice skates? I don't know... we're Canadian), and had recently moved back home and was starting a second venture.
But this venture was much more awesome: a restaurant.
Clearly, on my last visit home, I made a date with an old friend at said restaurant in hopes of catching a glimpse of my former faux-flame.
Let me just say this--the place was gorgeous, the food was pretty good.
But the highlight of the night was seeing perhaps the studliest man to ever come out of a grunge phase ever (not counting this piece of SMOKIN' work). He had obviously stopped partying on the daily, and maybe was hitting the gym thrice weekly.
He was wearing Brooks Brothers, with an open collar.
He looked maybe a few years older than me--not the 15 or so that separated us.
Even my friend Jolene commented on the heat of this dish.
I neglected to mention that he once wandered around my house aimlessly while I recited French verbs.
As proprietor of the operation, he came over to check on our meals at one point, at which point he gave me a good stare... Jolene was jealous. But she also wanted to get in his pants a bit, so when he asked how everything was, she mentioned that we were going to be at a bar a few doors down afterward, should he be interested in a drink.
Girl has crazy game, always has.
I probably should have mentioned my connection, but it didn't seem right. I also didn't think he could place where he knew me from (I'm so much hotter now, with the boobs and the legs, and the heels. And the puberty).
I guess Jolene was really starting to feel him, because she offered to pay and left a massive tip for our mediocre waiter.
Our waiter, ironically, was feeling Jolene, because he showed up at the bar later on.
But that's all in Part 3! Coming right up.
14 October 2009
Bringing Down the Babysitter, Part 1
Long ago, in a faraway land, I was a young girl.
My brother and I used to get babysat by this girl who lived a few blocks away, Jane. And because my parents were all egalitarian and shit, on the rare occasion when Jane was busy, her brother Rod would fill in.
(Yes, I chose his pseudonym ironically)
Jane was an amazing babysitter. She always let us stay up late, she let us have Kraft Dinner whenever we wanted, she was gorgeous (which my brother was beginning to appreciate more and more) and she always had cute boyfriends that came to play (which, even at age 7 I knew was a good thing). Jane babysat for us until my brother was at least 14... far too old to be babysat, but we loved her.
Then a time came when Jane left for college. My brother was also old enough to care for the two of us when my parents were out (read: middle-school drinking in the basement), but on rare occasions when my brother was on a sleepover, Rod would come over and basically watch TV with me while I did my homework.
Rod was bad.
BAD. Bad-boy bad.
He had frosted tips, which eventually grew out when his hair got long and Kurt-Cobain-ey. But even in greasy wonder, I was aware of his implicit attractiveness.
And he sometimes used our house phone to call his dealer, which I knew was a no-no... but I would have basically let him set the house on fire.
But as luck would have it, a 9-year old girl and a 20-year old studmuffin could never have worked out, despite my best efforts to look mature at our babysitting sessions (lipgloss, flip-flops? References to 90210?). So, when I became too old for babysitters, I embraced freedom and bid farewell to my personal Zack Morris.
That was in the 90s.
Part 2 coming soon!
My brother and I used to get babysat by this girl who lived a few blocks away, Jane. And because my parents were all egalitarian and shit, on the rare occasion when Jane was busy, her brother Rod would fill in.
(Yes, I chose his pseudonym ironically)
Jane was an amazing babysitter. She always let us stay up late, she let us have Kraft Dinner whenever we wanted, she was gorgeous (which my brother was beginning to appreciate more and more) and she always had cute boyfriends that came to play (which, even at age 7 I knew was a good thing). Jane babysat for us until my brother was at least 14... far too old to be babysat, but we loved her.
Then a time came when Jane left for college. My brother was also old enough to care for the two of us when my parents were out (read: middle-school drinking in the basement), but on rare occasions when my brother was on a sleepover, Rod would come over and basically watch TV with me while I did my homework.
Rod was bad.
BAD. Bad-boy bad.
He had frosted tips, which eventually grew out when his hair got long and Kurt-Cobain-ey. But even in greasy wonder, I was aware of his implicit attractiveness.
And he sometimes used our house phone to call his dealer, which I knew was a no-no... but I would have basically let him set the house on fire.
But as luck would have it, a 9-year old girl and a 20-year old studmuffin could never have worked out, despite my best efforts to look mature at our babysitting sessions (lipgloss, flip-flops? References to 90210?). So, when I became too old for babysitters, I embraced freedom and bid farewell to my personal Zack Morris.
That was in the 90s.
Part 2 coming soon!
12 October 2009
Travel Companion
Last summer, I went to Spain for a few weeks with a friend. Goals of the trip included: getting over both of our failed relationships (hers, 6 months; mine, 2 months), employing our fair-to-poor Spanish skills, and kissing relentlessly.
Other people, not each other.
It was a great trip. We saw the sights, we slept in gross hostels, we met many Australians. I totally recommend.
I also met an American student, who we'll call Sam. Sam was about to start a grad program at UPenn and was with his two roomies for the summer. Sam had a girlfriend. But Sam and his friends ended up following me and my friend for a few days around southern Spain (Moral of the story: never let a 22-year-old lacrosse player plan your vacation?).
Anyhow, they were great company, especially when creepy old Spanish men hit on us.
On our last night together, Sam had a bit too much to drink and told me he thought I was adorable, and that he wished he could hit on me, but he "had that girlfriend, and all". I generally take these types of comments as flattery and move on. But he kept talking about her.
"She's looking for a job in Philly, I really hope she gets one or else I'm not sure we'll stay together"
Thanks for sharing.
Anyway, I had planned on attending a conference over the Canadian Thanksgiving that happened to be in Philadelphia, and we decided that when I booked my flights I'd tell him and we'd meet up for a drink.
Cut to last night, when I got an email from him:
"Hey! I just realized its your Thanksgiving. Are you in town? We need to hang out! I owe you a pool game and sangria."
I ended up having to skip the meeting and go home for Thanksgiving, so I wrote him those details, apologizing profusely for forgetting. And afterward, I was reminded of how cute he was. Innocently enough, I went to his Facebook page hoping for some "personal time" material. But before i could start the photo creeping, I saw that he had changed all of his personal info--he'd broken up with the girlfriend!
I'll rue the day you crossed me, family business!!
I can't believe that turkey > getting some.
Then I got to the photo creeping--he untagged himself from all the photos of them together!
Geez.
Now... how can I get to PA? Someone find me a MEETING!
Other people, not each other.
It was a great trip. We saw the sights, we slept in gross hostels, we met many Australians. I totally recommend.
I also met an American student, who we'll call Sam. Sam was about to start a grad program at UPenn and was with his two roomies for the summer. Sam had a girlfriend. But Sam and his friends ended up following me and my friend for a few days around southern Spain (Moral of the story: never let a 22-year-old lacrosse player plan your vacation?).
Anyhow, they were great company, especially when creepy old Spanish men hit on us.
On our last night together, Sam had a bit too much to drink and told me he thought I was adorable, and that he wished he could hit on me, but he "had that girlfriend, and all". I generally take these types of comments as flattery and move on. But he kept talking about her.
"She's looking for a job in Philly, I really hope she gets one or else I'm not sure we'll stay together"
Thanks for sharing.
Anyway, I had planned on attending a conference over the Canadian Thanksgiving that happened to be in Philadelphia, and we decided that when I booked my flights I'd tell him and we'd meet up for a drink.
Cut to last night, when I got an email from him:
"Hey! I just realized its your Thanksgiving. Are you in town? We need to hang out! I owe you a pool game and sangria."
I ended up having to skip the meeting and go home for Thanksgiving, so I wrote him those details, apologizing profusely for forgetting. And afterward, I was reminded of how cute he was. Innocently enough, I went to his Facebook page hoping for some "personal time" material. But before i could start the photo creeping, I saw that he had changed all of his personal info--he'd broken up with the girlfriend!
I'll rue the day you crossed me, family business!!
I can't believe that turkey > getting some.
Then I got to the photo creeping--he untagged himself from all the photos of them together!
Geez.
Now... how can I get to PA? Someone find me a MEETING!
10 October 2009
More on Roman
Well, I brought it up here, but...
the most hilarious poster ever. Below.
"No one does it like you" is right.
the most hilarious poster ever. Below.
"No one does it like you" is right.
02 October 2009
They Got It Right
Ok so you can gloss over the beginnings of this article, unless you have interest in random correlations between market activity and product sales, but it might be helpful when you read the conclusion: That Drew Barrymore's hair is a sign of either rebounding economy (if she gets her "ends" redone regularly) or a failing one (as the authors suggest, because this looks like the saddest root situation I have come across since Grade 10 math).
Or, as Econ Girl puts it,
I AGREE!
Although when I see the trailer to Whip It, with sweet pseudo-lesbo Ellen Page talking to herself in the mirror about how she can make out with a guy, "but that's it!" Drew really redeems herself.
Or, as Econ Girl puts it,
I have a strange suspicion that this behavior is going to lead to some unfortunate visible roots situations. Hopefully it doesn’t get as bad as what Drew Barrymore’s got going on here:
I AGREE!
Although when I see the trailer to Whip It, with sweet pseudo-lesbo Ellen Page talking to herself in the mirror about how she can make out with a guy, "but that's it!" Drew really redeems herself.
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