Stow your victims in style

Say goodbye to the evidence for only $785.

girlshop.com

Lancome and Venom: The $17 Difference

I love Lancome Bi-Facil eye makeup remover. It is magical. It washes away even industrial-strength mascara but is supergentle to the eyes. It is gentle enough that if a sadistic intruder broke into my house for the sole purpose of torturing me, I could use reverse psychology and say "Do anything! Anything! But whatever you do, don't pour makeup remover in my eye!!" and then he would cackle at my incompetence and grab the Bi-Facil and hold my eye open and pour the entire bottle into it and I would feign intense suffering, and then, when he was satisfied that he'd tortured me adequately, he would leave, and I would laugh the last laugh because, really, what kind of sadistic intruder doesn't know about the famed mildness of Bi-Facil?? And these are the things I think about when I'm taking my makeup off...

Anyway, my Lancome love was cemented this past week when I bought a bottle of L'Oreal eye makeup remover. I thought, hey, L'Oreal is Lancome's cheaper little sister; I could save some major moolah (L'Oreal is around $6; Lancome is $23), why not? But when I splashed it onto a cotton pad and rubbed it in and around my eye as haphazardly as I'd come to use Bi-Facil, I found that the $17 difference really, well, makes a difference. It felt like my eye was being burned out of my face. So not magical.

I'm not sure if my eyes have been spoiled by expensive French cosmetics and simply rejected the drugstore version as if it were the wrong blood type or if L'Oreal's version really is completely inferior to Lancome. I've been using it for a few days now, trying to build up a tolerance to the pain like those guys that make rattlesnakes bite them a whole bunch and then pretty soon they're immortal, but it's not working. Perhaps rattlesnake venom would help in this situation too? I just need some more Bi-Facil, damnit.

Swag.

Here's the deal, people. Lucky magazine is providing Coutorture with a VIP gift bag full of incredibly awesome designer swag (I'm so sorry, but my whole life I've always wanted to use the word "swag," and growing up in small town Oregon didn't afford me many chances) worth $800! Winning this bag would completely change your life. Cousins you've never met would come out of the woodwork saying they really need some Kerastase hair gel, just to get them through the month; designers would start sending you samples to wear grocery shopping; Stavros Niarchos would try to date you. Overall, it would be a beautiful thing (except for Stavros, he's kind of dirty). In the spirit of full disclosure, I might be pushing this so fervently because if someone wins it by entering on Daddy Likey, I happen to get one too. So enter! And win!



P.S. My friend Carolyn pointed out that the bag doesn't really look like it contains $800 worth of swag (oops there I go again). Actually, her exact words were, "That bag is a poser," but I assure you that Lucky and Coutorture wouldn't lie. It's stuffed full! Stuffed with swag! Swag I say! Swaaaag!

Astro Spice

Remember that scene in Spice World (and if you just balked at the phrase "Remember that scene in Spice World" then maybe you should find a different blog to read) where they're practicing for their big concert and they're all really tired and kind of burned out and Scary Spice is wearing a gigantic puffy white astronaut coat that goes down to her knees and she looks so badass and I was always really jealous of her? I was shocked to find that girlshop.com is now selling an exorbitantly overpriced coat that greatly resembles the one I loved so in the film (and if you just balked at my calling Spice World a "film," then you really need to find a different blog to read).


This coat is definitely not as cool as the Scary Spice version, mainly because it's literally a quarter of the size, but still, residual Spice World passions are making me want to empty out my college fund and buy it. After all, $440 is a small price to pay to emulate a member of the greatest musical act of our time (I weeded out all the haters up there so now I can say what I truly feel).

Turning junior high I think I'm turning junior high I really think so

The other day I got an urge to relive the glorious years that were junior high and high school (oh my god I can't believe I just typed that), so I went for a little trip down memory lane, aka Alloy.com. Alloy and Delia's were my favorite catalogues in junior high because they were pretty much the only mail that ever came for me and they had the cutest clothes ever. One time, after months of reliably receiving the two catalogues in the mail and calling friends to discuss the new fashions immediately upon arrival ("Okay, now, the dress on page 24. Would that color work on me?") my friend Tracy got her Alloy catalogue in the mail but I didn't, and I was seriously convinced that the people at Alloy had decided I wasn't cool enough anymore and had cut me off, and I became the first person in the history of the world to call a mail-order company and literally beg them to put me back on their mailing list.


My recent nostalgic perusing led me to this dress, which I think I love. Alternatively, I think it also might look a little bit like a dish towel (it is made of french terry after all). Ooh! Let's pretend that we're all in junior high, and you're my best friend, and we both just received our Alloy catalogues and within minutes had gone through them multiple times and marked pages and circled must-haves and asked our parents for money, and I call you and say "Okay, now, the mod blue dress on page 24. What are you thinking?"

I will not name this post "Mad for Plaid!" I will not name this post "Mad for Plaid!" I will not name this post "Mad for Plaid!"

I adore plaid. In fact, if I weren't already in a relationship with a wonderful Latin man, I would find a Scotsman and marry him right away so my wedding would be both gorgeous and trendy. I've been a huge plaid proponent in past posts, as my loyal fans know, describing my passion for the shoes above (by the way, I do hope you've bought them by now, Ms. Lukku) and my hesitant but true love for these.

Sadly, my adoration is being threatened by a disturbing and seemingly contagious epidemic: the infuriating overuse of the phrase, "Mad for Plaid." Every magazine I open has a Mad for Plaid page. Every fashion website is Mad for Plaid. Nordstrom.com even has a whole Mad for Plaid section. This horrific lack of imagination does not make me Mad for Plaid. It just makes me Mad.

"Mad for Plaid" in and of itself isn't that bad (god please someone stop the rhyming!). Can't we mix it up a bit though? I mean, "plaid" is one of the most rhymable words in our language; are all the great fashion writers and marketers of our time really unable to use, say, "glad" every once in a while? Here. You know what? I'm just gonna take matters into my own hands. I'll show you the ease and the magic of a little rhyme-variety, and soon, like a plaid butterfly flapping its wings in Asia causes a fashion executive in New York to think, "Jesus Christ, can we use anything but 'Mad for Plaid' in our campaign this season?", a revolution will occur. Observe:

Egad! Plaid!

Plaid is Rad!

Plaid's the Fad!

Plaid? Not bad.

and finally...

A Tad of Plaid

See? That wasn't so hard now, was it? And while all those rhymes were still really contrived and slightly annoying (except for the "Egad!" one. I like that one. It's got spunk), they weren't "Mad for Plaid!" And that's all that matters. Now I'll just sit back and wait for the linguistic revolution to begin.


from top: anthropologie, nordstrom.com, katespade.com, girlshop, nordstrom.com, girlshop

The Things I Carried

A lot of blogs and magazines have a section called something like "What's in your bag?" in which famous people or fashion bloggers divulge the contents of their makeup bag or purse. I always love reading these (handbag voyeurism is the best), but I've been a bit nervous about writing one myself ever since I had to do a similar exercise in a writing class, and when I dumped my purse out on the desk--actually it ended up taking two desks to hold the aggregate mass--I (and my classmates) found out that I carry one dirty sock (that's right. not two. one.) and enough tampons to last me clear to menopause.

But today is a new day, my friends, and since I'm too lazy to be creative and make a real post, I present to you the contents of my purse:

-A stick of Japanese gum my brother bought online
-One puka shell
-A headband from Claire's, never worn (to see why, read this)
-A crumpled writing assignment that I couldn't find when it was due last week (damnit)
-Enough Clif bars to feed a small village (all with one bite out of them--I always forget that they're gross)
-Like seven hundred bobby pins
-A map of the Pacific Islands
-Mints
-String cheese. Old string cheese. Oh my god.
-A notebook
-Pens
-One tampon (I'm so much more sensible in my old age)
-An old chapstick with sand in it
-Hair elastics
-A Catholic prayer card (I swear I'm not joking)
-Every receipt I've amassed since 2003
-One of those miniature pencils they give you to take tests when you forget yours
-My wallet (duh)
-A really cute compact
-A lollipop

Whew! That wasn't so bad. And just in case you're wondering, for that writing class we had to choose one item from our personal stash and write a poem about it. I bet you can't guess what I chose (and I wrote this like four years ago so forgive the overall suckiness and "interesting" line breaks):

One Dirty Sock
There’s one dirty sock
At the bottom of my purse.
Black with pink flowers and
Stiff with dried sweat.
Sometimes
When I pull out my keys
The sock comes out too
Hanging from the metal ring
Like a skewered, smelly carcass.
People judge me now
But one day
There will be a scavenger hunt
With a million dollar prize
And “crusty black sock”
Will be on the list
Or maybe a horrific accident
Occurs, and someone needs a
Tourniquet right away or
They’ll lose the leg,
And I’ll be there with my sock
Or maybe a sorcerer will
Come to town
And make a potion for
Eternal youth and the
One missing ingredient
Is a smelly sock and that’s when
Everyone will wish
They were the weird
Girl who carries a dirty sock
In her purse.

High Fashion Haiku

I believe strongly:
If yellow looks good on you,
wear it everyday.

dress: See by Chloe

Cheese Dip and Badass Running Shoes

I went to the beach today and snuck into this incredibly extravagant golfcourse locker room (can you believe the door was unlocked and completely susceptible to riff raff like me?) afterward to change out of my swimsuit, and they had a scale in there, the kind that they use at the doctor's office, and I couldn't resist a quick weigh-in.

Yeah that was dumb.

After convincing myself that a wet swimsuit adds at least twenty pounds, I set my mind to a more rigorous workout regimen (just so you know, my motivation is not purely superficial--I've also been feeling quite sluggish lately and if you saw the amount of cheese dip my boyfriend and I consumed yesterday I'm sure you'd be like, "Wow, jesus, yeah, it's time to make some changes here, Winona."). I love to exercise, but whenever I need to rev things up, I (duh) buy some cool new workout gear.


I saw these on fabsugar a while ago and literally gasped at the sight of their awesomeness (I know that right now some of you are gasping for other, less flattering reasons, but you see, these shoes are like great art--they're polarizing and evoke strong emotion).

My favorite workout gear purchase is probably shoes, because the cooler they are, the more they make me want to run so I can look down at my feet and pretend I'm in a Nike commercial. And these ones are just so freakin' cool. I remember reading that they're made from eco-friendly fabric too, which doubles (maybe triples?) their cool factor.

They're almost a hundred bucks, which is about $70 more than I usually spend on athletic shoes. However, I'm sure they would help me get rid of this pesky wet swimsuit weight, and I'd consider that money well spent.

shoes: "Cascadia 2"; www.brooksrunning.com

Vested Interest

I am obsessed with this vest by Geren Ford. Obsessed.


I chortle with glee at the thought of all the different ways I could wear it, all the different tops I could layer under it, all the different bottoms it would funkify. Think of a bright colored tee underneath with slim jeans or pants! Think of it over a collared white button-up shirt and a pencil skirt! Think of long chain necklaces cascading down over the adorable button front! Think of the shoe possibilities! Oh gosh, especially these shoe possibilities, the ones I've been coveting since way back when:

It actually might be a good thing that I don't own these items. I love them both so much that I'd probably put on the vest and the shoes and forget about the important things in life. Like pants.


Vest: 250 freakin' dollars, girlshop.com
Shoes: oh sweet jesus they're on sale for $49.99, naturalizer.com

ANGE(RED)

Christy Turlington is modeling the Gap's new do-good tank top that benefits the Global Fund, an organization working to fight AIDS in Africa, among other things. You'll notice (it's impossible not to) that she is not wearing a bra, her nipples are showing, and the do-good tank top is calculatedly coming off. I saw this ad in a magazine, and the page next to her reads, "Can a tank top change the world?"

Let me tell you, I'm all for changing the world. I could give you a comprehensive list of proposed world changes, and the AIDS epidemic in Africa would most definitely be near the top. Coincidentally, the way advertising portrays women would be on there too, much farther down of course, but still there.

That's why this ad is so frustrating. I have every faith that if people get determined and get together, we can make great strides toward eradicating AIDS; I'm just not sure why we have to objectify Ms. Turlington to do it.

Half the profit from the sales of a successful tank top (Gap's plan) really does have the potential to make a difference, and I applaud the Gap for getting involved. At the same time, there's nothing world-changing about a partially clothed woman posed for our viewing and judgment in the media.

Esprit: My second grade Chanel

When I was in second grade, the coolest girl in school always wore the cutest coordinated Esprit outfits. Whether leggings and an oversized sweater or a little jumper with patterned tights (I just described current fashion trends and small town elementary school style circa 1990 with one fell sentence--who knew that would ever happen?), she always looked adorable, she always had a boy who loved her, and she always wore Esprit. I yearned to be her and I knew that if I could only get my hands on an Esprit ensemble, all my problems in life would be solved.

I can't remember if I was too chubby (I was a bit of a spherical child), or if my mom didn't take my pleading seriously (I really need to figure this one out so I can direct my resentment accurately), but either way, I never got a coordinated Esprit outfit. My obsession with the label faded as I grew older, but it never left me.

So imagine my surprise recently when I saw Esprit on the racks at Nordstrom, when I read on stylebakery.com that "What was once primarily a junior brand has grown into a fashionable lifestyle company for women of all ages," when I look at their website and see that, my god, Esprit is not just big sweaters and jumpers anymore. Not only can I still mend the wounds of childhood and get my long-awaited Esprit fix, but I can even do it stylishly, and on the (relatively) cheap!

I'm such a sucker for big furry puffy comfy coats in the winter. I like a seamless transition from bed comforter to coat (ideally with something underneath, but on bad mornings you never know), and I think this corduroy number would do quite nicely.

This sweater comes in a bunch of different colors and do you see the little pockets on the front?? I would wear this with everything. Yes, in times of desperate shopping justification, I've been known to utter that same phrase about items like hot pink driving moccasins, but in this case I'm actually serious.

Usually I'm so not a wedge fan, but these babies have stolen my heart. The color is fantastic and I love the details.

www.espritshop.com

And can I just point out the final fashion world irony that today Esprit doesn't even sell leggings, but Chanel does?

Cashmere Perfect and Cyanide-Free

I found a tube of L'Oreal Cashmere Perfect Blush on the Long's Drugs mega-discount shelf that only looked marginally tampered with, and I bought it (hello it was $3.99! Even if it had cyanide in it, that's a good deal), and I'm totally in love.


This is my first cream blush experience (well, this one is actually a cream that magically changes to powder on contact, but that still counts right?) and I feel like a new woman breaking out of my purely powdered past. I really love the look of blush, and all the powder blushes I used to use were the kinds that give you a subtle glow, which I hate. If I'm wearing makeup, I want people to know, damnit. Not like Tammy Faye Bakker know, of course, more like Rachel Bilson know:


See? It's no secret that she's wearing blush, and she looks supercute!

This is what would happen with my old blushes: I would put some on, get a subtle glow, put more on, put more on, put more on, and then by the time I almost sorta had the look I wanted, color saturation-wise, I had a little pile of powder blush rising up from each cheek, and good god is that not a good look.

My new discount L'Oreal blush is totally different. I just put a little on, rub it in, and the apples of my cheeks become delightfully peachy (the shade is "Heavenly Peach" after all) and glowy. It blends really easily and I'm just so happy that not only does it not have cyanide in it but it's also one of my best makeup finds in recent memory.

You can buy it on sale for $7.99 (haha suckahs!) at drugstore.com, or you can stalk the discount shelf at Long's, hoping to get lucky.

The skirt and the sequined birth canal

You know those diagrams of the female reproductive system that you had to memorize in health class in high school?

And you know those lame t-shirts with a human skeleton on the front that makes it look like you're see-through?


Doesn't this skirt look like a disturbing combination of the two?

Little Gold Butterflies

If I ever felt like being subtle, which I pretty much never do, this necklace would be how I would do it. It's delicate, it has little gold butterflies, it would go with everything and it's on sale for $4.99 at fredflare.com.

The Church of Intimidation

I am in love with the hip hoodie designers Mike & Chris. I seriously love everything they make. I'm not quite sure if the clothes deserve full credit for this though, because the Mike & Chris model looks a lot like a more intimidating version of my friend Jen, and not only do I love Jen but I've also yearned my whole life for the capacity to be intimidating. As a petite, round-eyed blonde with a sing-song voice, "intimidating" is a characteristic that ranks only slightly above "manly" or "Jewish" on a list of my unlikely descriptors. Although, I guess I could always convert to Judaism, whereas Intimidation is inconveniently lacking a Torah.

I've always thought intimidation would be such a fun and useful tool. Not in the Kimora Lee Simmons sense of the word (I am confident that woman could kill me and hire someone to bury me and go straight to a party as if nothing had happened), but it would be great to be able to turn it on and off as needed, perhaps to dissuade a pesky witness or to tell the girl in high school who always had ranch dressing on her face and thought flamingos have one leg to stop following you around (a true story from my sadly uninitimidating life). I'm more of an "Oh my gosh I never suspected her!" type, which definitely has its own benefits, but if one of these cool Mike & Chris hoodies could up my intimidation factor, I would consider the insanely high price to be well worth it. Especially in the case of that black leather jacket. God it's badass.

It's time to call out Victoria's Secret.

I have a rather large chest--large enough that my sports bras need to be designed by MIT engineers to really do the job, large enough that (looking on the bright side) my stomach looks fairly small by comparison, large enough that if I were a pirate, my shipmates would call me Boobs Madrid.

I wear a 34DD, so I'm not quite into the bras so big that you can wear them as hats (as my friend Caitlin and I used to do to annoy her mom and older sister when we all went bra shopping) territory, but did you know that double D, in the bra world, is technically an E, and gosh I really don't want to talk about it.

I am a girl who just always needs a bra. Victoria's Secret sells a lot of bras. You could say they specialize in bras. They even put their bras in futuristic commercials and claim that they are the most scientifically advanced products ever created (I've gotta side with that Japanese machine that translates dog barks to English, but that's just me). It seems then, that Victoria's Secret and I would have a great, mutually beneficial relationship. I need bras. They sell bras.

But no.

You see, Victoria's Secret abides by a Separate But Equal bra stocking policy that pains me to no end. They display all their most gorgeous bras in B and C cups (my readers have informed me that A cups face the same discrimination) on those fabulous little pink satin hangers. Every time I go in there, I look through every single one of these hangers, and, of course, never find anything close to my size. So I ask a sales associate, and this happens:

"Hi. I'm looking for the Ipex NASA Double-Tech Mercury bra but I don't see one in my size."
"Okay, what size are you?"
"34 DD."
"Oh. Oh my..."
"What??"
"It's just that, well, we keep bras of that size in...the drawers."

This happens every time. The sales girl then leads me over to the gorgeous satin hanger display, crouches down below it into the dusty, cobwebbed Victoria's Secret catacombs, opens one of the drawers and hands me my desired brassiere, careful not to handle it for too long lest she catch whatever mutated me into the big-boobed freakshow that I am.

Let me tell you, by this time, even if the bra could translate canine sounds to simple English, I wouldn't be interested.

The Deadly Coral Snake Pants

I know this is so completely wrong, but I've been obsessed with these plaid L.A.M.B. pants for an embarrassingly long time. Actually, excuse me, they are not pants; their proper name is "Slouchy Breeches."


You know that rhyme about how to distinguish poisonous snakes by their stripes, "Red and yellow kill a fellow"?

Well, in the fashion world, there's one that goes like this: "Slouchy and Breeches is not what Vogue teaches."

The words "Slouchy" and "Breeches" appearing so close together is just another way Mother Nature says STAY AWAY. These pants and their unfortunate title are just like the deadly coral snake with his red and yellow stripes and venomous bite and tendency to make your thighs look about double their normal size. And still, I yearn for them.

They're on sale on Girlshop.com for like a quarter of their normal price (no snarky remarks about the obvious reasons for this, please), which is still way too expensive. But a girl can dream about her squatty, high-waisted, puff-legged breeches, right?

Can we be friends?

A certain Miss Rachel P. has just secured herself this very cool Free People jacket:


Now, at first glance it's all fine and good--it's got the military inspiration and the flattering shape and the edgy yet classy cut that you could easily dress up or down--okay, maybe "fine and good" was a bit of an understatement. But it's the back that really makes this jacket.


So cute and unexpected right?? This is a great piece because you could throw it on with some really boring jeans and really boring shoes and a really boring shirt underneath and no accessories on your very worst hairday ever and people would still be coming up to you all day going, "Oh my god you look amazing! What's your secret? Can we be friends?"

If a garment can gain you a gaggle of superficial hangers on, then it is a good garment indeed (and no, I don't have an excuse for the gratuitous alliteration).

freepeople.com

Ah, to be Sloane Peterson

I just watched Ferris Bueller's Day Off for probably the 700th time, and I've gotta say Sloane Peterson (Ferris's girlfriend, duh) has got some rockin' style. From the pleated shorts to the slouchy flat boots to the white fringe leather jacket and her amazing hair, she is truly a vision (by the way if that sounded sarcastic at all, I assure you I am completely serious). I want to own her entire wardrobe. In my opinion, Sloane Peterson is on the same cinematic fashion level as Annie Hall, so why doesn't she get as much love?

When I was younger I always wanted to be like her, one of those girls who is gorgeous and soft-spoken and perenially sweet and graceful (I remember Ann Landers advising her readers to speak softly and with sophistication, and everytime I decided that this was going to be the first day of my new, soft-spoken, sophisticated life I'd end up tracking dog poop into the school and swearing or running into a pole or having road rage). I'm definitely more of a Ferris.

I don't want no scrubs.

I've come to realize that there are two types of women in this world: those who would be content wearing scrubs to work, and those who would rather die.


I am a member of the latter category (in case my running a fashion blog isn't a big enough clue). As my mom put it, "Why even have a job if you don't get to shop for work clothes?" When people used to ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would say "anything that requires pumps," and while I've grown up to be a bit more specific about my career aspirations, the general sentiment remains. Work is the master shopping justifier, a watertight excuse to buy that extra-expensive pair of shoes or a well-made briefcase or a fantastic suit.


But not everyone feels this way. While I was writing this post, my brother told me about a woman in one of his classes who went to a hospital for the sole purpose of buying scrubs, as if it were a version of Bloomingdales where shoppers die a little more often, and when people ask her what hospital she works for, she gets offended and screeches, "These are my clothes!"

I first became intrigued with this subject, however, when I heard that one of my mom's coworkers, a lunchbreak Nordstrom shopper and all around stylish lady, declared that she would actually prefer wearing scrubs to work. I was stunned. Who knew that beneath her chic Talbots and Caslon clad exterior lurked a secret yearning for a poly/cotton blend elastic-waist uniform? And how many more chic working women feel the same way?

So, what type are you? Tell the truth. I swear (despite this hugely biased post) I won't judge.

A Periwinkle Rebellion

Let me tell you a little story about White House Black Market, the store that sells clothing only in shades of black and white:

Once upon a time, when the first WHBM store was coming to Oregon, I applied for a job there. Soon after I emailed my resume, I got a call from a very serious woman who said, and I quote, "I'd like to offer you a job at White House Black Market," and only after I'd called all my friends and promised them substantial discounts and celebrated my new position with my family did she call back and clarify that "I'd like to offer you a job" actually means "I'd like to offer you a job interview, along with everyone else who applied, and you actually have no chance of getting this job."

Although a bit let down, I went to the interview (which of course triggered massive outfit anxiety--would wearing color to an interview with such an antichromatic organization be like wearing a Viva La France! t-shirt to a GOP fundraiser?). I settled on a black sweater and black pumps and some black and white plaid trousers with a tiny pink stripe running through them to really knock 'em dead with my originality. Throughout the entire interview, the store manager never smiled, never laughed, never gave any indication, actually, that she wasn't a robot. I don't do well with robots.

Toward the end I asked her, half-ironically, if employees are required to wear only black and white, and she responded, completely seriously, "Well, obviously it should be mostly black and white, though we aren't averse to a cream here and there. And recently we've been broadening our color palette quite a bit--there is a shirt we're getting in soon that is actually a very light periwinkle blue." Hearing her stifled excitement in describing a periwinkle blue shirt proved two things: this woman was actually not a robot (maybe half) and White House Black Market was not a place I wanted to work. But god they have cute things.



Curse the antichromatists (when I make up a word that cool, can you really blame me for using it twice in one post?).

Two Words:

Daddy. Likey.

Yumi Kim, on sale for $206 (not thaaat good of a sale, I know), girlshop.com

There shall be locusts, darkness, festering boils and skinny jeans

About a week ago I went shopping with my boyfriend to try to find some slim black pants. And no, I didn't say "skinny." I said "slim." I think that if I tried to make that distinction to any major retailer this season, it would go like this:

"Do you have any slim black pants?"
"Skinny black pants?"
"No. Slim black pants."
"Skinny?"
"Slim."
"Skinny black pants?"
"No. Slim. Like, close-fitting, but not tapered and skintight."
"Ooohhh! Skinny pants. Yes we ha--"
"No. Slim."
"Kate Moss?"
"No."
"What?"

Yes, it is clear that skinny jeans have emerged as the eleventh plague of Egypt, and my boyfriend Nick has been acting like a burdened Pharaoh. He hates skinny jeans with a burning passion, so as soon as we arrived at the store I grabbed a pair and ran into the dressing room to torture him. The pair I grabbed were black and way more expensive than they looked, and when I came out to show him, something really weird happened. He said, "Jesus. Those actually look really good." I checked to make sure his pupils weren't dilated and then looked in the mirror. He was right. I was actually considering buying them until we realized that when I walked they made the same sound as the nurse's pants when she walks down the hall in Ferris Bueller's Day Off.

So I did something foolish. I got cocky. I took the fashion fluke of that first pair to mean that skinny jeans totally worked on me, despite my short legs and big thighs and basically every flashing red warning sign for me to steer way clear of this trend. I went into another store and picked out a pair of cheap light grey ones from the junior's department.

Oh. my. god.

Let me just say, the resemblance between myself and this woman in her before picture from a What Not To Wear episode of Oprah was both striking and extremely troubling.


I left those pants on the floor of the dressing room (usually I'm a much better customer than that but these were so bad that they really deserved the dramatic abandonment) and got the hell out of there.

And I still haven't found slim black pants.

If, unlike me, you actually can wear skinny jeans (and if you can, then by all means do because they can be totally badass) the ones at the top are from girlshop.com

Live Nude Lips!

I have a confession. I am now officially one of those people who reads about a celebrity makeup regimen and then goes out and buys the exact same products. Shameful. I know. Sienna Miller triggered it for me. I think Ms. Miller is gorgeous and I'm a huge fan of her fashion sense, if not her taste in men (Nick is fully aware that if he ever cheats on me his testicles' days will be numbered).

Her recent appearance at the Met epitomized everything I love about makeup--it was dramatic but not slutty, 1960's-inspired, fresh. I would post the picture but jesus it's nerve-racking enough to post a picture of myself up here (as my friend Millie can attest after receiving numerous emails with photo options and various incarnations of "okay, does this one make me look like I think I'm too cool?), like hell I'm gonna post one next to a professionally primped Sienna Miller. If you simply must see it, go here. Anyway, she has the most fabulous nude lipstick on, which as I found out from reading a painstakingly detailed People magazine synopsis of what products she was wearing and how to apply each is a MAC lipstick called Lovedust.

After checking with my friend Khathy to make sure that we large-lipped gals can wear nude lipstick (I was afraid it would look like I was trying to hide one of my biggest features and failing miserably) and being assured that we indeed can (although she does advise the use of a lipliner in this situation), I headed straight to Macy's and became a celebrity makeup sheep. These are my new nudified lips:


It totally works, right? No matter how much I slather on, this is about as nude as my lips get, but I think the effect is enough. When I add a whole bunch of dark eyeliner to the equation it creates an awesome fatter-version-of-Twiggy vibe (and no, I'm not fishing for compliments; saying you're fatter than Twiggy is like saying you're smarter than Forrest Gump--it's not that profound of an assertion).

Cue the Rich Laughtrack.

If I were the type of person who could (and I'm really not sure if I'm using "could" here in a moral or purely financial sense) spend $500 on a trendy item like an ankle boot, these very well might be my extravagant choice. Although (morally speaking now), I'm not sure if I could spend $500 on an item from a brand with "Cheap" in the title. I think that's rich humor. I don't get it.

Moschino Cheap & Chic, Nordstrom.com

Thanks Tito.

My Achilles Wedge

When I first saw a picture of these shoes nestled in one of those Saks Fifth Avenue multiple page ads that shows a group of models walking around in really expensive clothes pretending to be friends and doing ironically normal things like getting coffee, I thought they looked a tad...orthopedic. In fact, I was stunned that MARC by Marc Jacobs would ever make a shoe that so closely resembled the black nurse sneakers my dad once bought that made me (and my mom) consider running away.

After studying them for a while, however, my opinion has changed and I am completely infatuated. This is dangerous territory for me, people. Once I was at Nordstrom Rack with my mom and I found these ATROCIOUS Franco Sarto red leather square-toed loafers that looked like something a slimy guy named Morty would wear to a strip club in Florida, and I thought they were so hilarious that I walked them over to show my mom and have a good laugh, but by the time I reached the other side of the store I'd looked at them too long and decided that I actually loved them and I ended up buying them. How am I to know that my love for these Marc Jacobs wedges isn't due to this same weakness, my fashion Achilles heel, the reason that I have the red Morty loafers sitting in my closet?

I think I totally love them, though! They look like they would be really comfortable while still giving you some height, and they would go with everything and be really cute with tights and you could dress them up or down. So they're cute, right? Right?? Help me.


Really expensive as usual (curse you Marc! Just kidding. Still friends, right?), Zappos.com

Dealin' Coachaine

Having a friend who works at Coach (and gets 50% off) is kind of like knowing a high-profile drug dealer. As soon as people find out that I've got this connection, their eyes widen and their voices get low and they start saying things like "Can you hook me up?"

Since basically everything at Coach is over $200 even at half price, the sad truth is I have yet to be hooked up myself. But let me tell you, if I were going to meet my dear Coach dealer in a downtown alley, give her a wad of money disguised in a subtle handshake and mutter "So, you got the stuff?" (can you tell yet that I've never bought drugs?), the stuff I would most want her to pull out of her trenchcoat, my drugs of choice, would be these:

Basic. White. Gorgeous. Love it.

How badass would these be with bright tights and a girly dress?

Right now my wallet is this awesome silver clutch that I got for $5 at an estate sale, and I really like being able to say "Oh this? I got it for $5 at an estate sale" whenever people compliment me on it. "Oh this? I got it for $200 at Coach" definitely doesn't have the same smarmy ring to it, but still, this wallet is gorgeous.

And then there's this. Perhaps I should be ashamed for loving this, but I do. In fact, I love it so much that it makes me want to reenact that one jewelry commercial and run through a flock of pigeons in France screaming "I love this giant suede bag with Jessica-Simpson-a-la-2004 style fringe! I love this bag!" I don't care what anybody says.

And by the way, she's my dealer, so don't get any ideas. But if you make me cookies I'll put in a good word.

Dear Carolyn,

This top is so cute and so you that your not owning it is actually giving me pain. Gasp! And with your hot new hair! Perfection! It's $17.50, which I know is a bit much for you, Ms. ThreedollarjeansfromSears, but if you're feelin' crazy...

wetseal.com

A Rant Gone Horribly Wrong

Chip & Pepper; $58, yes, seriously, $58; nordstrom.com

So I tried to write an angry post about this shirt, but this is how it went: "I can't believe that a college logo shirt is being sold in one of the snobbier departments of Nordstrom (t.b.d.--not quite Savvy, but close) with a Chip & Pepper tag on it and a $58 price, when you could buy an almost identical t-shirt in any university bookstore for much le--oh...damn." When I remembered how much my college bookstore charges for school spirited paraphernalia (sadly it's not that far off from the Chip & Pepper figure), my rant became irrelevant and I got bitter at the whole world instead.

By Fashion World Standards, I'm Poverty-Stricken.

I adore these boots. They would go with everything and they're by Aerosoles (another formerly comfort-only company that is hot on Naturalizer's newly cute heels in the chic shoe revolution), so I'm sure they're uber comfortable. I've seen them in various magazines and websites, always in the "Wow! What a bargain!" category, when in fact, the $180 pricetag means for me they're in the "sadly, still way out of my reach" category. Damn.

p.s. I opened up the comments, so now everybody and their mother can post responses. So go ahead. And tell your mother too.