goop you

TODAY in GOOP, Gywnnie dressed like a punk ass punk mothafucka at the Met Ball, whose theme this year was Punky Brewster punk. Here she is in all her pink ass punk ass Nancy Spungen punkness. She uses this GOOP to show off her extensive knowledge of punk rock, post punk, proto punk, and new wave music. JK. She doesn’t know the difference between any of those genres (actually, neither do I, so stop talking about it, already, college boyfriends, and let’s just listen to music and you be nice to be heart. Okay?) Gwynnie does know punk fashion. So throw on a black CBGB t-shirt and let’s take a peek at punk through the eyes of a rich yoga cleanse kale organic cotton lady!
Oooh! Gwynnie slid in an editorial “we” so that she could interview her stylist about why she chose a dress that doesn’t really seem much different from any other gala dress.

Nothing says anarchy, I don’t give a shit, and going against the grain like wearing a Valentino that requires 3 advanced fittings.


Except maybe a pair of $580 Alexander McQueen skull slippers. Is that red velvet or Joey Ramone? Because these slippers are so punk, I can’t see anything but Joey Ramone.

This Saint Laurent studded cuff is a $595 way to say “I have so much money that I don’t need to care about anything, which I guess is punk.” You can pretend to say the same thing for only $12.50 at Hot Topic.

Today in GOOP, Gwynnie’s goopin’ all the best gifts to buy for your lovely mum in honor of Sunday’s lovely Mum’s Day celebration.

Buy mummy dearest, or anyone named Dorothy Parker/Lindsey Lohan/or Daisy from The Great Gatsby, for that matter, the best mummy gift of all: decanters and cocktail shakers! Hurry, there’s limited availability for these decanters, priced at $4,495, and if you’re not quick, you might have to settle instead for these $250-miniature ice tongs. Mums love picking up tiny ice with teeny-tiny tongs!

These itsy-bitsy tongs are an especially nostalgic gift. They’ll remind your mum of the speculum the doctor used to pry you from your her vagina. Mum’s Day! Yay! Sweet!

If your mum isn’t Daisy from The Great Gatsby, she might prefer chocolate in a shoe! Because everyone loves chocolate in a shoe, especially people with two X chromosomes. Shoes! Chocolate! Women!

Attention dads who read GOOP! Thank your lady for raising your child, with this shelf-bra-Frederick’s-of-Hollywood-bustier-S&M-contraption. It’s a dual-purpose purchase that works great for sexy time and breastfeeding time! Let’s face it, dads, there’s certainly no card at Hallmark that says “I cherish and honor your role as a mother; now hop on a sex swing with me!” quite like this undergarment will.

Splurge a few extra bucks on the leather bow “nipplets!” Next, have your lady chew on a chiclet, while she cooks you a cutlet, and then raise your goblet in a toast to her grace and maternal love. Mums! Nipplets! Chiclets!

Hey look! It’s Jennifer Love Hewitt’s bejeweled vagina! I’m not sure what this has to do with Mummy’s Day, but Gwynnie threw it in this week’s issue. Chandeliers! What? Huh?
This woman is named Alice Water, even though she looks like the matriarch character from Parenthood. You know, the woman married to  welfare-recipient Coach. Coach’s wife is a “food pioneer” (which means she settled the western frontier living in a shack of Swiss chard), and mother to a daughter named Fanny, who does NOT eat at McDonald’s.

(hahaha) (LOLLOLLOL!) (parentheticals are hilarious and effective way to say “that’s fucking ridiculous.”)

Today in GOOP, Gwynnie provides a list of healthy and clean meal delivery services across major cities targeting those who are too busy/lazy to prepare their own gluten-free, dairy-free, corn-free, soy-free, yeast-free, vegan friendly, egg-free, shellfish-free, nightshade-free kale burgers/wheatgrass shots. My favorite is Detox Delight in Paris because I can’t think of anything more fun than shitting my brains out after doing a juice cleanse in the most romantic city on earth. Fuck eating croissants and the Eiffel Tower; down some fennel laxative tea instead while you’re standing in line to see the Mona Lisa. Pooh la la.

Maybe I’m crazy but I think this “healthy and clean” delivery menu has entirely too many calories. What starts with cabbage and leeks turns into a pot of nuts and suddenly you’re at a Taco Bell drive thru on your way home from a Krispy Kreme. Is the snack description something to munch on? Or a description of GP’s daughter and her pals, (i.e. “Apple, Cucumber Juice, and Pot of Nuts went swimming”)?

I’m guessing that Gwynnie’s definition of a “pot” of nuts is probably closer to what I would describe as a “thimble” of nuts. If you really want to eat minimally, try my revised menu, which is also completely void of taste:

1. Shot of Day:  Oxygen
2. Breakfast:  Ruminate on unfulfilled dreams
3. Snack:  Saliva
   
4. Lunch:  Watch Nancy Grace
   
5. Dinner:  Read Glamour
   

TODAY in GOOP, Gwynnie writes a personalized letter to Oprah Winfrey, Goldman Sachs CEOs, George Clooney, and other fancy 1% multiquadrillionaires about all the hot rental properties available to them via Airbnb. It’s a hip new thing for multiquadrillionaires to boutique it out in boutique-y rental type environments.

This one is for rich Scandinavians. Also, a Clockwork Orange was shot here.
This is a pleasant patio hideaway. If you remove the dinner table though, it also resembles the bunker hangout for militant oppressive types in every movie I’ve seen about militant oppression. Remember, Osama, the film about the 12 year old girl who dresses as a boy just to survive and then is married off to an old creeper religious Taliban dude? Maybe bring that up during your outdoor dinner in a bunker. Great conversation starter. Because it’s a hip new thing for fancy schmancy 1% richie riches to hang out in bunkers with nonfunctional, decorative ladders. As an aside, I’ve never felt more like Gwyneth Paltrow than when I’m in a Home Depot.
This nook is in Brooklyn. It comes with many books the owners say they’ve read, but really haven’t. Also, the 2-inch, sheetless mattress, bed…kind of, futon thing adds to the Brooklyn authenticity. Because it’s a hip new thing for fancy schmancy 1% bitcoin trustfunders to complain about back pain.

I have nothing to say about this place, which is probably in London, except that I like the flooring, which was probably made from Bangladeshi virgins. The natural, but non-organic kind. I hope that’s okay. The organic kind is way pricier and you really can’t tell, unless you’re the type who is bothered by that type of thing.

Not wanting to leave out the serfs, Gwynnie had her butler write to the butlers of Oprah Winfrey, Goldman Sachs CEOs, George Clooney and fancy 1% multimoneymakingillionaires all the top notch cleaning products that, being butlers, they likely already know about. I personally like Bar Keepers Friend. Wait though, isn’t a bar keepers BFF a paying customer?

I’m also a fan of this product. Sadly, it doesn’t work on one’s twenties.

This Dyson vacuum exists solely to make you feel bad owning your shitty vacuum. It is in essence the prodigy of a Mac.

TODAY in GOOP, Gwynnie talks about her old college hang, Santa Barbara.  I only gave a cursory glance to her “scrapbook.” What I did notice were perhaps the two things that make Gwynalingadingdong such an annoying character. One is her smug use of parentheses.

Exhibit A: So, like, you’re an expert on Santa Barbara because you drank out a beer bong and read Dostoevsky for a semester?

Exhibit B: Ugh. Okay. Shut up about your wedding, and your crazy ass expensive margaritas. I could buy 2 Swatches with $130.

Exhibit C: Of course, Gwynnie’s got the inside track on the “secret” facials. Is unadvertised facials a search item on pornhub? 

It isn’t so much what Gwynnie says, it’s how she says things, and everything between a parenthetical says “I’m an asshole.”

My other observation is in regards to Gwynnie acting like a local/native of about 12 billion places. Today, she talks of going to a Mexican joint in Santa Barbara for 20+ years. Yes indeedy, she knows Santa Barbara by heart. Here’s a sample of other places she knows better than anyone else:

Stop. Just stop. Claiming to be from everywhere does not make you an every woman. Yes, it’s cool that you’ve had a life that has allowed you to travel to many different places, but there’s a way to talk about interesting places without putting qualifiers in front of them to show off your street cred, and it’s ridiculous to act like you’re a local of every place. You can talk about Paris in a well-meaning way, and no one needs to know you went there when you were 10. You can say something about artisanal Brooklyn, without making it sound like you grew up as a Hasid. You can talk about Barcelona without sounding like a plot summary of Richard Linklater’s Before Sunrise.

TODAY in GOOP, Gwynnie jaunted to Paris but was disappointed because she got her period unexpectedly. And isn’t that just the thing? The moment you book a trip, your fallopian tubes decide to let go of everything they’ve ever held. Sneaky bastards. This issue of GOOP is guest edited by Gwynnie’s feminine sanitary napkin: PAD. Here are PAD’s  dispatches.

While in Paris, Gwynnie sat in this white chair. Big mistake for a lady on the rag. Of course, I immediately lost all of my structural integrity. The cotton fibers of my being wilted, my bottom adhesive slipped, and Gwynnie bled through, leaving a mark on this pristine Scandinavian chair. What can I say? I’m wingless and a total failure. I’m sorry, Mom, but I’m never gonna be a tampon, okay?! After expert investigators drew an outline of said mark, depicted on right, Horatio from CSI Miami flew in to examine it. As he dramatically removed his aviator sunglasses, he confirmed that even though it would seem that a person so perfect wouldn’t even get a period, indeed Gwynnie does and that she sometimes uses Kotex, despite the fact that they are unsustainable, non-green, inefficient products and Stella McCartney doesn’t even have an exclusive pantyliner product line.

Next Gwynnie sat on a couch with a scrubbable surface. She complained that she felt fatigued and hazy and drew a picture to illustrate her lack of focus. Little dots. Like a trillion little periods.

She thought a nice cup of tea would wake her up and help her feel better, but alas, she forgot her tea at home in jolly ol’ London, so settled instead for a simple cup of water with grass trimmings like some sort of peasant, or at least that’s what she kept saying to Chris Martin. He told her she was being insufferable. To which she yelled, “Coldplay sucks!” And then ran upstairs to eat pretzels, Facebook stalk her ex Ben Affleck, sing along to Fiona Apple, and take a nap.

Later she pulled her hair back in a bun and felt so accomplished by the miraculously freeing feeling of having her hair out of her face that she decided to tell millions of women how to do the same exact thing, in effect turning herself into a hair prophet delivering the good news as though she’d just solved the climate change crisis.

That pretty much describes the few menstruating hours I spent with Gwyneth Paltrow in Paris. Thanks for listening. Signing off now from a Parisian landfill. —PAD