the bigger the better

Giant bags as a fashion statement may be so eight years ago, but I am still captivated by their allure in 2012.  I don’t feel right unless my bag is knocking merchandise off the tables and hip checking passersby as I examine possible new bag purchases at Dose Market.  Hell, I gotta lotta stuff.

I love me some them.  What do you think?

Clockwise from the right: Reed Krakoff ‘Gym’ Leather Tote / M Z Wallace ‘Metro-Large’ Nylon Tote / Bottega Veneta Nero Patchwork Intrecciato Nappa Lido Bag / Bottega Veneta Shadow Intrecciato Nappa Convertible Bag / Cast of Vices Corner Store Leather Tote / Acne Piers Tan tote / YSL Cabas Chyc Leather Tote / Givenchy Antigona Tote


closing ceremony / pimm’s cup

I love a celebration, so I tend to create excuses to celebrate.  Blame my mother for making me an only child for so long.  I had a shitload of imaginary friends, parties and conversations, but that’s another story.  The excuse du jour is the Olympics closing ceremony.

I’m not celebrating the culmination of weeks of international excellence in sport or the victory, agony and defeat.  I am celebrating the end because I am sick of it all.  After gymnastics, I’m pretty much done.  Ryan Lochte just isn’t my cup of Earl Grey.   So I had an evening planned that centered around toasting the end of the Olympic takeover of all NBC channels and the return of actual news to my local broadcast.

Then everything changedThe Spice Girls are performing during the closing!  A real, and decidedly less negative, reason to celebrate. The Spice Girls performance makes up for all the times I was forced to watch the Olympic swim girls ‘Call me, Maybe’ video and subsequently considered waterboarding myself.

Of course, every celebration requires a signature cocktail.  And what better cocktail to celebrate the end of the London Olympics and my beloved Spice Girls than the Pimm’s Cup.

Of course, me being daphne, I got all fancy with it.  It’s kind of a gin salad. Here’s the recipe (I got it from Bon Appétit with a few debauched tweaks of my own).  Think more gin.

Try it and tell me if you liked it.

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daphne debauchee gets schooled, part deux

In less than ten minutes, our instructor, I’ll call her Felicia, began rearranging our host’s furniture to create auditorium seating.  “Sweetie” began passing out three prong folders, condoms, paper plates, grapefruit and knives.  What the what? I thought we were sucking, not cutting.  I can’t imagine any man feeling very sexy if he sees you whip out a knife from your goody drawer.  Nobody’s feeling that Lorena B shit.  Anyhoo and sip.

She then set up her speaking area in the front of her makeshift classroom.  She arranged dildos, condoms, DVDs, t-shirts, jewelry, books and whatnot on the table where our host serves her children’s toaster streudel in the morning.  I turned my back to talk to my neighbor.  The nervous excitement had amplified since our instructor arrived.  Well, not just excitement.  There was an air of nervousness.  Something about showing your BJ game in front of an audience of women seemed to make the ladies a tad uncomfortable.  “Oh my god, isn’t this crazy?  Do you want me to bring you back a drink?”  Yes stranger, I do.  It’s Friday and that’s what I’m here for.

When I turned back to the front, I noticed that Felicia spread out a drop cloth beneath her.  A drop cloth from Home Depot that most of us use to protect our furniture from paint splatter had been spread over the floor and our fearless teacher was standing in the center.  What the what, part deux? Another sip and we get started.

Why the drop cloth?  Because of all the spit!  Apparently, mind-blowing fellatio requires saliva in disturbing volumes.  I’m not trying to give away all of her “secrets.”  I knock no one’s hustle, but I’ll give you the gist. There are 10 slobbery steps to the perfect blowjob.  Also, each step is so amazing that rarely have any of Felicia’s students ever had to get past step 4.  As a matter of fact, she guaranteed that any man would pop after 5 minutes.  She also guaranteed absolutely no mouth or neck strain if her steps are followed properly.  And how can I forget that she also regaled us with aspirational stories of former students who have sucked their ways into Bentley coupes.  She even told us what sounds to make.  The sound is a combination of a growl, a food processor and Darth Vader on a megaphone.  Eye roll and sip.  Thanks, nervous stranger.

Oh and you remember that grapefruit? Felicia completed her teaching by giving us the pièce de résistance –“Grapefruiting your man.”  Yes, cut a hole in your grapefruit, insert penis and manually pleasure.  Don’t forget to blindfold him.  Apparently, there is an element of surprise involved.  Ummmm.  The element of surprise is the burn that will take hold once it works its way to his balls.

I polled a man or two after I left this class inebriated and confused.  Do you like for women to re-enact Star Wars while blowing you?  Do you enjoy citrus burn in your nethers?  The consensus was no.  Oh wellsy and sip.  (I drink outside of fellatio class.  Not my fault, we were talking about balls, dammit.)

The moral of this story is if you have the opportunity to attend a fellatio workshop, attend. Yes, my instructor was as crazy as a road lizard, but intermingled in all that cuckoo were a few good tips.  Don’t suck on a full stomach.  Spit rules.  And bring your own damned bottle.

summer sucks / i dream of fall



vBecks leather legging

1. sweet sweatercuffpussy platforms

2. best blouse evahphurry patchwork perfection , ringsuper ringblue suede bootscrossbody classic

3. jacketstripesnecklace/bow tieclutchshoes/spats

As the perspiration glistens on my skin while commuting downtown only to be greeted by indoor temperatures equivalent to those of the Arctic, I dream of fall.  Because I hate summer.  Yeah, I said it.  Hate may seem like a strong word even though there are a few things I enjoy about summer – al fresco dining, the giddiness on the faces of city dwellers, street festivals.  But none of those things make up for 90+ temps, not knowing how to dress appropriately for work and the ubiquity of flip flops.

I dream of layers, boots, hats, scarves, darker, richer colors. So as I dream, like a lot of you, I surf.  No, I do not surf the waves, I surf all of my favorite fashion sites  for fall clothes that inspire me whether I can afford or fit them or not.  During one of these dreams, I came across a fall item of clothing that made me calculate how many meals I would need to miss to squeeeeeeze myself into it and if selling my eggs was actually a viable option.

That dreamy item of clothing is the Victoria Beckham midrise leather legging.  It is perfection.  It gives you the comfort and easy wear of a legging while stepping it up several notches in luxury and kickassery.  And unlike other leather leggings that tend to be on the low rise side, the rise in these bad girls is high enough to be easily worn by those over 20 with several cans short of a six pack.

And since I’m dreaming, I thought of ALL the ways I would wear ‘em.  A debauchee can dream can’t she?


daphne debauchee gets schooled, part one

On a Friday after a very long week working on a very stressful and a not-so-very  rewarding project, I attended a fellatio class. A girlfriend invited me.  It was hosted by a friend of hers, sort of a Tupperware/Pampered Chef party of pleasure.  Sure I had my thoughts, questions and reservations.

“Hell, I could TEACH this class.” As Kanye/Beyonce said, “I gotta big ego…” daphne debauchee has a stadium sized one.

“This is kinda like a lame ass episode of Real Sex.”  But, don’t you miss that series? I learned sooo much.  If you’re listening, HBO, bring it back.  Please. Or, more like a rekindling of Sex and the City’s Was It Good For You? episode. ”  You know the one when Miranda gets shot in the hair by a loaded weapon during the tantric sex workshop.

“Will they have cocktails?”  With a bottle of Grey Goose tucked into my Marcie tote (just in case), I silenced my inner queries,  put my bravado in check and drove (yes, I drove!) on over.

Ladies began to assemble and I was very surprised to see that it was a very diverse audience.  Older ladies, younger ladies, pretty ladies, not-so-fortunate ladies, VPs, execs, admins, butchers, bakers, candlestick makers all represented.  All represented and were ready to suck up all the knowledge proffered. We got to know each other a little as we waited for our instructor to appear.  There were snacks and drinks.  Not snacks and drinks I enjoy, but they were there.  Goose stayed in tote.

There was a giddiness, akin to the day I first played spin the bottle at Kim Perkarske’s 12 year old birthday party, in the air.  We sat, drank and wasted waited.

The instructor finally made her ENTRANCE with her version of Sweetie from Real Housewives of ATL in tow.  “Stop that eating!!!” she yelled.  You can’t give good head on a full stomach!!!” I rolled my eyes.  I already know that, boo.  That’s why I’m only drinking and everyone knows alcohol and fellatio go together like butts and g-strings.

More to come…

Drinking holidays make me happy. Le 14 de juillet. Bastille, baby.

I think I’ve perfected many different cuisines, but I’ve stayed away from French because I always thought all that butter, cheese, etc. leaves too much room for error.  Can you say scorched to freakin’ death?

But for Bastille Day, I thought I would man up and at least try something not so difficile.  When I consulted the net, the croque monsieur was repeatedly described as an easy French dish.  And face it, who doesn’t love a ham-n-cheese in any language?

The difference between good ole ham-n-cheese made in the US of A  and the French variety is the addition of béchamel sauce.  I was apprehensive but soldiered on like G and guess what?  It was divine.  A fancy, way less spicy…let’s keep it real, a French Rotel dip.  Mmmmm hmmmmm.

Slather that bad boy on top, layer on yummy gruyere (I used smoked) and now you’re talking.  I’m washing it down with a white burgundy.  I’ll move on to the champagne as pre-game.  Enough typing now; time to get in these streets.  Bonne fête, bishes!

Step Right Up! Pay Attention to the Crazy Chick!

via Buzzfeed

Kate Upton is not fat. You know it. I know it. Men know it.

So why are several members of the media insistent upon sending a site run by an obviously unhappy, possibly deranged person a deluge of page views? I assume that we are so thirsty to fill the quiet with noise that we will make anything news worthy.

Back in my day, we simply ignored the crazies of the world. We surely didn’t grant them a bigger audience thus validating their insanity. Do you ever remember your mom grabbing your hand when a nut walked by and saying, “(insert your name here)! Look at the crazy man! Listen to what he has to say!” I think not.

I can hear the well-meaning dissenters. “Oh, daphne. That’s irresponsible. We have to confront these pro-anorexia sites so that young girls are not affected.” Please. With the majority of American women wearing over a size 12, it is apparent that no one’s paying this dumb site any mind, but the media and a handful of wackadoos. Yawn.