Charon on Santa Monica Blvd. around the corner from the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, Saturday at midnight. Her giraffe print dress: vintage. Leopard print limo: artist unknown, still in progress. Photo taken with a sadly, madly underperforming Kodak EasyShare camera, "fireworks" setting.
In need of something to do tonight? Swing by Nitespa in Venice. Owners Julia and Michael are celebrating the one year anniversary of their pamper spot. Starting at 7 pm til 10 pm. Eight DJs will get you moving in their backyard retreat...
But wait, there's more!:
Chris Korn's sleight-of-hand magic and illusions
The Hot-To-Trot Dancers
Foxen wine tasting
A Food Experience
NITESPA
1301 ABBOT KINNEY BLVD, SUITE 33
VENICE CA 90291
RSVP TO goodevening@nitespa.com or 310-396-5122
Look for my upcoming article about Nitespa in the LA Weekly!
When I was younger I went to a relatively posh private school in London
Things didn’t change much when I matured into adulthood and decided to become a writer. My nemesis – the demon they call Procrastination – became an ever more malignant presence in my life. “The story will be ready really soon!” I'd assure my editor, who had inconveniently called right in the middle of Jerry Springer as I was painting my toenails. Add a healthy two or three hours a day of Myspace page development plus research trips to the local coffee shop – frankly, I was baffled as to how so many people manage to find time to actually do their job.
But last night, someone gave me hope. He said that slackers, loafers, sloths - whatever you want to call us - are not useless wastes of space. We are, in fact, the unsung heroes of American Society, and that those who appear to be the hardest workers are often the biggest sloths of all. The revelation came care of Tom Lutz, former pothead and freight train hobo turned college professor, who has just authored a fascinating new book called " Doing Nothing: A History of Loafers, Loungers, Slackers, and Bums in America
Lutz, who looks like a salt-and-pepper version of Bill Maher, was at Skylight Books in Los Feliz last night and told us some very interesting things – for example, Benjamin Franklin, purveyor of the ‘work=success=money’ Protestant work ethic, was actually nothing but a big lazybones. He even invented something called "the air bath", which involves taking off all your clothes and lying on your bed in the afternoon for several hours.
Franklin
regularly espoused the therapeutic properties of the air bath in his writings, Yeah, nice try Benji. Like his latter-day counterpart Ferris Bueller, Franklin was so darn good at pretending to work hard, no-one ever questioned him, even when he retired at the age of 42 and noted in his autobiography: "It's much more important to look busy than to be busy.
Lutz went on to talk about ‘professional slackers’, those who have what Lutz describes as a “principled aversion to work”. Huh? Anyone who preaches principled aversion to work – and believe me, I’ve dated a few - is full of shit as far as I’m concerned. But Lutz told us there are actual websites dedicated to those who wish to dedicate their lives to bumdom – check out whywork.org, for example.
Everyone in the room was captivated by Lutz. Not surprising, as nearly everyone in the room was a writer. We writers are often branded lazy by those who don’t buy our whole "just being alive is research" thing. Research, of course, may entail lying on the couch. Or getting free pedicures. Or simply sitting under a tree in a flower-filled meadow contemplating the meaning of life. Believe me, it may look like we’re lounging, but in the writer's world, these activities fall under the definition of a hard day's work.
I didn't buy the book (as well as being terminal slackers, we writers are also incorrigible misers), but I did leave the reading feeling happy and empowered. "Finally, someone who understands," I thought, switching off my phone before settling into a well-deserved air bath...
Posted by Caroline Ryder
Politically incorrect as it may be, I have to say it. I am a full on "fag hag." BTW, I asked my gay boyfriends if it was okay for me to say it or if they had to say it (like how only African Americans can say the N word) and they seemed to think it wasn't the same thing. So uh yeah, I'm a fag hag.
That said, I failed in my hagly duties this weekend by missing all the Gay Pride festivities in We Ho. As previously reported, I am preggo and the thought of all that walking (it's 10 blocks away just from the parking part) just didn't sound appealing this year, even with all the fabulous frocks I'd get to see and new friends I'd make (as I do every year)...
Luckily, I saw like all my gays at the private Peaches show on Saturday night. If you read Steffie's post (below) you know that the P. played with Sam Maloney and the Le Tigre butch babes and that she rocked. I caught the first set, which was really all I needed since she played my fave tunes from her new disc Impeach My Bush (which I reviewed for URB magazine this month) and her two previous releases Fatherfucker and Teaches of Peaches.
Check out this pic I took (it's a cameltoe shot from the rafters which isn't exactly flattering but I don't think she cares). 
So anyway, my gays in question include actor Sam Pancake, who've I've known for like a zillion years and whose now a very successful actor (he's been on everything from Will & Grace to Friends). He now has his own sitcom on Lifetime called
Lovespring International produced by none other than W&G's Eric McCormack. The looney gal who played Jan Brady in the Brady Bunch movies is in it too. Read all about the show here.
Also ran into "strong Black wo(man)" Shaundelier, who just may be the first Silver Lake celebutante/cross dresser... he was in LA Dee Da -the precursor to my Weekly Nightranger column- every week! So happy to see him with Jeppe from Junior "Move Your Feet" Senior, who looks to be fully recovered from the hit and run accident he suffered outside of the Echo a few months ago!
Bumped into Clint Catalyst, who was wearing a to-die-for feathered hat from Jared Gold (too bad the feather was so tall it blocked my view of the stage at times!) with manic panic'd singer Jeffree Star.
But it was John Roecker, the subject of a Weekly cover story I did a while back who really made an impression, especially on Peaches who used his head to support herself during part of her set. John tells me he may be working on a modern version of Jesus Christ Superstar soon (how cool would that be?), and he's got a bunch of other things in the works. Chatting this feisty fella up is always so entertaining, but it was nothing compared to the email he sent me yesterday, which will soon be hot gossip after he appears on KROQ's Kevin and Bean show tomorrow, 8:30 a.m. to talk about it.
The following is a copy of the email, and he swears it is all true:
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Hello Just
wanted to tell you my story that happened yesterday on walking to my car
on Los Feliz Blvd. I was a total innocent lamb when I was verbally attacked
by three people. I was walking to my car in a t- shirt that I made that has
an image of Tom Cruise and the caption says Scientology is Gay! And on the
Back of the shirt is a picture of John Travolta and the caption reads Very
Gay! So as I passed a shirtless Bohdi Elfman and he started screaming at
me saying how dare you make fun of my church! I replied just because you
have tax exempt doesn't make it a real church and the McDonald's franchise
is older. Then he got really mad and said that I had no idea what I was talking
about and I said I am well aware and schooled on this cult. Then Jenna started
to pipe in and asked me What Crimes I had Committed? I said I have not committed
any crimes. She stared at me like a zombie and said the same thing. What
crimes have I committed and then said have you Raped a baby? And I looked
at her and said what? She repeated. Did you Rape a baby? I shook my head
and then she said you Raped a baby! I was totally blown away meanwhile her
husband was screaming at me and kept on saying that the reason I was saying
this was because I was a homosexual (gee how did he know) to which I said
what does that have anything to do with anything if I was gay or not? I kept
on asking him about Xenu and he was about to punch me but he hesitated because
they were with another man who when instructed the both of them to walk
away and covered his ears when I asked them about L. Ron Hubbards involvement
with Alister Crowley, Xenu and the death of Lisa McPersion. After a ten minute
scream session when Bohdi said all he does is help people and why was I against
that and Jenna kept on asking What is my crime...I shouted I know what your
crime is. You make shitty Television Shows. Which Jenna screamed back "FUCK
YOU"!
True Story and I have a witness!
Love
John Roecker
____________________________________________
For more hot scoop and reports from last week's Shooting Gallery photo exhibit, all the 666 events of last week and the Standard's Sunday pool parties see Nightranger in this Thursday' s paper.
Saturday night, in advance of the opening of “David Hockney Portraits” at LACMA, there was a reception on the museum’s plaza, complete with fancy martinis (hence the long drink lines), an uninspired array of cheese and crackers and a thoroughly inappropriate hip-hop DJ. Don’t party planners think the cocktail crowd can bear anything other than bumpin’ beats? Granted, there was also a graffiti demonstration on the plaza by Mear One, but that too seemed an odd choice. David Hockney is not exactly a street artist; he paints most of his subjects in intimate, private spaces, using soft color fields and simple lines. His late ‘60s work is so prophetic of the ‘80s new wave it’s kind of mind boggling, with zebra prints and palm trees, plate glass coffee tables rendered with cartoonish diagonal reflections, and a curvy mauve couch that would almost be cheesy if it wasn’t most likely a deco original. The images may be California cool but you could easily think Miami, 1982, staring into the swirly blue depths of a swimming pool with a nice toned butt emerging from it. Of course Hockney isn’t painting Don Johnson but his boyfriend Peter Schlesinger, then a UCLA art student. Hockney certainly had a slew of pretty boyfriends, and I found a new style icon in Celia Birtwell, the doll-faced fabric designer married to rock star clothier Ossie Clark. Hockney painted Birtwell repeatedly through the decades, and her early ‘70s look is completely contemporary: even the Kork-Ease platforms she’s wearing in one drawing were relaunched this year and can be found at Fred Segal. 
The crowd that was actually looking at the paintings was considerably more interesting than those who were preoccupied with two-fisting martinis. One fierce femme was head-to-toe in psychedelic green, right down to her eye shadow and the patent leather go-go boots she dyed herself. Another woman wore a circle skirt decorated with sequined skulls (I know skulls are totally done to death, no pun intended, but she made them work somehow) and gorgeous Miu Miu sandals with a toile print platform sole. Ladies will be relieved to know that the stiletto craze is officially on the decline; I think the barefoot woman carrying hers around would have to agree. 
Later I caught the end of the Peaches show at Little Radio. The nasty-as-she-wants-to-be diva is about to go on tour with Nine Inch Nails, and her kick ass backing band includes J.D. Samson from Le Tigre and drummer Samantha Maloney, who has played with Hole and Motley Crue. For her final number, “Rock & Roll,” Peaches rocked a black superheroine cape emblazoned with a hot pink “XXX” – definitely the best fashion statement of the night. It's amazing how such a ferocious onstage goddess can turn into a regular, cute curly-haired girl when she steps off - albeit one who is wearing the tiniest pair of hot pants imaginable. The admirers milling around after the show included Katherine Moennig, who plays the beautiful butch hairdresser Shane on The L Word. I’m glad to report that her hair is back to its sexy first season shag, and she was dressed for the part in skinny low-slung jeans and a snug T-shirt – none of Shane’s ill-advised neckties or upside down bird’s nest ‘dos in sight.
Hockney image courtesy of LACMA
Mr. and Mrs. Clark and Percy, 1970–71. Acrylic on canvas, 84 1/2 x 120 in., Tate. Presented by the Friends of the Tate Gallery, 1971 ©David Hockney. All rights reserved.
I am from New York, my family is from the Bronx specifically. My dad was a NYC cop stationed outside Yankee Stadium and we would often play catch on the green in the house that Ruth built. Needless to say, I'm not a Dodger fan. When I moved here two years ago, I had a feeling that I would never quite belong, like Sting being an Englishman in NY, I would always be some kind of legal alien, a New Yorker in LA.
A friend, another recent transplant, suggested I get a team. My rooting for a Los Angeles something or other would make me feel like my adopted city was more my own. She suggested the Dodgers. I balked. But for two reasons, I considered it: They were originally from Brooklyn (where I was born) and they're not on the same league as the Yanks.
So last night I went to my first Dodger game. Fortunately for me, my friends know how to do this shit right. We met at the Shortstop for $1.50 PBR's ("fuck that Heineken shit, Pabst Blue Ribbon!") and we walked to the stadium, beating out tons of traffic. Unfortunately for me, it was against the Mets. Now, despite a brief rebelious run in '86 when the Mets were in the World Series and I had a huge crush on pitching hottie Ron Darling, I wasn't ever truly a Mets fan either. But just seeing the words across their shirts "NEW YORK" made me feel like a traitor. So for the first few innings I rooted for whoever made a good play. That's when the score was 5-5. As the Dodgers started losing, something happened, I found myself screaming and yelling, even chanting "Let's Go Dod-gers" following it with the prerequisite rythmic claps. (sorry Daddy!). I found myself saying things like, "we need one more run..." We? We?! By the bottom of the Ninth we were down by 3 runs, I looked around the stadium and felt like I was a part of something, maybe not fully "belonged" yet, but I was asked to sit at the cool kids table.
Remember those little rubber bracelets Lance Armstrong first made
popular? Then suddenly there was a rubber bracelet for everything, from supporting the troops to wiping
your ass good. Well, now rich folks can show their charitable sides
too, but you know, with class. Rubber chafes. In the 70s jewelry monarch Cartier created the LOVE bracelet. The wrist ornament was designed to be screwed tight to your wrist and never taken off. Sounds more like shackles than accessory to me, and maybe servitude rather than love, but Richard Burton and Liz Taylor screwed one on, so did Ali McGraw and Steve McQueen. Now, 30 years later Cartier has launched a new LOVE line with a Charity Bracelet, it features a mini rose gold original LOVE shackle bracelet tied to a silk cord, the color of the cord reflects the charity you support. It seems ever since somone tied a yellow ribbon round an old oak tree, charity has been color coded. And of course, these wrist trinkets aren't without their celebrity endorsements, Michael Stipe's black bracelet says you support Gulf Coast Recovery, Sarah J. Parker's blue says you care about UNICEF. Salma Hayek, Scarlett Johansson, Spike Lee and Liv Tyler all chose colors and charities. For every one you purchase $100 dollars will go to the corresponding cause.
Now, it's hard to poke fun at any kind of charity really, but the bracelet retails for 475 clams, why not donate ALL that money to charity? And if you have 475 smackers to spend on a silk chord, you probably can donate a helluva lot more. Looks like arm chair activism is out and arm band activism is in.
Ouch.
For many women, hair removal can be a painful subject. But that’s never stopped us from discussing it with any other female who happens to be within shouting distance. Oh how we love to talk about our body hair, especially the methods we use to get rid of it. It’s an endlessly fascinating topic because we’ve all got it, and none of us want it. A friend of mine (actually an ex-friend; she was completely psychotic but that’s another story) once passionately expressed to me her desire to be sleek like a baby seal - presumably one that was not about to get clubbed – and I knew just how she felt. If you’re a girl, smooth is sexy, and there really are no caveats, such as, “you know, in some cultures plumpness is considered a sign of health and great beauty.” Nobody wants to be the bearded lady, except maybe the bearded lady if she’s hooked up with a good circus. And yes, there are people who are turned on by excessively hairy women, but I’m guessing most of us wouldn’t want to get too intimate with them, hairy or not.
So now it’s “bikini season” and that of course requires a nice trim bikini line. After a mustache waxing debacle last month (it was my first time, and the fuzzy shadow above my lip was ripped out and replaced with a cold sore worthy of Katie Holmes), I decided to invest in some long term bikini bareness. I booked a laser appointment at $120 for 15 minutes, which is dirt cheap in the laser hair removal world. I shaved three days prior as they told me to, and showed up at 8:45am, which should also tell you how deep my commitment is. 8:45?! In Glendale?! When I entered the room they gave me protective goggles (!) to wear, and got right down to business.
I’ve never been hit with a nail gun but I imagine that it feels a bit like getting zapped with a laser. There is some cooling blast that follows the intense pinching sensation, but there’s no way you’re escaping without a lot of grimacing and a few involuntary moans and groans. Lying face down on my tummy while the lady attacked my inner thighs was quite the lesson in humility.
And now, five days later, the hair is still there! It looks kind of frazzled and burned but I am not in any way bikini friendly (we’re not talking sexy pubes like those on the cover of the Black Crowes album above, which was originally a Hustler magazine cover from 1976). Which is fine, as it turns out, because they told me after my appointment that I couldn’t go near the sun for two to three weeks! Even if I used spf 45! In other words I picked the absolute worst time of the year to embark on the laser journey. So now I’m consigned to a summer of shaving (you cannot wax if you are getting laser treatments) and will have to revisit the zapper in the fall. Yup, you heard right, I will be going back. Are you kidding? A permanently baby seal-esque bikini line? How can a girl resist? I know you know what I'm talkin' about.
"It should be right there," Steffie said pointing at a deep roadless ravine. I consult the loose tatered Thomas guide page again. "Maybe we didn't go far enough?" I suggest. Lina, Steffie and I have been trapped in the car for 45 minutes and I am cursing Kari Feinstein, the PR maven who gave us the bum directions. "Sunset Plaza Drive all the way up to Blue Jay Way"— was the message she sent wirelessly from her blackberry. We had naively piled in the car believing the directions were just that simple. They were not.
We were on our way to "the Style Lounge," a swag fest set up in a Hollywood Hills mansion, so that new designers, jewelry makers, and other merchants could heap tons of free goods on celebrities and their stylists, in the hopes of their product being seen on an actual celebrity during the MTV Movie Awards. This was the one of three gifting suites set up around the city in honor of the ceremony.
We wound our way up Sunset Plaza Drive, around dangerous curves without guard rails, even past signs that clearly stated: "DO NOT ENTER: PRIVATE ROAD." We did what you're supposed to do when lost in the hills, follow the hipsters. Unfortunately for us, we weren't the only ones lost, we realized when people started following us. We asked gardeners and dog walkers, even a nice man in a shiny silver Jag, all they could tell us was Blue Jay Way, was "down the hill." Finally, a patient soul asked to see our Thomas guide remnant. "It doesn't connect." WHAT?! "Blue Jay Way doesn't connect, you have to take Thrasher..." Sure enough, a crease in our beat up page gave us the faulty impression of a road. But it still didn't explain why Kari Feinstein had forsaken us.
We finally find the spot, valet, and are shuttled up in a Lincoln Town Car, only to find
our names were not put on the list, despite repeated emails with Kari herself. The check-in girl exhausted shrugs and gives us each a red wristband, and black "shopping bag."
The place was packed with people, their bags overflowing with swag, leather bags! dresses! perfume! We saw Vivica Fox loaded down like a Grand Canyon mule. But first things first, we headed to the food table, seared tuna, lamb chops courtesy of Ruth's Chris Steakhouse. As we nibbled we watched waifish starlet after waifish starlet wander by with bulging bags. We finally move into a "gifting suite" and were greeted by a woman who said she represents craft artists and helps them get press. One of the items we loved was an eye mask in quilted calico that had the words, "sod off" embroidered on it. I hand her my card. I'd love to do a story about this company, handmade little trinkets. She hands me a gift bag, which had all the company info inside. I'd like to tell you all about the cool stuff you can get from them. But unfortunately, a few moments later the woman who owns the company comes back to retrieve the gift bag she gave me and Steffie. I looked at her in shock. "We don't
have that many left," she says. "And my friend didn't know who you were." I suppose she meant we weren't famous. But we were press. Now even 13-year old Tatiana McLane
designer for Queenie 4 ever, knows how to pitch press. With her mother Venice Wong at her side, Tatiana told me how she is inspired by local designers Megan, and Tarina Tarantino, and started designing clothes at 10. And Jamie Harris from a company named This is J, was happy to talk to me. She and her sister make some cool headbands that are tapered at the back, perfect for keeping hair in place in my Jeep with the top down. Jamie Harris, the owner of the company even showed me how to put it on, face framing layers outside, suddenly a headband made me feel like Bridget Bardot. She gave me my pick of their 
hand printed bands.
We headed upstairs where many of the companies were packing up. Damn, if we hadn't gotten lost! Tucked in the corner we spotted leather clutches and wallets from HOBO. We drooled over them. The lovely woman from the company told us to pick out whatever we wanted. Steffie chose a gorgeous pearly pink over-sized wallet (which could easily double as a clutch), and I got a sky blue full-size clutch of soft buttery
leather. I was so happy and that was even before we got jeans from The Myth of Jade. Now, of course they were last years jeans, bootcut. But Steffie had the great idea to
have them tapered.
Just when we were feeling good about our swag, reality hit. As we were ogling satiny blue-ish silver dresses and cream colored lace baby dolls, the woman who was running the La Rok booth awkwardly explained to us that she can't give away clothes. "They're expensive, you know," she said condescendingly. The words are barely out of her mouth, before she turns her back to me and begins tearing dresses off the rack and shoving them into the arms of a stylist to a woman I have never heard of. Oh, it's like that. I'd have settled for a handshake, look book, or a business card, instead of the cold shoulder. But today, it's all about the celebrity endorsement, the Ugg Way. Companies go after the names, A-list, E list, someone. Anyone, to sky rocket them into Kitson.
My secret is out and it’s one that big tees, loose sweaters and even my favorite empire waist dresses just aint gonna hide anymore.
I’m knocked up…
Got a bun in the oven...
Preggers…
With child…
Expecting…
In the family way…
And though I did plan it (or more accurately, I didn’t try to prevent it) it’s still taking some getting used to.
I’m filled with a mix of excitement, fear, and happiness not to mention impatience. And by the way, a severe 3 month bout with morning (afternoon and night) sickness is my excuse for not blogging too often lately, but now that I’m in the midst of “the good trimester” (the second) expect to see a lot more from me here. And, I promise I’ll try not to be all about baby stuff either. That would be boring, even to me. I mean I was tired of hearing about "Brangelina" and "Tomkat's" spawn way before they even arrived.
But, I gotta say it’s hard not to kinda have a one track mind right now. My belly’s getting bigger and bigger, while my endurance level is getting shorter and shorter. Still, I’m fighting it, and though I'm taking it easier, I vow to be that hip chick still out at rock shows, clubs and parties, working the bump in a tight ensemble and not missing out on one ounce of fun, even without my usual cocktail(s). So far so good.
It’s funny though, everybody keeps telling me how trendy it is to be pregnant right now, as if I care. I didn’t take this giant step in some shallow quest to acquire the latest fashion accessory!
And yet, when I was invited to the Boom Boom Room “gifting suite” in Century City last Friday, put together especially for celebs to check out and take home the latest infant fashion prior to this week’s MTV Movie Awards, I became giddy. At four months along, I haven’t bought one single baby item yet, and now I’d get to score a bunch of swag for the little one.
But would I even like anything?
Turns out, kids stuff really is getting better and I’m not just talking about the miniature rock n’ roll fashion in all the stores right now (AC/DC and CBGB’s tees are everywhere). Sure, I’m a rock chick and my kid will probably be a rock fan (he/she’s already been to South By Southwest, Coachella and a shitload of shows along the Sunset Strip) but it’s all just a bit overdone right now.
The Boom Boom Room took over a whole floor of the Park Hyatt hotel, with room after room filled with plush blankees, cutesy clothing and other more unusual items. Most of the products were created by mothers who realized a need. Like Dear Johnnies Rachel Zinny
who makes hospital gowns in pretty, colorful patterns that can be monogrammed. “You always get your picture taken in these ugly gowns and I wanted to make something cute.” She told me. I picked up a sweet pink and green polka dot number with hot pink piping. Will I rock it in the maternity ward? You know it.
Another mom who came up with a great idea, the lady from L’ovedbaby whose created stylish nursing shawls for the modest mom who doesn’t want to pop out her boob for the world to see everytime her babe gets hungry. I know it’s the most natural thing in the world blah, blah, but so is pooping and I don’t want people to see me doing that in public either. Leche league ladies please don’t write me!
The ubiquitous slogan baby tee is still popular and I gotta say some companies are still coming up with clever stuff. At Nursery Couture, I got a onesie that said, “Nobody Puts Baby In A Corner,” while Rudechix offered more edgy stuff like red, black and grey tees with sayings such as “My Dad Can Dropkick Your Dad,” “Getting Tattoos When I’m 18” and “My Parents Are Cooler Than Your Parents. ”
As I meandered thru the hotel halls and into each room, bumping into TV stars (Ming Na, Joely Fisher), movie stars (Vivica Fox, who was really working the suite action… saw her again later at the MTV Style Lounge in Beverly Hills with Linda and Steffie) and other famous-for-being-famous types (Melissa Joan Hart who just had a kid; Marty, the cute blonde guy who should have won Rockstar INXS; and Shar Jackson, Kevin Ferderline’s ex, picking stuff up for Britney’s new baby, I guess) my haul got bigger and more interesting.
There was maternity stuff like lycra tees that said “Baby on Board” in rhinestones and sexy maternity lingerie from Sweet Dreams. I got a pair of these filmsy purple PJs (see pic of model) but I just don’t know when I’m gonna feel daring and or confident enough to wear ‘em. 
“Do men really find the pregnant belly sexy? “I ask my husband later that evening.
“I think it’s kind of a fetish,” he says.
“What, like chubby chasers?” I ask, my blood starting to boil and my eyes starting to swell for no apparent reason. He told me I looked cute just the other day and now my belly is a "fetish?"
He clarifies, “No, if it’s your baby, uh, yes of course , it’s sexy. But if a man's attracted to pregnant women he doesn't know, then I think it’s kind of a fetish.”
Nice save dude.
A piece of advice to pals and lovers of soon-to-be moms: be very, very careful what you say. Treat everything like the ol' "Do I look fat in this dress?" question and say the nicest, sweetest, most positive thing you can think of. It could make the different between 9 months of bliss or hell.
Here are some other links to cool stuff I saw/ got at the Boom Boom Room. Expect to see the celebs with them in all the mags in the next few months.
Ohfive (baby shoes)
Hopscotchlane (blankets)
Bandannaboutique (bibs, blankets)
Lilewes (baby stuff delivery service)
