Shallon Lester's Blog, page 16

Kim Kardashian's Wedding: Whateverish to the Max

I mean really, I expected more from Kim Kardashian's over-the-top wedding. Let's break this down into manageable, snarky pieces.

1. The Decor

Jesus Christ, BLACK AND WHITE, I get it! I'm all for a b&w theme, but what could've been a chic, classic motif just looked blocky and unimaginative. Black and white themes only work with splashes of color, which this didn't have. Russian hospitals have more pizazz.

2. The Cake

Have you ever eaten black icing? I have, and it tastes like ink. But apparently they didn't even serve it to the guests, they gave them some janky Ralph's brand crap. Kim, like me, is clearly an eater so again, I expected more from the reception's centerpiece. And there's something distinctly penis-ish about it, right? Hm…I'm suddenly starting to like it a lot more.

3. The Dress

"She looked very…Armenian," said one guest, which is perhaps the most unappealing thing someone can say about your wedding day. It's not a racial thing either, go ahead and sub any ethnicity in there you want.

"She looked very Canadian."  Was she oozing maple syrup?

"She looked very French." Did the bride sneered her way down the aisle, brooding and complaining about how fat Americans are?

I'm very much unimpressed by her straight-from-the-gym bun and Vanessa Hudgens-y headpiece, not to mention the gown itself. I've never really understood the Vera Wang hype, but then again I've never understood the Kim K hype so I guess this all makes perfect sense.

4. The Guest Attire

For once, Lindsay Lohan wasn't being an insufferable, spiteful c-face by wearing a white dress to a wedding. Turns out guests were asked to wear black or white to the event, which clearly means Kim has early onset Alzheimer's. Why else would she encourage friends to take the focus off her?

 

All in all, Kate Middleton you ain't, Kimmy.

Turkey Lurkey: REDUX!

Like all severe addictions, I assumed that I could quit my obsession with cocky fowl anytime I wanted. But this weekend at the Orange County Fair, I strolled by the turkey corral and I just…I couldn't help myself.

 

 

 

Puerto Recap: Vieques Viciousness

Last week my BF and I jetted off to Puerto Rico and spent a few days on Vieques, a little island that's full of wild horses. It was gorgeous and heavenly…but as Dateline NBC has taught us, there is a dark side to paradise. I discovered this on our third night in Vieques, when we attempted to take a nighttime kayak tour of the bioluminescent bay.

Horses! They run free all over Vieques

Let me preface this by saying that I am an experienced rider or horses. True, this might be hard to believe considering one bucked me off when I was 8 (concussion) and again when I was 13 (crushed ankle, concussion, 3 months on crutches), but really, I'm quite good with a horse. I mean look at this picture for crying out loud. I was three!

Giddyup

Make that used to be good with horses.

The tour met in a random parking lot, where a herd of wild horses had assembled on a nearby field, grazing and frocliking. One of the tour guides sauntered up to a horse and played with it, ruffling it's mane and putting it in a playful headlock. I had cut up an apple—horses love apples!—and had been toting it around all day in case a treat-needing horsie wandered by and I asked the guide if I could feed the pony some of my delicious Granny Smiths.

Don't stare too long at the water...there might be horse plotting your demise.

He said sure, the philly seemed friendly and I held out my hand and let the pony snarfle up some apples. I didn't try to pet it, jerk the food away, or even stick my finger in its nose (learned about doing that the hard way as a 4 year old on a pony ride)

And yet.

In the blink of an eye, the horse bugged out, whirled around and kicked me—TWICE. The first blow landed just above my knee cap and I staggered backwkards. A split second later it kicked again, this time getting me square in the left elbow and knocking me to the ground, hard.

The bruise, nearly 2 weeks later. F-ing horses.

 

Furious and seething with humiliation, my elbow felt exactly how it did three years ago when I broke it. I bit back tears, too embarrassed and irate that AGAIN a horse had hoodwinked me and AGAIN I might have a broken left elbow.

All I could think about was the six weeks of total misery that awaited me should my elbow be broken—the un-hookable bras, the un-typeable stories, the un-openable bottles of delicious Charles Shaw.

But somehow, miraculously, my elbow wasn't broken. It still hurts quite a bit and I can't really put weight on it, but somehow, that faggot horse managed not to crush it.

Grouchy and grousy the rest of the week with lots of ice. F-ing horses.

The moral of this story is that horses are vicious spiteful creatures and my whole life I had nothing but love and respect for them. They might as well be the boys I date for God sakes.

Well you know what, you equine bastards can all go F yourselves.

Turkey Lurkey

This weekend at a wedding upstate with my boyfriend, I was fiddling around on my phone and came across this picture:

I laughed at this picture until I cried. Well actually, until I cried and Jason got annoyed. He apparently doesn't see what's so LOLy about a turkey's feathered swagger.

Nor did he see why I had to keep looking at it, all throughout the night. He thought taking my phone away from me would help keep me under control, that my turkey-related tears of joy would dry up, but oh no.

After a few white wine spritzers, I began imitating the turkey, throwing my arms in the air and hooting triumphantly "HATERS GONNA HATE!" in some kind of misguided attempt at foreplay.

He still kissed me anyway. He's a good boy.

Ohio: The Land That Interesting Forgot

On the way home from New Orleans (and yes I'll post pix soon I promise!), I connected in Cincinnati, Ohio. It is a very strange state. I am fascinated by it's lack of fascinating aspect.

For example, in the airport they were selling Kentucky t-shirts.

"Um…what state are we in?" I asked the cashier, terrified I'd somehow landed in the wrong place.

"Ohio," she said blandly, as if to echo the very sentiment of the state itself. If the airport gift shops can't even come up with a reason to sell Ohio shirts in Ohio itself, then there's something very wrong with this place.

Think about it: every single state is known for something. Texas, NY, California, Florida–these obviously have big personalities but even the obscure sections of our great county has some identity…

South Dakota: My friend Sarah, indians

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Mississippi: Poor black people, shrimp

 

Rhode Island: DJ Pauly D, gays on vacation

 

West Virginia: Highest obesity rate, that John Denver song

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Iowa: Corn (who doesn't love corn? I sure do.)

 

New Mexico: The Alamo, the setting for In Plain Sight, a really good TV show if you haven't seen it.

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Oregon: Trees, Twilight

 

But Ohio? NOTHING. I honestly can't even think of their hockey team. The…Sabre…feet? I have no idea.

My Cup Seriously Doth Runneth Over

For those of you who've read my book, this whole Amstel Light/Bruins thing is quickly shaping up to be "Bursts Under Pressure: The Sequel."

The reason Amstel wanted to find the mystery Bruin is so they could supply them with a truckload (literally) of free beer on the day they had the Lord Stan. I'm not a huge drinker nor did I ever expected them to extend that offer to me, some non-Stanley winning puck bunny.

But lo…

Although…stockpiling a whole mountain of light beer would make a kick ass chapter in my next book. And what goes better with 1300 condoms than a whole mountain of beer?!

Wedding Belle: Abbey Clancy

As you know, I'm moderatelu-to-severely smitten with soccer WAG Abbey Clancey. Well yesterday I went from obsessed to obsessed-ier after seeing her insanely hot wedding photos:

Umm is this for real? She looks like a doll. A literal plastic figurine. And oh poor Peter Crouch, all gangly and pigeon-toed and gawky. My favorite photo from their wedding has to be this one below, since I think it sums up what Pete has to look forward to for the next 40-odd years:

Peter lurching awkwardly after Abbey as she trots her sassy ass away, refusing to have sex with him until she gives her the security code on his new AmEx.

On my wedding day, I can only hope that I too look as stunning…and vaguely uninterested.

Mexican't

This photo is: A) Shallon with a hormone problem or B) what happens when Jose Cuervo drops by with a photobooth, margaritas and fake mustaches. I think I can pull this look off…don't you?

Hamptons Hotness: A Recap

You know that the Hamptons magazine party won't exactly live in infamy when the highlight of the fete was sharing an elevator with Suzie from Basketball Wives. She's about 11 feet tall in person and quite striking until she starts to talk.

I walked out behind her, hoping to be mistaken for Evelyn Lozado

Suz aside, the event was only medium fun. They served Courvoisier cocktails (a word my auto-correct insists should be "bourgeois") (the jokes are writing themselves here) and the  STK rooftop was beautifully breezy.

The crowd, less so.

As expected, it was the who's who of no one important, but everyone craned their necks and looked you thoroughly up and down trying to decide if you were worth sneering at in jealousy. All the guys had their pants rolled up and there were far too many French accents going around for my taste.

And then of course there was Heidi Klum, who I saw only for a brief moment as I walked in but–prepare to be shocked–she looked gorgeous and adorable.

 

I've met Heidi a few times and she's one of the few celebs who is totally awesome in person. I think she realized years ago that her beauty would probably last forever, and therefore didn't need to be a huge bitch, terrified that her star was going to fade.

But people like Paris Hilton, Lily Allen and Ramona Singer (all of whom I've met and instantly detested) know that they're essentially useless and falsely believe that the meaner they are, the longer they'll stay relevant.

The point, darlings? The Hamptons, like certain celebrities, are better in your imagination than in real life.

This Should Go Without Saying, But…

Please don't try to set me up with any gay guys.

Last week my friend threw a little party and, despite having the flu, I went because I am kind and benevolent and felt that it would damage New York City itself, if I didn't make a cameo. I told her upfront that I could only stay a few minutes lest I barf all over the cater waiters but she said in a stern voice: "Sit down. You're not going anywhere, I have a surprise for you…"

A surprise, eh? Clearly I hoped it was cake, but she said it was in fact a dude.

"Girl you just wait!" she squealed. "You are gonna thank me for years to come!"

"You know I have a boyfriend, right? And I'm feeling super nauseous so I'd just rather…"

"Pfft who cares," she sniffed. "Once you get a load of this guy, you'll dump your dude ASAP."

Too tired and queasy to argue, I flopped back down on the bar stool. Ten minutes later, my friend was giving me an excited nudge.

"OMG! Here he comes! Are you ready for this?! I've told him ALL about you!"

And then, from behind the beaded curtain, who should emerge but a TOTALLY FLAMING GAY GUY.

Oh but he wasn't alone. He was with his boyfriend.

"Um, Jessica," I hissed, "That is a homosexual, you do know that right?"

For some reason, I was fucking FURIOUS. Do I honestly look like the kind of person who is so desperate for male attention that I don't care if he's gay or straight? Really?! Did she think I was up for the challenge of un-gaying him or perhaps in danger of missing my fag hag quota for the month?

The point, dear friends, is that my social calendar is not a depository for your sexually ambiguous pals. I know I probably seem like a great gay ambassador to New York (glambassador? gay ambASSador?) but in fact I am in fact totally stocked up on homos and heteros alike.

 

Many thanks,

Shallon