Дизайнерский шопинг без прикрас. Такое не найдёш в магазине Walmart

Стильные галоши с пупырышками предлагает онлайн магазин farfetch.com и всего то за 637 долларов.

Второй экспонат заслуживает отдельного внимание, в  этих чудных ботфортах с чулочной вставкой вы будете выглядеть как истинная леди ,но говорят мужчинам такой фасон тоже подойдёт.

А в этом пуховике с меховой вставкой настоящий джентльмен превратится в супермена. И цена всего каких то жалких 19 795 долларов не оставит в вас сомнений, что товар нужно брать.

Ну и завершим наш показ прекрасным меховым пальто с вставками из занавесок за $72 429

 

А спонсорам рубрики был магазин Walmart где вы не найдёте такой красивой одежды, зато там есть вот такие туфли топсайдеры как на алиекспрес.

BELIEVE IT OR NOT, PARIS HILTON’S NO HEIR-HEAD.

After cancelling her interview with Fabulous four – yes four – times, we were finally granted an audience with everyone's favourite heiress, Paris Hilton. 

And despite letting slip that one of the nights we were told she was too ill to talk to us she was actually at a party, Paris was worth the wait. There were no apologies of course, but the 27 year old is polite, funny, warm and open in a way that makes you forgive her anything – even the audible yawns as we put questions to her.
But frankly, it's no wonder she's so worn out. Not only does she have her own clothing and perfume lines, she acts, sings, and is a well-established TV star. She may be a Hilton heiress, but she's well on her way to making her own billions. However, while she's been lucky in business, Paris' love life is another matter.
Single again after splitting with Good Charlotte guitarist Benji Madden, 29, last November, she's back to the endless whirl of parties and paparazzi pursuits that is life on Planet Paris.
But instead of focusing on finding a man, she's hunting for a new BBF (British best friend) and this being Paris, it's all happening in the public eye…
What qualities are you looking for in a bezzie mate?
Someone I can trust. And they have to be compassionate, caring and fun.
Halitosis or hideous dress sense are a given, but what other qualities would make you rule out a girl as your BBF?
I don't like it when people are liars or users – girls who are just trying to be my friend for the wrong reasons. I've had a lot of people in my past who were friends with me just to get publicity. When I was young, my mom or sister used to have to point out if someone was using me to make a name for themselves – you know, linking arms with me on the red carpet and trying to get in every picture. But now I can see for myself when someone is just hungry for attention.
I have this great test to see if a girl's a real friend. When we're shopping I'll pick out an outfit that I know looks hot and one that is awful. If my friend says the bad one looks good, I know she's not a good friend.
Cunning. We'll try that ourselves. Aside from getting your designer cast-offs to wear, what's so good about being Paris' BBF?
Whenever I'm hired to do appearances I always get to take one or two friends with me. I'm away so much I'd get lonely if I didn't. My MTV would get to go jet-setting with me to amazing parties too, like the ones on P Diddy's yacht. Apart from me, he throws the best parties – they're so A-list.
Who's currently top of your friend list in LA and the UK?
In Britain it's Kimberly Stewart. I've been close to her since we were babies. We keep in touch by Facebook and phone calls, and we go out when we're together. In California, it would have to be Brittany Flickinger, who won the American version of the show.
Come on, you've only just met her. Is she really your best friend?
Yes – I love her. She's slept at my house every night for the last four weeks.

What do you love about her?
I feel like I can talk to her about anything and she wouldn't go and tell people. She has a really big heart, and she's a tomboy.
So she's completely unlike you?
No, I'm a tomboy too sometimes. I know I don't act like it, but when I'm at my ranch or with the boys I love doing guy things, like ice hockey and fishing.
Do you ever row with your best friends?
No, I hate arguments and confrontation. In LA there are always false rumours going around so sometimes you do have to sort out problems with friends. But I always try to talk about things and make it better.
Who's your dream best friend?
I love Angelina Jolie. She's strong but gorgeous and uses her fame for good to make a big difference in the world. That's a great quality. I'd have a lot in common with her.
Are you looking forward to filming in London?
I love everything about London. It's my favourite city. I want to move there when I have a family. I love the people, the accents, the food, the shopping.
Er, sorry. The food?
Yeah! I love fish and chips. And mash. But not beer. I've never even had a sip of beer.
With a cracking figure like yours, we bet you exercise and eat healthily?
Thank you. I used to be good and do Pilates three times a week and run and cycle too. But now I just don't have time. And I eat everything, like fried foods, sodas, McDonald's. And Cadbury Flakes are my favourite chocolate. I buy hundreds every time I'm in London.
You're making us feel all patriotic now. What else do you love about Blighty?
Well it's not true that I love Prince William. I read that I asked him to spend New Year's Eve with me. That's just silly. But I do love your shops. Last time I was over I had no time to shop, so I can't wait to go to Harrods and Hamleys.
Harrods? Blimey. Don't suppose you've got any money-saving tips for the credit crunch, then.
Not really. I'm really bad with money. I feel like I work really hard so I should be allowed to enjoy myself.
So make us jealous. What's the last thing you bought on your Visa card?
The other week I bought a Barbie-pink Bentley with Swarovski crystals. It's really cute.
Oooh to go with all your pink clothes?
Yes! I love to colour coordinate. I do go a bit over the top though. I'll wear hot-pink glasses, a pink shirt, pink pants, pink shoes. But I love being bright. And I love sparkle. If you feel down and you put on a tiara or a cute sparkly headband it like totally brightens up your day.
We loved your US election spoofs. Ever thought of running for office?
One day I think that would be a great idea. Maybe in 20 years.

textbacklinkexchanges.com

What would you do?
I'd stop the war and bring world peace by making all the world leaders best friends! Oh, and I'd paint the White House pink and build a cute doghouse for the First Dogs.
Ha ha. That gets our vote. Paris for president!

Cheryl Cole's secret nights with dancer Derek (pic)

CHERYL Cole has secretly spent THREE NIGHTS at her marital home with hunky dancer Derek Hough this week - just 48 hours after filing for divorce from cheating husband Ashley.

Our sensational photos of the two on their way to cosy up inside the Cole mansion will stun England football star Ashley - for Cheryl is giving HIM the £6 million house as part of their settlement.


Last night an inside source disclosed: "This is the ultimate act of revenge. It's a devastating blow for Ashley just before the World Cup. Things are heating up between Cheryl and Derek.

CHATEAU COLE: Ash gets £6m home in divorce deal

"The fact she'll let a new man spend nights with her in the home she shared with her ex, so soon after splitting, that's very telling." Britain's No 1 pop sensation Cheryl, 26, and blond Derek, 25, were pictured at 10pm on Thursday driving to her Surrey spread - only hours after the American dancer flew in from Los Angeles where he'd just won US hit show Dancing With The Stars.
He was determined to provide comfort and support to Cheryl after Tuesday's divorce announcement.
As soon as he arrived in Britain after a 12-hour flight he dashed to be by Cheryl's side as she prepared to take to the stage at London's 02 arena on Thursday.
But afterwards, in a shock move and under the cloak of darkness, X Factor judge Cheryl sneaked him through the gates of her marital home in the back seat of her car.

THURSDAY: Cheryl and Derek head home to arrive 10:15pm PICS XSPOSUREPHOTOS.COM

 

PICS  textbacklinkexchanges.com.

 

PICS  textbacklinkexchanges.com

Our insider revealed: "Cheryl was desperate to see Derek. She's become very dependent on him. She's been speaking to him almost every day and he's helped her get through this awful time. "She really wanted Derek to come to London to be with her earlier but he couldn't leave the States because he was partnering Nicole Scherzinger on Dancing with the Stars.
"But that ended just as Cheryl decided to go through with the divorce. She begged Derek to come and he instantly agreed.
"On Thursday they really connected again backstage at the O2 so she asked him to come back to her house." Derek donned a black baseball cap and dark glasses in a bid to remain unnoticed as he sat next to Geordie girl Cheryl in the car. But our photographer captured him gazing lovingly into her eyes as they sped off to her house, with Cheryl happily sipping on a cocktail
Our man said: "They looked completely comfortable together, just like any new couple would. Cheryl was obviously very happy to have him there."
Our earlier source told us: "Derek is the first man to set foot in the Cole house since Cheryl chucked Ashley out. It was a very big decision on her part. But she loves spending time with Derek."

OPTICPHOTOS.COM

The pair enjoyed Friday together before returning to the O2 for her final show with the Black Eyed Peas. Derek's devotion was obvious as he adoringly watched scantily- clad Cheryl perform from the side of the stage. And then at 8.15pm, during her performance of hit single Parachute, he made a surprise entrance to the stage. He looked dashing in a tight tuxedo and the smouldering chemistry between the couple is plain to see in our picture, right, and the blistering video on our notw.co.uk website.
One onlooker said: "As soon as Derek hit the stage the whole intensity of Cheryl's performance changed.
"The dance moves were very intimate. To start with Cheryl writhed her back up against Derek while looking out into the crowd.
"Then she wrapped her legs around him and they were on their knees, staring intently into each other's eyes and only a couple of millimetres between their lips. As Derek walked off stage Cheryl blew him a kiss." Cheryl then skipped the Peas' official after-show party on Friday night - attended by front-man Will.i.am, another close Cheryl confidant and said to be besotted with her - to share even more time, and another night, with Derek back at the house.
The pair arrived home at 11.15 pm on Friday and were still there early this morning.
Friends say Cheryl calls Derek a "sweetheart" who restored her faith in men following the messy marriage split. She first turned to the dancer - who appeared on her Parachute video - in February after Ashley was exposed for cheating on her. Derek stayed in Cheryl's Los Angeles hotel room for eight hours and emerged at 4am holding his pet terrier.

NIGHT PET!: Derek leaves Geordie Cheryl's LA hotel with dog at 4am after 8-hour heart-to-heart

A pal said: "Derek's the complete opposite to Ashley. He's very caring and supportive to Cheryl. They talk for hours and she feels very safe with him. "She's made it very clear she can't rush straight into another serious relationship, but he's very keen on her and is prepared to follow her around the world. She's opened up to him about Ashley so he knows how vulnerable she is at the moment, which makes him want to be there for her even more."
Cheryl is now planning to get together with Derek, who has dated a string of beautiful women in the past, throughout the summer as she begins a nationwide tour for The X Factor auditions. The friend insisted: "This isn't the last you'll see of Derek with Cheryl. He's set to become a very big part of her life."
But Derek's surprise arrival in Britain definitely pits him against 35-year-old Black Eyed Peas superstar Will.i.am, who was instrumental in convincing Cheryl to go through with the divorce, after Ashley's infidelity.
Sources close to the American superstar told the News of the World he has fallen for the Girls Aloud beauty.
An insider said: "Will's the one man who finally told Cheryl exactly what he thought of Ashley, and it wasn't pretty. He gave her the confidence to feel she deserved better and realise there was no reason for her to put up with his bad behaviour any more.
"Cheryl changed during her time with Will. Her spark came back and he's become a very important part of her life. But Will has actually fallen in love with Cheryl. He'd adore her to be his wife. He's been talking of them becoming a music power couple to rival Jay Z and Beyonce."

Bubbly

Meanwhile 29-year-old Ashley, training with the England World Cup squad at Irdning in Austria, has been surprisingly upbeat since the divorce announcement.
He had hoped that they would stay together but has accepted recently that there is no way back for their four-year marriage.
A source at the England camp said last night: "At the beginning of the week Ashley was very quiet, keeping himself to himself.
"But after the divorce papers went into the High Court on Tuesday, and it all went public on Wednesday, he was surprisingly positive - back to his usual happy self and really bubbly. It was like a weight had been lifted.

SAD ASH: Cole looks miserable

"He looked a bit down today for a while but I wouldn't have any worries about this affecting his performance in the World Cup." Cheryl's divorce announcement was a surprise because she'd earlier indicated she would wait until after the World Cup. She'd already held off so Ashley could recover from his ankle injury.
But we can reveal she changed her mind after seeing his reaction to his team Chelsea winning the FA Cup two weeks ago.
As he celebrated on the pitch with the other Chelsea players, Ashley declared: "I'm over the moon. As everyone knows I've not had the greatest of years but this makes up for it."
Last night a pal explained: "When Cheryl saw that she knew the time was right, regardless of the World Cup dates.
"When he said that winning the match made up for his marriage breaking down she realised they were both ready to move on."

“Reckless and Hopeful Subservience”: A Guide to Endometriosis Hollywood

Two years ago I awoke in a sweat-sheen usually reserved for disturbed film protagonists, my eyes dilating against the night air, crying out in gurgling disbelief. Something abdominal, in the territory beside my groin, felt as though it had cracked open like an egg against the rim of a glass bowl. As my girlfriend burst painkillers from their blister pack and wrapped a hot water bottle in a towel, I began to agony-vomit. Surely if the splitting feeling worsened I would pass out. Was I experiencing hospital-worthy pain? How could people give birth if contractions were more excruciating than this?

At the time I was in deep suburbia with no car and no ambulance coverage, so I decided I would take the strongest painkillers we had and if, after fifteen minutes, I was still sweating from a splitting abdomen, we would phone a friend. I started falling asleep on the toilet, so the acuteness must have eased. My girlfriend cleaned up, changed my pajamas, and acted as a crutch to help me back to bed.

The following week, an ache radiated from one side of my groin at exactly the point my hips hinged to sit. I invented a pain management regimen wherein I rotated painkiller brands until my stomach or liver — who knows — began to burn when I popped a pill. The ache, which I accommodated at work by sitting in a hammock shape with my feet on my desk, began to interfere with my ability to think about anything else. My girlfriend appealed. She hypothesized something might be infected and I should see a doctor before my blood was poisoned. She didn’t want me to die of stubbornness, in bed beside her.

If my mother had been a lawyer or a salesperson, I might have visited the one doctor I booked an appointment with, taken antibiotics for chlamydia, and ended up with whichever specialist was in Emergency on the day I was finally wheeled in. But my mother is a midwife. She begged me to drive to her house across the state border, booked me an ultrasound involving a probe wrapped in a plastic bag, and organized an appointment with one of her co-workers, an obstetrician-gynecologist. They chatted about a baby they’d delivered the night before while I tugged my underpants off and hoisted myself onto a bed. The specialist placed a sheet over my groin with the businesslike flick of a waiter setting a tablecloth. She snapped on a latex glove, lubricated her hand, and announced I had cysts on my ovaries. One was so large she could feel it. It had bent my fallopian tube, like a branch holding an orange.

There was a possibility the cysts were symptomatic of a chronic disease called endometriosis, but she couldn’t be sure – the only way endometriosis is diagnosed is by sight. I would need a kind of keyhole surgery, a laparoscopy. She put me on a waiting list, clicking her tongue at whatever daunted her in my ultrasounds. Did I experience bad period pain? she asked. “Yes. Always,” my mother said.

Our reproductive organs have a neat one-way system: ovaries make eggs and send them down the fallopian tubes, where our uterus receives the eggs and more often than not bleeds the eggs out. I think of endometriosis as a uterus gone rogue; instead of simply receiving and disposing of eggs, the uterus decides it wants to send things via the fallopian tubes, too. But because ovaries don’t have the capacity to receive anything, the uterus posts the only junky gift it’s got — uterine wall cells — up the fallopian tube. When the ovaries can’t accept those cells, they flow out into the abdominal cavity, where everything is showered in Essence of Uterus, like confetti at a wedding. Cells might land on the outside of the ovaries; they might end up attaching to the bladder, or the pouch of space behind the uterus, or the bowel. Once they have landed, they begin to mimic the cells inside the uterus: each month, when it comes time to menstruate, the dispersed uterine wall cells bleed like cuts into the abdominal cavity, where the blood lingers and forms cysts.

In truth, this is only a theory; nobody knows with certainty how endometriosis works. Nobody knows what causes it, either. There are only ideas: stress, genetics, perhaps a hormonal imbalance. A woman of shamanic inclinations once told me it’s a product of an unidentified childhood trauma I need to reconcile. A friend who also has endometriosis told me it’s caused by eating sugar. If you are between the ages of 25 and 40 and you have a uterus, you are statistically more likely to have endometriosis than die in a car accident or find yourself audited by the tax department. In Australia, it is more likely you will have endometriosis in your lifetime than breast cancer; in America, the UK, and Canada, the likelihoods are almost on par with each other. It takes, on average, ten years to diagnose endometriosis from the point symptoms begin to emerge. I am the average. There is no known cure.

I remember my mother standing at the end of my recovery bed in hospital and tearing up over my diagnosis, while the woman beside me announced to nobody that she felt she had possibly overdosed on self-administered morphine. My mother wept with guilt and sadness and relief at the confirmation I had not been a hysterical teenager — that my pubescent periods were accurately depicted every time I had turned papery, vomited, and bartered with the god of the ceiling above our bath to accept acts of kindness in exchange for eliminating my pain.

It was only my gynecologist and me sitting in her office after the laparoscopy, when she explained what my diagnosis meant. She shook her head at postcards she had taken of my red and bloodied insides. She despaired aloud at the state of my disease — out of four stages of advancement, I was sitting at a late stage three. You are so young, she kept saying. My abdominal area was coated with lesions and part of an ovary had to be removed. Penetrative sex might be painful. If the condition appeared on my bowel I might have to consider a colostomy bag. My fertility was compromised. I was so young!

The only way I could slow the development of the disease was to halt my periods using hormonal contraception. Alternatively, she offered, I could periodically inject a drug that would put me into early menopause, or I could have a hysterectomy, or if I could still fall pregnant, I should consider doing so because sometimes pregnancy cured people — plus, free baby Hollywood  .

I was so young.

My treatment options were endless and amazing and I pretended to pick one, but actually I picked none of them. During our consultation I thought about my gynecologist. Before arriving in Australia she had birthed one of her children in a refugee camp. She endlessly delivered infants and performed surgeries and delivered devastating diagnoses, and I was one of hundreds of patients under her care. Could I reasonably be sad in this appointment? Had I suffered? I had universal health care.

The doctor snapped on another disposable glove and gave the stitches knotted into my healing abdominal scars a firm, removing tug. Something in that quick, final procedure stirred a tremor in my diaphragm. I smiled as she handed me two pamphlets explaining endometriosis. I thanked her profusely, and remained bright and sensible while I paid for the consultation. I was fine! I would walk to a nearby mall and buy something really luscious, like an end of financial year t-shirt.

The department store I found myself in was fluorescent. Midday shoppers murmured past: new mothers, high schoolers on their lunch break, older couples who had travelled from sparser towns in the country to buy a vacuum or outfits for their grandchild’s wedding. In the world outside my doctor’s office, endometriosis seemed both unreal and unknown. I had never sounded the word “endometriosis” until two months before I was diagnosed, and that alone made me doubt the disease was remotely terrible. Also, I decided as I strolled the pallid bowels of the department store, “endometriosis” was practically a fake word. It was Parseltongue. I could say it to snakes and they would slither about and do things for me.

I slipped past prowling perfume vendors and filed myself between two parallel racks littered with young adult-wear. An assistant at a distant counter folded the crumpled changing room rejects. She glanced at my arrival in her otherwise deserted section. The imperative language of Sara Bareilles’ “Brave” throbbed over us.

I browsed absently, rubbing material between my fingers, and picked out a pair of black, waist-high jeans. I turned them on their hanger, held them against myself, and returned them, placing my spare hand over my abdomen and gently pressing the area. After a month of recovery, I was still too sore to sausage-skin into anything fitting. I slid my hand beneath the hem of my singlet and ran my fingers over a small knot of skin near my left hip, across to an asterisk over my bladder, and then up to the center of my belly button — shallower than it had been a few weeks earlier, with a hard lump pronounced at its surprised little mouth. It was a triangular constellation, marking out the memory of keyhole incisions where long instruments had purveyed and then erased endometrial damage with incisions and burns. Each lump smarted beneath the salt of my hand and I recalled the spasm that had surged beneath my lungs as the gynecologist tugged out my stitches.

Patiently, politely, I had participated in months of reckless, hopeful subservience: of lying down while doctors tested and palpated and examined and queried, but never wholly explained their method — or my disease. It had been like watching slabs of ice slip past on a waking river. And now the tremor resurged and the river swelled to meet me. I began to shiver with anger at the prospect of decades of reckless and hopeful subservience: altering the course of my life by having a child, or going mad with medication, or spending my time sitting through support group meetings and specialist appointments for a barely believable disease.

A week earlier my mother had called to ask about the ongoing pain of my recently discovered disease. At first my response had been tinged with surprise: “I have none!” I said, which was a lie. I rationalized that any tenderness was probably surgical bruising.

Eventually my mother’s conviction that I was experiencing eternal, withering pain tugged anger from me. “I have none,” I bit, sitting on her couch with a cup of tea the night before I reentered the gynecologist’s office. It was as though being gentle toward her worry might séance the chronic discomfort she believed I had into existence.

If the department store sales assistant had peered across the floor at her only midday customer the next day, she would have caught exactly the moment I thrust my entire body into the sales rack, grasping garments at either end of the display, my mouth wide and silent. I hugged clothes that would eventually sail off into the lives of strangers, and sobbed while Sara Bareilles wanted me to be brave. There were no words Hollywood  , no pamphlets to explain this strange emotional country of which I was so terrified.

The transgender woman told that after the operation for sex change she already had 2 thousand men. (18+)

The transgender woman told that after the operation for sex change she already had 2 thousand men.
(18+)

Transgender woman, 48, says she has bedded 2,000 men after transitioning

A transgender woman claims to have slept with 2,000 men after a sex change surgery, jokingly telling that she went for it because she adores men by comparing this attraction with "cannibalism".
48-year-old Crystal Warren (Crystal Warren) from Brighton (England) admits that most of her men did not know that she was born a boy. In addition, she says that before the age of 50 she wants to reach the figure of 3,000 men, whom she will be able to drag into her bed.

 The woman who worked as a model recently told: "I have sex with a new man almost every day. But I adhere to safe sex and can not get pregnant, so why not? In the 14 years that have passed since my operation, I have slept with at least 2,000 men, and I'm not going to stop there. Moreover, I want to sleep with as many men as possible. I like it and it's never enough. "Crystal says that now she is quite satisfied with her body, and this after many years of shame, while she wants to show it to men. Also, a woman admits that she once participated in a swinging party, where overnight there were nine men with her.

 The Christal, who was born Christopher Snowden, says that from an early age she felt very uncomfortable in the boy's body. And already at the age of 14 she secretly tried on the clothes of her mother secretly from the others, and at the age of 20, having gained courage, she went out in a women's attire to the public. The insatiable woman says that she had had sex with men before her transformation, but she always knew that she was not gay. Since 2001, Crystal has started taking hormonal drugs to prepare its body for gender surgery. She saw her skin becoming softer and her breasts growing.

 The woman says that these changes have aroused great interest from men. This led to a number of curiosities, when men learned that she was not quite a woman yet. Someone after that was in a state of shock, but someone took it. Two years later she was on the surgical table, her male organ was removed, and the female organ was recreated from the scrotum tissues. She says that she could not admire her new changes and finally felt like a woman. Soon, Crystal began to have an active sex life, often visiting night clubs, to find there a couple for "nightly pleasures."

 For several months after the operation, she managed to sleep with hundreds of men. At the same time, the woman claims that she is rarely given the opportunity to tell her partners about her past. Until 2012, she was able to sleep with 1000 men, saying that her sexual appetites only grow. A woman confesses that in sex she considers herself a real drug addict, while saying that it is for her as one of the types of holiday that she is not going to finish.