La Vie en Ginger

Still kickin'.

2011-08-02T14:27:00.005-05:00

In case you haven't noticed, I've been on hiatus.

These past few months have brought a great deal of powerful and positive change, and I'm looking forward to blogging with relative frequency again as soon as I get my (rampant) wits about me. La Vie en Ginger's "readership" may be miniature, but I do love writing this little blog, and I really appreciate all of you who have called me out on my disappearing act. I plan on relaunching in the next couple of weeks. Check back soon if you like me.

Sorry I'm not...well, okay, I'm a little bit sorry.

High fives all around,
Emma

Weighting in vain.

2011-05-18T22:08:00.007-05:00

Well. I've done it. After sorting through 22 years' worth of free t-shirts and impulse buys, selling those that were in good enough condition and donating the rest, gradually swapping out my H&M basics for name-brand alternatives and peppering my curated collection of timeless staples with one-of-a-kind vintage finds and the odd designer gem, I've finally amassed the perfect wardrobe.

...For someone who weighs about seven pounds less than I do.

Let's talk about buying aspirationally. Everyone does it. No one likes to talk about it, because no one wants to admit that a) they've got a few pounds to lose and b) they've deluded themselves into believing that the best way to deal with said extra pounds is to invest in things they literally cannot use. Buying clothes in the wrong size is completely illogical: even if you manage to lose the weight, chances are that by the time you get there you'll want something else. But does that stop us? I guess I can't speak for any of you, but doesn't stop me.

Granted, my situation isn't exactly typical, in that two years ago I weighed nearly 65 pounds more than I do now. For a long time after I began my lifestyle change (people hate that phrase, but it is what it is), all I bought was "transitional clothing": things I liked, but wouldn't be devastated to say goodbye to once the next few inches came off. Now that I'm within 10 pounds of my original long-term goal weight, I have a reasonably good idea of what my body will look like when I finally get there. I've begun to invest in clothing again. The rub? I'm not there. Not yet, anyway. I've conditioned myself to try things on and, if they fit, buy the next size down, assuming I'll need it soon; I never buy anything I can't physically put on my body, but I definitely purchase with room to shrink. I'm a pathetic fashion cliche: a six with a wardrobe full of fours. But because I refuse to actually walk around in ill-fitting clothing, I end up only wearing about a third of my wardrobe, the unwearable part growing bigger as I grow neither bigger nor smaller.

Allow me to disclaim. I know I don't need to lose the weight. I'm healthy, attractive, physically fit, blah blah blah. Whatever. There's something about setting a goal and reaching it that's incredibly gratifying, and since my goal is reasonable and realistic, I refuse to deny myself that human satisfaction. It's not about the size itself; it's about reaching the hotness potential I know I'm capable of. Yes, I've come a long way, but isn't living your life comparatively just as dangerous as setting high expectations? Isn't it all too easy to be better without being your best?

After a mega-motivated April, I've been hovering at a plateau for a few weeks now, the dreaded swimsuit season looming ever closer. My dad is getting married on the beach over 4th of July weekend, and I'd really like to look like Brigitte Bardot in a bikini. You know, amateur stuff. Time to take the cupcake consumption down a notch, more for the sake of my own confidence than any obscure societal standard of beauty. But here's the more pressing question: do I throw in the tacky starfish-print beach towel and snap up the remainder of my summer wish list (blush-hued leather jacket, crisp white jeans and pink shorts à la Isabel Marant) in my current size, or do I wait a few weeks and see how things go? I'm itching for a seasonal wardrobe update, but I don't want to end up with things I can't wear, regardless of the outcome. Buy later to wear later, or buy now to possibly wear never? The answer should be obvious, shouldn't it? So why do we entertain the notion at the expense of our own pride and pocketbooks?

Have you ever fallen victim to vanity buying? Did it motivate you, or did it end up being a waste of money and a blow to your self-esteem? I'm really interested in the psychology of this, and I'd love to hear your thoughts or experiences. Let's just put it out there. Lady to lady (or gentleman. I don't discriminate). This doesn't have to be a lonely dressing room struggle.

Off their chests and onto mine.

2011-05-03T12:42:00.010-05:00

I was recently approached by Off Our Chests, a collaborative blog and organization that champions the fairly unobjectionable goal of making the world a happier place. Their request? Style an outfit around a piece from their new line of tees and tanks. My response? UH DUH, because a) I stalk their Twitter feed like it's my job and b) when have I ever said no to free swag?

Being the crochety old man that I am, I naturally gravitated toward the tee with the slouchiest, softest-looking fit. My first thought was to pair it with oxfords, suspenders and my favorite high-waisted pleated pants (OLD. MAN. STATUS), but I ultimately opted to glam it up with a sensible pair of sequined culottes and shoulder pads that would put any NFL linebacker to shame.

As a newly minted soldier in the army of happy, I thought I'd give you a brief tutorial on stuff happy people do.

Happy people whip their hair back and forth.

Happy people butcher the slogans on their t-shirts by eclipsing just enough to change the meaning. DON'T HAT ON IT PLZ.

Happy people give totes soror skinny arm.

Please note that this post is devoid of the usual pouty smizing. All smiles for Off Our Chests!

Oh, fine. One sassy face for the road.

Peep their post on me here. Then spend some time poking around their site. Amazeballs. (And 10% of merch proceeds go to We Stop Hate.) What more could one want from one's collaborative blogging experience?

Jacket: Vintage Bergdorf Goodman.
T-shirt: Off Our Chests.
Shorts: Cynthia Rowley.
Shoes: Zara.
Earrings: Nordstrom.
Watch: Michael Kors.

Razzle dazzle 'em.

2011-04-25T22:43:00.006-05:00

I have a little problem.

This cupcake isn't it.

I'm referring to my oven. We are constantly at war. It teams up with my smoke detector to gangbang my culinary self-esteem on a regular basis. Up until Friday night, I'd never burnt a single thing in my kitchen...yet I had set off the fire alarm approximately 47581736 times. Roasting veggies? BEEP BEEP BEEP. Toasting coconut? WAH WAH WAH. Preheating the empty oven? YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS. I call my oven Beast #1 and my smoke alarm Beast #2. They're almost as bad as the neighborhood boys I used to babysit who tied me up, pushed me down the stairs and beat me with a rubber snake. Mary Poppins ain't got nothin' on me.

No surprise, then, that when I first tried to make these cupcakes, I ignored the protests of Beast #2 when it raised its voice (à la Hilary Duff...but really, similar pitch and quality) about six minutes into the bake time. I propped open my back door and went along my merry way, blissfully unaware of the fact that my tartly fragrant and artfully compounded cake batter was meeting a slow death at the hands of Beast #1. By the time I returned to pull my lemony babies from the oven, a fine haze had developed along the ceiling of my kitchen, and the stench of burnt cupcakes and failure was palpable. Turns out you can't impatiently cram two pans into your oven at once, doomed edges grazing the sides. I briefly mourned the loss of the expensive cake flour I had finally caved and purchased. Then I pelted rock hard would-be cupcakes at the ground from my third floor balcony in an all-consuming rage.

Woof.

My baking has come a long way since September, but cupcake success had heretofore eluded me. Either the tops would dome in an utterly unfrostable manner (what do you think you are, a goddamn muffin?), or the edges would burn in cancer-y ombre, or I'd overmix and end up with something that could compete in the tuff 'n' chewy olympics (gluten bonds! Science! Baking iz edjucayshunal!). One more failure and I might have abandoned the noble cupcake forever. Resigned myself to trekking downtown to Sprinkles when a craving struck, and instead devoted myself to perfecting the art of dipping bite-size banana chunks in semisweet chocolate (best fake dessert ever).

But I'm a Taurus. And therefore resilient. And I'm thrilled to announce that there will be many more homemade cupcakes in my future, because my second stab at this recipe churned out something divine. I'm not normally one for fruity desserts, but I gobbled these up with what can only be described as relish. It's possible that it can also be described as gusto. But, I mean, English is my first language, so I don't want to make any assumptions.

These cupcakes are spring in a black and white toile cupcake liner. Thanks to cake flour and a hefty dose of citrus, they boast a light, fluffy crumb and a subtle symmetry of tart and sweet . And the frosting? Don't even get me started. Just go make some cupcakes. I'll be right here hooked up to this IV of raspberry buttercream when you get back.

Lemon-on-Lemon Cupcakes with Rustic Raspberry Buttercream

"Rustic" means I was too lazy to strain the seeds out. Ain't no thang, really. Now you can count each cupcake as one serving of fruit. I used a store-bought lemon curd to fill them, but you could make your own if you're feeling up to the task and own a candy thermometer (try Ina Garten's recipe. Let me know how it goes if you do!). Lemon cake recipe adapted from Ming Makes Cupcakes. Frosting recipe adapted from MyRecipes.com. Highfalutin' concept author's own.

2 cups cake flour (just do it. Makes all the difference)
1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups sugar
1/2 cup butter, softened
4 eggs
3/4 cup buttermilk
1/2 cup lemon juice
2 tablespoons lemon zest
1 jar lemon curd

1. Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda and salt. Set aside.
2. In another large bowl, cream together the butter and sugar until fluffy. Beat in the eggs one at a time. Alternate between adding the flour mixture and the buttermilk to the butter mixture, starting and ending with the flour mixture. Mix in the lemon juice and zest.
3. Using a ladle or a 1/4 measuring cup, spoon your lemony fresh batter into lined cupcake pans (you did remember to line your cupcake pans, right?). Bake for 20 minutes. Let cool completely. Come. Pleat. Lee. Unless you like huge messes and things that crumble to bits in your grubby hands.
4. Cut a cone-shaped segment from the top of each cupcake. Trim off the bottom of the cone (use the extra crumbs to make a few cake balls), fill the hole with about a tablespoon of lemon curd and cover with cone remainder. Makes 18 cupcakes.

For the frosting:

1/2 cup butter, softened
1/2 cup raspberries (use fresh if you can afford them. I used frozen, thawed to room temperature)
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/8 teaspoon salt
3-4 cups powdered sugar

1. Beat first four ingredients at medium speed with an electric mixer until creamy.
2. With mixer on low, add sugar about 1/2 cup at a time, blending fully after each addition, until desired consistency is reached.

Oh. Did I mention these were vanishing cupcakes?

Just.

Like.

Magic.

A wristed development.

2011-04-04T12:42:00.029-05:00

Wrists are sexy.

I've thought so since the bathroom scene in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Tell me Daniel and Rupert's exposed forearms didn't make your teenage loins quicken with delight.

If you've been lurking around this dark corner of the Interwebs for a while, you know I have a ~~severe~~ minor watch fetish. These past few months, I've been letting my rose gold Michael Kors clunker (seen on my Christmas list, transformed into exquisite reality by Mama Gail Bail) take center stage. It's utterly showstopping and approximately the weight of a small grapefruit (calisthenic bonus!), so there's been little need to don more than a pair of matching princess-cut CZ studs alongside. Easy? Yes. Boring? Maybe. Sometimes I like things that fall into the "classic" category. Sue me.

But even I, the staunchest watch enthusiast, will admit that the canvas of the wrist offers far more potential than even the most high-rolling Rolex can fully exploit. If executed properly, a well-accessorized wrist can be as richly composed and artfully personal as an entire ensemble. Jumbled jewels have caught my attention as of late, particularly those that add unexpected dimension to the simplest of outfits.

I'm always tempted to go full-on tribal or full-on hardcore when I layer my jewelry, but I love that this fashionista (captured by Jak & Jil's Tommy Ton) manages to hold on to the integrity of her preppy digs. A thread of red to complement the jacket. A hint of earthiness in the beaded bracelets. That ostentatious golden globe. Flawless.

Some more recent inspiwristion:

(From Style Scrapbook.)

(From Stockholm Streetstyle.)

(From The Man Repeller.)

Restraint in accessowristing can speak volumes as well. Take, for example, goddess Diane Kruger (pictured below with Jason Wu, my current design crush):

So much to love about this look (the undone hair, the flattering silhouette, the sparrow-embellished white clutch...perhaps not the dyed-to-match bridal shoes, though I am willing to overlook them), but the delicate strand bracelet is what puts it over the edge for me. It's so feminine and intentional. You know she didn't run out of time to finish accessorizing. This was a choice. A choice that has me ready to renounce the majority of my jewelry collection.

Which do you prefer? The calculated hodgepodge or the polished stand-alone piece? I go back and forth. The degree of self-editing involved in the second look definitely doesn't come as naturally to me (you can see evidence of my proclivity to pile it all on here and here), but I'm increasingly drawn to simplicity, particularly as we head into the warmer months. Something to play with in the next few weeks, as I've officially forbidden myself to buy any new clothes until my birthday (May 2). This will surely result in much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Almost as much as when I tried to give up coffee for Lent.

That lasted three days. I don't know what I was thinking.

Shall we play Risk or Sorry?

2011-03-17T21:06:00.001-05:00

It's official: man repelling has gone mainstream.

Like so many movements in fashion, it began almost imperceptibly, an organic call to arms bubbling up from the dregs of society (or in this case, the Upper East Side). Popularized by blogging wonder and upcoming industry darling Leandra Medine, the man repeller is defined by the following credo:

man·re·pell·er [mahn-ree-peller]
–noun
outfitting oneself in a sartorially offensive way that will result in repelling members of the opposite sex. Such garments include but are not limited to harem pants, boyfriend jeans, overalls (see: human repelling), shoulder pads, full length jumpsuits, jewelry that resembles violent weaponry and clogs.
–verb (used without object),-pell·ing, -pell·ed.
to commit the act of repelling men:
Girl 1: What are you wearing to the party?
Girl 2: My sweet lime green drop crotch utility pants!
Girl 1: Oh, so we're man repelling tonight?

While I was vaguely aware of the movement's existence, my first encounter with a true man repeller took place last summer on the Condé Nast elevator. I was playing my usual game of Guess Your Publication Based On Your Outfit (Lord help you if I condemn you to Brides) when an unmistakeable Vogue-ette ducked in through the gleaming steel doors. I took in her messy hair, her horn-rimmed spectacles, her shapeless blouse, her baggy trousers, her piles of ethnic-looking jewelry. I was in awe. She looked thoroughly unsexy. She was the single most stylish person I had ever seen in the flesh. Sure enough, she pressed the button for Floor 12.

Some call man repelling a feminist movement: women dressing for themselves rather than for men, content to have their outfits raise eyebrows instead of erections. Where the old adage advises, "When you got it, flaunt it," the man repelling school of thought would instead have us say, "I've got so much of it, I don't need to flaunt it." To man repel is to declare a womanhood that can't be stifled by layers of unflattering clothing. But is man repelling as accessible as Leandra Medine would have us believe? Or has she, cute as a button and boasting a wardrobe that comes, in her words, "entirely from Barneys and Topshop," been absorbed into the cultural zeitgeist despite otherwise insurmountable odds that render her message moot to the greater population?

I don't dress for men. Perhaps that's a victory. But I don't think I've quite evolved to the point of dressing entirely for myself, either. I'm still dressing for what I believe others believe to be my perception of myself (got that? All of it? Read it again. Yeah?). A blatant disregard for the traditional standards of beauty can mutate into its own set of neuroses. I'll explain with a parable of what I call "karaoke dread."

Awkward truth: I used to take voice lessons and think I wanted to be a musical theatre performer. Then I realized (spoiler!) I'm not really all that great at singing or acting. NBD. Over being a Broadway star and into being a writer. But what's funny is that rather than keep singing as a hobby (as opposed a career path), I now dread any situation where I might have to perform in front of an audience. Example: karaoke. Most people aren't "good at" karaoke. Karaoke isn't really about talent; it's about the tequila shots you take before your turn. But because I have a musical history, if you will, I'm petrified that people will think that I think I'm good at karaoke, like one of those delusional contestants on American Idol. (Or one of those delusional judges on American Idol.) The idea of someone doubting my ability to accurately gauge my lack of talent is more than I can handle. As Carrie Bradshaw says when asked to walk in a charity fashion show featuring "real people" as well as models, "I don't want people to think that I can't see the difference between a model and me."

Now apply the same principle to man repelling, which, for me, turned into a perverse mind game tied up in my body image. Having lost a significant amount of weight over the past two years, man repelling became a benchmark of having "made it" as an attractive person. The manufactured sexiness of my outfits took on an inverse relationship to what I believed to be my level of innate allure, and I began to feel an acute pride in my ability to wear things not specifically tailored to make me look skinnier. Hello, harem pants! I can wear you because I feel thinner than I did yesterday! or, on a rough morning, Oof, better opt for a sundress. Don't want to look like I think I'm attractive enough to wear something ridiculous today! My man-repelling clothes might have looked like a symbol of confidence, but really they were a symbol of the appearance of confidence; alarmingly fragile, shattered more readily by the judgement of myself than that of men, or even that of other women. There were so many dimensions at play it would put Never Say Never to shame.

Maybe I'm just outing myself as some kind of self-conscious buffoon, but my hope is that you can avoid falling the same rabbit hole I did when it comes to experimenting with fashion. For better or worse, taking crazy (and sometimes downright ugly) clothes and making them look cool has become part of my schtick. I don't always hit the mark, but when I do, there's nothing more satisfying. A few days ago, I wore an ankle-length high-waisted orange-and-white striped fruit-print skirt (for the record, there are more things wrong with that statement than there are hyphens in that statement) with a fur vest and turquoise jewelry. I raked in a ton of compliments on an outfit from which most sane people would have run the opposite way screaming. But more importantly, I felt truly and overwhelmingly myself. I wasn't wearing something insane because I felt the need to prove I could pull it off. I was wearing something insane because I loved it.

I still subconsciously view man-repelling outfits as more impressive than conventionally attractive ones. Part of that is just my taste: I've long been drawn to the interesting over the beautiful. Part is the degree of creativity involved, that age-old distinction between fashion and style. Anyone can buy a trendy dress, but it takes a truly stylish person to throw together a jaw-dropping outfit composed of sartorial underdogs. And part is that the society of man repellers still seems like a high-fashion club for some elite upper crust of attractive (or at least extraordinarily confident) people. You rarely wade in the man repelling pool. You dive in headfirst, and you sink or swim.

When it comes to fashion, I'll likely always be a risk enthusiast. But I think our reasons for taking risks are worth examining. Defying what's accepted can become just as imprisoning as embracing it if done to shock others rather than to make ourselves happy. This spring, when I don my bow ties and my mum-print capris, it'll be because I genuinely believe that a world without mum-print capris is no world for me. And if some tall, handsome gentleman can see beyond the nutty fashion façade...well, that's just icing on the cake.

Between a wedge and a wet place.

2011-02-21T10:19:00.045-06:00

Gather your meemaw. Pack your fox fur. Fatten your pig.

The floods are coming.

I'm not big on dressing for the weather. I tend to weigh the time I'll suffer the wrath of the elements (typically about seven minutes, tops) against the long, luxurious hours to be spent peacocking around indoors and just hightail it to my destination severely underclothed. Pros: I walk faster than most golf carts can travel and my immune system rivals that of a cockroach. Cons: Hey, is that a rock in my shoe?/Nope, that would be the ground/I am perpetually wearing holes in the soles of my not-so-water-resistant footwear.

No more. I refuse to sacrifice another pair of leather boots to some bitch sidewalk that thinks it knows my life. Destruction don't come cheap, and nor does it complement my home pedicure. Having said that, don't expect to catch me splashing around in some polka-dot Target monstrosity. The time has come to invest in a pair of wellies that don't make me want to gouge out my eyes with a pair of six-inch YSL Tribute sandals.

Enter the weatherproof wedge boot.

Hunter has more or less asserted itself as the mainstream king of rainy day footwear, and I'm altogether smitten with the brand's Verbier model in slate. Where traditional Hunters can be a bit utilitarian for my taste, these are glossy and flirty, but still neutral enough to be worn with almost any ensemble. I love that the jaunty red laces add an on-trend splash of color. I also love that the boots come equipped with a neutral set of laces that can be swapped in for non-red letter days. We are all about balance here at La Vie en Ginger. Which is what you'll be doing a lot of in towering heels on slippery concrete.

On the other foot, we have two slightly more gravity-cooperative options from Loeffler Randall. These win points for their back zippers, designed for easier pants-tucking and more graceful rainy day stripteases (who says I don't shop with practicality in mind)? I'm drawn to the knee-high version...love me some ankle booties, but I question whether a shortie lace-up would hold up to torrential downpour and habitual puddle splashing. Rubber don't make it a rain boot, 'chu know? 'Chu know? Either pair comes in either color, which is yet another question to consider. Regardless, I delight in the fact that neither reduces the calves to cankley rubber stalks.

Call me Natalie Imbruglia, because I am torn. Jaunty versus striptease? Where would even one begin to make one's decision? Call me Sophie, because I have a choice to make! Just don't call me late for dinner!

Speaking of choices, yesterday was supposed to be the first day of my detox from the unchecked no-carb-left-behind spree that has been February 2011. Said detox lasted until 3pm, when I broke down and made banana bread (the brown bananas I've been hoarding in a paper bag for two weeks were finally perfect. Who am I to argue with nature?) and devoured half the loaf with butter and sea salt and possibly even a dollop (see, a dollop! So diet-friendly!) of Nutella. The good news: The banana bread was freakishly good and merits a recipe post in the near future. The bad news: What occurred when I tried to put on my pants this morning, aka the new first day of my detox.

Oh and I'm a redhead again, so if you see someone who looks like me but has a weird, unnatural version of my natural hair color, don't scream "ROBOT IMPOSTER!" and wrestle her to the ground. Unless she's wearing polka-dot Target rain boots. Then you have the green light.

Are you brave enough to let me see your peacock?

2011-02-09T09:53:00.030-06:00

Hey! Hey guys, it's me! Your patron saint of practicality and poise, who wears shorts in negative temperatures and takes outfit photos in public restrooms!

(High-fashion cuticle scrutiny.)

(High-fashion pit check, complete with high-fashion ginger roots that can't be tamed/saved/blamed/changed/tamed.)

Celebrating New York fashion week with a vintage fur coat, Anthro cropped sweatshirt and Zara high-waisted pleated shorts. There's a reason I'm not your patron saint of dating.

I'd like to introduce you to a new friend.

His name is Henry.

He's...rather mesmerizing.

And almost as photogenic as I am.

As a devoted Potter fanatic, I've always had a sneaking suspicion that my patronus would be a peacock. Vain. Ostentatious. And a little bit too much. When I spotted this ring in Aldo Accessories a few weeks ago, I knew it needed a new home on my finger. Even if it meant forcing a harassed sales associate to dig through backstock to find a ring sized small enough to fit my freakish baby hands.

Whatever. I work retail. I know full well that downtime is the enemy. She was secretly thrilled.

Aldo also carries an eagle (for all you Philadelphia fans out there!) and a goldfish (for all you new Pisces out there! EH? EH?). I'm just happy the flash panic over the "new zodiac" has subsided, as no one affected is old enough to so much as bang out a dramatic Facebook status/we all know I would have stubbornly stayed a Taurus anyway. Speaking of Facebook, here's a current event I'm much more concerned with: did anyone else notice that Zuck and his minions have changed the "Remove from Friends" button? It now reads "Unfriend." EW. WHAT. WHY. EW. I've always said "Defriend." I feel like my creative liberties concerning Facebook terminology have been yanked out from under me, right along with unique interests and the little box under my photo (may it rest in peace). Salt, meet wound.

Now enjoy a "did-she-just-say-what-I-think-she-just-said?" jam from girlcrush K. Perr to start your Wednesday off on the right...feather. (Note: I had to remove the mp3 I had originally posted after receiving a scary copyright infringement e-mail from Blogger. Turns out K. Perr and her people are really on top of things. Sorry!)

Oil slick.

2011-01-26T21:20:00.016-06:00

I hated this year's spring fashion shows.

While last year's collections (whimsical Miu Miu! Minimalist Chloé! Refugee-glam Balmain! Not to mention Karl's überfemme farmyard circus for Chanel) inspired me to push through Ye Olde Dark Days of Midwestern North Facery and onward to greener pastures, this year's offerings have left me decidedly unmoved. Pops of color, whatever. Oriental details, fine. But are you aware of the monstrosity we are being expected to embrace as "the shade of the season"? Orange. Who looks good in orange? Jennifer Garner at the Oscars in 2008. Halle Berry in her Bond girl bikini. Probably Brigitte Bardot, because, I mean...duh.

That's it. Nobody else.

I intend to avoid controversy and/or becoming a social pariah this spring by burying myself in vintage (four years out of style? Unforgivable. Forty years out of style? Genius! So individual!), but I will cede that there are bright spots in the modern-day fashion forecast. Maxiskirts, for one. I'm smitten, particularly those rendered in floaty fabrics like pleated chiffon and silk crepe de chine. And then there are metallics. I've always found metallic accessories to be a little too South Beach-chic for my taste (or a little too South Bronx-chic, depending on the designer), but I must admit that the latest crop is slowly burning a sunspot into my heart. I'll probably never be a gal who buys flashy gold bags and strappy silver Manolos (Carrie Bradshaw obsession notwithstanding); rather, my proverbial dollar goes to shades of aquamarine and copper that bear less resemblance to Snooki's night-out attire than they do to the sidewalk after it rains.

Yarrr! It's the not-so-cursed "Black Pearl," Chanel's latest nail epidemic. While things are still hot and heavy between me and the ol' "Factory Gray", I suppose I could be persuaded to alternate between nails the color of wet cement and nails the color of a rare and precious sea gem. I'm loving the oily iridescence that makes its distinctive deep green base seem almost neutral.

I spent the morning getting paid to ogle department store handbags on a "comparative shopping trip" for my job as a resale buyer (rough life, I know. I got free coffee, too!), and this clutch by Halston Heritage was a major standout. The pictures hardly do justice to the complexity of the metallic. I just wanted to stand there and stare. And while we're on the subject of Halston (a brand headed by the real-life Carrie Bradshaw, Sarah Jessica Parker) and things that are shiny, I wouldn't say no to this or this, either.

Metallics: not just for Lil Jon and the Macy's holiday windows. Who knew? Nobody, not one person.

And just because it seemed somewhat relevant to the petroleum-streaked samples above, I thought I'd throw in this editorial from Vogue Italia's September issue. It was met with mixed reviews from the fashion community - some thought the timing of the shoot was too soon/too real/too wait, is Kristen McMenamy really imitating a choking pelican? - but I thought it was beautiful and brilliant. I meant to do a post on fashion's ability to bring attention to current events at the time and got distracted. But even though it's a few months late, enjoy Steven Meisel's stunning and uncomfortable portrayal of last summer's Gulf crisis.

Say crack again.

2011-01-25T20:06:00.015-06:00

Boys and girls, I'm here today to talk to you about crack.

Or rather, crack cookies, as my brother and I affectionately refer to those toxic, toothachingly sweet pillows of flour and sugar sold at grocery stores across America. You know exactly which ones I'm talking about. The ones with the inch-thick layer of day-glo frosting. Pretty much the only reason I looked forward to piano recitals as a child.

Despite my well-documented love for dessert, I'm actually a pretty healthy eater. I buy things like almond milk and chia seeds and five-gallon tubs of spinach, and what's more, I genuinely enjoy them. So admitting that a supermarket baked good has made me its bitch on more than one occasion brings me considerable shame and bewilderment.

Why does it happen? What are they laced with?

I blame their cupcake-esque construction. If, like me, you view cupcakes as merely a vehicle for frosting, you'll immediately recognize that the cake-to-frosting ratio is vastly improved when said cake is restructured in cookie form. Pair that with a cheerful spatter of rainbow sprinkles and I'm a goner. Jamie Oliver himself couldn't kiss me out of my sugar coma.

Fortunately, it's possible to achieve the same state of nirvana without the high-fructose corn syrup.

Cleaned-Up Crack Cookies

Same sugar rush and strangely addictive properties as the original, without the chemical additives and chalky mouthfeel. Though these are by no stretch of the imagination healthy, they at least contain real, recognizable ingredients like eggs, butter and vanilla. There's something reassuring about knowing your baked goods will spoil in days, not months. Adapted from Eat, Live, Run.

1 1/3 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
5 1/2 tablespoons butter, softened
1/2 cup sugar
1 egg
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1/3 cup buttermilk (if you're a broke college student or, you know, a normal person who doesn't have an endless supply of buttermilk at the ready, just add a teaspoon of lemon juice to 1/3 cup regular milk and let it sit out for a half hour or so. Voila! Instant buttermilk. I did this and it worked perfectly)

1. Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking soda and salt. Set aside.
2. In another large bowl, cream together the butter and sugar until fluffy. Add the egg and mix until just combined. Alternate between adding the flour mixture and the buttermilk to the butter mixture, starting and ending with the flour mixture. Add the vanilla and beat until the batter is smooth (smooth batter, chunky thighs. It's like the cardinal rule of baking). It will look more like cake batter than cookie dough. Do not be alarmed by this.
3. Pipe or spoon the batter onto a prepared baking sheet, leaving about two inches of space between each cookie. Bake for about 12 minutes, or until the edges are ever-so-slightly golden. Makes 8 large cookies.

Vanilla is the star flavoring agent in this recipe, so use a quality one if you can afford it. I seized the opportunity to bust out my fancy Nielsen-Massey Madagascar bourbon vanilla (a Christmas gift) with truly spectacular results. I love busting. I then slathered these puppies in a sunny-hued batch of cookie dough frosting from How Sweet It Is.

I also love slathering.

I don't think it tastes like cookie dough, per se, but it does taste like delicious. And I have a half-used can of sweetened condensed milk in my fridge that I am doing my best to slowly deplete into nonexistence (mostly by taking a cue from the Thai and adding a generous spoonful to my morning coffee). You can substitute your favorite buttercream recipe if you don't have any on hand.

1/2 cup butter, softened
3-4 cups powdered sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 tablespoons sweetened condensed milk
Food coloring (optional)

1. Mix butter and powdered sugar on low, adding sugar gradually.
2. Add vanilla. Mix until just combined.
3. Add milk. Mix until just combined.
4. Continue adding milk and/or sugar and/or food coloring until desired consistency and/or color is reached.

If you look at the original recipe, you'll see that I've halved the butter and sugar, but not the milk and vanilla. I ended up with the perfect amount to generously frost eight cookies (and excellent flavor and consistency to boot). I piped mine on with a pastry bag to ensure neat edges and even distribution, then spread the top smooth with le butter knife and hit them hard with les rainbow sprinkles. We are very sophisticated and French over here, you see.

And there you have it! Crack cookies fit for a grown-up gathering. Or for curling up and watching the snow fall with a hot cup of herbal and the latest episode of Pretty Little Liars. It'll be our little secret.

The scent of pining.

2010-12-19T21:40:00.021-06:00

The way I see it, we have two options:

a) We can pretend like all I want for Christmas is world peace, or

b) We can collectively swoon over the pretty things on my wish list.

Which sounds like more fun to you?

Clockwise from top left:

Michael Kors Bel Aire Chronograph watch. The nontraditional femininity of rose gold juxtaposed against the classic, masculine shape of this watch makes it an absolute must. I've always considered a two-tone Rolex oyster watch to be my ultimate "I've made it" purchase, but until the day arrives that I can drop a year's worth of rent on a piece of jewelry without batting a Dior-lacquered eyelash, I'd be thrilled to have this madam-gone-military timepiece on my wrist.

Wolford Velvet de Luxe 66 opaque tights. The idea of spending $45 on tights still makes my head spin, but I have it on good authority that Wolfords are worth every penny. Shockingly, my father (who is wont to roll his eyes at my love of everything unnecessarily expensive) didn't laugh in my face when I half-jokingly threw these on my list this year. I'll keep my fingers crossed for a Christmas miracle.

Prada "Prada" perfume. Every perfume I've ever worn with any longevity has been some combination of orange and spice, be it the Demeter "Orange Cream Pop" I donned back in middle school, the Betsey Johnson tangerine/amber concoction I graduated to next, the bitter orange/cinnamon/vanilla blend of "L de Lolita Lempicka" that saw me through the better part of college or the YSL "Opium" I've been wearing since I "borrowed" it from the SELF beauty closet in July. Prada's original scent is the grown-up incarnation of my preferred citrus-Oriental flavor, with Bergamot and orange oils creating a power play in the forefront while undertones of vanilla, patchouli, sandalwood and musk awaken a baser human sensuality beneath.

(Did I fool you? Do you think I know anything whatsoever about perfume? This shit smells good; you should try it sometime.)

3.1 Phillip Lim printed silk bralette and boyshorts. Forgot the usual implications of lingerie. All I desire of this watercolor floral set is that it provide a much-needed pick-me-up from the bitter wasteland that will be raging outside my window for the next six months. (P.S. If you haven't, check out the interview I did with Phillip for CS magazine last spring. He's a gem.)

Farouk CHI 1" ceramic flat iron. The Holy Grail of hair straighteners. I try to give my battered strands a rest from heat styling when I can, but if I'm going to subject them to frying on a semi-regular basis, I might as well use the best damn destruction tools available.

Miu Miu booties. I'll keep this brief: these are my dream shoes, and I would do despicable things to get my hands on them.

Nespresso machine. While I did ask Santa for a coffee maker, it's unlikely that the extremely highbrow Nespresso will be making a cameo in my kitchen any time soon. I'll settle for a French press and some World Market Texas Turtle blend for now, but I eagerly await the day when I can steam my own lattes using the most unapologetically snobbish appliance on the market. I'm fairly confident that with the money I'd save on Starbucks/Peet's/Panera (shut up, I love Panera coffee. I'm crazelnut for hazelnut. Don't judge), it would pay for itself in about three weeks.

Saint James sweater. Breton stripes made my top ten list of wardrobe musts back in April, but I'd trade my whole stack of H&M cotton tees for just one of these perfect sweaters. Saint James is the originator of the Breton stripe (or at least its most famous producer), and I adore the coquettish buttons, low-maintenance crewneck and perfect ecru/navy combination of this particular style.

Have you had the good fortune to get your hands on any of the above? What's on your holiday wish list this year?

Deck the halls with hearts and cupcakes.

2010-12-10T22:27:00.009-06:00

The holidays have a way of amplifying whatever you're feeling by about a hundredfold. That's all well and good if you're happy and in love, but if your season is shaping up to bring more silent nights than joy to the world, it's easy to become overwhelmed by the sheer, magnanimous euphoria of it all. Some grow embittered by the bastardization of a religious holiday into a commercially-driven circus. Personally, I adore Christmas and the entire season leading up to it. The year's first holiday Starbucks cup brings a tear to my eye. I pull out my Hanson Christmas album (wait, there must be something wrong with my keyboard...I don't own that) the day after Halloween. I do, in fact, own a sparkly Santa hat. Fine, the *NSYNC Christmas album, too.

I'm a little sad, however, to be spending this December away from my family. I grew up in two households that take Christmas extremely seriously. We have more traditions than we can even remember to complete each year. I'll be home a few days before Christmas, so I won't miss out on the best ones: driving around to admire neighborhood lights on Christmas Eve; enjoying treats like cinnamon twists, eggs benedict and our chocolate Yule log cake/giant HoHo known as the "HoHoHo" on Christmas morning; sleeping in the same bed with my three siblings on Santa's big night (to facilitate our 6am wake-up call) (okay, that last one doesn't happen anymore). But without my mom's angel collection and my dad's holiday 3D glasses, I can't help but worry that the next few weeks are going to feel a little flat.

Which is why I have taken the liberty of erecting The Girliest Tree Ever To Exist Anywhere atop my ~~space heater~~ nightstand.

Why yes, that is a glittery fake tree trimmed with glittery hearts and glittery cupcakes standing next to a glittery snow family! Casual. Practical. Delightful. My hat/scarf/purse stand also got a holiday makeover, in the form of a bedazzled tree-topper.

By the way, if the wide shot above piqued your interest, this is how I display what I affectionately refer to as my "varsity jewelry":

Brings a whole new meaning to the term "cocktail ring," no? My makeup brushes are stashed in a wine glass. I'm aiming for a full bar someday.

This holiday season, do what you need to do to feel joy. Maybe that means one-stop shopping on Amazon instead of putting yourself through the trauma of mall parking. Maybe it means letting yourself gain a little bit of cookie weight. Maybe it means watching A Christmas Story for the eighty-seventh time (really just the best Christmas movie on the planet). Maybe it means swallowing your pride, smothering your fierce independence and surrounding yourself with people who love you. Maybe it means a putting up a sparkly tree on your space heater. And if all else fails, maybe this little guy can lend a hand.

Whatever the solution, seek out your holiday style and find a way to sing auld lang syne. After all...it's the most wonderful time of the year.

Turtle-y enough for the Turtle Club.

2010-11-29T21:30:00.020-06:00

The inverse relationship between form and function is well-documented when it comes to clothes. Are my flannel pajamas and shearling moccasins the most deliciously cozy items to ever adorn my person? Probs. Am I going to be successful/generally perceived as attractive if I wear them around on the daily? Doubtful. It's unfortunate, but unavoidable: stilettos will always trump slippers in the game of life (which is why I bought two pairs of stilettos today. Leopard-print calf hair pumps and gray suede ankle booties. Casual bankruptcy, don't worry about it).

You may or may not have realized, however, that a similar pattern arises with desserts. Close your eyes and conjure up a memory of the best cookie you ever ate. Is it a perfectly formed, wafer-thin, painstakingly embellished tea cookie? Also doubtful. The best cookies are the homely ones: the monster mounds of butter and sugar and oats and nuts and gooey baking morsels in your flavor of choice; the ones that look more like turds than like tulips. Cupcakes more readily lend themselves to kitsch, but even they require you to stay en garde (spoiler alert! Fondant flowers are not as tasty as buttercream rosettes). I generally find that the tastier the dessert, the uglier the presentation. It's fine. I'm over it. I'm willing to occasionally sacrifice my sense of sight for my sense of taste.

Imagine my delight, however, to discover a recipe that manages to straddle the line between "cookies to look at" and "cookies to devour until you can no longer zip up your J. Brand jeans." These turtle thumbprints nail the hearty texture of an ugly cookie with all the charm of a lemon wreath or almond sand dollar. These cookies are winners. You might, in fact, say that all they do is win. Feel like winning today? Set out a stick of butter. Take a preemptive spin on the elliptical. And prepare yourself for several hours of assembling:

Turtle Thumbprints

After making my daily blog rounds in search of a dessert that would satiate my pregnancy-caliber chocolate cravings (reasons I should never have children), I decided on these because a) they're so darn cute and b) I had all of the ingredients in my kitchen. Yep, I've become the kind of person who has things like heavy cream and semi-sweet baking chips on hand pre-grocery run. Sign me up for the nunnery. Anyway, I'm not gonna lie: these are labor-intensive. But if I, former domestic rogue and relative kitchen novice, can turn them out à la the above photos, so can you. Recipe adapted from Baked Bree.

1 egg
1/2 cup butter, softened
2/3 cup sugar
2 tablespoons milk
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 cup flour
1/3 cup cocoa
1/4 teaspoon salt
16 caramels
3 tablespoons heavy cream
1 1/4 finely chopped pecans
1/2 cup semi-sweet chocolate morsels
1 tablespoon vegetable oil

1. Separate the egg. Reserve both parts (the yolk you'll use now, but the white you won't need until later).
2. Cream together the butter and sugar until fluffy. Beat in the egg yolk, milk and vanilla. Combine the cocoa, flour and salt in a separate bowl. Add the flour mixture to the butter mixture and mix until just combined. Cover with plastic wrap and chill for two hours.
3. Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. While the oven is heating, roll the dough into balls about one inch in diameter. Whip the reserved egg white until foamy. Roll the dough balls in the egg whites, then in the chopped pecans (I had a nice little system going where one hand dealt with the egg white and the other hand dealt with the pecans. Kept my whites from getting chunky and my nuts from getting eggy. Highly recommend it). Place the balls about an inch and a half apart on a greased or parchment-lined cookie sheet. Using your thumb, press to form a well in each cookie. Bake for about 10-12 minutes, or until cookies have set (I always figure it's better to underbake than to overbake and burn, so I went for the lesser cook time).
4. While the cookies are baking, place the caramels and cream in a microwave-safe bowl. Microwave in 30-second intervals, stirring between each, until fully melted. Transfer cookies to a cooling rack (slip a sheet of waxed paper underneath to facilitate clean-up) and fill immediately with caramel.
5. Melt the chocolate chips in the microwave in the same 30-second intervals. Add the oil. Drizzle over cookies using a fork or a pastry bag (do not try to use a regular Ziploc bag with molten chocolate. It will burst. Fortunately, I didn't make this mistake because I'm really good at Googling, and because I also have pastry bags in my pantry. FML). Makes about two dozen cookies.

Apparently they freeze like a dream, so grab a few to enjoy with your afternoon tea and pop the rest in the freezer for the next time an epic chocolate craving strikes. Or, if you lack self-control, Cady Heron that shit and dutifully tote them along to work to fatten up your co-workers (total frenemy move. Jaykay, guys!). Or bring them as a really impressive housewarming gift to your next holiday party. The possibilities are endless!!!!!11!!!11

P.S. Decided to keep the blog title as is. I may not currently be a redhead, but I will always be a ginger.

Fake it 'til you make it.

2010-11-25T23:05:00.017-06:00

I have an exceptionally low tolerance for things that are fake. Fake people, fake Christmas trees, fake designer handbags, fake orgasms (don't be a quitter. You're only cheating yourself), fake conversations. You get the picture. With the exception of faux fur and the occasional diet Coke, I pride myself on only engaging in those pleasures in life that are 100% gin-u-wine.

Then, at an undisclosed point in the past week, my blog's title became wildly inaccurate.

And I joined the mighty legions of the bottle brunettes.

I know my ginger locks were rare and supposedly enviable. But they had been rare and enviable for upward of 21 years when I finally decided to do what I've been talking about since my junior year of high school and sample life as a sultry brownie. I've gotta say, guys: I don't know if I can ever go back. Ginger prejudice is real, y'all, and I didn't even know it until I was no longer on the receiving end. Strangers understand my sarcastic jokes better now that I'm a brunette. I get hit on less (in a good way). I no longer have to subconsciously match my clothes to my hair. This is the Em Aub Rob you're looking at for the foreseeable future, so you had better get used to it.

So here's the pressing issue: what shall I re-christen my blog?! La Vie en Chestnut? La Vie en Cinnamon? La Vie en Ginger[bread]? Sound off in the comments, please! I'm desperate for suggestions from minds more clever than my own.

Yesterday's Thanksgiving came hot on the heels of one hell of a fall. The past few months have tested me in ways I never imagined possible, but they have also taught me more about priorities and friendship and the strength of my own character than I could have hoped to glean from less trying times. As I sat down to consider my many blessings yesterday - family, friends, this vintage Ferragamo sweater I snapped up for less than the price of a Whole Foods grocery run - I was reminded to be thankful for the eternal possibility of change. Be it a new hair color, a paradigm shift or simply a switch in your daily coffee order, sometimes a new you can help you feel more like your old self than ever. And like all the best things in life, it doesn't cost a penny.

Sweater: Salvatore Ferragamo.
Dress: I Love H81.
Tights: L'Eggs.
Shoes: Zara.
Headband: Aldo.
Earrings: H&M.

Find your center.

2010-11-17T23:45:00.000-06:00

OMFG WHAT I HAVE A BLOG?! Yeah, sorry about that. High time I stopped living my life and got back to writing about it instead. Rude of me. Won't happen again.

Today I felt like Moses. Wanna know why?

Because I parted the red sea. Right. Down. The middle (that last part was meant to be said in a Lindsay-Lohan-circa-Parent-Trap voice, obvs. 4:40. Warning: You may be tempted to stop whatever you're doing to re-watch this entire movie and weep for Lindsay's career trajectory/general life choices. I support this decision).

People are quick to pin the blame for middle parts on Gossip Girl, but for me, the clincher was The City (New York, what do you have to say for yourself?). Serena van der Woodsen's bouncy golden locks may have lit the spark, but Whitney Port's long, face-framing waves escalated it to SoCal forest fire levels (let the record show that I am making this insensitive pun at a time when there are no actual forest fires in Southern California).

Whit wasn't the only City cast member to make me swoon over symmetry.

I'm a tad bit obsessed with The Liv. Her whole entitled-uptown-bitch act totally makes me hard in a girl-crushin', wanna-be-ya kind of way (not that I would ever speak to any senior co-worker the way she does to Erin Kaplan. Or any subordinate co-worker, for that matter. Oh, hi future employers!). What can I say? I'm gay for a fierce strut and a well-honed bitchface. Olivia may be utterly useless in her fake job at Elle, but her hair is certainly fodder for some maj middle part inspiration. Or at least the purchase of a wide-barreled curling iron. Excuse me, I have to go practice my jaw clench in the mirror now.

For anyone who, like me, struggles with a widow's peak and an obnoxious cowlick that makes it all but impossible to make bangs lie flat, the middle part is a godsend. There's no better way to instantly smooth a rebellious hairline. I'm also way into the boho '70s thing right now, which pairs perfectly with a center part and long, loose waves (see: Hudson, Kate).

The catch? While a side part draws attention to your eyes, a middle part brings the focus right. Down. The middle (to your nose). Not something I'm particularly excited about. Not something many of us are particularly excited about, I would imagine. Even if you don't have a well-seasoned beef with your schnozz, it's likely that, if given the choice, you'd sooner showcase your peepers. A strong brow and some liquid liner can help offset the effects, but it's hard to commit to starting off your beauty regime climbing uphill.

So do we sacrifice the close-up for the sake of the overall silhouette? Unless you're a rare beauty with a tiny, perfect sniffer, it would seem these are our options. Exhibit Z bearing witness to why life just isn't fair. If if makes you feel any better, it wasn't any more fair at the birth of Venus, either.

Really, Botticelli? Goddess of beauty? Even the mighty Aphrodite is struggling to pull off this look, so don't be disheartened if your mortal strands aren't up to the task. Think of it as a system of checks and balances put into place so that your beauty doesn't become too overpowering. Or something. Then choose wisely as to which days you're willing to sacrifice your face for your hair. And if you're Olivia Palermo, just keep doin' whatchu do.

Greexican.

2010-09-27T23:23:00.018-05:00

My diet is about as Mediterranean as they come. On any given day, a survey of my fridge is likely to include Greek yogurt, feta cheese, olives, pita bread, Roman tuna salad, stuffed grape leaves and, most importantly, a wide array of hummus. Sun-dried tomato hummus? Check. Spinach and artichoke hummus? Check. Man-repelling garlic lovers' hummus? Unfortunate check. My hummus addiction is a running joke amongst my friends and roommates, due largely to the dip's inclusion as #112 on the all-too-real Stuff White People Like. This hummus fever came to a head in June, when I attended - wait for it - a hummus release party for my internship. Literally an event designed to celebrate chickpea puree. There was a string quartet and free-flowing white wine and many, many WASPs in business casual attire. It was the whitest thing I have ever been a part of, and I have been to several Northwestern sporting events.

As a former member of the James Madison High School step team (yep) (that happened) (ah, memories), I can no longer allow the tantalizing draw of tahini to interfere with my street cred. Pro-chickpea though I am, I have been known to cheat on my beloved with that other notoriously faux-healthy (well, healthy in small doses), quasi-ethnic dipping sauce: guacamole. Guac can serve as a respectable replacement in both dressing up boring veggies and adding satiety to empty carbohydrate calories. But how to reconcile this new dietary direction with my need to ensure that my veins are pumping at least 50% olive oil at all times?

Holy Greekamole!

(Not as photogenic as the cake truffles.)

1 avocado, halved
1/4 cup fresh tomato, seeded and diced
1/4 cup red onion, chopped
5 kalamata olives, pitted and diced
5 large pepperoncini, seeded and diced (these are kind of emotional, so have a sharp knife at the ready)
Half a lemon
Salt
Pepper

1. Mash avocado in a bowl with a fork.
2. Add tomato, onion, olives and pepperoncini.
3. Squeeze the lemon over top (very important! Keeps the avocado from browning too quickly) and season with salt and pepper to taste (but remember that olives are salty/pepperoncini are spicy and restrain yourself accordingly). Makes about 3-4 servings. Double the recipe for a trendy fusion party snack.

Opa! Olé! Eyeball the mix-ins and alter the amounts to suit your preference. My recipe makes for a very chunky, tomato-and-onion-heavy guacamole, which I prefer both for texture's sake and to limit the healthy fat in the avocado per serving. I enjoyed a scoop over romaine for lunch today, with a generous sprinkle of feta on top (I considered adding feta to the guac itself, but was worried about how it would keep).

But don't forget the best part of the salad:

Mmm! Tiny, tasty ladybugs in my lettuce leaves. Thanks for that one, Whole Foods. At least I can say with 100% certainty that that romaine was pesticide-free.

Orange you glad it's fall?

2010-09-26T12:03:00.021-05:00

Okay. I get it. You're sick of my nude bandage booties. I have heard your cries, and I have responded by purchasing:

A practical pair of knee-high orange suede moccasins. One of the perks of working at a resale store? First dibs on every outrageously cool item that rolls through the door (plus a discount on prices that are already way below sea level).

The neutral parade from last spring and summer marches on, as does my infatuation with henleys. It's like Animal Farm up in here: yes buttons good, no buttons bad. The chiffon side stripe and neck trim on this one had me at hello. Also, bike shorts are a thing now, but I'd recommend performing my leggings test before wearing them out of the house. I was going to say "taking them out for a spin," but here, the opposite is true; if you don't pass the leggings test, you should only take bike shorts out for a literal spin. As in spin class.

I prefer to spice up a blandly hued ensemble with some kind of a statement in the accessories department, be it a pair of out-there footwear or a tangle of bangles. In this case, I went for both. No watch (shocker!), but I did include a "coins of the world" bracelet that functions about the same as wearing jingle bells. No surprise tickle attacks for me.

Shirt: Jpark.
Shorts: Sketchy whore store in Astoria, Queens.
Boots: Minnetonka.
Earrings, rings, cuff and bracelets: Gifted or inherited.

Modeling debut.

2010-09-16T09:43:00.006-05:00

This one time, at band camp/in the Condé Nast digital studios, I didn't have to set my camera timer and sprint into a cheesecakey pose. There was a real live photographer. And a makeup artist hired to make me look like I was wearing no makeup.

Yow.

I think I look particularly fetching with a Carrie Underwood flip and bright orange lipstick. But hey, that's just me.

Light coverage.

2010-09-13T19:20:00.021-05:00

I feel like Taio Cruz and I would really hit it off, because I, too, throw my hands up in the air sometimes.

Presumably unlike Taio, I also attack my hair with craft scissors sometimes. I think my bangs look better a little shorter than most professional hairdressers are willing to believe, so I do minor touch-ups on my own. Fortunately, this trim went largely according to plan.

Leopard ring with a zebra shirt. Mixed animal prints is one of my favorite runway takeaways of the past year or so. The texture on this tank also makes the fact that it's basically see-through far less intimidating.

I already sang the praises of sheers in my Wang sweatshirt diatribe, and I think this outfit evidences my theory that semi-transparency is an excellent trend for those of us in the shapely-but-not-skinny club. If you disagree, I'm sorry to have offended your eyes. I also apologize for my highly primitive decor at the moment; I just moved into a new apartment a few days ago and furniture is about as far as I've gotten. Stay tuned for the surely epic transformation.

Shirt: Rock Revolution.
Bra: Jezebel.
Leggings: American Apparel.
Shoes: Deena & Ozzy.
Watch: Timex.
Ring: Street vendor in Astoria, Queens.
Earrings and necklace: Inherited.

Kitchens aren't just for making messes.

2010-09-10T08:42:00.019-05:00

I've always relished being a sort of anti-domestic diva. I blame Sex and the City. There's a charm to the way Carrie Bradshaw squeals, "I keep sweaters in my stove!" (on second thought, what? That bitch has a closet the size of Texas) that I assumed would carry over to my crippling inability to so much as microwave popcorn. I approached my culinary ineptitude with as much conviction as I could muster, happily spouting tales of botched grilled cheeses and refusing to pay serious attention when I was forced to help out in the kitchen at home.

Well, turns out there's something more charming than keeping sweaters in your stove: being able to whip up delicious food for yourself and others. It was like a switch flipped overnight. I woke up one morning this summer and decided I felt like scrambled eggs for breakfast. I eHow-ed "how to cook scrambled eggs." I threw in some feta and rosemary. Surprisingly tasty! And ready in minutes! I felt invincible. The world was my oyster. Hate oysters. The world was my cupcake. I made myself pancakes for dinner that night (breakfast foods are a gateway drug). I was hooked.

Since I'm incapable of doing anything halfway, I've since expanded my repertoire to include everything from starters to salads to sweets. I'm a much better dessert chef than savory chef - I do better with the precision of baking than the more instinctual nature of cooking - but all things considered, my kitchen experimentation has been pretty darn successful (and thoroughly enjoyable to boot). I get much more excited about quirky flavor combos and aesthetically pleasing pastries than I do about honing a gourmet-level palate, so don't expect anything too refined, but I thought it might be fun to start posting a few La Vie en Recipes for my non-lethal creations.

Matchmaker Truffles (Where Cake Meets Candy)

Warning: These are incredibly rich. They're almost too much for me, and I have, like, the sweetest sweet tooth that ever sweeted. Enjoy in small doses.

1 box cake mix (any flavor) and whatever ingredients it calls for (usually oil and eggs)
1 jar store-bought frosting (again, flavor of your choice)
1 package semisweet baking morsels or confectioner's coating
Sprinkles

1. Bake cake as directed. Allow to cool for 30 minutes.
2. Crumble warm cake into a large mixing bowl, being sure to discard any well-done edges. Mash in jar of frosting. Mix until consistent (you can use a hand mixer or go old-school with a fork). Cover and refrigerate cake/frosting "dough" for at least three hours (or overnight).
3. Roll into bite-size balls, handling as quickly as possible. Freeze for at least an hour.
4. Melt semisweet baking morsels or confectioner's coating on stove or in microwave (see package or Google for directions). Using a toothpick, roll balls in molten coating for as short a time as possible (while still covering completely) and place on wax paper. Sprinkle immediately (one by one), as coating will harden fast. Makes about six dozen. Store in freezer.

Mine are funfetti cake with vanilla frosting and they are wickedly scrumptious little sugar bombs. Next up: red velvet cake and cream cheese frosting in white chocolate. I've also caught wind of an alcoholic version that substitutes Bailey's Irish Cream for frosting. That might have to happen for this year's holiday parties. Just saying.

Your melted chocolate or confectioner's coating will start to get pretty gross after about three dozen, so you might want to do a couple of batches. Unless you want cake truffles that look like this:

Instead of this:

Equally yummy, but not nearly as giftable. And trust me...you won't want to eat all six dozen of these yourself.

Squared away.

2010-09-09T22:03:00.000-05:00

Ah, Times Square: feared by natives, revered by tourists, thoroughly indescribable to anyone who has never experienced the madness. After spending five days a week in New York's legendary hub of overpriced sandwiches and overzealous humans wearing cardboard sandwiches (I'm going to make a t-shirt that says "I hate stand-up comedy" on one side and "bus tours are for quadriplegics" on the other), I've mastered the navigational tips that any NFT pamphlet will eagerly regale. But far above the impromptu subway concerts and the student rush lines towers a sleek skyscraper that challenges the carb-gobbling, sneaker-wearing culture of the area in which it stands. It is the Condé Nast building: home of Vogue and countless other internationally respected publications, and home of me for the last ten weeks.

(Embarrassing that I took these photos. In my defense, I did it before I was an employee.)

You've seen Ugly Betty and The Devil Wears Prada. You've heard urban myths of what goes on beyond the high-security turnstiles. And to be honest, Nasties are a lot like their fictional counterparts: a slender, well-dressed, workaholic bunch who have cultivated the kind of attitude that allows them to hold their own in a highly competitive and (to an extent) superficial industry like magazine journalism. Personally, I love it. I thrive on it. It's the pinnacle of New York's survival-of-the-fittest mentality; you don't come to this city expecting (or even wanting) to be coddled.

What Condé Nast employees aren't: soulless airheads only interested in prying their skim lattes from your quivering, worshipful fingers. These women (mostly) are ambitious, yes, but they are also fiercely intelligent and generous toward those who are willing to work hard. Sure, I did my share of prime time-worthy bitchwork (I'm too scared to post stories here, but ask me if you're curious. There are some winners), but I've always understood that you have to pay your dues when you're first starting out. And at Condé Nast, those dues come with some pretty sweet perks: fancy parties, free haircuts (with Bobbi Brown and Salma Hayek's stylist, no big deal), free food, free gym memberships, free reign on the beauty closet. Oh, and I guess, like, knowledge, or something. I got more out of the experience than I could have possibly imagined, and probably realize even now.

I chose to intern at a lifestyle magazine rather than a fashion magazine this summer, which was, quite honestly, the best decision I could have made. I enjoy fashion (I mean, kind of) (whatever) (wink, wink), but I've often questioned whether or not I could be satisfied by it as a career. After all, even this blog, which I suppose would be most accurately billed as a "fashion blog," is framed by my personal life and very much a product of my agenda. Writing for a magazine - adopting their voice, targeting their audience, pleasing their advertisers, adhering strictly to their views and purposes - is a whole different animal. It involves another set of skills that I'm equally interested in developing, but I have a sneaking suspicion that the glib, cyclical, business-oriented aspects of fashion journalism would drive me crazy after a while. Anyway, I'm not ruling it out, but I wanted to understand how the editorial process applies to other departments: fitness, nutrition, beauty, health, entertainment, sex. Fortunately, my internship confirmed my suspicions that writing is my first love. I'll be able to dress how I want no matter what I do; finding a way to make a living off of words is my first priority.

Anyway, I'm sure this is all very fascinating. My original plan for this post was to provide the dish on the "uniform" of each of Condé's magazines, a categorical distinction I gradually picked up on through stealthy observation of who pressed which buttons on the elevators. But here's the SparkNotes: Vogue girls do not wear skirts. They wear pants. Only pants. All pants, all the time. It's Pantsville. It's a veritable pants party. Preferably cropped. Sometimes pleated. But always of the pants-y variety.

I may be back in Evanston, Illinois (Chicago, let's go with Chicago), but I'm doing my best to bring a little Vogue to the Midwest. I used to abhor pants with every fiber of my being, but what can I say? They've grown on me. I love the laid-back flavor these green wool trousers bring to this crazy, shoulder-pad-inclusive floral bolero, which was a thrift store find in my even more obscure hometown of Vienna, Virginia.

This is how you know I'm an amateur fashion blogger. An expert would have made sure the clasp on her necklace was in back for the detail shot. Fail.

Jacket: Thrifted.
Tank: American Apparel.
Pants: Vintage Lord & Taylor.
Purse: Oroton.
Belt: Thrifted.
Shoes: Thrifted.
Earrings, necklace and watch: Inherited.

Wine and (say) cheese.

2010-08-26T10:06:00.021-05:00

With all the clothes, shoes, purses and accessories we have at our disposal, it’s easy to forget that our hair and makeup say as much about our personal style as what we put on our bodies. Pop in your go-to chick flick from any given decade: ‘80s hair and (cringe) ‘90s lipliner are proof that cosmetic trends are as real as any others. It’s easy to fall into a routine with makeup – most days, I’m a rushed and uninspired concealer-brows-mascara kind of girl – but if your unpaid intern salary (ahem) won’t cover a new wardrobe, a cosmetic update can be a cost-effective way to make your existing one look fresh.

I’ve been romancing red lips like Casanova this summer. They give the face a youthful boost and elevate even the most basic outfit to something cheeky and playful. But in light of the heavy fabrics and moody color palates that come with the soon-to-be-changing leaves (or just even to offset this years camels and nudes), I think it might be time to switch out my beloved MAC “Ruby Woo” for a color with a bit more…inner angst.

I first fell in love with wine lips in Lady Gaga’s “Alejandro” music video. The vid’s no “Bad Romance” (no offense, Gags, love ya like a sister!), but isn’t the makeup lovely and unusual? A deep mahogany stain is the perfect complement to the pasty skin we’re all about to endure for the next nine months (or at least I am, because I refuse to walk around smelling like Jergens “Natural” Glow). I’d add a coat of mascara to avoid channeling Silas from The Da Vinci Code, but the subtle winged eyeliner on the last frame is an alluring way to take the undressed eye into nighttime.

Then the world went nuts over the bare eyes and bright lips in the latest Chanel couture show. The color is a little lighter than that debuted in “Alejandro,” but the overall composition (note the bedhead to balance out the more substantial makeup) is similar, enviable and entirely transferable to a sultry merlot or cabernet lip. Meanwhile, Abbey Lee Kershaw has successfully convinced me that blunt, shoulder-length bobs with bangs are where it’s at. I’m going to need a lot of people to remind me over the next month that I a) don’t have thick, straight hair and eyes the size of saucers, and b) spent the last two and a half years complaining about how long my hair took to grow out after my 11-inch freshman year coif chop. Okay? C’mon, it’s what Jesus would do.

The usual cautionary advice: Beware of brown undertones. Use a lip brush for better texture and accuracy. Surround yourself with friends who will tell you if you have lipstick on your teeth, dammit, because who lets some fool with lipstick on her teeth wander around unawares? I think there’s a special spot reserved in Hell for that, right next to “people who kick puppies” and “people who serve Lindsay Lohan drinks.” Speaking of which: if you're going to drink wine while wearing wine, be sure to check yourself out in a hand mirror (or iPod screen...not that I've ever done that) every now and then. Not many people can pull off this.

You're so transparent.

2010-08-16T15:18:00.031-05:00

I love being naked. I may masquerade as a clotheshorse by day, but if I’m lounging around in the privacy of my apartment, I can’t get out of my clothes fast enough. I’m not a cavewoman - I’ll throw on a robe or a pair of booty shorts out of respect for a roommate who may not be as into my body as I am - but when I live alone, there’s a good chance I’ll eat, sleep, crack my knuckles, read and re-read Harry Potter, check myself out in Photo Booth, practice my Beyoncé booty shake and do all of my other embarrassing secret behaviors in the buff. Going au natural makes me feel more in touch with my body and holds me accountable to not, you know, eating entire jars of rainbow chip frosting in one sitting (don’t judge. These things happen, y’all). Nudity can also provide a devilish confidence boost for those sure-to-be-awkward phone calls (I once nailed a job interview wearing only a watch).

It may come as no surprise, then, that when law or common decency require me to be clothed, I tend to gravitate toward body-skimming styles that hug my so-called curves. I have the kind of proportions – little waist, long legs, childbearing hips – that sound great in theory, but don’t take to clothes nearly as well as they do to hypothetical male fantasies. Loose-fitting, androgynous styles do me no favors. The more I conceal, the bigger I look. As such, this whole sheer moment that's happening right now is particular exciting for me: I get to wear the high necks and the loose, blouse-y shapes that would otherwise send me on a one-way trip to Frumpsville without concealing the shapely silhouette that lies beneath (yep, I love me). But as I rifled through my sheer-shoaled wardrobe, I couldn't help but wonder: how does one bring spring and summer's floaty fabrics into fall?

This Alexander Wang chiffon sweatshirt is DY. NA. MITE. The daring can wear it over an art deco bra à la the above photo, but a bodysuit or ribbed undershirt is a swell full-coverage alternative for the wallflowers/professionals/people who occasionally eat entire jars of rainbow chip frosting in one sitting. If you choose to go the exposed tummy route, you'd better love yours, and you'd better be pretty damn sure everyone else is going to love it, too. I've also seen knockoffs at Urban and Topshop with mesh or chiffon insets on the sleeves instead of the torso, eliminating the question of whether or not to reveal the inner workings of your gastrointestinal system to the world.

Regardless, you'll want to minimize the gap between your hemlines. Opt for a high-waisted skirt, perfectly fitted jeans (muffin tops need not apply), languid cargo pants or - whaddya know! - leather shorts. I also recommend balancing the peekaboo sex appeal of a sheer inset with a pair of flat boots or chunky platforms.

This is the part where most bloggers would make a crack about this look being "sheer brilliance." But I'll save you the forehead slap and the drum solo. You need that energy for shopping.

I see you're wearing leather...are you into handcuffs, too?

2010-08-06T08:19:00.010-05:00

Occasionally, an item of clothing will wrangle out of me an entirely inappropriate public reaction. It usually happens when I’m killing time in a store with no intention of buying or even trying anything on and, as such, am caught off guard by an instantaneous and deeply powerful connection.

Such was the case with these Rag & Bone shorts. I made a beeline to them from across the brand’s SoHo boutique, caressed their buttery leather between my thumb and forefinger and audibly whispered, “I want you,” in an all-too-sexual tone (much to the discomfort of the salesgirl standing two feet away from me). Not only was it my least successful seduction to date, but I was also forced to make a quick exit before I could even ask for their digits.

To clarify: forced by my pride to exit. Fortunately, the salesgirl let it slide.

Having since been informed by the Interweb that their “digits” are something to the tune of $795, I’m convinced that things wouldn’t have worked out between us anyway. They do, however, make a beautiful prototype for the next item on my fall wish list: leather shorts. I first added this line item to my long-term shopping list (a novella-length, fully categorized Google doc; the short-term one is on my iPod Touch for portable shopping purposes) a full year ago. I’ve since found a couple of potentials, but haven’t until very recently made actually buying a pair a priority.

When it comes to a stiff and highly connotative material like leather, cut is particularly important. Spare us the leather booty shorts and (heaven forbid) leather harem pants. Straightforward, relatively modest shapes keep leather from veering too far into territory already claimed by the two B’s: bikers and bondage. These long, loose A-line shorts with their nipped-in waist strike the perfect proportion. They’re tough and sexy, but also polished. Clearly worthy of a terrible pick-up line.

Cloudy with a chance of menswear.

2010-08-04T22:48:00.018-05:00

It's been threatening to rain for three days now. I keep dressing down in anticipation. It has yet to so much as sprinkle. Infuriating. On the bright side, these fake-out forecasts have given me a chance to play with my approach to casualwear; namely, how to bring a little personality to jeans and a button-down.

This necklace is one of the few jewelry items I've ever actually purchased, having been lucky enough to inherit my weight in accessories from my late and formidably posh grandmother. It was my obsession this past fall and winter. The chain links are a combination of gunmetal and silver, though some are starting to go pink from where my perfume has rubbed off over time. Stah-ruggle.

No clunky Casio today. I thought the statement necklace begged for a one-metal color scheme and more delicate co-accessories. I'm a fan of how this particular watch adds a bit of sparkle without being excessively blinged out. Swarovski is not so much my jam.

Shirt: BDG.
Jeans: Forever 21.
Purse: Talon.
Shoes: Deena & Ozzy.
Earrings: Forever 21.
Necklace: Lou Lou boutique in Middleburg, VA.
Watch and rings: Inherited.

Augustatic is one step away from Septembrilliant.

2010-08-04T15:17:00.016-05:00

It’s around this point in any given summer that I typically begin to develop a hint of weather-related wanderlust. These three steamy months are a particular brand of laissez-faire delightful, but they sure do make it easy to fall into a rut of wearing only airy sundresses for weeks on end. In dreaming ahead to times when sweat-induced dry cleaning bills will be merely a memory and layering will once again become an active consideration in my wardrobe, I've begun to assemble my fall fashion wish list. And I mean wish list. As in, I wish there was a chance in Hell I would be able to get my hands on one or more of these things by October. Now that a budgeting disaster called “I greatly enjoy mojitos” has sabotaged my fall shopping allowance, I’ll be lucky if I can afford to eat for the next four weeks, let alone buy a new pair of mom jeans from Salvation Army to shred into cutoffs.

But just like J. Lo's love, online window shopping don't cost a thing. Therefore, I will be debriefing my top picks for fall over the next couple of weeks, operating under a fantasy budget of whatever it takes. So let’s kick things off (heh) with:

Nailing down this summer’s official shoe crush was less exciting than it has been in years past, as this shoemance sadly has little to no chance of coming to fruition. This is partly because I have no income, and partly because Rumi “Fashion Toast” Neely has since given these Sam Edelman boots her blessing, so I’m sure they’ll be sold out in my size before I get the opportunity to save up for them. At any rate: want, in black (I’m generally nuts for gray, but not as nuts for the combo of gray and brown) leather (they also come in suede, but I never spend more than $75 on shoes that will inevitably be ruined in two weeks’ time), size eight and a half (if anyone's feeling generous). Envisioning them with slouchy paper bag-waisted shorts, a vintage blouse and a neatly tailored blazer. Equal parts classic and quirky.

What’s that I hear? You barely even signed on for the clog phenomenon, and now you’re being expected to embrace clog boots? Yep. Embrace them. Embrace them right now. I actually prefer these to clogs' original rendering. The streamlined shape and artful cutouts make them appear less clunky than traditional clogs, while still channeling their earthy, 1970s-era charm.

Stay tuned for another fall frontrunner tomorrow. Also, a breaking addendum to my Twitter rant: if you have Foursquare linked to your Twitter account, I will punch you in the face. Peace and blessings.

Loafing around.

2010-07-31T17:04:00.036-05:00

Remember when I decided to embark on a search for the perfect pair of loafers?

Found these in Second Best Thrift in Astoria, Queens. Literally the best thrift store I have ever visited. I realize this is a strong statement coming from a secondhand goddess such as myself, but there is nothing about this place that isn't amazing. There's no rhyme or reason to the layout, which might prove frustrating to some, but I relish poking around for hours to unearth the best of the best from tangled piles and musty armoires. So many thrift stores give you secondhand clothes in a crowded, overwhelming retail mall format (and for astronomical prices, to boot). Worst of both worlds! If I'm gonna go thrifting, I want a grandma's attic experience for mere pocket change, and this place delivers. It also boasts an impressive selection of ugly-chic footwear, which is so where I'm at these days.

Anyway, I love that these are light enough to wear right now, but not so much so that I won't be able to transition them into fall. They're also the most comfy. I walked from Times Square to SoHo, then back up to Union Square by way of all three Villages (East, West and Greenwich) yesterday and barely felt a thing. That is a long-ass way, for the record. It wasn't until later, when I was stumbling from the Meatpacking District back down to SoHo in a Blue Moon-fueled haze, that I finally had a stop in a hotel for a Band-Aid.

Stylin' little liars.

2010-07-26T14:30:00.014-05:00

I have an embarrassing obsession. An UGH-bsession, if you will. With ABC Family’s new teen drama/thriller Pretty Little Liars. For those unfamiliar with the basic premise, the series centers on a clique whose fifth member (and former leader), Alison, went missing a year before the show opens. The unexpected twist? Alison (or someone using her first initial) is now sending her former besties sinister messages from the great beyond. Whoa. Whoa. WHOA. Whoa. WHOA. Whoa. WHOA. WHOA. Whoa. Edgy.

Like any teen drama worth its ratings, clothes play a major role in Pretty Little Liars. The four main characters have wildly different styles: Spencer is a preppy overachiever with a hipster sensibility, Aria is a punky thrift-store queen, Hanna wears whatever Lucky tells her to and Emily is the token jock who couldn’t care less. I’ll cede that in life my style naturally veers more toward the Aria aesthetic, but I’ve gotta say: Spencer has been killing it so far this season. I’m style crushing. I'm a style stalker, and I’m about to be a bona fide style thief.

The key to Spencer's look, which has been called "business casual with a twist," is to take a classic pairing and riff on it. Do the nautical cardigan with the white shorts, but pair the outfit with nerdy socks and oxfords instead of the expected leather sandals. Go ahead and wear that ruffled blouse and blazer, but choose flat, knee-high boots instead of pointy law-firm pumps. And when it comes to casualwear, men's dress shirts and leather backpacks are where it's at. By the way, the black skinny jeans at right (they are jeans, by the way. Spencer wouldn't be caught dead in leggings. Riding pants, maybe) should be neatly rolled twice at the cuff and hit just above the ankle for optimal hipster chic.

Pulling off this style also requires a restrained hand when it comes to accessorizing. A delicate necklace, a simple bangle or a pair of stud earrings are about as elaborate as Country Club darling Spencer would go with the jewelry. Too much bling throws off the balance of polish and zaniness, giving the outfit a whole different vibe.

I think it may be time to hang up the guitar pick rings and chunky chain necklaces, return to my Virginia roots and debut this look for fall. I'm into it. The best part? It lends itself exceptionally well to wearing flats. I've got the riding boots nailed down, but expect to find me digging for penny loafers in the Astoria Salvation army.

La Parisienne.

2010-07-20T10:14:00.015-05:00

I love everything French. (Okay, not French dressing. I’m actually morally opposed to salad dressing. Don’t get me started.) I took five years of Spanish in middle and high school after being told it would be more useful in the "real world" (attention to all those with aspirations in a fashion-related industry: this is a lie), but I’m one-eighth French and exceedingly proud of it. When it comes to design, food and general worldview (okay, maybe not military tactics), there’s no denying that the French know best.

No surprise, then, that I spritzed on my YSL Parisienne perfume this morning and left my apartment feeling decidedly fierce.

If I'm going out, I usually strap on a cute balconette bra under this dress and embrace the cleavage buffet approach. For work, I layered it over a lace tank to make the ensemble a tad more office-appropes. Even Condé Nast has its limits.

If you're into this look, you would die over Paris-based Denni Elias's blog, Chicmuse. She's all about the legs, lips and massive platforms (and even heart-shaped sunglasses in her latest post). Her charming, quirky style is one of my favorite pools to dip into when I need a little style inspiration. Or workout inspiration. Those legs. No homo.

Tank: Kimchi Blue.
Dress: Kimchi Blue.
Shoes: BCBGirls.
Sunglasses: H&M.
Bracelet: Gifted.
Ring: Inherited.

The good war.

2010-07-18T17:55:00.015-05:00

The dress that can go from the office to the outdoor flea market is a rare and precious find. I typically accessorize this sweet, peek-a-back floral number with brown leather Ralph Lauren platform sandals and traditional gold jewelry. For a casual half-day of work followed by an afternoon of gallivanting around the city (one love summer Fridays), however, I decided to "downtown" things up with a surplus belt and ankle boots.

I think the reason this mishmash works despite the divergent styles of the dress and the accessories is the common color thread. The green in the belt picks up on the green in the dress, as do the gemstones in the rings. Similarly, the black-and-white ribbon in the hat keeps the dark footwear from looking too heavy. Blending different styles is all about creating balance in the head-to-toe look.

Dress: Reformed.
Belt: Vintage.
Purse: Vintage.
Shoes: Bamboo.
Hat: Street vendor in Astoria, Queens.
Rings: Inherited.

Social media what?

2010-07-14T21:20:00.001-05:00

So. Sa-HO. If you're a longtime reader, you'll know that I'm kind of a champ at Facebook (article slightly outdated due to changes in profile structure, but the core principles remain the same). If we e-mail a lot, you'll also know that I maintain my Gchat status religiously. After my Twitter account staged a coup last week, I decided to relaunch it with newly open privacy settings and join the 21st century when it comes to shameless self-promotion (follow me by clicking the button at right! If you like me on Blogger, you'll love me on Twitter! Whee, look at me go!). Now seemed as good a time as ever to lay down the laws of the land regarding Twitter. Twitskies. ~*~TwiTteRLiCiOuS~*~ TIT-ter. I'm hilarious.

From UrbanDictionary.com:

Twitter (n): A stupid site for stupid people with no friends, who think everyone else gives a shit what they're doing at any given time. Also lacks the functionality of other social networking sites, not that it matters because just like Twitter all those sites suck anyway.

Well then.

I've been on Twitter for a little over a year now, and I think I understand it. At least I understand where so many people go wrong with it. Here's the thing: Twitter is for clever people. And not everyone can be clever. And that's okay. I have plenty of friends who are kind and wonderful and completely uncreative, and I love having them in my life. I just don't want their boring thoughts all over my Twitter feed. Sorry I'm not sorry. Apparently, one of the biggest "problems" with Twitter (according to Twitter) is that so many accounts lie dormant; the masses join Twitter to follow friends, celebrities and businesses without ever posting updates of their own. I would argue that this is not even remotely problematic. In fact, I can think of about twelve people off the top of my head - twelve delightful people who I enjoy in real life - more people than I have fingers on my hands! - whose Twitter accounts should lie dormant. And don't.

It's difficult to make sweeping generalizations about what is and isn't appropriate for Twitter, since I have friends who love to use my words against me when I inevitably break my own rules (Jamie). It ultimately comes down to two simple adjectives: entertaining and justifiable. Example time! The other day I tweeted about the weather, commonly understood to be a faux pas in the world of social networking. I did not, however, write "UGH SOOOOOOOO HOT WANT TO CRY" (it was, and I did). Instead, I wrote, "Barely clinging to solidity. One more hour in my apartment this morning and I would have been a puddle." Not laugh-out-loud hilarezzz, but clever, right? Thought and effort went into that tweet. Sure, you could have lived without knowing that I was on the verge of of a phase transformation, but I need a place to cultivate my wit or its sheer magnitude might just crush us all. So I made my weather complaint at least somewhat entertaining. Funny stories (of 160 characters or less) and fascinating observations about the world fall into this category, as do links for pure enjoyment purposes (YouTube videos, etc.).

Under the "justifiable" heading, we have tweets for the sake of career advancement. My friend Megan is a perfect example. She works in book publishing, and she loves to share articles on the state of her industry and reply to posts by various publishing houses. I may not want to read every article about book publishing that she retweets, but I understand why she does it. Justifiable (and not just because I like her). A lot of bloggers also use Twitter as a more interactive interface through which to connect with their fans, as well as to publicize their posts and keep track of their freelance work. This is perhaps Twitter at its finest: used not to hear the sounds of our own voices (you know...figuratively), but rather to begin a conversation among like-minded people. Justifiable. (In fact, I would argue that the weather post is also justifiable because if you live in New York right now in an un-air conditioned apartment there is literally nothing else you can think about).

Things that are neither entertaining nor justifiable: "RIP [insert dead celebrity here]," a laundry list of what you did today, passive-aggressive complaints about your roommate, your dark and twisty inner pain. Save that shit for Xanga...in the year 2004. Hey-oh! Content aside, you also need to employ proper logistical behavior in order to navigate Twitter without pissing me off. If you haven't noticed by now:

If you start a tweet directed at your friend with @YourFriend, it will only be seen by that person and your mutual friends.

If you end a tweet directed at your friend (who I don't know or care about) with @YourFriend...you are pissing me off.

Retweets. Perhaps you enjoy typing the letters "RT." I get to type them all the time because there's an "rt" in my last name, so I suppose I can't fully empathize. But there is now a retweet button. Use it. If you type "RT [insert tweet here]" without linking back to the original content (and it's not for the sake of clarifying a point or adding witty commentary) (assuming, of course, that you are a witty person who belongs on Twitter at all)...you are pissing me off.

If you make a typo or decide to reword something and are too lazy to go back and delete the first go-round...you are pissing me off.

The rest of my thoughts on Twitter, in less than 160 characters: "#" is your friend. Catchphrases do not constitute humor. Don't over-abbreviate; find another wording. Don't drink and tweet. No, no, LiLo!

Harsh? Maybe. Twitter awakens some powerful emotions within me. Since it's not as ubiquitous as Facebook, the bar to use it in the first place is set way higher, as is my sass level. Maybe you disagree with my strong feelings about Twitter. Maybe you think I'm a bitch.

Whatevs. Just trynna start a conversation among like-minded people.

Cotton candy.

2010-07-12T20:58:00.019-05:00

You know these pants were the loser pants at the thrift store. They were the pants all the other pants made fun of after the owner went home for the night. Some teenage girl's mom wore them to her birthday party, and it. Was. Mortifying.

But all they needed was a pair of snakeskin platforms to lift them out of their life of anguish.

T-shirt: Zara.
Pants: Vintage.
Belt: Vintage.
Shoes: BCBGirls.
Earrings: Forever 21.
Ring: Inherited.

Dyed and tied.

2010-07-11T10:44:00.029-05:00

I had planned on taking a timeout from my rampant narcissism this weekend (to resume on Monday with the work week, duhzies), but then the best thing ever happened. I left to buy groceries this morning to find ten blocks of carnival outside my door. Not one to shy away from an opportunity to ogle one-of-a-kind pieces (or haggle with street vendors), I made a beeline for the nearest ATM and took a few laps to see what the local artisans had to offer. Sure enough, I left an hour and a half later with a funky straw hat, a leather fanny pack in the perfect shade of tobacco, a fistful of hand-painted rings, a beautiful Indian wrap skirt that can be tied 21 different ways, and this dress:

So into the unexpected combo of lilac and orange. I've been wanting a tie-dye dress for a while now, and this one will make for perfect weekend thrifting/poolside lounging attire.

Dress: Street vendor in Astoria, Queens.
Hat: H&M.
Earrings: Forever 21.
Ring: Street vendor in Astoria, Queens.
Cuff: Inherited.

Floral terrace.

2010-07-08T20:34:00.021-05:00

Just as I was emotionally preparing myself for a summer of awkward lurking in Bryant Park, it dawned on me. I have a balcony. Well, a fire escape. I've always had a thing for fire escapes. They're this magical fusion between two of my favorite things: cities and being outside. So suck it, haters. It's a balcony. This girl's got a room with a view.

Today was a day for gray-on-gray and floral hipster glasses.

It took a while for the fashion industry to sell me on sweats as a fashion statement, but it happened. Much like how I'm now slowly but surely developing an affinity for clogs (blame it on Miu Miu). These H&M high-waisted jersey harem pants were the straw that broke this camel's back.

The white, yellow and rose gold bracelet in the middle is my all-time fave. Delicate and feminine, yet subtly unexpected.

Bodysuit: Forever 21.
Pants: H&M.
Shoes: Deena & Ozzy.
Glasses: Street vendor in East Village.
Watch: Casio.
Earrings, rings and bracelets: Gifted or inherited.

Highlight 'er.

2010-07-07T20:19:00.025-05:00

After doing some serious thinking (and I mean serious. I am well aware that I possess neither a model-thin body nor an impressive designer wardrobe), I've decided to try my hand at outfit posts. As fun as it is to talk about fashion, sometimes a picture really is worth a thousand words, and there's no way to illustrate your style without...you know...an illustration. I'm sure I'll chicken out in a week and be all NOPE, NOT CUT OUT FOR THIS. But until that day, feel free to judge me.

So it turns out it's really hard to subtly take pictures of yourself in Bryant Park. I kept at it for about a half hour before putting my tail between my legs and scampering home to Queens. I failed to get a quality full-body shot because in all my sneakiness and inexpertise passersby kept wandering into the frame, but since the high temp in New York City today was 102 (really too hot for anything other than a simple skirt and t-shirt), I was all about the accessories anyway.

This t-shirt looks yellow in these photos, but it's really more of a chartreuse-y green. It's ridiculously soft. I'm stockpiling $5 Forever 21 tees and tanks, because I wear through my nice ones in a hot second anyway (not trynna put sweat stains on no Alexander Wang). Buy them small, because they lose their shape fairly quickly.

Note the aforeplugged gray nail polish. Also, I've taken to wearing a tangle of mixed-metal chains on my watch hand so that I can wear my old school Casio (obsesh) with gold or silver accessories.

My tattoo (on the inside of my left wrist) says "this is it." It's not a Michael Jackson homage, just a reminder to be present in every moment of my life. I liked that it was three small words that only had meaning because I gave it to them. It's in my handwriting.

This guitar pick ring is one of my favorites. My mom got it for me in Italy.

I love, love, love these crazy boots. There was one pair in Urban Outfitters (a return) and it was my size. I had to have them. The wedge makes them relatively easy to walk in (I once hauled ass from Times Square to SoHo in these babies), and the bandage detailing adds a little edge to what could be a deeply uninteresting nude shoe.

Yeah, that last one was just my lunch. But it was exceptionally delicious.

T-shirt: Forever 21.
Skirt: Forever 21 (you can't really see the detailing, but it has understated ruffle gathering and a zipper across the front and actually fits beautifully. A rare F21 win).
Purse: Zara.
Shoes: Deena & Ozzy.
Sunglasses: Lou Lou boutique in Middleburg, VA.
Earrings: Forever 21 (this is hilarious. I usually hate this store).
Watch: Casio.
Necklace, chains and rings: Inherited.

Nailed it.

2010-06-20T22:37:00.021-05:00

American Apparel is a highly polarizing company. Dov Charney is a seedy mofo, to be sure, but so are many corporate CEOs; the clothes aren't terribly high-quality, but neither are they particularly expensive (or products of child labor). I wrote Am App off as overpriced hipster bullshit until my sophomore year of college, when my wardrobe became utterly dependent on v-neck t-shirts and high-waisted jersey tulip skirts. These days, I'm more into the brand's unitards, racerback tanks and leather-look leggings, but I've found a new reason to trek over to the Upper East Side location (the closest to my Times Square office) (the alleged existence of these droves of Upper East Side hipsters who require their own American Apparel store is another question entirely):

I've been in search of a non-shimmery gray nail polish for some time now. Gray polish is decidedly trendy at the moment, but not exactly a staple you're likely to find at your local CVS (or Duane Reade) (can you tell I'm excited to be in NYC?). When I saw American Apparel's "Factory Gray" polish (shown above) at the register, I had to have it. A bottle will set you back $6 - somewhere between $1 Wet N Wild and $9 OPI (we're not even going to talk about $25 Chanel) - and appears thus far to be sufficiently quick-drying and hard-wearing. Two coats provide full coverage of a medium gray with barely perceptible lavender undertones. The color is a perfect summer alternative to the deep purples and navies that have been cropping up these past few seasons - neutral and modern, without being aggressively vampy or girly.

In general life news, today is my first day at SELF magazine. Amazeballs. I just had my first Condé Nast cafeteria experience - I've never seen so many aggressively thin and well-dressed people in one place. It even inspired me to order brown rice in my sushi. Baby steps.

Fight-or-flight response.

2010-06-03T00:14:00.021-05:00

Airports used to turn me into a legitimate monster. I love to travel, but something about the act of flying destroys my ability to not sweat the small stuff. I'm always exhausted from staying up to pack the night before. I'm always pissed off from dealing with public transportation (I'd rather buy a new shirt than pay cab fare...sorry I'm not sorry). My first few trips back and forth from school were rife with sour glares and yells of, "Let's keep it moving, here, people!" I was that girl. I made Ashlee Simpson at McDonald's look tame.

Eventually, I realized that the old adage about catching more flies with honey is particularly true when it comes to flying. I now have a love/hate relationship with airports (love as in Washington National, hate as in Chicago O'Hare), but I like to think that I've at least figured out how to pimp the system.

Check-in. When you're lugging around the contents of your life on a semi-regular basis, 50 pounds doesn't go nearly as far as you'd think. If you had to sit on your suitcase to zip it, there's a good chance your baggage is overweight. Since a diet is out of the question (don't let anyone guilt you; you needed that extra pair of shoes), it's time to work a little magic at the curbside check-in. Put on a charming smile, twirl your hair nervously, and gently protest, "Oh, but I'm a student! Do you really need to charge me?" They will say no. And then you will tip them. $3 to the nice man who took pity on you is better than $35 (or whatever criminal amount they're charging these days) to some commercial airline executive. I haven't paid a baggage fee since 2007.

You'll probs want to skip fussy eye make-up so you can conk out on the plane, so grade A sunglasses (and maybe a touch of lip gloss) play a crucial role in maintaining your curbside allure. I am into these Maison Martin Margiela shades like a train. They have the flattering cut of an aviator (with a hint of heart-shaped sass) and the mystery of a classic bug-eye. And a $615 price tag. Crying.

Security. There's not a lot you can do to avoid snaking lines and panicked latecomers*, but you can at least avoid driving yourself crazy by tailoring your accessories for the occasion. I love jewelry as much as the next girl - probably more than the next girl - but this is not the time to show up dripping in diamonds. Stick to basic stud earrings, a watch (duhzies, it's me) and a belt, if you need one. Even the strapping businessman who would happily watch you strip down under normal circumstances won't be amused by watching you remove your stack of bangles one by one.

I've been known to wear my heaviest pair of shoes to lighten my luggage (though if you followed my first tip, chubby bags shouldn't be an issue), but riding boots aren't the easiest to wiggle in and out of at high speed. These days, I stick to Sue London roll-up ballet flats. They're easy to take on and off (and easy to stash if the torture of heels awaits you at the tail end of your flight - they even come with their own storage satchel), buttery soft, and the elastic won't dig into your heels. I love this punchy pink for summer, but if neutrals are more your jam, Sue makes them in every color of the rainbow. Nine West does a knock-off version. I've heard questionable reviews. Bargain buy at your own risk.

* I'm hardly in a position to lecture anyone on timeliness, but as a former airport lagoon creature, I will say that it's better to be obscenely early than even a little bit late. Worst-case scenario: you spend some time sampling cosmetics in the duty-free shop.

Up, up and away! People who say jeans are comfortable are obviously not people who fly. Nothing is more unpleasant than sitting for hours with grommets and belt loops digging into your flesh (not to mention that unless your jeans are made of steel, they'll probably stretch out and look loose and nasty upon arrival). A jersey dress with a relaxed fit - and a cardigan, in the event of a chilly cabin - is a much better option for a summer flight. If you're more worried about snowdrifts than sunburns, a cashmere sweater and a slim-cut pair of yoga pants is a stylish alternative to ratty gym sweats. Side note: there is never an excuse for velour jumpsuits.

OKAY. I KNOW. I'M A LEMUR. EVERYONE AND THEIR MOM HAS A LONGCHAMP TOTE. But hear me out. I'm not suggesting you carry it everywhere until it falls to generic nylon pieces, but from a practical standpoint, the Pliage makes an ideal carry-on bag. It's waterproof (you don't know what the toddler in front of you will spill as you take off). It zips (who loves crawling around under the seats after everyone else has exited the plane to gather runaway belongings?). And once you arrive at your destination, you can fold it into a tiny, tiny square, stick it in the bottom of your suitcase, and no one will ever know you carried that boring, practical bag. Think about it. All I'm saying. Army green is spot-on this season (and every season, let's be real).

One more fun fact: if you put your headphones in your ears during takeoff and landing and tell the flight staff your iPod is off...they're not gonna make you prove it.

Whether you're headed home for a relaxing summer of poolside lounging or off to explore exotic locales, I hope these tips make your trip as hassle-free as possible. Travel safely and stylishly. Your souvenir snapshots will thank you.

Out on a Lim.

2010-05-10T22:11:00.011-05:00

I don't usually post my clips here, but I thought some of you might enjoy reading the interview I did with CFDA Fashion Award winner Phillip Lim for the May issue of CS magazine. Phillip and I hit it off like old friends - I believe the word "soulmate" was tossed around - and though the article is short and sweet, I think it manages to capture both his intelligence and his sass (check out his response to the fashion faux pas question - so much for my theory on leggings being pants).

A few more fun facts: Phillip hates surprises (so do I), wore velvet slippers to his last birthday party (so did I...just kidding), and lives by the philosophy, "Some days, peanuts; some days, shells." I was so grateful for the opportunity to meet him and fully plan to stalk him on the fashion circuit in New York this summer. See his latest collection here. Besties 4-eva, Phil!

Gail force.

2010-05-09T15:20:00.016-05:00

So moms, right? Talk about a defining relationship in a young girl's world and wardrobe. Yeah, you heard me - as much as we like to believe ourselves to be far removed from our parents' outdated, unflattering, and sometimes downright embarrassing sartorial choices, a large part of what shapes our personal style is what we see on M and D. Though I'll cede that shopping with my mother invariably results in a series of mildly offensive "yeah, that's cute...for you" jibes, I would be lying if I claimed not to have borrowed bits and pieces from her fashion sensibility. After all, she was the best-dressed member of the Brandywine High School Class of 1976. In honor of Mother's Day, here are the top five fashion lessons I've learned from my mother, the ultrafabulous Gail Bailey Roberts.

Don't be boring. Gail owns an art gallery, and her love of the creative shines through in spades in her clothes. Peruvian knit sweaters, 1970s-inspired caftans, funky peasant blouses, and jersey separates in unconventional shapes are just a few of the items I've pilfered from her wardrobe over the years (sorry, Mom!). While the average Joe on the street might not "get" what she's wearing every day, her willingness to take risks is something I'm thrilled to have inherited (and perhaps why she shares my obsession with the inimitable Lady Gaga).

Bedazzle yourself. I've talked about the Roberts family jewelry gene before, and I can assure you that our matriarch is no exception to the rule. Silver bracelets, chunky necklaces, and anything with a wine motif are my mom's baubles of choice. After all, this is a woman who keeps a sign in our kitchen that reads, "Wine. It's not just for breakfast anymore."

Believe in the power of the purse. My mom is to purses as I am to shoes; that is to say, she has a fetish that will in all likelihood never be satisfied. Though her taste is wildly different from my own (I get weak in the knees for a classic Chanel 2.55; she prefers her purple pleather satchel with multicolored zipper rosettes), I am frequently amazed by the dimension her handbags add to her ensembles. Gail's stash of crazy purses are an excellent reminder that lugging around your personal belongings can be more expressive than exasperating.

Buy outfits, not just separates. This used to drive me crazy when I was younger and had spare pairs of jeans coming out of my ass, but as I've pared down my wardrobe and been forced to accept that I am not, in fact, Imelda Marcos (yet), I've found one of Gail's favorite shopping strategies to be admittedly useful. As fun as it is to buy statement pieces, what's not fun is having a closet full of things you can't wear because you have nothing to pair them with. There's something reassuring about coming home from a marathon shopping trip and knowing that you're not going to have to put forth a similarly herculean effort just to wear your haul out of the house.

Dress for the occasion. Like most mothers, Gail loves to needle me about what I'm wearing. "Why are you so dressed up to go hang out at a friend's house?" "Really? You're wearing that to school?" My first instinct is always to overdress, but my mom's commentary on my clothing has played a big role in mellowing me out and making me, I think, ultimately more stylish. After all, anyone can be fierce in heels and a miniskirt. It's learning to make your ripped jeans look like the second coming of Kate Moss for a movie night that puts you on a whole new playing field.

I love you, Mom! Thanks for the good genes. Happy freaking Mother's Day.

Zac attac.

2010-04-14T18:37:00.022-05:00

I've never been a fan of discount designer lines. They strike me as the epitome of buying something solely for the label attached. With the exception of Marc by Marc Jacobs (still not all that "discount") and a sprinkling of few-and-far-between successful capsule collections, I find that big-name designers usually balk when met with the inexpensive materials needed to produce at a lower price point. The result? A "designer" item that aims too high and ends up looking like just that: a cheap imitation of the real thing. The masses will buy it because it's Rodarte or whatever, but I think inexpensive clothing is best left to those who know how to handle it (H&M, Zara, Topshop). Creating discount fashion requires a simpler touch than most couturiers bring to the table.

However.

Zac Posen for Target's GO International line is one glaring exception to the rule. These four dresses are divine - they manage to capture Zac's unique flavor without looking froufrou-y or over-the-top. I would kill for the black dress with the snaps - such a flattering shape, with just the right amount of edge - and the braided belt on the lilac floral slip dress is delightfully quirky. Zac was smart to work with prints; they typically take to bargain fabrics much better than solid colors.

This lipstick tank has been hailed as the signature piece of the collection. Talk about a chic graphic tee for summer. This would pair beautifully with jean shorts, a breezy cardigan and leopard flats for weekend, as well as a tiny skirt, leather jacket and lethal heels for a night out.

This leather jacket (in "Target red") is the most expensive piece in the collection, at just under $200. It's real leather - and looks nice enough in the photograph, I suppose - but I'm wary of buying anything that costs $200 at Target. I feel like it defeats the purpose of the collection. At that point, you'd be better off saving up a little while longer and springing for a leather jacket from a more reputable brand.

There are a few other aspects of the collection that awaken my inner skeptic - a series of gold lamé swimsuits, for one (leave those to American Apparel, Zac!) - but overall, I was pleasantly surprised by what Posen had to offer. Apparently, it's not cruel enough for him to simply be woefully unattainable gay eye candy. He has to go and make me want to shop at Target, too.

"Nothing is ugly as long as it is alive." - Coco Chanel

2010-04-13T20:44:00.026-05:00

Yesterday, a friend of mine who is almost aggressively uninterested in fashion told me that I had helped her realize the importance of material things.

My knee-jerk reaction was, of course, mortification. Glorious! Just what we all need in the current moral and economic climates: a nagging voice urging us to pay more mind to stuff. I knew she was justified in her observation - materialism is an unfortunate byproduct of aspirations in the fashion industry - but what was remarkable was that she seemed to have genuinely meant it to be a compliment.

I'm certainly a believer that people - family, friendships, relationships - are infinitely more vital to our happiness than any pair of Manolo Blahniks that can be purchased on sale. That being said, I do see a tangible value in investing in appearances. For me, getting dressed is not only a means of artistic expression, but also a measure of personal pride; when I walk around with unwashed hair and ratty gym clothes on (out of laziness, not when I'm actually on my way to the gym), I feel devalued in a way that has nothing to do with whether or not men (or women) find me attractive. Clothes have, for better or worse, the power that we have collectively ascribed to them: a power that makes visible a portion of our interior and, perhaps more importantly, gives voice to our self-concept. To ignore society's expectations of our relationship to clothing is foolish. To pass up the chance to create for yourself a world in which you truly look the way you feel is, to me, actually depressing.

I'm also a big believer in the way in which clothes come alive on a person. You can build the most heartbreakingly beautiful dress on God's green earth, but until it's worn by somebody who takes pure, unadulterated joy in its construction, it's worthless. It's like how a fragrance reacts uniquely with the hormones of each individual who spritzes it on - clothing must be loved by its owner to be lovable to others. I adore reading personal style blogs because nine times out of ten, it's the pieces I never would have looked twice at in a store that inspire me the most. The number of trends I've hated until I saw them on people who wore them not to be "fashionable," but because they genuinely loved the look! Anyone can buy an expensive, current wardrobe - but to have true style, clothing must be worn dynamically.

And then I thought of this recent photo shoot celebrating the 30th anniversary of Loewe's Amazona tote. The bag is simple, maybe even boring - but I was instantly struck by the life it brings to each of these photographs. It appears to be, in every frame, placed with a purpose; this is a purse that belongs to someone - a dreamer, a mother, a hermit, an intellectual - and because of that, it takes on a value that no manmade object can claim on its own.

Whatever your opinion of fashion - a crutch for those devoid of inner beauty or the greatest thing on the face of the planet - I urge you to broaden that definition. Because for materialistic me, things are important - but only because people make them so. Is it possibly to have an unhealthy obsession with earthly trappings? Absolutely. Are there those who judge the enjoyment of said trappings too harshly? Believe it. But the only way to recognize the value of style is to experience it to the fullest. Nothing is ugly as long as it is alive.

Building blocks.

2010-04-01T04:03:00.033-05:00

So everyone in the blogosphere appears to be compiling top-ten lists of their can't-live-without-'em clothing and accessory items this week. It's interesting (and refreshing!) to see how the lists vary from author to author - we're always advised to stock up on the same hot-ticket staples (perfect jeans! LBD!), but what most style manuals fail to take into account is the effect of personal style on what defines the parameters of a "basic." I hate pants, so perfect jeans and well-cut work trousers would never garner a spot in my top ten; however; a ruffled silk dress and blue oxford shirt are two more nontraditional options that I find myself reaching for time and time again. Despite an unusual color or cut, these pieces have, indeed, become my closet's "basics" - and once you define yours, it's easy to see where you should invest your hard-earned cash (and makes those uncreative mornings about a thousand times easier).

1) Striped tee. I own three of these (black and white, yellow and white, and navy and cream) and find them to be incredibly comfortable and versatile. Nautical stripes are timeless, whether you're landlocked or on a boat, and this particular rendering is a chic European spin on the all-American t-shirt. Breton sweaters are lovely, but I prefer lightweight tees that can be worn in layers year-round (and find three-quarter sleeves to be the most flattering).

2) Riding boots. If your climate is even remotely chillier than tropical, you should own a pair of flat riding boots. They pair perfectly with dresses, leggings, jeans...even shorts in spring and early fall. Simultaneously athletic, bohemian, and classic, they are a true gift from the shoe gods.

3) Trench coat. What girl doesn't secretly want to embody even the slightest suggestion of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's? I prefer classic khaki, but I've seen beautiful renditions in every color, from periwinkle to punchy red. Waist-nipping, trend-proof and fabulously mysterious, the trench flatters literally everyone. Even better, it can be worn with nothing underneath for, uh...special occasions.

4) Aviators. Max Potter just walked into the coffee shop I'm at right now. She is wearing Ray-Ban aviators. 'Nuff said.

5) Two-tone men's watch. If you don't know by now that I'm obsessed with watches, you're either a first-time visitor or an Alzheimer's patient. Since I wear both gold and silver jewelry, I go for two-tone. And a men's watch looks fierce on a woman's wrist. Always has, always will.

6) Black high-waisted skirt. My shopping weakness. The item I will never be done buying. Seriously. I own, like, six; I could easily go shopping today and come home with an armful more. Of course there are variations - one is studded, one is leather, one is elegant and tulip-shaped, one is dangerously curve-hugging and reserved for when I need to pull out the big guns - but collecting black skirts of every silhouette and embellishment has become a sort of shopping sub-hobby.

7) CZ studs. Diamonds are a girl's best friend, but cubic zirconia is a broke college student's best friend. I'm not much of an earring person (I'd rather wear a big, colorful ring or a statement necklace), but I think bare ears (if pierced) look unfinished, so I usually default to these. A little sparkle above the neck makes for a more polished look without detracting from the rest of the ensemble.

8) Blue button-down. Crisp white shirts get all the praise, but I prefer pale blue - it's slightly off-kilter, doesn't show dirt, and is still neutral enough to wear with most other colors (my favorite combos being blue and gray and blue and peach). I like to roll the cuffs up to right above the elbow and wear it tucked into a high-waisted skirt, with skinny jeans and riding boots, or open over a dress in place of a cardigan.

9) Nude platform sandal. I refuse to buy shoes with spindly heels because I know I won't wear them, so when it comes to height, platforms are my best friend. A flesh-toned shade lengthens the leg line and can be worn with just about anything, day or night. These are by Prada, my favorite shoe designer/where all of my money will be going once I am employed full-time.

10) Flirty dress. I'm a sucker for anything silky and ruffled. A dress like this takes you from the the office (skinny belt and a cardigan) to a dinner date (strappy heels and loose hair) to drinks with girlfriends (stacked platforms and statement jewelry).

Runners-up: A quilted purse, a well-cut blazer, a yellow belt, a giant cocktail ring, and (sigh) perfect jeans (dark and skinny).

My basics are very revealing of my personal style: hyperfeminine, with a grounding in French classics (and ill-suited to cold climates) (FML). As all over the map as my outfits may be from day to day and season to season, these are the things I keep coming back to time and time again (and, quite honestly, the things I would wear every day if people wouldn't judge me for, you know, wearing the same thing every day). I'm all for experimentation, but it's always nice to have an understanding of what makes you tick deep down inside. Give it a few minutes of thought. The items you choose may surprise you.

Bang, bang, you're dead.

2010-03-29T21:44:00.021-05:00

Okay. I caved.

After coveting the look on everyone from chic Parisians to the hipsters who work at Urban Outfitters, I decided to join the ranks of the elite girls with bangs. Having not rocked a fringe since I was seven years old and styled myself after Velma Dinkley (yep...of Scooby Doo fame), I was a little nervous about whether or not my cheekbones and jawline would be up to the challenge.

Fortunately, I'm pretty sure I'm thrilled with the results. I'm also pretty sure I just entered a monogamous relationship with my hair straightener. ~*~BeStiEs~*~

Inspiration courtesy of Kate, Kim, Brigitte, and good old Jenny from the block.

If you have the urge to update your visage and the thick, straight locks and/or time to devote to maintenance, bangs make an instant statement without sacrificing the length you spent so long cultivating (unwittingly getting a bad haircut is a pain; consciously chopping it all off and instantly regretting it is a bitch). Additionally, bangs serve as an easy camouflage for overlarge foreheads, hairline acne, and more. Just don't make the mistake of going too short - ask for something that falls between your eyes and eyebrows initially, then have your hairstylist snip and angle you into the coif if your dreams.

Basically: Take risks. Spice up your look (and then spice up your life). It's what your youth is for. After all...it's only hair.

New at Urban! Or, Fashion Week for the broke.

2010-03-11T14:17:00.015-06:00

As amusing as it is to click through endless runway slideshows on Style.com, and as tantalizing as it is to live vicariously through personal style bloggers and their insane designer wardrobes, and as thrilling as it is to know that streams of fancy fashionistas have descended on ~~Bryant Park~~ Lincoln Center (I will never get over this) for Fashion Week...sometimes a girl needs a fix that's a bit closer to her own reality.

The Urban Outfitters spring catalog has arrived. Talk about catharsis. So much has been written on the subject of seasonal depression that I'm hesitant to add generic fuel to the fire, but having spent three months feeling chubby, pasty, and depressed, I'm thrilled to welcome airy sundresses - or at least trenches and open-toed shoes - back into my sartorial psyche.

I saw these two dresses and instantly knew I had to have them. My back is my favorite part of my body, so rear cutouts, scoops and detailing have become a mainstay of my personal style (see here and here). I've been waiting to debut them once the weather gets a bit more cooperative/my body deflates from three months of hibernation, but just knowing that they're hanging in my closet makes life - wait for it - a little sunnier.

Boyfriend khakis have catapulted to the top of my spring shopping list. I'll probably try my luck at Village Discount with somebody's real boyfriend's cast-offs first, but the slim cut and lack of baggy crotch on these has me sorely tempted.

Stripes. They somehow manage to be classic and quirky all at once. It's the combination of a gamine print in a feminine cut that makes these two cardigans so appealing.

High-waisted skirts are timelessly pretty and flattering for all body types. And for the tomboys among us:

Flirty shorts present an alternative perfect for sprinting down the beach. Love the vintage-inspired clutch, too!

This is what I imagine Carrie Bradshaw wears to bed.

A camera case that isn't masculine, utilitarian, or both?! You could probably fit your lip gloss, license, and keys in there, too.

Much like this season's clothes, this season's bags are slouchy and neutral. Soft leather, linen, and canvas reign supreme.

And every girl needs:

A French terry pullover.

A breezy white camisole.

And a fabulous khaki trench to wear year after year.

Season's greetings!

Double vision. But seriously.

2010-02-23T15:10:00.010-06:00

Am I psychic?

No sooner had I predicted doubled-up frames than I found them staring up at me from the pages of InStyle. These are by Dolce & Gabbana. I appreciate the innovation and the restricted color palette, but I wonder if the second set of frames would be like that piece of glitter stuck to your cheek that's always in your peripheral vision? You know what I'm talking about. The worst.

I think I'll be sticking with my classic aviators, but good to know these are out there satisfying some need for someone, somewhere. (The same cannot be said for Crocs.)

Double vision.

2010-02-17T13:24:00.009-06:00

They say two heads are better than one, but who says heads should have all the fun? Lately, some of my favorite accessories have been cropping up in pairs.

Basic pashminas are a staple for any season. But if you're tiring of the same old solids, try a mishmashed look à la Jane Aldridge in the above photo. I'm pretty sure Jane is just wearing one two-tone scarf, but a similar effect can be achieved by winding two pashminas together: simply line up the ends and wrap as you normally would. Not only does the double dose of color lend some depth to your outfit, but two times the fabric also equals two times the protection against that bitchy Chicago wind (or East Coast tempest, to keep things topical).

My watch fetish has been placed on a temporary hold due to the healing of my new tattoo (avert your eyes, Mom!), but I'm itching to give the look of doubled-up tickers a try (seen here on Andy Torres). Don't just throw on any two watches, though: keep them in the same stylistic and color families. Antique-y leather worn against futuristic plastic will leave you looking like you got dressed in the dark.

What's next? Double sunglasses? A purse on each shoulder? Maybe. For now, though, let's leave those stunts to Gaga.

McQueen has McQuit.

2010-02-11T12:05:00.009-06:00

Designer Lee McQueen (of Alexander McQueen) was found dead today in an apparent suicide.

I often feel that celebrity deaths are blown out of proportion. Maybe it's because I don't completely buy into pop culture, but I have a hard time feeling anything beyond an initial "Wow...really?" when I hear about another "tragic" celebrity death. Of course it's difficult for the families, but no more difficult than it is for any other family going through a personal loss. If anything makes semi-public grieving a harder pill to swallow, it's the paparazzi. Not the loss itself. All human lives end with equal gravity.

For the greater population, the only thing we have the right to mourn, the only thing that gives us the right to tweet en masse about the "tragedy" of it all, is the loss of potential. That I understand. It's the unexpected yanking away of an artist who could have turned out a work with such innovation and power to inspire that we will unknowingly suffer for not having seen it come to fruition. Heath Ledger, for example. Brilliant actor at the peak of his career. Heath Ledger's death was tragic. I realize that what I'm about to say will be controversial, but: Michael Jackson? He was the King of Pop. He changed American music immeasurably. But he lived a life full of self-hatred and public controversy. He hadn't put out a record in almost a decade, and even that was negligible in its musical impact. I would never say that Michael's life wasn't worth commemorating - even celebrating - but that, at least, felt a bit more like how things were supposed to end.

Anyway. I would be lying if I said that McQueen was one of my favorite designers, but as someone who has always applauded people who take risks over people who achieve so-called "perfection" (I mean, my style icon is fictional fashion nutjob Carrie Bradshaw), I think that his loss to the artistic community is a great one. Dubbed l'enfant terrible for his outspoken nature and his theatrical, risk-embracing approach to fashion design, he consistently brought fresh perspective to an industry that largely makes its buck off of recycled ideas. What takes the tragedy of McQueen's death to a whole new level is, of course, its supposed nature. Having dealt personally with losing friends to suicide, I never find the notion of it any easier to wrap my head around.

No one should ever feel like they have no other option.

I don't follow Alexander McQueen closely enough to give comprehensive highlights of his career, but this tulle and tartan confection is always the first thing that springs to mind when I hear his name (that's the designer himself posing with Sarah Jessica Parker). It's a little out there, but without question one of the more memorable red carpet looks of the '00s. If you'd like a bit more insight into McQueen's aesthetic, watch the "Bad Romance" video: Gaga is clad almost entirely in McQueen throughout.

Rest in peace, Lee McQueen. You will be dearly missed by the fashion community. All the best to your friends and family.

Moist. Yeah, I said it.

2010-02-08T11:39:00.015-06:00

When did "moist" become the most loathed word in the American vernacular? A mere spoken reference to the five-letter lexeme elicited literal shudders from the table of sorority girls I just ate lunch with. Personally, I think it has something to do with the fact that "moist" shares so many letters with "mayonnaise" (ew), but a quality so prized in everything from skin to baked goods should be met with a bit more geniality.

So moisture, then, for the squeamish: so important. Especially at this time of year. Ask any dermatologist how to combat premature aging and it always comes back to H2O and SPF, preferably combined into one non-greasy, adorably marketed package. Based on what I've gleaned over the years from both hearsay and experience, an ideal moisturizing routine is composed of three parts: a lightweight facial moisturizer for morning, a more sumptuous facial moisturizer for night, and a body lotion of your choosing.

For the past two years, I've started each day with Philosophy Hope In A Jar. The formula is lightweight, silky, odorless...and, unfortunately, SPF-free. Philosophy does make a version of the cult favorite with sun protection, but I wasn't a fan of my Sephora sample: the barely-there texture I love in the original had mutated into a sticky, oily, (dare I say it?) mayonnaise-y mess that separated into oil and lotion while still in the jar. Delightful. Anyway, I'm still on the market for a moisturizer with SPF, but the texture of this one is the best I've found for the quick turnaround time between moisturizer and loose powder.

At night, on the other hand, there's no need to worry about looking a little shiny; a thicker formula allows deep healing to take place while you sleep. Lancôme Absolue Premium Bx is my choice product for evening. I got it as a free sample once and quickly became hooked, probably more out of laziness than anything else...but it works. It works, people. According to the product website, Allure gave it an award, so if you don't believe me, believe them. It feels a little filmy going on, but don't mistake intense moisture therapy for grease. Your skin is more likely to overcompensate with oil production when dry, which in turn causes you to break out.

As far as I'm concerned, the face is the money. That's where you should spend your money. If your legs are dry, hair conditioner will do in a pinch; but if you do have a disposable income lying around to lavish upon those ashy, ashy elbows, here are a few of my favorite products:

Vaseline Cocoa Butter Vitalizing Gel is a recent discovery that has quickly become a staple in my post-bathing routine. It's oil-based, so if you take morning showers, proceed with caution: apply too much and you might be looking at a hefty dry-cleaning bill. If you bathe at night, resign yourself to the fact that you're going to want to spend all night rubbing your legs sensually against one another (or, if you're lucky, someone else's). The gel smells and looks like summer; rub a little on your shoulders before going out to achieve that oh-so-photogenic sun-kissed sheen. Bye-bye, rosacea!

The name of DuWop Buttercream more or less speaks for itself: this stuff literally smells like frosting. Think of it as a grown-up alternative to Warm Vanilla Sugar. The downside? The price. A bottle runs out relatively quickly, so think carefully about which days you want to smell like a cupcake.

For penny pinchers, Victoria's Secret's Amber Romance line is always a winner. Though I often don't understand their product distinctions (body butter, body lotion, body cream?), the smell is sweet without being sickly and couples nicely with woody oriental fragrances (or holds its own for a seductive night in).

But that's just me. Any other winners? Any solutions to my SPF-less-ness?

X marks the spot.

2010-02-02T05:30:00.007-06:00

So I meant to post this for National Lady Gaga Day last Friday, but can we please talk about this Gaga spread from Out? It's from last September, but I just stumbled across it via The Cut.

I just died. It's so artsy. It's so naked. It's so Gaga. I'm obsessed. Major props to photographer Ellen Von Unwerth and stylist Nicola Formichetti (of Haus of Gaga) for capturing this envelope-pusher with all of the shock factor her public persona demands and deserves.

Everything will be coming up roses...in just a few more lunar cycles.

2010-01-28T11:39:00.013-06:00

Why is it that I always find myself thinking, "I just have to get through this week. This week is my hard week, and then I'm golden," yet the so-called "easy week" never seems to come? God bless the quarter system.

That was my feeble attempt at a disclaimer for the fact that this is basically unadulterated spring fashion porn. I'm sick of windburn and layering...I just want to look pretty. If your Seasonal Affective Disorder is in full force, consider this a reminder that there is, in fact, a light at the end of the tunnel:

Blazer: Apiece Apart.
Dress: Dolce Vita.
Shoes: Miu Miu.
Watch: ASOS.
Clutch: Sondra Roberts.

A few things to marinate on: Feminine meets masculine. Hard meets soft. Snakeskin. Rose gold. Floral accents.

Simmer away. I'll be in touch.

Just pulling your leggings.

2010-01-20T18:00:00.015-06:00

Ask any follower of fashion about the most controversial issue currently plaguing our nation, and chances are you won't hear some formulaic tirade on health care reform or the newly elected senator of Massachusetts. (Disclaimer: I am not trivializing these things. This is a fashion blog. You can find somewhere else to air that dirty laundry.). Instead, you'll hear a formulaic tirade on a debate that has been brewing since long before Michelle's toned arms registered a blip on our national radar: are leggings (workout staple-cum-darling of catwalk and sidewalk) a privilege, a right, or a bar none fashion faux pas?

The most interesting thing about this debate is our tendency to oversimplify it into a mere question of categorization. We all have that aggressively opinionated friend (Deanna): "I don't care how skinny you are. Leggings are not pants. They just aren’t." I hate to break it to you, haters, but leggings are pants. Dictionary.com defines pants as "an outer garment for covering the body from the waist to the ankles, divided into sections to fit each leg separately," so by definition, leggings are an acceptable pants substitute. You heard it here: leggings are literally pants. Case closed.

But the question, then, takes a far more inward turn: should I wear leggings? Is it in my best interests (and the best interests of the innocent bystanders who are going to have to look at me all day) to do so? It would be ridiculous to say that pants with tapered ankles aren't pants, or that pants a size too small for you aren't pants. But do I recommend that the unfettered masses take those looks out for a spin? Hell no. The key to looking chic has always been to wear what flatters your body, and leggings happen to offer a little less leeway than, say, an A-line skirt or a pair of straight-legged jeans.

So let’s instead define that boundary with a simple litmus test. Stand up. Jog a few steps. If you can feel the cushiony part of your rump bounce independently from the rest of your body, the only place you should be wearing leggings is to the gym. (And that’s not to say your lady lumps aren’t hot. Is Christina Hendricks gorgeous? Duh. Does she run around in leggings? No, and to her credit.) The line is a fuzzy one: in-between territory can be tough (holla atcha, sixes!) and becomes more of a matter of confidence. If you think you “can’t pull off” leggings as pants, you probably can’t. If you have a feeling you just might be able to rock the look, wear them with heels for a little extra lift.

Having said all this, I love the look of leggings when worn appropriately (that is, with a shirt that’s not a crop top; the ‘80s may be back in vogue, but they are definitely over). Like skinny jeans, leggings provide an excuse to play with more billowy upper-body proportions, and, as such, pair well with the boyfriend shirts/tees/jackets we’ve been seeing these past few seasons. Texture is another variable ripe for experimentation (I’m a major proponent of the Shiny Leggings from American Apparel in Lamé Matte Black; their visage hovers somewhere between leather and sparkly mica). As for spring's jeggings? Use your judgment. Personally, I think jeans and leggings are great, but I’d rather wear them separately. Don't all those seams and rivets look lumpy in such a tight cut?

I’ll leave you with a few inspiration shots from "collective fashion consciousness" Lookbook.nu. For day:

For night:

And for weekend:

However, even by modern standards, wearing leggings to the office might be a bit of a stretch.

The only thing better than blue velvet? Red velvet [cake, in my belly].

2010-01-01T21:22:00.024-06:00

My Balmain-meets-Chanel look for New Year's Eve '09:

Let's talk resolutions. In theory, they're positive, allowing us to imagine happier, healthier, more successful versions of ourselves. But all too often, resolutions stem from somewhere a little less bright and shiny: nagging reminders of our dissatisfaction with the way we already are, of our failures thus far. Even today, as I sat down to write my annual manifesto of self-improvement, I found myself zoning in on my shortcomings rather than the many ways I've grown (or literally shrank) in the past year.

So if I can say one thing to everyone who passes through this blog (thank you so much, by the way, for reading), it's this: forgive yourself. January 1 might be just another date on the calendar, but using it as an excuse to start fresh isn't silly or quixotic. Set goals. Set deadlines. And if you can only stand to make one resolution, make it this: start believing that you're the shit. If you ever come to a point where there's nothing about you that needs improvement, you're in trouble. My girl Miley said it best this year. It's all about the climb.

Some major changes to La Vie en Ginger are in the works; most notably, more personal style posts (read: self-indulgent photographs) and more frequent updates. I love hearing from people who actually read this thing, so keep the feedback coming. Tell me what you like. Tell me what you want to hear more of. Tell me why ain't nothing but a heartache/ain't nothing but a mistake/I never wanna hear you say "I want it that way," (seriously, Nick Carter, what happened to you?).

Happy new year! I hope your night sparkled like fireworks.

Dress: Topshop (Bought it!).
Tights: L'eggs.
Shoes: Dollhouse.
Necklaces and ring: Inherited.

Watch this!

2009-12-26T09:09:00.012-06:00

A magpie-like jewelry-hoarding gene runs through my family line, much like red hair or emotional eating. My mother collects silver bracelets. My sister is the queen of small, sparkly earrings. My grandmother was the ultimate jewelry fanatic, boasting a collection of baubles that rivals that of some museums (much of which I was fortunate enough to inherit). As for me, my downfalls have always been cocktail rings and wristwatches, the latter of which I honestly believe to be the easiest way to look instantly pulled-together, even in the event of the most classic (read: boring) outfit. Never mind that most of my watches are broken and permanently set to 5pm (happy hour!). If I don't have a watch on, I feel naked.

My watch collection is extensive, but fairly simple: each piece consists of either a two-tone combination of gold and silver or one of the aforementioned metals paired with a leather strap. A bit of opalescent color or an odd shape on the face is about as crazy as I go. Lately, though, one of my favorite fashion bloggers, stylist/designer Andy Torres, has gotten me hooked on neon plastic, the likes of which I haven't worn since the heyday of the Casio Baby-G in the late '90s.

I love the pop of color her watches lend her outfits. Even when paired with nicer jewelry, they don't look tacky or cheap; just youthful and pleasantly unexpected.

Itching to test-drive the look? Here are a few of my favorite styles from California brand Nixon:

The article no magazine will ever publish.

2009-12-25T23:21:00.008-06:00

Magazines occasionally stress me out. Like, I love them. I devour them. But as someone who wants to spend my life making them, I feel like I need to savor every last morsel of Harper's Bazaar and Elle, gleaning from each page what I enjoy and what I hope to imitate in my own writing and wardrobe. I buy them in bulk at the drugstore, sit down with a steaming mug of wild cherry green tea and read them cover to cover, dog-earing pages to denote looks I want to copy or references I want to check. No halfhearted treadmill skimming for me: where a normal person might flick lazily through an editorial, I am studying the fine print names of stylists and photographers, testing myself to see if I recognize designer pieces from their respective runways. I attack magazines with the same fervor my more literary fellow English majors attack Joyce and Tolstoy. So it seems only fitting that I have, as a result, acquired a similar level of surface expertise.

There's a fairly wide smorgasbord of magazines out there, enough to target a fairly wide audience of potential readers. To read them all would be time-consuming and costly. Apart from an element of style, what do you look for in your magazine experience? Celebrity culture? Current events? As the end of the calendar year (and likely end of your subscription) draws near, consider the menu of options hovering at the forefront of the industry: the good reads and the guilty pleasures. Which publication was made for you?

If you want to draw inspiration from impeccable photo spreads full of things you will never be able to afford: Vogue. There's a reason this magazine is often cited as #1. Aesthetically, Vogue is virtually flawless. Creatively, it's also the most forward-thinking; the number of designers, models, and photographers discovered and nurtured by Vogue is astounding (chicken or egg: did Vogue pick up on their raw talent, or did we decide they must be talented because Vogue thought so?). However, being on top comes with a flip side: in this case, a snootiness that makes Vogue a bit inaccessible to anyone who isn't a) extremely knowledgeable about fashion or b) rolling in the Benjamins. Steel yourself to see a $400 top described as "a steal." This is a place to gather ideas, not to compile a shopping list.

If you want to literally see something in a magazine, then go buy it: Lucky. Pretty much the opposite of Vogue. Not a ton of high fashion happening here, but if you want to save yourself the energy of synthesizing runway trends and just see a well-executed take on what you might actually be able to add to your wardrobe, this is the mag for you. Perfect for those who like to look current but aren't particularly interested in devoting a lot of time to personal style. Lucky is an easy read full of great deals, with a well-developed online sector positively overflowing with coupons and giveaways.

If you want to read articles that will make you think about fashion in a whole new way: Harper's Bazaar. Provocative, sweeping, sophisticated yet tongue-in-cheek. Think Vogue with a bit more irony. Similarly focused on couture but with arguably more attention paid to written content, Harper's Bazaar is Vogue's biggest rival (and wins my prize for number of covetous gasps elicited per issue). Not the best choice to flip through while waiting to get your hair cut; Bazaar's wit demands a focus from its readers that may or may not be your cup of tea.

If you want to feed your intellect at the same time you indulge your materialistic side: Elle. One thing's for sure: Elle is not afraid of words. If you're into fashion, but just as into literature and the state of your soul, Elle is a savvier take on the classic women's magazine. Don your most geek-chic pair of glasses and spend an afternoon poring over it in a coffee shop, but don't try and take it on the treadmill. Check out one of my favorite articles from the last issue here.

If you want to put your consumerism in the context of what's happening in the world: Vanity Fair. Best summed up by its own Google summary: "From world affairs to entertainment, business to fashion, crime to society, Vanity Fair is a cultural catalyst that drives the popular dialogue globally." So there you go. Issues! Politics! You may like fashion, but you're not shallow! You're informed! Go forth and prosper, Michelle Obamas of the world!

If you want to see how the other half lives: InStyle. InStyle has a not-entirely-deserved reputation as being geared toward more mature readers. This stigma aside (and really, I love InStyle and think it has plenty to say that is relevant to us young ones), their big thing is celebrity culture - not in a trashy US Weekly kind of way, but more in the vein of red carpet coverage and celebrity home tours. For the fashionista who is enthralled by famous faces, InStyle is a cocktail of sartorial splendor and superstars.

If clothes are fine...but really you're all about the make-up: Allure. Speaks for itself.

If clothes are fine...but really you're all about the men: Cosmopolitan. Also speaks for itself. Find out how to please him. Many times over.

If you don't take life (or fashion) too seriously: Glamour. The perfect potpourri of fashion finds, empowering tidbits, heartwarming stories and boy advice. Reading Glamour is like having a conversation with your "rah-rah, girl power!" best friend. Funny. Satisfying. Glamour might be a Jack of all trades and a master of none, but it's a pretty damn good Jack.

There are several more that I feel unfit to judge due to lack of experience (W, Nylon, and Marie Claire spring to mind). Any thoughts, peanut gallery?

So there you have it. Be picky with your readership, but remember that each publication requires an intense amount of manpower and creativity to come to fruition each month. Let's give all those magazine-makers out there a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

The ultimate stress relief.

2009-12-06T22:37:00.007-06:00

In honor of finals, La Vie en Ginger would like to break with its usual aesthetic to present you with this:

That exam might be a bitch, but somewhere in the world...this puppy exists.

Have your cookies and eat them too.

2009-12-06T12:17:00.001-06:00

Christmas? Love it. The overabundance of baked goods is just one reason we look forward to the holidays all year long.

But nothing ruins a showstopping party dress quite like cookie weight. Save yourself the guilt trip: indulge! Then break a sweat as often as you can stand to balance it out. Whether you're rushing from the gym to a final exam to a holiday bash (or simply looking to clean up après-ski at Winter Park), here are a few products to take you from abominable snow monster to ice princess in no time flat.

"Ojon" means "the people of beautiful hair." I am inclined to agree with this translation. Ojon Rub-Out Dry Cleanser is a must for any girl with fine locks that start to look limp and/or greasy quickly. Meant to be used as a pick-me-up between washes, I also use it as a volumizer on just-washed hair. Warning: these cans clog easily, so shake vigorously before using. I would also recommend buying the travel size; if it does clog up on you, that's less product wasted (although I've heard Sephora will switch out a clogged can). There's also a strong, baby-powdery smell associated with the spray...but seeing as this is a product that all but encourages not bathing, you could probably use a little freshening in the scent department.

Speaking of scents: when was the last time you felt passionately about your deodorant? Yeah, that's what I thought. We settle for "functional," content to breathe generic florals every time we cock our heads too far to the side. No more. If you worship at the altar of vanilla, Ban Vanilla Twist is a stick that not only keeps you from smelling bad, but actively contributes toward you smelling good. And the homey aroma lasts all day.

"Shiny" is a great adjective when it comes to healthy hair or anything sequinned. Not so much when it comes to your face. With scents like green tea, lavender and rose, Boscia Blotting Linens go above and beyond the call of merely reducing oil and enter the realm of therapeutic experiences. Dab your face and inhale after a tough workout. Just make sure you have a place to toss that alarmingly soaked sheet when you're through.

This ain't no Neverland Ranch, but...

2009-11-29T22:27:00.008-06:00

Little boys have a lot to offer us. Particularly in the wardrobe department. If you're a frequenter of department stores like Target and Wal-Mart (Fun fact: I am Wal-Mart royalty. My uncle is David Glass*, former company President/C.E.O.), make a pit stop in the kids' section for cheap thrills on perennial classics.

Button-downs. Perfectly slim-cut oxfords for under $20 a pop? Yes, please. Earlier today I scored two plaid flannels at Target for $12.99 apiece. That's as good as it gets outside of a thrift store, folks (and I'm going to go ahead and still award myself some indie points for shopping creatively). Bonus: these clothes are designed for males who are pre-gender identity crisis, so you're likely to find great colors like deep purple and salmon pink amidst the racks.

Undershirts. Three words. White. Ribbed. Tanks. Wear them with and under everything.

Blazers. One of my most-complimented wardrobe items is a navy blue little boys' suit jacket. That one actually did come from a thrift store, but the same look can be achieved via discount retail. Aim for one that closes across the chest but maintains that adorably shrunken silhouette in sleeve length; your slender wrist bedecked in a vintage watch, clunky chain or delicate bangle is what keeps the whole look feminine.

Khakis. Before you snicker - yes, they will be incredibly short - roll the cuffs a few times and pair them with a chic blouse, a skinny belt and a killer pair of heels. Still laughing?

No need to let your credit take the fall on these basics. These are tough times, dumplings. Brooks Brothers will still be there after the recession.

Have a swell Cyber Monday!

* That's right, I'm related to a man who once proclaimed in response to child labor accusations that since Asians are quite short, you can't always tell how old they are. WHAT. A. CHAMP.

I cannot text you with a drink in my hand.

2009-11-25T23:02:00.015-06:00

No, you're not crazy: La Vie got a facelift. Do you dig it? Is it ruining your life? Holler at your girl.

So anyone who has spent a decent amount of time with me lately is all too aware that I am gaga for Gaga. I'm her biggest fan, I'll follow her until she loves me...you know. The works.

After receiving her new EP a few days early from fellow gaga-roupie Tracey, I'm gonna go ahead and give it my stamp of embarrassingly-high-iTunes-play count approval. My current obsession is "Telephone" (not to be confused with "Videophone," Gaga's other, lesser duet with Beyoncé), a night-out anthem in the vein of "Poker Face" that showcases Gaga's vocal chops as well as her ability to jog my ass out of my computer chair. Other standouts include the 1980s-esque "Dance In The Dark," creepy electro-ballad "Monster," and a silly but catchy tune by the name of "Alejandro." I wasn't even going to mention "Bad Romance," which I'm assuming you already know is life-changing. But just in case:

Real life versus reel life: The insider scoop.

2009-11-23T13:41:00.021-06:00

So let me preface this by saying: I have the best internship ever. Ever. I spend two days a week at a prominent fashion/lifestyle magazine in Chicago, and I couldn’t be more obsessed. “Oh, Emma, I’m so sorry,” they say, “We have another celebrity interview for you to transcribe today. Also, can you help staff a gala at the Museum of Contemporary Art Thursday night?” Sorry? You’re sorry? One man’s bitch work is another man’s jackpot. I’m sure I won’t always be this wide-eyed, but for now it’s all I could ask for. They even let me write stories for the mag (my first full-pager comes out next month). It might technically be an unpaid internship, but when you’re an aspiring freelance writer, published clips are your currency.

But how does life in the magazine industry stack up against one of my favorite fashion movies, The Devil Wears Prada? While our editor-in-chief is blonde and bubbly and so not Miranda Priestley (I’ve totally ridden the elevator with her before), not all onscreen portrayals are mythical. Here’s the juice on a few of the perks and perils of working on the other side of the printing press.

"Florals? For spring? Groundbreaking." Have you worn a backless leotard or shiny magenta leggings to work lately? True to form, fashion risks are encouraged here: the general aesthetic is casual but put-together. Concocting a worthy ensemble may be more time-consuming than shimmying into a blazer and a pressed white blouse (or skinny jeans and a North Face, for that matter), but I relish the excuse to experiment. So does my disproportionately large collection of stiletto heels.

"You do know that cellulite is one of the main ingredients in corn chowder." Here’s why people in fashion are so skinny: they’re embarrassed to eat in front of each other. Even an intern at a Midwest regional publication is not immune to caloric scrutiny. I was diving into a bag of cheddar-and-caramel popcorn for energy after a virtual all-nighter when a charmingly snarky editor from the men’s department passed behind me and muttered “Well that’s a healthy breakfast!” Wow. Wow. And I usually bring apples and yogurt, too. I half-expected him to start calling me “Six.”

"You are in desperate need of Chanel." While we don’t have a Runway-style fashion closet, freebies do pop up every now and then. I’ve snagged a couple of beauty products and a pair of designer socks just by being in the right place at the right time (and seen some stunning Neiman Marcus samples pass by on the racks).

"I have Patrick!" Celebrity encounters: inevitable. I didn’t think I could top the day Clinton Kelly (of What Not To Wear) gestured at my outfit and howled “What is this? I love this!” at Northwestern’s Homecoming parade my freshman year. Then Michael Kors told me I looked chic. I’m pretty sure the existence of this blog was just legitimized.

"I’m sorry, do you have some prior commitment? Some hideous skirt convention you have to go to?" Camaraderie among the interns is significantly higher than that of personal assistants Andrea and Emily. The girl who shares my station is almost too polite. She asks for my permission every time she wants to use the phone. Um, yes? Actually, maybe I only think there’s camaraderie because I’m the Emily. Whoops.

"Please bore someone else with your questions." Complete and utter falsehood. My boss actually asks me if I want Starbucks when she runs out. I would be naïve to believe that I’ll always be working under such supportive people, but I’m going to go ahead and enjoy my good luck for now. I might sort editorial mail, but I’m not chasing down unpublished Twilight manuscripts.

"A million girls would kill for this job." Okay, okay. I don’t get paid. But I do get to write for one of the largest city audiences in the country. Probably the harshest reality of writing for a magazine is the vicious editing that goes on between the drafts I send in and the published products: one of my articles was so drastically altered, I was shocked I still had a byline. When you write for a blog, it’s all you. When you write for a magazine, it’s all them. The final product usually still turns out to be quality - maybe better than what you had in the first place - but it can be frustrating to watch your voice disappear.

Anyway. If there’s one thing this internship has confirmed, it’s that I appear to be on the right track. This is just the beginning of what I hope will be a long and colorful career in this (supposedly dying?) industry. Will working for a national magazine be closer to what we see in theaters? Only time will tell.

Bodycon-oisseur.

2009-11-18T15:33:00.018-06:00

In fifth grade, my favorite outfit was as follows: a lime green crushed velvet boatneck worn with leopard-print pants (both from Limited Too, duh) and a cropped leather jacket.

Today, at age 20, I am at this moment drooling over: a midnight blue crushed velvet bodycon dress worn with a leopard-print silk scarf (both from Topshop, duh) and a cropped leather jacket.

That's right, bitches. Velvet is back, and with none of the prissiness it had in the '90s. You can thank Balmain's Christophe Decarnin (the man who singlehandedly revived the shoulder pad) for its new incarnation: curve-hugging bodycon dresses made for nights out in Arctic conditions.

Controversial fabric aside - I adore velvet, personally, but I understand if you've filed it away with platform Skechers and popcorn shirts - let's talk about the cut. While bodycon dressing does require a degree of general fitness and proportionality, a slim-cut silhouette is far less intimidating than you might imagine. There may not be much of a margin for poochiness, but there's also no extra bulk added by the fabric, so if you've got confidence (and a reasonably flat stomach) there's no reason you can't pull it off. Long sleeves and a short hemline mean that allure needn't come at the cost of warmth; your gams will be just as catcall-worthy under a pair of black tights (choose sheer, not opaque, for maximum exposure).

If velvet's not your scene, epaulets provide an equally up-to-the-minute embellishment. They're like the Kate Bosworth of shoulder pads: kind of frail and spindly, but not unattractive. Am I right? Am I right?

Whatever. Both dresses make me want to sit in a swanky city bar and sip amaretto hot chocolate as I watch snow fall through a picture window. Now if only I had a Nate Archibald (or a Trip Vanderbilt) to keep my Serena van der Woodsen company...

From Russia with love.

2009-11-16T20:19:00.016-06:00

So. Here's the story:

a) The photograph is courtesy of French fashionista Garance Doré, whose self-titled blog is always brimming with charm and inspiration. Her boyfriend is street-style photographer Scott Schuman. Perhaps you know him as "The Sartorialist." Yes, really.

b) PETA might come after me with paint cans (I'm one of those morally confused vegetarians who's involved in a torrid love affair with leather), but I would slap a fur trapper onto the list of Winter '10 essentials. These czarina-worthy chapeaux add a rich, cozy touch to otherwise austere outerwear. Whether yours is made of mink or, uh, synthetic materials, stick to satin lining for minimal hat hair. A subtle silvery sheen renders this look its most modern. Earflaps? Up to you.

c) Dear Girl In Picture, if you happen to stumble across this blog, please send me the name of the person who does your hair. Sincerely, Emma Aubry. P.S. Love the black and navy. Not sarcasm. Actually my favorite color combination since seafoam and silver.

Leather or not.

2009-11-14T15:31:00.012-06:00

Forget easily snagged knits and fingerless gloves (the most useless invention since motorized mascara). This year's outerwear is a leather lover's paradise, and it's not all bikers and bondage, either. Punchy colors and ladylike accents such as bows and shirring make leather accessible to even the girliest of girls.

These four pairs are from Dents, an English brand available through ASOS, but variations on the basic leather driving glove can be found everywhere from Target to Banana Republic. This winter, hide your manicure in a sleeve that's a little bit tasteful, a little bit tough. Who says your circulation has to suffer for fashion?

Ridin' flirty.

2009-11-13T10:38:00.009-06:00

The perfect pair of flat boots has long been the linchpin to a complete winter wardrobe. Neutral colors like black, brown and gray match everything in your closet, justifying the investment, while metal details such as buckles and studs cater to your personal style.

I've been on the lookout for a new pair ever since my chocolate leather riding boots (purchased, irreplaceably, in Italy) bit the dust (for the sixth time...replacing a zipper is one thing, replacing a sole is another). These Frye clover-tab stompers are the first I've truly fallen in love with. Wear them with yesterday's sweater, skinny jeans and a colorful pashmina for a posh holiday shopping outfit that won't drown you in your own sweat the moment you step out of the chill and into a cozy department store.

My favorite kind of mafia.

2009-11-12T15:04:00.003-06:00

Here's a true story: I just threw back my head, moaned, and screamed (much to the alarm of my roommate, Danielle) "I just want cashmere so badly right now!"

Chicago is in the midst of a rare and precious Indian summer, but all I can think about is snow. I've had Pandora's "Jazz Holidays" on rotation for a solid month now (seriously, isn't Danielle a lucky girl?), as if I could force winter weather to arrive through sheer willpower. We've had our share of cold - that record-breaking month of freezing rain won't soon be forgotten, not by my sad Sue London ballet flats that were purchased in September and are already in pieces - but I've always felt that where chilly and wet are concerned, snow trumps rain by a long shot. I think it stems back to childhood associations. Snow meant no school and hot cocoa with marshmallows. Rain meant a bad hair day.

But guys. It's coming. Bone-rattling gusts off Lake Michigan and literal feet of frozen goodness will be here before you know it, so don't let them catch you unawares. Begin rounding up the essentials now. La Vie en Ginger presents Winter Weather Week, kicked off with an item so classic your mother might have one in her closet (but don't hold that against me):

I would swap a kidney for a pile of J. Crew cashmere tees right now. I'm actually only half-kidding. Nothing feels better against dry skin than cashmere (not that there's any excuse for dry skin...I've got a great tag-team moisturizing regimen that I'll elaborate on some other time); nothing layers better over a white t-shirt. This is the single most versatile item of clothing to have in a winter wardrobe, other than perhaps a well-cut pair of jeans. But that's hardly seasonal.

Don't be fooled by your own thriftiness. Cashmere does come in grades, and a cheap cashmere blend is likely to pill after only a few wears (like two heads, two-ply is better than one). Pay close mind to the drape and feel of your cashmere: it should feel luxurious, but anything too soft (read: thick with surface fuzz) is a fickle friend. Neckline is a matter of personal preference. V-necks are flattering - they elongate neck and body lines - but a boyish crew-cut is trendier (and more conducive to a toasty sternum). Shivering, goosebumped décolletage is never sexy. Trust me, pals. I've done the research.

You've got a really nice profile.

2009-11-06T14:24:00.043-06:00

Facebook. A hotbed for judgment. The "Don't"s are easy enough to figure out: nobody wants to be the guy with the emo status updates every fifteen minutes; nobody wants to be the girl who posts (or worse, tags) a zillion Photobooth glamour shots of questionable attractiveness. Nobody wants to be caught with a band in their Favorite Music section that other people have heard of. Certain rules of social networking go without saying.

But what about the "Do"s? How do you send a message to your friends (and that rando you sat by in high school math class) that you are witty, pretty, and gritty enough to warrant their attention? I'll tell you this: the runway ain't the only place trends are born. Arm yourself against the disgrace of being caught with last season's profile. Consider this your Bible to handling your digital self with aplomb.

General Notes: Capitalization is a personal choice; proper punctuation is not. If you want to be Facebook trendy, you should probably avoid ending sentences with anything other than a period. One exclamation point? Reserved for extreme situations. Multiple exclamation points? The kiss of death. Also treacherous: hearts, emoticons and anything cutesy. You, may, however, make ironic use of ~*~aStEriSkS aNd TiLdEs~*~ when it is clear you are mocking people who use these symbols in earnest.

Profile Picture: Sure, it's tempting to slap up a photo of you rocking the Skinny Arm and a cleavage-baring top. But the true Facebook champs are all about the candid (or "candid") shot. Three points if you're not looking at the camera; five points if your hair is in front of your face; ten points for a jutting collarbone. Bad lighting is also crucial. A glass of wine is the only appropriate alcoholic beverage for a profile picture, and even then, holding it must never look like a conscious decision. If you're going to have people other than you in your photo, make sure they look good (but not better than you). If you must display the poster for a show or Greek philanthropy, delete it from your album immediately after it's over.

Status: Only when necessary, only when promoting something, only when so side-splittingly hilarious that it must be shared with all of your "friends." Never betraying actual emotion. Never when detailing the mundanities of your day. Never about the weather (we know).

That Awkward Little Box Under Your Photo: The hippest of the hip leave it empty. The next-hippest write either a quote, song lyric or inside joke that is incomprehensible to the greater population because it is a) uncredited to the original author/speaker or b) in another language.

Basic Information: Less is more: include only your birthday and hometown, if possible (but if you're a boy and don't list anything under Interested In, don't be surprised when people assume you're gay, particularly if your political views are "Very Liberal"). Under no circumstances is "Random Play" an acceptable response to Looking For. When it comes to Political and Religious Views, think carefully about the kind of image you want to project to the world. Post your real ones if you must (though people who care will know them anyway), but be prepared to look like an asshole if you list something like "Baby Pandas" or a YouTube link to "Single Ladies."

Personal Information: This is your time to shine on an otherwise minimalist page. To take full advantage, list only that which is unique to you, particularly in the Interests section. Here are two examples of appropriately trendy Facebook profiles, reproduced with the permission of their owners:

Clean. Clever. Indie. Intelligent. This girl has piqued your interest without giving too much of herself away. This next approach, on the other hand, leaves a bit less to the imagination:

I don't generally endorse Facebooks that can't be contained by a screenshot, but this one is well-written enough to warrant an exception. If you're going to make us read all of that, it had better be damn good. If you have more than ten Favorite Movies/Books/TV Shows listed, you need to consider the meaning of the word "favorite." If your Quotes section is a collection of motivational clichés, you need to consider a career with Chicken Soup for the Soul.

The trickiest part of Personal Information is About Me. Perfection comes in the one-sentence form, ideally a song lyric that happens to also describe you perfectly ("Lady in the street, but a freak in the bed" springs to mind). Don't write anything that can already be found elsewhere on your profile.

Wall Posts: Northwestern Facebook celebrity Tyler Baranski weighs in on Wall etiquette: "Stop posting 'We MUST hang out soon! HAPPENING.' on Walls. Guess what: you two aren't already hanging out for a reason." Ouch. "Make your Wall posts concise and witty and people will love you," he continues. "Over three sentences? That's probably a message. Nobody wants to read anything just between two people; Walls are for entertainment purposes only. As for the videos? Think real hard if you want everyone to see that." This from the mouth of a pro, ladies and gents.

Baranski's off-the-Wall pet peeves? "Mass inviting people to your group/event that lets us know you've lost your phone. First off, you never had my number in the first place, and I'm not about to post it on a Wall. Secondly, if I'm not important enough to ask in person, you don't really want my number anyway, so let's save me the headache of clicking 'Ignore'," (Isn't he a delightful little fountain of sass?). I'm a bit more lenient when it comes to these; I've been in that situation, and I think an event is an acceptable way to collect the essential phone numbers (a group, however, is a no-no). Invites should be delivered with care, no matter how easy it is to press "Select All." Ditto for groups, events and pages in general. And don't invite me again if I say no.

As for Work Info, Contact Info, Groups, etc., be discerning. Less. Is. More. That's all.

Facebook trends, much like runway trends, can be absorbed or rejected; crafting your Facebook in a way that speaks to your chosen persona is certainly your prerogative. Just be aware that a public forum like Facebook is a way by which people come to "know" you, especially people who don't interact with you a great deal in real life. Your Facebook is the digital equivalent of your wardrobe: armor through which those around you view the self you choose to project day-to-day. If this makes you uncomfortable (and maybe it should), leave it bare. Force people to get to know you in person. If you're up for the challenge of letting them see enough of you that they want to see more...Godspeed, and happy Facebooking.

Drinking too much coffee can cause a latte problems.

2009-10-13T15:54:00.020-05:00

If your motivational skills are at all like mine, any attempt to study in your bedroom very quickly devolves into a highly scientific rotation of social networking sites and episodes of Glee. In a perfect world, we’d all love to wriggle under our down comforters with a fat Psych textbook and a steaming mug of hot cocoa; but too often, reality renders us more likely to wake with a jolt hours later, the words imprinted on our cheeks rather than in our brains.

This is where Judgmental Strangers in Coffee Shops come into play. Let’s be honest: if you pass someone trolling Facebook in Norris, doesn’t a little part of you say, “Really?” Better to be the pretentious writer hammering away at his Macbook than the slacker sitting in a public venue yet choosing to interact via Internet instead of in person. Don’t even get me started on the clowns plugged in with headphones. First of all, do you really need the volume up high enough that we can hear every word that falls from Tyra's lips? Secondly, it’s not a guilty pleasure if everyone can see you. See, my judgment is holding you accountable to your work already.

Having partaken in a number of Reading Week “coffee crawls” (the most expensive procrastination habit since online shopping), I consider myself something of a connoisseur of Evanston study spots. Taking Norbucks out of the equation (convenient, yes, but have they ever made your drink properly?), here is my take on the top locales to get your study on south of the Arch.

BEST PLACE TO SEE AND BE SEEN: SHERMAN AVENUE STARBUCKS
The Atmosphere: Surprise! All of your friends are caffeine addicts. Be prepared to run into at least ten people you know.
The Menu: Consistent. We all know what Starbucks coffee tastes like: not the most delicious thing to ever grace your taste buds, but it won’t make your eyes roll back into your head as you choke it down. And who can resist a Pumpkin Spice Latte on a crisp fall day?
Free Wi-Fi?: No. But here’s an insider trick: if you sit near the windows, you can pick up a signal from Café Unicorn across the street.
The Bottom Line: Those panoramic windows are great for people watching, but unless you’ve got iron willpower, you’re likely to be distracted by the foot traffic and the homeless man shaking his cup of change. If your goal is to appear to the outside world an effectual, academic individual (while really updating your blog and checking yourself out in your webcam), Sherman Avenue Starbucks is the place to be.

BEST PLACE TO REMAIN ANONYMOUS: BROTHERS K COFFEEHOUSE
The Atmosphere: Your standard (sub)urban coffeeshop, with none of the standard pretention. It’s refreshing to look around and see folks of all ages and walks of life to balance out the usual laptop hunchbacks. The façade is a bit schitzophrenic, with a beachy, hutch-like bathroom area warring against richly painted walls and an apparently crumbling tile floor; but if you can look past Brothers K’s visual shortcomings, the overall effect is pleasant, friendly and relaxed.
The Menu: I die for this coffee: nutty and sweet enough to drink black, with 92-cent refills on the house blend. The food (typical bakery fare, plus quiche and savory pies) garners rave reviews from regulars.
Free Wi-Fi: Yes.
The Bottom Line: Located just off of the Main Street El stop – sounds far, but really a mere 20-minute walk from the sorority quad (or a three-minute intercampus shuttle ride, for the crippled or lazy) – it’s unlikely you’ll come face-to-face with your ex here. A more likely scenario? Running into your professor. Bring a friend; you’ll want company on the walk over, and a bookcase is piled high with old-school board games for when the two of you are ready for a study break.

BEST PLACE TO ACTUALLY DO YOUR HOMEWORK (BUT ONLY IF YOU CARRY CASH): UNICORN CAFÉ
The Atmosphere: Hipster central. No sweats and messy buns here; for Unicorn’s well-dressed patrons, studying is an event.
The Menu: This is the killer for me: I hate Unicorn coffee. And judging by conversations I’ve had, I’m not the only one. The muffins, scones, and breads, however, are baked fresh in the store and quite tasty. So are the “pannini”s, though the blatantly incorrect spelling on the menu is enough to make any neurotic cringe.
Free Wi-Fi?: Yes.
The Bottom Line: They do not take credit cards. They do not take credit cards. Order a (nasty) coffee and then try to pay with a credit card and you will be embarrassed. That being said, people come here to legitimately get work done, and it shows. For a worker-bee environment and an aesthetically pleasing crowd, Unicorn Café takes the productivity prize.

BEST PLACE TO CURL UP ON A RAINY DAY: PANERA BREAD
The Atmosphere: With a giant, L-shaped floor plan and accommodations ranging from bar stools to squishy armchairs, you’re bound to find somewhere in this casual restaurant that’s empty and/or cozy enough to set up shop. The bright lights and color on the walls will keep you feeling focused and wide awake through even the driest textbook chapters.
The Menu: French onion soup in a bread bowl, anyone? I thought so. Panera’s carbo-loaded menu is a breadophile’s dream.
Free Wi-Fi?: Yes.
The Bottom Line: Panera is perfect for all-day study marathons: the food is filling, the refills are free, and I’ve never been hounded by the staff. If you have a hard time tuning out mindless chatter, you might be bothered by the restaurant-style noise level; if not, it’s easy to spend an entire afternoon taking refuge from the elements in this unusually homey chain.

BEST PLACE TO INSTITUTE A REWARD SYSTEM: BARNES & NOBLE CAFÉ
The Atmosphere: Open. Relatively quiet. Not particularly accommodating to laptop users, though—there are only a handful of tables against the wall where the outlets are, and I’ve received lectures from the staff on the safety hazards of snaking my computer cord across the floor.
The Menu: Two words: Cheesecake Factory. Dieters, beware! The pastry case features irresistible goodies ranging from the savory (stuffed pretzels) to the sweet (a wide variety of cupcakes and cheesecake). The coffee brewed is Ye Olde Reliable Starbucks, complete with the elaborate drink menu you know and love.
Free Wi-Fi?: Yes, and newly so. It usually takes my laptop a good ten minutes to connect, but once I get online the network runs just fine.
The Bottom Line: Just ten more pages! Then you can get that red velvet cupcake! Go ahead, you’ve earned it. Blomquist will still be standing when you get back.

BEST PLACE TO TAKE YOUR PROSPIE - ER, HOLD A STUDY GROUP: KAFEIN
The Atmosphere: For a project that requires a lot of chit-chat, you won’t be bothering anyone here. Between the open mic nights and the inevitable slew of prospies, Kafein is the loudest “study” spot in Evanston.
The Menu: Is funny, if you like to read menus. The milkshakes are mouth-watering but expensive. Remember that you have a server to tip for that $5 drink!
Free Wi-Fi?: Yes...but it’s not really free. The menu denotes a minimum $3 charge per customer—meaning that even if you just came to keep a caffeine-dependent friend company, you’re going to have to order your own or pony up the cash.
The Bottom Line: A typical college hangout. The thing is, there’s a fee to “hang out,” and no one who goes here appears to actually be in college.

BEST PLACE TO FINISH UP AN ALL-NIGHTER: EINSTEIN BAGELS
The Atmosphere: A bit crowded in the mornings. Don’t worry, that’ll jog you out of your glassy-eyed stupor as you flip through those flash cards one last time.
The Menu: How many times have you rejoiced over free bagels at a business meeting, only to get stuck with smoked salmon cream cheese because that fool who made the bagel run thought the crowd would want “variety’? Order your bagel exactly how you want it for a change. Bonus: the coffee is delicious.
Free Wi-Fi?: No. But it’s so close by that on a clear day you can tap into Northwestern’s network.
The Bottom Line: For a cheap breakfast when you have to run off to a final in 45 minutes, you can’t beat Einstein’s proximity to campus. Just be warned that the door of girls’ bathroom sticks. I once had to be rescued by a little old lady. Awkward.

BEST PLACE TO TAKE YOURSELF ON A DATE: GLOBE CAFÉ
The Atmosphere: Egg yolk-yellow walls and kitschy pop art make this Hotel Orrington-adjacent feel more like your mom’s kitchen than a full-scale restaurant. Even better, you’re guaranteed to be the only patron under the age of 30. At least you were until I published this article.
The Menu: Reasonably priced café soups, salads and sandwiches. I have yet to be disappointed by an order here.
Free Wi-Fi?: Yes.
The Bottom Line: If you’re the type of person who is comfortable spending time with you, yourself and, uh, you, consider hitting Globe Café for your next lunch outing. A friendly waitstaff, free newspapers and high-backed booths make this one of the most underrated eateries in Evanston—and a stylish place to camp out with a problem set. True, Globe is a bit more expensive than most places on this list, but if you stick to coffee and dessert you can indulge without breaking the bank. Alone time comes at a price, after all.

BEST PLACE TO MISS CAFÉ AMBROSIA: ENIGMA CAFÉ
The Atmosphere: The music is a little too loud. The staff is not quite friendly enough. The paint job and irony-free décor are a little too classy for a college town coffee shop.
The Menu: The coffee is a little too strong. The scone I ordered was a little too bland. And where am I supposed to put my dishes after I eat?
Free WiFi?: Yes.
The Bottom Line: Despite the revamped interior, this place is just a little too not-Café Ambrosia. Perhaps it’ll grow on the Northwestern community over time, but after a lackluster experience I’m not itching to give it another try any time soon.

There are, of course, a number of other options – Peet’s, Argo, Wild Tree and Café Mozart, to name a few – that I have yet to add to my repertoire. If I missed your favorite, by all means chime in with your input!

How do you catch a unique puppy? Unique up on it.

2009-08-04T17:26:00.016-05:00

Well. It has happened. My beloved red Keds have bitten the dust at the hands (or, rather, jaws) of the fam's overzealous, pony-sized, apparently teething pooch. Reason #37 why I will never own a dog by choice. A well-behaved betta fish: now there is a model pet.

One day I will spend my entire life in heels, but there's something about early morning classes that's just not conducive to stilettos (though God knows I've tried). With the Keds reduced to housework attire, I find myself in search of a new pair of sneakers with enough style not to be mistaken for gym shoes. If I can't look "done," I at least want to look like I had the foresight to look undone à la mode. Casual need not be synonymous with blah.

They're kind of crazy and ghetto fabulous, right? But then, I'm kind of crazy and ghetto fabulous. It took me a while to decide between the high-top and low-top versions, but I figure if you're going to spring for lavender-and-metallic-silver tennis shoes you might as well do the thing properly.

Am I out of my mind? You tell me.

Baby got back.

2009-08-01T21:00:00.025-05:00

So who else thinks backs are, like, outrageously sexy? Having a perfectly toned rear view has become one of my new life goals (she wrote, polishing off a chicken fajita), up there with running a marathon and joining the mile high club.

I'm really into the peekaboo sex appeal of this Silence & Noise dress. What's more, I trekked over to Urban to try it on this afternoon and the material is thick enough to go braless (at least if you're a C cup or below; my apologies to the more curvaceous ladies, I have felt your pain and it scared me onto a treadmill). I'm all for visible bra straps, generally speaking, but they would ruin this. Even Carrie Bradshaw would agree. Any item of clothing that lets me show off my lats but not my high beams is a winner in my book.

Eyes bugging out of head.

2009-07-16T09:56:00.013-05:00

Every now and then, you come across a pair of shoes so special that everything else - your Starbucks fetish, your credit card debt, your need for textbooks and/or a home - disappears. This is called a shoe crush, and it is a serious affliction.

Now, I'm no Becky Bloomwood, but I allow myself one extravagant (for a college student in Chicago) pair of shoes per summer, with the qualifier that I have to first maintain a serious shoe crush over at least two months' time. Last year it was a pair of burgundy patent peep-toe Mary Janes that I salivated over on my way into the mall every day for my retail job. As my friends can attest, they were worth every penny - I loved them to death (and subsequently wore them to death - that thing they say about replacing the plastic heel caps before they wear off completely? Yeah, do that.). Rewarding yourself for hard work with something you've consciously saved for is an excellent reminder not to waste money on the trivial.

Maybe I'm still reeling from Dior's black-and-nude duos in the Fall '09 couture show, but when I stumbled across these L.A.M.B. heels this morning I nearly dropped my iPod Touch in the pool. How perfect would they be with everything from a little black dress to pegged boyfriend jeans and a cardigan? With bright colors and basics? With black tights and without? This is it for this summer, folks. These are The Ones. I'm just praying I can still get my hands on them at the end of my two-month waiting period - they sold out in my size on Piperlime within literally an hour. Nordstrom, wait for me!

P.S. Runway reviews are in the works for Jean Paul Gaultier and Valentino. Couture is exhausting. I needed a break.

Fall '09 Couture: Episode V: Givenchy Strikes Back.

2009-07-13T09:40:00.010-05:00

If I were a science fiction fanatic, this is where I would make a witty crack about how the house of Givenchy had been hijacked and placed in the hands of a dark overlord from a planet where visible nipples reign supreme and hips are made to look twice their circumference.

Sadly, I've never so much as seen a Star Wars movie. So I have no such crack to make.

Grade: B. Not very wearable, or really very flattering...but memorable, for which I give props. The fusing of Moroccan influences with the space age is something that only a designer with balls could pull off, and I think we can infer that Riccardo Tisci is packin'.

Fall '09 Couture: Elie Saab commits a fashion haute pas.

2009-07-12T16:24:00.012-05:00

Oh. Well. This is awkward.

Staging an all-white fashion show six months after Karl Lagerfeld's famously all-white Chanel show at the same venue? No offense, Elie Saab - the clothes are pretty and all, but use your head here. Common sense and imagination.

Grade: C+. I feel bad, because the collection is actually lovely and the pieces will look fine out on their own. But...NO. Who let him do this?! You just don't mess with the Kaiser.

Fall '09 Couture: Lacroix, or the phoenix rising from the ashes.

2009-07-12T14:33:00.015-05:00

Poor Christian Lacroix. For all of this season's cutbacks due to a shaky economy, his story is the most heartbreaking. Earlier this year, Lacroix's financial backers laid off all but 12 of the company's workers due to "financial problems" (according to Lacroix in a New York Times interview, a "lack of chemistry" between the business and creative ends of the label). Though Lacroix, a designer known for his folk influences and theatricality, is determined not to see this upset as the end, his Fall '09 production is hailed as his "last couture show" - with everyone but the models working essentially for free.

The collection was small - just 24 looks - with rich fabrics and colors creating a somber Paris-meets-Russia vibe. The shock of blue in the outfit with the white skirt is breathtaking. I may have actually choked.

When the final piece - an ornate yet somehow funereal wedding dress - came down the runway, the show closed to a standing ovation and many, many tears.

Grade: B+. I'll be honest: it's not my cup of tea. But given the circumstances and aims of the collection (integrity to the label, approachability toward new investors), Lacroix put forth some truly admirable work.

Fall '09 Couture: Solid Christian values.

2009-07-12T13:22:00.019-05:00

When it comes to spectacle on the runway, nobody puts on a show like Christian Dior's John Galliano - but as we learned from the scaled-back showroom setting of his Fall '09 couture line, Galliano's is a drama that would appear to be innate. Inspired by half-dressed models backstage and the exclusive simplicity of 1950s-era showrooms, the Dior collection still managed to exude an air of life and luxury. Bright sorbet colors, peekaboo lingerie and models dripping in jewels and dramatic chapeaux were the mainstays of a line that reasserted to the world what, exactly, Christian Dior looks like today.

Could I be more obsessed with the styling of these looks? No. No, I could not. Granted, I may be biased by my weaknesses for both nipped waistlines and partial nudity, but vintage flair crossed with risque modernity is what makes this show so unbelievably sexy.

Galliano showed both punchy colors and classic neutrals, which feel no less special despite their lack of pigmentation:

The gowns have an old-school Madonna/Jean Paul Gaultier feel to them, with corseted tops and full, frothy skirts. The center dress is so interesting - the way it stays fitted through the hips, garter straps dangling, instead of flaring out as soon as it hits the waistline? Not quite as universally flattering, perhaps, but certainly innovative. In other news, I think I may need a Dior hat for next year's Kentucky derby.

Grade: A. So Galliano didn't reinvent the wheel - but given the state of the economy, who can blame him? The clothes not only made for an entertaining couture show, but also provided we mere mortals with a wealth of ideas to copy on a budget (who else is ready to go buy sparkly brooches, black slips and nude heels?). The show was cohesive without being stagnant, and the understatedness felt like a choice, not a necessity. Way to take the economic climate and make it work for you.

Fall '09 Couture: Chanel-derly.

2009-07-11T23:11:00.019-05:00

Lacy tights, funnel necks, Victorian-style booties, and trains on everything from skirt suits to minidresses were the name of the game for Karl Lagerfeld and the venerable house of Chanel. Anyone who follows pop culture knows that Karl is pretty much off his rocker, so to see a relatively understated couture show from him is shocking in and of itself.

That's not to say the clothes weren't impeccably crafted; as per usual, the suits and dresses are to die for. I adore the pairing of the cameo brooch with the edgy leopard trim in the suit on the left. Upturned pockets give shape to a basic silver shift in the middle photograph, and the subtle luxuriousness of jeweled embellishments against winter-white wool (on the right) is about as elegant as it comes.

There were a few LBDs that made my heart stop beating...

...And a couple of Oscar-worthy gowns that almost made me want to become an actress again.

(I'll wear one to my book party.)

Another staple of the collection was what can only be described as high-fashion algae.

Wild, right? And by wild, I mean that if I saw it growing in my closet, I'd be concerned. So see? It's okay. The nutty Karl we know and love is still in there. And just wait, it gets better:

Grade: B-. Because I hold Chanel to a very high standard. Sorry, Lagerfeld - you did it to yourself.

Fall '09 Couture: The devil wears Armani.

2009-07-11T21:46:00.006-05:00

In my career fantasies, where I am a Miranda Priestley-esque 50-year-old woman running a powerhouse fashion corporation in not-quite-work-appropriate clothing (and eating bluefin tuna instead of steak)...I am wearing Fall '09 Armani Privé.

My job naturally also demands that I attend many black-tie affairs, for which I don sweeping couture gowns that I look ravishing in despite my age.

One thing that isn't part of my fantasy: nude jumpsuits. Even if they are hand-beaded.

Grade: A-. You lost a fraction of a point for the jumpsuits, Giorgio, but your seamless 1940s-gone-rock 'n' roll collection has this fashionista screaming "GET ME ARMANI!"

Fall '09 Couture: A hard day's night for Mabille.

2009-07-11T16:11:00.047-05:00

Well. This is my first attempt at a full-blown play-by-play of Fashion Week, and I have to say, I couldn't have asked for a better place to start. Despite its impracticality, nothing in fashion fosters bigger risks or stronger opinions than couture - and I hope that my very green (experientially, not environmentally) analysis can help make the otherworldliness of high fashion a bit easier to understand.

First on the chopping block: a designer so new, he doesn't even have his own Wikipedia entry yet. Alexis Mabille is a 30-year-old French designer best known for his key role in the bows-as-accessories trend (here's looking at you, Blair Waldorf!). Apparently, the driving image for this collection was that of a girl waking tangled in her bedclothes. Being the champion of frivolous sleepwear that I am (my nighties are a source of ridicule among my friends), I was fully prepared to fall in love with any collection that could merge two of my favorite things: fashion and naps.

These three looks are my favorites from the show. They're thematic, yet gorgeously wearable at the same time. I love the movement in the ribbons on the two right-hand dresses, and the styling of the first outfit is brilliant - the contrast of the prim organdy blouse with the short skirt and snakeskin sandals is the stuff of mix-master legend.

A few more well-executed (if unexciting) stabs at the maiden-swaddled-in-nightclothes concept:

The rest of the collection, while admittedly more "couture-y," is kind of a mess. A mess that ranges from flagrant disregard for flattery of the female form (with black lace leggings adding insult to injury)...

To near-nakedness...

To some classic runway-style WTF-bombs, like a deep-v-cut-harem-pant jumpsuit/a lace-trimmed saran wrap toga/glittery elbow-length shackles worn with a lumpy librarian jumper.

All things considered, I think Al's having a bit of an identity crisis here. Browse through the entire collection on Style.com and you'll see what I mean - it leaps from lingerie-style dresses one second to tailored suits the next, with a mind-numbingly boring or randomly Gothic piece popping up in between. I'm kind of over white eyelet fabric, which is a major focal point of his collection - and while I can appreciate clothes that are fun and over-the-top, a lot of his more outrageous pieces are just, well, ugly. Mabille is young, and clearly still getting his sea legs about him as far as staging a full couture show goes. I'll be interested to see how his work evolves over the next couple of years.

Grade: C. A designer to keep on the radar, but nothing to sell your firstborn for. Yet.

Per-féktion.

2009-06-25T17:17:00.047-05:00

As someone who was (go ahead, throw tomatoes) born with near-perfect skin, I seem to have missed that vital stage in adolescence when one is introduced to the notions of foundation and concealer. Here I was, trotting around my high school harvesting compliments in nothing but mascara and moisturizer; taking for granted my blemish-free existence and judging friends who had yet to master blending along the edges.

So imagine my displeasure to now, at age 20, be tossed unarmed into the wild world of, well...oil. I'll spare you the gory details, but suffice to say that I've been looking a little shiny in photographs lately. What's the deal, glands? Quitting so soon? Two measley decades and you throw in the towel? Whatever the cause - stress, hormones, not diet because I eat better now than ever - but I'm not bitter - karma has gotten the last laugh, and it seems the time has come for me to take a nosedive into the skincare aisle. First on the list: a lightweight foundation that can stand up to summer in sticky Washington, D.C. (which was built on swamplands, for the non-locals among us). Gulp.

Disclaimer: this stuff is not cheap. While I'm willing to skimp on things like white ribbed tank tops (Target, little boys' section - ya can't beat 'em!), anything that goes on or around the face is, to me, worth splurging on. Having had bad reactions to drugstore foundations and the mid-range, widely-loved Bare Minerals starter kit, I find that a pricey tube that will last me months is less costly than the loss of dignity that results from poorer-quality products.

But on to the positives: I'M IN LOVE. WITH A LITTLE BLUE BOTTLE OF $58 FOUNDATION. I have never tried any product that appears so natural but makes such a world of difference. My skin not only looks amazing - zero redness, invisible pores - but because Per-fékt foundation is silicone-based, it feels incredible too. We're talking baby's bottom territory. And I hate that phrase, so you know it's serious.

A couple of caveats: a little bit goes a long way, so have a salesperson show you how it's meant to be applied (start with the nose and spread outward, and don't use too much or it'll begin to flake). And test-drive it in the store first, because it is very lightweight - great for those of us who can hide our blemishes behind a sprinkling of freckles and a few swipes of bronzer, but not designed to mask more intense skin problems.

So maybe my skin, even at age 20, can no longer be perfect. But with a little cash, it can stay per-fékt for some time to come.

Evanesco, wizard robes. Accio, high fashion!

2009-06-23T20:00:00.002-05:00

Yule Ball be damned. Look at little Miss Hermione Granger, all grown up and gracing the pages of Teen Vogue:

What a gorgeous editorial, shot by Norman Jean Roy and styled by Havana Laffitte (which sounds like the name of a Potter character, if you ask me). I a) want all of the clothes and b) am so impressed with Emma Watson! She looks beautiful. Total girl crush. I had given up on Teen Vogue when they said smoky eyes were back for the thirty-four thousandth time, but I may have to buy this issue just to cut it up and stick it on my wall for inspiration.

I'm currently in the process of rereading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows to get psyched for July's movie adaptation of Half-Blood Prince. I generally take issue with the Harry Potter films. I can't figure out who exactly they aim to please: fans of the novels are left disappointed by abandoned storylines, while those unexposed to the brilliance that is the book series enjoy them, but wonder what all the hype is about. This English major and self-professed Potter nerd thinks that Rowling's books are nothing short of masterful - and I wish the movies did them more justice, for the sake of both halves of the crowd.

I think they would have had a lot more success (artistically speaking, because God knows these things do just fine at the box office) had they waited, à la Lord of the Rings, for the right time to make these movies - for the full storyline to be released, for the perfect cast, for that one perfect director who understood the books completely. It does the story a disservice, really, to have made it subservient to so many different people's visions. Despite the fact that every notable British actor of the past half-century (minus my boyfriend, Colin Firth) has managed to worm their way into the project, I have to wonder if Potter's adventures could have been better immortalized had Warner Brothers not been so antsy to cash in.

...That being said, the trailers for Half-Blood Prince look epic and we all know I'll be seeing it at midnight. Who's with me?!

Quizically yours.

2009-06-17T20:44:00.004-05:00

I skimp when buying:
...Tights? Let's be real here, I'm not much of a skimper.

I splurge when buying:
Underwear, perfume, make-up, high heels. Any clothing item I can justify to myself. So everything, really.

I always break this fashion rule:
Wearing black and brown together. Wearing black and navy together.

I never break this fashion rule:
Wearing a Canadian tuxedo that matches my significant other's.

Must-have item for Summer 2009:
Metallic gladiators, navy men's blazer, multi-chain necklace, tons of v-neck t-shirts. Jersey dresses in every color of the rainbow.

Favorite store:
H&M. Urban. American Apparel. Any boutique or vintage shop.

Style icon:
Carrie Bradshaw (not to be confused with Sarah Jessica Parker).

Most cherished accessory:
Gold necklace with tiny sun charm, cubic zirconium stud earrings, emerald and citrine cocktail rings - all courtesy of my late and terrifically elegant French grandmother, Jeannette Cavalier.

Favorite item of clothing:
Red Keds, watercolor Matty M top with braided neckline, any of my 1950s prom dresses from eBay.

Favorite "fashion-y" movie:
The Devil Wears Prada.

Guilty pleasure:
Black high-waisted skirts. I own at least four.

Describe your personal style:
Girly and eclectic.

I feel best wearing...
A day dress with platform heels.

Personal style quirk:
Wearing a broken watch.

Most overrated item:
Crocs. I don't care how comfortable they are: you look like a dumbass.

Most underrated item:
A great skin-colored torture thong.

Most stylish city:
Paris.

When I was high school I wore...
Freshman year: Pretty minis, my cropped jean jacket and a side ponytail with a hair ribbon.
Sophomore year: Lots of sparkly clothes that were in retrospect entirely inappropriate for daytime.
Junior year: Victorian tops. Preppy classics. Cowboy boots.
Senior year: Vintage dresses with black footless tights and ballet flats.

Shine your own shoes?
Never. But I've colored scuffed toes with a Sharpie.

Favorite fashion magazine:
Harper's Bazaar and Elle.

Perfume:
Betsey Johnson for spring and summer, Tocca "Stella" for fall, and Lolita Lempicka "L de Lolita Lempicka" for winter. All of which are composed of some combination of orange and musk/praline/vanilla. At least I'm consistent.

I always dress my best for...
Whenever I know that cameras will be present.