Please don’t think me naive that I’m waaay behind the curve in this post-modernist-spray-tanning-movement. I know you’ll forgive me that up until last week, I thought tanning beds were still all the rage. I was convinced Paris was the industry’s leading medical experiment. Ok, I admit it, I’m no sun-goddess, so kill me! Then what do I expect from my premiere spray-tanning adventure? To walk outta the joint looking like a Solid Gold dancer of course (I’ve always coveted Darcel)! But is this what actually transpires? Nyet, of course not, don’t be ridiculous! You already knew that… or are you as confused as I was? Entree Madame MEREDITH FISH of BROWNBERRY, the baroness of browning. Mz. spray-tan guru gratefully gives me some serious schooling on the art of the faux-tan. I think of Meredith as Dr. Bronze, making old-fashioned house calls at her clients’ whims (some pretty highbrow whims at that). Spray-tanning = one part vanity + one part healthfulness. This is one movement I can most definitely get down with.

As flustered as I am by the prospect of dropping trou in front of a veritable stranger who is not my lady parts doctor, I’m stripped-down and spread-eagle in her living room in no time flat. Even as I cower before my naked flaws, Meredith’s trained Picasso eyes expertly regard my canvas and transform my nudity into a piece of invisible graffiti art. Invisible, because her misting formula is totally clear, which she manufactures herself. She spritzes me down left, front and center (and I mean every last nook ‘n cranny) with her organic, FDA approved solution made from beets, brown sugar and DHA. Apparently, a real tan is induced when the outermost layer of my skin reacts with the amino acids. An authentic suntan (which can last up to eight days) with no sweating, no burning, no alligator skin and no peeling mess… freaggin’ brill! I try to wiggle some info from Mer about what celeb-u-lite she’s sprayed, but her lips are pursed, the word is mum. She probably knows where Hoffa’s buried, but she’ll never tell. But she does flip me a laundry list of celeb mag mainstays who are bronzed and browned within the site of a spray gun. Who knew?

After all is said and done and I’ve been fluffed with a hair dryer, the whole thing seems kinda silly really, to leave a service that is, as of yet, invisible. This involves the invocation of the female trust credo: do unto others as you would have them spray-tan unto you (yah, it was new to me too). I had expected to leave looking like Darcel, but instead I left looking like that silver-painted robot performer in Times Sq. Apparently my wonder-tan is to appear within the next six hours and by nightfall I’ll look optimally stupendous and sun-kissed gorgeous, se magnifique! And of course, I savor the luscious irony of people raving ad nauseum about how ‘healthy’ I look with my faux-tan that I acquired indoors without ever absorbing a single vitamin A ray. Yah, maybe 1950′s “Sleeper” smoke-cigarettes-and-eat-tons-of-red-meat-healthy, but we all know how that turned out.

Truth be told, I do look fabu, all bronzey brown and toasty and even my dermatologist would approve. I worship my golden goddessness, I covet it, oh God how will I live without it? (Sorry, I slipped, it happens.) And you must know how I relish supporting independent women in business, a major high in spreading the love. I have to say, being invisibly misted by Meredith is as unique and whimsical an experience as being lectured by Silent Bob or chastised by Marcel Marceau, an absolute cannot miss on your summer’s must-list.

www.brownberrynyc.com
< href="mailto:"Meredith@brownberrynyc.com">Meredith@brownberrynyc.com
917.612.5814

CLINKIE, DRINKIE… SUMMER COCKTAIL CONCOCTIONS!
By Amber Roniger

Am I the only one to notice that it suddenly got hella hot? No, I didn’t think so. Man, I’m craving a chilly drinkie. Maybe a tasty little sugar-rimmed mojito, magnificently muddled, or the perfectly puckered lemon drop shot (brrrrr). Hmmm, so many cocktails, so few happy hours, what to do… While waitressing (and waiting, and waiting), I became the de facto bartender, a far more salient talent to offer to the world than, ‘who’s having the smoked salmon?’ And so I offer up to you on a spiked wedge, a shaken tini and a stirred platter some of Bacardi’s most yummy-rummy new melony concoctions for the summer season.

Melonic Breeze (Evocative of the famous melonic breezes of Mali)

1 1/2 ounces Bacardi Grand Melon
4-5 Fresh Mint Leaves
2 Cucumber Slices
1 ounce Fresh Lime Juice
1/2 ounce Simple Syrup Seltzer

Glass: Highball or Collins (thank you sirs)

In mixing glass or shaker, muddle cucumber slices well until crushed. Add mint and muddle (to extract essential oils). Add remaining ingredients, except seltzer. Add ice and shake well. Pour mixture into glass. Top with seltzer and stir gently.

Sweet Fire (Not for the timid… yeow!)

1 1/2 ounces Bacardi Grand Melon
2 Slices Jalapeno
1 1/2 ounces Pineapple Juice
1 ounce Fresh Lime Juice

Garnish: Slice of jalapeno
Glass: Highball or Collins (again, obliged)

In cocktail shaker combine one slice of jalapeno and all liquid ingredients, add ice and shake vigorously. Strain into cocktail glass or serve over ice. Garnish with remaining slice of jalapeno.

Rind It Up! (If I have the lime, and you have the bass)

1 1/2 ounces Bacardi Grand Melon
2 quarter Lime Wedges
3-4 large Watermelon Cubes
1/2 ounce Honey

Garnish: Lime pinwheel
Glass: Double Old-fashioned/Rocks (twice as nice)

Muddle watermelon well (to break down & extract water). Add limes and muddle (to extract juice & oil from rind). Add remaining ingredients and ice. Shake well and pour into glass. Garnish with lime pinwheel.

Pink Melonade (I think about you all the time, I see you in my dreams)

1 1/2 ounces Bacardi Grand Melon
3 ounces Lemonade
1 ounce Fresh Pomegranate Juice Seltzer

Garnish: Watermelon Spike or Lemon Wedge
Glass: Highball or Collins (hat tipped)

Combine all ingredients in cocktail shaker, except seltzer and garnish. Add ice and shake well. Strain over ice in glass. Top with seltzer and stir gently. Garnish with watermelon spike or lemon wedge.

All of a sudden, DOROTHY DRAPER is freakin’ everywhere. Have you noticed? No matter where I look, there she is… BERGDORF’S, THE MUSEUM OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK, even the Janovic Plaza window on Lex. Dorothy, Dorothy, Dorothy, this is all I ever hear! As I’m wandering around humming “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” this woman is getting serious play 35 years post-mortem. I’m running my fastest to keep up with an iconographic ghost, and I’m losing. For those who live in the interior design ice age and don’t know about DD, here’s the lowdown: only the most momentous femme-fatale-independent-businesswoman-interior-designer, diva-chic, uber-influential tastemaker ever to hit NYC, nay, the whole damn country. Clinkie to the D!

The high style of Dorothy Draper (insert Phyllis Diller laugh here) seems to be all the rage again, dahling. High society is revisiting talk of the patented Draper effect, being “Draperized.”

To describe her ‘effect’ in street speak: big, large and girly. Dorothy tended to design on a rather (ahem) generously proportioned scale, for large public commissions, hotels in particular (The Carlyle, Hampshire House, The Greenbrier) and was an advocate of the huge striped wall and mega gargantuan flowers she loved to paint and imprint damn near everywhere. This is one woman I would visit in my time machine and invite to tea. Let’s face it ladies, we have a dearth of true female role models, and I nominate Dorothy Draper as a candidate worthy of consideration: a dynamic creative force, design pioneer, writer and advisor, autonomous woman in business in the 1930′s (hello? who was this goddess?), who took no bull and no prisoners, and ranks pretty highfalutin’ on my all-time diva list.

My first foreshadowy glimpse of the Draper Effect currently sweeping the city is the Janovic display. And I can’t help but wonder…with that classic Dorothy Draper glamour-shot from the 30′s that’s in every exhibit of her work…is she sportin’ the Snoop-Dog? Whatever that ‘do is girl, it’s fabulous. Truly timeless.

My first ever venture into Bergdorf’s was earlier this month, past their tremendous DOROTHY DRAPER window display. I somehow magically arrive on the Interior Design Floor, which has of course, been Draperized. I’m fascinated by the crowd of characters who have come to such a tribute and book signing for “IN THE PINK: DOROTHY DRAPER “AMERICA’S MOST FABULOUS DECORATOR” by CARLTON VARNEY (President of Dorothy Draper and Carlton Varney, Co.). Rapt, I observe the scene past my asparagus-tipped, caviar-dipped spear (ok, you know I didn’t eat the caviar, but whatev), which is simply beyond all polite society words that come readily to mind. Just beyond. Do you feel me? Mr. V and Ms. D sure know how to fill a room.

But the motherlode tribute to Dorothy Draper: THE HIGH STYLE OF DOROTHY DRAPER is currently at the Museum of the City of New York (May 2nd through September 10th) (designed by Paul Carlos and Urshula Barbour of Pure + Applied; decorative painting by Millree Hughes). Mayhap you noticed this is where we’re throwing our 3rd Anniversary Par-tay Bash? Of course you did. Mz. Dorothy’s legend has taken over half of the Museum’s first floor in a tributary retrospective of her too-too life and career: from the painted walls, to the myriad photographs of her greatest works, drawings and designs, larger-than-large furniture and rare magazine adverts. I mean, the woman redid the interior of an airplane (Convair 880 Jet) and made it look stylie for cryin’ out loud. Was there nothing she could not conquer, no medium she could not perpetrate? Susan Henshaw Jones, the Museum’s President and Director quoth: “…her bold colors, lavish decoration, and overscaled patterns are everywhere vividly present today.” Javol, mon capitan.

As if all of this fabulousness hasn’t sent you over the edge, Tupperware paired up with the Big D. to create the DOROTHY DRAPER/TUPPERWARE BELL (I kid you not, a dinner bell)…this is so beyond hot. It’s pink and black and is NOT for sale, anywhere. Tupperware made The Draper-designed bells to be given out at the opening of the exhibit at the Museum and guess who has the remaining 100 or so bells? Yep. We do. If you show up to our little soiree, it might perhaps be possible that some DD Bells will be making their appearance. (word is that the first 100 people to buy a raffle ticket will take home one of these faboo-trinkets, but you didn’t get that from me) It’s peculiar though, I keep ringing my bell, but as of yet, Jeeves hasn’t shown up with my tea. Maybe I should take it over to Paris’ mansion and see if anyone responds to my despondent bonging.

Btw to this day, Carlton Varney keeps Dorothy Draper the design firm up and running strong, a living tribute to Dorothy D., and a real slice of New York City and American history subsisting in the present. Ms. Diva Dorothy always relished the proclamation of her “Decoration Of Independence” and I vote that we should ratify this treatise immediately. Ladies?…

THE HIGH STYLE OF DOROTHY DRAPER
THE MUSEUM OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK
1220 Fifth Avenue, NYC
212-534-1672
www.mcny.org

To purchase Carelton Varney’s “In The Pink: Dorothy Draper, America’s Most Fabulous Decorator” go to Bergdorf Goodman, Barneys, Rizzoli or to purchase online go to www.amazon.com

Oooooo, you are so gonna love this fab new centre du pampering on the Mad Ave I have for you! The NAO SALON + SPA opened just last week, how’s that for speedy chic delivery? Are you caveling? Nao, already a hairstylist rock-star in Tokyo and London, is spanking new to the States. But across the Pond, Nao’s style sanctuary sensation has been evolving over the last 30 years, ever since his father started a simple barbershop that bloomed into an international fashion leader in cutting-edge hair design. This salon ees lush, like Gucci-sushi and spice, and everything nice.

If you’re anything like me, I know all you femmy-felines have suffered at least one indignity at the hands of a hairstylist. Honestly, I’m secretly terrified at the prospect of leaving all the styling decisions to Nao (will I land up looking like some exaggerated anime heroine?). But I decide to trust him and let him go to town on my crown. And true to reputation, Nao turns out to be a hairstyle psychic, reading my hair aura exactly and creating the perfect do for me. He totally got my funky, no-hassle needs without my having a say a word. And I left the place smiling from perfectly shorn ear-to-ear, completely hep on my new do and the first-rate service. Thank God there was no repeat performance of winged-feathers from the 80′s, SuperCuts nightmares from the 90′s, and the suburban-housewife-misguidedly-layered-hairdon’t in the new millennium. Yes, I’ve been scarred by these hideous misadventures. I was a bit of a haircut-a-phobic, but now thanks to Nao, I’ve discarded my old phobia.

After experiencing Nao’s luxe personalized hair service (and killer head massage, thank you shampoo lady!), I’m dying to get the Signature Facial and other oxygen treatments (full menu of services at: www.naonewyork.com). Also, to try the newest spa treatments from Japan, which detoxify and slim, create radiance and release stress in most unusual ways. So join me, the Mad Ave’s newest hairess, at Nao and get spoiled silly by a team of A-list stylists, colorists and make-up artists. Now I understand why Demi flies everywhere with her personal style entourage. It is sooo worth the extra stress for extra-stylie tresses!

NAO SALON + SPA
609 Madison Avenue (at 57th St.)
(212) 752-1111
www.naonewyork.com

Anglo Mania!
By Alisa Leonard

All this drizzly spring weather has me sporting my green Wellington’s…which only remind me of my favorite place outside of NYC and that’s merry ‘ole England. Oh god I love it there– Go Man U! Bangers ‘n mash…oh and who doesn’t adore those bobbies’ uniforms? I am, you see, a misplaced ex-pat who loves her Harrod’s and Camden thrift and antiquing in Bath. Ah yes, with London calling ever so loudly, and no time for a hop across the pond to satiate my current hankering for a trip to Justin Kara on Portabello Road, I tromped my Burberry and Wellies-clad self over to the MET for a dose of “Anglo Mania.”

The Anglo Mania exhibit is, well, fabulous to say the least and has “Anna Wintour” written all over it. The Conde Nast and Burberry sponsered affair is tattooed with Brit-vogue splendor and haute British fashion….you will simply drool over the Alexander McQeueen offerings, not to mention the gorgeous designs of Burberry, John Guilliano for Dior, Stella McCartney, Vivienne Westwood, Paul Smith, and a host of antique and estate-pilfered frocks that look something of an Alice in Wonderland tea-room fantasy.

So this is my suggestion: start with High Tea at High Chai (Amber wrote about this favorite spot of mine in your last e-blast) to get into the mood, then mosey on up to the MET. The exhibit space itself is like walking right into The Manor house of (fill 3-part name of English village here)…the theme is “Tradition and Transgression,” and indeed the whole thing is like hoity-toity, Knightsbridge toff meets East End punk with elements of England’s subversive, Victorian-era opium den and brothel house decor that are none too subtle. Don’t miss “The Hunt,” a modern twist on said English tradition, featuring a most killer collection of Burberry apparel including a lavender silk gown that’s to die. Oh but my absolute favorites are a rivetting black gown, “The Raven” by John Guilliano, and the punk’s ball which is only the most genius representation of ’70′s haute-punk a la Eastenders ever. Needless to say my visit did much to appease my need for tartan and Union Jack….but also invariabley insured that I would need to be seeing the runway lights at Heathrow, pronto. So cheerio and all that….get thyself to the MET!

Please, please, please don’t be peeved at me for not cluing you in sooner to my fav tea extravaganza on Avenue B. It’s completely not my fault, I swear. Life is just so damn crazy lately! What with spring-cleaning and all (I totally straightened the sofa cover) and starting that spring fling thing (haven’t quite worked out the logistics on that one either), I hardly have any time for the most important chore on the agenda… high tea with my lady crew. And for chrissakes, HIGH CHAI has only been open since last year so I’m not that delinquent. Don’t I already do everything for you (you still love me, right)? I know you’ll cut me a little slack here, my honies, cause I’m seriously engrossed by my (top-secret) mission (from the UN High Commission) to uncover every last hot tea spot nook and cranny in this entire town. Uh, yah, that’s how I made my fortune.

Since I take my mission very seriously, I sleuth on over to High Chai to sneak a peak. This perky little peach of a tea spot seamlessly blends ornate Chianti walls with fine bone China (not the easiest decor to pull off, kudos!), dishing up tons ‘o different tea blends and ceremonies from every damn place that ever thought to pour hot water over leaves and call it tea. But High Chai’s one distinctly unique feature isn’t the caviar, or the wafer thin crepes, or the flakey mushroom pastry worthy of a jig. It’s Svetlana, the gregarious owner, pouring the stiffest passion fruit infused martini this side of Russia and laughing me under the bar with her outrageous tales. You too would be shocked to hear of her and a friend being escorted out the door of a certain Cheshire Cat-inspired tea nook for stirring tea with a knife (the apparent equivalent of flipping the bird in high tea speak, who freaking knew?). And who else can claim to zip around town on a girly scooter with a horse-riding helmet? Svetlana’s svetlananess is oozing from every artsy detail of High Chai’s clubby vibe, definitely a late night spot for all you tea-loving owls. Yah, I could fib and say I return to High Chai mainly for their fab food and strong-ass drinks, but truth be told, Svetlana’s tall tales and outlandish banter are the main draw for me.

In addition to live music and other special events, you’d be foolhardy to miss a really cool gathering this weekend. Sip chocolate tea to the tune of TRANSFERS IN COLOR by NORMA BROWN HILL, a unique photo workshop on Sunday, May 21st. Learn about photo transfer and emulsion lift and make beautiful impressionistic photographs worthy of hanging on the MOMA’s walls. Even the White Rabbit, late as he is, has enough time to hop on by the Chai and say hi.

High Chai
18 Avenue B, NYC
www.highchai.com
(212) 477-CHAI

TRANSFERS IN COLOR by NORMA BROWN HILL
Sunday, May 21st from 12-5PM
RSVP to: photoart@optonline.net or 516-659-2297
www.artnsoul-online.com

CUPID’S QUID PRO QUO
By Amber Roniger

Since you’re already familiar with the grisly disaster that is my non-existent dating life, I won’t even bore you with more gory details. So I know you’ll excuse me for appearing totally geeky by attending my first ever speed-dating event put on by CUPID.COM and DORCHESTER PUBLISHING. I know, I know, I’m supposed to believe that my love life could resemble some romance novel cover (“Single In Singapore?”). God forbid this re-virgin snog or shag sometime this millennium. I figure, if “Springtime for Hitler” can bring down the house in Jerusalem, then perhaps I have half a shot at getting some sugar. And you know what they say, once you go past the first six months, it’s just a slide into menopause. Well I’m only 33, so I decided to fight.

I approach with my usual gay attitude: don’t expect anything and you can’t be disappointed. So there’s that. But the first aspect of the whole dating mishmosh that suits my fancy is the fact that the women sit still like queens and the men have to shuffle from table to table, cocktails in hand (as well it should be). So there’s that. And much to my surprise, I find that I actually appreciate the sentiment these men are coming from. Let’s face it, clubs and bars are shitty places to connect with members of the opposite sex. You know who’s frequenting those kinds’a joints: hustlers, hoosiers, boozers and aspiring conmen… reaaalllly slim pickins. And I’ve made those mistakes before, both The-Asshole-Before-The-Bastard and the Bastard himself were byproducts of the club scene and so I finally learned to steer clear of venues that rely on lighting from disco balls refracting cheezy black lights. So there’s that.

And here we are, a room full of jittery men and women, who are sick of the bullshit and want to try something different. And we’re busy little critters who don’t have much time and wanna get right down to business. And lo and behold, there are actually some interesting men who I probably wouldn’t have noticed across a crowded dance floor (I’m totally hypnotized by the strobes). And although six minutes (sometimes gratefully) passes in a flash, it is enough time to start to go deep, if you wanna… or you can just sit around and yack about his dayjob at Sunglass Hut. And I am surprised (again) at the amount of candor and sincerity displayed by these men, for a change of pace. And honestly, even though I didn’t find my perfect match, I’d definitely do it again, because I truly do believe that great relationships begin with stimulating conversation and not awful lines slurred over gin martinis: ‘What a great ba-dunk-a-dunk you have, my dear!’ Geez Louise, get a grip!

www.cupid.com to register
All Single Professionals, Ages 32-44
June 21 @ 6:20 PM
The Prince Street Club
177 Prince Street – 2nd Floor

And the Award for Best Luncheon Goes to…CEW
By Stefanie Schwalb

This year Cinco de Mayo took a turn for the more glam when skincare, hair care and makeup professionals reneged on their usual liquid lunch of tequila and margaritas (unlikely, I know, but it did happen), to dine divine at the Waldorf Astoria in honor of the COSMETIC EXECUTIVE WOMEN’S (CEW) Beauty Insider’s Choice Awards of 2006. The awards honoring the best in show are selected by CEW members (over 4,000 fab pros in the beauty biz). Beauty co’s everywhere covet The CEW Pink Seal of Success that the exalted winners can place on their packaging (think pink!).

The star-studded event (and let me emphasize ‘studded’ because two “Sex in the City” dudes emceed, and I also caught a lusty glimpse of the fabulous Frederic Fekkai, nià…” handsome devil!) is considered the Oscars of the beauty industry, with four nominees selected in each of 34 categories: makeup, skincare, hair care, bath & body, nails, sun, and scent. Nearly 500 products were in competition by 180 beauty companies, with 173 finalists selected. In addition, there were 22 companies in consideration for top honors in the special Enterprising Beauty Award Category, trumpeting the innovation and entrepreneurial spirit of small independent beauty companies (we love you!). This year’s winners include beauty ADDICTS, FusionBeauty, GIELLA custom blend cosmetics, MALIN + GOETZ, and MD Skincare.

The fun of the CEW awards kicked off back in February, 2006 with the CEW beauty awards product demo at the Metropolitan Pavilion. A mouthwatering display of every product imaginable for girls and guys looking for the beaucoup best beauty products around made my mouth… water. After judging these sensational selections, CEW members picked the finalists. Then the CEW Board of Governors provided the final word. The voting is strictly confidential, the ballots tabulated by Ernst & Young – again, just like the Oscars! Fortunately, the potency and excitement of the winners’ acceptance speeches were not dampened by self-indulgent blubbering (hello, Rene!) or excessively long orations (hello, Halle). Whew!

In my humble opinion (cause I am your hair editor, remember hello?!), the following wins earned two tributary shakes of my beauty pompoms: Hair Care & Coloring Product ($10 and over) – Frederic Fekkai’s Overnight Hair Repair, and Hair Care & Coloring Product (under $10) – Clairol Nice ‘n Easy Root Touch-up. One of my fav body treatments (under $15), Jergens Natural Glow Daily Moisturizer, also won, as did Olay’s Regenerist Continuous Night Recovery for Anti Aging (under $20). Check out more info on the celebrated winners and the Cosmetic Executive Women’s association at www.cew.org.

Every day when noon rolls around, I turn to my co-workers with glazed-over eyes and pose the same nagging question: what are you getting for lunch? As if it’s never occurred to us before. And so every day, the same monotonous question is broached with no sensational answer.

Midtown Manhattan is not the easiest place to find lunch every day. The diversity ranks at ‘eh’ on my patented lady-who-lunches scale. Midtown is chockablock with either fancy-schmancy corporate-card, executive type places, or schlocky to-go joints. Woman cannot lunch on pizza and bagels alone, and this vegetarian won’t be caught dead buying hotdogs and gyros from the street carts.

And so today, with that dreaded question looming, I decide to try something new. I’ve heard rumors of a terrific salad place. Of course the cynical luncher in me wonders, what could be so damn innovative about salad? And not to dish, but what really gets this salad snob’s goat (I know all you other veggies out there will feel me on this) is when the meat toppings are positioned in the back row and plip-plop into the pure veggie tubs in the front, oh the bastardization of greenery! And then, to add salad insult to injury, these poseur salad artists use the same tongs to grab the veggies as the meat, WTF?! Okay, I know by now you’re thinking I’m a completely freaky-anal salad veggie militant, but consider this, if obvious little things like these aren’t addressed, then what about the big things, like properly toasted almonds and perfectly prepared edamame? No thank you. I’ve walked out of many a salad shop due to the establishment’s lacking proper salad etiquette; even the simple salad is a true art form and should be approached with delicacy and refinement.

So yes, we agree that I’m a bit of a salad erudite, but that’s fine by me. So I’m constantly on the look-out for superior salad joints. And today I decide that it’ll be worth my while to amble the few extra steps outside my usual three-square block sphere of corporate influence and investigate CHOP’T Creative Salad Company, which is located at 60 East 56th Street & 24 East 17th Street.

There is loooong line outside the salad spot. Okay, admittedly a good sign, though perhaps a teensy bit annoying (if I’m even a minute late returning from lunch, I find boss-man flapping and clucking about refilling the printer paper). But the line advances pleasingly fast and I’m within the tangy green walls in no time. Once inside, I observe the place running like a well-oiled Salad Shooter. An orchestral line of blue-uniformed men practice syncopated Kabuki-style chopping maneuvers on the salad greens. I have never before seen tae-kwan-do salad technique performed live. Que impressivo!

The validity of the soup nazi’s rules now seems clear: keep the line moving, step to the left, have your money ready. No, there is no salad radical to shame me, but there is a superior system in place at Chop’t. Numerous salad stations align in a neat row, and I can now see why the line progressed so quickly.

I sit and enjoy my lunch, chopped, diced and sliced, custom ordered to perfection, with oh-so-heavenly avocado in every single bite (all hail avocado dressing!). And now when I return again and again, I revel in the unique and super fresh ingredients. Truth be told friends, it’s by far the best chopped salad depot in town. And I love the fact that I can enjoy my lunch without cowering under the fanatical threat of ‘no salad for you!’

And so I leave you with a few random quotes from the video screens mounted on the lime green, espousing uncommon salad philosophy:

“Europeans traveling to the New World used avocadoes as their form of butter.” (One word: brill!)

“There is a celery museum in Cortage, Michigan.” (Ok, sooo did not know that!)

“My salad days, when I was green in judgment.” William Shakespeare. (Aaah Billy, ever the cunning linguist!)

“The ancient Egyptians worshiped the onion believing that its spherical shape and concentric rings symbolized eternity.” (Ode to the onion, see, me not the only crazy one!)

Chop’t Creative Salad Company
60 East 56th Street & 24 East 17th Street
www.choptsalad.com

I DO Believe in GHOST
By Amber Roniger

Pull up a chair and mull with me why someone might name a clothing line GHOST. Where lies the hidden meaning? Don’t you find it fascinating that the mention of ghosts elicits such a range of emotions from pure enthrallment to absolute terror? I, for one, have had too many friends inundated by “ghosts” to simply write them off as some sort of fabricated apparition.

There is something deliciously ironic about naming a clothing line after a non-being whose costuming is so damn commonplace: one bland sheet with cut-out eyeholes for all of eternity, please (unless, of course, it’s in some really high thread count of divine Egyptian cotton from Barney’s). But on the whole, no thank you, I crave variety way too much! Let’s face facts: ghosts are fashion hacks.

Yet there is another perspective to consider, the relative comfort and ease of floating around weightless in a flowing sheet (unless some peeping-ghost is positioned under me, shooting phantom video of my phantasmal girlie privates, hate that!). There is certainly something to be said for wearing fluid flowing fabrics that swish as you move, never tight or restrictive, never searing indelible marks into tender un-flesh (like those jeans you wore today that have left your mid-section looking like a Hot Wheels racing track). There is something innately feminine (dare I say fey? there, I said it) about floating around the ozone in a loosey-goosey white dress. When it comes to comfort, ghosts certainly have it down pat in an Age-of-Aquarius sorta style. It’s hard to hate on that. Read more

When it comes to the colors of the actual Ghost line, they certainly have the un-color palate of legitimate ghosts’ wardrobe beat hands down. Gorgeous shimmering pastels float balletically around the body, rendering all different shapes and sizes looking swishy-fabulous, femme and free; lit-up with flighty movement and floating on air. The British clothing line is produced through a special process rendering the resulting vintage crepe, satin, georgette and velvet pieces with a beautifully unique feel. The otherworldly colors are produced through unique dyeing, leaving the clothes blissfully machine washable, an absolute must for the modern ghostettes-on-the-go.

Toward the end of every winter all I can think about is wearing clothes so ecstatically light they feel like they’re not even there. And now, thanks to springtime and Ghost, I know where to find them. Once you don them, you’ll think you died and went to heaven.

Ghost NEW YORK
28 Bond Street, NYC
(646) 602-2891
www.ghost.co.uk

SURF THE WHALE’S TAIL TO BENDEL’S
By Amber Roniger

I know you. You hear the words trunk show and are rendered instantly paranoid. You lock the bedroom door and hurriedly pull out the wooden trunk from its ‘secret’ place to check on Aunt Sadie’s ashes. Phew, they’re still there! Don’t be daft darling. I don’t give a damn what you have stowed in your silly little hideaway trunk tucked behind the trundle bed (unless it’s a life-sized Ken Wantanabe blow-up doll, then we can haggle, sister). Ridiculous! Trunks aren’t just for dirty little secrets anymore, but rather for stashing yummy delicious skin care and home accessories away from grabby friends and houseguests’ gaping duffels. (This ‘aint the Four Seasons!) No seriously, they are if you’re at the MALIE KAUAI TRUNK SHOW at HENRI BENDEL’S (May 18th – 21st).

Malie Kauai? That reminds me of this one time, in Hawaii, when I was dancing in my grass skirt on the tiki bar… as if! Malie is actually a scrumptious high-end luxury brand from “The Garden Island” jah, you know the one, where they film “Lost.” Malie products are combobulated from the most luxe naturally indigenous Hawaiian ingredients that puba shells can buy. These premiere luscious personal care and lifestyle products for the body, spirit and abode are derived from floral hydrosols, the truest essence of flower and fruit, good enough to slurp from a coconut, my dear. So grab your conga drum, dance your mango tango, track the sweet flowery smell and surf the whale’s tail over to Bendel’s for some choice Malie Kauai products. Aloha!

www.malie.com
The Malie Kauai Trunk Show at Henri Bendel’s
May 18th – 21st
10am-8pm

To be fair, who really knows what is Mother’s Day is supposed to be? Not quite as personal as a birthday, or gallant as an anniversary, falling somewhat short of a mass family gathering. In mid-May we are given a singular opportunity to celebrate the wonderful and unique women in our lives who have given birth. Unfortunately, often by the time Mother’s Day rolls actually around, I have transformed what should be a beautiful expression of love and gratitude into a looming tribute to the power of procrastination. Oh lordy, what to do?

I, for one, have often been saved from total shame by the last minute greeting card or corner deli bouquet. And while it’s hard to build a valid argument against flowers, I can’t help but feel that Mother’s Day has been somewhat sapped of its potential creativity. Although my days of presenting Mom with macaroni necklaces and fruit prints to perfunctory ‘ooooohhhs’ and ‘aaaahhhhhs’ are long passed, in this amazing city there are so many potentially wonderful opportunities to spend quality time with the amazing woman we all call Mom.

I compiled few suggestions to get you thinking about fascinating and fun ways to show Mom how much she inspires you. And to prime her to get you a beaucoup birthday gift!

What: Ballroom Dance Classes
Why: Because everybody secretly (and not so secretly) loves Dancing with the Stars.
Suggested Activity: Dance Studios 101 will be open for beginner social dancing but you can also gear up for a lesson with their Mother’s Day Social Party on Friday featuring a little footwork, a little food, and lots of fun.
101 Lafayette Street, 2nd Floor (Corner of Lafayette and Walker St., one block south of Canal Street) 212-431-7134
www.dancestudio101.com

What: Wine Tasting
Why: Because there are few things more fun than intellectualizing liquor and getting a little buzzed with Mom.
Suggested Activity: LeNell’s Wine and Spirit Boutique in Brooklyn will be hosting a special Mother’s Day wine tasting event from noon to nine.
416 Van Brunt Street between Coffey and Van Dyke
718-360-0838

Happy Mother’s Day!!

FLAUNT YOUR VINO VOCAB
By Amber Roniger

The first time I really drank wine (‘sides Manischewitz from the communal temple chalice, super-cough-syrupy-sweet-ick!) was home for Christmas break during freshman year in college. Sitting in the bedroom of my first massive crush, we discussed grabbing some wine at: the deli. I knew nothing in the least except to command from him something red and sweet. Of course he bought me the driest vino rojo he could find. Through cursing him silently, I noticed that I actually enjoyed the wine, so much so that we each polished off our own bottle. We laughed like idiots, probably the best I’ve ever shared. Life is funny like that, you never know from which direction pleasure may come; but it’s so easy to enjoy hilarious trivialities when emulating cackling winos.

After my somewhat dubious wine initiation, I slowly developed a taste for the good stuff. Sipping red in a steaming bath for three hours on end became my favorite vice, you know what I’m saying. Listening to music, relaxing in the salty, bubbly or clear, a good book perched. A glass of vino rojo politely standing by, waiting courteously and patiently to be sipped and appreciated, rolled over the tongue, treasured and enjoyed. And so I, of course – ever the pleaser, oblige the wine. I wouldn’t want to disappoint. Truly, my most coveted, day-end escape is a protracted soak in a hot tub (or even better… hottub) with a nice vint. Nothing else renders me feeling so queenly, so kept and so clean, all toasty both inside and out.

Throughout the years, during unfortunate table waiting jobs, the one useful thing I did learn was some rudiments about wine. I definitely don’t claim to be a prosaic wine-artist-linguist, but I do know some of the basics, and more importantly, I know what I like. It was always a treat to have a wine tasting at work, especially at the head-end of a shift; and yes, thank you very much, I always swallowed. Now the only time I wait in restaurants is on line (thank God). I am the designated wine chooser when dining with family. The ‘rents tend to rely on my experience and I like to think I make savory choices. But truth be told, there’s buckets more to know.

Which is why this new radio show, WOMEN AND WINE, created by women, especially for women, is so damn engaging. If you care anything about wine, this is a must listen.

This one-hour radio chatter session on VOICEAMERICA.COM, brings together four knowledgeable women to spread the good wine-word and share their passion about vino and wellness, wine-themed spa treatments (lux!), wine-country getaways (heaven), the marriage of wine and lifestyle and an overall demystification of the holy water. It’s a really lovely diversion from any hectic day. I dig their exploration of the crossroads between food and wine and the on-site interviews in vineyards. But the best part and the most rewarding of the show, is when the hosts sneak through shopping aisles acting as wine angels, providing vino-s.o.s. to wandering female shoppers. They help them select excellent vintages to compliment whatever they are cooking.

The show kept me completely engaged for the entire hour as I chomped on my burrito and felt like I was really there sharing in their dalliances. (Although taste-o-listen would be a handy accoutrement to the audio experience.) The Women and Wine radio show is a wonderful offshoot of the WOMENWINE.COM I-net site. Be sure to check this week for delectable mother’s day culinary suggestions.

One of the things I love most about being a woman is sharing tasty finds and bonding with girlfriends, such a treat and a pleasure. It truly tickles me to know that wine is not just some boy’s club anymore. In fact, “Wine Bible,” the best selling wine book in the U.S. is written by a chica, Karen MacNeil, you go girl! Its no wonder at all seductive wines are often described as ‘feminine,’ it just seems so obvious.

So next time you’re at dinner with some intolerable-Sideways-bowtie-wine-geek, impress him with your extensive knowledge, flaunt your vino vocab and offer some pointers of your own. Wine, just like women, has great complexity of character, and the older the vintage, the rarer, the better! So go on and enjoy life, one beautiful oakey-woody-appley-bubbly-sippie-slurp at a time! Sisters, raise your glasses together, three cheers for women and wine! I’ll clink and drink to that!

www.voiceamerica.com (to listen live or download the show at any time)
www.womenwine.com
(877) 804-WINE

Body-mind-spirit connection… Ohm nama shivaya… align your charkas and breathe white light through your third eye. If you’re anything like my parents, you think this is total hokey-pokey-poohey, voodoo-witchcraft, David Blaine sleight-of-hand, hippie-spacey, tragic boho trifle. Interesting theory, but this new urban hippie-chica happens to think it’s totally happening, man, in the here and now.

Please to understand, I’m that girl from Larchmont (Larchomont-schmarchmont, up-turn your nose, yada-yah, I’ve heard it all before), but not the one that you think. Honestly, my upbringing wasn’t even remotely too-too. I was raised with the shtetl mentality: while all the girlies were zipping around in their little red Cabriolet convertibles, I was riding low in the Chevy Caprice family wagon. (I did get a little tickle every time Dad pulled away with the purple magic mushroom sticker on the rear window). I actually believed we were poor ’cause our house wasn’t the biggest mansion on the block. Aah, the unchecked power of parental influence. Yah, I lacked perspective.

As a tiny tot in the 70′s, I went to YMCA summer camp and did ‘stretching’ exercises. It wasn’t till years later (and a half tab of Bart Simpson acid) that I realized we had been doing yoga. It was suddenly easy to trace the roots of my mental hippie-tree (most certainly not inherited from the ‘rents) back farther than the Dead Shows.

I got my first manicure before my Bat Mitzvah. That was the zenith of 13 year-old luxury in my Talmud; did people really live like this?

The first time I even heard of a spa, I was standing in one at the Dead Sea. When my dusty teen-tour arrived, I didn’t have a single shekel to spend. Clearly the concept of relaxation was totally alien in a childhood household ruled by a two-headed economist-shrink monster. I was befuddled. My one prior experience with mud submergence was “feel like a pot day” at camp, where we took mud baths and then sunbathed till we were kiln toasty; hardly in pursuit of beauty, but rather to satiate the twisted artistic sentiment of our limey pottery teacher, Nigel.

The closest I even came to a heat treatment at the spa was running barefoot across the Negev’s 120° baking sand in mortal pain, an alarmingly unintelligent move (lame even by 14 year-old standards). I kept pausing to dunk my smoking soles in the swampy, salty water (another stunningly brilliant move), only to be reprimanded in Hebrew over the loudspeaker (if it wasn’t in my Hoftorah, me no comprende). I feel for those firewalkers. I do blame my temporary dementia on the severely dehydrated state of my brain; it must have shrunk significantly to pinhead proportions. I was plumb hallucinating, and I can’t blame it on an oasis mirage or any type of psychotropic (the closest I’d come to psychedelics at that age was reading “A Wrinkle In Time” and of course, Sesame Street). Some of the boys in my tour did try (unsuccessfully) to trade us girls for a gaggle of camels, but that is a mostly unrelated bizarro tale.

I remember Mom telling me of a particularly unglamorous encounter with a chiropractor when she was a child, where he (allegedly) drop-kicked her back as she was fleeing the scene. I have yet to verify the veracity of this claim. Suffice it to say, Mom is not overly hep on chiros, or natural healing in general. My medicinal upbringing consisted of antibiotics and more antibiotics, never heard of a vitamin, didn’t drink water.

Reminiscing on my very conventional, un-pretentious rearing, I know I’m such a goober-sap for gloating and gleaming about spa-ing all day at the most fancy-dancy ayurvedic spa in town. But I just don’t care. I’ve never ever indulged in the luxury of a full day at the spa. And this one is the creme-de-kefir, the CHOPRA CENTER & SPA (www.chopra.com) at the DREAM HOTEL. dial!

I’m sure everyone has heard of Deepak Chopra from his appearances on Oprah. My personal theory is that his ginormious splash was due to the simple fact that Big O likes names that rhyme with hers, but that is neither here nor there. I long ago poured through all of Chopra’s books, clutch reads when you’re feeling a bit dumpy. And it’s always positive to have a self-affirming book to distract from allergy-man coughing out lung cookies then grasping the subway pole with his goobery hand – oh lord why?! (Note to self: initiate wearing white ballroom gloves on the train, no matter how silly it appears).

There must be zillions of spa-type venues on the island to satiate my first full day of relaxation-nation, but it turns out that my ayurvedic hero, Dr. Deepak himself, will grace the spa with his presence at SOUL OF HEALING, MAY 31ST THROUGH JUNE 6TH. And the real schlemiel is that Beauty News NYC members will receive a $400 discount! You ‘aint gonna bump into no Daily Candy members strutting around the Dream with a fat discount; this is completely exclusive!

It’s impossible to describe the Soul of Healing program without pandering (and you know how I despise brownnosers, ass-kissers and yes-men), but Soul of Healing is a calm oasis in the tumultuous storm of the gritty city (see? pandering, what to do?): a five-day transformative journey filled with healing, balance, discovery and awakening (dead up my hippie-alley). This ticket is hotter than Madonna at MSG and offered only a few times a year. Soul of Healing will clear the mind, lessen anxiety, detoxify the body, empower nutrition, manage stress and re-center and bring peace into participants’ lives. I mean where else in NYC can you learn the ancient art of Primordial Sound Meditation (something like a barbaric ‘yawp,’ I surmise), practice the Seven Spiritual Laws of yoga, and have your toxic bloat pounded out by rejuvenating specialty massages?

Once practiced only in India, ayurveda is starting to catch fire in the West. And the Chopra Center is the headline act, the marquee ring, the ayurvedic epicenter in NYC. Soul of Healing touches upon so many topics that are near and dear to my emerging diva side: the art of relaxation (proudly in training to become a grand master), yoga (headstands make me giddy), massage (I long to get my butt kicked by diminutive Chinese women every payday) and natural living (deep ozone breaths-of-fire). It keeps the boys guessing that I’m 32 (when I’m actually 33). So join me in this artistic endeavor to merge body, mind and soul, or at the very least get up close and personal with Dr. D., by far the hottest doc on the NYC spa beat!

Call (888) 424-6772 x1639 and mention Beauty News NYC for your $400 discount today! Space is uber-limited so hurry up & dial!

DA DIVA CODE
By Amber Roniger

What in God’s name do I know about being a diva? Truth? I’m a complete diva-retard. But I finally realize how I’ve been going about it all wrong all these man-hunting years. What a schmo I’ve been to think that being all miss nicey-nice, honest, goody-two-shoes, trusting, down-to-earth tomboy would snag me a fabulous I-talian lover. Redonculous! Now that I’ve seen TOSCA, and reveled in the venerated presence of the uber-diva, I realize I must adjust my man-snagging tactics post haste and become far more calculating. Apparently famous, tighted Italian painters (Michael Jackson ‘aint the only act doing the man-prance in women’s clothes) fall ever so easily into the spider’s web of love with diva women roiling in jealousy and ready to pounce (meow!). I make a mental note to become that crazy, jealous, operatic woman they all go wild to possess.

How should I know anything about being an Italian temptress? I hardly think ingesting an appallingly watery pizza at the age of 12 somewhere on the top of the boot between Chamonix and the Riviera renders me credentialed. Apparently, I must build up my falsetto (Figaro, Figaro, Fi-ga-ro) if I wish to achieve true divahood (it turns out that singing the high note in Shalom A’lechem in the temple choir doesn’t qualify, in fact, it might be held against me).

Aaaah opera, trés tragiqué! Only in Italian is revenge so romantico, so poignant. I’ve seen opera at Lincoln Center before, but this is my first trip to the Met. On a balmy Saturday’s eve, a languid stroll across the park and a perfunctory cup of coffee later (attempting to avert the most expensive nap in town), I arrive with my family at the mothership like it ‘aint no thing. I encourage my Mom, mortifyingly infamous for sleeping through productions (even heckling, stand-up comics) to share my cappuccino, but to no avail. I must walk this caffeinated road alone.

For my first jaunt into the Met, the grand dame, the Promised Land, I front that I’m a true opera fiend. I mean, how much do I really know about opera? It took me an embarrassingly long time (especially for a writer) to catch on that all tragic operas have essentially the same story line: love, suicide, immortal pain, suicide. But I take pride that I now anticipate how miserably Tosca will inevitably end (not that the synopsis in the Play Bill isn’t a fairly good indicator).

I find the rococo interior of the Met fabulously solicitous. Even the railings are ensconced in bordello red velvet; it just oozes sex and tragedy (and scotch). Our seats hover in orbit stage left of the Milky Way (where Mom is gratefully out of sight of any heckling talent), but hey, I can actually see the orchestra for a change. I revel in the tiniest smidge of pride that we’re in the first row of the official nosebleeds (seat 232, kinda like being the king of the dipshits).

At intermission, I get a hearty kick out of spying my pauper peep down on the regulars dining at the fancy-schmancy restaurant from my Himalayan balcony perch. I eavesdrop on other nosebleed hobos buzzing jealously about the wicked waft of the chocolate mousse. Indeed.

Opera is a true netherworld unto itself and I’m operating at kindergarten level. I take a stab at reading up on the forthcoming season to appear suitably hoity. I am beyond ecstatic to recognize something familiar (besides the recently disqualified misnomer that Tosca is some sort of Sicilian bruschetta) in next season’s line-up, the Met’s 40th. My favorite film director, the brilliant and ballsy, ZHANG YIMOU, will stage the world premiere production of THE FIRST EMPEROR, a historical pageant of ancient China. I am definitely snagging a primo seat for this one, even if I need to take out a second mortgage (can you do this three months into a first mortgage?). If you’ve ever sat mesmerized at any of Yimou’s films (Raise the Red Lantern, To Live, and so many wondrous others), you know this will be an abundant feast for the eyes. Oddly enough, Placido Domingo will sing the title role of China’s great leader who unifies the country, a spectacle not to be missed (I imagine in a similar vein to Ricky Martin playing Evita, but who am I to judge?). And ANTHONY MINGHELLA will craft MADAMA BUTTERFLY, so even ‘lil ‘ole me, an opera-ignorant film geek, can actually relate.

Three acts and two intermissions from its inception, and in spite of Tosca’s inevitable tragic ending, I feel relieved that at least in the afterlife curtain call, the doomed lovers share a post-mortem kiss, proof enough that true love does live forever, at least at the Met. And maybe, just maybe, with a few more viewings and tons of imitation, I too can achieve the grand-master level of high-divahood, the nexus of feminine idolatry, the ballyhoo of the female mystique, the worldly worship by a velvet-clad, baritone man, painting frescoes and cruising Italia for romance… if I’m lucky.

Met Ticket Service: (212) 362-6000
www.metopera.org

My sister’s having a baby, no I don’t mean maybe. Her bump in the front would put Angelina’s to shame.

I’m always wondering how best to help out since she lives on the left coast. Short of my mom and I digging all the adorable little Audrey Hepburn-style knitty suits my grandma made outta the attic (and running them through the wash two times to remove the thirty-year-old mildew), I feel like I’m at a bit of a loss with her so far away.

But then I gratefully discovered www.paperbride.com and www.papermama.com.

Clearly, it’s a tad late for the bride site, but Paper Mama arrives just in time for the… arrival. Honestly, like sis doesn’t have enough to worry about with all the rearranging, ordering and dulah visits (and deep breathing), amongst the million other things I probably don’t even realize she’s dealing with.

That’s where Paper Bride and Paper Mama come to the rescue. Both sites have really hip cards for almost any minute function you can envision pertaining to getting married and giving birth, thanking every last person involved down to the caterers, pediatricians, maid of honor, best man, nanny, babysitter, lady part’s doctor, vendors, bridesmaids, and the endless list goes on (and on). Paper Bride even has other handy accouterments like wedding invites and wrapping paper.

Of course tons of vendors sell wedding and childbirth thank you’s, but these cards get the top shelf seal of approval with really hip graphics and fresh offbeat topics, like a ‘mom going back to work’ card (which the media seems obsessed with lately, especially if mom went to Harvard!), my fav, the ‘hot mama’ and ‘mamalicious’ cards (my sis definitely gets these), and perhaps the biggest reality check for the new mom, the ‘moms get no sleep’ card.

Since actually being preggers is the most serious and time-consuming commitment of this whole ordeal, sending out cards is the perfect way for my sis’ man to help out and give him something useful to do while she’s doing all the real labor intensive work!

www.paperbride.com
www.papermama.com

THAT’S THE WAY I-I-I-I-I LIKE IT I-I-I-I
By Amber Roniger

I’ve got a secret. What is your secret? I forgot my secret. Well! Even as little bumpkins rhyming, we were bragging about our secrets. I remember the first secret I was supposed to keep on the first grade on the playground. I blabbed it in like 5 minutes flat. I don’t even remember doing it; it’s like a blanket descended over my mind and then I was suddenly in trouble with the second graders.

Psssttt… sssshhhh…. secret, spill the beans, secret. It’s like the American national pastime: leaks from the government, leaks from abroad, everybody yacking about everyone else’s business. We love a good secret, but we also love to spill it. I mean really, why is a secret so damn sexy? Must just be our contrary human nature.

So call me loosey-goosey lips but I don’t care, you’re gonna want in on this one. (You know how I ‘aint one to talk, but peep on this…)

I happen to be in on this hush-hush atelier-style sale of KAJ ANI’s truly spectacular Fall-06 line, taking place in a private residence in the West Village this coming Saturday, May 6th between 1-5pm. This contemporary designer collection, focused on fab fabrics and flattering styles that celebrate women of all shapes, will be on sale at 52 Grove Street, #1A. Ani will have samples of the entire line to try on and pre-order, and will be taking measurements when necessary to ensure the perfect fit. Feel like Coco Chanel in her heyday!

Everything will be sold at stellar wholesale prices ($88 – $290), more than half off of retail (whhhoooo nelly!). The orders will be ready and shipped between August and October. The line is at the same time modern and classic (with a hip twist), with extra attention paid to quality and detail. Ani describes it as “youthful and modern, not young and trendy… the buys you’ll love forever.”

The Kaj Ani line is making its re-appearance after two years on hiatus, so even in NYC, where you spy someone on the train sporting the same boots you bought in Interlochen (curses! how high into the mountains do I have to climb for originality?), this line will be the true new do on the beat. Even hardcore fashion hounds will be agog. The six previous years’ lines were sold in high-end boutiques and specialty stores like Barney’s, Niemans and Fred Segal, so you can trot down Fifth Ave with your couture flag waving high. When they all get a load’a that purple number strutting down the street they’re gonna stop in their tracks (cause you know how they always stop in their tracks).

There’s just something rather pompous and uppity about thinking you know something that nobody else knows. Oh how I love that feeling! Any way you slice or it dice it, something proprietary is something we want to know. The in, the scoop, the slice, the juice; we just love those secrets, so keep ‘em coming and come on down and scope the new Kaj Ani line and be the first in your hood to sport this new couture find. Sssssshhhhh….

Saturday, May 6th, 1-5pm
52 Grove Street, #1A (just west of Seventh Avenue South)
slfhandmade@gmail.com (for additional information)
(917) 689-3278

By Amber Roniger

Can we fondly recall together the heyday of the Times Square of my youth: prostitutes, sex shops and trash. Aaah, nostalgia. Although it really was rather ‘artistic,’ it wasn’t particularly safe, or sane, for that matter. These days, Times Square tends to evoke more positive images, such as the start line for the REVLON RUN/WALK FOR WOMEN 5k Fundraiser For Women’s Cancers.

I know…so many good causes, so little time. But my dear ladies, the Revlon Walk really is the queen of fundraisers, the diva of donations. This coming Saturday, May 6th, keep your alarm set on ‘early.’ You don’t have to play hooky from your dreaded workweek beige maze or call in sick ‘n tired. Instead, just show up where the Naked Cowboy croons the blues (might he be chilly in those skivvies?). Mingle and cavort with cancer survivors and their loved ones while taking a lovely constitutional through ‘da Park and raise much needed funds for cancer research.

Sign up to run/walk at: www.revlonwalkrun.com or call (212) 379-3199 for more info.

The day’s events are scheduled as follows:

7am – Onsite registration & pledge drop-off opens
8:15am – Celebrity opening ceremonies
9:15am – Official start of run/walk
10am-12pm – Finish Line Festivities & Health Expo in Central Park’s East Meadow

Spring is the absolute perfect time to join celebrity hosts Susan Sarandon, Jamie-Lynn Sigler and Christopher Meloni on a tour of the Park while contributing to a vital cause. And in case you can’t make the Revlon walk, you can fight breast cancer just by eating M&M’s. Seriously! I know what you’re thinking: why did it take the Candy Gods so long to put cancer-fighting medicine in chocolate?! How brill is that! But nein, that is not the deal. When you buy 14oz bags of new PINK & WHITE M&M’s, Masterfoods will donate $.35 cents to the SUSAN G. KOMEN BREAST CANCER FOUNDATION, and $.50 on 21.3 oz bags, a most delicious way to give.

So pop some pink ‘n whites, collect some moolah, run, walk, volunteer, or just come on out and cheer ‘em on, but find a way to show your support for the wonderful women all around us who are living with and fighting this disease.

GLAM IN 60 SECONDS
By Amber Roniger

Push, push, rush, rush… who has any time anymore for anything more than a New York minute? Well not to worry, with-it-worldly-women, cause that’s all you’ll need on May 5th if you hustle-bustle by THE N.Y.C. NEW YORK COLOR COSMETICS NEW YORK MINUTE MAKEOVER TOUR. No need to sneak through the aisles of Sephora sampling all their delicious new palettes, zipping on your way to that hottie-tottie date, you insane multitasker, you.

Instead just pop on by any one of the mobile tour stops for a New York Minute Makeover, fabu tips from their head makeup artist, Doug Atkinson and his crack-team of Cuties, and freebie samples (ooooh, how we luv us some freebies) at the following locations:

CVS (272 8th Avenue @ 24th St.) 10 – 11am

CVS (1223 Second Avenue) 4:30 – 5:15pm

Then at least you’ll be all fit and legit to pucker-up with the best of the pillow-lipped, world’s most beautiful peoples (at least according to People)!

ILL-FATED DATER
By Amber Roniger

If any of you read my blog (or perhaps intuit the sense of subtle desperation pervading my writing), you’ll know that I’m perhaps the most ill-fated dater in all of NYC. Seriously, it’s pathetic. I’m not sure even Cupid can save me anymore. The list of wanting dates this year goes something like this:

- Brunch & flick with a garden gnome. He had already mentally moved us to the suburbs by the time the entrees arrived. Next!
- A self-proclaimed ‘hustler’ who called me out as I was exiting a (woman’s clothing) store, proceeded to pull a rubber doggie dookey out of his back pocket and then asked me to go for a drink at Pizzeria Uno. That I was idiotic enough to give him my card after the pooh incident can only be labeled as ‘wondrous.’ One phone call and several racist jokes later (“Why did the Mexican throw his wife off the roof? Tequilla!), and that was that. Next!
- An Internet date where his first line upon entering the bar was “I know I don’t look like my picture, but…”

Honestly, my dating life is seriously falling flat. And so I welcome the chance to tangle with the Cupid Pre-Dating, speed-dating event, in conjunction with Dorchester Publishing, on May 9th at Borgo Antico Ristorante (http://predating.com/speeddating/NYC.php). Judging by the tragedy of my recent dates, it’ll be a relief to have a first encounter that lasts only five minutes! And then, if it’s really interstellar, we can have a ten minute second date that resembles one of those Dorchester romance novels! (Baby steps, my dear, baby steps).

To sign up for upcoming Cupid.com/Pre-Dating events:
http://pre-dating.com/index.html

Anyone that peruses the personal care aisles of drugstores knows all the major companies are producing at-home micro-dermabrasion kits. The idea of women using peels at home is a controversial one – some doctors think it can be harmful; others profess the wonders of these acid-based peels. Me? Well, I’ve used so many that 10 percent glycolic acid is like water to me, which is why I was pleasantly surprised by the Vichy Peel Microabrasion Rejuvenating Resurfacing Kit.

Created by dermatologists, Vichy’s allergy tested at-home peel kit contains four products: a creamy exfoliating polish, a pad soaked in chemical exfoliants, a neutralizing spray, and an anti-aging moisturizer with SPF15. The first step involves physical exfoliation via the aluminum oxide micro-crystal cleanser. This step does for the face what sugar scrubs do for the body. Next comes the peel, which is administered through a pad soaked not only with glycolic acid but also with lactic acid. After about three minutes, a few sprays of the neutralizing spray stop the peeling action and allow the first peek at the results. Last comes the vitamin C-based moisturizer, an antioxidant-packed day cream that neutralizes free radicals, promotes cell turnover and stimulates collagen production while protecting against sun damage.

We all know those women with to-die-for smooth skin that’s both clear and radiant. Anytime you ask them what they use they feign surprise and claim they simply use moisturizer. I believe them as much I believe the models and actresses who claim they rarely exercise but eat pizza regularly. Well, if you want to make the ladies fume, invest in the Vichy Peel Microabrasion Rejuvenating Resurfacing Kit.

Though this three-week system is a gradual process, there is a sense of instant gratification after the first application. As with any effective peel, you’ll notice smoother skin immediately. However, to reap the full benefits and get antioxidants to the dermis while your pores are clean, you must follow directions. Swap your regular day moisturizer for Vichy’s during the three weeks you use the Peel Microabrasion Rejuvenating Resurfacing Kit

Now that you’ve committed for three weeks, what do you have to look forward to? Well, scientists tested the treatment on 42 women aged 34 – 70 with moderate sun damage. After using the Vichy Peel Microabrasion Rejuvenating Resurfacing Kit for three weeks, subjects noticed a reduction in pore size by 40 percent and a 39 percent improvement in tone evenness. If that’s not enough, nearly 15 percent noticed an improvement in the appearance of wrinkles.

So, what are you waiting for? Check out the latest must have at-home spa treatment. To welcome summer most aspire to a bikini-ready body and skin that requires minimal makeup. Commit to this treatment for three weeks and you’ll be ready for a summer of bronzing and glossing.

Vichy Peel Microabrasion Rejuvenating Resurfacing Kit $55 www.vichyusa.com