Hilarious Lines, Part 1

"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?

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!

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.

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:

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.

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.

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.

Bringing Down the Babysitter, Part 4

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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.

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.

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!

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!

More on Roman

Well, I brought it up here, but...

the most hilarious poster ever. Below.
"No one does it like you" is right.

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 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.

Alas, I Knew This Day Would Come

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a great writer/director. He had great films, such as Rosemary's Baby (a personal fave, because devil-babies are hilarious), Chinatown, and more recently, The Pianist (Adrien Barooooooodaaaayyyy).

Oh Roman, you ruled the cinema.

But (allegedly) he drugged and seduced (that's a nice word for what appears to have gone down) at 13 year old in 1977.

Anyhow, Roman apparently finally got busted. In 2009. In Zurich, of all places.

This proves several things:
1. Money can buy you freedom; you can just avoid countries that will punish your crimes
2. The U.S. justice system is critically flawed--it took them THIRTY years to get this guy? HE'S A CELEBRITY. I can radar-track Paris Hilton, and you can't follow an old man around? COME ON.
3. In the 70s, anything went. Really. Especially in Jack Nicholson's den...
4. Poor guy is a Holocaust survivor... He's entitled to some weird behavior.

Bringing Down the Brother, Part 3

The third act was always the best in Shakespeare.

And things got steamy quickly with the Athlete.

It was as if someone had replaced all of my blood with liquid courage and sex-crazed-teenage-boy-libido.

Johnny Depp as Don Juan DeMarco, is that you? (Click for sexy!)

I was in high school all over again. Trying to be quiet so as not to wake the parents, trying not to hurt myself in the wild, mostly trying to take as many mental images of the Athlete as possible.

Ladies have a Spank Bank too.

The makeout quickly progressed from over-the-sweatshirt boob-grabs to full-on under-sweatsuit groping. (Handily, these suits are clearly made for easy removal).

Before I was really sure what was happening, I had been entirely shorn of my cloth coating, he of his ployester warmup suit.

And let me just interject: as attractive as he had been up to this point, a fire-lit glimpse of him is still burned into my mind (literally, figuratively).

I straddled him, thinking that I would largely be in change of this blessed event. But after a few thrusts, I came to know the Athlete's strength in a completely new way. He picked me up, and using a tree for stability, gave me some of the best sex I'd ever had. Maybe it was the fear of being caught, maybe it was fear of the bears and foxes... maybe it was all those s'mores...

"I'm so close", I whispered.

"Hold on", he said, as he laid down by the fire. It was romantic, because being fireside is like that, but also completely arousing, because a) I was about to come, and b) because pain and pleasure often go hand in hand.

Because the Athlete is a gentleman, he lay down and let me be on top; often, I regard this as the lazy man's way of getting a girl off... but it wasn't bothering me at all. As I came, he grabbed my collar area--enough to know he wasn't going to choke me, but also enough to know that he was maybe more of a bad boy than I thought.

Seriously. The MOVES on this man!

Hot.

When I was done, he wrapped his hand around the back of my neck and pulled me down, rolled me onto my back and lay on top of me, sweating and kissing.

This continued for some time, but culminated when we smelled burning.

BECAUSE IT WAS MY HAIR.

Needless to say, in the morning, I had some es'plainin' to do...

But in the end, our secret affair remained a secret--and I hope that on my next camping adventure it happens again!!

Good luck to all of you who venture into the wild. May your exploits be sexy too!

Bringing Down the Brother, Part 2

Where was I?

Oh, right... Fabio.

As I was starting to get at, the Athlete could have had everyone on MILF Island competing in death challenges for his attention. And yet, he is still the sweetest, most modest young man (hey... let me have it) I know.

And there he is, casually catching some rays on the dock.

Now, despite his physical prowess, the Athlete has always been out of bounds (did you get my sports wordplay?)--no one wants to break his heart; also, I think I would be unfriended by at least 10 people.

Also, while the Athlete has mustered a few flirts after a few Jagerbombs, he's never actively pursued anyone I know. So you can imagine my (pleasant) surprise when the Athlete made a move.

Let me set this up for you Steele style. It was late in the evening, bordering on early in the morning (the time when the cougars prowl? Perhaps). The whole group of us had been shotgunning beers by the fire, roasting marshmallows and drinking homemade wine straight from the bottle since dinner. Guitars had been taken out long ago; now my one friend Jack was trying to play "Single Ladies" despite not knowing how to play the guitar at all.

Ok, maybe not Steele style just yet.

But as married, coupled, or otherwise uninterested people tend to do after too many drinks, people started to filter into the cottage (or into the woods, if you're classy like my friends Carol and Bill, together 2 years). Soon enough the fire was barely heating the few remaining bodies, and one was significantly more athletic than the others.

We made a collective decision to call it a night, and immediately my friends Matt and Kyle made a run for it. forgetting that leaving a fire unattended is the cardinal sin of camping. Smokey the Bear would have eaten them if he had been around.

Normally, you'd think, "Hey, I'm sitting with the hottest guy I know, in this romantic setting. And we're both majorly buzzed (I'm in a frat now? Ok.). This can only end sexily".

But the Athlete never goes for that, so instead I took a bucket down to the river. The Athlete was being manly and was stomping out embers when I returned.

Seriously, one axe and some plaid was all he needed to complete several of my fantasies.

And then he said, "Hey, maybe we can just sit here for a bit before going in?"

SCHWING! But still, I am not seeing this as a play for getting in my sweats.

So we sit, and we chat for some time. The Athlete is confiding in me like a sister, but he's not telling me about the mean kids on the playground or his homework. He's telling me he wishes he spent more time meeting people in school instead of being a varsity athlete. And how he wishes he had gone out more with his frat brothers. And that he might be getting too old for that. But that he's not ready for marriage, at least not until he can open and close a wild-out chapter of his life.

Oh, Athlete.

Welcome to the Den of Sin.

I try to reassure him in a sisterly way; I'm still pretty sure that my friends are awake only a few steps away. I'm also pretty sure that the Athlete would be a wonderful conquest. No! Suppress!!

Me: "Tons of guys our age are still acting like teenagers, Athlete. You have nothing to worry about. Plus you're a fox! You should have no problem. Just be yourself, you're a great guy."

Quiet your loins, Garage Girl!

But they aren't listening. And I think he can hear them, because without any prompting, he grabbed the back of my neck (Mmmm yeah) and kissed me.

With tongue.

**Don't worry, it's not over yet.

Bringing Down the Brother, Part 1

I think it's a law of science that all my friends have hot brothers. (Perhaps I just have attractive friends? Maye not...)

Case 1: The Athlete

The Athlete is several years older than I am, but has the emotional intelligence of an infant. He's notoriously single (but not gay), a very cheap drunk despite being a larger man, and is especially suave unbeknownst to his friends and family.

I recently had the pleasure of camping with said athlete, along with several of our coupled friends (including his brother and sister-in-law) and a few other singles for a week. I had been to the Athlete's family cottage before--bachelorette parties, post-college parties, relax-by-the-lake weekends; on none of these occasions had the Athlete ever been present (off being athletic I suppose!). But on this occasion, fresh off a month-long canoe trip, the Athlete came along too.

Now, the Athlete has always impressed me with his physique. (He's also impressed most females and questioning males, but that's besides the point.) Despite his chiseledness (not a word?), he often keeps his sweet bod under wraps.

So you can only imagine how my taste buds quivered when I caught a glimpse of his exceptionally tanned, muscular frame lounging on the dock as I got to the cottage.

**Now, before I get all Harlequin on you, I should warn that the rest of this story is less than buttoned up. Now, bring on the Fabio--in Part 2!

Time to Give Up the Lohan, Return to the Gym, Hit on KIDS star?

Ok, so a few days ago I pre-wrote this post (come on, I have a real job too).

------

Against all better judgment, perpetually single Jason Segel did the unthinkable:

He partied with BOTH Lohan sisters the other night.

Sigh.

I guess I can't blame him. Linds is on her way back up, that other one is as hot as Linds used to be, but is still young, straight, and willing (probably), and Jason is getting a bit...


soft.

Now, it's obvious that I still would make out with him... but bring him home? I need a man with stamina, Jason, and I'm not sure you're physically capable right now.

100 crunches a night? Try. Because there is still love for you here...

----------

But now there's MORE!

He's got his mack on one more time, reportedly, with Chloe Sevigny.

Star of Kids, Big Love, and the Fug Girls blog.

No judgment Jason, because Chloe is often spotted on the town solo. She needs a man, much like I do. And she's in her mid-30s, which I hear is the time when the biological clock really gets a-tickin'.

WELL PLAYED, indeed!

I hope for procreations.

Untitled (aka Distant Lover)

A friend of mine is currently in a long-distance relationship. Why?

Because she can't find any available men locally.

Is that not the worst thing you've ever heard?

It made me feel a bit desperate... which is maybe why I made some bad decisions on a recent trip to Toronto for the International Film Festival (more on that later; also, I saw some great movies).

But this friend, whom I was visiting... She is a local celebrity in Toronto, and as such whenever I visit we often get into some pretty swanky places and I get to meet other local celebs (FYI, Devon Soltendiek from MuchMusic does NOT look like a gay boy in person. He looks like someone I would like hot sauce off of).

She is both attractive and successful--but not too much of either to make you hate her, just enough that you are glad she's your friend so she doesn't steal your boyfriend.

And for some reason, she feels it necessary to go all the way to Montreal to get a booty call.


I tell you, is this not the saddest thing you've ever heard?

I'm going to go cut myself or something...

Sunday Movie: Shopgirl

Nothing gets you in the spirit of fall like a May-December romance, no?

So this Sunday I rented Shopgirl, which has been out for quite some time and stars Steve Martin as the wealthy December-character, Claire Danes as the love interest, and Jason Schwartzman as the third prong in the love triangle.

Basically, Schwartzman's character picks up Claire Danes, who works at Saks on Melrose in LA, but then she is stolen away by Martin. And then clearly Schwartzman wants her back, so goes on a life journey to make it happen.

Oh, also Claire Danes moonlights as an artist. Of course... because it's LA.

So, the goodies:
1. The awkwardness that is the first sexual encounter between Claire and Jason is amazing. Her panties saw "Please?" all over them which makes you think she's not as buttoned-up as she seems early in the film.
2. Claire Danes finally has an artful nude scene
3. Oh, and girl is from Vermont--when she goes home, her mom is the mom from 6 Feet Under!

The Bummers:
1. Steve Martin's narration is... a poor fit. Something about it is wrong. Maybe Alec Baldwin?
2. You either love or hate Claire Danes... and her characters never win me over to love.
3. Jason Schwartzman has to slick his hair back and wear a white suit to get the girl. Seriously, he looks like a cross between Miami Vice and Adam Levine from Maroon 5. I did not dig. Bring back the Jackson Browne hair!
4. If you work at Saks, show me Saks!

Clearly I didn't love the movie... who says that having to love someone your own age should trump loving an old, rich guy? And Steve Martin isn't that old. And he buys Claire Danes Armani.

Then again, Jason Schwartzman is undeniably cute. Losers in LA are never that cute I don't think.

Recommended if you are dating a loser and want him to shape up or ship out temporarily. Not for those who want to find and keep a sugar daddy.

Comeback Celebs (maybe), 2

Lilo.

We were sad when you stopped wearing pants and got emaciatedly thin (well, sort of.)

But you have successfully kept off the pants, and weight, and you maybe even were spotted outside of a bar getting out of a car with Jason Segel (more later... get tissues, because you might cry).

But now you're going to get creative again? For UNGARO??

I hope this pans out. Girl needs a job, and might actually do something interesting in this position (sorry hon, Just My Luck was a bad movie). Come back, girl. Because you could make smoking a hot accessory again.