Fugsa Rinna

When I noticed Lisa Rinna did not wear anything made of leopard print and/or a corset to this party, I seriously just about threw my hands to the heavens, praised whatever higher power is hanging out up there eating bon-bons and sorting through an Inbox full of prayers, and then passed out from the shock of it all.

But then once Intern George revived me with his special home brew of smelling salts and Jif, I realized something else:

Yes, she’s not wearing animal print, but she’s ALSO not wearing pants. That is not an okay compromise. Lady, you own a boutique; presumably you know the difference between a
turtleneck shirt and a dress. If you don’t, then I suspect your
shop is not for me. Which is not to say Lisa Rinna isn’t in great shape; clearly, she is. If I could swap my legs for hers right now, it would be kind of awkward, but I’d totally do it. However, I sort of feel like there’s a point in our lives, possibly the moment we all graduate from diapers into big-girl pants we can change on our own, where the threat of exposing our crotches — even if it’they have panty-hose seams running over them — becomes unseemly. If that thing were like four inches longer we’d STILL get the point that she has great gams, but without looking quite so desperate. You can make a statement without skipping straight to vulva-skimming hemlines, okay, Lisa? I PROMISE.