Monday, March 24, 2014


Dreaming of a personal style so over the top that even 122 carats won't cut it? Do your demands fall flat and keep you from seeing the light of Harry Winston? Is Sears your couturier of choice? (It seriously hurts to write those words, much less read them. Make it stop.) Fabulosity may come from the inside out, but it's the outside everyone judges (particularly other women). It's merely a matter of money.

Don't kid yourselves, head-to-toe beauty can be bought -- many Hollywood A-listers were beyond blah before making bank. Point is, enviable status is there for the taking if you're savvy enough to grab it. How can an average girl amp up her game? Being cutesy, loving, and evolved won't get you anywhere, especially private fitting rooms and a bevy of ass-kissers at Bergdorf's. Cast aside all that wholesome, white bread goodness crap, put on your Big Bitch panties, and listen up.

I've compiled a list of invaluable tips to help you get in touch with your inner "geishanista" because it's all about attitude more than anything else. We understand the importance of first impressions, so why not make each one utterly glam-tastic?

1. Start with the basics and learn your A, B, C, D's -- Atelier Versace, Balmain, Christian Dior, Dolce Gabbana, and so on. Say them out loud as if you gauged someone's eyes out for a front row seat at fashion week. Brush up on Couture 101, mein liebchens. You don't want a pop quiz taking you by surprise while looking like the people of Walmart, do you? (FYI, the answer is "NO.")

2. Eliminate the word "cheap" from your vocabulary. Even if your entire wardrobe comes from the bargain bin, you MUST pretend otherwise. (Cheap NEVER looks luxe, and that's the entire point of this article.) So until you've burned every last half-off schmatta, work on perfecting the facade. It's easy -- everyone in L.A. does. Buy one pricey piece and make it the focus of every single conversation so others start believing (if only because you've painfully shoved it down their throats) that you're an honest-to-goodness, real-life label whore.

3. Laugh out loud at every garish fashion faux pas -- as they pass by on the street. (Did I mention loudly? It's way too much fun ... pointing works too.) This will thwart your chances of becoming the wear-every-wacky-tacky-fad-at-once fashion victim and having others laugh at YOU.

4. Obsess over shoes ... especially when window shopping with promises of woo-woo in the air. This is a biggie. (Read "Foot Fetish ... Moi?") Anything bearing the Choo, Prada, or Louboutin label is a must-have, so just remember to playfully squeeze his hand and say, "Oooo, I have garters that match those perfectly!" Follow it with a wistful sigh and, "Oh well, wish I didn't love playing dress-up so much." BTW, here's a new mantra for all my sneaker-loving ladies -- the higher the heels, the closer to Gucci. (Which, in my case, is a deity.)

5. Always smell good ... and by good, I really mean anything that's a step up from dime store cologne. Think expensive and he'll treat you that way. Not that Hermes or Clive Christian tops your list, but splurging on something a bit more extravagant prevents you from reeking like an 80-year-old who got frisky with air freshener. Believe me, a memorable scent enhances your intrigue which, in turn, enhances your offshore account. Spritz away!

6. It don't mean a thing if he won't bring the bling. It's true. Plus, a diamond or two adds sufficient sparkle to anyone's day. Subtly let him know which jewelry was gifted from a hunky ex-boyfriend and watch him scurry off to Tiffany's to prove his rocks are bigger. Reward and repeat. (Perhaps I've stumbled onto the true meaning of the term "getting your rocks off"?)

7. While we're on the topic ... all that glitters BETTER BE REAL. Yup, diamonds are only a girl's best friend (and hence, you his) if they're not cubic zirconias in disguise. Go on, get that appraisal pronto. It will confirm your value in his eyes so you can ...

8. Date LOTS of daddies! A true geishanista can never have enough (you should see my closets), and sometimes that means double or even triple-dippin' on the joysticks. Just make sure Sugar Papi abides by the rules -- without his bank, you can't dress up. It's all about Saks an' sake bombs, bitches.

9. Introduce caviar, truffles, and other ridiculously pricey foods into your diet. Do your homework on the seductive powers of Foie Gras and give Mr. Big bonus points for feeding it to you while on a romantic weekend getaway in gay Paris (or Belize).

10. Brush your teeth with Dom, as in Perignon. Not only will folks think you're batshit cray-cray, but you'll be doing your part in helping with the drought, you little eco-friendly boo. Champagne baths border on badass as well -- throw in a few floating fruits, like strawberries, and you and your twisted mister are good to go.

11. Be the party girl. Ditch anything even remotely reminiscent of a Velma turtleneck, don some come-f*ck-me pumps, and hooch it up. Of course there's a reason for this temporary insanity, silly muffin -- you want him to want every other man to wish THEY could hit it. Talk about stroking egos. Eye candy's dandy, but payback like this is priceless. (Ok, it's akin to skyrocketing stock.) Re-read tips four through eight please. I size 0 ... in case you want to get me thank-you gift. (Size 2 simply sounded better in the song.)

12. Speaking of dressing up, DO IT -- even when you're home with the flu (or just your cat.) You never know who'll drop by with gourmet chicken soup from Dean & DeLuca and, perhaps, a shiny new bauble to make baby feel better. There, there, suck it up and spackle concealer under your nose. You gotta look damn glam blowing your honker.

13. Swinging-from-the-chandeliers sex hooks'em every time. Especially the shy, short, quiet, insecure, balding, and overweight ones. They've never had it so good, so anything even remotely Dita von Teese-ish will work. Let all hell break loose in a leather bustier and you might even give him a coronary (j/k), which translates into anything your devious little heart desires.

14. It is most definitely all about size -- size of his bank account, size of the diamonds, size of the square footage in your new Holmby Hills pad. Forget motion of the ocean and think weekly bank transfers in your name so you can live in the manner to which I'm helping you create. Jeez, aren't you lucky to have me around? (FYI, the answer is "YES.")

As Madonna once said, "People are afraid to say what they want. That's why they don't get what they want." Snap out of it and start flapping those yap holes. You'll thank bouzhee little me faster than you can sing, "Everybody's doin' it, everybody's doin' it!" xo

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Friday, March 21, 2014


Forget satire, songs, and being silly. Let's get serious ... if just for day.

Today is Single Parents Day and I honestly don’t know where to begin – it would take volumes. That said, I suppose having the baby’s a good place to start. My life changed forever and became perfect all at once the moment she was born. I was in baby love with the most incredible being. Her innocent little eyes looked up to me for everything … how could I (or anyone) not want to give her the world? Those that know us know the answer.

Words can’t describe playing the role of both mom and dad. I often felt isolated and unsure of exactly where I fit in. Though definitely challenged on some levels, I was blessed with a child who somehow understood we were in this together. It wasn’t about social norms, expectations, or stuff – it was about love. It was about US.

There was no other option but to prevail. Sometimes the gray area was blinding, yet here we are. We actually made it -- quite swimmingly, I must add. I jumped in, followed my gut, and did my best. (It also helped that she was quite an amazing co-pilot.) People act on instincts … and seeing her now proves mine were pretty damn good.

It’s been a long, short, wonderful, frightening, beautiful, trying, ever-rewarding journey. Miraculously I weathered the emotional rollercoaster to raise a brilliant, successful young woman. The word “proud” doesn’t quite cut it. (Let me throw in “Class Valedictorian” just once more. Please. Oh, and did I mention brilliant?)

Bottom line, I’d relive every single second to be exactly who and where we are today. Because of her words I understand the meaning of true wealth. Because of her fierceness I’ve come to realize my own strength. Because of her love I believe in angels, as she is truly mine. I am so lucky to have lived this life. Thank you my darling. I love you … infinity squared.

Celebrate Single Parent Appreciation Day and send lots of love to all the moms and dads raising children alone … they truly have the hardest job in existence. Hopefully, like mine, it’s been the most gratifying. xo

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Tuesday, March 18, 2014


Got hangover? Shopping's my wonder drug of choice. Like men and their motors, wandering about Bloomies is my kind of road rally. It revs me when I'm down, de-stresses after long days, and proves shoes can change the world — all while kicking Papi to the curb for extra closet space. (Plus it's 100% legal with no telltale odor.) But back to your queasy self.

For all my little boozers who imbibed just a tad too much and can't move (much less shop), here are some of the world's most bizarre hangover cures. Headaches, nausea, dehydration, and the ilk will laugh themselves right out of your body. Then fire up the credit card because you've got some real work to do. Cheers!

1. Pickled Herring
If it's endorsed by the Germans, you know it works. They don't f*ck around, so just eat the damn things. 

2. Sour Pickle Juice
The Polish believe high levels of electrolytes repair the liver after living it up. Just don't ask how many pickles it takes to screw in a lightbulb.

3. Tripe Soup
Evidently, in Romania, a cow's stomach lining is a methane-tooting miracle when you're sloshed.

4. Umeboshi Plums
One guess where these originate. The Japanese even steep the little puckers in green tea to let the salty, sour goodness kick them in the ass sip after sip. Ew.

5. Shrimp
In Mexico, this "Vuelva a la Vida" (return to life) food gets'em dancing on the tables after a night of, um, dancing on the tables. Go figure.

6. Boiled Banana Peel
Yum ... who doesn't have several stinky ones strewn around the house? Ancient Chinese secrets are so silly. BTW, you drink the liquid after boiling the peel rather than eat the mushy mess. Equally fun. 

7. Salted Coffee
No explanation necessary. I'd listen to any country that produces a fashion wunderkind like Gaultier — regardless of how snarky they are. Does that come in size 0? Merci.

8. Deep-fried Canaries
Those cray-cray ancient Romans. When you start giving Tweety the evil eye, mankind is one small step closer to its cannibalistic doom. Grab some Pepto and call it a day.

9. Lemons and Limes
Not in any way what you're thinking. Rub these fruits under your armpits like the Puerto Ricans for round-the-clock hangover protection ... and a cool citrus-y scent.

10. Cold Lemon Water
Minus the whack factor of the others, this is a REAL and very personal cure (as if I invented water and lemons). Seems contradictory if your tummy's flip-flopping, but the L-Word works wonders after guzzling one too many geisha-ritas. Crazy, eh? xo

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Sunday, March 16, 2014


Kiss me I'm ... having grown up in New York City, home of St. Patrick's Cathedral, this o'geishanista knows firsthand about celebrating St. Patty's Day on a grand scale. (Did I mention McSorley's Ale House?) From the wee hours of the morn' till the wee hours of the next morn', every man, woman, and pub in town lets loose in full-blown party mode -- and it has nothing to do with strangers sucking face or being Irish at all. 

Who doesn't love men rockin' kilts?

Some pretty kick-ass parades kick off the libation-loving festivities, then hords spend the day (or weekend, in this year's case) wearing, eating, an' drinking green -- as in beer, bagels, eggs, ham, shamrock shakes, cocktails, corned beef, you name it. Chug a few mugs of the magical brew and it's like a mini Mardi Gras ... minus the booby beads and King Cake. Talk about "Erin Go Bragh-less." It's literally a day of toasting till you're toasted. 

Back in the old country it's all about the Guinness, but my personal fave has to be the emeralds -- rings, earrings, necklaces, you name it. Isn't that the reason they call it the "Emerald Isle"? Surprise me with Harry O'Winston and you'll be the lucky little leprechaun kissing my blarney stone. Think magically delicious. (FACT: I've been called that. Throw in matching Louboutins and I'll prove it. Oh yeah.)

HINT: this emerald-cut emerald will rock my world. (And yours.)

BTW, here's a little-known tidbit: St. Patrick was actually born in Scotland! Didn't see that coming, did you? He arrived in Ireland after being kidnapped by slave traders, and eventually brought Christianity to the Land of Saints and Scholars. The first Irish immigrants, selfless souls that they are, eventually brought the party here to celebrate their luck. Now who are the lucky ones? Exactly. I'm dancing a jig as we speak.

Speaking of jig (or gig in this case), one of my ever-so-lovely GEISHA-MANIA! gal pals is infamous for his leprechaun act in films, television commercials, and video games. In fact, he was looking devilishly dapper decked out in a green plaid suit, top hat, spats, cane, ginger mutton chops, and a huge handlebar mustache when we first met at a party two years ago. (He kind of freaked me out.) Little did either of us know he'd be donning a kimono and Spanx to join my silly, sexy sideshow. It really does pay to be Irish ... or just play one on TV.

Who's a pretty Irish lad turned lassie?

Enough drivel, let's move on to the fun stuff. It's high time to start thinkin' 'bout drinkin' ... and this is certainly the day to do it. Of all the specialty cocktails (one can never ingest enough food coloring), Green Margaritas are me beverage of choice. Any drink with its own national holiday sends me flying over the rainbow, but there are some delish St. Paddy's Day drink recipes that'll surely get your Irish up. 

This TIPSY LEPRECHAUN looks divine!

Searching for that perfect pot of gold? Wish upon a four-leaf clover, download the Uber app (don't drink and drive), and go paint the town green. Here are some places in L.A. to find Irish eats and throw down a few Dublin Donkeys ... cheers! xo

Molly Malone's Irish Pub
575 S. Fairfax Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90036
(323) 935-1577

Tam o' Shanter
2980 Los Feliz Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90039
(323) 664-0228

Tom Bergin's Tavern
840 S. Fairfax Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90036
(323) 936-7151

Rock and Reilly's Irish Pub
8911 Sunset Boulevard
West Hollywood, CA 90069
(310) 360-1400

Ladyface Alehouse & Brasserie
29281 Agoura Road
Agoura Hills, CA 91301
(818) 477-4566

Casey's Irish Pub
613 S. Grand Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90017
(213) 629-2353

Friday, March 7, 2014


Since it's my beloved "TGI Foot Fetish Friday," I have a filthy little secret to confess. (I'm really a pasty white girl and not Asian at all? Why screw with your bewilderment? It's waaay too much fun.)

Here goes. I'm head over heels over ... heels. Like kryptonite. Yes, you heard correctly and it's totally true — shoes are my crack, smack, and whack all in one. (Is whack even slang for a drug? No matter, falling in love with a new Italian designer is like someone whacking me upside the head. Same thing.) Talk about a contact high. The second those puppies hit my puppies, a euphoria rushes over my body like none other. Move over Mary Jane, there's a new Mary Jane in town.

Wait, there's more. Hard as it is for me to divulge, I actually, hear me out, quiver at the mere sight of come-f'ck-me black patent ... and don't even get me started on kid suede. Two words: multiple glam-gasms. (For days). Oh my. So it makes perfect sense why I'm totally hooked on men hooked on my feet — especially when clad in strappy little numbers that reveal a sufficiently sexy amount of toe cleavage. Trust me love muffins, they're ALL into my feet. (And my rockstar pedicure.) Ancient Chinese secret or TMI from pasty white? Nope, just merely stating the facts. Whoever invented the term "shoe porn" was the Einstein of what really renders a woman powerless. Is there a Nobel Prize for that kind of brilliance? ('Cuz he/she earned it. In spades. Make that Kate Spades.)

This delicious level of dependence can't be rehabilitated through hypnosis, shock treatment (OMFG, they don't have my size!), or even the most rigorous 12-step program. Imagine standing before a group of poor souls struggling to banish their demons and admitting my insatiable desire for D'Orsay? Thanks but no thanks. Am I worried about spiraling into the depths of overdose-dom? Hell to the no. You can keep your clean living, bitches. As long as I'm sporting the latest Louboutins, I'll be the happiest (and most fashion-forward) junkie to ever buckle up a T-strap. Just watch me.

Since I was a just wee geishanista back in the Bronx, every pump, platform, boot, shootie, flat, flip-flop, slingback, stiletto, wedge or Wellie has held me spellbound. (Even though I despise rain, we must look smashing in it.) My aunties' closets were the absolute Holy Grail — all filled with fabulous shoe collections just waiting for my child-sized feet to explore. I'd be transfixed for hours, parading around in ankle straps, kitten heels, and a motherload of mules. It was endless. Dinner came and went and I never knew. Ferragamos were my food of choice.

In fact, I've been known to lay down a nice chunk o' change on a plethora of peep toes all in one sitting rather than go grocery shopping. (The sales peeps know me by name ... how sweet is that?) I mean, what better ambrosia than a bejeweled Badgley Mischka? What tortellini's more tantalizing than a super-sized serving of Stella McCartney thigh highs? Bring it on. So don't hate me 'cuz I'm skinny ... just blame my love for leather.

During pre-production for GEISHA-MANIA, I was seriously out of control — rows of Roberto Cavallis called my name. Stacks of Giuseppe Zanotti boxes started piling up. At one point there were 30 pairs of shoes — just for a damn three-minute video (not counting my own massive collection, of course). I'd hit rock bottom and my poor stylist was forced to stage an intervention. She failed. I kept buying. It was absolutely glorious.

Problem is, after the final cut was finished, you can't even see the shoes! My darling babies were pretty much pushed clear out of frame and banished into oblivion. I say conspiracy, but director Luciano Fontana claims artistic integrity. I'm sure I'm right, but you know how Sicilians get. I'll give him this round, cause there's always GEISHANISTA GO-GO, my upcoming music video. Wait till you see the kooky kaleidoscope of bling, fashion, fun, and wacky rap. And all-important shoes. So, Mr. Director, we shall see who wins this next battle ... you or the shoes? My money's on the Manolos ... they totally kick ass. xo

See what I mean?

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Monday, March 3, 2014


Ok, so he f'd up. Pretty bad. But for the love of all things silicone in LaLa Land, isn't John Travolta allowed to experience at least one senior moment? Seriously, throw the guy a bone. After the age of 30, these things happen to all of us -- just this morning I almost started eating cereal with a screwdriver. Don't worry, it's never seen the light of actual screws, but imagine that? Of course, I wasn't introducing anyone at the most prestigious awards ceremony of the year, nor was it broadcast to millions of judgmental smartasses with Twitter accounts (a minor detail), but still.

Perhaps it would've been less of a media frenzy if John had spazzed out at Starbucks and ordered a fat-free "Kill Barbarinoccaccino" (grande, please, in a yellow cup), but the man is 60 freakin' years old! Impossible, I know. To top it off (no pun intended), his new Ken-doll hair seems to be working some strange, mystical voodoo even beyond the Church of Scientology's control. They're invariably the masterminds behind this mess ... and here's why.

At the mother church somewhere in Riverside county, Xenu's minions have been sprinkling John with cursed chia seeds over the years as payback for "Urban Cowboy." Silly, sweet, beautiful John honestly believes it's an old Sicilian (READ: alien) blessing to thank him for being so generous, but he has zero clue any abracadabra's at work. (BTW, John's quite the foodie and even snagged a few stragglers with his tongue as they danced off his scalp -- mangiare!)

Well, wouldn't you know, those sly little germinating bastages finally decided to seek revenge at last night's Oscars -- all while channeling Christopher Walken! (Everyone heard him pronounce "wi-cked-ly," a blatant CW rip-off if there ever was.) Talk about inopportune ... I mean, what would Christopher Walken do?

No one--not John or even L. Ron himself--could have predicted JT's Gozer-the-Gozerian hair takeover. (Maybe Linda Blair or Bill Murray, but she was MIA and he was busy workin' his Ghostbuster mojo to pay homage to Harold Ramis -- and rightfully so. The man was amazing.) Why is it possessed people are never in on the joke? I feel for the aging idol, but my Starbucks scenario would've been much easier, less public, and somewhat comforting on a rainy day. "Oops, did I say that? Brain fart!" A quick laugh, a few tweets at best (less than a million), and everyone goes home. Simple.

What's most important here is the fact that John's misstep obviously launched the careers of several quick-thinking writers and comedians now claiming to be the infamous Adele Dazeem! BOOM. (Not that that was too difficult.) All for the bargain price of being glued to your television and a Twitter parody account. Who cares if she's real -- or if John's losing his marbles? THAT BITCH MADE HISTORY.

Maybe it's another senior moment, but even I can't remember the "Frozen" singer's actual name. (Not that I care either.) Purely coincidental? Nah. Pure genius? You can bet y'er dog-eared copies of "Dianetics" it is. And that, my friends, is not only some serious subterfuge (courtesy the Church of Scientology), but also a starving artist's dream come true (or anyone determined to break into the biz). Kudos to all who jumped on the bandwagon at poor, bewitched John's expense -- enjoy your 15 minutes. Let's see if you're clever enough to parlay that into human years, hmmmm? (In other words, "Up YOUR nose with a rubber hose!")

So kids, what have we learned today? Let seniors be seniors. (Even the old, funky-smelling ones.) Never trust chia pets you don't know. (Or church ladies.) Don't eat demonic seeds. (With or without marinara.) Last but not least, honor otherworldly entities that put Jerm Travinksi, um, John Travolta, under a trance so that, pretty please, he'll do it again -- only this time while F'ING UP MY NAME on national TV. Lordy Geesh has a nice ring to it, no? xo

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