Check out these basket-toting cuties during an Easter egg hunt, and the boy’s priceless expression. That suspicious gaze brought to mind shades of Arnold Jackson from Diff’rent Strokes–except in much more fashion forward overalls.
Oh, sweetheart, what can be done about this? Even Jazz Hands, overdone blush, a Mardi Gras Reynolds Wrap sash, and a Newton-John headband cannot distract from what’s at hand here. Bless your heart.
And this one could have been easily prevented with a razor. Can this even be real?
Usually pleated pants are the worst part of a photo op, but not in this case:
At least his trousers aren’t VINYL. What is up with that? Even the cat is struggling to break free from that anemic woman’s wardrobe choices. I’d rather don a cat collar than whatever that is around her neck. And who chose that poor man’s Big Bang background? It’s like a swirling cosmic soup where galaxies collide at the corner of Where Is His Belt and Please Button Your Cuffs. And let’s not forget the photographer, complicit in this atrocity, who allowed the female to wear her hair tucked behind those ears. What the what? I sure hope that kitty Rockette-highkicked its way out of that couple’s life.
I do not get it.
Every morning, I look in the mirror, and I see that little frown line that won’t go away, no matter how many hundreds of moisturizer bottles and creams and serums that I’ve used for twenty years. They all promise reduction in wrinkles and improved skin appearance, and definite results within 8 weeks, but I’m here to tell you that not a one of them has ever worked. Ever. This is not an invitation for you to comment about how great your skin care regimen is, because I won’t believe you.
With my long blonde hair now, I look like a surfer Gordon Ramsay, or perhaps Gordon if he was ever a hippie/stoner/metalhead. He actually had a professional come in and tweak his face, but seriously, he still looks old and wrinkly. But he’s got a great head of hair and an expression like a chunky nine-month old Aryan baby, so that works for him.
Honestly, I look better than his “after” picture, but that doesn’t prevent me from wanting to get a sander and just smooth out those creases in the manner that I wield an iron against pleated chinos. I mean, if Sharron Stone can do it, why can’t I? Oh, yeah, she’s a millionaire. And she still has smile lines that look like they could snap like a dried rubber band at any second.
Still, she looks better than most of post-surgery Hollywood. Every time I consider Botox, I remind myself of Meg Ryan and Melanie Griffith and the “chin ladies,” Suzanne Somers and Priscilla Presley, who seem to have injected gravel into their chins, quite the opposite of smoothing:
We want our celebrities to be the beautiful people, eye candy, the standard-setters of beauty. We need something to aspire to, right? I have to admit that last month when I watched The Way Way Back (to see Steve Carell because all the world loves a Steve Carell), I was a bit offput by Toni Collette’s ability to move her facial muscles all across her face. My first thought was, “Why is she letting herself be in a movie for all the free world to see–with a forehead as crinkly as all get-out?” But then I decided that it matched the character of the everywoman, so it made sense, and why shouldn’t she be allowed to just look like an average human being, warts and all? Perhaps she has already had something done, but at least she doesn’t look like a Halloween mask. I’d rather watch her moving parts on the big screen than hear the chin ladies deny rumors of plastic surgery.
As for myself, I think it’s time to trade in my Oil of Olay for something more results-oriented: