By Paige Wiser

One of my favorite childhood photos is a fashion shot of me at about age 3. I’m standing on our pea-green carpeting, next to a jug of fake flowers, wearing an orange-and-yellow knock-off Pucci tunic vest. I’m hesitant to make eye contact with the camera, with a wary expression on my face that says, “I look like Bea Arthur. I will never forgive you for this.”

Sure, you could blame the ’70s. But when are parents going to step up and take some responsibility? Why don’t they just admit it? “When we dress our kids, we don’t always have their best interests at heart.”

I wasn’t the only fashion victim. Look closely at a photo of any small child dressed up in a sailor suit or reindeer antlers, and you’ll see an unmistakable message in their eyes:

“Help me.”

If you doubt it, visit awkwardfamilyphotos.com. You’ll get an eyeful. The category devoted to the ’80s is particularly enlightening.

Why the embarrassing clothes? Is this our way of punishing our kids for all the future misery they’re bound to bring us?

In the course of my anecdotal research, I’ve found that there are four distinct stages of dressing kids.

Stage one: We dress kids for a good laugh.

New parents are giddy with power. We have all the control — but deep down, we know this period is cruelly brief. So we assert our dominance while we can, before our babies can learn to crawl away from bad fashion choices.

In this first stage, we dress kids as peapods and gnomes for Halloween. We photograph them in flowerpots. We snicker as we put them in onesies that say “Does this diaper make my butt look big?” and “I only cry when ugly people hold me.”

There is a photo of future President Franklin Delano Roosevelt as a toddler, wearing a white frilly dress and patent Mary Janes, holding a hat with a marabou feather and pioneering a hairstyle that’s a cross between a bowl cut and a mullet. It’s proof that even the great ones can’t escape this widespread, socially approved fashion hazing.

If we truly respected our kids, we’d buy them comfortable black separates, with maybe a tasteful pacifier for a splash of color.

We would not — and I am guilty of this myself — dress them as poodles.

Above all, we would not excuse our behavior by insisting, “But it builds character!”

Stage two: We dress kids for identification purposes.

It goes without saying that we need to dress our children to stand out, or we’re likely to bring the wrong stroller home from Starbucks. All kids start out bald and drooling, after all. But if you pop yours into a leopard-print romper, there’s less chance of a tragic mix-up.

More common, though, is color-coding our kids. We dress them to match their siblings or sometimes the car upholstery. And we color-code them according to their gender.

Just recently, kids’ clothing giant Gymboree marketed onesies that said “Smart like Dad” and “Pretty like Mommy.” And JC Penney sold sweatshirts that said “I’m too pretty to do homework so my brother has to do it for me.”

Are we worried that we’ll accidentally play trucks with the girls and put tiaras on the boys? Or are we worried that the kids themselves will forget their gender?

Does it matter?

Whatever the motivation, we dress the girls in hyper-feminine tops that declare “Divalicious!,” while all boys’ clothes must be endorsed by a time-tested superhero or winning sports team.

The girls, confusingly, end up looking like overzealous drag queens, while the boys — well, the boys look exactly like they will in 20 years, when they are still living in our basements: under-bathed, in layers of sweats.

Stage three: We dress them better than ourselves.

When my son was born, among the usual gifts (receiving blankets, Peepee Teepees) was a set of heavenly blue Burberry pajamas.

For the baby!

I’m not ready to publicly confess that I was jealous. I will, though, share my first thought upon opening the box: “But he hasn’t earned them!”

Sadly, seven years later, I’m still waiting for my first item of Burberry clothing. And my son still hasn’t earned his.

Yes, of course we want our kids to have it better than we did. We want to give them the world. Designers have been taking advantage of this for years, making a bundle off teeny Oscar de la Renta frocks, Gucci hoodies, Dolce & Gabbana sneakers and Ed Hardy skull T-shirts that say “Love Kills Slowly” (just $24.95!).

I’ll say it. In my day, we wore mix-and-match Garanimals — and we liked it.

Time will tell if baby Ugg boots will warp these kids’ values. But if you want my opinion, when you get Burberry at birth, I can pretty much guarantee you that life is downhill from there.

Stage four: Kids strike back.

I don’t remember caring about what I wore until junior high, when I begged my mom for a pair of dark-wash, high-waisted Jordache jeans. (Timeless!) But my second grader already rejects whatever I pull out of the closet, saying, “I don’t want to look cute! That’s not my style.”

Her style, near as I can tell, is “materialistic hippie”: glittery, mass-marketed peace-sign T-shirts that are appropriate for all occasions.

Last year, a well-publicized study from Ohio’s Kenyon College concluded that almost a third of young girls’ clothing is sexualized. Well, sure, if you consider lace miniskirts to be oversexualized. They do go nicely, though, with the lower-back temporary tattoos (“tramp stamps”) girls can buy at Toys “R” Us.

We should probably be more worried about boys’ sartorial choices. Trend-setter Justin Bieber has been open about his preference for women’s slim-fit jeans, with the waist hitting just under the butt. I’m not sure if that’s categorized as oversexualized, but it is efficient: When it comes to de-pantsing, why not cut out the middle man?

And this is where we have to learn to let go. Just when it’s most painful to watch, we have to lovingly set our kids free. Like any good fashion fad, it all comes back full circle.

We may start out dressing them in embarrassing, clownlike clothes, but we make the most of the few years we can influence their wardrobes. We show them how to have fun with what they wear. We nurture their identities and build up their confidence. And it’s all for this:

So our kids can choose embarrassing, clownlike clothes on their own.

By Paige Wiser

Thanksgiving is our Valentine’s Day.

Our feelings on this day aren’t so much “grateful” as “lustful.” In Chicago, it’s a celebration of our first love:

Meat. Glorious meat.

Sure, there must be scrawny vegans here and there. Chicago is the 10^th-most “vegetarian-friendly” city in the country, according to GrubHub.com; based on their name alone, it sounds like they know what they’re doing.

But if there are vegetarians here, they’ve wisely learned to keep quiet. Maybe the soy poisoning has made them too weak to speak. Maybe they’re trying to bicycle their way to California.

Because the Gold Coast couldn’t be more carnivorous. If you’re not eating steak, you’re not eating. The air is porterhouse-scented, courtesy of Morton’s, Gibsons, Rosebud, Tavern on Rush and Ditka’s.

This town was built on meat, hosting 400 doomed livestock by the end of the 19^th century.

But mistakes were made. The Chicago Fire turned our great city into the world’s largest wood-burning grill.

(Of course, if we had just eaten Mrs. O’Leary’s cow, there wouldn’t have been a problem.)

No one thought we’d make it through the Battle of Banned Foie Gras. But in the end, didn’t it make us stronger? Hungrier?

Meat-packing has been necessary for our survival. We pack it on strategically, to develop our own protective layer of meat. It serves us well in the winter.

On Thanksgiving, we give thanks for living in a city that won’t judge you for your burger toppings. (“Peanut butter? Hey, I get it.”) We reflect on the miracle of sausage; what is it, after all, but a delicious, conveniently wrapped gift to ourselves?

On Thanksgiving, we give in.

We have a particular fondness for turkey, a meat that requires no meticulous wine pairing. Turkey’s sedating tryptophan serves the same purpose.

Let Los Angeles have its tofurkeys. It’s only fitting that they would choose insubstantial faux food. It matches their minds.

Chicago goes the other way: We indulge in the turducken. Sometimes turkey isn’t enough for us — we need to layer our meats, like we layer our clothes when the weather turns crisp.

And nobody could make a turducken like Charlie Trotter. Before his restaurant served its Last Supper in August, he transformed Thanksgiving into a holy day. His fabled turducken – a duck breast fillet inside a chicken inside the mother of all turkeys – was 18 hours in the making. He might layer the layers with Andouille sausage stuffing, spinach and cornbread.

And only Charlie would think to complement the giblet gravy with chorizo and pickled elephant. If Thanksgiving had a Santa Claus, it would be Charlie Trotter.

We are Chicagoans. We make reservations at avant-garde Alinea, then swing by Al’s Beef for dessert. On weekends we venture south to the Maxwell Street market to sample the eyeball tacos.

Goat eye? Cow eye? A real Chicagoan doesn’t ask.

We embrace our reputation as a meat mecca. When Conan O’Brien brought his show here in 2010, he headed to Lou Malnati’s for its deep-dish pizza, where he was humbled by its dense sausage slab layer. “I’ve been here for two days and I already have a 30 percent blockage in my artery,” he shared.

It was confirmed by the Rush University Medical Center. “You’re gonna ——- die,” the head cardiologist told him.

Not us. We were born to eat meat. After generations of carnivorous breeding, we have arteries of titanium. That’s why Thanksgiving means so much to us. We’re surrounded by family — hearts full, tummies full.

And when we take our post-feast nap on this most abundant of holidays, we dream contentedly of a Chicago where every day is Thanksgiving.

By Paige Wiser

In June, Vogue editrix Anna Wintour whisked into Chicago to host a fund-raiser for President Obama at Harpo Studios. She traveled with an entourage that included fashion heavyweights Jason Wu, Rachel Roy, Narcisco Rodriguez, Chanel Iman, Thakoon Panichgul, and Prabal Garung.

One accessory she was without: her signature security sunglasses. It could have been a sign of respect for Obama’s custom Hart Schaffner Marx suits, or for Michelle Obama’s championing of the skinny belt.

Or maybe the trip was an official acknowledgment that New York is running scared. Chicago is nipping at New York’s heels as a fashion capital. We are the scrappy terrier of style, and we dare you to ignore us.

To extend the metaphor even further, we’ve been breeding some of the most influential tastemakers the world has ever seen. The avant garde Lady Gaga herself declared that

Chicago’s Tavi Gevinson, a 15-year-old blogger who champions retro flash at thestylerookie.com, is “the future” of fashion] journalism. If so, prepare yourselves for a new generation of flower children.

And who’s wearing the clothes a season before they’re edgy? Chicago is responsible for Karlie Kloss, currently ranked as the third most important model internationally. New Yorkers in the top 10 at models.com? Zero.

We’re coming on as an eager young upstart, but in truth we’ve been laying the groundwork for years. We gifted the fashion industry with its first healthy model with DeKalb’s Cindy Crawford. Rather than starve herself, she segued from the catwalk to vigorous (but tasteful) workout videos. How’s that for edgy?

We are the home of the legendary Joan Weinstein, who made a cosmopolitan name for herself – and Chicago – when she founded the powerful Ultimo boutique on Oak Street. She elevated shopping to an art, and illustrated that the City of Big Shoulders had nothing to do with padded shoulder pads.

If it weren’t for fashion writer Peg Zwecker, mother of columnist Bill Zwecker, Roy Frowick would have tried to launch his label under his original name. It was her suggestion to go with his snappier middle name, Halston. Who would have partied at Studio 54 with Roy Frowick?

Eunice Johnson of Ebony magazine redefined the new black, crafting the Ebony Fashion Fair in 1956 and bringing it everywhere from New York to Jamaica. She was often the only black woman in the room at fashion shows in the ’60s and ’70s. In the process, she catapaulted models like Richard Roundtree into the stratosphere. His starring role in “Shaft” had no small impact on the fashion scene.

Recently we were reminded of Chicago’s trailblazing when “Soul Train’s” engineer, Don Cornelius, died. With his show, he popularized Spandex, high-waisted bell bottoms, enormous polka dots, open shirts and leisure suits. Ready-to-wear became ready-to-dance, and we’ve been a groovier, looser city ever since.

Not to be competitive, but what has New York contributed to fashion? Well, they’ve introduced us to

*the vulcanized rubber girdle,

*Barbie dolls,

*heroin chic,

*“Project Runway,”

*Sarah Jessica Parker’s iconic tutu, and

*the Olsen twins.

Sure, there might be more, but we’ve completely run out of room.

There’s only one logical conclusion: If you want to be stylish, young New Yorkers, follow Anna Wintour – the mother ship – to Chicago. Go west, darlings. Midwest.

By Paige Wiser

Known for her outrageous wit, blonde good looks, and plentiful paramours, Jenny McCarthy is a hometown girl who is serious about her career and her role as a mother. In many ways Jenny McCarthy is your typical Midwest suburban mom. While chatting in preparation for this story, she was hosting a play date for her 10-year-old son, Evan, and his horde of friends. “I don’t think the frogs are here yet, guys!” she shouts.

If McCarthy has learned one thing from a career in show business, it’s how to entertain a crowd. “I ordered all the frogs in the whole store,” explains McCarthy. “Unfortunately, there was only one fat bullfrog named Pac-Man, and we’re getting him. The rest are two-inch tadpoles.”

But McCarthy is different than the other neighborhood mothers. Let’s address the bullfrog in the room: Not many moms have just graced their sixth cover of Playboy magazine, months before turning 40, which she will do on November 1. Isn’t she bored with being a bombshell? “Hell no!” she says. “I hope I’m 60 and people are still saying it. I do want people to know there’s more, but, yes, I want the ‘honk-honk’ when you pass me.”

McCarthy is able to toot her own horn, freely. Finally out of the TV-development deals that went nowhere and hung around her neck like Jacob Marley’s chains, her career is unfettered and back in high gear. “A lot of people don’t understand why I haven’t been on TV,” she says. “It’s not because I don’t want to! I’ve been locked up since I was 23.”

Contracts with NBC and then Harpo kept her in limbo. “I love Oprah; I was held to Harpo for four or five years, but she wanted to develop OWN, and I wanted to be in syndication. So we shook hands and went our separate ways. I’m a free agent!”

McCarthy is hosting season two of the summer reality matchmaker series Love in the Wild on NBC, and she is throwing herself into her own VH1 talk show, set to debut this fall. The late-night weekly run has the potential to become a nightly series. “I kind of want to make it really boutique-y and small,” McCarthy says, her voice rising at the end of sentences, making her answers sound like questions. “I don’t like the idea of a big stage that separates you from the audience. I’m more, like, in-your-face?”

She’s envisioning “a bit of Mad TV meets Jon Stewart, but a little dirtier and sexier.” McCarthy went to the boards with the VH1 brass to keep production in Chicago. “We’re meeting about that,” she says. “I swear, people, there’s a reason why Oprah had her show here. It’s the heart of America! Don’t be stupid.”

McCarthy grew up on the South Side of Chicago, the second of four daughters to her hairdresser mom and steel-company foreman dad. “My mom knew I wanted to be on TV, and she’d say, ‘Oh, why don’t you just tell them that you want Vanna’s job? That would be great! She’s so classy!’” McCarthy did, in fact, follow in Vanna White’s footsteps: First to the pages ofPlayboy, then to a game show in the mid-’90s: MTV’s Singled Out.

Unlike White, though, McCarthy crafted an edgier, more vocal persona. “Starting from the get-go, I made sure I wasn’t perfect,” she says. “I just wanted to be real. You know, I burp, too, but don’t be offended.”

Despite her loyalty to home, McCarthy doesn’t attend her high school reunions. “I don’t think I’m invited,” she admits. “I think maybe posing for Playboy and going to an all-girls Catholic school might have been an issue.” She also doesn’t comment on her equally famous and funny cousin, Plainfield’s Melissa McCarthy. “It’s kind of important to let somebody have her stage and just shine,” she confides, “so that’s what I’m doing.”

McCarthy has moved back to Chicago for the year to be with her family, and she has enrolled Evan in a local school. She’s got a hometown honey at the moment, too: Chicago Bears linebacker Brian Urlacher. Given that our interview is taking place months before this issue will come out, McCarthy knows that the less she says, the better. “I’m hoping that by fall, things are still great,” she confesses. “I kind of made myself put a gag order on it. I’m happy, though.” After a long pause, she adds, “Go Bears!”

McCarthy confesses that her other obsession lately is clutch purses. Something symbolic could be made of this—that she has no need for the security of a strap, say, or that she’s now determined to be hands-on with her career, or that she’s minimizing her emotional baggage. More likely, she just likes to shop.

“I love Net-a-Porter,” says McCarthy. “When I go downtown, I’ll hit Barneys, I’ll hit Neiman’s. You know I worked at Bloomingdale’s while I lived in Chicago for a summer? So it kind of reminds me of being back in the day, walking down Michigan Avenue and working.”

Until now, working has mainly meant writing. Without a TV project, writing was McCarthy’s chosen mode of expression. “To write a book, you better have a lot of stuff happen to you,” she says. “I was blessed with a lot of drama and a lot of fun and a lot of controversy and a lot of curiosity. I pretend I’m on e-mail, telling my girlfriends my stories. I feel like a translator, breaking things down so people can understand.”

Her books shifted in tone and took on a more serious air when she opened up about the autism diagnosis of son Evan in 2007’s Louder Than Words, which spent 23 weeks on the New York Times best-seller list. McCarthy says that Evan recovered with a gluten-free, casein-free diet, metal detox, vitamins, antifungals, and expensive therapy. “I’ll keep writing books until I can pay for Evan’s upbringing,” she says.

Also adding to the coffers is the buzzed-about NBC summer special titled Surprise with Jenny McCarthy. “This was a show that was in the UK for 20 years,” she says. “I get to help people who’ve done great things in their community by making their dreams come true.” She reunited one woman with her birth mother; she jumped out of an airplane with a soldier. One warning: Do not surprise McCarthy—in any way. “I hate surprises,” she offers.

She has enough challenges as it is. She’s divorced from Evan’s dad, actor/director John Mallory Asher, she’s collected some high-profile exes (Jim Carrey for one), and has a habit of speaking her mind.

Some challenges, though, are of her own making. When Evan woke up one day with an abscess in his mouth, his dentist told McCarthy to take a photo of it on her cell phone and send it to him. The elderly dentist instead received a nude shot meant for her boyfriend. “It’s horrific to remember,” she told Wendy Williams.

But such is the life of a single mom. Who hasn’t been there?
Read more at http://michiganavemag.com/personalities/articles/jenny-mccarthy-tv-authors#3yehJLlMRx0XYehZ.99

Sure, Hollywood loves to set projects in Chicago, which is understandable. They fall in love with the place. It’s not bad looking, after all, and our extreme weather certainly looks dramatic onscreen. They can’t resist our better-than-fiction brand of colorful corruption, our mob nicknames.

It seems to be the only city they can think of where “normal” people might live. We do not correct them on this.

But while producers love the idea of Chicago, they don’t always bother to make the trip. The Good Wife, Mike & Molly, Happy Endings — they’re all set in Chicago, but you wouldn’t know it to look at them. It’s easier to film in Los Angeles or New York, or to pretend that random Canadian cities pass for the Midwest. And that hurts.

Hollywood producers don’t treat us any better than they treat their first wives. They make a big show about how much they love us, but when it’s time to go the distance, they trade us in for a model that’s hotter, cheaper, flashier, more convenient, less challenging.

Well, no more. Chicago has been working on its romance with the entertainment industry, and is finally taking its rightful place as the new Hollywood—without all the pretension. And without the quinoa. Or the ability—or the inclination—to pronounce “quinoa.”

Last year’s Transformers: Dark of the Moon proved to the world that Chicago is a sanctuary for the film industry, with handsome tax credits and an open mind. Transformers 3 told the world, “We welcome ginormous space robots, no matter how clumsy, and we won’t grumble if you want to lightly bomb Navy Pier in peacetime.”

While restricting access to the Ferris wheel was a major inconvenience for many of us, it was worth it: Transformers 3 generated about $20 million for the local economy and created 1,200 jobs.

Now Chicago is so hip even MTV is in town, filming “Underemployed,” about five young college graduates who can’t find jobs.

How did we rekindle the spark with Hollywood?

*We sexed up our image.

Two words: Rahm Emanuel. Our new mayor is edgy, fit, funny, and perfectly positioned with brother Ari Emanuel, the super-agent who inspired Jeremy Piven’s character on “Entourage.” Rahm’s already signed on to play himself on “Chicago Fire,” the new NBC drama about firefighters that’s helmed by “Law & Order” creator Dick Wolf.

*We gave them some space.

The new Cinespace Film Studios on the Southwest Side lured “The Playboy Club” here (well, briefly). Kelsey Grammer has had more staying power with Starz’s brilliant “Boss,” now filming its second season at Cinespace. Why would they need to look elsewhere when they’re getting it at home?

*We couldn’t beat ’em, so we joined ’em.

Fans of Jerseylicious will embrace Chicagolicious, the Style Network spinoff that premieres June 11. The drama is centered on AJES, at 648 West Randolph in the West Loop, where Jennifer Hudson, Angela Bassett, Valerie Jarrett and Mellody Hobson have gotten beautified.

*We played dirty.

They want mobsters? We’ll give them mobsters. VH1’s cameras have been here since December, filming Mob Wives Chicago. And Fox’s upcoming The Mob Doctor is about a thoracic surgeon who gets tangled up with the South Side Mafia; she ends up moonlighting as a mob doctor while holding on to her job at a prominent hospital. It stars Jordana Spiro, who has become somewhat of an ambassador for Chicago: She was also cast as a local in My Boys.

Now that audiences will be getting an eyeful of the actual Chicago, maybe producers will be shamed into bringing even more projects here. (Vancouver? C’mon now.) Take heed, Hollywood: There’s no substitute for the real thing.

By Paige Wiser

Bethenny Frankel has achieved the impossible: She gives reality TV a good name. The Bravo star conquered the cruelest medium by using it to publicize her brand and now is embarking on the next episode of her career with her first novel and her own talk show. All this, and she still has her dignity, too.

Being “real” is rare enough in reality television, but Bethenny combines her big-city brashness with an irresistible combination of approachability, humor, and resilience—the kind that you can only get in Chicago.

Long before she shot to fame as a cast member on The Real Housewives of New York (ironically, without meeting the main requirement: a husband), the future health guru lived here in 1999 and 2000 while engaged to a trader she knew from her Florida boarding school. Still licking some superficial wounds from a decade in Los Angeles as a wannabe actress, she thought Chicago would be her home; it turned out to be a crossroads.

“I really didn’t know anybody,” says Frankel, 41, who lived at George and Racine, next to the Elbo Room. As her relationship deteriorated, she grew isolated. “I would go to the East Bank Club and try to stretch my workout as long as I could, just to have something to do during the day,” she recalls. “You could really kind of hang out there. I don’t have any place like that in New York.

“It was a transitional time,” says Frankel. “I really didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. But I knew it was time to hit my stride.” Rollerblading along the lakefront, she faced some tough truths and began formulating a set of rules: Find what’s authentic for you. Stand up for yourself. Take action.

And, of course, Chicago’s unmatched restaurant scene inspired another key rule: “Taste everything (eat nothing).” Frankel managed to find the best comfort food in town—Mia Francesca, NoMI—without gaining weight. Her biggest challenge was indulging in breakfast at Lou Mitchell’s. “It may seem bizarre, but when I think of Chicago, I think of omelets,” she says. “I miss the omelets.”

It helped that Frankel tracked down the relatively few vegan spots, too (Karyn’s Fresh Corner, The Chicago Diner). If staying fit in Chicago doesn’t qualify you to be a health guru, nothing will.

Sadly, when Frankel split with her fiancé, she had to leave Chicago behind, too. “He was a wonderful man, but it was the wrong relationship,” says Frankel.

While it was ill-fated love that brought her here, it’s her true love—big business—that keeps bringing her back. Last year, Frankel sold her low-calorie Skinnygirl Cocktails line to Deerfield-based Fortune Brands’ Beam Global for a reputed $100 million. It earned her a cover of Forbes magazine and a spot on its “Celebrity 100″ list above Sandra Bullock and Brad Pitt.

But the cocktails are just for starters. This summer, Frankel is taping a six-week test run of a daily talk show, Bethenny. Frankel will be taking on competitors like powerhouse Katie Couric and hometown favorite Steve Harvey. But she thinks she has figured out the secret to syndicated success.

“It’s important to have a point of view,” says Frankel. Fans of her Bravo show, Bethenny Ever After, can testify that she’s brimming with that. What would she bring to daytime? “Being honest, being relatable, having fun…being me,” she says.

It doesn’t hurt that Bethenny has Ellen Degeneres as an executive producer. “Bethenny is a rare personality,” says Hilary Estey McLoughlin, president of Telepictures, which produces Ellen and now Bethenny. Her “sense of humor, relatability, honesty, and rags-to-riches success story” make her a natural talk-show host, says McLoughlin.

Frankel’s show will be different from Degeneres’s, though. “Ellen is not remotely as inappropriate as I am,” Frankel says. She is planning to feature guests with whom she has history, so that the show will feel more conversational and less like a typical interview show. Frankel’s wish list includes Lea Michele (a Twitter pal), Denis Leary (a client from her personal-chef days), Bobby Flay (she almost interned with him), and Charles Barkley (they had been to a “boot camp spa” together). There’s always the chance that some of her more surprising fans may pop up, too. On that list: Mike Tyson and Snoop Dogg.

She would also love to host the ultimate hostess, Martha Stewart—despite the fact that Stewart fired Frankel during the finals of 2005′s The Apprentice spin-off.

There are no hard feelings, although Frankel is not exactly friends with her former role model. “I definitely never got close with her,” says Frankel. “But she’s a woman whom I respect greatly. I think Martha likes being intimidating; she likes being powerful. She didn’t get where she is by being warm and fuzzy. She runs an empire. I know it can make you a little grouchy.”

Want more details on Frankel’s life? On May 1, she released Skinnydipping. Another of Frankel’s rules is “always be branding.” The book is fictionalized, but seems awfully familiar. Like Frankel, the main character, Faith Brightstone, moves to Los Angeles in her early 20s to become an actress and patch up her disastrous relationship with her father. (On Real Housewives, Frankel tried to visit her estranged father, champion horse trainer Bobby Frankel, before he died of leukemia. He refused to see her.)

Mirroring her creator, Faith’s career in LA is a nonstarter. (You may have missed Frankel in 1994′s Hollywood Hills 90028. The tagline: “She’s popular…She’s a killer.” Frankel found more steady work as a nanny for teenaged Paris and Nicky Hilton and as an assistant for Jerry Bruckheimer.) The dishiest part of the book, though, is when Faith is recruited for a reality show hosted by an ice-cold lifestyle goddess. (The Apprentice: Martha Stewart, anyone?)

“A good percentage of the book is autobiographical,” admits Frankel. There’s not much fiction that can compete with Frankel’s reality for pure entertainment value. She let the cameras roll during her honeymoon with new husband Jason Hoppy—even when she talked him into waxing her pregnant belly.

Does she have any boundaries? “Not really,” Frankel says. The cameras are with her on vacation with her toddler, Bryn, during fights with her husband, and even in her therapy sessions. She won’t talk about Hoppy’s business or confirm her own profits, but that’s about it—with one small exception. “The interaction with the baby on camera is very limited,” says Frankel. “That’s just not a choice that she is old enough to make.”

Since 2008 Frankel has lived a televised existence. On the few occasions that she finds herself with a little privacy: “Something really funny will happen, and I’ll think, ‘Oh my God, where are the cameras now?’” The novelty wore off a long time ago, though. “Have I gone too far with it? You can’t put the cork back in the bottle,” she says. “I went on reality TV to be truthful.”

Her fans know that she’ll give it to them straight. Frankel was in Chicago recently to promote Skinnygirl at Binny’s in the South Loop. “This is nice!” she marveled at the bar setup and buffet. Frankel may be a fixture on the red carpet, but she still can appreciate a good Binny’s.

The crowd was young, bright, and well dressed. They see Frankel as the ultimate girlfriend, with the added bonus that she provides her own liquor. These budding perfectionists are well on their way to fulfilling one of Frankel’s favorite rules: You can have it all—just not all at once.

With her sprawling interests, after all, something’s got to give—like her mental health. “I am not sane,” confesses Frankel.

More shockingly, she’s carved out extra “Bryn time” from her workout schedule. “I haven’t exercised in weeks,” she says. She considers being there for Bryn her “biggest success.” If Frankel is traveling somewhere for more than a day, she brings her daughter along. “I’m able to be with her for every meal, every bath. I’m there when she wakes up from every nap,” says Frankel. “I think that’s definitely what my definition of success is.”

She’s hinted that her reality-show days are numbered, but her empire is growing large enough that it’s just a matter of time before it might rival Martha Stewart’s. However, money is no longer the main motivator, insists Frankel. “It’s amazing how inspiring my fans are,” she says. “They’re the reason I do everything.”Read more at http://michiganavemag.com/personalities/articles/the-business-of-being-bethenny#KB8eAlQbu7JTv0Sp.99

They are all impressive. All to be toadied to.

But the top spot? The prom king and queen of Chicago?

Don’t even bother fixing the ballot box, because the titles are taken. Permanently.

Abraham and Mary Todd Lincoln have never been hotter.

They may have been based out of Springfield, but Chicago is where the future President built his reputation, giving speeches and then crashing overnight at the Tremont. Chicago is where Mary found shopping worthy of her status. For pure star power, this dramatically dysfunctional duo have never been matched.

Celebrities.

Actors are clamoring to play the Lincolns, now more than ever. It was just last year that Robert Redford gave us his prestige project, “The Conspirator,” about the plot to assassinate Lincoln. And without money from the Ricketts family, it probably wouldn’t have gotten made.

Now Steven Spielberg is busy at work on [ital]his[unital] prestige project, “Lincoln,” with a positively Oscar-rific cast: Daniel Day Lewis plays the big man, while Sally Field takes on Mary Todd Lincoln (presumably with prosthetic jowls). Liam Neeson had the role first, but after lengthy filming delays he dropped out, saying he was too old.

But these media darlings aren’t just the stuff of drama. Gwyneth Paltrow has dressed up as Mary Todd Lincoln on “Glee” to perform what can only be described as “bi-polar shtick.” Will Ferrell has channeled Abe for funnyordie.com’s “Drunk History” series, and donned the beard again for a cameo as Lincoln, sky-diving with sex toys, in “The Goods.”

And that’s nothing. Just wait until you get a load of Angry Abe the axe-wielding superhero in “Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter,” which is due to be released June 22. In this incarnation, Lincoln is being played by Benjamin Walker, who is notable for two reasons: 1) being Meryl Streep’s future son-in-law, and 2) being uniquely qualified for the role. You may have caught him on Broadway as another action-packed President in “Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson.”

Headline makers.

The Lincolns have perfected the art of appearing in the news just often enough to keep the public hungry for them. Giuliana and Bill Rancic would kill – maybe even assassinate — to have a publicist who could do that.

Recently, a respected historian was banned from the National Archives for life after he was accused of changing a “4” to a “5” on a Lincoln document. Do I smell another “National Treasure” sequel for Nic Cage?

And then there was the oil painting of Mary Lincoln Todd that hung in the governor’s mansion. Apparently it’s not a masterpiece by Francis Bicknell Carpenter, but a hoax perpetrated by a hack named Ludwig Pflum. Even worse, the woman discovered in the underlying portrait was much less attractive than Mary.

You know the old saying, don’t you? “You haven’t truly made it until they start faking your memorabilia.”

 Trendsetters.

Michelle Obama may have gotten press for daring to bare her arms, but she was hardly the first First Lady to do so. A journalist described Mary Todd Lincoln as displaying a “well-proportioned arm,” and that was without the benefit of a personal trainer. Mary believed in doing her part for the economy, too, once buying 400 pairs of gloves in a four-month period.

And Abraham’s no slouch. At 6-foot-4, he remains our tallest President, making him male supermodel material. And his most important contribution to history just may be that he was the only person ever to successfully rock a stovepipe hat.

Top of the guest list.

Abraham’s a guy who could tell a joke, and Mary would be happy to share the latest gossip with you — whether it endangered national security or not.

The Lincolns were the most in-demand, hardest-to-get party guests in Chicago. Now that they’re dead, they’re considerably harder to get – and that much more desirable.

Socially, the Lincolns’ cred just keeps rising. So try all you want to be at the top of the heap; you can’t compete.

By Paige Wiser

When Chicagoans are thinking about winter ending, there are two things we refuse to believe:

1.) There is technically a season called “spring” – yes, even here; and 2.) It’s time to give the black clothes a rest.

The weather itself is not likely to give you any clues, but the time has come to retire your stark noir winter wardrobe. Relegate them to storage, along with the “parking dibs” chairs that have been staking out your shoveled spot.

I know it’s hard to let go of the black. It’s slimming, resistant to red wine spills, and puts the focus firmly where it belongs: cleavage and jewelry.

But there’s nothing to fear. Surrender to the inevitable, take a tip from the runway shows,  and ignore the slush in The Loop: Color is the new black, darling. Stop hibernating and embrace these fresh Chicago shades.

TANGERINE TANGO.

According to Pantone, the world authority on color, this spring’s big color will be “an enticing juicy orange.” Unfortunately, those of us who burned our Bears jerseys last season will be scrambling to replace the orange in our closets.

Warning: Things could get ugly when local news anchors find that there are only so many on-trend tangerine blazers to go around. It’ll be our own version of March Madness.

EMERALD GREEN.

Am I talking about tender shoots of grass and the stems of daffodils? Of course not! It could be months before actual nature makes an appearance.

But since 1962, we’ve been able to count on the Chicago River being dyed a nuclear green in time for the St. Patrick’s Day Parade. It’s the same green you see echoed in Shamrock Shakes, and the faces of hung-over honorary Irishmen. This green means that the warm-weather revelry has begun, with or without the warm weather.

Of course, we could also mention some less vibrant colors of spring, like SLUDGE – that distinctive shade of the sidewalks after the snow has melted, when you discover the little surprises left behind by lazy dog owners. Or INFINITE VOID, the color of the potholes you finally get to see before you hit them.

But nothing says spring like . . .

CLAMMY FLESH.

While this is not an official Pantone color, Chicagoans can spot it at 200 yards. The shade varies, but it always has a sickly incandescence that’s the result of being buried under layers of North Face fleece for months.

Skin, glorious skin, is suddenly on display as men prematurely break out the plaid shorts and head to Lake Michigan to take the Chicago Polar Plunge.

The thrill wears off quickly, of course, as hypothermia sets in and skin takes on a purple hue. So be sure to put “blush/bronzer/spray tan” at the top of your spring to-do list, and spray-contour some calf muscles while you’re at it. Of course, Chicago’s unpredictable temperatures offer limitless fashion opportunities. If you’re wise, you’ll leave the house in the morning with a tangerine parka, an emergency golf umbrella, jaunty sandals, and a stylist — just in case.

By Paige Wiser

Jennifer Morrison has been tasked with saving a magical town in Maine. But with a little luck, she just might end up saving network drama, too.

One fall TV season, not too long ago, there were not one but [ital]two[unital] new shows based on fairy tales unleashed on the public. The people did not rejoice. Fairy tale drama is a tough sell to the masses, long accustomed to watching youngsters screeching at British judges, and trophy wives clawing at each other’s fake eyelashes.

But a hero emerged. “Once Upon a Time” slayed its nemesis, NBC’s “Grimm,” and was crowned ABC’s biggest debut in five years.

The reason? Amidst all the amnesiac princesses, evil witches, stumbling princes and grumbling dwarves, stood Jennifer Morrison’s character, Emma Swan: a decidedly modern, un-sentimental former bail bondsman and bounty hunter with a red leather jacket and a cool eye.

A lot more is at stake than putting Rumpelstiltskin in his place. At the Golden Globes this year, nearly all the TV honorees were from the cable world — ABC’s “Modern Family” was the only network show to win a major award. But “Once Upon a Time,” created by “Lost” writers Adam Horowitz and Edward Kitsis, with its lush sets, sprawling backstories and superheroine Emma, has the potential to bring millions of lost sheep back to the networks.

According to the show’s lore, Emma is the long-lost daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming. If Emma ever gets a fairy-tale nickname, it’s likely to be Snow White-Hot.

“White-hot” is also an apt description for Jennifer Morrison’s career. She first came to America’s attention as Dr. Allison Cameron for five seasons on the cult hit “House M.D.” Celebrity gossip magazines sat up and took notice when Morrison got engaged in real life to her “House” love interest, Jesse Spencer. Her publicist must have been thrilled, but Morrison was taken aback by the sudden interest – especially once the engagement fell apart. “We tried to handle it as graciously as possible,” she says. “I just love acting. I’ve never cared about whether or not people care about who I am.”

She followed up her role as a brainy doctor with a role on CBS’s “How I Met Your Mother,” and for a while fans were obsessed that her character, passionate activist Zoey, would turn out to be the “mother” of the title. (Sorry, no.) Morrison solidified her geek fan base by playing James T. Kirk’s mother in the 2009 movie “Star Trek,” and then played the wife of a mixed martial arts fighter in last summer’s “Warrior.” Nick Nolte’s recovering alcoholic stole much of the show, but Jennifer took a stock character – the exasperated but supportive wifey – and turned her into a passionate force who could probably hold her own in the ring.

Before returning to TV, Jennifer even stopped over on Broadway in 2010, playing the mother of Abigail Breslin’s Helen Keller in the revival of “The Miracle Worker.”

Morrison credits much of her success to growing up in Arlington Heights, northwest of Chicago, with music-parent teachers. “I wouldn’t want to have started out anywhere else,” she says. “We’d pack snacks in our little purses and go see the high school musicals at Prospect [High School],” Jennifer remembers. “It was a big deal.”

And it fed her determination to be an actor — preferably one with a role.

In 1992 she modeled for the cover of Sports Illustrated for Kids with Michael Jordan. The editors were looking for a child who was “not shy,” so Jennifer slammed the ball and stuck her tongue out at everyone.

Jennifer may not have been shy, but she was in awe of Jordan. “It’s the most starstruck I’ve been in my life. I didn’t know what to say to him!,” Jennifer remembers. “So I said, ‘So… Do you play basketball year round?’ and he said, ‘No, we get a break. We play golf sometimes.’”

Jennifer went on to study theater and English at Loyola University, where she became legendary for bending the class schedule to her will. She had to miss quite a bit of school for auditions and trips to Los Angeles. “I’d go in to my college advisers and explain that we had to restructure my classes,” she said. “I showed them what I wanted to do, and they’d say, ‘We had no idea that was even possible!’ I became very creative – possibly manipulative – when it came to scheduling.” Efficient, too; Jennifer earned her degree in three years.

Dropping out was never a consideration for her. “It’s just a personal thing,” she said. “I never wanted to walk in an audition room and feel desperate. I wanted to feel like I knew I had every option available to me.”

Jennifer had already had a taste of Hollywood – she played the daughter of Richard Gere and Sharon Stone in 1994’s “Intersection” – but she knew there was no training like the kind she could get at Steppenwolf Theatre. There were master classes with ensemble members, and alums would come back to work scenes with the students.

Jennifer’s one regret is that the time she spent in Chicago was during her “starving actor” phase. “People ask me all the time about which amazing restaurants they should go to, and I’ve got nothing. I could tell you to get a great $1.50 slice of pizza at this little place across the street from Loyola, but that’s it.”

There’s not currently any man in Jennifer’s life, and there certainly isn’t any pizza. She starts out each day with a vitamin-and-vegetable breakfast shake, then has oatmeal and a kale shake for lunch. “The luxury is getting to dinner,” she says. “For dinner I can have whatever I want.”

Working the red carpet means running three times a week, hot yoga four times a week, and boxing – just enough that her arms don’t bulk up. Her personal style sounds a lot like her “Once Upon a Time” character’s: “Casual comfort with a little bit of an edge.” She says, “I find something that I love and wear over and over again.” She’s been photographed in Stella McCartney, Calvin Klein, Missoni, 3.1 Phillip Lim, and lately, a lot of Isabel Marant.

Jennifer is a bit of a good luck charm, picking smart projects she can make even better. She’s the kind of person who seems to attract random acts of kindness – recently Jennifer was stuck at a metro turnstyle, and a stranger gave her a free card swipe.

But luck has little to do with it, insists Morrison. “So often people say, ‘Oh my God, it happened overnight!” she says. “They don’t see the years of hard work. I love the hard work part.”

Surely, though, there must be some kind of fairy godmother hovering in the background. Most actors don’t have scripts like “Once Upon a Time” fall in their lap, after all.
Jennifer remembers the day that the cast found out the show had been picked up for a full season. “We were on set and heard the news on speaker phone,” she says, “and we walked outside – and there was this giant rainbow that ended at our trailer. I have pictures of it! I have proof! We all said, ‘This is ridiculous. We’re doing a show about fairy tales, and we get a rainbow?’

“So maybe there is such a thing as luck,” says Jennifer. “Maybe.”

 By Paige Wiser

It’s the start of a new year, traditionally the time to feel bad about ourselves and set impossible goals. As Chicagoans, it’s a time for us to pull together and ask some tough questions about our place in the universe. Questions like “Is this who we want to be?” “Are we doing our best?” And “Do we get extra credit for having the most comfortable footwear in the country?”

If I may answer for the rest of us: no; no; and for God’s sake, have some pride.

Chicago deserves to be world-class. And the good news is, we’re no longer known just for hosting Al Capone and Michael Jordan.

The bad news? Now Chicago is known as . . . the premiere tourist destination to get your picture taken with Marilyn Monroe’s larger-than-life underpants.

That’s right — it turns out that the Second City isn’t second in all things. When it comes to bad public art, we’re No. 1, at least according to the editors of VirtualTourist.com.

It’s true that Seward Johnson’s “Forever Marilyn,” the 26-foot statue outside the Tribune Tower, has something to offend everyone. But the important thing is that the rest of the world is finally recognizing that we’re No. 1! In lots of ways, actually. Only Chicago, for instance, can boast that it was recently named “America’s Most Mustache-Friendly City” by the American Mustache Institute.

“Chicago is a leader in creating a prime living and working environment for Mustached Americans,” said Dr. Aaron Xavier Perlut, chairman of the American Mustache Institute. “Its vast pool of professional opportunities in first-responder fields and in the fishing industry centered around Lake Michigan, along with the heritage of retired Chicago Bears players who have continued to embrace a Mustached American lifestyle helped to set the Windy City apart.”

It goes without saying that we have the best restaurants in the country, the best sports teams, and the kind of extreme weather that weeds out the wusses. But did you know that we are also home to the top public bathroom in the nation? In a poll by restroom-supply company Cintas, the facilities at our Field Museum was celebrated for the adorable mini-toilets for tots. We’re the most caffeinated city in America, too, with our residents spending 2.94 times the national average on coffee.

We may have recently lost Oprah Winfrey, but being home to the reigning U.S. Air Guitar Champion more than makes up for it. Justin Howard, 27, of Ukrainian Village is better known as Nordic Thunder. Thanks to a potent combination of passion, hair-whipping, a leather loincloth and a knee-shredding signature move called the Power Slide, Nordic Thunder became Chicago’s proudest son. He plans to defend his title next summer, despite air-guitar-related injuries including a ruptured disk, two herniated disks, and a torn meniscus.

We should all be inspired by his example of excellence, and vow to be No. 1 across the board. One area for improvement: Last year, we were ranked just fourth on GQ’s list of worst-dressed cities. I know we can do better.

If we really commit ourselves — – and wear even more comfortable shoes – I bet that this time next year, we’ll take top honors.