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.

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.

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.

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.

Light coverage.

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.

Squared away.

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.

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.