Shall we play Risk or Sorry?

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.