Greexican.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

You're so transparent.

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?

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.

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.