Welcome to Wimby May I Take Your Order?

It’s June and in Los Angeles that can mean only one thing: seasonal depression.  I, like the rest of my fellow Angelenos, have been feeling a little blue.  And then a couple of things happened to cheer me right the flip up.

Wimbledon started yesterday and with it came all the joys I can eke out of a good two-week long procrastination period.  What’s not to be thankful for about that?

Wimby is usually pretty sedate outfit-wise, so I feel the need to give serious props to my gals Bethanie Mattek-Sands and Venus Williams for keeping my eyes hemorrhaging with some early in the tournament offerings.

Mrs. Mattek-Sands commissioned herself a party frock from some dude named Alex Noble (who?) who claims to be a Lady Gaga costumer.  Judging from the horror show he crafted out of actual tennis balls, I’m going to bet that he made one early tin foil hat for Gag-me and has been cashing in on it as his claim to fame ever since.

All I could think of was Heidi Klum giving Mr. Noble the auf wiedersehen double kiss as she booted him from a Project Runway episode where the “designers” were given $100 and 30 minutes to shop for materials at Dick’s Sporting Goods.  In all her tragic glory BMS makes a damn good case for hot glue gun as a deadly weapon when left in the hands of an untalented queen.

Both Williams sissies are back on the court, which for me is a huge thanks God.  If that moonballer Woz remains at # 1 much longer without ever winning a slam, I swear I am going to start playing challengers at my ripe old age because apparently anyone can play on the WTA.

But I digress…I want to applaud Venus on her choice for her outfit on her first day back on court.  She thumbed her nose at those stuffy Brits and came dressed as an adult baby.   That terry cloth onesie she wore is sure to win her lots of fans over at www.bigbabyboy.com. (Caution: NSFW and seriously gross…don’t say I didn’t warn you.)

All I’m waiting for now is BMS and her teddy bear of a husband to come out of the closet as plushies.  Maybe they’re saving that for the US Open.  Please?


The Ridiculousness of Polo, Governor’s Island Edition

MJ:  Kirstie, you were incredible on Dancing with the Stars! You were robbed.  What brings you out here to the Polo match?

DK:  I’m not Kirstie you nincompoop.  It’s me, Lady Karan.  I came for the nachos.  Why are you here?

MJ:  Donna, sorry, I thought you were…oh, never mind.  Nachos?  Well, that explains the sombrero. But, um, I think you got it a little mixed up. It’s Nacho.  Nacho Figueras.  He’s a polo player?

DK:  Nacho?  Oooooh.  He’s a dreamboat.  Do you think he likes hot cougars like me in clingy asymmetrical jersey knits?

MJ:  I was just about to get into that seafoam romper.  Which begs the question, how the hell do you get into it?

DK:  Five.  Easy.  Pieces.  Don’t you remember anything?  Or was that early triumph of mine during one of your “lost” periods.

MJ:  Right about now I really wish I was still using.

DK:  Don’t I look hot? I am technically as old as the sun and you’d never know it from my face.  Did you know that once you get to be as old as I am you have to choose your ass or your face?  No, really.  Catherine Deneuve sends everyone an Oprah-endorsed memo once you turn 60 and then you pick—ass or face.

MJ:  FML.  Need.  Air.

DK:  Why don’t you loosen that tie?  Your face is starting to match my romper.

MJ:  Where’s Lorenzo?  His ironic mustache might not seem so ridiculous right about now.

DK:  I’m going to head on over to the buffet.  Do you want me to fix you a plate?

MJ:  Um, no thanks.  I ate in 1996.  I’m just going to head on over and see if they have face painting over by the ponies.