Off their chests and onto mine.

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.

A wristed development.

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.

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?

Real life versus reel life: The insider scoop.

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.