Fashion Slumber Party

I'm going to let you guys in on a little secret:  I kinda hate shopping for clothes.  My mother will contest this, but I promise, as I get older I get more and more frustrated with sifting through racks, trying things on and trying to worry about what's in style - and in my budget.  I'd much rather spend my money on my home and run around town in jeans and a tank top with little fuss.  I even find myself rolling my eyes at the kids in their fancy get ups, a sure sign that I'm not only a frustrated shopper, I'm fucking old.  So, yesterday, when our blog BFF, Raina, sent us a link to the hottest fashion hotel on the planet, I really wasn't sure if I could do it blog justice.  Afterall, it took me a minute to distinguish this hotel's brand, Moshchino, from that other fashion line with the long Italian word that starts with an M, Mossimo.  Yes, the target brand, that is how lame my fashion radar is.  But, knowing that Target would never ever ever be able to put out something this cool, no matter how many Isaac Mizrahis* and Anna Suis they threw on the design fire, I figured it out. *annoying

So, without further ado, I give you computer generated images (almost as annoying as Mizrahi) of Maison Maschino, due to open any darn day now in Milan

Can any of you look at this picture and not think American Beauty?

Sorry for the small pic, it's the best they had on their site.  I really wish that teacup were a bathtub, not a table.

I don't love these lamps, they seem a little corny, but I guess it works for a fashion hotel.  I really like the headboard fashion twist better.  Also, while I'm complaining, can't they at least get cooler stands?  That carved wood is janky.  Mama don't like.

This, unfortunately, is not a room in their hotel, just a picture on their site.  But if it isn't the most preciousest dang thing you ever done did see then I just don't know what is. 

Get Gladstoned

The seventh level of hell must include many poor souls who decided to off themselves while in the midst of home renovations. Now, don't get trigger happy and call 911 yet -- I'm not really that desperate. But I'm close. Just look at what a long weekend's worth of work hath wrought:

Dontcha wish your household was hot like mine? Dontcha... dontcha?

I really thought we had turned a corner in our kitchen renovations, but I was sadly mistaken. Even my normally temperate darling Hunny Bunny is pitching a 10 alarm hissy fit because every single thing that can go wrong has. Last night we went to bed after one am and when I awoke, I hoped to find that this mess was just a dream. But, alas -- hell no. It's a waking nightmare.

I think I'm going to head over to Toronto's Gladstone Hotel to get grounded. Its homey atmosphere just might cut my melodramatic crap and whip me into shape. Maybe.

On my first night there, I plan to stay in the Teen Queen Room, where I will bust out my Swatch phone, call Karly and whine about my kitchen. Then I will make moonpie eyes at my posters of Simon LeBon and Corey Hart. Please do not tell me if you are too young to know who these people are. I probably won't like you anymore.

On night two I shall to visit the Skygazer Room, where I will ponder the mysteries of the know universe, chief among them being: how can Louise Nevelson still make artwork when she's been dead for 20 years?

Night three: I will restore my faith in humanity while relaxing in the comforting grandmaesque Faux Naturelle Room. Only one catch -- apparently I will also enjoy "a jumb-o-tron view of a bevy of husky wood nymphs frolicking in a forest glade via a giant erotic fun fur canyon scene covering the largest wall in the room." Oh. I see.

On the fourth night of my vacation, I will chillax in the Snapshot Room while drinking in the photographic scenery of Toronto in fall. I find that trees always diminish the night terrors, don't you?

Night Five will find me in the Canadiana Room, where I will pray to god that the antlers don't eat me while I'm sleeping. If I'm lucky, I will be visited in my dreams by those guys from Strange Brew -- you know, the ones who had to drink themselves out of a tank of beer. Now that sounds like a vacation, eh?

On my last night I will stay here, in the, uh, Blue Line Room. Well, let's just call a spade a spade, shall we? This is the sex room. I can think of 800 hilarious things to say here, but I'm just going to let this one go for fear of somehow incriminating myself. Anyone care to say what I won't?

Well, friends, it's back to work I go. No real rest for the weary!

Happy Memorial Day

The Human American Eagle shot by Arthur Mole in 1918.  12,500 American troops make up the winged beauty.  See more of his work HERE.  Thanks to Double Takes, where I originally spotted Mole's work.

After you all are pose for your patriotic group portrait, I hope you indulge in hot dogs (non veggie), swimming pools and lots of beer.