I’m fairly certain that this was the last time I participated in any kind of St. Patrick’s Day celebration. It fell on a Saturday (2012), and per usual, I avoided cliché holiday attire, and opted for many shades of green. Since I am getting bathing suit ready, via thirty-day cleanse, I will not be indulging in any food-colored beer, and corned beef. Sad face. This also means I won’t be donning the awesome Tibi blazer (old) featured in this post. Maybe next year!
I have been debating about whether or not I should tackle the topic of modern dating on a lifestyle blog, and after much deliberation, I have decided to go ahead and unabashedly discuss away. Why not?
Note: I’m currently on a dating sabbatical, and I have been for almost a year. Sure, it’s been lonely at times, but I am finally able to discern what I like, and what I want, and what I don’t like, and what I don’t want. For about a decade, I was very confused. I have a tendency to adopt my significant others’ loves, likes, and habits (both good and bad… mostly bad). I should go ahead and state that I have terrible taste in men. My last string of beaus includes an unstable recovering (and constantly relapsing) addict, a (not-quite) divorcee, and a mama’s boy with a super creepy Oedipal complex (think Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon). Yeahhhhh. Needless to say, I have some fascinating, albeit heartbreaking stories. I don’t know what dating was like before my time, and I shudder to think about what future generations face since the current climate is appalling.
The first story I would like to share isn’t mine. After a miserable breakup, one of my favorite ladies, let’s call her Sally, is actively dating again. By dating, I mean going on “dates” with fellows she meets via dating sites (not Tinder). Note: my single squad often shares screen shots of profiles, and text messages since a photo is never sufficient. Normally, this is not done maliciously, nor is it advertised on social media outlets like Facebook; it simply makes conversations easier. For example, Sally told me last week that she was looking forward to a Sundate with a fellow, and when I asked her for details, she sent me some highlights from his public questionnaire. On “paper,” he seemed datable. Good looking (nice smile, hairline not hidden), fairly interesting (lived abroad), educated (practicing lawyer), and apparently into his family (pic holding a tiny relative). Sure. Why not meet him for dinner and drinks? So she did, and this is what happened…
Me: How was your date?
Sally: Well, he was on something, which was obvious almost immediately. He was all fidgety and shaky. He was also incredibly rude to our server, and actually whistled to get his attention. His response to the horrified look on my face was, “that is how you get a waiter’s attention in Germany. I lived there for a year.” Also, he was beyond conversationally awkward, so I felt as if I had to carry the weight. He actually said, “I feel like I am in a deposition.” Then, when I asked him about his failed marriage (and not in those words), he told me that it ended when his ex-wife stabbed him… in the ass… while he was sleeping. Apparently, she informed him that he could leave the marriage in a body bag. At this point, I decided to drink my way through the rest of the date, and mentally agreed to let him go ahead and pay without feeling any sort of remorse. Sooo, the check arrived, and surprise, surprise, he forgot his wallet. I paid for the wine I drank, the wine he drank, and two appetizers.
Me: I wonder why he didn’t show you the scar, at the table. I probably would have asked just for anecdotal purposes.
Sally: I almost did.
At least we have a sense of humor about it all. How can one not. Rhetorical. Every time I consider “putting myself back out there,” I hear a story like Sally’s, and I binge harder on Netflix. If given the choice between a fuckboy, or staying single and growing old with best friends, I’ll almost always choose the latter. It worked out well for Rose, Blanche, Dorothy, and Sophia! Of course, my intelligent, (semi) rational brain is OK with this scenario, but my cognitively dissonant heart is not. I will date again. Until then, I shall thoughtfully observe from the sidelines, and post more tales from the trenches.
I distinctly remember looking at one of my high school yearbooks a few years ago, and cringing at the sight of overalls, knee-length denim skirts, and boot-cut jeans paired with some sort of lug sole. Actually, most of the denim at my less-than-chic Alma Matter was paired with a lug sole, and when it wasn’t, it was worn with a sneaker (think all-white leather running shoes, and not a Nike Blazer), or some of black, Steve Madden “sandal.” Gag. Worst. During that era, Cher Horowitz and Kathryn Merteuil heavily influenced my personal style; however; the Internet was dial-up, so my shopping options were very limited. I had to wait for city trips to purchase items not easily sourced at the GAP, Express, or American Eagle. Basic, what, what. Anyway, I’d like to think that I was better dressed than my female counterparts, but even *this* fashionista fell victim to certain, ubiquitous blue jean options. I never owned any type of cargo pant, but I owned many denim minis, and a pair of striped, Guess overalls. Clearly, nineties denim trends are back… with vengeance. Oddly, I don’t hate it.
I mean, look how she elevated her overalls with a fitted black tee (I would totes do this velvet version), and suede loafers. I love it. This does not recall the halls of BHS. At all. She looks like she is headed to lunch with pals at Café Gitane, or something equally trendy in a quaint SoHo way.
Chiara Ferragni , and her team almost always get it right, and this Paris Fashion Week look was one of my favorites. Her denim mini balances out the amazing wearable art on top. Note: I’m pretty sure I had a jelly version of this shoe circa ’95.
If a voluminous sweater isn’t your thing, how about pairing a jean skirt with an ultra femme, high neck blouse, a chain-strap purse, and classic low heels a la Alexa Chung. She’s killing it. Get the skirt here. I am.
Just recently, I bought, these, my first cargo pants. Although, I listed “cargo jorts” as a major turnoff on one of my inactive dating profiles, I now own a pair. This feels a bit hypocritical. It shouldn’t. I will never look like the male I pictured wearing said silhouette (can I even refer to the heinous male equivalent as a silhouette? Sure I can; it’s my blog). You’ll see!
Since spring doesn’t mean 75-degree days at the beach currently, I’m considering other ways to “warm” up my wardrobe. Parisian streets during fashion week, which were clearly warmer than NYC, have provided me with some excellent fashion fodder.
Julia Sarr-Jamois’ pink button-down, and red accessories make this all-black ensemble pop. J’dore!
My favorite bright yellow crewneck sweater would look fantastic paired with a silk scarf, tied bandit style, and green sunnies. Perfect for a casual brunch, or a farmer’s market outing.
I’m not sure how I plan to execute daytime sequins, but where this is will there is a way. I own a bronze sequined tee, which might look tres, tres chic matched with camel separates. Cue pinky to mouth…
I love this fresh, vegan take on traditional pasta primavera. It’s surprisingly decadent, but since carrots are substituted for pasta, it’s super light!
FOR THE PRIMAVERA:
2-3 large carrots, peeled and julienned (I uses a spiralizer)
1/2 tablespoon coconut oil or extra virgin olive oil
1 leek, thinly sliced into rounds
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 bunch asparagus, ends broken off and chopped into 1-inch pieces
1 cup fresh or frozen peas
SUN-DRIED TOMATO BASIL-HEMP PESTO:
1 small clove garlic
3/4 cup fresh basil leaves
1⁄4 cup oil-packed sun-dried tomatoes
1⁄4 cup hulled hemp seeds
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon water
Scant 1/4 teaspoon fine-grain sea salt or pink Himalayan sea salt, or to taste
1. With a julienne peeler, peel the carrots into thin, spaghetti-like strands. Cover with a damp tea towel or damp paper towel to avoid drying out.
2. Heat a large skillet over medium heat, and add oil. Toss in the leeks and some garlic; saute for 3-4 minutes, or until soft and translucent. Add salt to taste, and fresh ground pepper to taste.
3. Next, add the asparagus to the skillet and cook until tender (about 8 minutes). Increase heat if necessary. Stir in the peas last, and cook until thoroughly heated.
4. To make the pesto, add garlic, basil, and sun-dried tomatoes to a food processor, and blend until smooth(ish). Then, combine the remaining ingredients, and blend until the mixture has a buttery consistency.
5. Stir all the pesto into the vegetable skillet mixture and cook until heated throughout.
6. Serve the pesto atop of the carrot “pasta.”
Recipe and photo ℅ Oh She Glows
This is what late winter looks like in Southern California: sunshine and light layers. Heavy rain during January & February creates a surreal, Tim Burton-eque landscape (think Big Fish) in LA. The trees are baron, yet everything else is lush & verdant. Mulholland Drive’s cheesy turnouts were always alluring for photo shoots back when I was snapping outfit pix on a near-daily basis. I don’t know where I was headed in this super-seventies getup, but I’m going to pretend like I was on my way to a late lunch at BLD. Visions on blueberry ricotta pancakes dance through my head…
“Oh, I’m sorry, did my pin get in the way of your ass? Do me a favor and lose five pounds immediately or get out of my building.”—Mugatu
Clearly, someone at Valentino has a marvelous sense of humor. Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson stole the show (and the internet) at the atelier’s Paris fashion show yesterday as they sauntered down the runway, wearing designer duds, and their best “Blue Steel” faces. The actors are reprising their roles as Derek Zoolander and Hansel in a sequel to 2001’s Zoolander, and I am thrilled!
For serious though, I adore this collection. Per usual, Maria Grazia Chiuri and Peirpaolo Piccioli’s designs exude lady-like elegance, and Italian whimsy. A lot of stuff one sees on the runway doesn’t translate well in the “real” world, but almost every look here is wearable.
Images ℅ style.com
The last several seasons at Balmain, under the direction of Olivier Rousteing, have been insanely provocative, but this collection takes the bloody cake. I mean, seriously, it’s incendiary. I can’t
While at FIDM, many moons ago, I had to create a color “story” for an elective course. The assignment required ten pantones, which I got to wittily rename, and a dialogue about the apparel I would create using said colors. At the time, my coffee table was littered with photography-laden books; one of them, Blood and Glitter, was a collection of Glam Rock photos by Mick Rock. I took my inspiration from this. David Bowie (as Ziggy Stardust) was my subject, and I had over-the-top opulence on my mind. The colors were rich, and the collection I envisioned involved shimmery knits, high-gloss satins, flirty fringe, heavy metal, plunging necklines, palazzo pants, luxe leather, and voluminous velvets. So basically, every piece from this freakin’ presentation.
By the by, this is my absolute favorite. It’s to-die-for. Literally. I would have an embolism or something if it happened to show up on my doorstep.
I consulted two fellow 70’s rock lovers, and super Bowie fans, for naming purposes. Together, we came up with titles like, “Goblin Green,” “Mars,” (red), “DiVINE,” (purpleish), “Stardust” (duh), and “GOLDmine.” I wish I’d saved that project; I’m sure it got lost in the fray of many moves. C’est la vie. Seeing this collection was like seeing my brilliant concept fleshed out, which is amazing. Bravo, Balmain! Bravo. This is the best. Ever.
Images ℅ style.com
I’ve been in New York for nearly two months now, which means my trial period is coming to an end, and I’m not really sure that I want to make New York my home. Real winter, the kind one experiences in the Northeast, is no joke, and this Southern gal has the blues. There’s actually a clinical term for what I am feeling; it’s called “seasonal affective disorder,” or SAD. How appropriate! Symptoms include: irritability (check), tiredness (check), oversleeping (I could easily hibernate like my spirit animal, the bear), carb cravings (pasta by the pound), and weight gain (yeah, my pants don’t fit anymore). Please note that I am not trying to minimize the condition, just mine.
Let’s face it, I’m a native Floridian who spent 8 years living in Southern California; what am I doing in NYC!? I ask myself this every time I layer up to leave my lodgings. A part of me expected to have the same feels I did when I moved to L.A. the summer after I graduated from college. Naïve, much. First of all, I embarked on that journey with two of my closest friends, so I had not one, but two kindred spirits to explore the city (and beyond) with. I’m in this alone. Next, I was 23 years old. I’m not old per se, but I don’t have that kind of energy anymore. Not even close. I get exhausted thinking about things I used to do back then. Like drive to Malibu, in traffic, for brunch, followed by an aggressive canyon hike, and oh, so-and-so wants to do hear post-punk tunes in Silver Lake later, sure, why not. Nope. A day like that will never happen again sans super powers. I just can’t. Another thing I can’t seem to do in this massive metropolis is find a job that justifies the cost of living! I am not quite ready to throw in the proverbial towel, but I am close (my funds are nearly depleted). Finally, there’s the cold, and the fact that I cannot enjoy so many of the things that I like to do outside. I can’t even walk without purpose. I don’t aimlessly ambulate; I walk furiously to my destinations in order to escape the frigid temperatures. It has been suggested that I wait until Spring before bidding the Big Apple adieu, but I’m not sure that I want to miss my favorite Southern season. The azaleas are about to bloom, and I am pretty sure that I will always prefer visiting Manhattan to surviving “the struggle” that is living here full time. Stay tuned…
The red carpet at the Kodak Theater is my favorite runway. Ever. This is the first time in years that I haven’t watched both the Academy Awards and the outfit coverage. My Twitter feed kept me up-to-date though. It wasn’t a facsimile for the real (televised) thing, but it sufficed. Just this once. Oh, I did catch a clip of Patricia Arquette’s awesome acceptance speech. She’s so cool. She’s so cool. She’s so cool.
There were so many ultra-glamorous gowns to love last night, but these are the looks I liked best. In no particular order…
Margot Robbie in Saint Laurent. A plunging neckline provided the perfect canvas for showcasing this unbelievable Van Cleef & Arpels zipper necklace. This image does the bauble no justice, but you can see a close-up right here.
Perhaps the best thing about Reese Witherspoon’s Tom Ford dress, is her smile. She’s absolutely radiant here! She also looks like a Barbie… from the fifties. #best
Talk about red haute! Rosamund Pike’s Givenchy gown is perfection. Perfection. Hair, makeup, shoes, everything. She could not be more put-together.
Say it isn’t so! More than one black ensemble made my short list. Oh my. Per usual, the great Cate Blanchett killed it. This Maison Martin Margiela number, plus that turquoise Tiffany necklace. Like whoa. #flawless
And the winner is… Emma Stone. Her custom chartreuse (so fun to say) Elie Saab gown is the bees knees. This silhouette oozed Old Hollywood glam. The side slit, the long sleeves, the intricate beading, and the open back, I love every inch. #bestinshow
Congrats to all the winners. It’s about time Julianne Moore took home a little gold statue. I mean, really.
Happy Monday. It’s almost March ya’ll, which means Spring is nigh! I cannot wait for buds and blooms and far less layers.