Carmelo Anthony’s wife, La La. Voluptuous décolleté strains her neckline. Hard not to go gaga over La La.
Kim Kardashian and her kid and her unhusband, Kanye, and those non-Kmart klothes that run snuggier than some of her various parts? Stunning.
Amanda Seyfried, tucked inside a strapless black number, at the screening of her Linda Lovelace thing. Gorgeous.
Brit duchess Mama Middleton? Her copied shmattas are already on sale. At Banana Republic yet.
So, my question is, what do they look like at home?
Recent reports state that, despite Kim and Kate — and Simon Cowell’s chick — our planet’s birthrate has gone down.
Why?
Is it that when home and in the kitchen behind a pot, females go to pot?
The queen of England. Just suppose the royal appetite wasn’t appeased by that evening’s lousy State Dinner. Maybe she needs a late-night snack.
Imagine Her hungry Majesty rattling around Buckingham some 1 a.m. Alone. In whatever wing Philip’s bedroom’s in, he’s out flat. Elizabeth is thrifty, so no lights are on. In America, she’d have those cockamamie candles every houseguest sends for a thank you, but this being Britain, it’s dark.
Question: What’s a Sovereign of England, Scotland, Wales and part of Ireland wear when crashing into some statue in armor whilst trundling behind the Throne Room into the kitchen hunting a leftover prune Danish?
A terrycloth robe to match her crown? Schlepping around in a tatty nightie embroidered with her crest? Rumpled pj’s with the monogram “Monarch”? A yucky T-shirt with a scepter and orb on the back? What?
I know a lady who dresses spiffy. Bangles jangle, earrings dangle. Yet she says: “Once in my house I rip it all apart. Spanx gone, bra gone, it’s some ratty old outfit on.”
What about her husband? Her answer: “So? So what about him?”
Camilla a k a Mrs. Prince Charles, wife of the semi-king, told me: “Minute I take the makeup off, everything else goes off. Behind the scenes, away from view, we’re just plain. Immediately, I reach home I throw off the shoes. Standing in parades, shaking hands on marble ballroom floors, walking reception lines in heels is killing on the feet. Mine aren’t good. There are calluses and corns, so I walk around barefoot.”
I thanked this shloomping Duchess of Cornwall for sharing.
Young beauties like Rose Byrne, who’s dating casual no-tie guy Bobby Cannavale? What’s she decked out in when nobody’s looking? A Mother Hubbard? Bobby’s day-old shirt?
Jennifer Aniston — between husbands — wanted out of living in New York so she and Boyfriend could enjoy privacy? Yet she tells everyone about the stripper pole in her house? OK, fine. A Rodin would be nicer but, listen, lotsa luck. What’s Women’s Wear say is the prescribed wardrobe for wriggling down a greasy pole? A borrowed Tom Ford original with topaz brooch and matching ring, so she can lift that middle finger to the paparazzi?
While in privacy behind four walls, don’t ladies schmear glop on their faces? To preserve the skin’s fleeting elasticity? So, should they smile, those cheeks can still shrink back to their original position?
Is it just slattern-like me who adopts some variety of rags inside my private castle? A friend recently dropped by unannounced. Why? What kind of thing is that? We dwelling on the plains of Oklahoma, where she needs to send a smoke signal or book a wagon train to close the three blocks between us? I graciously, kindly, lovingly informed this dear close devoted friend that she can come and go at will. Fall in unexpectedly anytime she likes — she just must give me four hours advance notice.
Hell, spitting on the mascara’s 55 minutes by itself.
Suri Cruise is wearing designer clothes. I have blouses older than this kid. She’s 7. Another few years and she’ll maybe bunk with some dude outfitted in an undershirt, sandals so his ugly toes peep out and pants with a crotch that grazes the curb. And this will be his formal wear.
So, then, Suri, hon, what will you wear at home?