Dream job come true! Luckily you don’t have to be fashionable to write for US Weekly’s Fashion Police. Thanks to my pal @WendiAarons who was generous enough to hook me up with this job!

roma★
YOU ARE THE REASON
Mike Driver
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Keni
Cosmic Funnies

pixel skylines
One Nice Bug Per Day

Janaina Medeiros
hello vonnie

shark vs the universe
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Kaledo Art
Jules of Nature
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Sade Olutola

if i look back, i am lost
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me

izzy's playlists!
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@gloriafallon
Dream job come true! Luckily you don’t have to be fashionable to write for US Weekly’s Fashion Police. Thanks to my pal @WendiAarons who was generous enough to hook me up with this job!
These are some of our latest additions to the Staff Picks shelf at the front of the store.
The rules for staff picks are… no rules. As booksellers, we just pledge to each other and our customers to take seriously (but not too seriously) the responsibility to recommend a book that’s awesome; it has to be a book you’re genuinely excited to share with other people. It doesn’t matter if it’s the The Next Big Book by a superstar author or a great new voice from a tiny press. It can be brand new or from a long time ago. It just has to be GOOD. It has to be something you *know* other readers would really dig. And because we all have different tastes, our recommendations end up representing a pretty wide variety of styles.
That’s how we pick ‘em.
Shout-out to our pal (and Jimmy’s proud sis) Gloria Fallon!
Goodbye, The Bachelor.
I think I’m done watching The Bachelor. (And The Bachelorette. For the purpose of this article, I will only refer to The Bachelor, because it’s annoying to keep referring to both.)
As you may be aware, I have always been a HUGE fan of this franchise. The sketch I wrote about it for Nikki & Sara is one of my proudest achievements. I loved this show not because I believe in romance and fairy tales and The Journey, but because I thought the show was one of the best comedies on television. I found great pleasure in watching a handful of fools float along in what we could obviously see was a total farce. If I was a high school drama teacher, I would use this show as a near perfect example of Dramatic Irony. Additionally, there’s always been something so comforting in its predictability, in the familiar story lines the show always seemed to follow. (Bad girl woos the Bachelor, the other girls fight about it, the girl who brings it up to the Bachelor will immediately be sent home, and, ultimately, a total nob wins, and then they break up six months later.) I’ve always been drawn to things that walk the breathtakingly fine line between heartwarming saccharine and gut-wrenching desperation. And as miserably as I’ve failed in my own relationships, I get sweet release watching people humiliate themselves for “love” on national television.
But. Something has changed this season. I just don’t think I can open myself up to The Bachelor. I am not getting Vulnerable this time around, like at all. I’m not Ready To Find Love with Juan Pablo. I’m not prepared for The Journey. After thinking about, while putting off some very real work assignments that are overdue, I think I’ve figured out why.
1. El Problema de Juan Pablo
Juan Pablo has already revealed to us all why he is a terrible Bachelor. His anti-gay comments on some red carpet somewhere ruined the fun. Not only were the comments supremely ignorant, but they felt like a record-scratch in the middle of our magical dance. I suddenly realized: in order to fully immerse myself in The Bachelor, I really need the protagonist (male or female) to be as plain vanilla as possible; a smiling, frozen Teddy Bear who can absorb whatever drama the producers choose to inflict upon him or her. And Juan Pablo held great promise for that role, especially since English is his second language, thus making his cluelessness even more perfect. He’s rich, he’s handsome, and he’s dull - but not because he’s stupid per se, but because, you see, he’s not from around these here parts! All the better for the girls in the house and us at home. We need a blank surface upon which we can project our ideal version of a man (or punching bag, depending). But after his little oopsy on the red carpet, the surface is blank no more. Juan Pablo has been ripped from our fantasies and thrown into the cold hard news cycle. It’s like when Tom Cruise did too many weird things in the press. I can’t watch him in a movie anymore without thinking “Cruise, you crazy.”
Of course, as it goes with these things, Juan Pablo has issued an apology, claiming that the word “pervert” was simply a mistake because English is his second language. Which was hardly a defense, because if you listen to all of his comments, his intention is very clear. And with that, the fantasy is gone.
Yes, we’ve had really terrible Bachelors before, but the things that made them terrible were hilarious building blocks for my jokes (e.g. Ben with the terrible hair, Sean with the obvious virginity). I don’t find this stuff about Juan Pablo to be good fodder. It just makes me sad.
2. Diane Wasn’t Real
Remember on Thanksgiving, when that guy Elan live-tweeted his fake airplane feud with a woman named Diane? There was a fair amount of debate about whether Elan was a douche for tricking all those people into following him on Twitter. A lot of people were celebrating the whole exchange, making him out to be a hero, while others pointed out that telling an apparently sick woman to “eat my dick” may have taken it a bit too far. Ultimately, what bothered me about it was Elan’s attempts to act like a hero after the thing went viral, before he finally had to admit that it was fake. In the end, it felt like we all got used for Elan’s own gain. I could write a whole thing about it, but it’s old and tired now, and I really could care less. BUT.
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I Don't Want To Be "62 and Sizzling" Like Jane Seymour
I really don't. When I'm 62 I want to be able to eat and do whatever the hell I want. And if that means I'm "pleasingly plump" then good for me. When I'm 62, I don't want to be doing stomach crunches, applying fake tanner and scrutinizing my ass and thighs before I go to the beach. I'm tired of doing these things now, so no way am I doing them when I've reached the respectable age of 60-somethings.
This push for women to look young and thin! Ever since Kate Moss emerged, being thin or even emaciated is the ideal "look." I wish I could say I've always had enough self-confidence to be whatever weight my body felt comfortable in, but that would be a complete lie. I started exercising at age 9, I've starved myself on more occasions than I can count, and even though I'm at a healthy place with food and weight right now, I still weigh myself every single day. Society pushes these ridiculous standards on us, and it becomes what we see as attractive.
We're supposed to look "young" even if we're not. I don't look my age and neither do my friends, maybe because we have so much more available to us now that can help us look younger. 40 never seemed like anything but old to me, but Jennifer Aniston, Courteney Cox, Halle Berry and Sandra Bullock all make it seem like just a mere extension of your 30s. I don't mind this so much because it feels right. But looking younger is work--work that I do not want to do when I'm 62.
Because 62 is not young. It's not even young-ish. 62 is old (there, I said it!!) Hell, 50 is old. We should not be afraid to age. When I'm 62 I don't want to be worried about cellulite. I don't want to worry about the crow's feet that show how much fun my life has been. When I'm 62 I'm going to do what I want, eat what I want and wear what I want because I'll have earned that right by then. And when I'm 62, I'm going to be the happiest old lady around.
Jimmy’s sister, Gloria Fallon, shares a collection of childhood photos and memories from their Thanksgivings past!
Because after yoga class, who doesn't want a $200 sweater clinging to their hot, sweaty skin? It's a look, people!
Summertime Memories: Growing Up Fallon
Summer vacation was like one big Fallon Funfest when me and Jimmy were growing up. We’d spend the days swimming in our pool, playing whiffle ball and Trac Ball in the backyard, and Little League at the local baseball field. Hanging out at home with your mom and grandparents is supposed to be lame and boring, but nobody gave us the memo.
If we weren’t in the pool, we’d play in our sand pile. What? Most kids have a sand box? Oh. Probably the same kids who have wrapped presents under the tree at Christmastime.
And the pinnacle of summertime fun usually came in August—the family vacation! Although our backyard and the mega-funtropolis of Saugerties NY provided us with more than enough entertainment, it was good for all of us to get away and see the world.
1977: Stick ‘Em Up! When I was four and Jimmy was three, our parents took us to Carson City, a fake Western town complete with cowboys, saloon shoot-outs and stagecoach robberies. Our parents bought us cowboy hats so we’d fit right in. It was all good until a staged shootout started and we thought, “Holy crap, let’s get the eff outta here!” We tossed our hats and begged Dad to take us home. Not yet in touch with his feminine side, our Dad lit up a Kent and said, “We just got here. You’re gonna wear your hats and have fun!” I imagine this picture was taken soon after:
1982 – Cooperstown Here we are at the Baseball Hall of Fame. Note Jimmy’s “Bat Boy” outfit—evidence of our parents’ outrageously high expectations for their children. (Side note: Today, the hat and sweatshirt Jimmy wore as Ben in the movie “Fever Pitch” are actually on display at Cooperstown.)
1985 – Who Needs Europe? We’ve Got Lake George Then, in 1985, a family friend recommended Lake George, NY. We all liked it so much that it turned into our annual summer vacation trip for the next 20 or so years.
Same boat, different year. I know not too many twenty-somethings vacation with their parents…but me and Jimmy never got that memo either.
This post originally appeared in longer form on LateNightwithJimmyFallon.com
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I’m one of those women who never felt that "natural birth" sounded all that natural—and even if I only had one baby my ideal delivery would have been a c-section. When I was pregnant with twins, my first thought was that under no circumstances would I be offering two exit options. One route for both was all that would be made available.
What Do We Tell the Kids?
Gone are the days of worrying about keeping Santa or the Easter Bunny a secret. With deranged kids killing innocent little first-graders in their classrooms and sickos blowing people up at a marathon finish line, I've got bigger things to cover up than where Santa hides the presents.
Any time I hear news about a child being hurt, I cry. So luckily, my two 6-year-olds are sort of used to that. I was crying yesterday reading reports from Boston--my home for five fantastic years--on my laptop and my daughter saw me and said, "Why are you crying Mommy?" and I just said like I always do, "You know Mommy sometimes cries when I read sad news." And she said, "Oh, okay!" and skipped off. At 6, my kids are still too innocent to understand the evil that exists in the world, so I'm not going to burden them with it.
But "What do we tell the kids?" is something I've asked too much recently. After a lunatic opened fire on people watching a Batman movie, I immediately decided not to tell my children. They had only been to 3 movies, and hearing people died while watching one would probably ruin movie-going for them for a lifetime. I wasn't giving that to the freakshow gunman.
Then Newtown. I still haven't completely mourned the children who died that morning because I was so paralyzed by grief in December that I had to stop watching, had to stop reading. My feelings were echoed by a lot of parents I spoke with after that: "This is hitting me harder than 9/11." Because we have children. Because it could have been us. And because we can't wrap our heads around something so awful ever occurring.
After thinking about it for a while, I decided that my kids would be more harmed than helped by knowing what happened at Sandy Hook Elementary. I didn't want them to be afraid of school, I didn't want them to know people as evil as that gunman existed. I emailed their teachers and said I wasn't telling my children, but if they were planning on talking about it to their class or if they heard the kids talking about it, I asked if they could let me know, so I could cobble together some sort of explanation for them. Both teachers said they had no plans to discuss the massacre with their first grade classes and would keep us all informed if they heard it being discussed. Other parents must've felt the same way, because it didn't come up.
Then when everyone was making Snowflakes for Newtown, I thought that would be something I could do with the kids, and I just said to them, "we're going to help decorate a school for kids who don't have as much as we do." My kids understand charity and how it's important to help others and they understood this explanation. We had a great couple of days cutting the snowflakes, decorating them with glitter and packaging them up and mailing them off.
About a week later my son told me, "Elizabeth said she made snowflakes too, but for kids who got shot in their school. A crazy guy with a gun killed them." Maybe I did the right thing, maybe I did the wrong thing, but I immediately lied. I said, "Oh really? I'll have to ask her mother about that. That sounds pretty crazy to me." And he immediately eased back into his happy smiley face, had a jump in his step and said, "That's what I thought! Who ever heard of that?!" He'll never now how much I wish I hadn't, how much I wish the families in Newtown hadn't. And I felt happy, that for the time being, he had never heard of something so senseless and awful actually happening in real life.
And maybe I'm sheltering them too much, but I wish I'd never heard of the horrors that happened in Boston yesterday. Until my two are older and a little more mentally equipped to handle such unbelievable information--details their own parents find difficult to fathom--until then I'm not going to tell them. I'm just going to let them be kids in a world I wished we lived in.
I wiped everything down with Wet Wipes—the window, the remotes, the trays, and the armrests. I had just started cleaning the seat and the floor with wide strips of masking tape when my seatmate arrived to see that she was sitting next to a Crazy Peanut-Allergy Parent. I assured her I wasn’t a lunatic. It was just our first flight and I was doing everything anyone recommended to get through it.
Throwback Thursday: In honor of Opening Day this week, here’s Jimmy and his sister Gloria on a family trip to the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1982.
The teacher would sing some annoying songs, pass out some “instruments” (like maracas) for the babies to play with, and all the kids would stick them in their mouth or fling them. Then the moms would have to walk around in circles with their baby and dance them around. I had one baby on each hip and would be sweating by the end of class—it was ridiculous that I actually paid money to be put through that.
Me & Jimmy, Easter 1977. Hard to believe this picture was taken by a professional photographer, because it looks like we're laughing at someone who just walked in. Definitely no professional haircuts at this point--wow, those are some bad trims. I was really proud of my little wicker purse though--glad I got that out front and center.
I loved my childhood so much, I'm raising my twins as laid-back, underscheduled children of the 70s and 80s.
Now online at Mommyish. com